Disclaimer: Nope.
Author's Note: Hey everyone, and thank you so much for the wonderful reviews! I'm really glad you liked the chapter with Ron and Hermione.
To one of my reviewers: I'm glad I got you to like the pairing, although, of course, their relationship hasn't technically started yet. I think their dynamic is very different without Harry. It's interesting, because I've read fics where if Harry isn't around, Ron and Hermione don't really maintain their friendship anymore because they have nothing else in common. I've always thought, though, that in this situation, since they miss Harry, it brings them closer together. They've been through a lot with Harry, and I honestly can't see them not leaning on each other.
That's a really sweet story about you and your wife being separated, and the stars making you feel closer to her. What I wrote about Hermione hearing that children's story when she was younger - I've heard the same thing, and I honestly don't think it's sappy at all. I just think that Ron and Hermione would. But unlike them, I'm into that kind of stuff and it always makes me feel emotional.
Honestly, yes, my blindness is what makes me describe things in a mostly nonvisual way. I'm glad you don't think it's a bad thing. Anything I say about eye contact is what I've found out from others or seen in other stories I've read, whether they be fanfic or published books. I do try and include eye color in this story at times - after all, Rowling was very good at telling us what color certain characters' eyes are. For example, we know that Cedric's were gray, that Lily's were green and James's were hazel, and that Ron has blue eyes, Ginny has brown, and Hermione has brown. And we all know without a doubt that Harry has emerald green. I honestly don't think I've read a story before Harry Potter where eye color is focused on so much.
One of my reviewers asked if Harry has a pairing in this story. As I've said before, romance will happen, but it will be later in the story. This is going to be a very long fanfic indeed. I want to surprise everyone with what the pairing is, but I will say that I'm not putting Harry with either Hermione, Ginny, Luna, or Cho. Some of you might have guessed it already, but I'm not going to say anything until the time comes. I'll tell you one more thing, however, and that is that Harry will be romantically involved with a female. I'm absolutely not against slash at all, not by a long shot - it's just that I don't see Harry as gay. Other authors who do - that's not a problem whatsoever, there are some great stories out there with slash pairings for him. I just don't see it myself.
In regards to Susan being able to attend Hannah's mother's funeral and Rebecca not being able to attend Matthew's aunt, uncle, and cousin's funeral - it's simple. The two situations are different because in Rebecca's case, Matthew's parents didn't want her to come.
And no, fist fights do not equal the kind of Muggle duelling that Sturgis is teaching Harry and Sirius. I'm sorry I didn't make that clear. I'm thinking more of karate. I'll make that clearer in a future chapter. It's funny, though, because I do think some magicals would regard fist fights like that.
One of my reviewers mentioned that Harry seems to be stronger in the books. Canon Harry isn't scared to go back to Hogwarts at the beginning of his fifth year. I'd like to explain my reasons for this timeline's Harry not feeling like he's ready to handle it.
I feel that canon Harry's emotions towards Cedric's death and what happened that summer manifested differently because, simply put, he wasn't given a chance to really recover from the trauma he was put through. His grief, fear, and guilt manifested as anger, and, unfortunately, during Order of the Phoenix, he came off as being rather abusive towards those he cared about, in my opinion. I'm not saying that Harry didn't have reasons to act the way he did - what he was put through was horrific.
But this Harry was given a chance to form a bond with someone who learned to put him first, always. Harry's summer with Sirius helped him, because Sirius encouraged him not to hide from his emotions. Think about how Dudley reacted when Harry had nightmares about Cedric's death in canon. Sirius, unlike the Dursleys, was there for him and showed him what parental love truly is. He grew emotionally attached to Sirius very quickly and, understandably, doesn't want to leave him.
Plus, there's the added fact that in my timeline, he was literally forced into hiding because he was accused of murder. Granted, he was accused of being a liar in canon, but the murder accusations added another layer to his trauma. Would you honestly want to leave your stability, your security, to go back to a place where quite a few of the people there accused you of murdering a person you wanted nothing more than to save?
And Harry is strong. As I've said in the last few chapters, even the strongest people have a breaking point. I'm definitely by no means saying that you, the reviewer, expects Harry to always be strong - I'm just trying to explain my reasons for changing his emotional state during this story. For me, it's strictly my own problem - I've been guilty of expecting my own heroes to be strong all the time, like they're not real humans, like they're just automatons who function the way I want them to, and that's wrong. I find that many in the wizarding world are guilty of treating Harry the same way - if he doesn't meet their expectations, then he's somehow defective or not good enough. Because of having to learn things the hard way the past few years, I feel I understand more about the magical world's treatment of Harry than I ever wanted to. Unfortunately, if I were in the magical world, I'd be one of those people - at least, I would have been, and that knowledge makes me sick. It's one of those things I'm desperately trying to change about myself. Writing this story is helping me come to terms with parts of myself I never wanted to admit existed - and it also gives me the opportunity to give Harry what he never had in canon - a true chance at happiness with a godfather who also deserved a second chance. I just wanted to clarify this, though, because I'm certainly not accusing my reviewer of doing such a thing. Not putting people on pedestals has become one of the main themes of this story, simply because of my own experiences. The fact that I'm going to have this in writing will give me incentive to remember my own words.
Anyway, I'll get off of my soapbox now. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. This one introduces a concept that I've never seen in a fanfic before, and it has to do with Memory Charms. It's another of the reasons I dislike them so much, because when I imagined wizard/Muggle relations, I honestly could see something like this happening. This also adds to the theme of no one being an automaton, and everyone, no matter what position they're in, is human. And it's not the first time we'll see this plotline come up in this story. Because history, after all, has a funny way of repeating itself.
xxxxxxxxxx
The breeze blew gently through the trees, the entire deck bathed in sunlight. The sound of birds gently singing drifted through the air. Cardinals, mourning doves, sparrows, woodpeckers, and red-winged blackbirds added a serene note to the day's perfection.
Arnold Dixon was more than happy to be back in Rock Hall, Maryland, even if it meant dealing with an ornery Albus Dumbledore. Better that than the terror that had gripped him two nights ago as he and Robert Finkle traversed to that cursed shack and destroyed another of that demon's soul pieces.
It was a good thing that both men had studied the much darker aspects of magic, because if they hadn't, there was no way they would have been prepared for what was in store for them as they set eyes upon the shack. The place looked as if it had been abandoned for years.
Dixon thought about the information he'd gotten from Dumbledore's mind. During the previous year, before the terrible attack that had almost broken his sanity, he'd conducted an interview with a man named Bob Ogden. He'd managed to collect a memory from him, which revealed knowledge about exactly who had lived in this shack and what the significance of it all was.
Dixon sat back in the deck chair, trying to sink into the relaxing atmosphere of the beautiful surroundings he was in. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the birds. This house might have been built and created by Muggles, but he once again thought that they had no idea of the different brand of magic that they'd made. With no objection whatsoever, Dixon allowed it to seep into his veins.
Still, though, he couldn't help but flash back to the memory of a day and a half ago, even though the gorgeous surroundings took away some of its potency. Although ... it would still be one of those things that would remain with him until the day he died. ...
xxx
"For Merlin's sake, Arnold. Do you not recall that I've been destroying magical objects and studying dark curses for longer than you've been alive?" Finkle barked, his eyes hard as he stared at Dixon.
"Yes, Robert. I apologize," Dixon said, taking no offense to Finkle's prickly nature. He was a man who knew what he was doing, and he objected to anyone being concerned for his own safety. There was a level of defensiveness in him that Dixon had seen for as long as they had worked together, but there were still times that it took him by surprise. It was like Finkle didn't expect anyone to care about his well-being, and Dixon found it unspeakably sad.
Finkle just grunted in response to Dixon's apology as they stood in front of the shack. The trees nearby blocked all light - a thick, smothering darkness seemed to penetrate the place. The walls were mossy, and tiles had fallen off the roof. Saying it was in a sorry state was the understatement of the century. Rafters were visible in places - Merlin, he'd never seen such a disgusting place in his entire life!
He had no idea what they were about to face, but he squared his shoulders and straightened his spine, knowing that this needed to be done. He would search out each and every vile Horcrux until they were all destroyed.
There was almost a morbid fascination in the way Dixon watched Finkle cast detection spells around the vicinity, checking for traps that Voldemort had set. After all, the maniacal monster would have made sure his soul piece was protected, wouldn't he? There was no doubt that there would be layers of nasty spells to counteract.
Dixon was, unfortunately, correct in that assumption. There were dark spells all over the area, but Finkle took it in stride as he began, slowly and methodically, to undo them. Dixon had a sudden flashback of playing a Muggle game with his parents growing up - Jenga, it was called. One wrong move, and the entire structure would come tumbling down.
And this was what undoing these spells was like. One misstep, one wrong wand movement, one mispronounced word, and both he and Dixon's lives would be forfeit. This was why Dixon had chosen Finkle to go on this mission with. He trusted this man with his life, and as he watched him work away at the spells that shrouded the Gaunt shack in sinister magic, he couldn't be more grateful for his choice.
Even though Dixon had studied dark magic, too, he wasn't as well-versed in it as Finkle. It was honestly a wonder that the other man hadn't been corrupted by it. How did one slog through so much slime and filth and still come out a decent person? It explained his hard, bitter demeanor at times, but the fact that he still contained any sense of morality and still had a conscience was a testament to his strength of character. It made Dixon think of the bravery that must take. He, as a Mind Healer, had seen some pretty terrible things, but he still didn't know if he'd be strong enough to wade through the putrid stench of dark magic that Finkle had seen, and not be either a gibbering wreck or a full-fledged sociopath.
After about ten minutes of muttering, swearing, and wand-waving, Finkle nodded at Dixon, his sigh of relief barely audible in the September air. "We can proceed," he said emotionlessly.
"Dare I even ask what Voldemort did to the place?" Dixon wondered, trying not to shudder at what he saw in Finkle's eyes at that moment.
"Are you sure you want to know?" The other man's voice was brittle. "I'll give you a brief summary, shall I? Let's see. Spells that cause unbearable pain, rather like the Cruciatus Curse. A spell that would cause you to break every bone in your body. And, oh - I almost forgot. A spell that will plunge you into your worst memory, and only people made of steel will be able to fight their way out."
"Fucking hell." Dixon swore colorfully.
"Indeed." Finkle agreed with a slight note of dark humor. "Good thing your mother isn't hearing you speak like that," he quipped.
"If my mother knew what I was doing here, she'd rather I use the filthiest swearwords for the rest of eternity," Dixon quipped back.
Finkle smirked at him, and the two men proceeded to the Gaunt shack without any further ado.
"Oh, lovely." Finkle's sarcastic comment was caused by the fact that there was a dead snake nailed to the shack door. "How positively charming."
Dixon chuckled. "Very nice," he agreed in the same tone as he took in the delapidated, filthy hovel. He almost felt a hysterical laugh bubble up within him at the thought of Lord Voldemort going near such a place. Well, any means to achieve his ends, he thought with a wry humor that helped make it possible for him to keep going.
The next moment Dixon remembered vividly was finding the Merlin-forsaken thing. Both men had searched in different areas of the shack, and they each had a powerful dark detector on hand. Dixon did not own one himself, but Finkle owned several and had therefore brought one for Dixon to use. Good thing, too, because it had been Dixon who had found the thing. Using both his senses and the dark detector, he located where Voldemort had hidden it - it was under the floorboards. "Robert," he called. "I've found it." Conjuring a box, he Levitated the foul thing into it, not wanting to pick it up. Merlin knew what would happen if he tried that.
Finkle walked towards him, and, once again, Dixon was subjected to the same manic look in Finkle's eyes that he had seen when they'd spoken last night, and agreed to go to the shack today. "Very good, then. Shall I do the honors?" he asked brusquely as Dixon stared with a sick sort of revulsion at the gold ring that was inset with a black stone. It looked eerily beautiful, giving off a haunting quality that ensnared Dixon.
"Stop staring at it," Finkle barked. "Right now."
"Aren't you the least bit curious about it?" Dixon asked, unable to take his eyes from it. Something about it was almost ... hypnotic. The black stone, in particular, was sending tingles of curiosity through him that he hadn't felt since he first got his hands on books about the Mind Arts, and he realized what he wanted to do as a career.
"Oh, no, you don't!" Finkle shouted at him, the raw anger in his voice bringing Dixon back from the edge. Dixon saw that the other man was blatantly keeping the thing out of his direct line of sight. With a rage that Dixon had somehow known was always present in his companion but hadn't seen until today, Finkle pointed his wand at the box, taking a deep breath as his eyes flashed with hatred.
"Fiendfyre."
Dixon remembered how, the day before, Finkle had marveled at the true talent and control his partner, Jonathan Henderson, had with that spell. What he didn't realize was that he, too, had the power to not let this spell go awry. He seemed to channel all his rage, all his hate, into destroying the wicked object.
Dixon's head cleared instantly of whatever sinister force had been holding him as another one of Voldemort's Horcruxes went up in flames. A high-pitched scream of pure fury rose up, up, up from the thing as the heat seared through the room. Finkle was eerily calm as he watched it burn. The only hint of his true emotions was displayed in his eyes, which still sparked with an all-consuming hate that Dixon was severely glad he wasn't on the receiving end of. He figured that if he ever got on Finkle's bad side, he, too, would be burned to ashes with no hint of regret or remorse.
It was only a few seconds later that blessed silence filled the room, but to Dixon, it was almost worse than the screaming of the dying Horcrux. There's something so ... disconcerting about dead silence after an inhuman noise like that that makes you feel like you're shrivelling inside. Because sometimes, dealing with the aftermath is far worse than dealing with the fight itself. There had been a stark terror that Dixon had felt in that moment that made him feel ashamed of himself.
He looked down at the ground, expecting to see only ashes there. What he saw, however, made his heart race.
The black stone lay there, still looking untouched and untarnished. The entire ring had been destroyed, but the stone had remained.
Something rose from the depths of Dixon's mind, something that he'd discovered during his sojourn in healing Dumbledore. After all, he'd gotten to see more of Dumbledore's soul than he had any other human being in existence. He knew his entire story, knew the intricacies of it, knew his regret, his repentence, but his unwillingness to part with "for the greater good". Because even though his goal was no longer to rule over Muggles, he still wished to take control of people's lives. He thought he was doing "good", and he "meant well", but he was hurting people.
In the beginning, though, it had been different. His thirst for power had started when he and Gellert Grindelwald began having in-depth discussions about three objects. Three objects, known as the Deathly Hallows.
And here, right in front of him now, was a black stone that refused to be destroyed even with as strong and as powerful a spell as Fiendfyre. It made an insane kind of sense - if the Hallows were truly crafted by Death himself, or so the legend said, then why would anything be able to destroy them?
But it couldn't be. Arnold Dixon couldn't have just ... stumbled upon this, could he? How was such a thing possible?
"What is it?" Finkle asked, his voice still containing no emotion at all.
"Look at this." Dixon held up the stone, still looking for all the world like nothing had touched it.
For the first time that Dixon had ever seen, Robert Finkle's mouth opened in pure shock. "What the ..."
"Yeah." Dixon nodded his head in agreement with his exclamation. "What the ... indeed."
xxx
Now, as Dixon sat back in his deck chair in Rock Hall and sipped his drink, he still couldn't quite wrap his head around what had happened. Finkle had taken the stone with him - Dixon did not trust himself worth an inch with it, if the legend was correct. The desire to use it would have been far too tempting.
Dixon had been healing minds for a decade now. He had gone through plenty of training first, and he thought he'd been prepared for everything he might experience once he was on the job. However, after only a year, he'd been proven wrong.
His success rate with patients was very, very high, and he was able to assist many in leading better lives. What no one talked about, however, was the fact that a few of his patients hadn't been able to withstand the trauma that they'd suffered.
One of them had been an Obliviator whom Dixon had been very fond of. The entire situation had been hushed up, but it had been a terrible one. In 1981, Voldemort and his supporters had attacked Muggle London in broad daylight, killing many innocent victims and injuring others. It had been a massacre, and many Aurors and Order members had come to help. It had been one of the worst battles during the First War.
Dixon thought that if an Auror's job was hard, an Obliviator's job was even harder. Those tasked with casting Memory Charms were responsible for sifting through the carnage, finding Muggles, and forcing them to believe magic didn't exist. They were made to believe that they themselves had been injured in a terrorist attack, or that their loved ones had died in one. Indeed, that was what all the Muggle papers said the next day about the vicious attack that had claimed the lives of men, women, and children. Several terrorist groups claimed responsibility for the attack, even though none of them had carried it out. That was yet another reason why the Muggle community didn't question the story at all.
One of the Obliviators had cast plenty of Memory Charms that day, but he'd botched one of them. A teenage boy and his girlfriend had been having a fun day in London when the attack had occurred. She had died, but he had made it out uninjured. He was the last person on the Obliviator's list of people to Memory Charm. Having seen so much violence that day, he didn't realize how much it was affecting him and had subsequently bungled the charm.
At first, it looked like it had worked. Another job the Obliviators had was that, for a few months after they'd cast the charm, they discreetly tracked the people they'd charmed, looking for any suspicious activity. If the Memory Charm worked as it should, there would be no strange happenings at all. After a certain period of time, those Muggles would stop being tracked if they displayed no signs that they knew something they shouldn't. The Statute of Secrecy needed to be maintained at all times, after all.
Dixon honestly didn't like how he felt about this. He'd cast Memory Charms on people himself, although he wasn't technically an Obliviator. But, being a Muggle-born, he thought again about his parents. The Statute said it was okay if they knew about the wizarding world, but what of other Muggles? Didn't they have the right to know how they were injured, or how their loved one was murdered? Did witches and wizards really have the right to play God, to lie and deceive such an enormous amount of the population?
Needless to say, that particular Obliviator had tracked that teenage boy and seen that after about a month, he started acting strangely. Unbeknownst to the boy, the Obliviator, Max Sutton, watched as his parents were at their wits' end with him.
"We understand that you're grieving, son, but we will not tolerate you telling wild stories," his father said, his anger disguising his obvious worry.
"I think we need to get you to a hospital." His mother's eyes were bloodshot from crying. "Flashing lights? Wands? A strange man who wanted you to forget what happened and tried to make you believe something else?"
"You're barking," his younger brother said bluntly. "Completely barking mad. You're not right in the head."
Dixon had seen all of it during their healing sessions. He'd seen how Max struggled with the decision whether or not to intervene. After all, the boy's parents weren't putting any stock in his stories, and he could see that the boy was doubting his own sanity. It was unbearable. Max was sick with himself at his own failure, and he didn't know what to do. All he could hope for was that eventually, the boy would move on and not think about what had happened.
But things only got more strained between him and his family. He refused any help from them, and one day it had become too much. "Your mad stories have turned into an obsession. If you won't accept our help, then leave this house." His father's voice was uncompromising, holding no compassion anymore.
Max wanted to cast another Memory Charm - he had wanted to do it for ages, but kept hesitating. Merlin knew how badly he'd botched up the last one. If he layered another one on top of it ... he could break the boy's mind. Memory Charms were a delicate process - manipulating the mind was much more complicated than one might think.
Max's hesitation had cost him everything. The boy ran out of the house, tears streaking his face as he whispered his dead girlfriend's name. He ran out into the street just as a car was speeding down the road. Max, stricken and nauseous and unable to think straight, was slow to react. He watched in horror as the car hit the boy. A few hours later, he had died of his injuries.
The next day, Max had resigned from his position, and he never worked as an Obliviator again. Though he had told his superiors what had happened, the entire affair was hushed up and never heard about by the public. Max had endlessly wondered whether the boy had run out into the road on purpose, and it was something he never stopped agonizing about. Was it a result of the Memory Charm, or had he done it because he wasn't believed about what had actually happened? Or had the grief of losing his girlfriend in such a horrific way just been too much?
Whatever the case, Max became a recluse. In the years after, he had lost contact with most of his friends and only kept in touch with his closest ones. He had been recommended to Dixon, and though the man had done all in his power to help, the anguish took its toll on Max. In 1986, five years after the devastating event that had changed his life forever, Max fell to a Killing Curse, cast on him by ... himself. He'd left a suicide note and everything that only his nearest and dearest saw, and it was proven that no foul play was involved.
For once, Dixon had failed, something he had been too arrogant to believe could ever happen. He couldn't help but wonder how many Obliviators over time had mucked up a Memory Charm, and how many more incidents had been hushed up by the wizarding government. 1981 couldn't have been the first time ... could it? And Dixon had a terrible feeling that it would not be the last, either.
No one, apart from Dixon and Max's closest friends and family, knew why the man had taken his own life. Others suspected it to be the result of trauma he'd suffered during the war, but they could have never guessed the exact reason. Max had held his cards close ... and it killed Dixon to be one of the people in the know. If anything made him think about the morality of Memory Charms, that situation had. That seventeen-year-old boy had had the right to know exactly how he'd lost the girl he loved.
It was right after Max's death that Dixon had a crisis of conscience. After all, he manipulated minds himself. He cast Memory Charms himself. He told himself it was all for the good, that it was helping people. But wasn't he being hypocritical? How was he any different from the Obliviators who were tasked with making Muggles forget what they'd seen, and convincing them that something else had happened? Though he had ended up continuing his duties, it was something he still battled with.
And if Dixon had held onto that stone ... he'd have had the chance to apologize to Max for failing in his duty to help him. He'd be able to tell him that he tried his best. He'd be able to confess that Max's story had made such an impact that it still affected him today. He'd be able to voice his fears, that he was terrified that history would repeat itself and the same thing would happen again. Because Obliviators, after all, were only human too and everyone acted like seeing carnage and violence didn't affect them. That it didn't touch them to see grief-stricken Muggles who had no idea, no concept, of what was really going on, because something huge had been kept from them due to the simple fact that witches and wizards were so afraid of getting hurt. They were stuck in their insular ways and didn't think about the consequences.
But, just like Dixon realized that certain things about the magical world were wrong, he realized that he couldn't play God by having the stone. Max deserved his peace, and to be suddenly forced, against his will, into that pain and anguish again ... Dixon could never do such a thing to him. But knowing himself as he did, if he'd had that thrice-damned stone he'd have used it. And he, too, was just a man, and he wasn't about to brag that he wouldn't fall into the same obsession as the second brother in Beedle the Bard's story had fallen into ...
"Arnold?"
Dixon looked up, only to see Dumbledore making his way out onto the deck. He looked much healthier than he had a few weeks ago, and Dixon knew there wasn't much more time until he couldn't keep him here anymore. Once again, his ethics battled with his heart. If it was up to him, he'd hold Dumbledore here until the war was over, until his "greater good" schemes couldn't interfere in the lives of those it would hurt.
But there was a spark of optimism in Dixon that could not be quashed. Knowing Dumbledore's soul as he did, he knew deep down that all the other man wanted was Voldemort's destruction. He wanted Harry to survive, to live a life with those he loved. It was just that the old man thought things had to be a certain way, and he just couldn't see an alternate plan of action. He thought himself so smart, so intelligent, so knowledgeable, and so he thought that he had to always be the one pulling the strings. Dixon hoped with every fiber of his being that he could convince him otherwise - after all, two could play at the manipulating game - and he was desperate to reach the part of Dumbledore's soul that still felt compassion, that could still accept that things were different from how he thought them to be.
He had told Dumbledore everything he needed to know about the destruction of the ring, although he had kept the discovery of the Resurrection Stone to himself. Dumbledore, due to his own issues of guilt and remorse concerning the death of his little sister, would stop at nothing to get hold of it. Unlike in other circumstances, Dixon's conscience did not disagree with this plan of action at all.
Dumbledore was silent as he sat in a chair next to Dixon. His blue eyes, though they still twinkled, had a much duller quality to them now. Though he did his best to hide it, the attack on his mind had taken away a lot of his self-confidence. He honestly didn't carry himself in the same way he used to, and Dixon couldn't help the wave of sadness that swept through him. Confidence had been so engrained into Dumbledore's character, and the fact that he was without it was almost like the sun not rising in the morning.
"Arnold," Dumbledore said quietly, and something in his eyes suddenly gave Dixon hope. They might be duller now, but today, there was a different look in them. "I have never really said thank you, have I?"
"You have, countless times," Dixon disagreed. There had been plenty of times he'd been thanked for his efforts in healing him, although he knew that several of these times, it had been done to try and manipulate Dixon into letting him contact those he knew in Britain. This time, however, he didn't sense any such plot; this time, it was sincere.
"Well, I will say it again," Dumbledore said. "Thank you for everything you have done for me. And thank you ... thank you for taking it upon yourself to destroy the Horcruxes." He looked at Dixon, his eyes boring into his. "How is the ... other research going?" he asked, a note of desperation in his voice.
Dixon once again felt positive that Dumbledore was desperate for Harry to survive. "My colleagues here have made a lot of headway." His words were blunt. "They're not there yet, but they tell me that they are very close to a breakthrough."
It only happened for an instant, but Dixon saw a very brief look of wild joy pass through Dumbledore's eyes. "You know that I never wanted Harry to suffer," he whispered.
"I know." Dixon's voice was just as soft. "But you still think he needs to go back to the Dursleys."
Dumbledore looked away, and Dixon knew he was right. "I do not want him to, but I think he needs to. Those are two different things, Arnold," he stated.
"Harry does not "need" to go back to the Dursleys." Dixon shook his head. "You have no idea of what has been going on ever since I brought you here."
"That's because you won't tell me." There was another brief look that passed through Dumbledore's eyes, and it made Dixon's heart twinge. He looked like a parched man in the middle of the desert, thirsty for information that he just wasn't getting. How must it feel, Dixon thought, to be the most powerful wizard in the world, and now, to suddenly be at the mercy of a Healer who thought it was best to keep him on a "need-to-know" basis? The twinge passed very quickly, though, because how many times had Dumbledore kept important information from others?
It was at that moment that Dixon truly came to terms with himself and his role in Dumbledore's life. Dumbledore thought that what he had done was "for the greater good", and Dixon had to admit that he was doing the same thing. If people thought him a hypocrite, then so be it. If they thought him just as guilty of manipulation as Dumbledore, then so be it. Dixon knew he was making the right decision, because Harry's face, Sirius's gray eyes, and the screams of a dying Horcrux spurred him onwards.
But he also knew that Dumbledore couldn't be kept from the truth much longer. Healers couldn't keep their patients against their will. He could only keep Dumbledore in the dark for a little longer.
"I am sorry, Albus." Dixon sighed heavily. "I have only been doing what I feel is best for your recovery." He looked the other man directly in the eye. "Although, my ethics dictate that I can't keep you here for much longer. Against my better judgment, I am telling you that in four days, which is this upcoming Wednesday, you will be healthy enough to return to Britain."
A profound silence seemed to fill the deck after the pronouncement was made. For a moment, Dixon couldn't even register the sound of the birds that were still singing.
"But I would tread carefully once you step foot back in Britain," Dixon said, his tone gentle but full of warning. "Things are not as you remember them. You will not be able to shape events the way you think you can."
And I will fight you if you try to meddle, Dixon did not say, but the words were there. Dumbledore heard them loud and clear, and as the two men locked eyes, Dixon knew that things were about to get a whole lot more complicated.