"ᴄᴀɴꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴏᴜ, ᴏ ᴘᴀʀᴛɪᴀʟ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘ, ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜʏ ʀᴇᴘᴏꜱᴇ
ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴛ ꜱᴇᴀ-ʙᴏʏ ɪɴ ᴀɴ ʜᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴏ ʀᴜᴅᴇ,
ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀʟᴍᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟᴇꜱᴛ ɴɪɢʜᴛ,
ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʟʟ ᴀᴘᴘʟɪᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴏᴏᴛ,
ᴅᴇɴʏ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴋɪɴɢ? ᴛʜᴇɴ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ʟᴏᴡ, ʟɪᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ!
ᴜɴᴇᴀꜱʏ ʟɪᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴀ ᴄʀᴏᴡɴ."
― ꜱʜᴀᴋᴇꜱᴘᴇᴀʀᴇ, ʜᴇɴʀʏ ɪᴠ
Chapter Twenty-Eight: (Shh) Adults Are Talking
The night was cloudy, and the space where the light of the moon and stars should have been was stifled by velvet darkness.
Silent as the ghosts that wandered the hallways, the Headmaster drifted down the corridors, unseen, towards the Owlery.
He heard the shuffling footsteps of his pursuer but did not acknowledge them or attempt to make them lose their trail, although he could easily manage that.
Albus Dumbledore thought, sometimes, that he knew the corridors of Hogwarts better than his own mind, and he liked to believe that he knew himself quite well.
After all, if he didn't know himself at the age of one hundred and ten, when would he?
And somewhat fittingly, he had no one else to know. Gellert lost forever. Aberforth estranged and hating him for good reason. And Ariana dead.
He had nothing left but guilt and perhaps the sliver of a chance to stop it all from happening again. But, even if it was the world's way to tear itself apart, again and again, he could not simply sit back and let it happen, even if he had to wield secrets and lies as weapons.
Not when there was the slightest chance of peace.
Not when Voldemort wasn't truly gone.
He cleared his throat.
"It is late, Quirinus."
The shuffling footsteps behind him stopped.
"Is it, Professor Dumbledore? I had not realised."
The imposter so little uses Quirinus's stutter around me since December. It is as if they know that I know precisely their predicament.
And they always attempt to avoid me.
How much of Quirinus is left, I wonder? Has he been wholly consumed?
What a shame. What a waste.
Albus stifled his fury. He was well-practised.
And he did not wish a confrontation.
Quirinus's shoulders were drawn tight. Knotted, almost.
"I m-must commend you on your s-s-steadfastness," he said, toeing the line between flattery and mockery. "M-Most would not keep up s-s-su-suspicion for so long."
"I am not most," said Albus. "I have yet to ask; what were you doing with Miss Potter on Christmas? If you had any concerns, you would bring them up with me. Wouldn't you, Quirinus?"
He knew better than to ask any questions about Harry; the further he was from Quirinus's thoughts, the better. It wasn't time yet. Albus wasn't ready to let the endgame begin.
Whoever it was behind the mask, he had to ease them into the trap.
You know who it is, Albus, he reminded himself, thinking of the chalk runes scratched onto the floor in front of the mirror. You know whose blood that is.
Quirinus's eyes widened, then narrowed.
Perhaps he'd pushed it a little too far.
"S-She seems lost."
"Behind in class?" pressed Albus.
He had seen them from far away. Seen Quirinus lead her out into the furthest point of the grounds from the school, and stand there with his wand drawn, no doubt intending to do her serious harm.
Albus had waited a month to interrogate him. It was time.
"No," said Quirinus. "Quite p-p-passable. Well, at times. No p-prodigy, for certain."
Another frightened laugh.
"Do you think she is not trying? Holding back, perhaps?"
Quirinus smiled nervously. "It is too early to tell. I c-c-confess that I have not p-paid the utmost attention."
"I find her reasonably intelligent," said Albus. "And more importantly, an apt judge of character."
Not to mention an obvious talent for cruelty and secretiveness. Though Quirinus doesn't need to know.
Come to think of it, so did I, at her age.
So did he.
That elicited a nervous chuckle from Quirinus.
"P-Perceptiveness is a Slytherin trait, I suppose?"
"I would think Ravenclaw," said Albus, giving him a meaningful look. "Quirinus?"
Now.
Every night, he hoped that he had unsettled 'Quirinus' enough to find a weakness in his mind. But, as always, his mind was locked up tight. Immovable and secure.
No use in pushing harder. Legilimency was not an art where brute force did you any good.
"And what of H-Harry?" asked Quirinus, all sugar and spice.
"What of Harry?" Albus repeated, ready to steer the conversation away at a moment's notice.
"Well―" Quirinus twitched his left hand "―you know he is having problems, of course. His magic remains immature."
"That so rarely happens."
Now, this was something he did want to hear more of, provided Quirinus would not obfuscate the truth.
"Indeed."
"It must be quite frustrating for Harry. Has he gone to you for advice?"
Quirinus gave him a long, steady look. But, to Dumbledore's dismay, he could not tell whether or not he was about to tell the truth.
I have for too long relied on my greater abilities, he thought, only for them to fail me when I require them most.
"No," he said finally. "I find it is not advisable to p-p-push these c-ca-cases. If he did c-come to me, I would only tell him to give it time."
But has he? Has he sought advice from you, Quirinus?
"You think it will improve with time?"
"He is dreadfully s-s-s-skinny, P-Professor Dumbledore. Who knows? A case of m-malnourishment m-m-may indeed lead to a delay in m-maturity. C-Come to think of it, P-Professor, how did that happen in the f-first p-place?"
What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? thought Albus. Clearly, the answer is frustration.
He was at his wit's end. Though the Aurors had dissuaded Quirinus from making a second attempt at the stone, Dumbledore had discovered nothing of his true nature in the months he had bought.
Getting the truth out of him on this matter was a futile task. So he decided to change tactics. Discover whatever he could.
As his mother often said to him as a child, Often the mundane can prove useful. The secrets that people make no attempt to hide may be their undoing.
"Theodore Nott is performing at the top of his year in your class, I believe?"
Quirinus smiled at him once more as if relieved. "Yes, P-Professor. A most diligent s-st-student."
"His father was one of Lord Voldemort's most loyal Death Eaters. He joined up before the war even begun." Albus paused. "I remember Thaddeus Nott. Unfortunately, I cannot say he was a particularly gifted student, in either intelligence or politeness."
I see we are at an impasse.
"What are you s-saying, P-Professor?"
"He reminds me of you as a student."
Albus watched him, hawk-eyed, but Quirinus's face was unperturbed. He blinked his watery, pale eyes (so different from the determined, alert gaze that he knew was there if he just dug deep enough) and ducked his head but said nothing.
But for a moment, before Quirinus's eyes left his, Albus saw something. It was amorphous as a cloud, but he had worked with less before. He was certain of it.
Theodore Nott is part of this. He is a child. He is weak.
He is the eyes and ears of Voldemort in Slytherin House.
And though I loath the idea of interrogating yet another child... He will tell me the truth. I will not force him. But he will tell me.
It was but a glimmer of a victory. This was nothing to celebrate.
"Good night, Quirinus."
"Good night, P-Professor Dumbledore."
First, he puttered about the small, drafty room, affixing a letter to the leg of a female barn owl who seemed to favour her right foot, though it did not hinder her flight, then Quirinus departed in the direction of his quarters. Albus had half a mind to follow him, but he was sure his last defence would hold.
There is no way anyone who wanted the Philosopher's Stone for any selfish reason could take it.
Yes, at first, he had neglected to seal the dungeon entrance, hoping to leave an escape route. But even so, even though he did not recognise the magic that had been done to the mirror, Albus knew it would not compromise the plan. Voldemort could die here... now... forever, and fittingly, at the hands of the boy he tried to kill as an infant. The world could be saved.
Could it? Could the nightmare end now?
Only the emptiness of the hallways answered him.
Obscurus.
The word cut through his mind before he could hold it back. Unwelcome images of Ariana (poor dead Ariana, no matter whose spell killed her, you are the one responsible for her death).
Harry Potter is not an Obscurial. He cannot be an Obscurial.
He would have lashed out by now. Perhaps killed someone, though Albus shuddered even to think it.
Like Ariana.
But most of the time, she was sweet and scared and harmless.
The children were neither as happy nor as well-nourished as he would have liked, perhaps, yet alive and healthy enough.
He hated that there was an enough in the matter. Surely, children deserved more than the bare minimum, even if their very survival was at stake?
Instinct told him there had been foul play, that this was not right. But neither he nor the other professors had seen any evidence.
And it would have shown, he told himself. No Obscurus stays hidden for months at a time.
I would have been told. Unless information is being purposefully kept from me.
As much as he was angry ― no, anxious ― about what Ruby had done, he was angrier with himself still.
Yes, it had to be done. Lily's charm had to be bound to a living blood relative. And a one-year-old could not 'take in' Harry. Even after Ruby was old enough to understand, a child's erratic magic was no sure foothold and thus no security; for either of them.
Remember my last, Petunia.
But of course. Of course, knowing that she was a target for Death Eaters and Voldemort once he returned as Albus had explained to her frantically on the doorstep, Petunia had accepted the children into her home, said the words to make Lily's protection permanent.
She used them as body shields.
In the space of barely more than a decade, the little girl who wrote to him begging to be admitted to Hogwarts had become something so despicable... craven... and her husband equally so.
He should have listened to Minerva. But now it was too late for second chances.
Albus had gone to watch the house under a Disillusionment Charm when Arabella Figg had called him to investigate.
There were no pictures of either Ruby or Harry. No evidence of the existence of two children who had lived in the house for nine years.
No one suspected foul play. Vernon Dursley was not a healthy man.
"MI," the coroner had said, quite dismissively. "Move along."
Mrs. Petunia Dursley, age thirty-two, stood by the door (Dudley had been sent away, gleefully ignorant for now to play with the neighbours). She was the picture of a perfect housewife, demurely dressed in a long skirt, kitten heels and a loose blouse, with a string of seed pearls around her neck and her blonde hair twisted into a chignon.
Petunia, when asked if anything strange had occurred, did not report her two missing children (yes, hers, in the eyes of the law). There was no indication for the Muggle police to suspect Vernon Dursley's death had not been a natural one.
Knowing that the children existed and unsettled by the lack of evidence that they had ever resided at Number Four Privet Drive, Albus became suspicious immediately.
It was when he discovered the aconite-tainted tea that matched the flowers in the garden, and the pile of threadbare blankets, pencil drawings of misshapen dinosaurs with 'H.P.' written in the bottom-right corner, and a narrow mattress in the dusty cupboard under the stairs that Albus finally began to piece the story together. To understand the ghosts that had lingered there.
The cost of hope.
Why did I not visit earlier? he scolded himself as he stood outside of the Polkisses' house as a large animal rustled between the rosebushes, all pointed nose and yellow eyes, with a dead rabbit between its blood-stained jaws. Why did I wait until it was a matter of life or death?
He hadn't felt so utterly useless since he was ten years old, watching helplessly as Ministry officials took his father away.
"What have you done! What did you do?"
No, Albus was smart enough to know, at least vaguely, what was about to happen. He knew what kind of environment he was leaving the children in; he was disgusted but not surprised. He knew why he had waited until it was a matter of life or death.
And, he found, quite disgusted with himself.
This is necessary, he told himself. It is necessary sometimes to do bad in order to do good.
Is there such a thing as necessary evil? Isn't 'necessary evil' part of Gellert's repertoire?
Am I doing any good?
Maybe that was the trouble. It was decades after their last fateful meeting, and Albus couldn't tell where he ended and Gellert began.
Maybe Lily's blood wards could have taken to Ruby's magic, after all. Perhaps that was who they had been intended for, why Lily had been so adamant that Remus take her to a separate location. He never tried. He didn't know; it was Lily's invention, after all, and she'd reportedly destroyed her notes, presumably so the Death Eaters couldn't work backwards and break the wards.
Rightfully, he should have kept them at Hogwarts and kept trying. Voldemort and his followers would never have been so bold as to try to get into Hogwarts in the first few years after his defeat.
But I had to be certain he would survive.
What had happened felt like it was mocking, perverting Lily's sacrifice.
But I could not. When the time comes, Harry must be ready for what will face him in just a few months' time, if my suspicions are correct. Everything must happen in the right way, at the right time. The final protection must be put in place.
A few more months, and it could all be over.
What happened to Ariana could not happen again. Still, the uncertainty troubled him.
When he shut his eyes, he heard Aberforth screaming in terror and grief. Saw Ariana's vacant eyes staring up at the ceiling, her blonde hair fanned out around her.
Gellert left Albus to his own devices, to pick up the broken pieces of his family, cursed forevermore to mourn for those he could not save.
You left them, too.
Has it happened all over again?
Everything has a price, Albus reminded himself. Especially peace.
Even after ten years of Voldemort being supposedly gone, the very idea of lasting peace seemed laughable.
No. It would not do to be hysterical.
It's the unknown we fear. Nothing more.
After Voldemort was gone, he would make amends. Leave no stone unturned.
Fix everything.
But, said a little voice, what is done cannot be fixed.
At least he had gleaned something useful from Quirrell.
Theodore Nott.
That boy is a pawn, he thought. He won't be able to stop himself from using Thaddeus Nott's son if the incentive is there. He wouldn't touch Draco Malfoy; he is too far removed from the poisoned tree. With Theodore Nott, there is a direct influence. He will contact Thaddeus Nott if he hasn't already, and the son will obey.
I should put a stop to it all, thought Albus, turning towards the stairs leading out of the Owlery. But what good will it do?
How many more must suffer?
How many more?
When he returned to his office, Minerva and Severus were already waiting.
He (almost) regretted keeping his cards so close to his chest, keeping them busy with reporting to him on the Potters and managing the Aurors, and as far as possible (especially Severus) from Quirinus Quirrell until the time was right for the end to begin. Until the imposter was lulled into a false sense of security, and their patience had been worn away. September was too early. June was too late. Albus must begin the game now.
Minerva spoke first.
"You called us to discuss Professor Quirrell, Professor Dumbledore?"
Overly formal. Minerva was not particularly skilled at the art of persuasion; she had always been too heavy-handed.
So, he bided his time and pretended to attend to Fawkes, who was drawing close to a Burning Day.
"As Professor Quirrell is not with us," said Severus, "am I to assume your opinion of him is one of suspicion?"
Albus dropped the pretence.
"You understand me exactly, Severus. I understand you have spoken to him recently, against my instruction? Something to the effect of You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell? You kicked the hornet's nest, so to speak?"
Severus sniffed.
Always struggling to prove himself despite his relative youth and four years as a Death Eater.
"Your lack of faith in my abilities continues to astound me," said Severus, crossing his arms. "I deduced that he was the intruder weeks ago. Found him skulking around the Forbidden Forest, like the cowardly, craven―"
"Quirinus? The imposter?"
"Yes, Professor McGonagall," said Severus. "Did you not teach the fool a mere ― let me see ― six or so years ago?"
"Do not be uncharitable, Severus." Albus had little intention of letting the meeting dissolve into bickering. "I, too, learned of Quirrell's treachery quite a while ago."
"A while, Professor?" Severus's tone was icy. "I take that to mean you knew the moment he returned to Hogwarts from his travels."
"Not the moment," said Albus. "But soon after."
"And I take it you know who hides between Quirrell's ill-fitting mask, as well?"
"Your faith in my abilities continues to astound me," said Albus, with a wry smile. "Well, he is a very good Occlumens, Severus. Almost as skilful as you. And he has improved greatly over his sabbatical."
Minerva looked suspicious. "If he is a very good Occlumens, how did you know he was Occluding at all?"
Albus nodded. "This sort of thing cannot be kept at full strength for long; it ebbs and flows. Though I cannot get into his mind without alerting him of my efforts, I can tell that something is off."
"Could you not try, Professor?" asked Severus. "You have certainly made successful attempts with me."
Albus sighed.
"I do not wish to warn whichever Death Eater impersonating Quirrell that we are onto them."
"Speak plainly, Dumbledore," said Severus. "They know we suspect that at least; if not thanks to me, to their own intelligence, at least. If the Dark Lord is indeed still alive, he would have sent the most capable possible."
Dumbledore gave him a piercing look.
"And yet, Azkaban remains untouched. Not a single escapee."
"Couldn't we have missed one?" asked Minerva. "Just one Death Eater could act on their own, and if they have managed to stay hidden all this time, they've already proven their worth at espionage and stealth."
It was a tempting, almost reassuring explanation. But Albus knew it could not be. He knew his old student, who preferred to operate anyone and trust no one. This was not a task he would risk delegating.
Albus took a deep breath and prepared to finally tell the truth, or, at least, the truth that he thought he had sufficient evidence to believe.
"I think it is highly probable that we are dealing with Lord Voldemort himself, and as the Hogwarts motto says, Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus — never tickle a sleeping dragon."
"And you knew?" snapped Severus, leaping to his feet.
"I am not certain," said Albus. Exhaustion washed over him, and he gripped the edge of the desk to keep steady. It was difficult to stay alert when he had not been sleeping. "I would prefer to be certain. Sit down, Severus."
After all, trusting his intuition tended to lead to horrific effects.
I cannot be trusted.
Minerva's voice was indignant.
"You-Know-Who is not a sleeping dragon! You know as well as I do that it's when he's quiet that To― that he does the most evil and scheming!"
"Indeed. There is no doubt in my mind that he is up to something as we speak."
Severus cast him a questioning look, but Albus shook his head.
"The Philosopher's Stone is bait," said Severus, his intonation utterly flat. "You mean him to take it and become, if not immortal, corporeal once more."
"I mean him to attempt."
"And who, Dumbledore, will stop him!"
"Harry Potter," said Albus gravely. "I must admit, I was worried at first — and I am certainly worried now, to put so much responsibility on a child. And I am afraid my trust in his relatives was ill-advised, to say the very least. But he will not be in any immediate danger; Lily's protection, especially with him in Hogwarts and with Ruby's blood bound into the contract as well by the end of April, Voldemort cannot harm him. And we will be ready to act if need be."
Severus's features contorted in anger. Albus could not say truthfully that he blamed him.
The way to hell is indeed paved with good intentions.
"With all due respect, Professor Dumbledore, as I warned you before the Sorting Ceremony, regardless of whether they are sorted into Slytherin or not, I have no intention of becoming a nursemaid for the Potter spawn. Doubly now that you intend to throw Harry Potter to the Dark Lord as a sacrificial offering! And for what — a slim chance of victory?"
"Hush, Severus," chided Albus. "I need your assurance that you will let old grudges be. This situation is… delicate."
Albus didn't like this either. Admittedly, it was far from ideal, but trusting the Ministry with this, given how they'd botched the war efforts against Grindelwald and Voldemort, would be incredibly foolish of him.
No. This was something he had to do.
"You cannot convince me to enjoy such a miserable task, should it befall me."
"You do not have to enjoy it, Severus," he muttered.
Minerva had been quiet for a while, clearly mulling something over.
"What if he gets the Philosopher's Stone?"
Albus sighed. The Stone should remain safely inside the mirror; Harry's deepest desire was, most likely, to be reunited with his family, for he had no reason to desire the Stone above it, and Tom's... who knows what dark, twisted desires drive that sorry shell of a human being.
But his former student had a point. The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry. If Voldemort did retrieve the Philosopher's Stone... what then?
"You know, Minerva, that Voldemort is nothing if not tenacious. If not now and with the Philosopher's Stone, he would doubtlessly find some other, darker magic with which to resurrect him, likely in the span of five years or so. We are not creating a problem, but rather… hastening its arrival."
The Ministry will undoubtedly take advantage of my failure to protect the Stone to attempt to remove me from Hogwarts for once and for all so that they can return to putting their heads in the sand.
"So," said Minerva. "A conundrum. We're dammed if we do…"
"…and dammed if we don't," Severus finished grimly.
Albus coughed.
"Indeed. I had thought he would reveal himself sooner, but I underestimated his patience. And first, I mean to discover whether or not the imposter is Voldemort, or simply one of his men or women on the outside. If it is not indeed Voldemort, we shall act swiftly and severely. If it is as I suspect, we shall lay a trap."
"And how do you plan to discover the imposter's true identity?" asked Severus.
Albus offered only a wry smile in response. That, for now, must remain secret. After all, the best-kept secrets are the ones you tell to no one.
"And Harry Potter himself?"
Severus did not break Dumbledore's gaze. He sighed.
"Yes, Severus. He worries me. They both do."
Severus merely scowled.
"He is his father all over again."
Minerva could not help but get involved. "And what is wrong with that? James Potter was—"
"A swine! An insufferable, arrogant bully whose only good deed was dying to vain to 'save' his wife and child!"
"James was no such thing!"
"Oh, yes. Oh yes, he was, Professor McGonagall, though he and his ridiculous friends — the betrayer, the meek werewolf, and the useless lump — took care not to let it show around anyone who they thought mattered."
Albus cleared his throat. This was quickly getting out of hand.
"The sins of the father do not pass to the son, Severus. Or the daughter, for that matter. Unless you have evidence of either acting as an 'insufferable, arrogant bully,' I suggest you refrain from making such claims."
"Of course," he said, sneering. "The pampered Potter prince and princess. How dare I."
Minerva gave Albus a pleading look, but he shook his head. Tonight was not the appropriate time for such discussion.
"—one of whom feels the need to have near-constant outbursts of aggression and no grasp of the most basic manners, and the other deliberately sabotages her own work for some bizarre reason, most likely to irritate me—"
Most likely, thought Albus, so Severus does not put two-and-two together and figure out what killed Vernon Dursley.
"I will talk to them both," said Albus. "It is unfair to—"
"—It may have escaped your notice, Professor Dumbledore, but life isn't fair."
"For the love of everything, Severus!" snapped Minerva. "The world does not revolve around you and your self-pity!"
Albus sighed. His patience was quickly beginning to wear thin.
"I did not bring you both here to bicker!"
He hadn't meant to shout, but at least it made them stop talking over each other and sit up straight.
"Minerva," said Albus tightly. "Has Harry's situation improved in the least?"
"No." At least she had the grace to look embarrassed. "I've never seen anything like it — erratic — beyond anything I've seen before. His magic should have stabilized at least a year ago."
Severus said nothing.
"You will take a look, won't you?" she pressed.
"Yes. Perhaps after the school year has finished. It is not the most pressing issue, and although a nuisance, it currently poses no harm."
"And in the meantime," said Severus, "what are we to do with Professor Quirrell?"
Albus merely smiled. That much, he would withhold.
Tom is clever and methodical. He would not go into this without a plan; that much I know. But he functions best under pressure. If he feels safe, he is likely to make mistakes. And given the chance, he has never been able to help himself.
And all that I need is the narrowest of footholds. He'll play his weakest card. I am sure of it.
"Licorice Snap?" he asked, gesturing to the engraved bowl containing a few handfuls of jet-black sweets, which were moving rather suspiciously. "I must warn you — they are rather sharp."
Both Minerva and Severus shook their heads.
"Just as well," said Albus and helped himself.
He was unwilling to reveal his hand, and the conversation was over, so both professors bid him good-night and left the office.
Albus placed a hand over a framed photograph, taken more than fifty years ago, that had been turned flat on the desk for decades — but he remembered well who it depicted. He sighed and wished, as he often found himself doing, that there was some way to go back to the days when that student was still sitting in his office and staring at Fawkes with wonder in his eyes.
"I will ask you this once, Tom. Is there anything transpiring with your housemates that I should know about? Think carefully before you answer."
"No, nothing, sir."
How could he have been so stupid... Tom had played him for a fool (everyone else, yes, but Albus should have known better). Yes, he had been distracted with Gellert for a myriad of reasons more than he cared to explain to the general public.
He had been not himself that year... he had been ill.
But that was no excuse. He should have known. He should have tried to control him. Stop him from making wrong choice after wrong choice.
If only there were a way to do it all over again. Walk back into Wool's Orphanage, and do something, anything.
What's the use of power, when what is most important to control evades me?
And now, the cycle was beginning again.
"The time is long gone when I could frighten you with a burning wardrobe and force you to make repayment for your crimes. But I wish I could, Tom. I wish I could..."
I know I am not the only one to blame. That saving you was most likely beyond even I.
And now, he felt nothing but anger. Pity and compassion had shrunk with every unforgivable crime, every student, friend or colleague that had fallen in a futile war.
There was no more opportunity to bargain, to dictate terms and conditions. But the set of pieces that remained available on the board had narrowed; the endgame was about to begin. It was time to unmask Lord Voldemort, for once and for all, and hopefully, to bring him to justice.
Merely taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit.
There was much more that the crueller part of Albus wanted to do. But that was why he could not trust himself not to do as his father did; to prioritize revenge against peace and justice.
I cannot preach one thing and do the other. You can take everything from me, Tom, but not my ability to make the right choice where you would falter.
"Oh, Tom," he said to the empty office. "You never did learn from your mistakes."
And nor, it seems, do I.
Endnotes:
I think, for now, Dumbledore doesn't have much (or any) evidence to suspect that the Horcruxes exist. So, yeah. No secret sacrifice plot. For now.
Hope you enjoyed this chapter and the window into Dumbledore's situation! We'll be back with our usual POV characters from now on ;)
'MI' aka myocardial infarction is the medically correct term for a heart attack.