He considered the young man who was sitting in front of him, defeated and horrified at his sudden loss. Exposed. Usually, such nakedness worked well for Albus. For instance, there was that one time when the young man’s vulnerability had burst out of him so vividly that Albus could have almost touched it. The young man had begged for the woman to be saved. That hadn’t been a chink at all; that had been a large gap, and Albus had seized his chance right there and then.
Of course, the plan had failed. Even after careful planning, after careful manoeuvring, the plan had collapsed, and he had lost two brave souls. It had broken him inside, as a matter of fact, yet he had moved on soon enough, ready to make the next move on the board.
Now, the young man was falling apart again; this time, however, his vulnerability was threatening to tip a delicate balance.
“Her son lives,” Albus told him. “He has her eyes, precisely her eyes. You remember the shape and colour of Lily Evans’ eyes, I am sure?” *
He was aware that he was provoking the young man, and he was proven to be correct when the latter exploded. But, once again, Albus was merely using the chinks. Not to break, no, but to make.
“The Dark Lord will return,” he said simply, “and Harry Potter will be in terrible danger when he does.”
Albus knew the young man needed time to heal, but he had none to give. As he left the latter shivering and mourning the death of the only woman he’d ever loved, his eyes turned glacial.
It is necessary, Albus told himself.
She complained against the boy’s new guardians; she said they were horrid and as different from them as was possible. Would a letter really be enough to explain everything?
Truth be told, the answer was ‘no’, but Albus was certain there was no place safer for the boy. And, for ten years at least, the boy had to be left in the mercy of those Muggles who probably had no love for him. Was that fair? It was merely the best solution.
Later that night, he sat on his chair and wondered if he had made the correct decision. Albus knew how necessary a parent’s love was for a child’s formative years. Hadn’t he seen the consequences of a loveless childhood? Didn’t he know how a misguided, unchecked soul could be easily led astray? Wasn’t this baby, who was sleeping in ignorance of his parents’ death, an orphan because another orphan had turned into a monster?
No, he told himself. The boy needed to grow up in anonymity with his Muggle relatives for the sake of humility and security. Albus would make sure he was distanced from the magical world, and when the boy finally entered Hogwarts, Albus would watch and guide him. And protect him.
Ten years later, he found himself considering the Mirror of Erised.
The boy is so very young and brave, he thought. No one deserved such a terrible fate; had there been an alternative, he would have taken it. There was none. He raised his wand and placed the necessary enchantments on the mirror.
To his delight and relief, the boy didn’t fail. Time and again, this admirable, bespectacled boy stayed true and crossed hurdles upon hurdles.
Albus, however, failed with the boy, and when he failed, he did it spectacularly. He missed the impostor posing as an old friend, even a murder that had occurred in his own school. He knew, and yet he didn’t act upon the knowledge that he should have been the one to teach the boy how to close his mind. He not just suffered losses; he caused them, too.
Yet he would be up and about again, charging ahead with the next plan. All that mattered was for the boy to find the Horcruxes and destroy them: that was the only final strategy that shouldn’t fail.
As the boy went through so many memories with him, he couldn’t help but consider the irony of things. The boy didn’t know that he was the sacrificial lamb, and that his final act of heroism would be suicide.
It is necessary, Albus told himself, even though the thought alone hurt him.
“Doge, Elphias!” called the stately witch who taught Charms.
“Good luck,” whispered Albus. Doge’s lips trembled as he went towards the Sorting Hat.
Albus studied the star-studded ceiling of the Great Hall as the Hat shouted, “Gryffindor!”
How unusual, he mused. Elphias seemed like a decent lad, but he certainly was not cut out for Gryffindor. Though Albus would never say it out loud, he was certain that he was the kind of person who belonged in that most valiant of Houses. After all, he was Percival Dumbledore’s son; he understood bravery and courage better than most people.
Of course, he reflected as it was his turn to get sorted, I might as well go to Ravenclaw. Albus did not mind that, either; Kendra, his mother, had come from the house of scholars, and he thought of himself as one.
“Ahhh…” began the Hat as soon as it was over (and inside of) Albus’ head, “fancy yourself a hero and a scholar, eh?”
“I am,” asserted Albus silently. “I do not fancy that. I know!”
“A high opinion of self, I see,” said the Hat, “and, ambitious, too. Fairly cunning as well. Where to put you…”
Albus was beginning to see where the Hat’s musings were leading it to. “If you think that’s the answer, you’re wrong,” he muttered within his head.
“Oh, you aren’t very selfish, I agree,” replied the Hat, “but you are prepared for any means for an end. The end could be just and selfless, and yet the means may not necessarily be fair…or so, you think.”
Albus swallowed loudly. “You must reconsider,” he insisted. “I come from a long line of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws.”
“Then it is time to break the tradition,” retorted the Hat. “SLYTHERIN!”
“That old fool is dead,” said Voldemort, almost to himself.
“Yes, my lord,” confirmed Severus Snape.
“A work worthy of my most faithful servant, Severus. You have pleased me tonight.”
Snape gave a short bow.
“He was a blemish upon the noble name of Slytherin,” continued Voldemort. “A Slytherin who trifles with Mudbloods and blood traitors is always unworthy of Salazar’s legacies.”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Snape.
“You may leave.”
If Voldemort had taken the trouble to look into his servant’s eye before he left the room, he would have seen the truth.
Another Slytherin was on his way to tread upon the honour of his House.