Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.
Nine
Dumbledore: On the Wings of a Thestral
Like countless others before him, Dumbledore found his options severely limited by his own mortality. Granted, he’d been lucky enough to lead an exceptionally long life with ample time to prepare for the inevitable. Due to extensive research into obscure magical principles, he’d even managed to blur the lines between life and death to a minute degree. But that’s where it ended; he truly had no direct influence on the events he witnessed unfolding before him. He could only depend upon the impression he’d made in others’ lives while he stood before them in the flesh, but his time was past. For a man who had depended on his charisma most of his adult life, it was a singularly disheartening realization.
To make matters worse, that insufferable Rita Skeeter woman had taken it upon herself to tarnish the image he’d so carefully fostered throughout his long career at Hogwarts. Lies, innuendos, half-truths, suppositions! Since when did these comprise the cornerstones of journalism? It was as if Voldemort’s corrosive influence had tarnished that profession as well.
But try as he might, he could not lay this one at Tom Riddle’s feet. Scandals had fed the voracious minds of the populace since the beginning of time. It was the baser side of human nature that reveled in destroying those around them, seeking to make themselves look better by comparison.
No one was exempt from Skeeter’s poisoned quill. What did it matter, anyway, when the subject was dead and buried? Surely that was the way she justified such perfidy.
Or did the woman even bother anymore? Dumbledore pondered. Had she blurred the truth so many times that she no longer recognized it when she saw it? As far as he could tell, Skeeter’s sole foray into responsible journalism had been when The Quibbler had published her interview of Harry Potter during Fudge’s reign of misinformation. And that had been Hermione Granger’s doing more than anything. How ironic that Skeeter might derive credibility from that very action, one which she had resisted to the very end.
The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, such was the title of Skeeter’s latest tell-all exposé. What a difference a single word could make, Dumbledore considered philosophically from his otherworldly window. A truer title would be: The Life and Lies About Albus Dumbledore. But truth never sold anymore, did it?
Just as discretion was no longer in fashion, it would seem. Privacy had become a euphemism for secrets; and crimes committed without witnesses were not crimes at all. Even Skeeter must recognize that force-feeding an aging woman like Bathilda Bagshot with large quantities of Veritaserum was unethical at the very least! To have manipulated Bathilda’s brain in this manner had clearly contributed to her demise; and willful or not, such depraved indifference for another merited a charge of manslaughter, or possibly as an accessory to murder. Could the Wizengamot not see that Skeeter was implicit in this? But with no living relatives, poor Bathilda had no one to demand justice on her behalf.
At least his own brother, Aberforth, had given Harry and friends the true story in the end. But the damage had already been done. Even from beyond, Dumbledore had been drawn to the turmoil within Harry at that very moment. He had seen the last youthful idealism slide from the lad’s face “ only to be replaced by the harshness of adulthood. How Dumbledore wished it could have been otherwise!
Another failure to add to his expanding list. They were falling fast and furious now, the weight of each accumulating like a millstone about his neck. An unmistakable sign that things were drawing to their inevitable conclusion.
Once his surroundings assumed the shape of a galactic train station, Dumbledore knew that the final confrontation between Harry and Voldemort was imminent. His youthful fascination with trains had followed him into the afterlife, it would seem. With quiet dignity, he arranged his pristinely white robes on a bench in the waiting area to witness the proceedings in his previous existence.
Try as he might to refashion the area into a small welcoming platform like that in Hogsmeade village, the illusion would not hold. The roof of the open-sided shelter would change from dark wood into a sparklingly glass skylight as it receded a hundred feet or more above him. The worn wooden columns would be replaced with shiny brass and elaborate Beaux Arts adornments until he was returned to the wonderland of his boyhood: Victoria Station.
Only this time there was a foreboding about the multiple tracks laid out before him. Just how many lives would be derailed in the upcoming conflict? Dumbledore wondered grimly.
It was a shiny, silver bullet train that slid before him soundlessly. The whisper of its sophisticated braking system so unlike the squeal of metal on metal that he remembered from the steam locomotives of his youth. The doors slid back into the hull like a long series of eyelids. All along the endless expanse of the disembarking platform, ancestors eased forward to welcome relatives on their final journey.
Dumbledore was shocked to see how many of the passengers were barely more than children. Surely Minerva and the other trustworthy teachers had evacuated the students to safety. That had been one of the main reasons for establishing the secret tunnel to Aberforth’s upstairs parlor. But even as he formed the thought, he acknowledged the likelihood that some students would’ve doubled back to lend their assistance in defense of their beloved school. It’s what he would have done himself, he winced.
He made to turn away as the cherubic face of Colin Creevey broke out in wonder at being greeted by the elderly Nana he had only met in stories. Damned Gryffindors and their over-rated bravery, Dumbledore moaned internally. Children should not be drawn into a war! But hadn’t Voldemort done just that by attacking Harry as an infant and countless others since his resurgence?
In the distance, a tight clutch of Chinese ancestors jockeyed for position, the rainbow hues of their brocade garments arresting against the predominantly Victorian garb. Amid the shiny, blue-black hair, a tall blonde youth joined in as the group surged forward to meet the newest arrival. With a tremulous smile, Cho Chang slowly eased her way down the steps, unsure of her ultimate destiny until her eyes met those of her beloved Cedric.
The knot of apprehension in his stomach tightened at the arrival of Fabian and Gideon Prewett flanked by their Uncle Bilius, wild hair making the elderly man look just as deranged as ever. Unwittingly, Dumbledore’s eyes were drawn to the tracks once more by the rhythmic squeaking of wheels among all the surrounding hydraulics. A humble handcart was inching its way closer, the sole passenger working the seesaw mechanism single-handedly. It was not lost on Dumbledore that it was a mode of transportation designed for the combined energies of two persons working in tandem. Fred was as bereft in death as his twin, George, would find himself in the land of the living.
Dumbledore’s breath caught in his throat as he spied a tall, rangy fellow who loped up to join those waiting to disembark from the sleek bullet train. Dear, sweet Merlin! Let it be a trick of the light, an unintentional resemblance only, he begged of whatever deity might heed him.
No, no, no, no, NO! It couldn’t be Remus. Remus was needed at home to care for his infant son. His wife needed him. His mother-in-law had already lost her husband in this conflict. Remus was slated to be part of the reconstruction, to help the survivors build themselves up from scratch once again. The world would need his quiet words of wisdom as much as his gentle humor in the upcoming years.
But such considerations were meaningless to Death; they always had been. Death didn’t care that Dumbledore had other plans for Remus, that he was the ideal candidate to assist Harry with his NEWT’s. It was how Dumbledore intended to repay Harry for all the sacrifices he’d made along the way, not to mention the final year of schooling that he’d had to forego. They were a well-suited team; Dumbledore had seized on that immediately when the lad had conquered the advanced Patronus Charm under Remus’ able instruction.
A bird-like cry on the wind and the tall man whipped around. Another passenger was running towards him from the rear of the train. Nothing but snatches of color zipping past the long ribbon of windows. The man fell back in shock, catching himself on one of the seats as he buried his face in his hands. But it had been enough to validate Dumbledore’s worst fears: the tortured, drawn face was Remus’ without a shadow of a doubt.
With measured steps, the smaller figure drew closer to Remus. It was clearly a woman; so much like a timid, jeweled bird that it made Dumbledore ache with the memory of his beloved phoenix, Fawkes. She reached out a tentative hand to Remus’ shoulder, causing him to jerk as if stung. The silent figure shook his head sharply as his wife grabbed his hands imploringly. From the rapid fire of their lips, it was clear they were arguing. With a shuddering sob, Remus clutched Tonks to his breast in abject defeat.
Dumbledore’s fists curled in frustration at the unforeseen calamity. Not Tonks, too! She was still nursing her baby; how could Fate be so utterly remorseless? Why had she not stayed at home where the Fidelius Charm protected her from Bellatrix’s evil intentions?
Any further words of recrimination died on Dumbledore’s lips. What difference did it make now anyway? Let Remus and Tonks find what solace they could in each other; at least they had that. His heart went out to poor Andromeda, praying that she didn’t break under the added burden.
If he had not witnessed it for himself, Dumbledore would’ve maintained that the dead were no longer capable of tears. But as Remus descended the silver steps with Tonks’ smaller body crushed to his side, the scintillating trails on their cheeks told a different story. The anguish they both felt about their fate was evident as they were embraced in turn by Sirius Black, and after hushed introductions, James and Lily Potter as well. It was a bittersweet reunion as the Potters sympathized wholeheartedly with the misery of having left their only child in the care of relatives.
It was all Dumbledore could do to keep from succumbing to an overall sense of futility as the trains increased in frequency. He repeatedly reminded himself that it was Riddle who had set these events in motion, but he couldn’t escape that he shared a portion of the burden also. It was perhaps the most difficult and sobering realization of his long existence.
Like a wave of smoke, the crowds parted to reveal a tight knot of browned-skinned men and women as they engulfed a young woman with a long plait down her back. Amid the vibrant gumdrops, Parvati Patil looked over her shoulder into the ageless blue eyes of her former Headmaster.
“Padma dispatched him like the right vermin that he was,” her lips affirmed soundlessly, yet the words formed clearly inside Dumbledore’s brain. Her dark lashes blinked the tears away as both of them acknowledged that at least her twin had avenged her untimely death.
Only Lily’s sharp intake of breath as she lifted her head from Remus’ shoulder served as warning. Dumbledore followed her line of sight as a dark antique engine puffed slowly towards them, a single black caboose attached behind its coal car. Past the sleek cars of the streamlined trains it chugged with grim determination until it stopped directly in front of the venerable wizard. Through the wide glass inserts, a lone coffin rested atop a table, a garland of white lilies standing out starkly against the dark polished wood.
A rosette of roses as black as midnight hung on the back door that was thrust open by the pearly white hand of Severus Snape. Like burning coals, his dark eyes took in his surroundings as his thin lips remained impassive. With feline grace, he took the steps quickly, his long strides putting him abreast of Dumbledore in short order.
“It is done,” he reported, his deep voice that of the sepulcher. “Later rather than sooner, but he has all he needs. The future is in his hands.”
Dumbledore nodded his approval, but before he could offer up any accompanying words, Lily swept up to Severus -- the purity of a white dove against the sooty black of a crow. She smiled beatifically at her childhood friend and the lines of strain and worry were wiped from Severus’ brow as if they had never been. Never breaking contract with her emerald eyes, Snape fell on his knees in supplication before her.
“It is the most I could do,” he whispered reverently. “I have nothing else to give and yet it is not enough to undo the past.”
“It will be enough,” Lily crooned as the backs of her fingers caressed Severus’ cheek.
The dour potions master opened his eyes to find James standing at Lily’s side, his arm draped protectively around her waist. Much to his surprise, James was grinning down as he held out a hand to help Severus to his feet.
“You have my thanks as well,” he offered. “Others may not have always seen the truth of your actions, but it was clear to us “ Lily, as well as myself “ that you've done an admirable job of looking out for our son.”
Compounding Severus’ look of confusion, Sirius added, “Your methods were too inscrutable for me, I confess. But I owe you an apology for having doubted that you held my godson’s interests at heart.”
Severus’ eyes were dazed as he clasped Sirius’ hand while Remus looked on with an amused expression.
The feather touch of Lily’s hand brought them all up short. “We are being summoned,” she breathed.
“Harry has entered the forest,” Dumbledore attested with grim certainty. “He will need your presence, if only for a moment’s support.”
With alacrity, James, Lily, and Sirius started down a spiral stair that had appeared in the train platform at their side. With a hasty kiss for his wife, Remus followed closely behind.
“What happens now?” Tonks’ eyes had grown in dimension as she searched out Dumbledore’s wisdom.
“It’s all up to Harry,” Dumbledore explained as he bade her to sit beside him on the bench.
“He has the fortitude,” Severus confirmed, a grim sentinel at their side.
Dumbledore trained ancient eyes on Tonks’ uncertain face. “You’re wondering why your father didn’t come to greet you?”
Tonks nodded tearfully into her lap. Only a few years older than Lily had been, yet somehow Lily had seemed less childlike and unassuming.
Gently he reassured, “Ted will be along, don’t you worry. He’s still just getting used to his surroundings. It’s a bit disconcerting for everyone at the beginning.”
Tonks took a deep, shuddering breath. “What about Mad-Eye? I really wanted to thank him.”
Snape’s deep chuckle unnerved her and she jerked her face to meet his. “You won’t find Moody here,” he affirmed with unspeakable satisfaction shining in his eyes.
Tonks’ jaw fell. “You can’t be….No, not Moody… Not in a thousand years.”
“Perhaps in a thousand years…” Snape drawled dangerously as he leaned his hip against the armrest.
“Now, Severus,” Dumbledore smiled benignly. “Not everyone appreciates your gallows humor. Especially at a time like this.” Cocooning Tonks’ tiny hand in his, the mighty wizard appeased, “Severus is just being modest; although how anyone would ever recognize it as such, I can’t say. Moody is still alive, dear. He crash-landed into Severus’ broom, dislodging his prosthetic eye.”
“But his magical eye was displayed in the Ministry,” Tonks stammered.
“A gruesome trophy,” Dumbledore concurred. “But without a body…” He spread his hands in demonstration.
“They wished to foster a false impression,” Snape put forth.
“The same could be said for you!” Tonks accused Snape’s saturnine features.
“Now, Dora,” Dumbledore soothed. “Severus was in a bind. If his actions had aroused suspicions, he would just be handing Alastor over to the Carrows or any other Death Eater.”
“So you just left him?”
“Once he’d recovered sufficiently, he was left to his own devices. I gave him a unique opportunity to create mischief,” Snape hissed. “Are you so certain Moody wouldn’t have relished the role of an avenging dervish?”
Tonks shook her pink curls in disbelief.
“It’s a lot to take in at once,” Dumbledore mollified. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”
Before he could elaborate, the others materialized out of thin air. Tonks jumped up and caught her husband in an exuberant hug.
“I can’t bear to look,” Lily confided tearfully as she clutched Dumbledore’s arm in entreaty.
“Harry seems lost,” James issued, watching from on high.
“Then I will give him guidance,” Dumbledore proclaimed as he majestically rose to his feet.
“But how?” Snape posed. “He dropped the stone…on purpose it would seem.”
“I don’t have to cross into his world,” Dumbledore clarified as he ascended a gilded catwalk. “I just have to meet him on neutral ground.”
“Will he live?” Remus imposed as he gazed up at his former Headmaster.
“The choice is his,” Dumbledore sighed. “I cannot make it for him.”
“Try to make him see reason,” James insisted.
With a sad smile, Dumbledore looked down upon the anxious faces of the core members of the Order of the Phoenix. “I’m bending the rules enough as it is. My sole chance is to explain the unwritten concepts to him. If I try to do more, I might make things worse.”
“Harry will make the right choice,” Lily attested, but her voice cracked as Dumbledore disappeared beyond the crest of the golden bridge.
He could still hear the whispers as they tried to comfort one another, Tonks' voice offering what solace she could. It was only when those rustlings faded into nothingness that Dumbledore realized he’d reached his destination.
Almost as if he’d willed it, a silver door appeared in the air before him. Trusting in laws that he did not fully understand himself, Dumbledore stepped through onto another balcony, the colorful heads of Muggles flowing like ants in the distance between his feet.
‘Platform Nine’ and then ‘Platform Ten’ the signage read; and Dumbledore knew without any hesitation, that Platform Nine and Three-Quarters could be found by those discerning enough to know just where to look. He smiled to think that Harry, too, had returned to the familiar surroundings of his youth.
Chocolate Frog by L A Moody
Chapter Notes: In the Chapter 36 of Deathly Hallows, JKR tells us that there were approximately 50 victims of the Battle of Hogwarts, yet only a handful are mentioned in canon. This chapter extrapolates other possibilities based upon those present at the beginning and those mentioned at the end. I apologize in advance if I seized upon anyone’s favorites.