Chapter Text
Harry stood in his office, staring out of the window into the bustling inner courtyard of the Ministry. It felt strange, having an office. Only a couple of months ago he’d been a trainee – although, to be fair, he had never really fit in with the other juniors. Most of them regarded him with a mixture of fear and awe; he’d seen things that they couldn’t even begin to imagine. After the turmoil of his school days, life as an Auror seemed almost mundane. Almost.
Some tasks were more difficult than others. He turned away from the window and contemplated the series of glass vials which had been stacked neatly on his desk. They were all labelled in the same familiar hand: deliberate and curling, with rather elaborate flourishes on the long stems. Even though it had been a good few years since Dumbledore’s death, seeing traces of his mentor in small items like this still brought a lump to Harry’s throat. The pain of loss was so strong sometimes it surprised him, like a cold knife suddenly twisting in his heart.
He’d been putting off the task for months now. Dealing with any of Dumbledore’s things, never mind his memories, was somewhat painful. But in a way, Harry also felt he was invading his old headmaster’s privacy. He knew, of course, that Dumbledore’s memories held precious information, some of which might be vital in helping the Auror department round up any remaining Death Eaters; he also guessed that Dumbledore, an intensely private person who planned for every eventuality, including his own death, would probably not have left anything around he didn’t want anyone to see. But still… Harry ran his calloused fingers over the delicate glass vials, noting that many were labelled with the names of known Death Eaters: Avery, Black, Carrow, Dolohov…
Harry started slightly as he reached an unlabelled vial. It was rather larger than the others, and rather than containing the familiar silvery gossamer whisps, seemed to hold something of a darker, smokier consistency. He shook it, and watched the contents billow slightly before settling gloomily at the bottom of the vial. He frowned. Why did it look so different?
Seized with a sudden curiosity, Harry drew the blinds and locked the door of his office, stripping the dark cloth from the Ministry pensieve. The darkened room was immediately filled with an ethereal, silvery light, which rippled on the walls like reflections of water.
He uncorked the glass tube and attempted to tip the contents into the pensieve. The smoke travelled slowly, almost despondently, settling over the basin in thick, pulsating waves. Harry had never seen a memory like this before. He was slightly perturbed, but in a way it only made him more curious. Eventually, the smoke seemed to sink into the swirling liquid, turning it dark and cloudy. Harry stepped forward and leant over the bowl.
Once more he felt the sensation of being dragged headfirst through something icy and wet; then he hit something hard and hollow, and his head rattled at the impact. Harry groaned and cursed. He didn’t remember entering a memory hurting so much last time. He reached for his glasses, which had fallen from his face and landed a short distance away, cursing at the hairline crack which now invaded his field of vision. As proficient he had become in defence against the Dark Arts, he had never truly managed to master oculus reparo.
He blinked, looking around the room, and was momentarily confused by what he saw. There was the same cupboard, and the same desk, and the same pensieve on the desk, that had been standing in Harry’s office just a moment ago. Maybe he hadn’t entered the memory at all. It had looked a little bit odd – maybe it was defective, Harry thought. Still, there was something strange about the room itself, now – the light that was coming in through the window seemed dimmer, the furniture seemed slightly out of place, and he could hear an odd – yet somehow familiar – whirring and clicking sound in the air that had not been there previously.
Harry was still lying on the floor, feeling somewhat dazed, when he heard someone enter the room hurriedly and close the door with a quiet click. The young auror was on the point of leaping to his feet and confronting the intruder, when the latter spoke in an all-too-familiar voice, freezing Harry’s limbs and stopping his protest short in his throat.
“Colloportus.”
From his vantage point on the floor, he saw purple robes with an emerald trim, gliding across the floor towards the fireplace. Harry’s heart leapt in his chest, and an irrepressible smile of joy spread across his face. There was a rustle of fabric, and the sound of floo powder being thrown into the grate. Harry saw the glow of the leaping green flames, and heard another voice – unfamiliar, this time – emanate from inside them, although the face of the speaker was obscured by the robed figure which stood in front of it.
“Albus,” said the new voice, with an audible smile. It was a rich, pleasant voice, with the slight hint of a continental accent. “How is my favourite Minister for Magic today? Why, are those new rrobes? Glorrious…” His R’s were soft and guttural.
“Gellert,” said Dumbledore, curtly, and Harry was surprised at the icy tone. “Any news?”
“Oh, such a terrrrible frown! Such impatience… But these things take time, my dear…”
“I am aware of that,” said Dumbledore, coldly. “But I would appreciate an update on your progress. It has been two months since you said you had a lead.”
“Alas, no – it was a false trail. Needless to say, the useless informant was punished –“
“I have been meaning to speak to you about that,” said Dumbledore. “You are making far too many enemies for yourself. The tide of opinion here in England has been turning against you –“
“Then you must convince them otherwise, my dear! Educate them! For the grreater good!”
Dumbledore sighed.
“Anyway, my dear,” Gellert continued. “Perhaps some good may yet come from you English and your slavish worship of the ancien régime. I believe the stone never left England, and is still in the possession of one of your so-called ‘pure-blood’ families, like the cloak. Break them, and we will find it.”
“But I have questioned every pure-blood student at Hogwarts –“
“I know your esteem for your alma mater is great, my dear, but perhaps it is time to – what is it that you English say? – ‘think outside the box’?”
Dumbledore paused for a moment.
“Perhaps you are right.”
Gellert’s voice was full of mock surprise.
“What was that? Perhaps – I – the lowly Gellert Grindelwald – have said something worthy of the consideration of the great –“
“Oh, shut up,” said Dumbledore. “How is the wand?”
“It is everything we ever imagined, and more,” said Gellert. “I cannot wait for you to see it. Have you tested the cloak?”
“Not yet. I am waiting for the right occasion.”
“Perhaps on my next visit we can try it together.”
“Perhaps…!”
Harry, who until that moment had been listening to the conversation with rapt fascination, shifted uncomfortably. He found any suggestion of his beloved old teacher being anything more than a completely asexual creature rather disconcerting.
Dumbledore tensed. “I must go,” he said, suddenly.
Gellert began to speak again, a note of disappointment in his voice, but there was another rustle of fabric as Dumbledore threw more powder on the fire to extinguish the flames. Gellert’s voice cut off abruptly. He whipped around and strode rapidly over to the desk under which Harry was lying.
In all the years Harry had known Dumbledore, he had only seen him truly angry once or twice, and it had been terrible to behold – but this was even worse. Dumbledore stood before him, much younger than Harry had ever known him, long auburn hair falling in cascades almost down to his waist. His face was pale with rage and his eyes flashed icy fire behind the half-moon spectacles. His mouth was a hard, grim line, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. He spoke in a quiet voice, which made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand straight up.
“How long have you been here?”
“I – uh – er –“ Harry stuttered, feeling slightly ridiculous. Then a sudden thought struck him. “Wait – you can see me?”
Dumbledore’s anger faded slightly, to be replaced with an almost pitying expression.
“I’m afraid I can,” he said. “As commendable as your efforts at finding a hiding place have been, the desk is slightly lacking from certain angles.”
Harry blinked. “Oh – no – I mean – I thought – normally, in the pensieve, they can’t see you – I mean.” He was struggling to form a coherent sentence.
Dumbledore glanced slowly from Harry to the pensieve and back again.
“But you are not in the pensieve. You are on the floor. Under a desk. In my office.”
“I thought it was my office,” said Harry, desperately, only half aware of how deranged he was sounding.
“No, alas,” said Dumbledore. “How much did you hear, just now?”
Harry gazed at him for a moment, and decided it was useless trying to lie.
“Everything, basically,” he said, feeling incredibly guilty.
“Ah,” said Dumbledore, sadly. “Unfortunate. And did you realise to whom I was speaking?”
“Yes,” said Harry. “You were talking to Grindelwald.”
“Indeed,” said Dumbledore. He bit his lip and furrowed his brow. “This is grave – very grave.”
“I’m sorry,” said Harry. “I just didn’t know what to do. I was confused – I mean – one minute, I was in my office – and then – in the pensieve – and then here!”
He wasn’t entirely sure what to think about the exchange he had just overheard. He knew, of course, that Dumbledore and Grindelwald had been friendly in their youth, and they had planned to unite the Deathly Hallows. Still, Harry had been under the impression that had stopped early on, and Dumbledore had fought against Grindelwald, eventually defeating him in their legendary duel in 1945. He found it slightly alarming that their friendship had continued on into adulthood, and he was disappointed that Dumbledore had hidden the truth from him.
“What is your name?” asked Dumbledore.
Harry felt a twinge of surprise and disappointment that Dumbledore didn’t know him – but of course, that was only to be expected. This Dumbledore had never met Harry, and would only do so years into the future.
“Harry Potter,” Harry said.
Dumbledore’s eyes widened a fraction. “Potter…?” he said. “Of course, now I look at you… I had no idea. Is this about the cloak?”
“No,” said Harry, with a flash of eager hope. Had Dumbledore recognised him? “Like I said, I don’t even know how I got in here.”
Dumbledore continued to regard him closely. His anger had by now almost entirely dissipated, and he wore instead a more familiar, kind but baleful expression.
“I believe you,” said Dumbledore, gently. “But I am afraid I will have to kill you, all the same.”
Harry jumped up in alarm, bashing his head painfully against the desk as he did so.
“Oww… What?!”
“You overheard a very sensitive conversation just now,” Dumbledore continued, softly. “I simply cannot allow you to leave this room. You must understand.”
“But - no – I –!” Harry spluttered, incoherent with hurt and outrage. “Professor, it’s me – Harry!”
“I am sorry, Harry,” said Dumbledore, raising his wand.
Faced with the threat, Harry became suddenly calm, and his auror training kicked in. Quick as a flash, he whipped his wand out of his pocket.
“Expelliarmus!”
Dumbledore’s wand went flying, and Harry leapt towards the window, where he disapparated.