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Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore straightened his spectacles and looked about him at the wreckage of the girls’ toilets. Well, now. I had hoped we could avoid this sort of thing… but maybe it’s for the best. Life isn’t a chess game, and people aren’t pieces. After all these years, I should be used to that.
The three children had clustered in the corner, as far away from the massive wart-covered humanoid figure in its crude loincloth as they could get without leaving the room. There was more than fear alone involved, he knew. Merlin’s balls, he thought, I’d forgot just how awful a troll can smell. He pushed his boyhood memories aside, concentrating on the present. Hermione Granger and Harry Potter had their arms about each other. Ronald Weasley looked as if someone had shoved a pail of reeking fish scraps under his nose. Then again, it might have only been the troll.
“Good Heavens,” Minerva McGonagall said, “how did this happen?”
Albus pushed a little bit of magic into the Charm that made his eyes twinkle. The curtain rises and the play begins. “I do believe we can leave that particular question aside for the moment, my dear Deputy. Right now… how are you three? Anyone hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Ronald said. “Not a scratch. Harry?”
Harry looked at Hermione, and that glance warmed Albus’ heart, even though he knew the Weasley boy would feel as if a knife had been stabbed through his own. The girl nodded. “I… I’m okay. Thanks… thanks to Harry. And Ron. I… err... I’d read about trolls, you see. I thought I could deal with it myself.”
“I’m all right,” Harry said, after a little pause, as if he was making sure Hermione wasn’t fibbing about her health as well as whatever circumstances might have led up to her face-to-face confrontation with a twelve-foot troll.
“I’m delighted to hear that,” Albus said. “And I do hope that in the future you'll be a bit more mindful of the difference between theory and practical application, my dear Miss Granger, but all’s well that ends well, isn’t it? But just to be sure, Minerva, would you please be so kind as to take Mister Potter and Miss Granger to the Hospital Wing? I dare say the esteemed Healer Pomfrey will want to see them.”
Minerva tilted her head. “If you think it’s necessary, Albus.”
He nodded. “I do. I’ll walk Mister Weasley back to Gryffindor Tower. And I’m certain our colleagues are well able to remove the troll and see to it that things are put back to rights here.”
Severus Snape came pelting up, closely followed by Filius Flitwick. “Albus? Are the children all right?”
“They’re just fine, Severus.”
The dark-haired man stepped into the doorway, as if he couldn’t quite accept even the Headmaster’s word without seeing for himself. “Really? Har… that is, Mister Potter? You and Miss Granger are unharmed? And Mister Weasley?” The concern in his voice was a balm for Albus’ spirit. However many times I might have failed in this life, and whatever happens in the future, I know I’ve accomplished something. Severus is a caring teacher, and he doesn’t only see James when he looks at Harry Potter. He sees Lily as well.
“We’re all right, sir. Thank you.” Harry seemed to be holding up well, all things considered; much better than one might have expected of an eleven year old boy with a girl clinging to him. Or is that true of all boys? Perhaps I’m too influenced by my own attitudes at eleven years of age. His best mate, on the other hand, looked as if he’d got a Bernie Bott’s bean that tasted simultaneously of manure, bile, and lye soap. Albus felt a twinge of conscience. It’s for the Greater Good, he reminded himself. You know what you’re trying to prevent. And if young Ronald knew as well, he would thank you.
“Thank God and Merlin,” the Potions Master said, and crossed himself. “A troll is a difficult adversary for even a trained adult. Well done, all of you. Twenty points to Gryffindor.”
Don’t I remember his hair being much greasier? Albus mused, before shoving the thought aside. Oh, for pity’s sake, old man, don’t let your mind wander. “Well, then,” he said, “if you’ll please come along with me, Mister Weasley? I’m sure you’d like to get back to the Tower. You’ll be having your dinner there tonight.”
Ronald looked at Harry. “Sorry you can’t come with, mate. I’ll save you a sandwich or something, right?”
“Thanks, Ron. Would you save one for Hermione as well?”
“Um… sure.”
“Ten points to Gryffindor for thinking of your friends, Mister Weasley,” Albus said, “but it’s possible Madam Pomfrey will keep them overnight. In any case, I’m sure the kitchen staff will see them fed.”
Harry and Hermione, hand in hand, followed Minerva towards the Hospital Wing. Ronald’s gaze might have lingered slightly longer on his best friend’s retreating back than one would expect.
“Are you ready to go, Mister Weasley?”
The boy gave a little start. “Err… yes. Sorry, sir. I’m ready.”
“No need for apologies, my boy. You’ve had a rather shocking experience, I should think.” They walked side by side down the corridor, away from Minerva and her two companions. It was strange to be here as an old, old man, and to remember walking these very same stone-flagged floors so many years ago. Or is it so very far back at all, as these things go?
“Well now, Mister Weasley,” he said when they were far enough from any ears that might have heard them, “I do have to say I know Miss Granger wasn’t altogether telling the truth back there.”
“Sir? How... how did you know?” The boy turned to him, looking up, wide eyed.
Albus laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know it seems hard to believe, but I was your age, once.”
“I didn’t want her hurt. Really, I didn’t.” There were tears in Ronald’s eyes.
“I know you didn’t, Mister Weasley. I’m sure she and Mister Potter will know that as well. And don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. For Merlin’s sake, if I took points off you or gave you detention I might as well do the same to myself. But… you resent Miss Granger, a little bit, don’t you? Might I ask why?”
“I… She’s such a know-all! It’s annoying.”
“She does have a tendency to talk over others, but she’s barely twelve years old. We all have faults, especially when we’re young and still learning how to deal with other people. I’m pretty sure there are Ravenclaws who are much the same, aren’t there? Mister Goldstein and Mister Boot come to mind, and Miss Turpin, am I right? Even Miss Abbot from Hufflepuff can be rather bossy.”
Ronald thought for a moment. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true, sir.”
“So, why Miss Granger in particular?”
“She… she keeps looking at Harry. Every time I turn my head, there she is, watching him. Sometimes she even wants to talk to him outside of lessons. It creeps me out. He’s my best mate!”
“You do know you’re all reaching the age at which girls and boys will get interested in each other, don't you?”
He flushed. “I don’t even want to think about that… Err, sorry, sir.”
"You needn't apologise, young man. I was much the same when I was a First Year. But seriously, what if Mister Potter and Miss Granger should—perhaps a few years from now—become a couple? Wouldn’t you rather be friends with your best mate’s girlfriend? After all, it’s possible that she might become your own good and dear friend as well.”
“I suppose…”
He doesn’t believe me, Albus thought. Not that I blame him. How could I? I know in my very bones just how hard this will be for him. “It might be difficult for some of your peers to fathom, but boys and girls can form the closest of friendships with each other. When I was almost precisely your age, my best mate and I got to know a girl who… let’s say she was very like Miss Granger. She didn’t take him away from me. Instead, she became my other best friend.”
“Really, Professor? You had a best mate as well? Was he… was he like Harry?”
“He was so much like Mister Potter that sometimes it almost hurts to see how similar they are. He was the best mate any boy, or man, ever had. We had the most incredible adventures. For years, we did nearly everything together.” Excepting what I most longed for… but there’s no need to get into that.
“Wow.”
Clearly the boy was trying to imagine his Headmaster as a First Year, and not finding it an easy task. Then again, I was exactly alike at his age. “With your permission, I’d like to tell you a story. But first, I’m afraid I have to invoke a very special Privacy Charm.”
“I promise I’ll never tell, sir.”
“I believe you, Mister Weasley, as surely as if the words came from out of my own mouth. But there are means by which some people can get a story out of a young man who would never in a million years have willingly told it. This will protect both of us. May I?”
“It won’t hurt, will it?”
“Not in the slightest.”
Ronald nodded. Dumbledore drew his wand for the briefest of instants, and cast his personal non-verbal Charm. A ring of light shimmered around the two of them.
“Thank you. Now, then. When I was your age, as I said, I had a best mate. He was the most wonderful person I’d ever met. On a broomstick, he was like… he was like a falcon, or a Phoenix. He was clever and brave and… oh, he was perfect. I knew we’d spend our lives together, fighting Dark Wizards and deadly beasts, exploring exotic jungles and ruins, closer than brothers, forever.”
“Did you?”
“We did a great deal of that. We fought a war together, when we were barely out of school. And that same girl fought beside us all the way. She was brilliant.”
“Really?”
“Oh, she was. I remember thinking, when I was scarcely any older than you, that she was practically as good company as a boy. And she only got more that way as we grew older.”
“Did she, um, marry your best mate?”
“Good man! I’d give you points for your skill at deduction, but it might be awkward to explain them. She… she would have liked to, so very much, but it was a complicated situation. They were terrified of losing each other, and they talked themselves into thinking they were brother and sister.”
“Oh. Did they fight? I love my little sister, but we fight a lot as well.”
“They argued, sometimes, but anybody will do that. My best mate and I argued as well, now and again. But to be honest I don’t think they would ever have been able to convince themselves they saw each other as siblings if either of them had ever had a brother or a sister.”
Ronald grinned. “Yeah. Harry’s so much more awesome than any of my brothers. I mean, sure, the Twins are wicked fun, and Bill and Charlie are cool, and even Percy… well, he’s kind of got a stick up his arse, but he’s still my brother. Err, sorry, sir.”
Albus winked. “Actually, Mister Weasley, I myself had a brother very like him, and that was a most accurate description.”
“You had brothers, sir?”
“I did. And I loved them, but yes, my best mate was… he was so much more. In any case, when my own sister made a play for him, our friend convinced herself that being my girlfriend was the only way she could stay near to him.”
“Oh.”
“I didn’t love her, not like that, but… oh, somehow I convinced myself. I suppose I was doing the same thing she did, really. We even wound up getting married, in the end.”
“Really? You were married, Professor?”
Is that his intuition talking, or is he only amazed because this is the first time he's thought of me having a life outside the facts on my Chocolate Frog card? “For some years, yes. But we were never happy, not in the way your mum and dad are. She plunged herself into her work, and I did the same. I worked with my best mate, so it wasn’t any great hardship.”
“Was he happy?”
“I think he was. He and my sister, they were good to each other. But sometimes I’d catch my… my wife looking at them. There was so much longing in her eyes...”
“Did she, um, hate your sister?”
“Not in the slightest. They both loved my best mate, and each of them appreciated how much the other loved him. In a way, they loved each other. Looking back, I imagine that, if things had been different, they might even have loved each other as… well, in the way I wished my best mate and I could have loved each other.”
“Oh.” Ronald looked down at the floor for a moment, as if he were working through a chess problem or some complicated calculation, and then he went slightly pink in the face. “Like… you mean, err, like kissing and stuff, sir?”
“Yes. I hope it doesn’t bother you?”
“Oh, no! I mean, kissing seems kind of pointless, but if I had to kiss somebody, well, it would just be too weird being that close to a girl, you know?”
“I certainly do. But you do know not every boy thinks that way, don’t you?”
“Seriously? I’d always figured blokes kissed girls because the girls made them. I mean, girls seem to like really like kissing, for some reason. I walked in the barn one time this summer and found my sister kissing Luna Lovegood from next door.” Ronald made a face. “I didn’t want to see them doing that.”
Albus nodded. “I wouldn’t have wanted to see my own sister kissing anyone, either. And what did you do then, Mister Weasley?”
“Nothing. I knew it was none of my business, so I went and de-gnomed the garden, just to forget about it. After a little while they came out and joined me. But I think they must have kissed each other again a couple of days later, and that time Mum caught them. She dragged my sister out of the barn, told her to go to her room, and sent Luna home. And then she went straight into the kitchen and brewed up a potion, and made Ginny—that’s my sister, and she’ll be coming here next year—drink it. She called it a tonic to calm her nerves, like.”
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Stay calm, Albus. Don't frighten the boy. “I see. Do you know what was in it?”
Ronald shook his head. “No idea. I reckon she got the recipe out of one of her old books. Anyhow, she’s had Ginny taking that same tonic every day. But I can’t see how it’s settled her nerves at all, cos she’s been awful mopey. Not to mention she misses Luna something terrible, cos Mum won’t let them play with each other any more.”
“I don’t mean to insult your mother, but that's very cruel of her.”
Ronald nodded. “I agree, sir. I know Mum loves us, but I hate seeing Ginny so sad. And I kind of miss Luna as well. I mean, yeah, she’s a girl, and yeah, she can be kind of weird sometimes, but the three of us had fun together, you know?”
“I certainly do. My sister and I had a friend very like Miss Lovegood, when we were your age.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I miss them, very much.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I miss Gin-Gin a lot, just being here at school and her being at home… even though she can be pretty annoying.”
“Thank you, Mister Weasley. Little sisters will be like that. In any case, might I have a look at the tonic your mother gave you, please?”
“How... how did you know?”
Curses, I slipped. It’s a very long time since I did that. “My mother was very like yours. And when she caught my sister with her friend, she started me on the same potion. That’s what your mum did, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, she did. It makes me feel kind of funny, so I don’t always remember to take it, but I’ve got the bottle in my pocket, cos Mum said I should keep it with me.” Ronald fished in his pocket and pulled out a little glass flask. With the specialised magic imbuing his spectacles, Albus could see the soft glow of an Impervious Charm, but he’d known it was there long before he saw the bottle. How many times did I drop the bloody thing on the stone floor? I don’t know if I was actually trying to break it or if I was only clumsy, but I could swear it was at least once a day.
He took the flask and held it up to the torchlight. He'd long included an analytic Charm amongst his suite of visual enhancements—it was a very useful thing for a researcher in alchemy—and a list of ingredients scrolled across his field of vision. Yes, it’s the same vile stuff in every respect. “Would you mind terribly if I kept this for a little while? Your mother only wants the best for her children, and I know she’s an excellent brewer, but she’s not a professional Healer. If Madam Pomfrey says it’s all right for you to keep taking it, I’ll give it back tomorrow.”
“That’s fine, sir. Like I said, I don’t always remember to take the stuff, and when I do… well, I’ll be talking with Harry, and all of a sudden I'll start feeling sort of sick, like I’d eaten too many green apples on a bet or something. It usually goes away after a moment, but still...”
Albus nodded. “Yes, I remember that feeling. I didn’t like it, either.”
“Sir… did… are you still friends with your best mate?”
Merlin, how do I even answer that?
Ronald’s face went first red, then pale. “Um, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked...”
“It’s fine, Mister Weasley. It’s a long story, but… yes, the two of us are friends. We’ve changed a lot, but at the same time we're very much as we were when we first met, and it always warms my heart to see him again. I hope you and Mister Potter will be best mates for a long, long time as well. Even when he does start kissing girls.”
Ronald made a face, but moments later he burst out laughing. “Yeah. And as long as I don’t have to kiss them, it’ll be okay, I think. Hey, maybe Harry will keep them all happy and they’ll leave me alone?”
Albus chuckled and reached out to shake his hand. The handshake somehow turned into a hug. This must be how Dad used to feel, he thought. For that matter, I did love my sons, back when I was… him. It’s just been so long, and I’d never expected I'd feel that way again. “It’s all going to be fine. And… even if your best mate will only ever love you like the twin brother you never had, that doesn’t mean you won’t find somebody else to love in the way your mum and dad love each other.”
The boy clearly didn’t know what to say, but that was only natural. “I’m glad you’re still friends with your best mate, Professor. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to Harry.”
“Indeed. God and Merlin willing, you never will. And now, let’s get back to Gryffindor Tower. I’m sure you’re hungry, and your Housemates will want to know what’s happened.”
Once Ronald was safely in the Common Room, Albus made his way to the Hospital Wing. He found Poppy Pomfrey and Minerva standing just inside the door.
“Are they…?”
“Oh, Albus,” Minerva whispered, “they’ve bonded. It was so lovely.”
“Yes,” Poppy said. “I wish Lily and James could have seen it.”
“Oh, they did,” Minerva said, crossing herself. “They’ll have seen that glow in Heaven, I’m sure of it.”
Albus felt as if his heart might burst from joy. “Bonded? That’s wonderful news.”
Poppy wiped her eyes with a polka-dotted handkerchief. “They were holding hands when they got here, Albus, and they looked simply darling. I told them to have a seat on my table so I could examine them, and Mister Potter got all embarrassed, for some reason I don’t quite understand.”
Minerva chuckled. “I’m told Muggle physicians examine their patients in a state of undress. So, he tried to turn his back, promising Miss Granger he’d not peek, and begged us to bring a screen so she wouldn’t have to worry about her privacy, but she wouldn’t let go of his hand. More than that, she pulled him into a hug. And then they looked each other in the eye, and they kissed.”
“It was adorable,” Poppy said, “even before we realised what was happening. But it seems all that glowing takes something out of young people. They nearly fell asleep on the spot. We got them into a bed, and Minerva Transfigured their uniforms into pyjamas.”
In nearly fifty years of life as Albus Dumbledore, he’d seen any number of rare and amazing sights. In the seventy years he’d lived before he bore that name, he’d seen a fair few others. But he’d never seen anything to compare with Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, both young and vibrantly alive, asleep in each others’ arms, a duvet of Gryffindor red and gold pulled up to their shoulders and their heads on the same pillow.
This Harry was sturdier than the half-starved boy he'd met on the Express, more than a century back on his personal timeline. Albus hadn’t been able to keep him out of the house at Number Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey—the laws were very strict about placing orphans with their closest biological relatives, and he’d seen far too much death, in both lives, to more than momentarily consider causing Petunia Evans Dursley to have a fatal aneurysm so her toddler nephew could live with his grief-stricken godfather—but he’d made very sure that the abuse his friend had suffered wouldn't happen on his watch.
To all accounts, Vernon and Petunia were perfectly proper parents. They might not have been affectionate to any great degree, but their nephew, as much as their son, had experienced every advantage of a comfortable childhood in a middle-class Muggle neighbourhood, and there had been no attempt to keep Harry from his own heritage. To judge by the regular exchange of letters between Smeltings and Hogwarts, the boys considered themselves brothers. Harry’s still slender, a good build for a Seeker, but I imagine he might move along to Chaser as he grows, and with any luck at all, Ginevra will be ready to take his place by then.
As for Hermione, she was the very picture of the girl he remembered. But there was a peacefulness and a quiet joy in the expression she wore right now, slumbering in her bondmate’s arms, such as he’d only ever seen in brief flashes, back in those times. Good heavens, however did the Albus Dumbledore of my childhood miss the connection between them? Or did he? Well, there’s no point in speculating, much less condemning. It was another world, and the man is dead.
“They’re lovely,” Albus whispered. “I’m so very glad for them.” A tear dripped down his cheek.
Poppy hugged him about the shoulders, which surprised him—it wasn’t like the Matron to be so physically affectionate. “That they are, Albus. I’ll keep an eye on them, and the Elves will bring them a proper meal when they wake. And speaking of proper meals, you and Minerva should go and have something to eat, yourselves.”
“I’ll get a sandwich later, Poppy. Right now I should write to Miss Granger’s parents. Don’t you think it would be rude to keep the news from them?”
“Perhaps I should handle it?” Minerva said. “I’ve met them, after all, and I can probably phrase the letter so they don’t panic. In any case, it’s nothing that can’t wait till the morning, Albus. For now… why don’t you come and have a quiet supper in the Staff Room with me? And shouldn’t you join us, Poppy? After all, it’s only a flight of stairs away, and your Elf can keep an eye on our young couple. You yourself said they’re unlikely to wake before midnight.”
“But… oh, all right. You’ve got me there.”
Albus wanted to guffaw at the expression on Poppy’s face. It wasn’t very often that anyone turned the Healer’s constant care-taking around on her. He only just managed to convert his laughter into a sigh of resignation. “I suppose you’re right, Minerva.”
“Of course I am, Albus. So, shall we dine?”
Chuckling, he offered an arm to each woman, and they left the Hospital Wing. Outside, he said “There’s one bit of business I do need to take care of in my office, I’m afraid. I promise you I won’t be long.”
“Are you sure, Albus?”
“Yes. I need to speak with someone, and it would be rude to Floo after nine.”
“Very well,” Minerva said. “But mind ye dinna tak ower-lang, Heidmaister, or Ah’ll gar ye come tae the table masel. Ah dinnae ettle aifter yair lofty poseetion, man, and Ah’ll no let ye stairve.” She winked at him.
“Aye, Minerva,” he said. “Dinna fash yairsel, lass.”
Poppy rolled her eyes. She knows, of course, that the Gaelic is Minerva’s native tongue, and Scots is as much a foreign language for her as it is for me, if not more so. Albus smirked at her, and made his way to his office, where he dropped a pillow before the hearth, knelt down, sprinkled a pinch of Floo powder, and called out “The Burrow!”
Molly Weasley answered almost immediately. “Why, good evening, Albus! I wasn’t expecting you to call.”
“Yes, well, something came up. I hope I’m not disturbing you?”
“Oh, not at all, but I’m afraid Arthur’s working late. Do you want him to call back when he gets in, or can it wait till morning?”
“Actually, if you don’t mind, Molly, I’d like to speak with you.”
“Of course. Is… is something wrong with one of the boys?”
“They’re all of them all right at the moment, Molly. But I had a conversation with young Ronald this evening, and I’m afraid I’m concerned about this tonic you’ve had him taking.” He held up the little glass bottle.
Molly’s eyes narrowed. “That’s just something I got out of my grandmother’s recipe book. It’s good for children’s nerves, you see. Stops them doing silly things, makes it easier for them to concentrate on what’s important in life.”
“It muffles a person’s desires and deadens their bodily sensations, Molly. Any Healer will tell you that’s not healthy, especially for children just beginning to mature.”
“It’s her own mother’s tonic, Albus. It won’t stop them having natural, appropriate relations with the opposite sex when they’re old enough.”
And what if it’s neither natural nor appropriate for one of them to have that sort of relations with the opposite sex, Molly? “I know Ronald is eleven and Ginevra’s only ten, but it’s perfectly normal for them to have crushes and dear special friends. And there’s nothing wrong with children their age making a few innocent experiments, either.”
“He told you about his sister?”
“He did, Molly. And I must say I’m disappointed in you.”
“They were kissing, Albus. Two young girls, alone in the barn… Who knows what they might have got up to if I’d let them go on?”
“I imagine they just wondered what it might feel like to kiss someone. Ronald was the only boy close to their age in the neighbourhood, and they knew he’d panic, so whom else would they kiss but each other? If you’d left them alone, I'm sure they’d have got bored after a few minutes and gone off to pick flowers or play a game of Gobstones.”
“It’s not healthy, Albus. And considering how Ron has been following young Cedric Diggory about at every opportunity... you’ll understand my concerns, I'm sure.”
“Whether I understand them or not, I can’t agree with your way of dealing with them.”
“They’re my children.”
“That they are, but they’re also people in their own right. They’re not your pawns, Molly.”
“Albus!”
“I do beg your pardon, Molly. I know you’re a wonderful mother, and I might should have picked out a better analogy. But you see, I... knew a boy, when I was young. His mother was also a wonderful woman who dearly loved her children, but she had concerns much like yours. So, she made him take that very same tonic, but it didn’t stop him falling in love with his best mate.”
“Oh. Well, that couldn’t have been good for either of them. I’m sure it was better to maintain the purity of their friendship.”
Albus shook his head. “His friend only loved him as a brother. But if it hadn’t been for that obscene potion, the boy might have got through that early heartbreak and gone on to meet some other young man who did reciprocate his feelings. They could have had a long and happy life together, been godfathers to the best friend’s children… but instead, when the boy was older, his mother pushed him to take advantage of a girl who was his very dear friend, but who would naturally have been a sister to him. And when mere manipulation didn’t suffice to bring them to the altar, she brewed up potions to move the process along.”
“If the girl was bent as well, Albus, was it such a bad thing?”
He beat down the wave of anger that flooded him. She’s a loving mother. It’s not her fault she was raised to believe terrible things. She never meant to hurt her children, and now, God and Merlin willing, she’ll stop before it’s too late, and without any additions to the long list of deeds that trouble my sleep. “For Merlin’s sake, Molly, it was rape."
Her eyes went wide. "I, err..."
Well, now, is she shocked at the word I used, or shocked to realise the full implications of what she herself just said? "Do you think this was one of those silly little concoctions schoolgirls will brew in their dorms at midnight over a bluebell flame in a jam jar? Like the True Lover’s Draught you and Arthur shared after the Hallowe'en Feast in your Fourth Year?”
“Albus? How… how did you know?”
Good. I've told her very nearly the last thing she expected to hear. And now, somewhere in the back of her mind, I've once again become the wise, all-knowing, and gently intimidating Headmaster of her school, a figure of both trust and awe, rather than the old man who walks about in gaudy robes with his head up in the clouds half the time, the man whom she calls by his first name when they talk over the Floo about whatever her twin scamps have got up to lately. And that, if I play my cards right, might be enough to make her listen and, what's more, make her believe me. “One of my first actions as Headmaster was augmenting the school wards to detect so-called love potions. If it’s some harmless philtre that only gives pupils who’ve fancied each other since they were Firsties an excuse to snog, I look the other way. In the case of Amortentia and worse, I take action. Your ‘tonic’ would be on that list as well, were it not for the fact that its magical signature is indistinguishable from that of many common healing potions.
“And seriously, would you think it moral to force a Witch to have sexual relations with someone she neither loves nor desires, simply because you don’t approve of her natural inclinations?”
“When you put it that way, Albus, of course not. But I'm sure your friend's mother only meant to help..."
“As it happened, the young lady in question was deeply and desperately in love with another young man, a dear friend whom she’d convinced herself she could never have. I firmly believe that, had their lives had been allowed to proceed according to nature, her own bravery and their strong friendship would have brought them together in loving matrimony within a few short years."
"Oh."
"But instead, that sad, deluded, foolish boy gave that honest, loving, vulnerable girl the Devil’s brew his mother had made for her, to bend her into a dim parody of love for him, and he took the matching potion his mother had made for him, to make it so he very nearly believed he was in love with her, even to the point that he could perform the marital act with her. They had children and built a life, of sorts.”
“Was… was it so terrible?”
“It was a house built upon the sand, Molly. When they were still quite young, about the same age you and Arthur are now, that kind, lovely, brilliant woman had a minor medical issue… but because of the damnable ‘love’ potion in her system, there were terrible complications. She died, Molly. I was very close to them, and as far as I’m concerned, they both perished that day, in a murder-suicide by poisoning. A poisoning that started with an old family recipe, the very duplicate of your own.”
Molly's face went white. “Oh, Albus, I’m so sorry.”
“The Healer in charge, realising what had happened, told the entire family. Some might say the husband was lucky he didn’t wind up in Azkaban… but I’m certain he would disagree. Everyone rejected him—his children, his brothers and sister, his best friend. He spent the rest of his life utterly alone, and his every waking hour was committed to a desperate quest for some magic that might allow him to go back in time and save the life of the woman he had married, preferably by sacrificing his.”
“Oh, Merlin! That’s terrible. I… I’m so sorry.” Molly was weeping now. Albus wished he could embrace her.
Relentlessly, he went on. “His parents were in their seventies at the time. They were healthy, active people who might easily have lived to see their grandchildren’s grandchildren… but they were dead within five years. There’s no point in talking about what the Healer wrote on their death certificates. I know it was shame that killed them.
"I loved them as if they were my own parents. I’ve never even been able to blame the mother for the potions, although perhaps I should. I have to believe she thought she was taking care of everyone, even that poor girl. Perhaps it's wishful thinking, but I suspect inhaling trace amounts of that vicious tonic had damaged her own judgement, after five or six years of brewing a batch every week.”
Molly let out a long, wordless wail, and he knew he'd finally reached her. “Oh, Albus! God and Merlin save us! If you'd not talked to Ron, I would have gone on dosing my children with that awful stuff, gone on brewing it... and I could have done all the rest as well, couldn't I?”
“I'm afraid you could have done, Molly. But I know you won’t, now that you know what a tonic like yours once did to... to my friend, and to his family.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll pour out every drop of it, I promise, and I swear on my very soul I'll never brew any such potion again, nor will I allow it to be given to any child in my family. May my magic desert me if I lie, and may Merlin and the Saviour turn their faces from me on the Last Day if I break my word.”
Even in the flickering light of the Floo, Albus could see the glow of binding magic as she made her pledge. From some folk, those oaths might be little more than empty platitudes, but in her quiet fashion Molly Weasley was true to the old customs. “Thank you, Molly. And you’ll let Ginevra see her best friend again?”
“Yes, yes, I will. She has been so terribly sad, the poor thing. And little Luna is a dear creature. I swear to you, Albus, I thought I was protecting them both. I even told Xeno I’d brew up a batch for his daughter, and once the girls were safe they could play together again. I didn' t understand why he was so cross with me. I thought I was being neighbourly.”
“I know you did, Molly. You made a mistake, that’s all. You’re still the best mother I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m not sure I agree with you right now, Albus, but thank you. Thank you for, for, well, everything.”
“I mean it, Molly. You’ve only ever meant to take care of your children. Never forget that. I know I never will.”
“Thank you. Well, I’d better go and get rid of that poison, and then I’ll cut the page out of my recipe book and burn it. Just knowing what it could have done makes my skin crawl. Do you think I should take Ginny to see a Healer?"
“She and young Ronald should be just fine. Since they’ve only been taking the potion since the summer, the last traces will flush out within a week.”
“Thank Merlin! And as soon as I’m done, I’ll send Xeno an owl to tell him I’m sorry and if Luna would like she’s welcome to come over tomorrow and see Ginny. Or if she’d feel safer, and I can’t blame her in the least if she does, Ginny could go over to the Rook.”
“Thank you, Molly. I’m looking forward to seeing Ginevra and Luna next year. Something tells me they’ll be a great asset to this gloomy castle of ours.”
“I only hope Luna doesn’t blame Ginny for her old mother being so thoughtless...”
“I’m sure she won’t, Molly. And… you’re not old, you know.”
Molly coloured slightly. “Oh, you’re too kind, Albus. Always the old flatterer! Well, good night. And thank you, again, so much.”
“Thank you, Molly. Good night.” The flames died away.
Albus knelt there for another long, long moment, staring at the grey-green ashes on the ancient flagstones of the hearth. "I'm sorry, Mum. I did what I had to for the Greater Good, for you and Dad and Gin-Gin and Luna, for Harry and Hermione and for poor young broken-hearted Ronald as well, and at least you're all safe now. I only wish I'd got through to you properly years ago, before it had to hurt so much, and I reckon it's my fault for being too subtle. Then again, it's far from the first time I've fu—fudged up, isn't it?" I don't know if I'm talking to the woman I just spoke with, whom I'll always remember as the ickle Firstie who fell in the Lake and needed a full-body Drying Charm before her Sorting, or to the ghost of my mum, or if somehow they're the same person, after all... but I still can't swear in front of her, even if she's not really here.
Fawkes whistled a cheerful melody. “Thank you, my friend,” Albus said. “You’re too kind, yourself.”
The phoenix flashed to Albus’ shoulder and rubbed his chin against his human’s head, singing another short phrase.
“Of course, Fawkes, you’re very welcome to come along to supper. But if you don’t mind, I’ve a bit of rubbish to take out first.” Fawkes nodded, and Albus stepped out onto a balcony, one that faced the curtain wall and the Forbidden Forest beyond it. He hefted young Ronald’s tonic in his left hand, and threw it into the darkness. Even as he threw, his wand was in his other hand, and with a quick Blasting Curse he obliterated the hateful little bottle before it hit the ground. “Well, that feels… satisfying, doesn’t it, Fawkes, after all these years?”
Fawkes trilled a joke that could never have been translated into any human tongue, and Albus laughed with him.
In the Staff Room, Minerva and Poppy were sitting by the fireside, full glasses in hand, a pitcher of mulled ale and a bowl of nuts and dried fruit on the table between them. “Good point!” Poppy said, chuckling. “I really should check on my supply of Pepper-Up Potion and Cheering Draught before I go to bed. I imagine rather a lot of our First and Second Year girls will go into mourning tomorrow when they discover Harry Potter is off the market.”
Minerva chortled. “Even some of the older lasses might be a whit unhappy. Miss Spinnet and Miss Johnson went a most interesting shade when I referred to him as their little brother.”
“Well, I suppose I can’t blame the poor dears. He is a distinctly appealing young man. I wish any of the boys had been half so charming when I was a First Year.”
“Aye,” Minerva said, and took a long pull at her glass. “I don’t recommend telling them until they’re older, but from everything I’ve read about bonded couples, it’s entirely possible our little lovebirds will wind up as Lord and Lady to a coven of witches.”
“Good heavens, woman, don’t tell Filius and Rolanda! They’ll start taking bets on which girls will join them. And good evening once again, Albus! Finished your urgent business, have you?”
“Yes, Poppy. All’s right with the world. And if we’re taking bets about potential coven members…”
Minerva threw a fig at him, and Fawkes snatched it in mid-air. “Leave the children be, Albus. If it happens, it happens.”
“Amen to that, Minerva.” If the betting does start up in a year or two, I might put a few Galleons on Ginevra and Luna. If I win, I’ll spend the money on a wedding present.
Hours later, he stepped into his bedroom and found a full-length mirror waiting for him. “Well, now. Good evening, Erised. Here to remind an old man that, in spite of all he might do here, he’ll never change what happened in the time stream of his birth? I can’t blame you in the slightest, old friend.”
The first time Ronald Bilius Weasley looked in the magic glass that showed his best mate his own lost family, he’d seen something that shocked him to the core. In the Mirror of Erised, Ron saw himself winning fame and fortune… and beside him all the way was Harry Potter, gazing on him with all the adoration he’d seen on the faces of girls who stared at the Boy Who Lived. He’d longed to sit there forever, nearly as much as he’d longed, despite the tonic that churned in his guts, to turn and press his lips to those of the boy beside him, just as he’d seen his sister and Luna do. Just as the Ron and the Harry in the mirror were doing. He’d stuttered out something about the Quidditch Cup and Dumbledore making him Head Boy, and prayed Harry would never realise he wasn’t telling the full truth.
He’d never sought out the Mirror again. But three decades later, Ron had found himself face to face with Erised for a second time.
#
If his guilt and self-hatred had left room for any other emotions, he would have been grateful that Harry’s proposal to convert the Shrieking Shack into a memorial to Remus Lupin—a community concert hall and meeting space, a public park, anything other than a mouldering half-ruin—had never gone anywhere. He’d hid in the decrepit house for three days whilst the bootleg Scholar’s Aid potions he’d bought in Knockturn Alley did their work, cramming his head with an Unspeakable’s knowledge of palaeography and ancient and modern languages. If he was ever to find a way of atoning for his crime, he knew, he’d need all the intellectual skills he could possibly scrape together.
When the course of potions was finished and his splitting headache had faded to a dull roar that didn’t compromise his senses too much, he slipped through the old tunnel that came out under the Whomping Willow, silent as a ghost, and made his way into the school he’d loved so well.
The students and all but a handful of staff were gone for the summer. For a moment he paused in the Great Hall. Would he head for the Library?
No. There, it would be all too tempting to take the easy way out. If he made a single wrong move as he threaded his way through the wards, the Alarm Charm would summon Irma Pince. The Librarian would know the full story of Hermione’s death, and as soon as she realised who’d trespassed in her domain she’d put a Reducto through his skull and claim self-defence. His former colleagues in the Auror Department knew the truth as well; she’d never see the inside of a courtroom.
He made his way up to the old familiar tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and his dancing trolls. “I want the Restricted Section, I want the Restricted Section, I want the Restricted Section,” he murmured, pacing back and forth. It took all his hard-earned skill at Occlumency not to say “I want to face justice” instead.
He was more than slightly disappointed when the door opened and he found, not a gallows with a noose just the right size for his neck and a hooded executioner waiting to open the trap, but the exact replica of the Restricted Section he’d requested. Of course you didn’t, you miserable bastard. Hanging’s too good for you. Now get to work.
He didn’t know how many hours he passed, ploughing through ancient tomes with much the same diligence as the woman whose name he was unworthy even to speak might have shown, before he looked up and realised he was sitting beside an ancient mirror mounted in a tall, elaborately carved wooden frame, the same mirror he'd last seen more than thirty years earlier in a disused classroom on the opposite side of the school.
For the first time in an eternity—or was it three months?—he felt a sense of hope. Maybe it will show me how I can sacrifice my life, trade places with Hermione, bring her back to spend a hundred happy years with Harry and Ginny and the kids...
Instead, he saw the graveyard at Godric’s Hollow. He’d read in the Daily Prophet how they’d buried Hermione there, in the plot beside James and Lily Potter, under a simple marble stone with the inscription:
Hermione Granger
1979-2024
Beloved Best Friend
He’d visited her grave a fortnight previous, at midnight, during what many were calling the worst storm of the century. Even with darkness and bad weather to hide him, he hadn’t dared to come closer than the edge of the cemetery, but he’d stood there for several hours, staring through his Omnioculars, the same pair Harry had bought for him at the World Cup all those years before. On the tombstone, in readiness for the day when two others would be interred beside her, were a pair of inscriptions:
Harry Potter
1980-
Loving Best Friend
Husband
and
Ginny Potter
1981-
Loving Best Friend
Wife
In Erised, however, he saw a completely different stone. This one was smaller, made for only one person, and it read:
Ronald Weasley
1980-1998
Best Mate, Best Man, Best Brother
Before it stood Harry, Hermione, and Ginny. Their eyes were full of sorrow, but it was a remembered sorrow, and at the same time they radiated an irrepressible joy in their own togetherness. Harry knelt down on the green grass, put his arms about a beautiful little girl with green eyes and bushy black hair and a lovely little boy with green eyes and messy red hair, and whispered “Say hi to your Uncle Ron, kids. He was the best mate any man ever had. Merlin, how I wish you two could have known him...”
Ronald Weasley laid his head on a priceless, and unfathomably evil, sixteenth century Wallachian necromancer's grimoire and wept.
#
Twenty years later, in an abandoned monastery deep in the Cambodian jungle, Ron had discovered a ritual by which a penitent Wizard could travel back through time to a pivotal moment from which he might, if he worked with great diligence, reverse his crimes. Five years after that, he’d successfully carried it out…
And appeared in a scarred, blasted German field in the year 1945, where a grievously wounded Albus Dumbledore sobbed over the corpse of Gellert Grindelwald.
In the course of his research, Ron had learnt a great deal of healing. He tried his best to save the life of his old Headmaster—who struck him as improbably young, although he was the same age as Ron himself—but in the end he was only able to minimise Dumbledore’s pain and keep him company in his last hours. Over the course of their conversation, Ron had confessed everything, and in the end he agreed to carry out the dying man’s final request. Using an ancient Herulian rite, one which would have been considered irredeemably Dark did it not require the soul-deep consent of both parties, he took on Dumbledore’s identity, his appearance, his memories, even his magical signature. That done, he’d cremated both bodies and laid them to rest together in a hidden place before stepping out into the world to do all the good he could, armed with two lifetimes’ worth of magic and his own knowledge of what the future might hold if he failed.
As it turned out, some events couldn’t be changed. He’d kept Severus Snape and Peter Pettigrew from the Death Eaters and Sirius Black out of Azkaban, but he hadn’t been able to save James and Lily or stop Tom Riddle becoming Voldemort. He’d augmented the Hogwarts wards to exclude possessed persons, disembodied entities other than the resident ghosts, and anyone bearing the Dark Mark, but nevertheless a Troll had got loose tonight and Harry and Ron had rescued Hermione from it.
Lives had been lost, he knew, despite his best efforts, a few of them folk who’d lived longer in the old world. But all in all, he’d done his best to make it a better world than his native one.
Still, every time the Mirror of Erised came to him, as it had done at least once every year of his life as Albus Dumbledore, he saw the same scene.
Feeling the full weight of his twelve decades—or was it nearly two centuries?—he looked out the window for another moment, thinking of Harry and Hermione safe in their bed, steeling himself. And then he turned to Erised.
After a moment, he fell to his knees in shock. He looked away, certain the vision was only wishful thinking, that when he gazed in the mirror again he was bound to see the old familiar graveside tableau.
But still he saw:
Ronald Weasley, a young man, strong and vital, snowflakes dusting his long red hair, hugged someone about the shoulders. “Come on, don’t worry. They’re all going to love you, you know.” Albus couldn’t make out many details, but the figure was as tall and as burly as Ron himself. The red-haired man raised a fist and knocked on the door of—it was the old Potter residence Harry and Ginny had finally fixed up and moved into some five years after the last battle of the Voldemort War, wasn’t it? He’d forgot the look of that house.
The door swung open. Ginny was there, Luna beside her, and a whole mess of children surrounding them. “Come in, Ron, come in! And how is my big brother? Harry’s in the kitchen doing something to the roast, and of course Hermione’s keeping an eye on him, but I’m sure they’ll be along in a moment.”
“Hey, Gin, hey, Luna, hey, kids!” Ron said, taking the other man by the hand and leading him inside. “I’d like you to meet—”
Albus couldn’t catch the name, but it didn’t matter. For the first time in more than ninety years, he crossed himself and said a silent prayer of thanks and hope.