009
CINDERED SPIRITS
Chapter IX: Albus Dumbledore Falters

"… six Hit-Wizards wounded, a missing Spanish witch and now MACUSA just cannot give me a single peaceful moment—just the sight of a darned thunderbird is enough for the whole office to know that it is going to be a day of trouble. Albus, we have to do something!"

Dumbledore looked calmly towards the pacing Minister Fudge, recently elected Minister for Magic—a feat that he had only managed, with all honesty, because a little of his own influence here and there. Cornelius Fudge had many qualities, undoubtedly: he was a great administrator, had many projects for establishing dialogue between the various groups of magical society; he was also, sadly, very prone to balk under pressure, especially at this moment.

"You are doing a very remarkable job, Minister. Extraordinary circumstances demands the most from all of us. I am sure your efforts will not be unnoticed for long, even though contempt and impatience may be all we receive for now."

Fudge straightened a little at the professor's words, but snorted, nonetheless.

"It is all I receive, indeed. From my own Ministry! Just this morning, Bode and Cadwallader both came into my office, asking—no! Not asking, demanding that I give the boy to the Department of Mysteries. Oh, the nerve of them!"

At this, Dumbledore's collected expression deepened a little more.

"Did they? On what grounds? If I am not mistaken, the guardianship of Harry James Potter, with the betrayal and imprisonment of Sirius Black, rests solely on me. Fleamont Potter did not waste some precious moments of his failing health to assure that James Potter and his descendants would be at the mercy of either Bagnold's Ministry or yours—with all due respect, Minister."

Fudge looked a bit wary at Dumbledore's manner of speaking. Months of dealing with the Headmaster had given him a keen sense on the man, even if Professor Dumbledore sometimes thought of himself as an island. There was an edge to his presence lately that he could not shake off. It was a warranted reminder that this man was the one who defeated Grindelwald. His words could be sweet as they come, but it seemed that the old professor was not giving them the same measure as he usually did.

"They've been … persuaded by some. They were led to believe that Parkinson would give them their old privileges."

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed at that.

"Lord Parkinson", said Dumbledore with a hint of mocking in his tone as he emphasised the title, "is naught without Greengrass and Malfoy. The latter is well-acquainted to yourself, I believe, Minister," said Dumbledore, calmly, eyeing Fudge's rapidly reddening face—he was a fool if he ever thought the bribery talk hadn't reached the Headmaster's ears. "The former, objectionable as he is, would not be of any help; he is well away from Britain at the moment and will not come back soon; not with the much more concerning and virtuous affairs weighing on his mind."

Fudge's eyes twinkled at that.

"So, they are still trying to save the girl, eh? What are they selling now, their extra estate on France? What a waste of precious—"

"I'll ask you to refrain from conceitedly reproaching Greengrass's last respectable actions," Dumbledore cut him firmly. "In regards to everything else: Amelia has already assured me there will be no more overstepping this time. I will personally settle matters necessary for the ICW to intervene, if I must. We must not give up, Cornelius. The boy was already subjected to much. And I will not allow any Unspeakable to come close to the boy, lest they skin him out and pour him to pieces in jars for scrutiny."

Fudge got a little green at that and his black bowler hat (he had forfeited the green one for the funeral and had not changed back since, thankfully) threatened to fall from his head.

"They—they would not do that, would they, Dumbledore? They can be a bit overbearing but, not even them … not to a child …"

Dumbledore gazed at him with a measured stare.

"Britain's great achievements and victory over the several dark wizards that have plagued these dear isles were not borne simply out of the extraordinariness of our people, Minister. The Department of Mysteries may have performed its roles, but we must not continue to assent to its decisions no more. Our understanding of magic and the great advances procured by the Unspeakables did not come without cost; remember Rookwood, Minister—it is time already we begin to acknowledge it; it is time to reform them and to drag them back to humanity!"

Albus had gotten up, and although he had not raised his voice, Fudge still felt as if he was properly chided; as if he, himself, was responsible for what had happened. Well, he was the Minister for Magic.

"Oh, Dumbledore. The boy managed to come back from the dead. If only that bint had not blowed herself and Harry Potter up on a dark ritual! But they did, and now the boy—I can't even say it without sounding stupid—came back from the dead! What if this magic could be uncovered? Could you imagine the possibilities, Headmaster? What is a little boy before all the possibilities? It would be Avalon again, Albus!"

Dumbledore regarded him with a peculiar stare: with a bit of sadness, with a bit of derision, with something more underneath it all.

"I'll ask you not to disparage Prof. Trelawney before we know the facts—there any many loose threads and unknown facts about that night, still; and I have yet hope in my staff, though it shook me, too. No, Cornelius, I insist on that," he said when Fudge threatened to interrupt him. "For the other things you mentioned, I would not expect to convince you out of these notions for now. I expect, however, you to comprehend that at this point, it may all seem a stakeless game. There is a price to their ambitions, Minister; to yours. They would aptly undertake their part of it—I have little expectations for them, sadly—but you're not ready, Cornelius. You're not ready to sacrifice that which is necessary. I was once in your position; I ask that you consider my words with a great deal of thought."

Fudge considered his words for a moment.

"I'll—I'll trust you for now, Dumbledore. I'll hold them in, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to."

Dumbledore's brows furrowed.

"What do you mean with that?"

Fudge looked with a bit of worry towards the many paintings that overlooked their conversation, the majority of them not even pretending not to listen now. Dumbledore made a quick movement with his wand and Fudge sensed the privacy spell.

"What I mean, Albus, is that they are daring—much more daring. They are like vultures rounding on everyone with the slightest power to do anything. I don't even know who is supposed to be the head of the department anymore. They want this very much, they are unyielding, they are fascinated by what happened to the boy, and they won't be denied anymore, they mean to conspire against us."

Dumbledore's eyes hardened.

"Do they? I'll see what I can do about this, Minister."

And there it was: Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of modern times. And Fudge did not think he would need to bother much with the Department of Mysteries anymore. He wondered what Dumbledore would manage, but he discovered he did not wanted to know.

"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore. I'll see things with Amelia then, and go to Azkaban to settle matters thoroughly. They say Black is especially mad these days."

"What they are saying about Sirius Black?"

Fudge played with the brim of the hat before answering.

"He changed. The dementors at first thought he was finally losing it, after all those years. But the news of Harry Potter defying death once again seemed to put him and half of the Death Eaters in Azkaban in frenzy."

Dumbledore pondered that for a moment, before nodding and saying his goodbyes to the Minister.

Fudge held the Floo powder over the fireplace, before hesitating and turning to Dumbledore.

"The phoenix, Dumbledore. It had a part in it all, didn't it? Did—did you have any part in it, too?"

Dumbledore smiled sadly at the Minister.

"Fawkes indeed came to the rescue, by his own volition. I wish that I knew what happened, Minister, truly, but phoenixes are marvellous creatures, with a special magic of their own. Contrary to what many wizards think, I cannot control all, and would not. It is only because of that that Fawkes stood with me for so long, I daresay. But he is not here anymore," he finished, with a tinge of sadness in his voice; and then continued.

"My office will always be open to you, Minister," he finished, while arranging a few books on his table and dispelling the privacy charm.

Huge green flames engulfed Fudge as he went away, casting a curious light over Professor Dumbledore's face. All wrinkles, folds and old wounds became much more pronounced in that eerie green light, darkening the face of the always jovial Headmaster. There, behind a mountain of forms and bills and requests and books, under the scrutiny of the old portraits of the Headmasters of Hogwarts, surrounded by magical trinkets and knickknacks, and now without his loyal phoenix friend, Albus Dumbledore was left with his thoughts for a brief moment.

Did he have any part in it? That was a question that left him wondering, still.

He had ensorcelled a grim ritual to return Harry's life back to him, or to at least prolong and animate his body while he had not yet a solid way to grasp at the boy's soul. He was a blind man tatting around matters that should not concern any decent wizard. But he was desperate. He wasn't so sure he regretted it, too.

He felt … something. He felt the pull in his magic—he felt it pulling back with great strength. He felt a presence tatting around in the same manner as he had tried to do so. He had only the barest of moments to drap the cloak over himself before it managed to overcome him.

He had never felt so much fear and doubt as in that moment: when much too time had already passed and his absence was beginning to get noticed—he had to take off the cloak.

Terror had invaded him as he made the motion to remove it and … nothing happened. He wanted never more to mess with these kind of magicks anymore.

But Severus had found him in his office and gave him the news.

The boy had made unreal progress in the briefest interval of time—just enough to give the healers a false hope, to wrench what remained of Severus's will; just enough and about the right time to know that, he, Albus was the hand behind it; just enough to put hope back in Severus's heart—something that would swiftly be crushed in but a few hours, as Albus lifted all spell, enchantment and dark sorcery over the boy.

The blood that was golden turned to a cursed thing: like tar, like thick mud and cement; the flesh darkened, the hair fell from the boy's head and the eyes dried back.

He gazed at that form in front of him, a corruption of the vivacious boy that had been entrusted in his hands: first by Fleamont Potter, when he had made a will in his dying hours to make sure James was out of the grasp of the Blacks and the likes; secondly, by James, when he tried reconciling with that part of the family but failed, delivered to Voldemort by his best friend, by Sirius Black, and he, Dumbledore, had to amend the whole thing; and then again, when the boy came to Hogwarts.

It had been a lesson, at least: never to mess with the Dark Arts. He had discovered many things about himself and about magic and it had all nauseated him. From his brief forays into it, he had nothing to show but a shrivelled corruption, a husk and a grumous lump, with few clues here and there of what was once the Boy-Who-Lived.

The Mirror was the first step into that world, he realised. Its magic may be whimsical and fantastic, at first, but nonetheless destructive and corruptive—dark magic of the worst variety.

It happened and it had transformed him. He no longer could see the world with the same joy he once embodied and maintained.

But in the end … Harry came back. Against all odds, he came back. And with his return, some things had changed, already.

The cloak went and came back. It disappeared from his office at times, only to come back covering a picture of Harry, or a dear trinket of his; it escaped Remus Lupin's grasp, Miss Granger's or anyone that he had tried to gift it. It toyed with him, coming back always at the moment where he was most vulnerable.

But it had not come back ever since Harry came back. It had clung to Harry and to the … boy that was borne out of that whole situation.

And that was a whole other Pandora's box—one that he would have to unravel, still.

The wand seemed to always be in a flutter ever since he had done that ritual, pushing, nudging him, tempting more and more his hand to unleash it finally, to gift death to the world and execute his will above all. It was not so subtle nowadays, but then he had faltered. He fell to the Dark Arts. It would be long way back from the bottom where he was now.

The stone was no more—it was consumed in the ritual. Perenelle had believed him when he said it was in the destroyed mirror—or pretended to; he never knew with that one. Nicolas, on the other hand, was not so easily convinced.

But it had failed, nonetheless. And he knew why; and he wondered if Nicolas had an inkling as for the reason—he would be implicated, after all.

When Dumbledore felt the grasp, something had to be given—he knew that now. And only the alchemists, so daring in defying death as the Boy-Who-Lived, would even begin to suffice the sacrifice—if it had the minimal chance to be accepted, of course.

He was not ready to exchange their lives for Harry's. He had not the right.

They had convinced him that there was no way out for Harry—he would die with the Horcrux, consuming him and Tom both. But they had not known what he had done. They knew he used the stone, of course, but only that.

They did not know how to harness the power of the Hallows—only he knew; only he had the right, the might to do it.

Albus shuddered at the thoughts. They were becoming more prevalent by the day—much more so now that the Cloak had left him and only the Wand exerted its influence.

He would break the wand when this was all over, he promised to himself. None deserved to live with that burden, with that oppression over his shoulder and around his heart. It wanted him to control, to subjugate and to dominate all life and all matter. He would stay the course, for now.

He had many a grave decision yet. Harry had not died, after all. He had come back, with a young Tom Riddle in tow, inextricably linked to him. He had come back with a young Tom bearing the lightning bolt on his forehead, bearing the rune of Sowilo, of Sol, of Sigel upon his forehead—bearing the symbol of power, of the Sun, of a new bearer of light to the world upon his tiny forehead.

Who was he to scold Fudge on the means to an end? He was a hypocrite, at best; he had thought he had learned what the 'Greater Good' and its terrible implications truly meant, and yet … And yet, when he had been tempted by it once more, he succumbed in a grand fashion.

There was not a single day where Gellert's mocking and yellowed smile wouldn't appear to him in his dreams, in his memories. He made the best effort to suppress it all; he would deal with the consequences later, and let go off that nonsense truly this time. But for now …

For now, he would not permit Voldemort to come back, no matter the cost. He had a grave decision ahead of him.

He might have to train his wand on the reborn Tom Riddle.

He might have to kill Harry Potter—or what abomination had come back in his place.