Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not my own, for I am not JK shifty eyes

Authors Note: This is the first chapter in a series of chapters, each devoted to a specific character of the world JK has created. This series shows how each character individually copes with the war. It will be an infinite amount of chapters, depending on how many characters I choose. However it will start (as shown) with Albus, and will end with Ron. Some ships will be displayed subtly but the main idea of this is a bit of angst.


Chapter 1: Albus

Albus Dumbledore sat quietly in his cluttered office in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

He sat in thought, deep and uninterrupted; and could only gaze around the cylindrical office he had called his home for years.
Only the archaic devastation that had upturned his home could show that something was not right with the headmaster, and not right with the world.

On the old wooden desk Minerva had transfigured for his 60th birthday lay an assortment of oddities which for Albus could only mean a great emotional pain to himself, and for the wizarding and muggle public alike; some who had suffered tenfold than Albus himself in the war.

People had looked to Albus as a leader and he had not given the right decisions, he had failed those who needed him most.

Harry Potter had held the utmost respect for Albus, but it was when at war with Tom Riddle that Albus had finally ended his length of apparent omniscience and it was at that time that they had almost lost the war.

Harry had been let down by the person who had manipulated his entire life and had naively looked to for guidance.

The world as Albus has known it had shattered into a thousand tiny glass pieces the moment he had refused Harry, and lost the respect of the entire wizarding world.
Now he was known as the insensitive senile, old coot that had single-handedly almost cost them the war against Voldemort.

His life destroyed by one momentary lapse in judgement, one stupid and yet catastrophic error.

It was a harsh feeling, to be loathed and rejected by those he had once counted as colleagues, and friends.
To be despised and cast off as an imbecile by those who had once looked up to him, by those whom he counted as his children.

Hated by those he loved most.

"Damn them! Can they not see I am not their God? Do they not realise I am only human?"

He told himself this daily, and he asked himself why he was so misunderstood, and he repeated both of these to himself in a mantra while he sat in his locked office with tears flowing freely down his finally unguarded face.

But the tears of loss and regret could not salvage Albus Dumbledore as they trickled into his long white beard, and they could only remind him of what his mistakes had cost him.

Albus looked wistfully at the small upturned snow globe which lay discarded on his desk.
It was a snow globe of Godric's Hollow, the centre point of all his woes.

Replacing the snow globe upright Albus watched as the snow trickled down and landed on the roof of the Potter home, the home that was now rubble; Lily and James' home.
And more tears flowed.

Resting his head in his hands Albus leant upon the old wooden desk weeping in pain and hurt, mourning the dead and mourning his lost faith; and the faith people had once had in him.

For days it continued.

Albus would sit and sob restlessly in his office, and eventually that is how the war killed Albus Dumbledore; not in a great battle, neither of curse nor spell, but of grief.
It was many days after his death that his wards to his office were finally dismantled by Minerva and his body was finally discovered.

And in a poetic justice, his office had become a shrine to the dear headmaster; and his body lay in peace, in a flowerbed of empty sherbet lemon wrappers.