Archive of Our Own

Tom Riddle was a great man. Not a good one, mind, and even he was aware of that. But he was great, and very few people he’d met hadn’t seen it.

He was powerful; since he first had displayed accidental magic – well, it had been accidental about twice before he got it under control at the ripe age of four – the deep well he saw his magic as had never dried out. He had been severely depleted a few times, of course, but only in scenarios were lesser wixen would’ve flat-out died.

Simple, hard, complex and excruciating spells alike had never failed him before, and they wouldn’t start anytime soon either if he had anything to say about it. His only failing, irritatingly, was his incapacity to produce a Patronus, and he thought he could be forgiven this, seeing he had mastered a – very dark and dangerous – spell that bore a similar outcome.

Another thing that he was, was smart. He was very, very smart, and he knew to wield his wits as a weapon as efficiently as others wielded their wands. He had been the smartest in the Orphanage, the smartest at Hogwarts and was, now, perhaps, the smartest man in the world – Albus Dumbledore be thrice damned and devoured by matagots.

A book once read was a book learned by heart, a saying once heard was a saying he could repeat, a spell once learned was a tool wielded masterfully.

All in all, Tom Riddle was a great man. Gellert Grindelwald was greater.

Tom Riddle had cursed and sworn and raged when his fiendfyre wouldn’t turn blue, he’d screamed and shouted and roared when he failed to find the Elder Wand and he’d hissed and raved and cussed when he’d lost his appearance to his darkening soul – after all, black magic took its toll on the body as well as the soul.

He was aware of that, that he would never quite reach the level of the greatest Dark Lord history remembered. And so, to his eternal dismay – to his anger, his resentment, his hatred – , did everyone else. There was not one of his loyal followers that didn’t know, in their heart of hearts, that he wasn’t the most powerful, the smartest, the greatest.

Albus Dumbledore was a fool. He kept his magic to himself and pretended to be not half as smart as he actually was, and so, even if he were stronger, greater than Tom Riddle, it would simply not matter. It was not hard to paint the old man as frail and imbecilic.

Gellert Grindelwald, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. He had strived in his power, in the fame it had brought with it and spread fear and awe alike. Thousands had come to his rallies to listen to his ideology, to his ‘Greater Good’. His famous hate for muggles and everything associated with them had spread far.

In a way, he was everything Tom Riddle – Lord Voldemort – aspired to be. As such, it wasn’t an unexpected course of action for Tom to use this to his own advantage.

In the height of his rise to power, Tom Riddle spread the word: “Lord Voldemort, the next coming of Gellert Grindelwald!”, “Lord Voldemort, the reviver of the Greater Good!”, “Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord to follow in Gellert Grindelwald’s footsteps!”. Tom Riddle had no qualms about feeding off of Grindelwald’s fame.

The rumours spread like wildfire, just as Tom had expected them to.

It had an effect on people, hearing the two names associated with each other. It was as if a bit of Gellert Grindelwald’s own old fame fused with the newly rising Dark Lord’s, as if part of his power melded with ‘Lord Voldemort’s’.

(The name had been supposed to be temporary, until he found something better! He should’ve known better than to use a thought he’d had in third year.)

Lords of Great Britain heard of the second coming of Gellert Grindelwald and it peaked their interest, just enough for them to have an ear out about this new oh-so-powerful Dark Lord. It penetrated the normal person’s mind, be they repulsed or… interested, wormed its way into the news, the ministry, Hogwarts.

The latter was of interest to Tom Riddle, of course. How could it not? It was a great occasion to… recruit, if possible, install fear, weaken Albus Dumbledore’s status and perhaps, perhaps, even let the confidence those proud little Gryffindors had in their Headmaster waver.

He was, after all, the one who would see Gellert Grindelwald’s ideas through and purify Wixenkind to its full glory again, wasn’t he?

Albus Dumbledore was quietly drinking tea in his office, petting Fawkes and reading through classified ministry documents when he felt Minerva pass the wards of the lower entry door to his office.

He put the papers down in orderly manner and raised his gaze just as Minerva stormed into the room with what appeared to be a copy of the Daily Prophet in her hand. Albus gestured for her to sit down.

“Minerva, is there something that I can do for you? You seem aggravated,” he stated with a (very much perfected in front of a mirror) grandfatherly smile. The words did not seem to calm her down much, as she let out a wordless growl, but she sat down nonetheless.

“Oh, Albus, I am more than aggravated! I am furious! I am- I am- I am out of words, is what I am! Enraged!” she said, barely keeping herself from hissing the words at the Headmaster. Said Headmaster kept a straight face, as he always did, but he was inwardly surprised. She had been a teacher for more decades than many would bother working at all, and it took quite the effort to waver her usually stoically calm demeanour.

“Would you accept a cuppa?” he offered, instead of inquiring about what had put her in such a state. No battle had been won by rushing before, as the saying went. “It would perhaps serve to appease you. Whatever has happened certainly cannot be resolved in anger, can it?”

She took a deep breath before accepting with a controlled, “thank you, Albus. Gladly.”

With a wave of his hand (he was, after all, a child a heart and could never resist a bit of showing off) a cup of tea appeared before the professor. “Now, would you wish to explain what has you rushing into my office in this early hour? You seemed distressed.”

She let out a – most elegant – snort. “Ah, distressed is one way to put it, certainly. Well, I have just received this,” she said, handing Albus the copy of the newspaper. In big, bold letters stood, atop the page: ‘Lord Voldemort – The Second Coming Of Gellert Grindelwald?’. There were two pictures, side by side representations of the two Dark Lords. It went on to explain the rumours of a new Dark Lord on his quest to finish Gellert Grindelwald’s old ideas; eradicate muggles and everything affiliated with them. Amongst other things, Muggleborns.

It took more effort than anything had in a long while for Albus Dumbledore not to react, and even then he could not refrain from raising his eyebrows.

Now, Albus was old, and perhaps his memory was a bit spotty on his younger years, but, to be entirely honest and to his disdain, everything pertaining to Gellert Grindelwald had always remained entirely clear to him. And, apart from the ‘eradicating muggles’ part, most of this article was utter and complete hogwash, pardon his language.

There was, towards the end, a list of what seemed to be… Gellert Grindelwald’s ideals? He felt his guts churn and twist in what he recognized as anger when he came across things such as ‘purifying Wixenkind’, ‘re-establishing proper, traditional families’ (which Albus read as simply nullifying every and all efforts society had done to equalize genders and sexes), ‘re-establishing proper marriages’ (and oh, did that hurt, seeing people like him and Gellert being branded as unnatural and unproper, still) or even ‘proper control and regulation of magical creatures and beasts’, which Albus took a wild guess on to say sentient and sapient creatures such as werewolves, centaurs or merpeople also were a part of.

And to think that Tom, the boy he had branded as unstable from the start had begun to… to what? Market himself as partisan of the Greater Good? Claim himself of the same caliber as once had been Gellert Grindelwald, proclaimed nemesis of Albus Dumbledore himself? Believe in blood-purity, although being a half-blood and showing it in a very strange way?

It angered him. He hated Gellert, of course, but to see an entire society forget everything about a war that had happened not sixty years prior was… well, it was terrifying! How could they twist Gellert’s (his Gel’s) words to such an extent? Did they even remember the cause of the founding of the Greater Good movement? How could they drag Gellert’s proclamations through the mud like this!?

(And again, he was defending Gellert, his Gel, his Schatz, his darling. He chided himself for these thoughts, as he always did, but, as they always did, the fondness and the hurt did not lessen. He bore this memory, this curse and would carry it until he couldn’t.)

He sighed deeply as he finished the article. It hurt, it still hurt so much, the loss, the pain, even so many decades later. Of course it did. It would hurt until the day he left this earth for the… ‘next great adventure’, Nicholas had called it, and then mayhap some more.

“So?” asked Minerva. “This is a tremendous problem for us. This ‘Lord Voldemort’ – ridiculous name, by the way – is amassing followers by the hundreds with this new- propaganda!” She spit out the word as if it disgusted her, and Albus thought it probably did. It disgusted him, too, after all.

He sighed again. Of course, her issue with this was not at all the same as his. It would have been strange indeed if it had been! But, unsurprisingly, her point was of great import, too, probably even of greater import. Most certainly, even.

“Yes, he would, wouldn’t he? It has always been an efficient tactic, to leech off of others’ accomplishments. Grindelwald had a following of tens of thousands across all continents, most prominently in Europe and North America.” Albus laughed hollowly. “I am certain that there are still enough of his old followers who stayed loyal who will be thrilled of this revival.”

“Yes, I had gathered that. But what can we do against this?” Minerva asked, almost fearfully. “Albus, there are students in these halls who will be influenced by this- this propaganda! Grindelwald may, in our circles, be an infamous and even vile name, but not in all! Especially the Slytherins and Ravenclaws could easily be swayed! Well, I may be exaggerating by saying ‘easily’, but this- this association certainly does not harm ‘Lord Voldemort’ and his ideals are of the most vile and- and repulsive! Abhorrent, is what they are!”

She was ranting, a desperate and frantic look in her eyes. Albus was entirely aware of the impact this could have on any potential… conflict (who was he kidding? It would be a war) between the ministry and Lord Voldemort. How many could be swayed to his side by this association. To all of their luck, ‘Lord Voldemort’ – Tom – did not seem to wish to take the diplomatic route, as had Gellert in great parts, but more of a… violent route. Albus feared he would have easy picking with the current ministry if he was half as competent as Gellert had been. Not that he wished violence upon anyone, of course! It was mere strategic concern that made Albus rather glad of the more physical danger to fight. He felt too old to play the old Games of Houses.

(If it was a violent conflict, too, perhaps he, even as old as he was, could take the brunt of it.)

“Indeed, he does have some rather… unsavoury ideas of how this country shall be led and this society shall look,” Albus agreed. “And you are entirely right, Minerva, it is indeed quite the issue if this comes to sway the opinion of the brilliant young minds this school inhabits, but as to how to fight it, I am… not certain on how to proceed.”

He looked down at his hands that he held on his desk in front of him. He could clearly see the traces of age. The thin skin, the slightest tremor, the bony appearance. He was almost ninety, after all.

He could fight, still, he knew. He was exceptionally good at shielding charms, and had, in his repertoire, just over thirty-five different charms, nine rituals, seventeen incantations and just about sixty transfigurations (four of them his own!) that could be classified as ‘shielding’, and this made it more than possible to fight, even with a declining physical capability. But, he was, despite all of this, still ninety. Fighting, duelling, winning would be arduous. Painful. 

In the back of his head was a small voice, barely loud enough for him to hear, that was insisting there was an easy way to make do with these rumours. There was something he could do to, very effectively, dispel these false claims. To considerably weaken Tom, to, very possibly, save lives in this upcoming war.

Aberforth had mocked him for a coward for as long as Albus could remember. A coward who kept secrets, fought backhandedly and fled, if danger arose. A coward who lied, who manipulated, who kept to himself. And Albus couldn’t fault him for it, because it was true. He did prefer to deal with threats efficiently, rather than with honour. He kept to the shadows and struck only when he was certain to win. There was a reason he had never accepted the position of Minister for Magic, apart from his contentment with his quiet life as a Hogwarts Headmaster.

He had a profuse dislike for sharing personal information with… well, anyone whom he hadn’t met at least in early childhood, which did include everyone apart from Nicholas and Perenelle (they were as close as it got to a parental figure to him, of course they knew most of his deepest and darkest secrets), Bathilda, who had known him since he was not much more than a babe and his closest friend, whom he hadn’t seen in at least half a dozen years, Elphias Doge.

Perhaps it was cowardice, not to admit to his secrets, to keep them in the first place. Yes, perhaps he was a coward, but he was a coward who won.

But now, now has come the time where his cowardice could cost him his victory. Where his cowardice would cost lives, of people he held dear, of people he had never heard of, of students he had sworn to protect.

“Minerva-“ he began, but cut himself off. He didn’t know what to say. How could one admit to a secret so dire, so dark, so old? How could one wrangle one’s dignity down enough to admit to the truth? The oh-so-terrible truth, his curse, his sin?

He felt as if he had aged a thousand years when Minerva asked, “yes, Albus?”

“I- Oh, Minerva, old friend, I am for once clueless on what to do. I fear I am so terribly out of my depth, in this situation,” he said quietly, almost whispering the words, those terrifying, terrifying words. “We have known each other for decades, and yet, have I ever mentioned my sister? Have you met my brother? Were you aware I had studied for years at Beauxbatons in my years prior to Hogwarts? That I whished to be Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor in my younger years? That I- I…”

The old man trailed off, his heavy, knowing and pained gaze wandering to something Minerva couldn’t see, perhaps a memory of days gone. She hesitated to answer. She had never seen the Headmaster so vulnerable, so- so hurt. He seemed as if he were crushed by duty, by memories, by something so heavy Minerva couldn’t even fathom it.

“I… had not been aware you had a sister, no,” she slowly, hesitantly, answered, “but I think I perhaps had heard of an article you had written there in my own time at Beauxbatons. And I have met your brother, but I hadn’t been aware he was your brother at the time… I haven’t been to the Hogshead in a while, I’ll admit. What are you getting at, Albus? I… don’t think I understand...”

Albus lifted his head and their gazes met. Minerva’s heart broke at the pain and the sadness and the hurt she saw in the other’s eyes.

“Oh, Minerva, Minerva. A man of my age is wont to carry burdens of his past, I have always believed, but I- perhaps have a burden too many, a burden too heavy for a single man. Perhaps I have secrets too dangerous for this world to know. Perhaps… perhaps I am a terrible wizard, a terrible person, for the secrets I have kept. And even if I wished to give them up I could not, because duty binds me, and there is no one to take my place in Britain. I…” He mournfully looked at Fawkes, to which the bird cooed, lowering its head to bump it delicately against the Headmaster’s hand.

Albus let out a sad, hollow chuckle, and Minerva was out of words. What could she say, here? She felt as if she had just been revealed a secret to, a secret so- so dark and heavy.

“I…” she began, but cut herself off, just as her old friend had done a minute or so prior.

Albus had always seemed just so, so unreachable, she thought sadly, as if he were of a power unknown. As if he were omnipotent, all-powerful, perhaps. Invincible. Of course he wasn’t, Minerva was aware, but he’d always seemed so… so…

He’d always seemed as out of reach as only a god would be, ineffable, above everyone else… but wasn’t he just a man, carrying the burdens of a thousand? A simple man, carrying the burden of a god…

She looked at him, in that moment, and saw but an old, lonely man. Then and there she noticed how truly lonely he must be, at the top. Did he have no one to trust? Was she not someone he trusted? But, indeed, she had not known he had a sister, had not known of his old dream of being a DADA professor, had never heard of the Headmaster’s past travels. Of his youth. She did not know of any friends of his. He’d never taken even a day off, never left the castle except on official outings, never just been… well, himself.

She’d only ever known him as a reclusive person, and she’d ever respected this, but now… now it hit her just how much he must have experienced in his long life, a life of power and fame.

He spoke of terrible secrets, but… in the end, Minerva, too, had secrets she didn’t dare tell anyone, and she could not expect complete and total honesty of anyone if she couldn’t even expect it of herself. She was hardly a hypocrite of such caliber.

Minerva, too, was old, if still younger, and had all the understanding of the world for this man, sitting at the top with only himself for company – no matter the secrets he kept. And they may be terrible; such was the fate of a general, and Albus seemed to be that much more than anything else, in the old-fashioned society of Great Britain.

“Albus,” she finally said softly, in a voice they both knew she used on students seeking help or guidance, “you may not confide in me – you may perhaps even confide in no one! –, but we have, nonetheless, known each other for decades and, truth be told, I trust you more than I would trust many others.” The man looked up, not seemingly surprised by the confession, but he gave a tired smile anyway.

“You spoke of being a terrible person, but one is not made up of one’s past mistakes like some sort of monstruous agglomeration of errors and missteps and regrets. I know countless others with souls more tarnished than is proper to admit to society without passing any sort of judgement on past reckless decisions or regrettable acts they may have committed. You may have committed such acts too, out of naivety, bias, or perhaps even purely because there was no other option! Perhaps there was no one else to do what you were forced to do, as terrible as it might have been.”

She hesitated, then, with Albus observing her as sharply as he was, but a small nod – or was it a bow? – from Fawkes gave her the bravery and strength to go on. “But I have seen you teach, Albus, old friend, and have personally been a student of yours. I have seen you light up in joy for the simple reason of being offered sweets. I have heard you mourn lives you had not been able to save for all of your efforts, and rejoice at the birth of a long expected babe. For all you claim to be terrible, I refuse to believe you are, at heart, anything but stubbornly kind, passionate and loving. Mistakes define but the lessons one has learned the hard way, and you are too smart to repeat a mistake twice. I am certain of this.”

The old man looked at her for a long while, once she’d finished, and she could almost see his mind reeling, although his expression remained blank. Minerva patiently awaited a reaction, any reaction. She would never expect of him to do anything he was unwilling to, but if she could lighten his burden even the slightest bit, she would gladly do so.

In the end, Albus sighed softly, and he seemed more tense than Minerva had ever seen him.

(She wondered if he’d always hid it so well, and he was truly lowering his defences to her for the first time, or if he was in such turmoil it simply couldn’t be hid any longer.)

“You have always had a way with words,” Albus said quietly, perhaps even murmured. He was then quiet for a tense moment, before letting out a long breath. “I have to admit that these words mean… something to me, although I doubt there aren’t things I have done which might make you wish you had never uttered them.”

Minerva slowly shook her head. “I think you are a man of logic, and a man of logic has reasons for actions – reasons that are sometimes hidden, or misunderstood, but reasons nevertheless. And if you have acted out of selfishness at times, I am not the one to throw this at your feet. I trust you to have done the right thing enough times to speak of a good heart.”

Albus sunk into himself, a helpless expression on his face. “Minerva, I am flattered you think so much of me, but I have acted out of selfishness more often than I could recount. I have acted out of… cowardice so many times it has become barely more than an instinct! I have- I have done things, things that could- could- could land me in Azkaban! Do not defend me from myself, or any other, when I have given up on it a long time ago.”

She had to admit that her heart slightly fell at these words, but she persevered with an insistently asked, “but did you do these things with violence in mind, with a purpose to wound? Did those things purposefully hurt people? Or were they- they-,” she searched for a word before landing, quite lamely, on, “-collateral damage in a scheme greater than you? I know this may sound terrible, but there are actions that must be taken in order to avoid a worse outcome, and I understand this. And I know you would never choose to hurt if there was a better solution to be found, because, as little I know about your past life and you seem to think, I know you.”

With a slow, unbelieving blink Albus righted himself in his chair. “Do you truly believe that, Minerva?” he asked, with such disbelief in his tone Minerva’s heart skipped a beat. “Do you truly believe I can be forgiven for obliviating ministry officials to have them leave me meddling in affairs I could not, legally, meddle in? Do you trust me enough for me to read your mind semi-continuously for fear you know of things that cannot get out into the world? Can I be forgiven sending people to their deaths, just because I was a foolish and naïve youth? Because I was too scared of letting go of the past!?”

Albus’s voice began raising with each sentence, in fear, sadness, anger, disbelief, self-hatred. There was such self-loathing in his words it was dripping from his tone like poison, grabbing at Minerva’s innards like ice-colds thorns.

She was shocked into silence by the admissions, because she hadn’t actually dared imagine, what things Albus had been speaking of, because, for all her trust, reading her mind? Semi-continuously?!

“Are you using legilimency on me, right at this moment?" she asked, her tone chillier than she’d wanted it to be, but she was certainly not to blame for it. She would follow him to the end of the world, had she not proven to be trustworthy?! (Or was he trying to protect her?)

“I am,” Albus tiredly admitted. “I am, because it is almost instinct to me, by this point. Do you know, how many times I have been betrayed? How many times I have almost been poisoned, stabbed, avada-kedavra’d, drowned, burned, imprisoned wrongly, exiled, removed from my position? How much I have to be aware of at all times to avoid being efficiently ‘taken care of’ or defamed or thrown to the dogs by the papers? How excruciatingly many are looking to get rid of me? And there is no one to take my place in the Wixen world. Not one who would be capable of keeping the higher classes back from simply doing as they wish, fighting for creatures’ rights, keeping potential dark lords off, protect the children, give our society hope of change, lead this school, be a symbol of the light side… It sounds arrogant, doesn’t it? But our society is very old-fashioned, as you are entirely aware. If I were to simply… disappear, old powers would take over once more as if no changes had been made whatsoever in these past decades! Because there haven't! I am the only thing keeping Great Britain together and have been for decades, and so many things would have to change before I could step down! Have you never wondered why we have so few dark lords, despite having so few Aurors? Why creatures have any rights whatsoever, although the Wizengamot has a large majority of traditional Seats? Why muggle studies are taught, although the School Board would never have let it pass? I have come up with treatment for three previously uncurable diseases in St Mungo’s, have made my – now famous – discoveries with Nicholas on Dragon’s blood, have done extensive research into Transfiguration and defined a basic law of Transfiguration, have discovered a creature and was the one who orchestrated the peace talks in Wixen Pakistan! I was the only person to have fought for the rights of the merpeople to keep living in the Black Lake in my time as a teacher and they are still living here. I have fought off two dragons, three Griffins and three Acromantula nests wreaking havoc in Britain on my own, and am the one to have the Thestrals of Hogwarts tamed by Newt Scamander rather than slaughtered when they began to propagate into the Hogwarts wards! And I have to do all of this while keeping face, because one misstep would shatter this country like little else!”

By the end the old man was heaving, barely keeping himself from yelling, his hands clenched into fists. His eyes were glistening slightly, betraying the unshed tears he kept to himself. His voice had begun trembling halfway through his- his discourse? Speech? Monologue? (Cry for help?) and Fawkes lowered his head onto his master’s arm as if on a pillow in an attempt at comfort.

A sense of dread filled Minerva at the words, and she couldn’t keep her eyes from widening. Was this- was this his burden? His duty? Her eyes filled with tears.

How could a single man accomplish this on his own? Without relying on anyone? Why did he not rely on anyone else?

“Oh, Albus,” she whispered, reaching out with her hand to take on of her friend’s into her own. Albus did not retract it, which, for a person this reclusive, spoke volumes about his inner commotion. “I didn’t- I didn’t-” she searched for words “-I didn’t know!” she cried out.

He had done so much! He had done so much… For everyone. Sacrificed his life, almost, to keep others’ safe.

Albus breathed out shakily and seemed to try and gather himself. “It is quite alright, Minerva, I did my very best to keep you from knowing. This was my burden to carry, a burden I chose myself, to-“ he blinked a few times, as if to keep tears aways, and it broke Minerva’s heart, “-repent for my mistakes, perhaps. I am sorry for lashing out, it- I lost control, and I apologize for it. If- if you wish, I could- I could- alleviate the burden on you by taking your memory of this. It doesn’t have to be yours as well as mine, if-”

“Pardon?!” Minerva cried out in outrage. “Albus, you do not have to carry this on your own! I will gladly alleviate your ‘burden’ by helping you carry it, if anything! This is what friends are for, after all! This is what ‘trust’ means! What a cruel thing to offer, to me as well as to you!”

There was a quiet second after her outburst, in which Albus seemed as much trying to understand her words as calculating the proper answer. Minerva sighed and calmed herself from her original shock.

“Albus, whatever you perhaps did or did not do, you have ‘repented’ years ago,” she tried to explain. “Slaving away for your students, your country, your friends, is not an appropriate response to remorse. Oh, blimey, this is a conversation I have with fourteen year-old children who wish to overdo it on their essays, not Headmasters on the best way to a hundred years of age! Such duty was never conceived to be carried by one single man – or woman, either, if we are at it! There is a reason the minister has an undersecretary and the undersecretary has two undersecretaries and these have an entire team at their beck and call! For a man of such- intelligence, you have quite a few ridiculous misconceptions!”

“Ah, I-” Albus began, sounding distressed, but he was interrupted once again by Minerva.

“No, Albus. I will repeat myself: I know you. I know entirely well that if I am to leave now, or even let you speak, you will convince yourself and perhaps even me that you are right. You are not right to take on everything by yourself. You, too, as any other person does, deserve to have breaks, free time, friendships, freedom, stability, recognition, and so many other things considered only natural! From what I have understood, you have none of those in quantities coming anywhere even close to be considered ‘average’.”

She stood up, letting go of Albus’s hand to lean forward and lift a finger straight in front of the Headmaster’s face, punctuating her words with threatening stabbing motions. “And, old friend, if this is not enough to convince you – which it isn’t, I’m aware – there are so many things that could go wrong in this! What if you were to die? What if you were to be biased, tricked, manipulated, or simply… wrong? What if you were to make a mistake? It does happen, even to the mightiest! And, except if you were now to obliviate me by force – I dare you! – I will personally see to you getting the help and support you deserve! And if it kills me, so be it!”

Albus was, quite honestly, for the first time in years, baffled. People did not just… threaten him outright, especially with… help? Threaten his with help and support? It was certainly the first time it had happened to him. Her arguments made sense, too, and were they directed to any other person he would readily agree, but, well, they were not. They were addressed to him.

The one who had planned to rule the world with his lover at his side. The one who made a bloodpact with a- a maniac! The one who’d sent people out to war and would again, and again, and again, as many times as it would take. The one who’d manipulated, tricked and lied to guide entire countries! The one who didn’t shy away from obliviating, using legilimency, or Veritaserum to achieve his goals. The one who- who-

The one who killed his own sister.

Cold, cold but searing tendrils of fear gripped at his heart and he bit down ferociously on tears threatening to spill over. Minerva, though, observant as she was, noticed. A feeling of disappointment in himself rose up, because he was not able to swallow it down. Hide it as he’d always done, since he’d been a parentless child guardian over two siblings.

“Oh, Albus, you have a terrible sense of self-worth, haven’t you?” she asked gently, and didn’t that hit the nail on the head? Albus refrained from laughing self-deprecatingly, but it was a close thing.

“Minerva, you are quite an amazing person, kind, loving, caring,” Albus said with a dry throat and a shaky voice. “But you do not know what I have done. The crimes I have committed. You would not forgive me, were you to know the extent of the things I have done. I have manipulated entire governments, used students as unwilling spies, read minds of innocents to my own gain. I have… used potions, to control, use. I have- I have- I have-”

He broke of his sentence there, because how was he to admit to having loved a terrorist (oh, how he hated calling his Gel, his darling, his love, this)? His nemesis? A man who’s plan had been genocide, always violence, a never-ending circle of hate and destruction? Having – if not physically as good as – killed his sister? Brought a man – a boy – into his home who’d tortured his brother?

“Well then,” Minerva stubbornly answered, “answer me this: did this government you’ve ‘manipulated’ as you so eloquently put it have anything with the ending of the Pakistani civil war? The peace treaty which saved potentially hundreds of thousands of lives? Did the students you used as unwilling spies ever feel the fact they’d been used as spies, or did you simply question them with a bit of Veritaserum in your ‘special lemon drops’ in a grandfatherly manner about some of their father’s doings, all the while giving them helpful advice? The information, while not obtained in a way I would support, helpful in putting an abuser into Azkaban?” She smiled kindly, and took his hand again. Albus had half a mind to pull his away from her touch, but… (it had been a long time someone, anyone, had touched him out of kindness and compassion, not hatred or reckoning.)

“The one about reading minds I truly cannot defend except in extreme cases,” she went on, “but I believe you feel enough regret about it that my words would be redundant. The use of potions, I would classify the same: not a good idea, certainly, but I am very certain it was only done with good intentions in mind. And I do not mean to excuse you of your crimes – not at all; I am trying to tell you that you are not. A bad. Person. You are overworked, tired, and make mistakes. And perhaps there are things you have not told me of. I am even certain you haven’t. But there are very few things indeed I could not forgive you, and even if. Forgiveness is not a requirement for letting things go, or at least not for me.”

She sat back down, as she’d still been leaning over the Headmaster’s desk.

“So,” she finished, “I do not have to forgive your actions, you do not have to forgive your actions, and your personal crimes and regrets have been repented a long time ago. Your legal crimes will have to be… looked at, certainly, but even I can agree that allowing you to go to Azkaban at this time – especially with the rising Dark Lord – is not a good idea. Now, tell me of your deepest regrets or not, I will help you with the next steps against ‘Lord Voldemort’. What are your plans?”

Albus blinked, clearly out of his depth with the almost nonchalant response to some of his ‘biggest’ crimes.

“That… cannot be your true answer, can it?” he asked quietly, sounding unsure. Because, well, he was. He had carried this around for decades and Minerva simply… dismissed it? Argued it down into nothingness? These things did not even appear to be shaking her faith in him the slightest bit! This was- was-

This was almost threatening to break him, in the way only complete and utter relief could. Her answers were, although hard to believe, of such pure genuineness Albus couldn’t help but believe them just the slightest bit.

(Albus had been working off of self-loathing for years, if he lost that, what did he have left…?)

(A tiny voice inside of him, sounding eerily like Perenelle, told him off as if he were but a boy. How dare he dismiss her and her husband like this? How dare he treat her little Albus-chéri like this?)

“Of course it is, Albus. What did you expect?” Minerva asked, sounding as if she were daring him to answer wrongly. “That I would lower myself enough to yell at you? For me to throw things around like a harpy, angered you would dare read my mind? Severus has done so, too, and I have noticed him a few times in his younger years, when he was still learning. I have never confronted him about it either, because I believe he needed it. The boy went through so much loss and violence, I allowed him the paranoia and mistrust. You went through so much more – and for longer! –, so why would I not allow you the same? It is certainly not the same for all, but I will not, as I have said before, throw it at your feet.” She took a deep breath. “Regardless, enough of the sadness. I do hope that, one day, you will try to open up to me about everything else, and we will then talk it over like adults,” the words were accompanied by a pointed stare, “but for now, a rampant maniac is at the lose and we have to take care of him, first. You do have some experience with those, haven’t you?”

The last sentence had been meant in jest, but, when Albus winced at the words, Minerva almost sighed. Truly, it was a minefield, conversing with a vulnerable and emotionally interactive Albus Dumbledore. Not that she wished him to shut away everything any longer, of course!

She waited for him to answer, perhaps explain, but Albus stayed quiet for a long while. He pinched the bridge of his nose harshly and took a deep breath, seemingly relaxing and recomposing himself, before leaning over the desk to take the newspaper in hand once again. His gaze flitted over the front page article, and his gaze darkened like he hadn’t allowed himself the first time (or so Minerva guessed).

“Yes,” Albus finally said very, very quietly and Minerva had to strain her ears to hear it, “I do have one solution to this.” Louder, he went on, “you asked me to speak over my other regrets, my worst crimes. Well, here is my biggest, worst, most terrible, one.”

He pushed the paper back over to her. The two pictures glared at her, both young-ish men radiating charm, bearing almost identical, self-assured smirks, very much aware of their unbearable good looks.

She raised her eyebrows critically. “Yes? Is Voldemort your secret child? Did you not truly beat Grindelwald, but are, in fact, him in disguise? Did you kill and revive Grindelwald to turn him into Voldemort? Did you-”

Albus raised a hand and Minerva fell silent.

“No, none of those. Nothing so… silly,” he said, with a small, forced smile. “No. A long, long time ago, when I was but a foolish, foolish youth, barely an adult, I…” He fought down the ball of poisonous lead laying in his stomach, climbing up his throat, taking his air. “I met a- a boy. I grew up in a rather poor muggle neighbourhood, if you weren’t aware, and I always had to put academics second after survival, although knowledge, books, magic had always been my greatest love. But then, one fateful summer, a b- beautiful boy moved in next doors with his great aunt. He- he was… brilliant, charming, fascinating! I fell into his orbit as if he were my sun and I were his earth. He was… my light. We spend weeks together, giggling in barns with parchments thrown open all over the ground, in an eternal contest of who could transfigure the most beautiful flowers for the other. We researched, talked, argued like the young, naïve but genius youths we were, sneaking off into the night to lay in each others arms beneath the splendid firmament…”

He trailed off, and Minerva sharply observed him, the gears turning in her head.

“Albus,” she began slowly, hesitating to comment because if she was wrong this would all be very awkward indeed, “I do not wish to assume anything, but this, this sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a sweet, innocent… romance...?”

Albus nodded with a smile, looking to be far, far away again. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it? It was. It was beautiful, almost perfect.” He grimaced. “Too perfect to be true. I loved him. I fell for this beautiful, charming boy the moment he correctly assumed the changes on a household spell I had modified after having seen it being cast wordlessly only once. He… did not.”

This might have come as a surprise, this outing as a homosexual through this touching, albeit sad, story, and perhaps a bit out of the blue, but Minerva considered herself a rather progressive woman. It was not the shock it could have been, had she been of a more traditional mindset. But, still, it did not seem to fit exactly, Albus’s biggest crime being homosexuality. Except a widening of her eyes in surprise it didn’t really seem like the overwhelming terror Albus seemed to insist on.

“Ah, there go my chances at wooing the most powerful wizard of our time,” she jested and got a surprised chuckle out of Albus. “But is that truly your… ‘biggest crime’? I do not want to diminish anything you have lived, of course! But I’ll have to admit I was expecting something a bit grander. It is not even illegal anymore! ‘Not recommended’ at best, and I am truly glad for you to be able to chose your partner freely, but...”

“No, no, that was just the prelude,” Albus explained. “This is my crime.” He pointed to the picture of Grindelwald on the newspaper. “This man is part of the Grindelwald family, a once renowned German Wixen family. He was a rather rowdy child with a strong will and an unsatiable thirst for knowledge, and so his parents decided it would be best for him to get a bit of ‘fresh air’ on the countryside, to perhaps calm him down, or some such. As it was, he travelled to his great aunt, a famous historian – Bathilda Bagshot –, where… he met a soft-minded, foolish, auburn-haired youth, who fell in love with him and his wits…”

With a sad look in his eyes he looked at Minerva when she finally pieced it together. This time, shock truly overcame her, and she covered her wide open mouth with her hands, not really managing to muffle her loud gasp.

“Oh!” she let out. “Oh! Oh, oh, oh. Oh, no.”

Albus chuckled sadly, looking so lost right in this moment. “Oh, yes. Yes, that is exactly it. My own foolishness, my love for the boy giving me attention and recognition I had never gotten led him to be the man you know today. Well, apart from the lies spread about him, but that is another story altogether. No, without me, he would have never been the man he is today. Without me, my- my sister would still be alive, my brother would not have fallen into despair, all of the people wouldn’t have died. Without me-”

He broke off, again, a pained expression flitting over his face.

“Oh, Albus,” Minerva said in horror, for what felt like the thousandth time. “Oh, Albus, no!”

The man looked at her in confusion at the last word, as if he were, again, expecting her to explode into anger and hatred.

“Oh, Albus, are you blaming yourself for what he has become because of you? Because of your- your romance? Are you blaming yourself for what you have done when you were not much more than a child? For the decision of foolish adolescent, following his heart? Oh, you old fool, what utter and complete hogwash you are telling me! When did you even, erm, go separate ways, if I may ask? Before he turned to darker… passions, I would guess?”

“The same summer we first met,” Albus answered sadly, “after I- after he- He wished to leave with me to go and find the Deathly Hallows, and my brother refused. They got into a fight and Gel- Gellert tortured Abe and when I joined to defend my brother, spells started flying. A- a stray spell hit my younger sister. She was dead instantly, at only fourteen years of age.”

“And you- you- you blame yourself for her death?” Minerva exclaimed in surprise. “When all you have done in fall in love and later defend your brother against your new lover? Albus, you have to see that this is not your fault!”

“Ah, well, we will have to agree to disagree, then,” he stated, and Minerva relented, because letting go of demons this old was not going to happen today, or tomorrow or next week. Rome, after all, had not been built in a day, or a month, or even a year. “But that is not the only thing. Not only did my foolishness end up killing my sister, but I- we- oh, Minerva, I agreed to make a bloodpact.”

Minerva’s heart fell, because bloodpacts were something to be taken very seriously. If used inappropriately (or at all, really), for example between two young adults with no professionals present, they could either end up deadly from the get-go, or turn out functional, and be highly dangerous and potentially deadly later on. Especially if the two participants of the contract/ritual had a falling-out or even turned to enemies.

And oh, didn’t that sound like an eerily familiar scenario?.

Albus shrugged helplessly. “Ah… now you know of my biggest regret. I felt… above everyone else when Gel- Grindelwald preached of our superiority of mind to me, when he told me we could rule the world, when he told me he loved me. I agreed to unite each other as one, never betray him, always stand by his side. My own egoistical actions led to me be but another pawn of Grindelwald’s. I stood by, incapable of action further than sending people into danger, and that by my own mistake. Do you understand, now, why I cannot be forgiven? Why I chose this life of servitude to- to the true greater good, and not the twisted and abhorrent version my erstwhile lover preached to the world?”

Minerva took a moment to think it over, to look at it with a bit more distance. A boy, brilliant but sheltered in a small, poor town. Another… boy, just as brilliant but knowledgeable on the world, a passionate love. A foolish mistake, with consequences unimaginable.

But this boy, foolish in his choice, was he to be blamed for falling in love? Was he to blame for what his lover would turn out to be? Of course not. Now, how to convince an old man he was not at fault, when he had believed so for his entire life?

Minerva was at a bit of an impasse, because she was aware she would not convince him to see himself in a better light without a great deal more time and perhaps even professional help, and so she decided to put this issue aside for another time.

“No, Albus. No, I still do not think that I do not have it in me to forgive you. I still am of the opinion that you have suffered through a great many things, have made mistakes, and have had to live through the consequences of said mistakes. But, please, do not try and convince me to allow you to continue to wallow in self-deprecation and regrets. You have done this for enough time, don’t you think? Let’s concentrate on bringing the new Dark Lord down before worrying about the one vanquished and gone and delving any deeper into your psyche. If that is alright with you?”

Albus almost laughed, because wasn’t that a strange way to put it? “Of course,” he relented.

“Thank you. You- you’d said your… ah, dalliance could help make do with the rumours once and for all?”

“Yes. Yes, there many things misremembered about Gellert Grindelwald.” He summoned a piece of parchment and a self-writing quill. “You see…”

Albus willingly spoke in front of the entire school as to how wrong exactly this new (very foolish and misinformed, wasn’t he) Dark Lord was as to whose image he was truly leaching off. How very much inappropriate it was to twist words to such an extent as to think Gellert Grindelwald had preached homophobia, and Albus made sure to use the word, to the masses’ great discomfort.

He spoke in front of the minister, the papers, the greater public. Again, and again, and again he practically bared his soul, just to defame Voldemort. And Minerva could truly say that she had accomplished something, and she was almost… proud of her old teacher.

He was a flawed, flawed man, but weren’t they all? And he was quite a bit braver than most, just to make up for it.