Time Murders

Time Murders

By Dimgwrthien

Whoever said real men never cried was a liar.

Albus Dumbledore was, of course, male. He was the greatest wizard of his age, powerful and brilliant beyond his years, which were already many.

However, he had decided, years ago, that being intelligent made his faults as many times worse as he was smart. He kept to himself too often, he knew, and there were times when he wondered about human nature. His specialty was always magic and knowing how the world around him worked. Not the people living in that world.

Because he knew that he was only human himself, he knew that he had some understanding of the human mind. It was the mind he had been using for over one hundred and fifty years. However, the ones mind he did not understand was a child’s.

He considered anyone under the age of one hundred a child. A fifteen year old, meanwhile, was a baby. Hardly the age to even be walking and talking.

Barely the age to be fighting his own enemy.

Albus Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk, staring blankly at where Harry had exited the office only seconds before. There had been a moment, as soon as the door closed, that Albus wanted to rage and scream himself, to stand up and destroy everything in the room, just as Harry had done once he heard the whole truth.

About Voldemort, about his parents, about Sirius, about the prophecy, about his entire life.

If he kept his mind just blank enough, he could stop himself from doing so.

Years of being at a school, rarely ever leaving, had taught Albus how children acted. Not how they thought, but what would happen to them if you did anything from loading them up with homework and refusing to accept anything late to telling them that it was his fault his family and godfather were dead.

Putting his head in his hands, Albus refused to wipe away the one tear on his face. He found it to symbolize everything that had happened in his life: the lies, the truths, the guilt, and the ways he explained it all.

For once, Albus Dumbledore was unable to pull a magically wonderful answer from his head and lay it on the table before him to act out.

He had used that tactic for years, but he had admitted the truth to Harry; he had no clue how to act with children. It was his fault that he pushed those memories from his head.

Glancing up briefly to look at one of the cupboards, Albus considered looking through his lasting memories from childhood and placing them into the Pensieve to watch again and again, studying every angle, trying to remember what Harry would be feeling. It was something that had to be experienced again, though, not watched like how he watched the students, trying to figure them out.

With his head down, feeling vunerable, Albus let more tears come down his face. He never screamed in agony as he cried. He merely let it pass over him, keeping silent in its wake.

He cried for everything he had done to Harry. He cried for the lies he kept. He cried for the truth he was forced to tell. He cried for the war he knew would come. He cried for the way Tom Riddle grew up. He cried for the way the Order of the Phoenix was fighting his war. He cried for having ever given Tom Riddle the chance to learn what magic was and take him into the school to bully the children and create his fearing followers. He cried for Fawkes, who died again to save him, even if the bird was next to him again. He cried for Harry’s expression when he saw that Sirius was dead. He cried for having to force Remus Lupin to comfort him, even when he was just as terrified. He cried for the fact that everyone was growing used to death, passing it off as a mere statistic already.

Time does not heal all wounds. Time digs the wounds deeper into the heart, forcing the salt of pain to worsen everything until it breaks the soul.

Time is murder in a new form.

Albus could see where he had to head from there: he needed to study the children’s heads again, but not to soothe Harry. Nothing would comfort the Boy Who Lived at that point. The only thing that could would be killing Lord Voldemort, and that meant studying the brain of Tom Riddle Junior.

Hands folded in front of him, Albus turned to Fawkes, who was young again, feathers not even growing. The pink skin of the bird seemed like a beacon in the dim room.

Fawkes seemed to personify everything Albus thought at that moment. The young are innocent unless forced into something else. Fawkes had only been about a month old before he die for the numerous time. The young are innocent until faced with murder.

He knew that usually death meant moving on to a world that still amazed and confused him, scaring all others who dare not think about what would come next. To a Phoenix, it meant starting fresh, having the freedom of being young again and knowing just how every age felt.

Sometimes Albus wondered if Fawkes could remember all of his previous lives, wondered if he could know how every age felt at any given moment.

Sometimes Albus wondered if he were a phoenix, and if he could die and be able to remember how Harry felt. Albus wondered if he could heal everything with a single tear, letting out his own emotions and healing the raw wounds that time dug into everything. Time destroyed bodies, rotting them slowly until the broke completely. Time had the ability to make or break a soul.

Tom Riddle must have had plenty of time, to plan, to think his next move over as well as possible, finding the perfect way to succeed.

And each time, he managed to win a small battle.

“Forgive me,” he whispered in answer to Harry, who was no longer there.