New World Symphony

Additions to Disclaimer: The title of this story is borrowed from the song "New World Symphony," composed by Antonin Dvorak.

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New World Symphony

The stone gargoyle sprang aside at the sound of the password and swept Dumbledore inside with a slight bow. He thanked it with a polite nod and mounted the stone spiral staircase.

Dumbledore couldn't count the number of times he'd ascended these stairs, thousands, perhaps. There was the time he'd had to meet with his headmaster after arguing with his Charms teacher about summoning spells for the third class running, when he'd returned to his school after nearly a century to ask for a teaching post, and when he'd been carried up these stairs knowing that Headmaster Dippet was at the top, waiting to say that he was retiring and would like Dumbledore to take over the Headmaster position. Dumbledore paused and smiled as the rush of nerves and pride that accompanied that memory came over him. It wasn't often that Dumbledore was overcome by such nostalgia and he intended to enjoy every minute of it. He smiled openly when a particularly entertaining conversation on these very stairs between himself and four young men who fashioned themselves the Marauders floated up from the depths of his memory.

The door to his office of fifty years opened easily at his touch. Fawkes had gone off somewhere and most of the portraits of old Heads were asleep, leaving Dumbledore more or less alone in his office. It was the darkest part of night, just before dawn, and the only source of light was the embers of a dying fire. Dumbledore lit a few candles with an absent wave of his wand and eased himself into the chair behind his desk, wincing as the effort caused the remaining skin on his withered hand to stretch against itself.

He had an impossible amount of work to do: Professor Sprout had recently asked for permission to set her N.E.W.T. level students the formidable task of crossbreeding a Venomous Tentacula with a Mimbulus Mimbletonia, the corner of his desk was covered in an increasing stack of parental complaints, and he was sure that the Minister was already demanding information about the night's escapades. Then there was, of course, the matter of the Horcruxes. There was always a fresh mystery to solve. He supposed he ought to return to the Penseive and begin searching through memories for clues to the next Horcrux, but that idea didn't really hold any interest for him at the moment, no part of his work did. Dumbledore supposed he could simply go to sleep. He'd had precious little rest for months now.

When Dumbledore stood to go to his bed chamber, he found himself drawn instead to a cabinet at the back of his office. Within he found something he hadn't allowed himself to think about in years. Gingerly, he extracted a long case and carried it back to his desk as though he expected it to disintegrate in his hands. He sat down with the case in front of him and smoothed the dust from the lid before releasing the latches to reveal an exquisite viola.

Carefully, Dumbledore lifted the viola free of its case and balanced it on his shoulder. He set bow to string and pulled: a squawk, a pause, an adjustment, and a note, soft and clear. Dumbledore smiled and held the note out for as long as he could.

He took a few minutes to tune, then pulled a stack of sheet music from his case and placed it on a conjured stand. He sifted through it and finally settled upon a Concerto for Viola.

Dumbledore paused and set the viola on his knee, taking a moment to consider the notes and experiment with fingerings and string combinations before returning the viola to his shoulder and raising his bow. Not only was he woefully out of practice, but his hands had gotten a bit stiffer since the last time he'd played, making it difficult to reach some notes. He stumbled over the first run he came across, but before long his fingers had remembered their old ways across the strings and he played on with increasing speed.

When Dumbledore came at last to a long ringing note he noticed the sound of a piano hinting at the edge of his hearing, playing the accompaniment to his Concerto. A memory of the song from long ago when he'd once performed this piece, dredged up along with his viola. Dumbledore smiled and continued on, and the piano came with him.

All too soon the song came to an end, but Dumbledore carried on to the next one in his repertoire with only a slight pause. The piano in his mind bowed out and was replaced by a graceful harp.

Already, his arms and shoulders were aching with fatigue from the unfamiliar movement, and his fingertips stung from contact with the slender strings, but Dumbledore did not stop. He couldn't stop. The music was too beautiful, too entrancing, and he was completely enraptured by it.

A sudden crescendo bent his bow arm too far and pulled at the withered and blacked skin on his right wrist, finally breaking it, but the pain was below his senses. His mind was only with the music. Gradually, though, the wound began to heal itself, but the mending went beyond the split alone and before Dumbledore's song was over his right hand was covered in pale new skin, but he barely noticed.

Still, Dumbledore played on, oblivious to all but the music, his left hand dancing among the strings, his body leaning to and fro with the beat. The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once, echoing throughout his office and into his very core. Finally, his office fell away, replaced with a concert hall, huge and empty except for him and his viola. A solo for violin he'd once heard a hundred years ago transposed itself effortlessly to his strings, but only remained for a moment before it gave way to a lilting Irish jig.

All at once, Dumbledore was joined on stage by a huge symphony orchestra and hundreds of instruments joined his. Tears slipped slowly down his cheeks as harmony after heartbreaking harmony filled his ears, but as soon as they'd come, the orchestra disappeared, leaving him with a string quintet. They smiled excitedly at each other, skirting between each other's notes and presenting subtle cues for dynamics and tempos, but all too soon they were gone as well.

A stately looking singer joined him on stage, lending her voice to his viola. Gracefully, solemnly, they danced around each other, echoing, harmonizing, high and low, soft and loud, fast and slow, on and on, but then she was gone as well and Dumbledore was left alone on the wide stage.

Quietly, he let a long, lonely note into the air, then another, and another, adding strings, inventing harmonies. It wasn't a song he'd heard before, but it seemed appropriate, speaking of the end of things. He seemed to play for forever and for no time at all, bow skipping between the strings like an individual entity. The song didn't stay somber for long. Before he knew it, it was a song of celebration, something for dancing and laughing. Dumbledore played on, tirelessly, endlessly, impervious to fatigue, aware of nothing but the music.

Around him, Dumbledore sensed all the time in the universe and none at all. Empires rose and fell to his sonata, spanning a thousand lives of men, and then, in a single blink, it was over.

The stage lights dimmed, calling Dumbledore to draw the song to a close. He slowed the tempo and began playing fewer notes, profoundly aware that he'd left something very much undone, yet he didn't feel any regrets. After his last note died and Dumbledore finally took the viola off his shoulder, a single spotlight lit above him, blanketing him in light. At first he thought he might be allowed to continue, but then an unseen audience began to clap, whistling and calling his name. Before long the stage in front of him was blanketed in roses and photographs, pictures of people he'd once known and people who'd once known him, but the spotlight was growing steadily brighter, blinding him.

All Dumbledore could see was the dazzling light around him, brighter than any star. With a sad smile, he stooped and set his viola on the floor, but somehow the music resumed around him. With one last glance at the invisible audience beyond the stage, Dumbledore allowed the light to take him to his next great adventure.

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Author's Note: Because it might not be quite clear, this story takes place just after the events of "The Lighting-Struck Tower" in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. So, Dumbledore was dead for this entire story, which is about him going wherever his is now. I hope you enjoyed it, please review!