Is Believing

After the Order meeting, I stay and sit with Albus at the kitchen table, sipping Firewhisky instead of Butterbeer, watching him. There is something different about him tonight, but I can’t figure out what it is. My eye travels about the room, penetrating walls and traveling up the stairs, reassuring me there are no unwelcome intruders lurking around the place.

Order business went as usual tonight: Snape had little to report as his only real connection with Voldemort right now, Lucius Malfoy, is vacationing in Azkaban; the ministry workers all reported that Fudge is loosing support quickly amongst other employees; Bill Weasley says, though, that the Goblins seem keen on joining our side; and Lupin reports on a small disturbance in Northern Scotland, confirming that the death was not, in fact, Death Eater related.

But Albus seemed odd through it all: distracted, I think. And so I watched him. And I saw him. His fingers twitched, his temples pulsated visibly, his eyes flickered about and his eyebrows drooped. I saw this. I know this.

And while the others filed out of the kitchen, I moved towards the head of the table, where Dumbledore still sat, his elbows on the oak table and his face buried in his palms.

So I limp towards a cupboard and pull out a bottle of Firewhisky and with it, a shot glass.

As I take a seat next to Albus, I slide a glass towards him, and pop the cork of the bottle. I fill the glass to the brim and he looks up, and then drains the glass at once, without even a wince on his face.

“Thank you, Alastor,” he says.

“Of course,” I say, my voice sounding more gruff than I had meant it, giving the room a once over with my eye.

“I wanted to ask you something, but didn’t think it was really business of the Order,” he says, rubbing his beating temples.

“Oh?”

“How did it go with Harry’s relatives?”

“Dursley’s a coward. A few choice words sent him quaking in his boots. Potter’s gun’na be fine this summer.”

“Good,” he says, and his fingers twitch again.

There is something very odd about him tonight, but I just can’t figure it out.

“Lupin told me about what he did to your office.”

He clasps, and then unclasps his hands. “Yes?”

“Yes,” I return harshly. “Potter’s got quite the temper, eh?”

“Yes, Harry does,” Albus says quietly looking at his empty glass, and his eyebrows seem to droop more. “Although it is to be expected.”

“Eh?” Anything to get an old friend to talk.

Suddenly, with jerky movements, Dumbledore reaches for the Firewhisky bottle, fills his glass, and downs it again. And his hands are back in his palms once more, and I am happy that I cannot see his drooping eyebrows or pulsating temples. “What have I done?” he asks me quietly, despairingly. “How did I let this happen?”

“Albus, I don’t--”

His head lifts from his hands, and his eyes meet mine. They don’t twinkle tonight, I notice.

Albus Dumbledore has un-twinkling eyes resting below drooping eyelids; something is very wrong. But I don’t know what it is; I can’t see it.

Many people don’t see things, though. They don’t see that Albus and I were not always friends; that we were once just a trainee and a mentor. They don’t see that Albus Dumbledore was not always headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, that he was once an Auror. They don’t see that I was not born with my eye. They don’t see what a person could be hiding behind a kind face or a comforting hand. They don’t see intentions or feelings. And they don’t see that they don’t see.

And so all these people go on with their lives, not realizing they are half-blind.

The worst part is, though, that I was blind once, too. I was blind until a Death Eater ripped my natural left eye out. “A half-blind Auror is not an Auror at all,” they told me. They were blind too, yet they insisted that the Ministry was no longer in need of my services. But then Albus, my old mentor from the Auror training, found a solution: a new eye, one that can see through invisibility cloaks and walls.

And so I reentered the Ministry, although Albus had decided to leave in response to a teaching offer at Hogwarts. We were not trainee and mentor, anymore, but friend and friend. And my vision only improved. And then I was great. “You’re the best we’ve got,” they would say to me.

So I was.

So I saw.

And my new eye let me see, but hindered my vision, all the same. I saw the man wallowing in an invisibility cloak in the corner, and eyed the man hiding behind this door or in that closet, but my eye didn’t penetrate the thick skull of any person, to see what they were thinking or what they felt.

I watched the man in the invisibility cloak, but scrutinized the lady in the red dress, wondering if she would attack, wondering what she was planning.

And I began to realize that we don’t see, that all humans have been rendered blind, and very little could be done to improve the situation. I was paranoid, yes, but I was no longer half-blind: I knew that I did not see, that I did not know, that I did not believe.

And with this thought lingering in my head, as I sit across from Albus, I reach for the bottle of Firewhisky, disregarding any thoughts that it may be poisoned, and push the bottle towards my mouth, guzzling the liquid down, as it burns my throat.

“Alastor?” he says, fingers twitching.

“Sorry,” I reply, tapping my wooden leg once against he floor. “I’m fine.”

“Do not lie to me, Alastor Moody,” he warns, with those ever-drooping eyebrows.

“I’m fine, Albus. I was just thinking about a few things.”

And I can tell he wants to smile, but can’t find the energy or happiness to curve his lips. “We’ve all done a bit of that lately, haven’t we?”

“What do you plan on doing with Potter this summer?” I ask, continuing with the previous subject, suspecting that it may have been what upset him. But I send my eye backwards, into my head, so that Albus doesn’t think I’m getting too sentimental in my old age.

“Harry needs to stay with the Dursleys for a few weeks, at least, for the wards to work properly,” he says factually, without emotion, as he laces his fingers together.

“A few weeks? Will Potter be all right?”

“You frightened Mr. Dursley today, yes? I hope such a threat will be sufficient warning to Harry’s relatives.”

“And if it is not?”

And the pulsing stops in his temple, and twitching fingers cease to move, as his eyes set firmly upon mine. His eyebrows still droop above blazing eyes, though, and he sucks hard breaths between clenched teeth. His voice is steely, and he says, “Then I will pay a personal visit to Vernon Dursley to be sure that fears Albus Dumbledore, and all wizards – but for a good reason.”

“How early can you get him out of Privet Drive? It certainly isn’t the most constructive place for Potter to be living...” I say, and sweep the room with my eye. I see no intruders.

“I don’t know. As soon as possible, but I need Privet Drive to be considered a home for Harry, so that the protections hold up....”

“Are you going to wait until these protections are secure to get him out?” I ask. His drooping eyebrows twitch slightly.

“I must,” I hear him say quietly, restraining frustration. “For the boy’s safety, he has--”

“Boy? Potter is surely not a boy!” I am surprised at Albus! “And certainly not a child.”

“He IS!” And with these sudden, harsh words, his drooping eyebrows flare, and his eyes flame; the pulse begins again in his temple--fast and heavy. . . . It is blood rushing from his heart and he stands now, his clenched fists raise in the air. And why can’t I see? I am blind again, but this time, I know my eyes don’t see. “He is a CHILD, Alastor! Only fifteen! He’s been through—and seen… And I can’t… I CAN’T!” My eye swoops to him, and fixes it to his eyes: blazing blue, and radiating power and anger, but my eye can’t see through his.

But the wrinkles in the corners of them whisper secrets, Albus.

And I was an Auror, I think. “You’re the best we’ve got,” they used to tell me. Aurors go through training, too, and I’m sure you remember this, Albus, because you were my mentor. You trained me and you taught me to study faces and bodies, Albus, but I never listened. You liked to watch and see, it was your style. I attacked, and saw later. I didn’t have to see the wrinkles in the corner of eyes, or the twitching fingers; I just attacked. I want to tell you this Albus. But here I sit, across from you, and I try to decide what the wrinkles are whispering, and what drooping eyebrows or quivering beards mean.

And my eye revolves around in its socket, looking for hints around the room. But I don’t even know what the mystery is. I can’t see it.

“Albus--” I try, but he does not listen.

“I failed him! I failed him. I’ve made so many mistakes, and I can’t fix them, and I want him safe, but I want him happy. I don’t know what to DO!”

The wrinkles are whispering fear, I decide. I watch him with my natural eye. The pulsating temple is anticipation. The drooping eyebrows are weariness and regret and sorrow, I know. The twitching hands are restrained emotions. . . . The flickering, blazing eyes are unreserved emotions.

“I don’t understand,” I say, my voice still sounding gruff.

He is fearful, but of what? What is so terrifying that the crinkles along his eyes must betray him? Why don’t I see?

His temple still throbs, and his breath is now in line with the rhythm. So what does he anticipate?

“I’ve been so foolish!” he insists, but I still don’t see what he is speaking of. Is this about Black? But he was right to keep Black in the house: Voldemort knew of his animagus form. What does he wish he did instead? “So foolish! I pushed him too far,” he continues.

But I still feel sightless. I am still walking in dusk, half-blind, wondering what the dark shadows are. . . .

I stamp my wooden foot on the ground, and push myself so I am standing, and I am nearly eye-level with Albus. “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?” I bellow. And my eye is swooping about in its hollow, still searching for intruders, for answers, or perhaps for an escape.

And he stops speaking, his mouth still open, and lets his arms fall to his sides. With a defeatist sigh, he collapses back into his chair, and buries his face in his palms once more. The bottle of Firewhisky must have been knocked over when I stood up, but not all of the liquor has left the bottle, and Albus brings the bottle to his lips, and holds it there.

I watch him swallow.

I watch him put the bottle down, and then sigh once more.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he whispers, just as quietly as the wrinkles by his eyes did minutes ago. “He won’t trust me again.”

And my eye stops twisting about, fixed in the back of my head, seeing through my skull, because there is an “OH!” running about my brain, clogging my senses and preventing other thoughts from moving about. How did I not see it? How did I not know it? How did I not believe it?

The quivering beard and the fearful, whispering wrinkles, the anticipating temples and remorseful eyebrows, the contained hands and expressive eyes all interconnect, weaving a delicate web of one, supreme emotion, which torments the aged man before me.

And I see you Albus Dumbledore, I want to exclaim until my throat runs dry and scratchy--until I cannot speak. I see you, old friend!

And I do! I see this streaking through your veins, fueling your body, yet disquieting your soul, as it twitches your fingers and quivers your beard and sends your eyebrows drooping towards the ground, all the same.

I see this LOVE overtaking your body and mind. I see this LOVE drawing clear, salty oceans, and fields and fields of blossoming wildflowers dancing under the wide, blue sky, in your mind. And I see this LOVE pricking pale, pale skin until the blood stains the clear, salty ocean crimson, and floods the fields of dancing wildflowers.

So is this what you fear, Old Man? Is this what you repress and anticipate?

Do not fear! Do not repress! Do not anticipate! Yes, you’ve made a terrible mistake, I want to say to him. He has not trusted himself, which is the greatest blunder of all. But you say Harry is a child, I desire to shriek, and there is time.

“It’s believing,” I say, instead, quietly, without any of the usual crustiness in my voice. It’s believing that I know what Albus means, believing that it will work out, believing that Harry will trust him.

It’s believing that Harry loves Albus, too.

But he already knows this, so there is no need to voice it. So he nods once, deeply, and lets out a large breath of air, and smiles the tiniest of smiles – just a just a twitch of his lips.

A twitch of lips, I decide, is a meek, but present, sense of hope, and a budding happiness.

It’s because he knows what I meant.

“It’s believing,” I said.

And for a moment, I think I saw, I think I truly saw with both eyes, penetrating that final barrier, neither wall nor invisibility cloak, and broke through the endless thickness of the skull, and saw -REALLY SAW! - what others don’t.

They are all half-blind.

And so all these people go on with their lives, not realizing they are sightless.

The worst part is, though, that I was blind once, too. I was blind until a Death Eater ripped out my natural left eye.

But then, then I realized. I realized I was half-blind.

So then I was only one-quarter blind.

And for a second, I wasn’t blind, or lost, and sightless, but I could SEE! And it was glorious.

But here I am again, sitting across from Albus, who is managing a tiny smile, and I once again only see with three-quarters of my vision, but that is okay, because I know I am partially blind, and I know that Harry Potter loves Albus Dumbledore, and Albus Dumbledore loves Harry Potter.

So, it’s all right, because there is hope. And there is belief, and there is seeing.

Because they say seeing is believing, and I definitely saw.