The Phoenix' flight

The Phoenix’ flight



Disclaimer: They (almost) all belong to J. K. Rowling and her publisher. I don’t intend to make
money with them, but have only borrowed them for some playing. I promise, as soon as I’m done
with them (or better said, as soon as they’re done with each other) I’ll give them back.

Author’s Note: If the idea of older people falling in love and having sex with each other squicks you,
then - please - do me a favour: Go away. You won’t like this story.

And another note: English isn't my native language. Therefore I'm urgently searching for a beta-reader. Any volunteers?




Chapter 1: Another quest


Hogwarts, October 1998


“Good afternoon, Mr Potter. Come in!” Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts, stood
behind her desk, wearing emerald green robes and her usual square spectacles. A little smile played
around her small mouth as she pointed to the chair in front of her desk. “Have a seat, Mr Potter.
Shall I get us some tea?”

There was a slight trace of impatience in her brisk voice and looking at the piles of papers on her
desk, Harry understood it. Only three months after the evil wizard Voldemort had been defeated in
what history books would call “The big Hogwarts battle” parts of the old castle lay still in shambles.
Besides from the sight of McGonagall’s desk it was clear that her direct predecessor, Hogwarts former
Potions master Severus Snape, hadn’t spent too much time at this very desk.

The overload on work she was still dealing with showed at the new headmistress’s features. She’d
acquired a few wrinkles more around her mouth, her high cheekbones looked even more prominent
and the dark shadows under her still beautiful green eyes spoke about sleepless nights, too much
sorrows and a fair deal of exhaustion.

For a moment Harry hesitated. Probably it hadn’t been a good idea to ask McGonagall for this talk
just now. She certainly didn’t have time to help him with what his friend Ron named “Harry’s new
pet project”. Perhaps she’d even tell him that he hadn’t got time for it and should rather learn for his
NEWTs. He’d been one year away from school and though he’d certainly got his share of exercise in
Defence against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration and Charms, he’d forgotten quite a lot about Potions
and, as Hermione had declared just the other night “Having become a part of history won’t help you
through the exam in this subject.” Well, at least in this account McGonagall couldn’t blame him for
coming here. It was all about history, wasn’t it? Besides he was in front of her now and she looked
expectantly at him, so he couldn’t chicken out anymore.

Now she was really becoming impatient. “How may I help you, Mr Potter?”

“Hem …,” Harry cleared his throat and looked up at the painting which hung over the headmistress’
thronlike chair. It was empty and showed only a green velvet curtain, swaying slightly. Harry didn’t
know if he liked it this way or not. “Hem …,” he made again and scolded himself inwardly for
sounding like Umbridge. “I was thinking, Prof …, ahm, Headmistress,” he started.

“Professor will do!” McGonagall sounded once more brisk, but her eyes looked kindly and proud at
Harry.

“I wondered if you could perhaps find it in your heart to talk,” Harry inhaled deeply, “about
Professor Dumbledore with me.” Was there surprise in McGonagall’s eyes? Harry didn’t give her a
chance to express it, but proceeded: “I mean, he was pretty important for me, but in the last year,”
once more he had to clear his throat. Thinking about Dumbledore still made for it feeling too tight.
Harry started anew: “Well, this book …”

McGonagall reacted. Her shoulders became even more tense and her mouth a very thin line. “You
don’t believe the codswallop this abysmal Skeeter woman wrote about him?” she asked, her voice
frosty.

“No, of course not.” Harry felt himself blushing. There had been a time when he had believed and he
was still ashamed of it. “It only made me aware of how little I actually know about Professor
Dumbledore. We were always only talking about me – my problems, my future, my plans.”

“And now,” McGonagall once again waved impatiently at the chair and sat down herself, “you want
to known what kind of a man he really was?”

“Yes – no!” Harry smiled sheepishly. “I mean I think I know what kind of a man he was. He told me
once that one becomes defined by ones choices – and he chose to be a good man who fought and
finally died for what he believed in. and he said I’d be more selfless as him, but I don’t believe he was
right.” He thought he was babbling, but McGonagall didn’t seem to mind, but listened quietly. “You
know, I’m not such a mighty, brilliant wizard as he was, therefore I never was really tempted by
power. Yet the headmaster – he could have sat on top of the world if he would have wanted to. I
think overcoming the temptation of power and dealing with it the way he did – that was what made
him a real great man, didn’t it?”

For a moment McGonagall studied him silently, then another little smile warmed her face. “Don’t
underestimate yourself, Mr Potter,” she answered. “Dumbledore was very proud on you – and not
without reason.”

Harry swallowed once more. “I know he cared for me. And I …,” he searched for words and
suddenly he meant to hear Ginny’s voice: “Just say what you feel.” Following her advice he added: “I
cared for him too.”

“Dumbledore’s man through and through,” Minerva McGonagall quoted what Rufus Scrimgeour, the
late Minister of Magic, had once said about Harry. “Albus was deeply touched as he learnt about
that.”


“I thought he’d know,” Harry answered.


Slowly McGonagall shook her head. “As wise and clever he was – Albus hardly ever got how fond
people were of him.”

“Why?” Harry asked, but didn’t give his headmistress time to answer. “I know so little about him and
there are so many questions! Therefore,” he looked in her eyes pleadingly, “I wanted to ask you if
you could tell me. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate just now, but perhaps you could find a little
time for me in the next months? You knew Professor Dumbledore for centuries, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” McGonagall nodded. “I knew him almost all my life. He was my teacher, my mentor
and my boss.”

“And wasn’t he a friend?” Harry asked eagerly. He remembered how loyal Minerva McGonagall had
always been towards Dumbledore, how often he’d seen them talk and even laugh together.

Minerva McGonagall breathed deeply and looked up to the empty portrait over her desk. “Yes,” she
said, “I like to think we were friends. However, Albus Dumbledore was a very private man. There was
a big lot of things we never talked about.”

Harry looked up at the painting too. He’d been so sure that McGonagall would answer most of his
questions and now he felt disappointed and sad. “Well, then, “ he said and prepared for getting up.
“I don’t want to keep you away from your work.”

“Just a moment, Mr Potter.” McGonagall studied her fingers, laying in front of her on her desk. “I
think,” she said slowly and as if she needed to overcome herself for doing so, “there is someone who
is able to answer your questions, someone who knew Albus Dumbledore probably better as every
other living soul.”

“Aberforth Dumbledore?” Harry asked. The idea of talking once more to the younger brother of his
late Headmaster didn’t appeal much to him.

McGonagall once more shook her head. “No, no. Aberforth only thinks he knew his brother well,
but they were never really close. Besides Aberforth’s opinion about Albus is still tainted by jealousy
and grief, I think.” She sighed. “Living in the shadow of the greatest wizard of our times was always
rather hard for Aberforth.” She rose up and turned to the stairs in the back of her study. “Would
you just wait a moment, please?”

While McGonagall disappeared in the upper part of the room, Harry looked around. Since
McGonagall had taken over as Headmistress, he’d only once been in her office, just four days after
the battle. It had been a real mess then, but now it was tidier as he’d ever seen it before. Dumbledore’s
knick knacks, the spidery silver things, the stakes of magazines and books and papers which had
occupied every free space in former times, had been put away and even the Sorting Hat, sitting on a
shelf near the fireplace, looked as if it would have got a thorough cleaning. Besides on the
mantelpiece were wizards’ photographs now. Harry went over for looking at them and recognized a
tall man with blue eyes, still handsome though certainly around one hundred years old, as
McGonagall’s husband Augustus, Headmaster of the Auror’s Academy. Another picture showed
McGonagall with the Gryffindor’s Quidditch team after they’d won the house cup a few years ago; a
rather old one displayed a very young and radiant beautiful Minerva McGonagall next to Albus
Dumbledore who beamed in what looked like fatherly pride down at her. And there was a picture
from all Hogwarts’ teachers in Harry’s first year, including a sneering Severus Snape who looked as if
he’d hated to be part of this crowd.

McGonagall was back. Coming up the stairs she looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s time for
dinner,” she said. “I hope you’re free afterwards?”

“Yes,” Harry nodded. Actually he’d planned a stroll down to the lake with Ginny, but she’d certainly
understand him going where he’d get some answers.

“Good. Madam Pomfrey expects you at half past seven,” McGonagall said.

“Madam Pomfrey?” Harry didn’t understand. Why wanted the headmistress to go him to the
mediwitch?

“She invited you to her private quarter,” McGonagall proceeded as if she wouldn’t have heard him.
“You’ll find them behind the door to the hospital wing. Just go along to the painting of the healer.
The password is ‘Lionheart’. So – and now let’s go down to dinner.”

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%


Ginny had been understanding as always. As Harry told her about having an appointment after
dinner, she’d immediately got that he didn’t want to go into details and teased him: “As long as
you’re not dating a basilisk, a giant spider or Cow Chang it’s fine with me. I’ll use the evening for a
bit of girls’ talk then.” And, pulling him into a little niche behind an armour, she’d kissed him and
giggled: “I’m going to tell Hermione what a great kisser you’ve become. Then she’ll probably send
Ron to you for getting a few tips.”

Harry had laughed. “Considered how much exercise she gets him, I don’t think he needs them.”
“And you? Do you get enough exercise?”

He’d looked down in her beautiful eyes and once more he’d felt a rush of happiness about the
tenderness he saw in them. “Yes, Ginny,” he’d answered. “I get everything what I need and even
more.” Kissing her again he’d for a moment even forgotten about his puzzlement, but now, standing
in front of the old painting with the healer, it was back.

“Someone who knew Albus Dumbledore probably better as every other living soul,” McGonagall had
said – and then she send him to the mediwitch?

Harry collected what he knew about Poppy Pomfrey: Middle-aged, blonde, blue-eyed, lush in a
pleasant, motherly way, very energetic, competent and self-confident in her dealings with the
students, collected and calm even in big crisis, a formidable witch and an amazingly good duelist.
Harry remembered seeing her during the big battle, standing on the stair case which led up to the
hospital wing, her hair open and whirling around her face, stunning a Death Eater who’d made the
mistake of underestimating her.

The portrait in front of him had – almost bored – asked for the password, now it was gliding aside,
showing a little hall with arcades looking down at a yard with a fountain and a tree. Harry stepped in
and considered to which of three doors opposite the arcades he should go as one of them opened. A
woman in dark blue trousers, a white blouse and a light blue sweater loosely slung around her
shoulders smiled at him. “Good evening, Harry.”

On the first sight Harry almost didn’t recognize her. He’d never seen Hogwarts’ mediwitch in
something other than her white robes and the old-fashioned bonnet. Now, with her blonde hair
bound back in a ponytail she looked – despite of the fine net of wrinkles around her eyes – like a
girl. Harry marched closer and bowed his head. “Good evening, Madam Pomfrey. It’s nice of you to
see me.”

“It’s nice of you to visit me, Mr Potter.” She stepped aside. “Come in and let’s sit down.”
Entering Harry stopped in surprise. He hadn’t thought about Poppy Pomfrey’s private chambers, but
if he’d have done so he certainly wouldn’t have expected something like this very bright and airy
room with light blue carpets, a modern sofa and suiting chairs in sunny yellow and a glass table. The
only old-fashioned thing was a big wingchair, upholstered with faded blue velvet which stood, a little
stool in front of it, next to the fireplace. At one of his wings hung a fluffy, blue blanket with little
yellow moons dancing over it.

Over the fireplace Harry saw a portrait in a modern frame. It showed a pretty, blonde girl, around
five or six years old, sitting on a meadow, happily playing with a kitten. She showed Harry her back,
but as he came closer, the girl turned her head for a moment and smiled sweetly at him. There was
something familiar about her eyes and before Harry thought about it, he heard himself already say:
“But that’s Ariana Dumbledore!”

“Yes,” Poppy Pomfrey confirmed. “Albus had the painting here because he spent more time here as
in his own chambers.” She sounded rather casual. “You’re of age, aren’t you?” she asked then and
without waiting for an answer, she proceeded: “That means we can have a bottle of wine together if
you want to. Or would you rather drink a butterbear or meat?”

“Uuh – wine would be nice.” Harry hadn’t drunken wine very often and actually wasn’t too fond on
it, but it seemed the suiting thing to do.

“Red or white?” Poppy Pomfrey demanded to know.

“I take whatever you have.” Harry’d just discovered some photographs at the wall next to the
fireplace and was looking at them. One showed Dumbledore – a younger Dumbledore as Harry had
known him – with his hair and beard still auburn. He sat on a stone at a lake, his phoenix Fawkes on
his outstretched right hand. Another picture displayed a group of people around Dumbledore.
Especially one of them, a handsome man with dark hair, looked familiar to Harry, but he couldn’t
make out who it was. Yet he recognized once more Augustus McGonagall, rather young with blond
hair, beaming blue eyes and very handsome. He obviously was teasing a very pretty, petite blonde girl
in Muggle clothes.

Poppy Pomfrey, after putting a bottle of red wine and two glasses at the table, joined Harry in front
of the wall. With her chin pointing at the photograph he was just looking at it, she explained: “This
one was taken in the summer of 1943 in East-Prussia. The group was working on getting
Grindelwald down and had just a few weeks before suffered from a major back slash. Grindelwald
had killed Hermes Holbridge, the team’s healer and an old friend of Albus and Alastor Moody.
That’s how I came to join.”

“That’s you?” Harry looked at the girl in the picture.

“Yes, that’s me, twenty two years old and just out of the Merlin college.”

Harry counted: When she’d been twenty two in 1944 ... “I didn’t know you’re so old!” he said
before thinking about.

Poppy laughed. “Harry, I’m a witch! You know our lifespan is much longer as a Muggle’s.”

“Sorry.” Harry pointed to the dark haired wizard in the picture. “And who’s that?”

“Alastor Moody,” answered Poppy. “He was quite handsome as a young wizard. But even then he
was already a bit paranoid and always preaching us ‘constant vigiliance’.” She’d sunk her voice to do a
pretty perfect imitation of Moody’s rumbling bass.

Harry felt a pang of grief by thinking of the old Auror who’d died the summer before. “He saved my
life,” he said quietly.

“And mine – more than once.” Poppy went to the table. With a flick of her wand she opened the
bottle, filled the glasses and sat down in one of the chairs. “Come, Harry – have a seat and some
wine.” While Harry came over and placed himself opposite of her, she smiled, but her eyes remained
sad. “I reckon you were rather surprised as Minerva McGonagall sent you to me,” she said.

“Yes!” Harry nodded. “She said you’re probably the living soul who knew the Headmaster best.”

Poppy played with her glass, making the red liquid in it swirl, watching it as if it were the most
interesting thing ever. “You know,” she started, “it still feels very odd to talk about. I didn’t for
almost thirty years. No one except of Alastor Moody and, in the last weeks before Albus’ death,
Severus Snape, knew about.” She looked at Harry, her blue eyes full of grief. “Don’t get me wrong,
Harry: I wasn’t silent because I was ashamed of our relationship. Just on the contrary: If it wouldn’t
have been for Voldemort I’d have called ‘Albus is mine and I’m his’ from Hogwarts’ highest tower.”

Harry sipped at his wine, suddenly feeling like an idiot. Although he’d thought such a lot about
Dumbledore in the last months, it had never occurred to him that the man could have had something
like a “private life” and someone who shared it. Yet now he remembered Dumbledore’s funeral and
how Alastor Moody had sat next to Madam Pomfrey. Once or twice Harry had seen him looking
worried into her pale face. It made sense now: Moody had known that Poppy Pomfrey had lost the
man she loved. “I’m so sorry, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said quietly. “The last years must have been a
terrible time for you. Perhaps,” he hesitated for a moment, looking into his glass, “I shouldn’t have
come, reminding you on all of that.”

“No, Harry, no. It’s good you came,” resplied Poppy kindly. “One of the hardest things during the
last year was that I even couldn’t talk about Albus. He’d made me promise not to reveal how close
we’d been as long as Voldemort was around. He was always afraid Voldemort would go after me.”

“He would have done!” Harry said firmly.

“Perhaps,” Poppy agreed, leaning back. “But he’s defeated now and I think, Albus would like us
talking with each other. You were always something like the grandson he’d have loved to have.”

“Nevertheless he never talked about himself to me,” Harry said sadly. Raising his hands, he added: “I
know there was no time for it.”

Poppy sighed. “I don’t think it was the only reason, Harry.”

“Professor McGonagall said he was a very private man.”

This time Poppy nodded. “Yes, that was one of the reasons. Albus always found talking about
himself rather hard. Even for me getting something personal out of him often was like pulling teeth.
Besides you were so young! He didn’t want to burden you more as you already were.”

Harry sipped at his glass. The earthy, rich taste of the wine filled his mouth and warmed him. “You
know, I only once asked him a personal question and …” He fell silent.

“Let me guess: You think he lied at you in answering it?” Poppy sounded almost amused.

“It was nothing really important”, Harry said quickly. “I asked him what he sees when looking in the
mirror of Erised. And he told me something about him holding a pair of warm socks.”

“Harry …” Poppy looked closely at him. “Between the two of us we’ll be honest with each other,
shall we? We both knew that – to quote Aberforth – the sun didn’t shine out of Albus’ every orifice.
He was the greatest wizard of our time, but he was also a human being – a rather complicated,
complex one. There’s a saying which always made me think of him: A lot of light makes for a lot of
shadow too. I don’t think we’d honour Albus’ memory if we’d try to whitewash him into the knight
with the flawless, shining armour.”

Harry almost felt caught. He remembered only too well how he’d read the biography Rita Skeeter
had written about Dumbledore and how he’d doubted his late mentor and wished he could have him
as the white knight. Was it part of becoming an adult that one had to deal with other people’s fault
and to love and to trust them despite of them? Harry thought so, but in the same time he sometimes
couldn’t help wishing he could have his childish dreams about the grandfatherly, wise and always
benign Albus Dumbledore back.

“Harry,” Poppy was speaking again, her voice soft and gentle. “For one thing I’m sure: Albus never
wanted to become idolized by you. Yet he wanted very much that you’d like him as the man he was.”
Harry looked up at her. “Therefore I’ve come. I want to know who he really was.”

“I will try to tell you.” Poppy smiled and leant back again. “Only I don’t know where to start. I can’t
tell you his entire biography because I didn’t know him as a young man.” Her eyes suddenly became
cold and angry. “You’ve read the thing Skeeter published?”

Harry nodded. “It’s codswallop. I don’t believe a word of it!” Putting his glass back on the table he
added softly: “It must have been hard for you.”

To his amazement Poppy laughed. “You think of the oh-so-touching, sympathetic chapter about all
the poor witches over whose hearts Albus tramped with nailed boots?”

“Skeeter made him look like the world’s worse lothario!” Harry said empathically and once more
repeated: “I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Well,” Poppy filled his glass again and made a bowl with nuts flow over to the table. “There’s some
little truth in this chapter, Harry. Albus liked women and was liked by them. Besides,” she stopped,
studied him for a moment and smiled then, “You’re of age, as I’ve already stated. So we can talk
openly. You know that a wizard’s magic always is connected to his life force. Albus was a very
powerful wizard and,” a slight smile played around her lips, “a strong man too. There were times
when his private life had been – how shall I put it? – colourful and rather interesting. And yes, it’s
true that the second time his nose became broken a disgruntled husband was the reason for it.
However,” her voice became angry again, “the story about the Slytherin girl in his bed didn’t happen
as Skeeter told it. Albus would never have laid hand on a student of his. Besides he was never
interested in girls, but in women. Actually he even found me too young as we met. And for the story
with the girl,” now she looked almost amused again, “the only true part about it is that she lay naked
in Albus’ bed. She was a brazen little thing and she’d developed a crush on him – what happened
quite often when he was younger. I remember two girls during my time at Hogwarts who were after
him like the bear after the honey pot. However, this Slytherin girl cut the cake. Don’t ask me how,
but she managed to get the password for his office and sneaked up there one night as Albus was away
for an official dinner. At this time his private chambers above the office weren’t much warded –
Albus hardly slept there, but only used them to store his stuff. Besides he didn’t think someone
would dare to intrude.” She sipped at her wine and took a nut. Chewing at it she proceeded: “This
certain night he came up in his bedroom to change – and there was this naked, pretty Slytherin snake
in his bed.” Now she swallowed the nut and grinned. “I think she got an even bigger surprise as
Albus. Before she knew what had hit her, he’d casted an Immobilus spell on her and then called
Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape and me. I did a Declaro spell …” Seeing that Harry obviously
didn’t know what she was talking about, she interrupted herself and explained: “Declaro is a forensic
spell. It’s a bit tricky, therefore only healers are allowed to use it. It shows if certain areas of a body
were touched during the last twenty four hours. In the case of our Slytherin beauty it became clear
that no one had touched her ..”

“Ugh!” Harry shook himself. “And if someone except of Professor Dumbledore would have touched
her? Twenty four hours are a long time …”

“Then the little darling would have become fed Verita serum by Severus,” Poppy answered.

“What happened to the girl after you’d checked on her?” Harry wanted to know.

Poppy grinned. “Actually I almost pitied her. Albus was furious and deducted two hundred house
points at once from Slytherin. You can imagine how well that sat with Severus. Besides he was pretty
disgruntled because he’d to fetch her a robe and to get her down to the dungeons.” Now she giggled,
looking and sounding like a girl. “The funniest thing about was the speech he was from then on
holding every year to his house at the start of the term. As we heard about after the first year, we
almost broke down with laughter by imaging the faces of the first years when Snape told them he’d
make them clean the dungeons with a tooth brush if they’d ever dare to make a pass at the
Headmaster. Albus maintained the idea of that would keep them away from every sexual activity until
they were out of Hogwarts for good.”

Harry couldn’t help laughing. “We always believed that the Slytherins would be kept away from sex
by Snape getting them the famous sex ed class. And we liked that – it made us hope the Slytherin
would die out one day.”

“I think I wouldn’t like that,” Poppy answered with a small smile.

“But you were a Gryffindor too, weren’t you?” asked Harry.

Poppy nodded. “Yes, I once lived in the lion’s den too. However, I was in love with a Slytherin.”

Harry looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “But – I mean,” he stammered, “the Headmaster
– he was a Gryffindor, wasn’t he? Hermione told me so and besides he taught Transfiguration before
he became Headmaster, didn’t he?”

“Not every Transfiguration master is a Gryffindor, Harry.” Poppy pulled her wand out and
enlightened a few candles. “My late husband was a Transfiguration master and a former Ravenclaw.
And Albus wasn’t only a Transfiguration master, but a Potions master too. Besides he was a Slytherin.
He’d even been head of Slytherin before he became Deputy Headmaster.”

Harry swallowed. He’d hoped to learn new things about Dumbledore and his past, but he wasn’t sure
if he liked this kind of news. Since he’d come to Hogwarts eight years before, he’d always thought of
Slytherin house as a baby Death Eaters trainings camp. And hadn’t Ron once said that almost every
dark wizard ever had come from Slytherin house?

On the other hand: Slytherin’s present house master Slughorn had fought against Voldemort while
Voldemort’s right hand Peter Pettigrew had been a Gryffindor.

“Harry, think about! Do you really believe Slytherin house would be still there if it only ever
produced bad boys?” Poppy seemed to have read his mind and for a moment wondered if she’d
learnt this ability from Albus Dumbledore. “As you came to Hogwarts, most people thought the dark
lord gone forever. Being a Death Eater was out of fashion then. Do you really think that someone
like Lucius Malfoy would have liked to have his son labelled as a dark wizard then? Malfoy was a
social climber if there ever was one. I sometimes think he only joined Voldemort because he hoped
to come out on top of society then.”

“But wasn’t Malfoy already on top of society?” Harry wondered.

Poppy laughed. “He would have liked to, but as much as he pretended and as much as he waved the
pureblood flag: The Malfoys had been a rather poor lot before Lucius’ father Abraxas – who was a
rather good looking man – managed to get Celestina Hallywell, only daughter and heir of the famous
Hallywell beauty potions industry, pregnant and married her. Since then the Malfoys played nobility
with a manor and house elves and all that stuff, but the real society still saw them as parvenus.”
Harry drank a sip of his wine. “I didn’t know that. It seems there’s still a lot about the magical world
I don’t have a clue about.”

“Obviously!” Poppy answered dryly.

“And I wouldn’t have believed that the Headmaster was a Slytherin”, Harry came back to their
subject. “Why was it never mentioned? He never uttered a word, the Slytherins never said something
about …”

“I think, most of the nowadays Slytherins don’t know,” Poppy replied. “And their fathers who’d
been in Slytherin house during his reign – well, most of them weren’t too fond of Albus. Probably
they believed the Sorting Hat had made a mistake with him.”

“Hmm.” Harry got a nut and chewed on it. “And he himself wasn’t too proud on it either?”

Poppy shook her head. “I don’t think so. Only at the time as you got to know him he’d become
Headmaster of Hogwarts. As such he represented all of Hogwarts and stood above the house rivalry.”
“But he often wore red and gold – the Gryffindor colours!”

“And also the colours of Hogwarts,” Poppy reminded him. “The Hogwarts express is red and gold
too. Besides Albus wore green and silver too and whenever I gave him a robe, it was blue because I
liked it when his robes matched his eyes.”

Harry was still chewing on the nuts and the news. “Actually,” he said after a while, “there were some
things about the Headmaster which were rather Slytherin. His way to deal with secrets …”

“… and his way to manipulate people”, Poppy proceeded.

“You think he did?” Harry was surprised about her saying so.

“Of course he did!” Poppy answered firmly. “I can’t count on how often he made me do things I
actually hadn’t wanted to. Albus was tricky and didn’t even mind a bit of emotional blackmail if he
thought something should be done.”

“You were nevertheless very close to him, weren’t you?”

“Oh yes. I loved him and I trusted him completely. Despite of being aware that he wasn’t flawless I
knew he was a great, noble and good man who cared deeply.” Poppy stood up and walked over to
the book shelves which stood at one side of the room. Rising on her tiptoes, she reached for a box at
the upper shelf. Coming back with it to her chair, she put the box in her lap, opened it and started to
rummage in it. “You know how deeply he cared about you, don’t you?” She still searched through
the box, angrily shaking her head. “Merlin, where is it? I’m sure I put it in there.” Smiling sadly at
Harry she said: “In former times I could always blame Albus if I couldn’t find something. He was
such a master of creating messes. But since he’s gone I’ve become rather good at it too – probably for
not missing his mess too … ah, here it is!” She pulled a photograph out of the box and looked at it.
“I’ve always wanted to show you this one.” She gave Harry the picture and leant back, waiting for his
reaction.

For a moment Harry didn’t know what to make out of the photograph. It showed Dumbledore in
bed, only wearing blue and green stripped pyjama trousers, peacefully sleeping. At his left side, firmly
tucked into his arm and with the head snuggled to his bare shoulder, lay a black-haired child, one of
his chubby hands holding Dumbledore’s long, white beard.

Suddenly it dawned on Harry. “The toddler,” he murmured and though he found it difficult to tear
his eyes away from the picture, looked up at the Poppy, “is me, isn’t it? But when was this taken?”
“In the night of your parents’ death”, Poppy replied, pouring wine into Harry’s empty glass.
Harry drank thirstily, once more looking at the picture. It was so peaceful and for a few seconds he
meant to remember how safe he’d felt in Dumbledore’s arm. Knowing that the Headmaster had once
held him like that, that they’d shared such a tender moment, made up for many things he’d missed in
his relationship with Dumbledore. “I didn’t know I was with the Headmaster in this night,” Harry
said. “I thought he’d have delivered me directly at my aunt’s place.”

“No, he didn’t. The first twenty four hours after your parents’ death you spent here, Harry,” Poppy
explained. “As Albus learned about Voldemort attacking Godric’s Hollow we immediately went
there.”

“You were with him?” Harry hadn’t known that.

“Well, Harry, I’m a mediwitch – and sometimes, when going to the place where people are battling,
it’s practical to have one handy. Besides of that I’m the daughter of two Aurors and did a bit of
duelling during my youth. And I was a member of the Order of the Phoenix.”

“I didn’t know.” Harry blushed. “But I should have known, shouldn’t I? I mean I saw you fighting at
the big battle and you were pretty good.”

Poppy crossed her long legs and almost giggled. “Thank you, Harry. I know most people don’t
expect a healer being good at duelling. But back to the night when we went to Godric’s Hollow: We
didn’t need to fight there. We came too late. Your parents were already dead, the house was in
shambles and the only living souls we found were you – crying and terribly frightened – and an also
frightened kitty.”

“My mother had a kitten, hadn’t she?” Harry remembered.

“Yes, it was hers. Now, the situation still was difficult and hard to evaluate as we came there. Albus
didn’t know what exactly had happened and what had become from the dark lord. Therefore he sent
us – you, me and the kitty – back to Hogwarts.” She sipped at here wine. “I checked you, changed
your nappies and tried to calm you – without much success, I must say. You didn’t know me – we’d
only seen each other once before and that had been months ago. So,” she was once more smiling at
him, “you had me very desperate after a few hours. You still cried after your mummy and I couldn’t
comfort you. Luckily Albus came back then and as he took you, you became quiet. He talked a bit to
you and you were out as a light, sleeping peacefully.”

“Did I know him then?” Harry asked.

“Yes, you did know him very well,” Poppy replied. “Actually your parents had wanted him to
become your godfather. Albus had declined the honour because he felt too old and wanted you to
have someone close to your parents’ age. However, neither your father’s nor your mother’s parents
were alive at this time anymore, so Albus declared himself your ‘honorary grandfather’. He visited you
and your parents as often as he could, mostly twice a week and always spent time with you. The two
of you were close friends – and Remus Lupin told me once that your father sometimes even said he’d
be jealous on Albus. He managed to get you to sleep much quicker as your father ever could.”

Harry’s throat had become very tight again. “Why did he never tell me?” he quietly asked.

Poppy looked for a moment down at her lap. “He planned to, Harry. But then he was dying and
time was running out. Besides,” now she was smiling again, “he knew you’d find me.”

“He always made me search for things …” Harry said. “Sometimes during the last year I cursed him
for it.”

“It was his way of teaching,” Poppy smiled. “And it worked, didn’t it?”

“It worked very well,” Harry acknowledged. He looked once again at the photograph in his hand,
then slowly shoved it back over the table. “Thanks for showing me this. It means a lot.”

“If you want to, you can keep it,” Poppy offered.

“Really?” Harry wanted the photograph very much, but didn’t like the idea of taking something so
precious away from Poppy. “Wouldn’t you miss it?”

Poppy pushed the picture towards him. “Don’t worry, Harry. My memories of Albus are all safely
stored here!” She pointed at her head. “Harry, there’s something more about this night you spent
here,” she proceeded. “Albus and I were talking for hours then. We’d very much have liked to keep
you here and to grow you up together. Only we knew that the Ministry wouldn’t allow it. They
certainly would have wanted to make you a kind of poster boy for their purposes. Besides you were
still in danger and Albus believed that growing up outside of our world would be better for you. At
your aunt’s he could protect you with ancient blood magic, besides he thought she’d take you up and
love you like a child of her own.”

Harry sighed. “About that he was definitely wrong.”

Poppy slowly and sadly nodded. “Yes, very wrong indeed. It made for quite a few rows between us.
As Arabella Figg told me for the first time how the Dursleys were treating you, I was almost crawling
up the wall and argued with Albus for days. I wanted him to get you out of there as quickly as
possible. Yet he was convinced that the protection you got there was even more important as your
happiness. But please, don’t think he ever took it easy! He always worried a big deal about you.”

“It would have been nice to grow up here,” Harry said, looking once more around in the room. “But
I understand why the Headmaster put me at the Dursleys.”

“And you’ve forgiven him?”

“Yes, I did.” Harry smiled reassuringly at Poppy. “Oh, by the way: What became of my mother’s
cat?”

“Fawkes’ playmate,” Poppy answered. “I kept her. She was a very cute kitty and we loved her to
pieces. She died four years ago.”

“Oh, that’s sad.” Harry wanted to say something more, but just this moment he heard the clock at
the big tower ringing. “Oh – it’s curfew!” He jumped up. “Sorry, Madam Pomfrey, but I need to go.”
“Of course. But if your house master asks, just tell him I kept you up.” Poppy rose too.

“Madam Pomfrey,” Harry suddenly felt sheepish again and studied the tips of his shoes. “May I
come back once? I’d like to hear more – I mean, if you can bear telling me more.”

“I’d love to, Harry.” She offered him her hand and went with him to the door. “The memories of
Albus is all what’s left. I’d love to share them with you.”

To be continued