The truth is a beautiful and terrible thing and should therefore be treated with great caution.

[manwithstyle]

It was gone. He had suspected it would, of course, but still he had rather hoped that once, just this once, he could have been wrong. This was not, it seemed, to be the case.

Albus Dumbledore had lost his magic for the second time in a month.

However, he was not given to sulking as he found that behaviour unseemly and so he sought distraction in its stead. And yet he was hardly in the mood to do much of anything at that moment. The idea of returning to his research pained him in a way he could not fully understand and the piano he knew would offer no solace at that present juncture.

It was in this state of mind that he approached the bookshelf. His long fingers brushed against the spines and he contemplated the selection before him. His eyes caught on a particular name, Potter, and, intrigued, he pulled it from the shelf. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone it declared itself in a large yellow typeset. It appeared to be, for all intents and purposes, a children’s book and with sudden realization, Albus knew this to be part of the series of novels that Bartemius had mentioned upon his arrival. In quick succession he found the rest: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and lastly, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. It was the final title that made him take pause but Albus was a patient man by nature and so he decided it best to read the books in the prescribed order.

And so he read.

His older self had arrived on the scene much earlier than he would have suspected, scarcely a few pages in and there he was, resplendent in his age and eccentricity. He nearly laughed aloud at the description. Himself as an old man with a crooked nose and an interesting scar, dropping off the baby – The Boy Who Lived – that had brought about the destruction of the man sitting downstairs, one Mr. Riddle.

Fascinating.

And that, in reality, was the word that kept cropping up. Fascinating, absolutely fascinating. Thousands of pages of fascinating.

And when he was done, when all the pieces had fallen into place, when his self was long dead and buried, he left from his chair in the Rec Room, the first time he had done so for any extended amount of time in over twenty-four hours, and headed down to the beach, books in hand.

It was, after all, an awful lot to process.

Comments

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

Barty blinked, looking over and up at the other wizard.

"...The brilliant often do. I murder my father and turn him into a bone to be buried in the yard. What does that tell you about our relationship. It's nothing to feel guilty about, hating them," he added, looking down again.

"It's not as if you set out to do so. It's a product of their actions and behaviors."

[manwithstyle]

"Your father, however, was a madman," replied Albus darkly. "My family was only guilty of dying at the most inopportune of times. Albus Dumbledore, the most brilliant wizard Hogwarts had ever seen, the world in his palm, stuck as a nanny."

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"My father was a madman," Barty agreed softly. He brushed some sand from out of his hair.

"Ah, resentment. Provides endless fuel for one's endeavors."

[manwithstyle]

"But not mine," sighed Albus, putting his face in his hands before he looked blearily outwards. "Or rather, not the endeavours of the Headmaster."

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"I never drank firewhiskey," Barty said.

"I could start, though."

[manwithstyle]

It was the sort of segue he often made himself and so Albus's mouth curved into a half-smile. "And where do you plan on acquiring said firewhiskey?"

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"Stealing it at the first opportunity," Barty said, smirking, and looking back at Albus, "that presents itself."

[manwithstyle]

"I do not imagine that firewhiskey is readily available on this desolate rock," said Albus, matching Bartemius's smirk with his own. "Unless, of course, you already know of its whereabouts. Thus the question remains of who managed to leave our world with so precious a commodity?"