Albus Dumbledore was dead.
Not now, of course. No, right now he was very much alive, if rather out of sorts, and feeling a whole myriad of emotions that were not often associated with the greatest wizard of his generation.
However, in the not-so-distant future, he was dead. Not only was dead, though that was bad enough, he had failed so completely and entirely in all of his goals that he knew no longer why it was that he had remained so renowned. For The Greater Good had ripped at the seams, ending, as such things do, with a duel between himself and Gellert. Wizards were forced even deeper into hiding while the man fashioning himself as 'Lord Voldemort' marked his followers with the ink of gypsies and sailors and indoctrinated them into a foolish regime. The Deathly Hallows had remained elusive. Why, the only thing that had appeared to keep him in the public eye was the fact that he had been Headmaster. And while that was a fairly lucrative position, he could not help but feel disappointed. Angry, even. Could the future be so bleak?
Albus rapped sharply on the door of Bartemius' hut. He did not look at all put-together. His face was flushed; his eyes bright, and his hair cascaded over his shoulders in a torrent of messy curls. His white shirt was largely unbuttoned, not to mention untucked. His feet were bare. Indeed, he rather had the appearance of someone who had left somewhere very quickly.
It was all, he thought, very uncharacteristic but such developments had called for haste.
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