There's a boy sitting at a table, not exactly hidden from view.
He ... appears to be staring at Dumbledore.
His stare may resemble a deer's in headlights.
His hand, poised with his now dripping quill, has caused a rather large blot of black ink to ruin the first part of his essay on the Abuse and Rights of Giants in the 15th Century.
When he realizes that, he's set about to hastily tidying up the mess - which only means Albus, clumsy as he can be, knocks over the entire bottle of ink to the floor.
It lands with a resounding crash.
Merlin's beard, please don't let him see me, is all Albus can think.
"Ah, yes. A fascinating race. I fear wizarding kind is all too quick to relegate them to brute status."
Dumbledore nods, seemingly in approval at the way the boy has cleared the ink.
"I don't recognize you," he says, conversationally.
"I know all of my students, past and current. The benefit of a prodigious memory." And a finite pool of witches and wizards. "So, I would imagine that from the step on which I stand on Time's staircase, you are some ways ahead of me."
"I suppose distant past is a possibility as well."
"I imagine the chances of me knowing you in your own time are rather slim," Dumbledore continues. "If I have not shuffled off the proverbial mortal coil, I would hope to be enjoying my twilight years in retirement."
This is not, if Dumbledore were to be strictly honest, entirely true. He's not sure what he'd do with himself if he retired. It's far more likely that the former is true.
He's spry for his age, and feels that he has a lot of good years left in him. But one must bow to reality.
"That being the case, it's a pleasure to be able to make your acquaintance here. I am Albus Dumbledore."
Of course he knows. He's seen Dumbledore's portrait and he knows enough from what his dad has told him about Hogwarts' former Headmaster.
He isn't sure how much he can say or not say; the same way he's never really always sure how much he can say to his grandmum either.
(Though that's gotten easier, the more they've chatted. Only because ... it turns out there are loads of other things he can talk to his grandmum about.)
"And I'm -" He hesitates again. "... my name is Albuspotter."
Interesting. But Dumbledore will not discomfit the boy further by saying so aloud.
"It is very nice to meet you, indeed."
He smiles.
"Milliways does like to make knots of time, does it not? I occasionally find that it makes thinks awkward. Who can or should know what about occurrences of the past or future, or even if those pasts or futures are the same as those that we have or will experience."
"It can make your brain feel as if it is being pinched in a vise if you think on it too hard."
Albus nods, letting out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding in.
"Yeah," he agrees. "I mean - yes, sir. Exactly. I - I'm never really sure how much I can or should say. Though, it's only really happened once before."
He rubs his nose.
"But - um. It's nice to meet you too, sir."
And in a really odd, kind of scary way, it truly is.
He ... appears to be staring at Dumbledore.
His stare may resemble a deer's in headlights.
His hand, poised with his now dripping quill, has caused a rather large blot of black ink to ruin the first part of his essay on the Abuse and Rights of Giants in the 15th Century.
When he realizes that, he's set about to hastily tidying up the mess - which only means Albus, clumsy as he can be, knocks over the entire bottle of ink to the floor.
It lands with a resounding crash.
Merlin's beard, please don't let him see me, is all Albus can think.
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The crash, and its cause, catch Dumbledore's attention. He raises his head.
And offers a kind smile.
"It must be quite an essay. To cause such an abundance of excitment."
A Hogwarts student, no doubt about it. But not one that he recognizes.
One of the ones from a different step in time, then.
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Albus quickly grabs his wand, points it at the floor and mumbles 'Scourgify'.
Thankfully, the floor looks good as new.
And then he knows he ... has to face Dumbledore now.
Nervously, he glances at him again and nods.
"Erm. Yeah. I - I mean, it's just ... it's about Giants."
(... very articulate, Albus. Brilliant job, that.)
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Dumbledore nods, seemingly in approval at the way the boy has cleared the ink.
"I don't recognize you," he says, conversationally.
"I know all of my students, past and current. The benefit of a prodigious memory." And a finite pool of witches and wizards. "So, I would imagine that from the step on which I stand on Time's staircase, you are some ways ahead of me."
"I suppose distant past is a possibility as well."
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And then, when it comes time to introduce himself - because that's really what Professor Dumbledore asked, isn't it - he hesitates.
"Erm. Yes, sir - to the first part, I mean. Not the ... distant past. It's - um. The year 2023 for me," he replies.
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His own door leads back to the mid-1970s.
"I imagine the chances of me knowing you in your own time are rather slim," Dumbledore continues. "If I have not shuffled off the proverbial mortal coil, I would hope to be enjoying my twilight years in retirement."
This is not, if Dumbledore were to be strictly honest, entirely true. He's not sure what he'd do with himself if he retired. It's far more likely that the former is true.
He's spry for his age, and feels that he has a lot of good years left in him. But one must bow to reality.
"That being the case, it's a pleasure to be able to make your acquaintance here. I am Albus Dumbledore."
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Of course he knows. He's seen Dumbledore's portrait and he knows enough from what his dad has told him about Hogwarts' former Headmaster.
He isn't sure how much he can say or not say; the same way he's never really always sure how much he can say to his grandmum either.
(Though that's gotten easier, the more they've chatted. Only because ... it turns out there are loads of other things he can talk to his grandmum about.)
"And I'm -" He hesitates again. "... my name is Albuspotter."
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Interesting. But Dumbledore will not discomfit the boy further by saying so aloud.
"It is very nice to meet you, indeed."
He smiles.
"Milliways does like to make knots of time, does it not? I occasionally find that it makes thinks awkward. Who can or should know what about occurrences of the past or future, or even if those pasts or futures are the same as those that we have or will experience."
"It can make your brain feel as if it is being pinched in a vise if you think on it too hard."
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"Yeah," he agrees. "I mean - yes, sir. Exactly. I - I'm never really sure how much I can or should say. Though, it's only really happened once before."
He rubs his nose.
"But - um. It's nice to meet you too, sir."
And in a really odd, kind of scary way, it truly is.
Because this is Albus Dumbledore.
One of his namesakes.
In the flesh.
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But will remain uncommented upon.
"Perhaps I could ask you how you are enjoying Hogwarts. That seems a safe enough subject to begin with."
People (and headmasters) may come and go. But Hogwarts, it would seem, is eternal.
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"It's - it's Hogwarts. So ... it's my home for most of the year. I love it there. I can't really imagine myself anywhere else, either."
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