FIC! entry 22
December 25th, 1995
[sent in an envelope that only opens to a drop of Gellert Grindelwald's blood]
Gellert--
A Christmas letter, after all this time. I must confess that I have not held to your wishes. Voldemort remains undefeated, and he has indeed returned in full health after his brush with what he so feared and begun to gather followers. Horcruxes, old friend. Horcruxes and dozens of other defenses.
I suppose by now you must have heard of Harry Potter.
I send this to you in the deepest confidence. As I remember writing long ago, I have no true intimates. Peculiar as it is, after all the years out of contact and all the anger, you are the man whom I trust most with--this. With a matter of no consequence to the war, to England, to Voldemort...
Harry Potter started at Hogwarts five years ago. He was Sorted into Gryffindor House, which I doubt surprises you. His academics are on the upper side of average, his teacher relations generally neutral, and his friendships unbreakable as diamonds. He was raised by an abusive, neglectful Muggle family, and that was my will, for it was necessary to protect him. His entire life is wound up in old magic, wild philomency, things Voldemort refuses to acknowledge and which even you and I barely plumbed the existence of. He is both ordinary and extraordinary at once, and it strains my wit to describe him.
He has suffered so, so much for a boy so young. And--he does not know. He has not even the faintest clue of the true weight of it.
His fate is entwined with Voldemort's. Magic beyond logic or reason...
I must send him to his death, Gellert.
I had tried for so many years not to see it. A shred of Voldemort's soul, so torn from the creation of his Horcruxes, dislodged when the curse backfired and lodged in an innocent boy. There is a prophecy. Old, old, antediluvian magic...
I cannot tell him. How could I? He must realize it himself...
He is a good boy, Gellert. He is tough and brave and mostly clever, and he deserves better. He deserves to grow up and grow old and herd about children and write crochety letters. He deserves to bury Voldemort and move on to his own life, free of fates and scars and nonsense, and I would give my life to make it so, but I cannot, not ever.
I feared you, when I realized the extent of your plans, the terror of your rule, the Muggle-torture. When you fled from Ariana's body like a common cut-throat. And I was angry, yes, of course. So very angry. But I never hated you. I never wished upon you the worst thing in the world. And hence you wake and sleep and eat and breathe, and do not burn in the everlasting furnace of phoenix fire into which I would cast Voldemort--no, Tom Riddle, that is his name, the rest is affectation--into which I would cast the man who bound Harry to his fate--
You do not cling to life like a canker. That is remorse enough for me, no matter what you may think. And for a Dark wizard, you have a surprisingly healthy relationship with death...
Listen to me. I am sorry. I write to you in despair and burden you with an old man's insoluble worries. But, Gellert. I send him to his death. For the greater good.
You claim Nurmengard and I will not break you. But, Gellert, Tom and Harry have broken me.
Oh, but there is a chance! a faint glimmer of a chance that he might just survive. That Harry might live--damaged, no doubt, shell-shocked as the Muggles would say, but alive.
But sometimes hope is more painful than surrender.
Ignore me. Laugh at me. I send an innocent boy to war and torture and death, because I must do what is necessary, because I must not apologize for what is necessary. Look over the door to your cell, Gellert--I still live by those bloody, cursed words--
Only you could possibly appreciate what this means. The full irony of it. Only you, old friend.
I never knew the way. For all that I am a sanctimonious old bastard, I never knew the way. I only tried to help, to do what I thought would be right, would be successful. And this is where it ends, sending a child to die.
I--must stop this. I'm sorry.
Albus Dumbledore
P.S. for both of us
[enclosed: a package of sherbert lemons]
I think that in the final version there may be a few letters through the 80's, rather than jumping straight to OotP-era, but that is more character filler than anything else, solidifying their relationship. I want to be able to finish the basic structure of the fic during Blogathon per se, and I have a darn good chance of finishing that if I jump to the last few letters now.
[entry in the Grindeldore for Goats Blogathon Venture; sponsor me here!]
[sent in an envelope that only opens to a drop of Gellert Grindelwald's blood]
Gellert--
A Christmas letter, after all this time. I must confess that I have not held to your wishes. Voldemort remains undefeated, and he has indeed returned in full health after his brush with what he so feared and begun to gather followers. Horcruxes, old friend. Horcruxes and dozens of other defenses.
I suppose by now you must have heard of Harry Potter.
I send this to you in the deepest confidence. As I remember writing long ago, I have no true intimates. Peculiar as it is, after all the years out of contact and all the anger, you are the man whom I trust most with--this. With a matter of no consequence to the war, to England, to Voldemort...
Harry Potter started at Hogwarts five years ago. He was Sorted into Gryffindor House, which I doubt surprises you. His academics are on the upper side of average, his teacher relations generally neutral, and his friendships unbreakable as diamonds. He was raised by an abusive, neglectful Muggle family, and that was my will, for it was necessary to protect him. His entire life is wound up in old magic, wild philomency, things Voldemort refuses to acknowledge and which even you and I barely plumbed the existence of. He is both ordinary and extraordinary at once, and it strains my wit to describe him.
He has suffered so, so much for a boy so young. And--he does not know. He has not even the faintest clue of the true weight of it.
His fate is entwined with Voldemort's. Magic beyond logic or reason...
I must send him to his death, Gellert.
I had tried for so many years not to see it. A shred of Voldemort's soul, so torn from the creation of his Horcruxes, dislodged when the curse backfired and lodged in an innocent boy. There is a prophecy. Old, old, antediluvian magic...
I cannot tell him. How could I? He must realize it himself...
He is a good boy, Gellert. He is tough and brave and mostly clever, and he deserves better. He deserves to grow up and grow old and herd about children and write crochety letters. He deserves to bury Voldemort and move on to his own life, free of fates and scars and nonsense, and I would give my life to make it so, but I cannot, not ever.
I feared you, when I realized the extent of your plans, the terror of your rule, the Muggle-torture. When you fled from Ariana's body like a common cut-throat. And I was angry, yes, of course. So very angry. But I never hated you. I never wished upon you the worst thing in the world. And hence you wake and sleep and eat and breathe, and do not burn in the everlasting furnace of phoenix fire into which I would cast Voldemort--no, Tom Riddle, that is his name, the rest is affectation--into which I would cast the man who bound Harry to his fate--
You do not cling to life like a canker. That is remorse enough for me, no matter what you may think. And for a Dark wizard, you have a surprisingly healthy relationship with death...
Listen to me. I am sorry. I write to you in despair and burden you with an old man's insoluble worries. But, Gellert. I send him to his death. For the greater good.
You claim Nurmengard and I will not break you. But, Gellert, Tom and Harry have broken me.
Oh, but there is a chance! a faint glimmer of a chance that he might just survive. That Harry might live--damaged, no doubt, shell-shocked as the Muggles would say, but alive.
But sometimes hope is more painful than surrender.
Ignore me. Laugh at me. I send an innocent boy to war and torture and death, because I must do what is necessary, because I must not apologize for what is necessary. Look over the door to your cell, Gellert--I still live by those bloody, cursed words--
Only you could possibly appreciate what this means. The full irony of it. Only you, old friend.
I never knew the way. For all that I am a sanctimonious old bastard, I never knew the way. I only tried to help, to do what I thought would be right, would be successful. And this is where it ends, sending a child to die.
I--must stop this. I'm sorry.
Albus Dumbledore
P.S. for both of us
[enclosed: a package of sherbert lemons]
I think that in the final version there may be a few letters through the 80's, rather than jumping straight to OotP-era, but that is more character filler than anything else, solidifying their relationship. I want to be able to finish the basic structure of the fic during Blogathon per se, and I have a darn good chance of finishing that if I jump to the last few letters now.
[entry in the Grindeldore for Goats Blogathon Venture; sponsor me here!]