Anachronism

The rest of Hogwarts seemed to be abandoned. Despite Albus circling the grounds three times, all he could find were some unhelpful house-elves (who thought he was a student and threatened to report him to the Headmaster), sleeping portraits (who did not wake even when he tapped their painting), and irritable ghosts (who took one look at him and startled invisible). 

At the end of the day Albus was close to giving up, and rather hungry. Unfortunately, the elves now seemed to be in some kind of strike against him. Defeated, Albus retreated back to the Headmaster’s office. This, at least, opened to him easily with a spoken word.

Gellert hadn’t written back yet. That was fine, figured Albus. Perhaps he’d woken up somewhere truly annoying; like a pub in Serbia, or a Spanish jail. Although, if fate was to be truly fair, Gellert should’ve woken up in snowy Durmstrang with his own permanent graffiti staring back at him.

Albus set to wait. And so he did. For three days, Albus wandered the empty Hogwarts, pursued the older Dumbledore’s bookshelves, discovered it had been ninety-eight years (a fair few more than he’d expected), and traced the new scar line in his palm. It was still better than Godric’s Hollow.

Then his Floo started up. Albus startled from where he had been reading through the elder Dumbledore’s notes about Dragon’s Blood (fascinating!). A sallow man stood there, dark-haired and bursting with fury.

“Where have you been?” he ranted without glancing at Albus, instead glaring at a point spot at a sleeping portrait above Albus’ head. “Gone—without a word—three days! With the current climate—how could you—trusted—” 

“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person, or perhaps the wrong version of him,” said Albus, amused. “But I’ll take the blame all the same. I am very sorry for my absence. It seems to have caused a lot of trouble. Now, if you could remind me of your name again?” 

The man stared at him. 

“Hello,” Albus said cheekily. “Why do you have access to the Headmaster’s Floo?”

This seemed to cause the man to regain the ability to speak. And to move. In the next moment Albus had a wand pointed at his heart, a stormy look in the man’s eye.

Albus leaned back in his chair. “Oh. Someone’s upset.” 

“Who are you?” said the man icily. “And what have you done with Albus Dumbledore?”

“Nothing,” said Albus airily. “In fact, I think you’ll find he is with us in this very room.”

“Insolence!” the man snapped, his grip on his wand tightening. “Do not test me, boy.” 

A pause. Then Albus said, “I killed him.”

The man’s eyes widened—his grip loosened in shock—his mouth started to part, mouth words, a spell maybe—

And Albus couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. After a moment he caught his breath and managed, “Sorry. Sorry. I couldn’t help it. I haven’t had company in days, you mustn't blame me!”

“Tell me what is going on,” the man said, his tone now so deadly low that Albus paused, “Or I will not hesitate to strike you down.” 

Albus smiled. “Of course.” He adjusted the Headmaster’s notes. “It’s fairly simple, you see. I am the one you’re looking for. My name is Albus Dumbledore, I am seventeen, and I seem to have de-aged ninety-eight years.” 

“That’s… a long time,” Harry managed, when the story was over. They had migrated over to a moulding sitting room, where Ginny perched on an armchair next to Harry, Ron and Hermione squeezed in by his sides, and seventeen year-old Albus Dumbledore smiled at him from a borrowed chair from the kitchen.

“Isn’t it just?” said Dumbledore. “We have yet to understand how it happened!”

Instead of sounding terrified of the possibility of never regaining his lost century, Dumbledore sounded excited. Harry supposed, if anyone was to be curious instead of horrified, it would be the eccentric Headmaster.

“Dumbledore—er—Albus appeared a day or so ago,” said Hermione. “It’s been—it’s been—”

She seemed temporarily lost for words, and Dumbledore kindly filled her in with, “Strange. And shocking, I think. Especially to the adults. They seem to think I’m some sort of secret society rebellion leader.” Then he smiled, as if this was a very funny joke between the two of them. Harry felt vaguely sick. He was rather certain his summer had just taken a turn for the worse.

Ginny said, “I’d’ve never guessed Dumbledore was red-head. Blasphemous, that he never told us.” 

“True,” agreed Dumbledore. “Although, it’s not quite the same shade, now is it?” 

Thoughtfully, after a long bout of staring at said red hair, Ginny said, “‘Spose not.” 

Ron leaned over to whisper to Harry, “See what I’ve had to deal with? No way I could explain all this in a letter.” 

Despite himself, Harry laughed. 

Eventually more people returned to the sitting room. Some leftovers from dinner were offered to Harry but he refused; he was too nauseous and stressed to even think about eating. Tonks, Sirius, Mr and Mrs Weasley, the twins and Professor McGongall all found their respective seats and the evening loosened up, somewhat. People chatted and laughed and generally rejoiced in Harry’s presence. It could almost be called relaxing—if one ignored the verifiable erumpent in the room.

At the end of the night McGongall said to him sternly, “We are keeping Albus’—predicament—top secret as of now. Don’t go blabbing to your friends. Don’t even write a whisper of it in a letter. This is to stay within the Order.”

“The Order?” said Harry. In the chaos of the day, no-one had sought to inform him of—well—anything. As always.

“It’s a group of witches and wizards who are fighting Voldemort,” said Dumbledore, wandering over with a flute of champagne in one hand. “Or something of that sort. Right, professor?” 

Professor McGongall looked only slightly off-kilter and said, “Yes. That is the crux of the matter.” 

“They’re using the Black house for their Headquarters,” continued Dumbledore. “Though I don’t know why. You’d think a group so focused on the Light wouldn’t want to be stuck in a house with so many Dark artifacts.” 

It was clear Dumbledore was a bit beyond tipsy. He swayed where he stood, blinking lethargically at Harry, who was unsettled.

Sirius came to stand by Harry and said, “I offered it up. Old thing was rotting anyway. Might as well be used for some good.” 

“The façade of usefulness often crumbles under scrutiny,” quipped Dumbledore absently. He then ambled off again, drinking from his glass as he did. Harry stared after him.

“Unnerving, right?” Sirius muttered. “But I guess we were all teenagers once. I just never thought Dumbledore would be so…” 

“Young?” offered Harry.

“I was going to say infuriating.” 

They grinned at each other. And Harry knew it was truly bad then, for Professor McGongall was watching and heard, and said nothing at all.

Gellert woke up in a cell. He knew because his magic was suppressed, thick in his blood. Also because there were bars on the window. It seemed he was somewhere in the Alps. 

This was strange since Gellert couldn’t remember doing anything that called for his arrest in Austria. At least, not again, and the whole Durmstrang affair had been mostly hushed up by his father. 

Gellert figured he must’ve Apparated in his sleep, or something equally ridiculous. He called for a guard. When that didn’t work, he started to pretend he was dying. Gellert was unusually good at this, since he had played the prank on his younger siblings many a time before. Frightening them was one of his more lucrative pastimes.

A guard did come then, confused and frantic. At the sight of him, lying prone on the floor, he seemed to spook even more. “Was! Wie ist das passiert? Was ist passiert?”

“Ich sterbe!” said Gellert, which always seemed to do the trick.

The guard hurried to release him from the cell, all the while chanting prayers under his breath. He seemed to be very scared of his superior, which amused Gellert. When he brought him down narrow stairs and into a kind of employee’s break-room, Gellert whipped around, tackled the man to the floor, who hit his head on the cold flagstones and went out cold. It was crudely Muggle, but oh, well. Patting the guard down, Gellert relieved him of his wand, peeled off the magic-suppressing manacles on his wrists, and headed towards the Floo.

But before he could throw the powder in the fire, a tap on the window interrupted him. Gellert glanced at the prone figure of the guard, shrugged, and walked over. A phoenix blinked back at him.

“That’s strange,” said Gellert, to no-one in particular. The phoenix tapped on the window again. Gellert let it in. It soared briefly around the room, then landed heavily on Gellert’s shoulder. There was a rolled piece of parchment in its beak.

He gratefully took it and read the message quickly. Afterward he mumbled, “Oh, Albus,” and quickly searched the room for a quill. He despised writing letters—which was funny when Albus seemed to derive a perverse amount of joy in creating several feet-thick ones—and cut his own note short.

                   A— 

                   I’m in Austria. Heading to the Hollow. Meet me there tomorrow. 

                   Yours,

                   G.