Chapter 2.5 Dumbledore Interlude
Dumbledore was displeased. Angry. Outright pissed.
But not at the world; he was furious with himself.
When he recieved word that Number 4 Privet Drive had burned down, he had assumed the worst.
He thought that Death-Eaters had discovered Harry, or some psychotic muggle had comitted arson. He hadn't expected... this.
When he apparated to the house, it was still burning. Fire licked the grass of Number 4 and curled up the fences of the property's borders. Only a solitary mailbox remained uncharred.
There was an aura of magic to the flames, which had at first, corroborated his belief that Harry had been discovered by Death-Eaters. But when he cast a past-viewing spell on the place, he was astounded.
The viewing spell wasn't perfect. It used the current state of an area to determine what that area had looked like in the past, and then created a 4-dimensional visualization of it all, inserting it into the caster's mind as a form of synthesia. As a result, the spell only showed vague images, constantly blurring with the spell's uncertainties as to the positions and momentums of past objects.
The spell could be fooled by other spells, as well as things like disillusionment and sound-concealment charms. But this home was that of muggles, and no magic was there to obscure the past-viewing spell. Under these conditions, the spell would be accurate enough to give the wizened wizard a good picture of the past.
When he used the spell, he saw the entire home of Number 4 as it was 42 minutes ago. It had three bedrooms, four bathrooms, a dining room, a kitchen, and an entrance hall. All in all, it was a rather average, quaint muggle home.
The events that happened within were anything but quaint.
42 minutes ago, it was morning and the sun had barely risen.
Blurry figures representing people appeared in his mind. One was alone in a bedroom, slowly breathing, asleep. That would be the Dursley's son. Two figures were up and about in another bedroom, putting on clothes and freshening up for the day. Those were the parents, Mr and Mrs Dursley.
The first thing that tipped Dumbledore off that something was wrong, was the last blurry figure. It was the smallest one, and was trapped in a tiny space beneath the home's stairs. It squirmed and shook against the walls, writhing like it was mad.
Fury welled up within him as he realized what it represented. Still, he watched as the spell played out the past.
The larger of the two people from the upstairs bedroom departed from it and walked downstairs. The figure opened the space beneath the stairs and dragged the blurry person out into the hallway like a troll dragging a deer's corpse.
It said something, and then shoved the smallest person towards the kitchen.
Like an inferius, the smallest trudged into the kitchen and began messing around, bringing out pans and cooking utensils and whatnot. There was a tired drunkenness to its movements, as if it were dead on its feet.
The larger one moved to the dining room and sat down, unmoving. Lazing about.
The smallest made a plate or two and carried it to the larger one like a house-elf. The plate was taken and eaten off of.
This was repeated with another plate of food, but this time, the larger figure was displeased. It roughly stood from its seat, causing the smallest to start running away. The larger one chased it down, manhandled it, and brought a fist down onto the smallest's head.
Dumbledore watched, fury growing ever stronger.
But that was when things went wrong. The larger one raised his fist to strike again, but the smaller one went limp. A strange white glow began emanating from its fingers.
Dumbledore had used the past-viewing spell enough times to know that the whiteness represented fire.
Flames spilled out from the smallest's form, engulfing the larger one, which began thrashing about. The walls began burning, sending smoke into the second floor, where the other two figures, Petunia and her son, were milling about. They began rushing around too, attempting to get away from the smoke. It was all for naught though.
The whiteness crept up the house, gradually engulfing the trapped mother and son as well.
Eventually, all were dead and burning. All except for the smallest, which stood in the flames, entranced.
The trance ended, and the smallest slowly walked into the front yard. There was a pause, and then the figure was gone. Disappeared, like it was never there. Telltale sign of disapparition.
The past-viewing spell ended.
Dumbledore felt sick. He'd never expected this. He hadn't predicted such developments. He had miscalculated.
He'd failed. Again. And it had cost lives. Muggle lives, but lives all the same.
The old wizard apparated away to a safe place he knew of. An inn his brother owned. There, privacy could be acquired for a small price.
Dumbledore paid it, his sibling taking it without question and directing him to a private room.
Inside, the old man sat down and laid his head down on a table. He cried.
The past-viewing spell's images were blurry, but what it showed was clear.
The smallest figure had been Harry Potter. The largest had been Vernon Dursley. One had been abusing the other, and the other just so happened to be a young wizard with little-to-no control over his magic.
The smallest had been struck one too many times, and ended up losing control. His magic created flames, and killed the rest.
A family was dead now. A complete and utter tragedy. And it was one that Dumbledore knew he had played a part in creating.
Dumbledore raised his head and closed his eyes.
He should have known that the Dursleys would mistreat Harry. He knew they hated magic. He was well aware of Petunia's jealousy of her sister.
But he'd gone and given them Harry anyways. Lily Potter's magic would protect the boy if he was around Petunia, and Dumbledore had reasoned that Harry was better off mistreated and alive than dead. Plus, the boy may be necessary to defeat Voldemort in the future, when the dark lord inevitably rose once more.
It had been a difficult, morally ambiguous decision. There was no 'right thing to do' when making it, and the old man would have felt horrible making it, regardless of what he chose.
Dumbledore had thought he knew what he was condemning the boy to when he had left him on the doorstep.
But he was wrong. He'd made the wrong call.
And it had ended with a family burning.
For the next while, the old, respected, revered man shed tears of shame and self-loathing. In that moment, he hated himself.
But like all strong emotions, his sadness eventually wore off and he was allowed to think clearly once more.
He wiped his eyes and turned his mind to practical things. He'd wasted enough time crying.
Harry Potter was still alive. He needed to be found and brought somewhere safe.
Dumbledore disapparated, leaving behind a tear-stained table.