September 18, 2023

Prompt: Write a drabble from the POV of an unreliable narrator.

Note: Trans women are women. JKR is trash, even though she created an incredible world for us to enjoy, and through fanfic I will continue to dismantle her bigotry and ignorance.

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"You're a fool, Albus. The scale of the game you play is too grand, even for a master such as yourself."

Rather than look toward the source of such short-sighted criticism, Albus Dumbledore, withering old wizard, elects to keep his eye on the chessboard filled with posturing statuettes before him. They are locked in an adjournment forced by Tom's need of Severus' various skills; the Potions Master left the castle in the middle of a game after classes on Thursday and has not yet returned. If he is not present for Sunday supper, the Headmaster shall have to make excuses with the Headmistress. She will be annoyed, but accepting, surely. Minerva is sensible, as always.

"Hmm." Perhaps once the tournament is resumed, the knight shall have to be put into play.

"We portraits are privy to a great deal, you must realize. Your argument with the Head of Slytherin house was heard by that half-breed groundskeeper you pity. He was muttering about it on Wednesday-last to that absurd beast of his in the Autumn Courtyard. The window just above sits beside Cressida Kettleburn's portrait."

"I know the resident and placement of each portrait in the castle as well as you, Phineas." With a toothpick, the living headmaster engages in a brief duel with the knight at E4. He finds that it annoys Phineas a great deal to see the Headmaster engage in anything so silly as play, and Dumbledore has to admit, there is a bit of satisfaction in riling-up the old fellow.

"Hagrid's penchant for gossip is most unfortunate, I admit. Do you know—I've searched a decade for any magic that might help him keep secrets. Alas, his Giant nature precludes such an enchantment."

Phineas scoffs, a splash of white pigment decorating his upper lip like so much spittle.

"All the more reason you ought not to tolerate such filth in our esteemed school. You purport to care for these...children. Are you not aware that the castle's defenses are useless if its keepers are themselves a liability?"

A flurry of annoyance and doubt unsettles Dumbledore's gut. He hates it when detractors employ flawed logic to skilled effect. Hagrid's loose lips notwithstanding, he comes into contact with Riddle's supporters and sympathizers seldom enough to balance the risk. The half-Giant's loyalty is invaluable, in any case.

"Hagrid is steadfast in his service to The Light. I have the utmost confidence in him."

The little knight, tired of battling his enormous opponent, has taken instead to flirting with the Queen. Her bronze cheeks blush prettily, somehow.

The rook, perhaps, should move to C5, Albus considers. Severus will have anticipated the move, of course. If the rook to C5, then surely Severus will—

"Whatever your confidence, it is not that brainless buffoon I wish to discuss. As you well know."

The wizened figure sits back in his throne-like chair, putting chess strategy out of mind at his predecessor's annoyed tone. He regards the smallest of the Headmaster portraits in the gallery. Only the Hogwarts Charter had ensured that the most hated Headmaster be painted—nobody would have taken the initiative to see it done otherwise. And so Headmaster Black's begrudging successor had selected a frame as diminutive as possible without resorting to an overt display of gauche pettiness. Still, scarcely larger than a hand mirror, Albus feels that the mark had surpassed pettiness and landed somewhere in the vicinity of gleeful requital: an aprospos memorial for a miserable man and an even more miserable headmastership. The frame is small enough to fit in a purse. Or even a sizable pocket.

Phineas was, is, universally disagreeable, to be true. But beyond Severus as spy and some of the older, pureblood members of The Order, the detested former Headmaster knows more than anyone in Albus' acquaintance about the philosophy of pureblood mania. Tradition. Old Magic. Hatred and fear disguised as piety. Not even the intervening years since Headmaster Black's death have diminished his insight in value. For all that Albus has ascended to lofty heights in the Wizarding World—Headmaster of Europe's foremost school of magic, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Head Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards—he is yet, at heart, a half-blood with an affinity for Muggles and their culture. At the very least, Albus thinks, being seen to heed the counsel of diverse personalities lends credibility, and a sense of...approachability from all sides.

"Very well, Professor. Speak your mind." It is necessary, after all, to bestow a sense of usefulness upon one's brothers in arms, no matter the circumstance.

"You push your spy too far, I think. Albus, are you not concerned that he will again defect? Or be killed? I care not for The Light you so ardently defend, but neither do I wish to see some half-blood pretender at the Wheel of Power in our world. That Prince bastard is the fulcrum upon which the entire war is balanced—"

"Come now, Phineas, Harry—"

"Is a child!" One tiny fist slams ineffectually upon the painted barrier between them and for a moment, silence prevails upon the Headmaster's office. A breath, two.

"Harry Potter is a child. One whom you have not prepared for war. You balance prophecy and hope and measures of loyalty against Black. Magick. Albus–" The painted man's voice is incredulous, pained. "I begin to wonder whether you intend to win this war at all."

"My word. Phineas, you surprise me. Such emotion from your Black heart."

"Misdirection, Albus; don't act the fool. As a Headmaster's portrait, I have been conscripted to the service of this school and its students, and foremost to the aid of its Headmaster. I may disdain your politics and your blood, but I can do nothing but serve the welfare of those that learn and reside here. So again, I say: you cannot hope to win the game with this strategy. You, your spy, your boy hero. All of you will fall. All will be lost."

Albus stands and turns to gaze through the window which overlooks the Great Lake. At dusk, the waters are dark as slate and still. A foreboding skitters up the Headmaster's spine and across his scalp like a legion of acromantula.

"In three days, Phineas, I shall take Harry Potter with me to retrieve an item of grave importance to the war effort. I have taught him all I know of our adversary, and I am confident that he and his friends will come to understand the significance of these artifacts, the count of their number and what must be done to destroy them...and eventually, Tom."

A streak of orange light skims the water in the place the Great Squid iss known to frequent. Fawkes. He ascends sharply, dodging playfully reaching tentacles with a wriggling fish no doubt clutched in those mighty talons.

"I will die by Severus' wand. Ownership of the Death Stick will pass beyond Tom's reach. Yes, our chances of success are gravely miniscule. The circumstances of Severus' service are dire and, I must admit, inhumane. I—"

Here, Albus' voice becomes pinched, perhaps with fear. Regret.

"I cannot allow the idea of a war fought righteously to dictate how this war will be waged. It is pity for our children and theirs which drives me to such callous methods. We are, each of us, disposable pawns on a board in a game which you yourself have said is too grand to fathom. What is the life of a single pawn? Two? Twenty?—when scores more are in the balance?"

"It is distasteful that I should be the one to remind you of this, Albus: that human lives are not to be regarded as game pieces. You are not a god."

The Headmaster contemplates this. The accusation is not unlike that which he has heard from Sirius and others, before. Even Severus. (It makes him chuckle to think of those two life-long enemies agreeing to anything.) Truly, it has nothing to do with deity, or wisdom, Albus believes. It is merely opportunity. He can choose merely because he is in a position to do so. He bears the mantle of responsibility as no one else can—a mantle he will wear until it is passed to another. To Harry.

Just like that remarkable Cloak was passed from Ignotus to his son.

"I hear your words, Headmaster Black. I will consider them well." Albus turns to clear his desk of quills and correspondence. It is time for supper.

"There is one thing more, however, Headmaster Black."

The former headmaster slumps, ungentlemanly into his chair—realizing, perhaps, that his admonitions will go unheeded.

"You would do well to remember that Tom, myself...Harry and Severus—we are each of us half-bloods—and yet the future of our Wizarding World, perhaps even magic as we know it is laid in our hands. I know what is at stake, in the Muggle world and our own. I risk, yes, tremendously, but I like to think I know the pieces I have placed on the board. I know their weaknesses," Albus says, lifting his crumbling hand— "and finally, I understand my own. I believe that even our weaknesses will serve the Greater Good. Severus will do what he must, as will Harry, in the end. They will prevail."

His long-legged gait, slowed by age and the progressing curse, carries him to the Gryphon which guards his office. His mind, already, is turning to the evening's menu and a desire to enjoy repast with his colleagues. Just as the stairs begin to turn and draw him to the exit below, Phineas shares one last rejoinder:

"When has the Greater Good ever served you, Albus? Or anyone?"