Even though most of my output currently is directed toward My Apartment Manager Is Not an Isekai Character, I am still doing work here and there on the in-progress DW projects. Just to reward you for your patience and forbearance, here's a little something that I've had staged in my dev files for quite a while now. It is actually the (incomplete) third of DW8's four epilogues, and while it dangles tantalizing hints of what happened during the course of the story, it doesn't really have very much in the way of spoilers. I'm figuring it should be just enough to re-invigorate the flagging, and whet the appetites of those still waiting eagerly for more...
Epilogue III
Life's like a movie,
Write your own ending,
Keep believing,
Keep pretending.
-- "The Muppet Movie"
June 18, 2015
Nineteen years later...
Albus Dumbledore slid deeper into the shadows cloaking the end
of the booth in which he sat and stared into the amber depths of
the glass of firewhiskey before him. It wasn't Ogden's Finest --
even if his budget had allowed for it, he wouldn't waste Ogden's
on a drink on this of all days.
He picked up the glass and held it before him. "To Douglas
Sangnoir and Harry Potter," he muttered the annual toast too
softly to be heard by anyone else in the Leaky Cauldron. "Merlin
damn them both." He took a swig and toughed out the mouthful of
rotgut as steam shot from his ears.
In a year it would be an even two decades since the pair had
utterly and completely undermined his plans for the future of
Wizarding Britain by defeating Voldemort and his Death Eaters.
And not just defeating them, but doing so in a dramatic and
public manner using magics beyond those known to any other
witch or wizard of the time.
*And without me there to guide it all.* That was the worst part.
The mystic power of the DA, collectively and individually, was
undeniable, and when they attributed it all to Douglas, well,
that sealed the fate of Albus Dumbledore. Harry's star rose
while Albus' began its slow fall to ignominy.
At least Douglas, however much they had disagreed on methods and
means, had been above it all, even refusing an Order of Merlin.
"The kids did everything -- I was just there as backup." Not
that anyone believed his denials. The stories had spread of him
striding unaffected through a veritable storm of Killing Curses
to strike Voldemort down with a punch, then falling to a point-
blank curse from Tom himself just to *get up again* -- well, the
carefully-crafted folklore around young Harry had faded away in
the face of the *true* stories about Douglas Sangnoir, the now-
legendary Man-Who-Would-Not-Die.
And Douglas' subsequent "mysterious disappearance" upon his
departure from this timeline had only served to deepen his mythic
status, just as Harry's childhood hidden in the Muggle world had
deepened his. What had a mere man like Albus Dumbledore to offer
Wizarding Britain when it had two living gods in its recent
history to inspire it?
At the thought of gods, Albus scowled and took another swig of
his firewhiskey. Of all the things he hated Douglas Sangnoir
for, calling the Norns to Hogwarts was one of the greatest --
because afterward they had *never left*. For nineteen years now,
they had roamed the halls and classrooms with impunity, only ever
glimpsed by the staff at a distance, but *always* available to
the students. Albus doubted there was any student who had
attended Hogwarts in the last two decades who hadn't met one of
the gods who seemed to have taken it upon themselves to keep a
close and personal eye on *his* school. And although he
suspected their presence had as much to do with the continued
appearance of magical abominations among the children as Doug's
teachings had, he knew that it was also a direct message to him
-- that they were *always* watching and judging him.
Damn them.
A commotion at the Muggle-side door of the Cauldron dragged his
attention away from his firewhiskey, and his scowl deepened. It
was one of the abominations, Lavender Brown, in robes of the
brown and saffron which had been her signature colors since her
fifth year. With her were several of her pack, impeccably
dressed, as always, in the height of fashion. And... Albus
squinted and peered. Four young women accompanied her, wearing
outfits that were neither recognizably Muggle nor Wizarding...
and one looked to be almost a twin to Brown, right down to
wearing the same colors.
Was one of her hands *gold*? How odd.
From Brown's gestures and what little he could overhear at this
distance, it was clear they were strangers to the Cauldron and
Diagon Alley, and she was playing tour guide.
Albus shook his head and ignored them. Brown practically ruled
British werewolves these days, and under her influence they had
prospered even as "unfortunate incidents" dwindled away. It was
perhaps emblematic of his fall and the rise of the D.A.'s power
in Britain that when Brown had turned her eyes toward improving
the lot of her followers, abundant supplies of wolfsbane potion
had suddenly appeared, and new werewolf legislation more liberal
and comprehensive than any he had ever hoped to see had sailed
through the Wizengamot with appalling ease.
Her casual dismissal of his offer to advise her on that
legislation only underlined the degree to which his influence
had declined. Albus took another swig and reflected on how he'd
become an artifact of the "Bad Old Days", an unwanted fossil.
Even most of the Weasleys, who had always been his staunchest
supporters, now thought of him as an out-of-touch antique,
although they were too polite to say so to his face.
And the "why" of that all came back to Douglas -- Douglas and his
philosophy of overwhelming victory on the battlefield and off.
Under his tutelage the members of the Defense Association had
accepted and embraced his maxim, "Never leave an enemy behind to
attack you again". Far too many had seen the aftermath of
Voldemort's first campaign, erroneously concluded that nothing
had changed and sought to strike out at those who had followed
Tom even after they had been given a chance at redemption -- a
chance that those like young Severus had eagerly grasped.
Albus scowled into his firewhiskey. If there was anything he
hated Douglas for most, it was the murder of Severus Snape. (He
barely wrestled down the automatic urge to add "the Betrayer and
Oathbreaker" to the name, even in his private thoughts.) With
his death Albus had lost the greatest demonstration that his
approach had been the only correct way, that forgiveness could
trump hate. Instead, the Ministry and Wizarding society as a
whole now returned violence with violence, evil with evil,
depriving those who had foolishly embraced the Dark of the chance
to repent and turn back to the Light. Instead the massacre of
Tom and his followers had become a *model* for the Ministry's
future dealings with those who would overthrow it.
It didn't matter that Britain had enjoyed nearly twenty years of
unheard-of peace and prosperity because of it, that the economy
and population were both booming, and that two would-be Dark
Lords (poor, deluded Draco, Albus briefly mourned) and their
followers had been cut down almost as soon as they'd risen. The
stain on the nation's very soul would prove even more corrupting
than Voldemort's influence ever had. Albus *knew* it was only a
matter of time.
He just hoped he would live to see the day that it happened, when
Wizarding Britain would come crawling back to him to save them.
It was that hope, not some "curse of life" those gods had claimed
to have laid upon him, that had kept him going all these years.
In the meantime, the darkness had grown endemic. The resurrected
Myrtle Warren (he refused to acknowledge the hyphenated
"-Sangnoir" she preferred) had finally, after a half-century
hiatus, graduated with honors and gone on to become the first
certified Ministry necromancer in nearly a century, undoing all
Albus' efforts to bury that irretrievably Dark magic once and for
all. And Pansy Parkinson -- Harper, he corrected himself -- now
headed a cult of Darkness. Oh, they didn't call it that, but
there were hundreds of wizards and witches who had been deceived
by her claim that Darkness itself was Neutral and sought to
balance the evil done in its name, while extolling the concept of
"good" Darkness with talk of warm summer nights, the womb and
other nonsense.
Pansy had grown *dangerously* clever, he noted, and not for the
first time. Considering her sweet, endearing dimness as a child,
Albus suspected she had been possessed by some dark entity during
her fifth year, possibly even at Douglas' behest, and what had
posed as her since then was actually some manner of supernatural
evil in disguise. He shook his head. If only she had accepted
her proper destiny as Draco's loving wife -- both of them might
have been saved.
And he still had no idea what Hannah Abbott had become, except
terrifying and profoundly *dangerous*.
Fortunately not every student had been corrupted by Douglas'
influence. Percy Weasley had become an invaluable ally over the
years, replacing his father as Albus' loyal man in the Ministry.
Percy was in total agreement with him that the abominations were
a threat to traditional Wizarding culture, and had dutifully
proposed law after law restricting them and the magics that they
practiced. Sadly, none had ever made it past committee; like
Albus himself, young Percy had found himself in the minority as
the new generation swept into power.
Albus took another sip of his firewhiskey. A shame, that. A
good, pliable boy, Percy had been one of Albus' choices for a
future Minister, too, but like his father before him he'd been
sidelined into a dead-end post in the Ministry because of his
politics. Such a pity he'd never reconciled with his family,
either.
Lavender Brown, her retinue and her guests had now left the
Cauldron's tap room, but in their wake a wisp of conversation
drifted back behind them, with a single recognizable word:
"firstborn". Albus scowled. Yet another perversion of the
proper order of things. The Muggleborn were supposed to keenly
desire assimilation into the greater Wizarding population, not
rejoice in their origins. That was the prime reason he'd seen to
it that no Hogwarts student had been truly punished for using the
term "mudblood" -- the sooner a Muggleborn or half-blood child
learned that their origins did them no favors, the sooner they
would become truly Wizarding. It was only logical, and had
worked so well with so many. Of course, some -- like Dolores
Umbridge -- went a bit too far, but that was the risk one took
when working to sculpt an entire society. It was another
pollution of Wizarding culture that Albus was sure he could lay
at Douglas' feet.
Epilogue III
Life's like a movie,
Write your own ending,
Keep believing,
Keep pretending.
-- "The Muppet Movie"
June 18, 2015
Nineteen years later...
Albus Dumbledore slid deeper into the shadows cloaking the end
of the booth in which he sat and stared into the amber depths of
the glass of firewhiskey before him. It wasn't Ogden's Finest --
even if his budget had allowed for it, he wouldn't waste Ogden's
on a drink on this of all days.
He picked up the glass and held it before him. "To Douglas
Sangnoir and Harry Potter," he muttered the annual toast too
softly to be heard by anyone else in the Leaky Cauldron. "Merlin
damn them both." He took a swig and toughed out the mouthful of
rotgut as steam shot from his ears.
In a year it would be an even two decades since the pair had
utterly and completely undermined his plans for the future of
Wizarding Britain by defeating Voldemort and his Death Eaters.
And not just defeating them, but doing so in a dramatic and
public manner using magics beyond those known to any other
witch or wizard of the time.
*And without me there to guide it all.* That was the worst part.
The mystic power of the DA, collectively and individually, was
undeniable, and when they attributed it all to Douglas, well,
that sealed the fate of Albus Dumbledore. Harry's star rose
while Albus' began its slow fall to ignominy.
At least Douglas, however much they had disagreed on methods and
means, had been above it all, even refusing an Order of Merlin.
"The kids did everything -- I was just there as backup." Not
that anyone believed his denials. The stories had spread of him
striding unaffected through a veritable storm of Killing Curses
to strike Voldemort down with a punch, then falling to a point-
blank curse from Tom himself just to *get up again* -- well, the
carefully-crafted folklore around young Harry had faded away in
the face of the *true* stories about Douglas Sangnoir, the now-
legendary Man-Who-Would-Not-Die.
And Douglas' subsequent "mysterious disappearance" upon his
departure from this timeline had only served to deepen his mythic
status, just as Harry's childhood hidden in the Muggle world had
deepened his. What had a mere man like Albus Dumbledore to offer
Wizarding Britain when it had two living gods in its recent
history to inspire it?
At the thought of gods, Albus scowled and took another swig of
his firewhiskey. Of all the things he hated Douglas Sangnoir
for, calling the Norns to Hogwarts was one of the greatest --
because afterward they had *never left*. For nineteen years now,
they had roamed the halls and classrooms with impunity, only ever
glimpsed by the staff at a distance, but *always* available to
the students. Albus doubted there was any student who had
attended Hogwarts in the last two decades who hadn't met one of
the gods who seemed to have taken it upon themselves to keep a
close and personal eye on *his* school. And although he
suspected their presence had as much to do with the continued
appearance of magical abominations among the children as Doug's
teachings had, he knew that it was also a direct message to him
-- that they were *always* watching and judging him.
Damn them.
A commotion at the Muggle-side door of the Cauldron dragged his
attention away from his firewhiskey, and his scowl deepened. It
was one of the abominations, Lavender Brown, in robes of the
brown and saffron which had been her signature colors since her
fifth year. With her were several of her pack, impeccably
dressed, as always, in the height of fashion. And... Albus
squinted and peered. Four young women accompanied her, wearing
outfits that were neither recognizably Muggle nor Wizarding...
and one looked to be almost a twin to Brown, right down to
wearing the same colors.
Was one of her hands *gold*? How odd.
From Brown's gestures and what little he could overhear at this
distance, it was clear they were strangers to the Cauldron and
Diagon Alley, and she was playing tour guide.
Albus shook his head and ignored them. Brown practically ruled
British werewolves these days, and under her influence they had
prospered even as "unfortunate incidents" dwindled away. It was
perhaps emblematic of his fall and the rise of the D.A.'s power
in Britain that when Brown had turned her eyes toward improving
the lot of her followers, abundant supplies of wolfsbane potion
had suddenly appeared, and new werewolf legislation more liberal
and comprehensive than any he had ever hoped to see had sailed
through the Wizengamot with appalling ease.
Her casual dismissal of his offer to advise her on that
legislation only underlined the degree to which his influence
had declined. Albus took another swig and reflected on how he'd
become an artifact of the "Bad Old Days", an unwanted fossil.
Even most of the Weasleys, who had always been his staunchest
supporters, now thought of him as an out-of-touch antique,
although they were too polite to say so to his face.
And the "why" of that all came back to Douglas -- Douglas and his
philosophy of overwhelming victory on the battlefield and off.
Under his tutelage the members of the Defense Association had
accepted and embraced his maxim, "Never leave an enemy behind to
attack you again". Far too many had seen the aftermath of
Voldemort's first campaign, erroneously concluded that nothing
had changed and sought to strike out at those who had followed
Tom even after they had been given a chance at redemption -- a
chance that those like young Severus had eagerly grasped.
Albus scowled into his firewhiskey. If there was anything he
hated Douglas for most, it was the murder of Severus Snape. (He
barely wrestled down the automatic urge to add "the Betrayer and
Oathbreaker" to the name, even in his private thoughts.) With
his death Albus had lost the greatest demonstration that his
approach had been the only correct way, that forgiveness could
trump hate. Instead, the Ministry and Wizarding society as a
whole now returned violence with violence, evil with evil,
depriving those who had foolishly embraced the Dark of the chance
to repent and turn back to the Light. Instead the massacre of
Tom and his followers had become a *model* for the Ministry's
future dealings with those who would overthrow it.
It didn't matter that Britain had enjoyed nearly twenty years of
unheard-of peace and prosperity because of it, that the economy
and population were both booming, and that two would-be Dark
Lords (poor, deluded Draco, Albus briefly mourned) and their
followers had been cut down almost as soon as they'd risen. The
stain on the nation's very soul would prove even more corrupting
than Voldemort's influence ever had. Albus *knew* it was only a
matter of time.
He just hoped he would live to see the day that it happened, when
Wizarding Britain would come crawling back to him to save them.
It was that hope, not some "curse of life" those gods had claimed
to have laid upon him, that had kept him going all these years.
In the meantime, the darkness had grown endemic. The resurrected
Myrtle Warren (he refused to acknowledge the hyphenated
"-Sangnoir" she preferred) had finally, after a half-century
hiatus, graduated with honors and gone on to become the first
certified Ministry necromancer in nearly a century, undoing all
Albus' efforts to bury that irretrievably Dark magic once and for
all. And Pansy Parkinson -- Harper, he corrected himself -- now
headed a cult of Darkness. Oh, they didn't call it that, but
there were hundreds of wizards and witches who had been deceived
by her claim that Darkness itself was Neutral and sought to
balance the evil done in its name, while extolling the concept of
"good" Darkness with talk of warm summer nights, the womb and
other nonsense.
Pansy had grown *dangerously* clever, he noted, and not for the
first time. Considering her sweet, endearing dimness as a child,
Albus suspected she had been possessed by some dark entity during
her fifth year, possibly even at Douglas' behest, and what had
posed as her since then was actually some manner of supernatural
evil in disguise. He shook his head. If only she had accepted
her proper destiny as Draco's loving wife -- both of them might
have been saved.
And he still had no idea what Hannah Abbott had become, except
terrifying and profoundly *dangerous*.
Fortunately not every student had been corrupted by Douglas'
influence. Percy Weasley had become an invaluable ally over the
years, replacing his father as Albus' loyal man in the Ministry.
Percy was in total agreement with him that the abominations were
a threat to traditional Wizarding culture, and had dutifully
proposed law after law restricting them and the magics that they
practiced. Sadly, none had ever made it past committee; like
Albus himself, young Percy had found himself in the minority as
the new generation swept into power.
Albus took another sip of his firewhiskey. A shame, that. A
good, pliable boy, Percy had been one of Albus' choices for a
future Minister, too, but like his father before him he'd been
sidelined into a dead-end post in the Ministry because of his
politics. Such a pity he'd never reconciled with his family,
either.
Lavender Brown, her retinue and her guests had now left the
Cauldron's tap room, but in their wake a wisp of conversation
drifted back behind them, with a single recognizable word:
"firstborn". Albus scowled. Yet another perversion of the
proper order of things. The Muggleborn were supposed to keenly
desire assimilation into the greater Wizarding population, not
rejoice in their origins. That was the prime reason he'd seen to
it that no Hogwarts student had been truly punished for using the
term "mudblood" -- the sooner a Muggleborn or half-blood child
learned that their origins did them no favors, the sooner they
would become truly Wizarding. It was only logical, and had
worked so well with so many. Of course, some -- like Dolores
Umbridge -- went a bit too far, but that was the risk one took
when working to sculpt an entire society. It was another
pollution of Wizarding culture that Albus was sure he could lay
at Douglas' feet.
-- Bob
I have been Roland, Beowulf, Achilles, Gilgamesh, Clark Kent, Mary Sue, DJ Croft, Skysaber. I have been
called a hundred names and will be called a thousand more before the sun grows dim and cold....
I have been Roland, Beowulf, Achilles, Gilgamesh, Clark Kent, Mary Sue, DJ Croft, Skysaber. I have been
called a hundred names and will be called a thousand more before the sun grows dim and cold....