#because they got a donkey up the astronomy tower and dressed it like the current minister and Harroway was laughing too hard to do anything

[wellpresseddaisy]

The Demon Prefect Rides Again

Bertram Harroway put on his evening clothes as if headed to war. In a way, he was. It would be an emotional war, he supposed. He let his valet help him into his coat and glanced down at the letter from Vera Dalrymple that kicked the whole thing off.

Darling Bertie,

That certainly wasn’t what she’d called him when he found her in a compromising position with Hector Grantham in her fifth year. And Eliza Dearborne in her sixth.

As you are possibly the only person on this planet who can make Albus Dumbledore mind you,

He thought, perhaps, one other existed, but it didn’t do to dwell on Gellert Grindelwald. He’d never liked the little wart, no matter how infatuated Albus was with him.

could you please do something about him? I popped into town last weekend and ran into him in Diagon. He looks dreadful. And his robes!

Bertram sighed. He knew precisely what Vera meant.

He’s gone old on us. I know it started creeping up on him in the aftermath of That Man followed on by That Gobby Upstart in the seventies, but something is really, terribly wrong. I suspect a whacking great load of guilt and grief, but really, Bertie, he looks like a stiff wind will carry him off. He looks more like he’s in the middle of his two-hundreds than just past his first century.

Trust Vera to look at a dark lord terrorizing the country and call him a gobby upstart. He’d seen photos of Albus recently and he agreed with Vera. Voluminous robes only his so much and Albus always had been nervy, no matter what he pretended otherwise for the magical public.

Honestly Bertie, I’m worried. He’s always worked much too hard and taken on too much responsibility, but he’s never been so frail before. He wouldn’t even go to tea with me and there is little Albus Dumbledore loves more than a cream tea and a good gossip. He doesn’t go anywhere, either. He used to love the theater and I can’t remember when he last made up part of a theater party. I think he might be punishing himself, in some bizarre way.

That was the part that spurred him into action. A quick note to the Deputy Headmistress and he secured a Saturday evening away for Albus.

He isn’t researching and he won’t meet with friends and it’s as if all he’ll allow himself is duty. It can’t go on. It simply can’t, Bertie. You remember how he got after exams? We’re headed for a crash the likes of which we’ve never seen and I’m so frightened it’ll take him from us. You’re the only one I could think of who might get through to him. Our Vally needs the Demon Prefect to come out of mothballs.

He'd see what he could do. Vally Dumbledore (nicknamed for the way he’d valiantly come to the defense of anyone he thought wronged) was the most infuriatingly stubborn young man he’d ever met.

We’ll plan a little reunion for all of us this summer. Dahlia wants everyone to see her gardens, in any case. She’s doing some interesting things with roses these days. Or perhaps, if you can persuade Vally to take care of himself, we could make up a theater party. I hear the latest from that Carruthers girl is splendid fun.

With love and thanks,

Vera

PS It probably isn’t my place to say so, but I’m going to anyway. He always had. G.P. for you and you ought to have swept him off his feet, all Oxford-polished, before That Man had a chance to get his hooks in. You helped create this problem by being as obtuse as a box turtle, so you can fix it.

Bertie sighed and went down to the Floo room. He knew he bore some responsibility in never acknowledging his own feelings. He simply hadn’t thought it appropriate since he was a perfect and then Head Boy. He could easily have picked up their acquaintance once Albus left Hogwarts. Although…there came a point where Albus pushed everyone away after his mother died, when all those lovely plans he’d made fell through so he could care for his sister. He never really let any of them back in after.

He wondered if he could have made a difference there, kept Albus from ending up so cut off from the academia he loved that he clung to the only person able to keep up with him. They would never know, he supposed.

He checked his pocket watch and collected coat and hat from his hovering valet.

“Thank you, Deverell. Don’t feel the need to wait up if I’m late returning.”

“Of course, sir.” If he didn’t know better, he’d think his valet quietly judging him.

Most likely the man judged his early departure. If he knew Vally as well as he once did, it would take quite a bit of persuasion to rout him out of his office and make him dress properly, especially if Vera was right and he was somehow punishing himself for his failures, perceived or otherwise.

Vera, irksomely, was usually right.

As he stepped to the Floo and gave the direction, he wondered if he should bring his old slipper. It always made an impact on a  recalcitrant Vally.

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Hogwarts hadn’t changed in the decades since his leaving. Like Oxford, she endured, only she housed grubby schoolchildren instead of grubby undergrads. Professor McGonagall sending him through the internal Floo system came as a surprise. He’d never really thought about the professors needing to get somewhere quickly before.

He stepped out into the Headmaster’s office and brushed the slight traces of soot from his clothes.

“Good evening, Vally.” He began.

Albus looked up sharply from a thick book propped on his desk.

“Bertram Harroway? What are…how…”

He ended by staring as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. Thankfully, he looked a good bit better than Vera described. Still too thin, of course, but he’d always forgotten meals or spent an hour just moving his dinner about his plate when in the grip of An Idea (or nerves). He looked as if he'd let go of some of the guilt and grief weighing him down. His hair, which had turned white practically overnight, had regained its more youthful ginger hue. The deep lines carved into his face by decades of worry seemed to have filled in. He looked more like he ought to look, like a non-magical of fifty or sixty instead of a man nearing the end of his life.

“Vera sent me, Vally. She said you’re getting old and could do with a bit of livening up. I thought you might like a night out. I have a box at the Savoy. They’re doing Pinafore at the moment and I know how you feel about well done G and S.” He moved into Albus’ office, helping himself to a chair when Albus continued to stare.

“Vera Dalrymple said she’d rather be boiled in Frederica Morningside’s failed potions projects than ever communicate with you again via any medium.” Albus finally spoke.

“I had just gated her for the rest of term. You can’t blame her for being distraught.”

“I couldn’t possibly go out on such short notice. This whole idea is patently ridiculous.” Albus nodded firmly, as if he’d made up his mind.

“You can go and get dressed right now is what you can do.” Bertram insisted. “The show starts at eight and I booked a table for supper after, at the Palace.”

“India Palace?” He at least looked interested at that. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve been there.”

The wistful note in his voice belied his firm refusal.

“It was the day you got Greta Saatchi’s autograph after standing in pouring rain for two hours and we spent a further two getting you properly warm again when you returned.” He chuckled at the memory.

How had they been that carefree?

Well, he hadn’t. He’d had to play the heavy when the miscreants tried to slip back into the castle with the Hogsmeade crowd, as if they hadn’t slipped off to London for a matinee and a curry. Albus shifted slightly, as if remembering Bertram’s method for warming him up.

“We were thrilled when you finally left to terrorize Oxford, did you know?”

“I’m sure you were. I’ve returned just to terrorize you, Vally, you know?”

“Oh how lucky am I.” Albus replied acidly. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve decided.”

How well he remembered that rather sulky tone. He certainly heard it often enough.

“I suppose I could go and fetch my slipper if you need convincing? I don’t care to see Vera so distressed, you know.”

It wasn’t often that anyone shocked Albus Dumbledore into complete silence.

“You still have that…that thing?” It always entertained Bertram to see shades of their youth in his friends.

“Of course I do. It’s an exceedingly motivating piece of footwear. Now, be a good chap and go get dressed. Theater waits for no man and Professor McGonagall assured me you were overdue for a night out. Something about you working all hours?” He put a bit of the old Demon Prefect in that one, the same tone he’d used countless times when locating an Albus who quite forgot about such mundanities as curfews.

Albus was out of his chair and halfway to the door to his quarters when he stopped.

“What do you mean Professor McGonagall assured you?” he asked waspishly.

“Of course I wrote her first to ensure you could have a nice evening with an old friend. It’s no use organizing a surprise one can’t pull off in the end.”

Albus gaped at him. “You cannot just go about organizing the world as you please.”

“It’s worked for me thus far.” Bertram answered mildly. “Do go and get dressed, Vally.”

“I can go as I am.” Albus insisted.

“Oh no you are not. I know you own perfectly nice evening clothes. Go and put them on.” He cared very much for Albus, but he’d rather chew his own arm off than attend a public event with Albus wearing golden yellow robes patterned with swirling suns. “We aren’t leaving until you are attired to my satisfaction.”

Albus stared at him for a moment before turning, very clearly not stomping to the door, and entering his quarters. He shut the door just shy of a bang.

Bertram settled down, quite pleased with his evening’s work. They’d make the theater in a timely manner now, and he could treat Albus to a lovely meal after. He’d have to suggest Dahlia and Hitty invite a little party for dinner one evening. And perhaps Albus would join him for the theater more frequently now. Albus, now more than ever, needed the people who cared for him to pull together.

The feelings he once thought faded raised their heads again, like a parched garden in the rain.