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Once the Yellow Warlock had thrown him back to the Hogwarts Grounds, Dumbledore had no choice but to walk among the dead.
His journey started far beyond Hogsmeade's periphery.
Despair…
Dumbledore had, with bitter irony, considered himself its master.
He could breathe the very concept of Despair, wear it like a cloak, and burn it to amplify his magical abilities.
Having the Elder Wand, one of the three Deathly Hallows, made it easier, as Dumbledore doubted he could have channeled such amplified abilities through ordinary Wands.
Dumbledore — Lord Black Phoenix — Master of Despair — Wielder of the Elder Wand…
Dumbledore — Lord of Ashes — Master of Disappointment — Wielder of… nothing…
He looked at the people who lay on the dirt road with their mouths open, their eyes wide in a disgusting fusion of terror and relief.
He looked at their bodies.
Pus. Rashes. Blood. Piss. Filth.
Dumbledore struck his chest as a gagging sensation rose in his throat.
Gag? Was he really going to gag at these people… people who had put their trust in him… people from all over the world who had abandoned their homes to come here, putting their faith in what — him?!
Dumbledore stopped.
He looked at the girl seated on the road with her back against a wall, staring at him.
Black motes of light, like fireflies from hell, stormed toward him from all directions, merging into the Cloak of Despair he wore.
Dumbledore tore his gaze away from the girl, who kept looking at him without blinking, his heart grinding into dust within.
He found himself getting old.
He could feel the pain in his knees.
He could sense the heaviness in his lower back.
Even his vision, which had gained crystal-like clarity, blurred.
Dumbledore did not know how he reached Hogwarts, because it couldn't have been he who had been walking all this while.
Minerva, Snape, Slughorn, and the others came running toward him.
Their words entered his mind, becoming memories.
An antidote…
Dumbledore looked past the people smiling at him, telling him the good news.
But all he saw was death, destruction, madness, and doom.
All he felt was Despair.
No antidote could bring back the people who had already died.
No antidote could bring back the parents, the children, the husbands, the wives, the brothers, and the sisters.
Even if the rest were saved now, Despair had already settled in their hearts.
Dumbledore looked up toward the sky, where the Death Star that had plagued his conscience for months had disappeared.
The night sky was clear, cradling a crescent moon, stars twinkling carelessly overhead.
Dumbledore couldn't see that.
No moon appeared in his vision.
There were neither stars nor clouds.
All Dumbledore saw was a vortex of Despair, raining black snow, which rushed toward him, making him sickeningly mighty.
Mighty…
"Haha…" Dumbledore laughed, his vision blurring again.
The Professors, Aurors, and other figures surrounding him suddenly jolted.
This time, when his vision cleared, Dumbledore found himself staring at children.
Black. Draco. Harry. Ron. Darcie. Daphne. Hermione. And more. Hundreds of them. Not only from Hogwarts, but from other schools as well.
Only hundreds of them…
He was saying something — something encouraging, surely.
The children, the professors, the survivors — they were cheering him.
What had he promised them this time? Revenge? A brighter future? A peaceful world?
Dumbledore's vision darkened.
When light re-entered his pupils, he was in his office, the members of the Order of the Black Phoenix hurrying out, looking determined.
Did he do it again?
Did he cast the die of false hope once more?
Did he speak those words full of hypocrisy, begging them to trust him?
No.
Not everyone was gone.
How could he have missed him?
In the corner of his office was Fawkes.
As his Spirit Companion noticed his gaze, it left its corner and came flying toward him with a fiery flap of its wings.
Dumbledore let out a whimpering cry.
Fawkes had already gained black plumage ever since Dumbledore had accepted Despair.
Now… the phoenix looked indistinguishable from a shadow, as if someone had painted it pure black.
The black phoenix perched on the desk and nudged his fingers, tears streaming from its eyes.
As those tears touched Dumbledore's skin, the lingering traces of Lust within his body vanished.
It changed absolutely nothing.
The Despair around him, within him, had risen to such heights that it had smothered all other concepts.
[Do you want to bring them back?]
It wasn't the Half-Deep One, Dumbledore instantly realized.
Because the Phoenix from Avalon would never ask this question.
[Help me push them out, Dumbledore,] the Timeline said. [Help me become a Pillar. And everything will be restored. Everything.]
She didn't wait for his answer.
Dumbledore kept looking at Fawkes as if he hadn't heard Her at all.
Promises…
Was there any meaning left in them at all?
What about the promises he had made to the people?
Did they die thinking of those promises, cursing him, calling him a fraud?
Lord Black Phoenix — Supreme Commander of the Order of the Black Phoenix…
Lord Fraud — Supreme Commander of the Order of False Promises…
Dumbledore looked at his hands; hands that held the power to crush a world now.
But all he saw were hands that had lunged for an innocent, helpless woman while he was toyed with, all while his people kept dying like bugs.
Avalon…
The Order of the Immortal Lotus…
The two almighty Half-Deep Ones…
None of them cared about his people, nor about those who had died trusting in his name, in his reputation.
Reputation…
Black motes of light drifted through the open window, continuously becoming one with him.
But Dumbledore didn't see them as Despair.
He couldn't see them as power.
No.
Those black motes were curses.
They were what was left behind once people had abandoned hope.
How could Dumbledore ever see them as power when he clearly knew them for what they were?
How could Dumbledore ever see those black motes as anything but —
— Stains…