Albus Dumbledore is used to hearing confessions. Typically, they’re little things; the small tragedies and malignancies of everyday life. A predisposition to drink, an absent father, the threepenny affairs of farmers, magicians, and cheats.
It’s a rarer reward, to chance upon a tale so weighty, poignant as it is with the shape of desperation and self-loathing. He savours the words, and pretends to do anything but – if not a particularly good man, Albus at least recognizes the motions, and the grief in Graham’s face is honestly moving. He listens, quiet and attentive, as the words spill out, as Will winds himself up (like the hands of a clock, set carefully to remind himself of a rationale too easily cluttered into rapidity).
He listens, yes, and he waits for Will to finish. There’s sympathy to his eyes, clear and plain. When he speaks again, it’s softer, though absent of its earlier springing warmth.
“Will,” Albus finally breaks for the man’s first name. ”Look about you for a moment, please. Which House do you find yourself in now?”
He watches, but doesn’t seem too concerned for an answer, continuing on.
“Not Hel, I should think, but Sigyn. The House of builders, growers, of those that would mend and shape. Those without life to them – without experience in living – should not find themselves here, for life is this god’s most principle focus.”
“Understand that I do not say this to malign Hel and those within it, only to underscore that you are defined by far more than the work and world that you have left behind you. Understand also that it is not my wish to attempt to press-gang you into duties unwanted, or disturbing.” Albus cants his head again, an overgrown pigeon in spectacles. “I came to you, Will, because you strike me as a caring man; one who feels deeply, and who possesses the courage and strength of character to admit to that emotion. Not such a very widespread gift, and one invaluable to understanding the complexities of the situation that Merope finds herself in.”
Empathy. Even if only for a pack of street mutts.
“We all make mistakes, Will, and we each sacrifice much for them. The horrors that we experience do not themselves make us horrible. You have been forced to make difficult, ugly, brutal decisions, in name of greater cause. They are not choices that are ever asked lightly, and they are not always choices that are wholly ours to make. If there is anything that I have faith of you for, it is that you have not done so callously. Speaking with honesty of your reservations has made that much apparent.”
Albus considers him, chin tipping back upright.
“Truthfully, there is nothing to apologize to me for, Mr. Graham. Were the situation any less than this, I suspect that I would owe you a few of your own. Thank you for trusting me enough to speak of it now. In turn, I shall trust that you will use your best judgment with regards to the matter of Mrs. Riddle. Take that time which you need to consider, and contact me when you've come to a conclusion.“
i wrote this in prose and i'm too lazy to switch it sorry
It’s a rarer reward, to chance upon a tale so weighty, poignant as it is with the shape of desperation and self-loathing. He savours the words, and pretends to do anything but – if not a particularly good man, Albus at least recognizes the motions, and the grief in Graham’s face is honestly moving. He listens, quiet and attentive, as the words spill out, as Will winds himself up (like the hands of a clock, set carefully to remind himself of a rationale too easily cluttered into rapidity).
He listens, yes, and he waits for Will to finish. There’s sympathy to his eyes, clear and plain. When he speaks again, it’s softer, though absent of its earlier springing warmth.
“Will,” Albus finally breaks for the man’s first name. ”Look about you for a moment, please. Which House do you find yourself in now?”
He watches, but doesn’t seem too concerned for an answer, continuing on.
“Not Hel, I should think, but Sigyn. The House of builders, growers, of those that would mend and shape. Those without life to them – without experience in living – should not find themselves here, for life is this god’s most principle focus.”
“Understand that I do not say this to malign Hel and those within it, only to underscore that you are defined by far more than the work and world that you have left behind you. Understand also that it is not my wish to attempt to press-gang you into duties unwanted, or disturbing.” Albus cants his head again, an overgrown pigeon in spectacles. “I came to you, Will, because you strike me as a caring man; one who feels deeply, and who possesses the courage and strength of character to admit to that emotion. Not such a very widespread gift, and one invaluable to understanding the complexities of the situation that Merope finds herself in.”
Empathy. Even if only for a pack of street mutts.
“We all make mistakes, Will, and we each sacrifice much for them. The horrors that we experience do not themselves make us horrible. You have been forced to make difficult, ugly, brutal decisions, in name of greater cause. They are not choices that are ever asked lightly, and they are not always choices that are wholly ours to make. If there is anything that I have faith of you for, it is that you have not done so callously. Speaking with honesty of your reservations has made that much apparent.”
Albus considers him, chin tipping back upright.
“Truthfully, there is nothing to apologize to me for, Mr. Graham. Were the situation any less than this, I suspect that I would owe you a few of your own. Thank you for trusting me enough to speak of it now. In turn, I shall trust that you will use your best judgment with regards to the matter of Mrs. Riddle. Take that time which you need to consider, and contact me when you've come to a conclusion.“
He moves to stand.