Disclaimer: If I were a wizard, I could put a spell on J. K. Rowling and make her give me the rights to the Harry Potter series. However, I am not a wizard. Ergo, I do not own Harry Potter. Just in case you were confused about that.

A Change of Heart

The room before him really was fascinating, Albus Dumbledore decided. It was filled with a myriad of strange magical objects, such as a mirror that revealed a long, dark passageway rather than a reflection, light flickering eerily at irregular intervals deep within the tunnel; a pair of magnificent canaries singing brightly that, upon closer inspection, revealed themselves to be made entirely of precious gemstones; and a seemingly unobtrusive jewelry box, which was emitting a faint, sinister melody that caused an uneasy lightheadedness in the room's sole occupant.

However, Albus Dumbledore was captivated not by the enchanted artifacts surrounding him, but rather the knowledge that he was inhabiting an area that had housed many of the greatest magical minds of Britain over the past millennium: the office of the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

As a student, he had been here multiple times, to receive some award or another, to accept congratulations on an article published in an international journal, to meet famous witches and wizards with whom he had been in correspondence. This occasion, however, was of a different sort. Albus was waiting anxiously for a meeting with the current Headmaster; a Headmaster who was, by his watch, thirteen minutes late.

At last, he heard the stone gargoyle below scraping open. A few seconds later, Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black climbed into view, scowling.

"Good evening, Professor Black," said Albus Dumbledore softly, bowing his head a fraction of an inch.

The man grumbled a barely intelligible reply before sinking sulkily into the chair behind the elaborate wooden desk occupying the center of the room. He met Dumbledore's gaze briefly before turning sharply to glare at the jeweled songbirds, whose warbling had increased upon his entrance. He whipped out his wand and pointed it at them. "Silencio," he barked. The singing immediately ceased, leaving only the soft tinkling of the music box to disrupt the silence.

"I have yet to rid myself of those troublesome pests. My predecessor left them behind when he retired. I suppose he expects me to deal with them, as if I don't have enough to worry about, controlling the miserable, flea-bitten, pathetic excuses for wizards that we call students." Phineas scowled. He glanced back at Dumbledore. "Well?"

Dumbledore blinked. "Well what, sir?"

The Headmaster's scowl deepened. "Why are you here bothering me, Albus? Don't you have better things to do, prizes to win, magical discoveries to make?" he practically spat.

A sad smile spread across Dumbledore's face. He said softly, "Actually, sir, as I said in my owl, I desire to become a teacher here at Hogwarts. I was told that Professor Lovegood retired from his post as Transfiguration teacher and I am curious as to whether that position has been filled."

Phineas looked incredulous. "Why would you want to become a teacher, Albus? You have talent; why waste it slaving away, attempting to teach snot-nosed brats who can barely write their names to turn goblets into geckos?" Dumbledore shrugged, as if to indicate that he had no response. Phineas studied him for a moment before sighing once again. "You were a brilliant student," he conceded reluctantly. "Perhaps you can cure some of these dunderheads of their idiocy."

A huge smile spread across Albus Dumbledore's young but careworn face. "Thank you very much, sir. You do not know how much this means to me."

Phineas flapped his hand impatiently. Before he could respond, however, a sonorous crash shook the room, followed by a series of angry yells. The Headmaster swore, rising from his desk. "Stay here," he ordered Dumbledore. "When I return, we shall discuss the terms of your employment."

Dumbledore watched the older man hustle angrily down the staircase before turning again to watch the canaries. With a wave of his wand, he removed the Headmaster's enchantment, allowing the birds to sing once more. He then allowed his eyes to roam over the surrounding objects once more. They locked onto a battered item sitting forlornly in the far corner on an equally shabby wooden stool. The object itself seemed wholly unremarkable: a weathered wizard's hat drooping in a most dejected manner.

However, Dumbledore had seen this hat several times during his stay at Hogwarts. Without knowing quite why he did it, he strode across the room, scooped up the hat, and placed it upon his head.

"Well, well," a voice said in his ear. "Albus Dumbledore. It seems like only yesterday I was last sitting atop your head, trying to decide what to do with you. But it has been almost a decade, hasn't it?"

"Yes," responded Dumbledore, still uncertain as to why he was sitting there, wearing the school Sorting Hat as he had done nine years prior, back when life was simpler.

The hat chuckled. "Oh yes, I remember. I had quite the time trying to figure out where you would fit best. Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, I debated. Your intelligence was remarkable… Still is, I see. Equally incredible, though, was your bravery and kindness, your willing to help out those less able than you."

Dumbledore relaxed without realizing it. Why had he been worried, he wondered. What had he expected the hat to say?

He froze when the Sorting Hat continued, "Even I can't see the future, you know. Just because someone was one way when they were eleven doesn't mean that's who that person will be after a few years. I can only read people's minds, not their souls. The latter is what truly matters. Take you, for example." Dumbledore was trembling. "I had difficulty placing you, like I said. But never once did I consider Slytherin. There was nothing in you that indicated a thirst for power or an inclination toward manipulation. But now…" The hat laughed darkly.

"I see annoyance at others, resentment at being forced to hold yourself back for them."

The house in Godric's Hollow. His younger brother, sneering and glaring at Albus as though somehow their mother's death was his fault. Ariana in one of her fits, exploding the little porcelain centaurs their mother had kept over the fireplace, lighting their old, battered couch on fire.

"I see lust for power. I see your desire to control and rule over your inferiors."

He and a blond-haired boy sat huddled together on the floor, maps, books, and diagrams splayed out before them. The blond boy was talking animatedly, eyes shining with exhilaration. Phrases like "natural superiority," "the greater good," and "our world, yours and mine" floated through the air.

"I see a different kind of hunger, the all-consuming type that turns its object into an obsession."

The same blond boy was there, this time in a copse of trees out behind Albus's house. He was speaking again, but for once Albus was not listening to the words. He was focusing on the way the dappled sunlight danced over the boy's golden curls, they way his cerulean eyes danced with anticipation as he talked about their future plans. Albus suddenly didn't care what those plans entailed, as long as they kept him by this vivacious, brilliant person.

"I see unwillingness to accept fault and to take responsibility for your actions."

Ariana lay dead on the ground. The three men stood there, chests heaving, wands still pointing at one another. After a moment, Aberforth threw down his wand and rushed to the girl's side in a futile gesture of love and protection. Gellert was next to move, backing away slowly before hastily fleeing, never looking back. Albus stood, frozen still. One thought played infinitely in his head: It wasn't me. It can't have been me. This is not my fault!

"I see fear."

Albus and Aberforth were standing mutely in front of a small gravestone. It was raining, as befitted such a solemn occasion. Suddenly, Aberforth's shouting broke the silence. "You killed her! It's your fault she's dead! I bet you're happy, aren't you Albus? Now you can go off and be bloody brilliant, just like everyone expects, without a useless sister to tie you down!" That was when Aberforth punched Albus in the nose and stormed off. Albus remained frozen. The possibility that Aberforth might be right, the dread that it might have been his spell that ended his sister's life, kept him from speaking to his brother for many years to come and from following Gellert and begging him to return.

The hat sighed. "Perhaps I was wrong about you, Albus Dumbledore. Perhaps Slytherin would have been more appropriate for you. Well, even I make mistakes."

Dumbledore pulled the hat off his head, dazed. It had said exactly what he was afraid of, hadn't it? He dragged himself over to the chair in front of the Headmaster's desk and sat down. He had coveted power, despised to weak, felt proud of his abilities, felt that they made him superior, fit to rule. He was wrong. Albus Dumbledore vowed then never to seek power again, ever to try to rule over other human beings, magical or nonmagical. He locked away all thoughts of unbeatable wands.

Of death-defying stones.

Of domination.

Of golden curls, mischievous eyes, and selfish dreams.

This is just a little something that was floating around in my head. Let me know what you thought, please!

Humbly yours,

Shadow