The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore by 
ficexchange
Merry Christmas, Chris (ChristyCorr)!
The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore
Blank page; Rita tapped her quill against the parchment impatiently. A good idea, and the perfect time to set it in motion, a nice ring to the title - now, the information to back it up, there was the problem.
The pub in Godric's Hollow was a pathetic, dry place that insisted on serving Muggle drinks and didn't carry Firewhiskey. The windows were all thrown open in hopes of tempting the breeze - from here, she could see the ruins of the old Potter home, and shuffled her seat around until the window was out of view.
Better.
She retraced her title idly, ignoring the thin crowds around her - just a few stragglers, the odd Muggle who didn't know where he was or what he was doing, the very occasional hag. She had a feeling that this was the place to begin - here, the story started, though the story itself eluded her. But there was a start here, and that was something.
It would be beautiful - her fabulous exposé on the beloved headmaster, her ticket to unending riches, fame, and glory. It would be wonderful - if only she could get it started.
She tapped the quill against the parchment and ordered a whiskey on the rocks.
--
Chapter One
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was born on 11 August 1881, the oldest son of Kendra and Percival Dumbledore. This is the last absolute fact we have concerning the headmaster until much later in his life, when he was appointed to the position of Transfiguration Professor at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Well, except that he was, of course, a gallant Gryffindor, and upholder of all those wonderful traits that Hogwarts has long held in high esteem, such as courage, determination, a strong work ethic.
A pretty picture, but unfortunately false, or at the very least, very, very blurry.
--
Rita wrinkled her nose. Not that she was telling lies, exactly - because, really, no one is perfect, and the headmaster must have had some major flaws - but simply that her proof had yet to be found. She would, of course, find it.
Yes.
Here, Godric's Hollow. She could almost smell it in the air - this is where the story began. In one move, she crumpled up the piece of parchment and started again - It all began in Mould-on-the-Wold, a dead old town somewhere in the backwaters of Wales, as the nineteenth century breathed its very last.
Much better.
--
Chapter One (Rewritten)
It all began in Mould-on-the-Wold, a dead old town somewhere in the backwaters of Wales, as the nineteenth century breathed its very last. He was born Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore - quite the name for such a young boy - the oldest son of Kendra and Percival Dumbledore. His early years are a foggy haze, and the author has tried, not unsuccessfully, to root out how he spent the first eleven years of his life.
What we do know: He had a younger brother, Aberforth, and a younger sister, Ariana. His father was imprisoned in Azkaban in 1890 for attacking Muggles.
You read that right, I'm afraid. The great champion of Muggles and Muggle-Borns himself, born to a father who shamelessly attacked the very people our late Headmaster strove to protect. One wonders how such a trauma would effect a boy of only nine, not even yet in Hogwarts.
Rumors abound as to why such an upstanding member of the Pure-Blood community would lash out at a few common Muggle boys - they say everything from "the man was mentally unstable" to "they attacked his wife."
The truth is nearly impossible to tell.
--
Rita frowned. That would never do.
Gathering up her quills and parchment, she stomped out of the pub and into the blinding summer light, hands on her hips. "Now," she muttered, "If I was a delicious secret about a dead old man, where would I hide?"
She knocked on Bathilda Bagshot's door, and let herself in.
--
Rumors abound as to why such an upstanding member of the Pure-Blood community would lash out a few common Muggle boys - they say everything from "the man was mentally unstable" to "they attacked his wife."
I am pleased to bring you, the readers, the unvarnished truth - a group of Muggle boys relentlessly attacked poor Ariana, leaving her in such a state that she was unfit to use magic! And so, in retaliation, the valiant father attacked back, and landed himself in Azkaban. From here, the family made its first move, to Godric's Hollow, the famous birthplace of Harry Potter, though at the time, it was little more than a small town with a few local celebrities, old Bathilda "Batty" Bagshot for one, who quickly became acquainted with the reclusive Dumbledores.
In fact, the renowned author was the only person the Dumbledores acquainted themselves with.
Two years later, Albus left for Hogwarts, was sorted into Gryffindor, and promptly left his family behind for the glories of academic excellence.
--
Batty's house stank of cabbages and musk. The floors were dirty, the seats coughed whenever touched, and the mantelpieces had long since surrendered to the dust and ash of too many years clinging to this mortal coil. Batty herself shuffled in, a short, raggedly old woman, who spoke in a hoarse voice that made Rita's own throat ache.
It was torture, pure torture, to sit and listen to this ancient creature recite history. She spoke in a deathly slow monotone when she spoke at all, and insisted on showing her every picture she could find hidden in old storage bins around her cluttered house. Normally, Rita wouldn't mind at all receiving so many photographs, but Bathilda moved slower than a constipated sloth and Rita was too anxious to sit still and watch an old woman wander around.
She considered getting up to help, but then, the woman might actually accept it, and she would have to touch the moldy boxes.
Rita leaned against the wall, tapping her foot impatiently, and then Bathilda said those magic words - "Oh, yes, there it is, the picture I was looking for. Albus and his old friend, Gellert Grindelwald."
Rita almost fainted, right there on the dusty old carpet.
--
Two years later, Albus left for Hogwarts, was sorted into Gryffindor, and promptly left his family behind for the glories of academic excellence.
AndthenhebefriendedtheDarkWizardGrindelwaldandOhMyGodthisisbetterthananythingIcouldhavedreamedup!
--
Several hours and several sheafs of photos and records later - which Bathilda wouldn't miss, if she even knew they still existed - Rita sat on the floor of the creaky inn, piecing together the fragments of the illustrious headmaster's life. It was better than anything she could have hoped for - letters, pictures, diary entries, plans, everything. It was beautiful.
Here, in front of her, at her fingertips, were all of Albus Dumbledore's sins, laid out in perfect order, just waiting for her to browse at her leisure.
All of his fears, these entries in the diary spelled them. All of his dreams, these letters told. The pictures were proof that the great Champion of the Light had himself fallen prey to Dark Magic. These plans were proof that it wasn't just a teenager's madness - he'd really intended to go about doing exactly what his friend Grindelwald did.
In fact, unless she was very much mistaken, he'd come up with many of Grindelwald's ideas, many of the things he'd put into play so many years ago. This would drive that moronic Elphias Doge up the wall.
Rita smiled.