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The door to the Headmaster's Office banged shut, the sound echoing throughout the room in the wake of the whirlwind that was a rage-filled grieving teenage boy.
Albus Dumbledore watched the door to his office close and silently contemplated the mess surrounding him. Harry Potter's magic had gone wild, leaving everything topsy-turvy and unrecognisable. Plates and vials were shattered, his runic instruments had stopped ticking, the books on the shelves had been yanked out with all their pages ripped, and all the Headmasters' portraits were scattered in a pathetic heap on the floor. Albus' desk sported a big crack down the middle, and his chair creaked loudly every time he breathed. The Sorting Hat sat upside down on the rug by the fireplace, grumbling away at the abuse, while two dozen of Albus' sherbet lemons melted away inside its now-sticky depths. What a disaster.
Albus put his head in his hands and sighed. His chair creaked with the effort.
"First Cedric Diggory, now Sirius," he murmured into his hands. "How many more need to die before their sacrifice is worth something?"
But Albus already knew the answer. There was just one—a confused, terrified, dangerously brave young fifteen-year-old boy whose world was only just opening up before him. A scared, lonely, weary boy who had already lost so much in his young life. A boy who Albus inexplicably loved.
No, Harry wasn't ready yet. Harry hadn't lived enough for it to be a good time; he couldn't die yet. And even if he was, Albus couldn't be the one to tell him. He just couldn't.
Maybe Albus was the one who wasn't ready.
"Dumbledore, you old coot," came an irate voice from the direction of the floor, "cease your mind-wandering this instant and affix me to the wall where I belong. There's a boot print in front of my face."
Albus shook his head and sighed again. This was the hardest job of assuming the role of a leader—when wartime came, everyone looked to the one in the spotlight, but when it came time to put the pieces of himself back together, he was all alone. The chair creaked its agreement.
"Yes, yes, I know, Phineas," he murmured, straightening up wearily. His bones felt like they had been replaced with rusted metal. "Not to worry; I'll fix you all up."
With effort, he raised his hand up and waved it around once, casting enough magic to swirl around the entire room in one go. The portraits collectively grumbled their thanks.
In one blink, his office was back to itself. Books retook their place, vials were refilled with their potions, and the Sorting Hat was perched again on its shelf, scrubbed clean of all lemony indignities. Fawkes' cage had been the only thing in the room that had been spared by Harry's rage, and it filled Albus' heart with guilt to see it untouched, even as the rest of the things in the room swirled and twirled and flew in a bid to right itself.
Even in the midst of blinding grief, Harry's protective heart never wavered. Albus could see it now, from the way he rallied his friends at the Ministry to this simple, unthought act of keeping Fawkes safe. The newborn phoenix squawked in low tones from his perch in the cage, sounding just as exhausted and aged as Albus felt. Fawkes' rebirth at the battle in the Department of Mysteries must have worn him out.
"I know, Fawkes," Albus murmured, smiling sadly at the little bald creature. "Harry's a good lad. But this… this has to be done. For the greater good." He swallowed. "Eventually."
Eventually. But not today.
Tired as Albus was, he knew he had to go on. For every new day that he took charge, Harry was spared. And Albus… well, Albus wanted Harry to be spared.
The war would rage on. Good men would die. Battles would be lost. Albus would encounter a thousand more as-yet-unexplored ways to feel helpless.
But if it kept Harry safe for one more day, Albus would bear the brunt of this world's madness till the day he died.