Growing up Pureblooded

Turnabout Is Fair Play

On a misty Monday morning in late March, Albus Dumbledore was whistling merrily as he descended down the stone staircase that led from his quarters into his office, holding a steaming cup of freshly-brewed tea in his hand. He made his way over to his large desk and turned over a few papers. He let out a quiet sigh. Alas, paperwork continued to be the bane of his otherwise happy existence. Dumbledore set his cup down and took a seat in his chair. He was surprised to notice a large envelope lying in the center of his desk, underneath a few other papers. He had not seen it the night before. He took out his favorite letter-opener and slit open the envelope. Inside, he found a single large piece of parchment. It was completely blank.

Dumbledore unfolded the parchment and stared at it intensely. He had far too much experience with magic to think that it was simply a spare bit of parchment. After a few seconds, words began to appear. They were written in a vaguely familiar hand.

Messrs Moony, Padfoot and Prongs
wish to dedicate
this production of their new comedy
'Turnabout is Fair Play'
to their esteemed Professor,
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.

Enjoy!

Dumbledore frowned at the parchment, and then there was a sudden, blinding flash of light. When Dumbledore recovered his eyesight, his entire office was plastered with photographs of himself with Gellert Grindelwald, and the harsh music of Schwartz's "March of the Warlocks" filled the air. Over the loud music, Dumbledore could make out disturbingly familiar voices reading words that he wished desperately he could forget.

"Dear Gellert," recited Remus Lupin's voice. "I was thinking about your idea of internment camps for Muggles, and I think you are quite right. Such camps will prove necessary on an interim basis, until we can cement the absolute dominance of wizards..." Dumbledore went white. How could they possibly have found out about his youthful indiscretions?

"Oh Gellert!" Sirius Black read. "I am so glad that we have met. I have never before found another wizard of such brilliance and ambition. I think we were fated to be together..." As if this were not quite enough, there then followed a voice that Dumbledore had never imagined he would hear again in this lifetime.

"I find I am always thinking of him," James Potter read from a journal that Dumbledore had believed to be lost. James – or rather, Dumbledore supposed, his portrait – used every ounce of that unique talent he had always possessed to make even the most serious matters sound utterly ridiculous. "From cockcrow to sunset, and all through..."

"Finite Incantatem!" Dumbledore intoned, and everything stopped. The pictures vanished, the music ceased. The words on the parchment changed, and Dumbledore looked down to read them.

Dear Professor Dumbledore, the letter now read.

You should be aware that what you have just witnessed is only a tiny foretaste of what we are capable of doing. We don't care about the impact of our actions on your schemes or on any hypothetical future confrontation with Voldemort. For us, the only Greater Good is that of our family.

Our representative will be arriving shortly in order to discuss the terms of your surrender. Remember, you started this one.

Sincerely yours,

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black (and Associates)

There was a knock on the door. "Come in," Dumbledore said, and in walked Cassiopeia Black, escorted by Professor McGonagall. "Miss Black would like to speak with you, Headmaster," said McGonagall. Her tone was annoyed. She had never got on with Cassiopeia Black. "Thank you, Minerva," Dumbledore replied. "You may leave." The Transfiguration mistress shut the door quietly, and the Headmaster turned his attention to Cassiopeia. "Good morning, Miss Black," he said. "I trust you are the representative I've been told to expect." Cassiopeia smirked triumphantly, and Dumbledore resigned himself to a very painful series of negotiations.