Sweet Tooth | Albus Dumbledore

Chapter One

Albus Dumbledore was bored. It was only the third week of the holidays, and already he had read all the books he had brought from school. He had been so desperate for entertainment that he had also read one of his father's books on wizarding politics, three of his brother's animal books, two of his mother's cookery books and even a tattered magazine that belonged to his sister. Kendra was washing dishes from breakfast, and they clinked against the sink, scrubbing together, whilst she darned one of Aberforth's jumpers.

"Goodness, Albus, there's a thousand and one things to do with the house. You could go and do a bit of the shed before your father comes home."

Albus declined. He wasn't that bored. He went to find Ariana, who would often play chess or cards with him, but she was currently lying across her bed, peering into the wilderness beneath it.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for Reginald," she said, referring to her cat. "I can't find him."

"He's probably in the garden, mucking up all of the flowers. I'd better get him quick."

Leaving Ariana pulling a face as she found an abandoned plate of food, he made his way outside into the garden. Percival Dumbledore's flowers were his pride and joy. He spent each spring nurturing them, caring for them like a proud parent, each autumn preparing them for winter, each winter fussing over them and making sure they weren't cold. Every day in summer he liked to look out at them and sigh in satisfaction as they raised their colourful heads to the sun. But currently, those colourful heads were being trampled, as a black blur ran through the flowerbeds, chasing something small.

"Reginald! There you are, you little beast!"

Albus caught the cat as it shot past him. He yowled and wriggled, but Albus held him away from his body. He and his father had never liked the cat, and the feeling was entirely mutual. Reginald was the feline equivalent of a fat and grumpy old man, and one who enjoyed inflicting the odd bit of pain and suffering. He glared at Albus through slitted eyes as the boy made to go back to the house, but stopped as he saw the back door of the neighbouring house open. Grumpy cat forgotten, Albus stood still, staring over the wall as possibly the oddest looking person he had ever seen in his life emerged from the house, which belonged to an elderly couple. He – it was almost certainly a he – wore a pair of strange and heavy goggles, short sandy hair sticking straight up.

He wore an ordinary shirt and trousers, with strange yellow braces. Oddest of all, he was on fire. Albus watched in shock as flames burned on his back, and the boy ripped off his braces and shirt, beating at them. The cat took the opportunity to escape through the open door, but before Albus could do anything, the other boy had beaten the flames down and sighed in relief, pushing his goggles up and just noticing Albus staring at him. Heat flooded to Albus' cheeks as he realised the situation – himself, standing with his arms open as though still holding the cat, the boy with no shirt. His chest was pale and thin. "Well," he said awkwardly. "This is certainly a strange introduction."