Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the related characters JKR does. New York Mining Disaster 1941 is a Bee Gee's tune. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is by Hunter S Thompson, owned by his estate presumably. ANZAC stands for Australia New Zealand Army Corps, ANZAC biscuits were baked by the Country Womens Association and shipped to the troops as a morale booster, late became a common household item. I don't own any of those either.
A/N: This started out as a story of something important Dumbledore learned at a Star Trek Convention in the 70's, and it mutated into this. I will probably still write the other story at some point.
After the death of Sirius Black, NOT the Headmasters Office
“Some people need killing Headmaster.” Death-eaters needed to be taken out HARD, the recent fight had convinced him of that.
“Harry...” Dumbledore paused for a second, clearly looking for the words to express himself and having a hard time of it. “I am very...”
“Disappointed in you?” Potter continued the sentence from where the old man had trailed off. He was still in an emotional state from the events of the Ministry. His godfather dead saving him from his own actions, his friends badly injured, and the Death-eaters probably already released after a quick bribe to Fudge and a press statement about them being ‘clearly imperious-ed!’?
“Depressed beyond words that you are right.” The aging wizard looked into the green eyes of his student and felt tired beyond words. “I have spent decades trying to avoid the truth of your statement. I hate violence and killing in all their forms and for any reason Harry, all the more so because I am actually rather better at them then at peaceful pursuits.”
12 Grimmauld Place was indeed a grim, old place and the room they were in was not even the most cheerful available. It was secure though, with Moody having personally checked it and put up extra wards so their conversation would not be overheard. The two sat in overstuffed chairs with a small table between them that had tea and biscuits on it. A somewhat civilised setting that nether the less had the only surviving Potter thinking of a song he had heard once, titled ‘New York Mining Disaster 1941’ with such cheerful lyrics as ‘...I keep straining my ears to hear the sound, maybe someone is digging underground, or have they given up and all gone home to bed, thinking those that once existed must be dead....’
It was that kind of house.
No wonder Sirius was happy to be fighting a battle to the death with a dozen psychotic racist terrorists. At least he hadn’t had to be here eating Kreature’s bloody ANZAC biscuits. Why was an English house elf making biscuits named after World War One antipodeans anyway? What next, Ghurkha toast, French Foreign Legion bloody omelette's?
“I gave him the recipe, which I picked up in Sydney just before Tom’s first attempt at taking over.” Albus stated calmly.
“Were you doing legilimacy on me headmaster?” The BWL demanded to know, sick of the headmaster and his potions master’s invasion of privacy.
“Harry, you were shouting and waving your arms around, your magic aura was actually lighting up the room.” The headmaster of Hogwarts stated. “Neither of us is being our normal selves is he, I wonder why?”
The old man sipped at his tea again, noticing its lemon flavour and sweetness. He had asked for it done this way and persuaded young Potter to try it as an experiment, now he wondered.
“Kreature!” Dumbledore demanded the elf’s presence.
“Leader of Blood Traitors asks for Kreature?”
“Did you flavour this tea with lemon juice and honey as I asked?”
“No.” The nasty tempered elf responded. “Blood traitors not deserve real lemon; I put your lemon drops in the teapot instead.”
“My lemon drops from my office or my lemon drops from my personal recreational supplies I specifically told you never to mention to the Auror’s?”
“Personal stock lemon drops most valuable so first of nasty mudblood lover’s things used.” The elf was rubbing his hands together while talking, either cold or doing a bad evil overlord impression.
Well that at least explained why he and Harry's minds were drifting off onto such strange tangents anyway. He had acquired the recipe from a writer named Dr Gonzo during a visit to Las Vegas once. A modified version of the trip appeared as a book, ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’, with himself recast as a Samoan Attorney.
Of course given the state the good Dr had been in it was entirely possible he actually thought he had spent the week in the company of a three hundred pound Samoan attorney.
“Dobby.” The leader of the light said.
“Headcase bumblebee asks for Dobby?” The former Malfoy house elf was at best odd but had taken Dumbledore’s measure very quickly.
“Harry has had rather too much medication after his injuries.” The Headmaster said. “Do you perchance know somewhere quiet and safe you can look after him until they wear off? Oh and relive him of his wand for the duration, no telling how he will react when he starts seeing the giant green and yellow bats.”
“Dobby knows good place.” With that the elf and student disappeared.
It was two weeks later before Albus Dumbledore realised Harry Potter was nowhere to be found. The search for him was not helped by Dumbledore not remembering anything after his second cup of stoner tea, and Dobby’s conviction that on past experience the Headmaster was one of the people Harry had to be kept safe from. Lord Harry James Potter-Black showed up to catch the Hogwarts Express with a tan, a working knowledge of the language Yoruba and a smile not even Severus Snape was able to remove.