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❨ chapter eight. ❩
❛ the proposition. ❜

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    SLACK-JAWED AND awestruck, Juliette stood rooted to her spot. A small voice in the back of her mind whispered that she ought to greet the famous old wizard standing at her doorstep, yet she found herself incapable of doing anything but staring at Dumbledore, who did not seem deterred in the slightest by her less than warm welcome — or lack thereof.

    "Good evening, Ms. Harte. I am Albus Dumbledore," he introduced himself rather unnecessarily, in Juliette's opinion. "I should, first and foremost, apologize most sincerely for not informing you earlier of my intent to visit. I happened to be crossing over London on my way back from an urgent business and, well, I thought I'd say hello. Is this a bad moment?"

    Juliette stared, certain her hearing was failing her. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she shook her head, not trusting herself with words yet.

    "Very good," said Dumbledore cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to Juliette's confusion. He gave his wand a flick, and the light extinguished from its tip. Then he pocketed the wand, clapped his hands together, and said, "Now, I'm going to assume you are a bit startled by my sudden, unannounced appearance, hence why you have not invited me in." She supposed she looked quite alarmed because Dumbledore raised a hand and shook his head. "No worries, no worries, Ms. Harte. Shall I take it that I am welcome into your charming home? I've brought a spice cake that I'm quite partial to. Perhaps you could fix us a pot of tea to go with it. Yes?"

    Juliette thought she must have nodded because the next moment, Dumbledore had smiled brightly and swept past her and walked into the apartment. Juliette locked the door behind him, still numb from shock. Of all the people she could have ever expected to turn up at her door, Dumbledore had never even crossed her mind.

    She followed Dumbledore into her own living room and watched him settle into the chintz armchair by the empty fireplace. She realized belatedly that an icy draught had settled into her apartment over the course of the day, and that the lone lamp in one corner of the room hardly provided sufficient light.

    "Perhaps a little warmth would do us good," said Dumbledore politely as he pulled out his wand from his robes and, pointing it towards the fireplace, gave it a small flick. Before her eyes, a fire roared into life, its flames licking up the white walls and shining off of the many frames that hung across the wall nearest the hearth. The fire had drenched the room in a warm, golden glow. It illuminated the dark, gleaming wood of the coffee table and the curved feet of the armchairs; it brought into view the ivory upholstery of her furniture, the assortment of colorful cushions she had adorned them with, and the plush carpets Lynette had insisted she buy. However, the most startling thing illuminated by the magical fire was the aged, bearded wizard sitting on her sofa. Somehow, seeing Albus Dumbledore in bright light made the entire scenario that much more surreal.

    She wanted nothing better than to ask him why he had appeared on her doorstep out of the blue, but somewhere in the back of her mind, she could almost hear her mother scowling. Over the many years she'd spent holed up in their family estate, Juliette had seen her mother tend to guests more times than she could count. And so, feeling as though she were nothing but a puppet being steered by the push and pull of invisible threads, Juliette moved towards the fireplace and stopped a few feet away from her unexpected guest.

    "Would you care for some tea, prof-uh, Mr. Dumbledore?" Juliette stammered, not knowing what to call him. He'd never been her professor, but calling him just Dumbledore felt rather rude.

    If Dumbledore noticed her reddening face, he chose to politely ignore it. Instead — "That would be most lovely, Ms. Harte. Oh, lest I forget . . ." Dumbledore stood up and reached into a pocket of his robes, pulling out a square, brown box neatly tied with a string of twine.

    "Orange spice cake," Dumbledore announced as he handed her the box, "I personally think it pairs with tea very well. I'd love to hear what you think."

    Juliette offered him a shaky 'thank you' and slipped into her small but well-stocked kitchen. Putting the kettle on, she poured herself a glass of cold water to ease her racing mind. Much to her dismay, she learned water did not help ease her anxious brain, for when she left her kitchen fifteen minutes later, carrying a tray of tea into the drawing room, she was just as confused and nervous as before.

    She found Dumbledore sitting exactly where she had left him, except he was now engrossed in one of the Muggle novels that crowded her mantle. 

    "Fascinating, this book," spoke Dumbledore, not looking up from the book in his hand. The fire glinted against the gold-edged paper, and Juliette realized it was one of the books from the collection of Shakespeare's works she'd bought shortly after moving into this apartment. "It never ceases to amaze me, the similarities between our world and the Muggle one."

    "Right," mumbled Juliette, offering Dumbledore a cup of tea, which he took with a small 'thank you'. She sat opposite him, a cup balanced upon her own knee. "Sir, can I ask you something?"

    Dumbledore smiled encouragingly. "But of course, Ms. Harte."

    "I'm sorry, but why - I mean, how come you're here?"

    "Oh, yes, I should have explained sooner. Your admirable collection of Muggle novels served as quite a distraction to this aging mind, you see," said Dumbledore calmly, though Juliette couldn't help but notice the sombre note that had slipped into his voice now. "Now, to answer your question, I am here to discuss a rather delicate matter with you, Ms. Harte. A matter which pertains to the grave situation our world finds itself in presently."

    "Oh," said Juliette, her mind whirring. Then, as though a light had switched on and illuminated everything, Juliette realized what was going on. A nervous chuckle forced past her lips. "Oh, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong address, sir."

    Dumbledore raised his brows. "Is this not 13 Maplebrooke of London?"

    "It is, sir."

    "Then I've come to the very place at which I had intended to find myself this evening, Ms. Harte."

    "But she doesn't live here," replied Juliette without missing a beat.

    "Who doesn't?"

    "My sister, Lynette. Lynette Harte. That's who you're here to see, aren't you?" asked Juliette, a frown creasing her forehead now. "She must still be at Hogwarts. And even after the semester ends, she won't be coming here. She'll be going back to Wales."

    "Ah, I see." Dumbledore peered at her from above his half-moon spectacles, those blue eyes staring at her intently. Then he leaned forwards and set down the book that was still clutched in his hand. King Lear, Juliette read the embossed title. She vaguely recalled that she hadn't read this particular play yet.

    Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Well, you see, I am here to see a Ms. Juliette Mara Harte. Now unless you tell me that you are not her, or that she does not live here, I will continue to believe I am in the right place, with the person I've come to visit sitting across from me at this very moment."

    Juliette stared at him.

    "You're here to see me?" she asked blankly.

    "Yes, Ms. Harte," replied Dumbledore, talking slowly and comfortingly, as though she were a child.

    "Intentionally?"

    "Certainly."

    Juliette blinked. "Why?"

    Dumbledore didn't answer at first. He seemed to spend an eon mulling over his words before he finally spoke again.

    "Juliette," he began, "I know about your . . ." Dumbledore hesitated for the briefest moment, looking as though he were searching for the right word, then concluded, "condition, shall we say."

    "A curse more like," said Juliette before she could stop herself.

    Dumbledore nodded sympathetically. "I didn't think it would be easy to live with."

    Juliette said nothing. Instead, she looked down at her hands wringing in her lap.

    "But it need not be a source for shame either."

    She looked up, a dozen questions swirling around her tongue, yet none made it past her lips.

    Dumbledore took a sip of his tea. "May I ask you something?"

    She nodded, still not trusting herself with words.

    "Have you had any unexplained headaches lately?"

    Juliette stiffened; she had not expected him to ask this. Then again, she thought bemusedly, what about this entire encounter had she ever anticipated?

    Juliette stared back at Dumbledore, then shook her head.

    "No?" If it hadn't been for his solemn expression, she would have thought Dumbledore sounded amused.

    "No."

    "No pains? No flashes of lights or searing headaches? Nothing unusual?"

    "Nothing whatsoever," lied Juliette, finding that her voice sounded surprisingly convincing to her own ears. "They haven't happened for months now."

    "I see."

    Neither spoke for the next few minutes, during which Juliette had served them both a slice of the spice cake Dumbledore had bought. It tasted lovely, she had to admit to herself, though she could not bring herself to tell Dumbledore the same.

    "How do you," began Juliette, searching for the words to make her question sound less accusatory than she knew it was in her head, "How do you know about my . . . headaches?"

    "That knowledge has come from not a very surprising source, I assure you," answered Dumbledore, "But now is not the time for that tale, I'm afraid."

    Disappointment and anger swirled deep within her, but she forced the feeling down. Eventually, it was Dumbledore who began speaking again.

    "I am sure you are fully aware of the war that has gripped the Wizarding World for nearly the entirety of this past decade. It has been a period of uncertainty and fear. Of anguish and turmoil," Dumbledore was saying. Had he not been broaching such a morbid topic, she would have laughed - smiled at least - at Dumbledore's voice that was ever so placid as he spoke, as though he were but remarking upon the gloomy English summer or the rising cost of jelly slugs. "And we have, all of us — the Ministry and the people — been doing everything we can in response to the growing threat of Lord Voldemort." If Dumbledore saw Juliette flinching, he did not comment on it. "But as much as I value the Ministry and its decisions, I cannot say I have fully agreed with their tactics during these past few years."

    Juliette half-nodded, half-shrugged to show she understood. She was grateful that Dumbledore could not read her mind — or at least, she hoped he could not — for she hadn't the faintest idea why he was telling her this. Surely he knew she could be of no help? Moreover, surely he knew the family she came from?

    "You see, Juliette," Dumbledore continued quietly, "I once knew the boy who would go on to become Lord Voldemort. I spoke to him, taught him, observed him. I watched as he learned the many secrets of magic, watched as his ambitions festered, watched as that quiet, lost boy embarked upon the dark path which has brought nothing death and destruction to our world."

    Dumbledore paused. Juliette, still perplexed but now intrigued too, watched as he drank the rapidly cooling tea.

    "Lord Voldemort," said Dumbledore, and Juliette flinched in spite of herself, "started what has now boomed into a war that has consumed the Wizarding World for nigh on a decade. And while I believe that the only sure way to end this misery is by working together, not everyone is willing to cooperate and cope with what that entails. A lesson that I, alas, sadly learned after my many failed liaisons with the Ministry of Magic."

    "So what was I to do?" asked Dumbledore, "Keep talking and hoping for the Ministry to take into account the opinion of others, like myself, who have observed and learned the makings of Lord Voldemort's mind? Or were we to surrender ourselves to the mercy of the Ministry and simply pray we survived?"

    Juliette didn't know why she did it, but she found herself shaking her head.

    "No. I did not think so either. I could not sit and watch Lord Voldemort wreck havoc. I could not be a bystander to the Ministry's efforts. Indeed, there were many others who felt the same." Dumbledore drew in a long breath, and Juliette sat up a little straighter, her brow furrowed deeply. "And so it was that I began moving against Voldemort and his Death Eaters myself." Now, she was certain he was purposefully ignoring how she flinched at the mention of the Dark Lord. "Then a few years prior, I assembled a small group of witches and wizards who shared my opinions, who have since been working tirelessly to stop Voldemort from gaining power. This group, society, calls itself the Order of the Phoenix."

    A dull silence filled the space between them. It took Juliette a few minutes to wrap her head around everything Dumbledore had just said.

    "Sir?" Began Juliette hesitantly, her heart now beating against her chest frantically. She knew she was jumping to conclusions. There had to be another reason as to why he was telling her all this. "I'm afraid I still don't understand."

    Dumbledore offered her a small smile. "I am here, Juliette, because I wish to ask you whether you would do me — us — the favor of joining the Order of the Phoenix."

    Another silence, albeit longer this time around, followed his words. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and a faint but incessant tapping against the window panes told Juliette it had started raining again.

    But Juliette was rendered speechless. Surely this was all a misunderstanding. Or it was some elaborate joke. An elaborate, cruel joke. There was no other explanation for what was happening. She had spent eighteen long and painful years being shamed and shunned, all because a wooden stick couldn't make things fly when placed in her hand. And now, here sat Dumbledore, asking her if she'd like to join a group of witches and wizards, all of whom were most certainly far more skilled than she, to fight a battle she could not hope to win.

    "Why?" Juliette blurted the one question overpowering the many others raging in her head. "Why are you asking me?"

    "I'm asking because –"

    But Dumbledore could not explain himself, for Juliette had not stopped talking. She was distantly aware of the fact that she was now rambling, but found she cared not. "What could I ever do for this – this society, sir? This Order of Phoenix?" Juliette was saying, her mind working faster than her mouth could speak. "If you're here to specifically speak to me, then you must know I can't . . ."

    She faltered. She hated herself for it.

    "I know, but –"

    "Then you must know that I'm . . . that I'm a squib."

    Saying the word out loud still made her uncomfortable. She knew exactly what she was, and the others frequently reminded her of what she was not. Yet it did not lessen the pain much, if at all.

    "Juliette," started Dumbledore, his voice still serene whereas hers had melted into a quivering whisper. It irked her to no end.

    "Forgive me, sir, but this makes no sense. No sense. Recruiting witches and wizards, I understand. But what on earth would you need me for? I can't even make a stupid leaf move!"

    "Juliette, listen to me."

    "This isn't . . ." She drew in a sharp breath and said, "You've either been misinformed about which Harte sister you should recruit, or this is all some terrible mistake. In any case, while I'm honored to have met you, I–"

    "That is enough, Juliette."

    Dumbledore's voice reverberated around the room. He didn't sound angry, but his tone was firm, unyielding, inviting no further questions. It smoothly, swiftly, cut across Juliette's rambling. "I only ask for a few more minutes of your precious time. Then you may ask as many questions as you like, or you may ask me to leave. Either which way, I will comply wholeheartedly. But I must insist upon you listening first."

    It was only after Juliette had reluctantly nodded her assent that Dumbledore spoke again.

    "I understand if this proposition seems peculiar, unlikely even," said Dumbledore placatingly, "But you should know I have given this a great deal of thought, and I am certain that you would be of immense help to the Order."

    "I know you cannot do magic," he continued, raising a hand to stop Juliette from speaking, "but magic, useful as it may seem, is not a determinant of one's value, nor a measure of one's talents. You do not possess magic in its traditional form, yes, but you do have a magical bloodline, do you not? That, in its own right, marks you as a member of the Wizarding world. You may have been born a squib, yet you possess other skills, other knowledge, which would be considered priceless by many."

    A small scoff escaped her, and Juliette was agitated enough to not care about how rude the action might have been.

    Dumbledore, evidently, did not mind however, for he pressed on, "I am aware that our world has not been kind to you." Juliette's lip trembled, and she looked away. "It is neither fair, nor forgivable. And yet, centuries have crawled by and still we hold on to those arcane beliefs that have brought nothing but shame and sorrow upon us all. I . . ."

    Dumbledore trailed off. Juliette glanced at him and found him staring into the crackling fire, lost in thoughts that she knew not but whose impact was etched clearly on his aged, lined face.

    "Sir?" She prompted him, cautious and unsure.

    "I had a younger sister," he revealed quietly, "Ariana. A sweet, compassionate girl, she was. She was talented at great many things, but she, not unlike you, did not possess magic in its traditional form."

    Juliette's mouth fell open. She knew she made a comical sight, but for the umpteenth time that evening, she found she did not care. Dumbledore had a sister, her mind repeated, a squib for a sister.

    "She did not deserve the cruelty this world showed her, any more than you do, Juliette. Even today, years after she passed away, I still find myself wondering if there had been something I could have done differently for her, to help her find her place in the Wizarding world. Her world, as much as anyone else'." Dumbledore peered at Juliette. He seemed bone-weary, as though he were shouldering great burdens which, Juliette assumed, he probably was.

    "I do not think of you any lesser than a witch or wizard, Juliette. Indeed, there is much you can do in our world, even without mastering magic. I also know that one man's confidence in squibs hardly warrants the support of others. And so I come to you with this proposition: an opportunity to rejoin the Wizarding world. It will not be easy, I know, but I have full faith in your ability to adapt and excel within the Order, should you choose to join us."

    Several minutes passed by, and neither Dumbledore nor Juliette spoke. A headache — very different from the one she had experienced while trolling through London — gripped her. As surreptitiously as possible, Juliette raised a hand and massaged her temples.

    The action did not go unnoticed by her company, however.

    "I can see I have exhausted you with my tedious and, admittedly, taxing words," observed Dumbledore kindly, "Is there anything you wish to ask me?"

    Juliette considered the man before her, then shook her head. There wasn't a single coherent thought coursing her mind at the moment. Dumbledore had said too much, revealed so much. She didn't know where to start, or what to focus upon. Distantly, her mind whispered she ought to retire to her bed, and Juliette eagerly agreed with the stray thought.

    "Then I shall take my leave," announced Dumbledore, getting to his feet. Juliette hastily followed suit. "I've given you a lot to think about, I'm sure. I think it is best if you take some time and mull over this conversation, Juliette. In a week's time, I wish you to write to me of your decision. Whatever you may choose, I shall accept it graciously."

    "Thank you," muttered Juliette, dazedly following Dumbledore to her front door.

    "I also must ask you to not divulge the details of this meeting to anyone, including your sister. It would not do if news about a secret organization became public knowledge."

    "Of course, sir. I won't mention it to anyone."

    "Thank you for your time, Juliette," said Dumbledore as he opened the door and let himself out. "You are a very interesting person, I must say. And your taste in Muggle books seems rather impeccable."

    Juliette smiled, shrugging nonchalantly. "I cannot take credit for that. Most of those books were suggested by my neighbor, Penny."

    "Well, in that case, you have found yourself a rather well-read friend. I'm sure you'll enjoy all those lovely tales." Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling in the darkened hallway. "But I am bound upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears do scald like molten lead. King Lear, I believe. You should read it some day, should you find yourself in need of some solace. Ironic though it might be, I find that reading tragedies on gloomy days has quite an uplifting effect on my mood."

    And with that, Dumbledore turned on the spot and vanished in the blink of an eye.

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    Juliette did not read King Lear, as Dumbledore had suggested, nor had she made an effort to plow through any of the other books lining her mantle. Instead, the following day, Juliette had spent much of her time recalling Dumbledore's words and going over them in her head again and again. The more she thought about it, the more surreal the meeting seemed. By the second day since Dumbledore's unexpected arrival, Juliette was half convinced she had dreamed the entire thing. Yet each time her gaze landed on the spice cake sitting in a box on her dining table, she was reminded of the fact that her meeting with Dumbledore had been no dream. And so it was, she paced around her apartment, trying to make sense of what had happened, and the chance she had been presented with.

    By the time Juliette had made up her mind, the sun had risen and disappeared behind soupy, rain-laden clouds that had arrived with the third morning. Hands shaking and heart racing, she trudged into her tiny study and searched for a piece of parchment and quill. She knew Phorcys was out delivering a letter to Lynette and would not return for another day or so, but she also knew what her answer was going to be and saw no reason in dwelling upon it any longer than she had to.

    Dipping her quill into a bottle of purple ink, Juliette drew in a deep breath and wrote:

Mr. Dumbledore —

I have thought intently about what you said. I am deeply honored by your kind words and proposition. However, I must decline your offer. I cannot do what you have asked of me. I have left that world behind, and I mean to keep it that way.
I am truly sorry.

Sincerely,
J. M. Harte

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A/N.
I usually have three scenes in a chapter,
but the three scenes I wrote for this ended
up making the chapter ~8k words long. So
I decided to split it into 2 chapters. I know
the whole Dumbledore and Juliette scene is
quite long, but I felt it necessary to include
the finer points of their conversation and
show how Dumbledore tried to convince
her to join the Order. Plus I'm not the
world's most concise writer, so the whole
thing sprawled. Still, I do like it overall.