Chapter 92

"What?" Milo gasped. "Detect Magic," he cast, but nothing happened. For a brief, horrible moment he wondered if this mysterious magic that had apparently so addled his brain had also disabled his spellcasting. Then he realized he was simply out of spells, even Cantrips, until he could prepare new ones. "What kind of magic? Dispel me! Dispel me, Dumbledore!"

Dumbledore chuckled.

"Even if I could," he said, "no power on Earth could compel me to do so."

"Do you mean to say that you're behind this insanity?"

"No, Milo, the power of which I speak, the power that Voldemort so casually disregards, the power which was his undoing eleven years ago, the power which is, currently, already drawing you under its influence and subtly altering your perception of the world and your actions, is, you will find, quite beyond the reach of any mortal magic."

"So you do have deities around here!"

"The power of which I speak, young Milo, is love."

Milo stared at him in utter silence, his jaw hanging open, trying to work, but no sound came out. In the end, Milo had to make a Concentration check simply to focus the necessary thought to activate his vocal cords.

"Bull. Sh—"

"I think," said Dumbledore, "that I will so rudely head you off before you finish that thought."

"Love." Milo said flatly. "You-Know-Who was brought down by the Power of Love. Maybe instead of learning magic, we should be putting flowers in our hair and frolicking in the forest like those pointy-eared pansies and singing around campfires. Voldy would be powerless to resist our Flower Power."

"If that stretches your credulity, perhaps, I could more clearly state that it was love which triggered ancient and powerful protective magic," Dumbledore said calmly.

"Oh, well why didn't you say so in the first place?" asked Milo. "Ha! I'd love to have seen the expression on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's face when a throwaway, poorly thought-out rule from an obscure splatbook that he never even bothered to read blew up in his face."

"Why do you say it was poorly thought out?" Dumbledore asked curiously.

"It allowed an infant to defeat the most powerful Dark Wizard that ever lived," Milo said, as if the reason were obvious. "That's got to be the most broken rule in existence. I gotta get me some of that. What, exactly, happened to trigger it?"

"Normally, I would leave this for Harry himself to tell you, but in this case, the story is quite well-known. You see, Voldemort was defeated because Harry's mother sacrificed her life to protect her son out of love, which placed a protection upon Harry that Voldemort was unable to overcome."

Milo paused, the implications of this dawning on him.

"How on the Prime Material did You-Know-Who ever get to be that powerful in the first place, then?"

"I'm not sure I completely understand your question. Voldemort used a combination of subterfuge, cruelty, devoted followers, and powerful magic to—"

"No, I mean... I'm obviously no expert on the subject, but do mothers here not care about their children?" Milo asked, still perplexed.

"Of course they do," Dumbledore said. "I should think that the story I just told you was proof of that."

"Do Dark Wizards not kill infants, then?"

"Unfortunately, innocent children are no safer from their evil than fully trained wizards."

"Then how, in the name of the Eternal Library of Boccob, did You-Know-Who—and Grindelwald, and all the other Dark Wizards that ever lived—manage to rise to power without, at some point, attempting to kill a child that their mother died to protect? I mean, how many mothers wouldn't die to protect their children? Especially if they lived in a world where doing so made their child literally invincible to dark magic." Milo was idly wondering if he could work something like it into his backstory, which would neatly solve his problem of dealing with the Killing Curse.

Dumbledore opened his mouth as if to answer, but, before he could, the door slammed open.

"Out!" shrieked an irate Madam Pomfrey. "I won't have you bothering my patients! They need to rest in peace—wait, poor choice of wording... they need peaceful rest, not to be bothered by constant questions!" Ironically, while Dumbledore was speaking quietly and softly, it was Pomfrey's tirade that woke up the sleeping Hannah and Neville.

"Blast," said Dumbledore quietly. "Rumbled, it would seem." He stood up, and walked slowly towards the mediwitch, hands outstretched in a calming gesture. "Ah, my dear Madam Pomfrey, just the witch I was hoping to see. Did I ever tell you how exceptional I've always found your work?" He put an arm on her shoulder as he walked to the door, evidently hoping that she'd be taken in and follow him out. She looked briefly mollified, then her eyes hardened again and she brushed his arm off.

"No! I'm on to your tricks, Headmaster! Don't think you can silver-tongue your way out of things this time!"

"Alas," Dumbledore sighed. "Foiled again. Might we, at least, continue what I'm certain will be a most pleasant discussion outside, so as not to disturb your patients further?"

Pomfrey threw a quick, surprised glance at Hannah and Neville, who were looking around blearily to find out where the war had started and whether they ought to go and find helmets and a foxhole.

"Perhaps that would be, er, for the best," Pomfrey said in a much quieter voice, and followed the Headmaster out, having lost the initiative. Dumbledore glanced over his shoulder and winked at Milo, then walked out with the somewhat bemused-looking healer.

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