A/N: Well, after browsing at length, I have to say I was rather disappointed in the amount of young Dumbledore fics there were. There was nothing for it - I decided to try and write my own. Let me know what you think! I shall be following the lexicon timeline…hopefully.

March, 1844

Splitting the pitch sky with harsh white lightning, the spring storm swept its way across the country, drenching England in a deluge of rain. The fury of nature thundered in the distance, seeming to rebel against the small creatures that swarmed in the cities, who had dared to declare themselves masters of the land. A few miles from where Albus Dumbledore was born, lightning struck a tree, extinguishing its life in fire and awesome electricity. Mighty oaks submitted to the fierce driving of the wind, as it howled through the roads like a pack of wolves.

A carriage hurtled through the droves of pouring rain, wheels clattering on the street cobbles. A few observers, who were forced to leap out of the way to escape its reckless path, were able to see the foaming mouths of the thestrals and the family crest emblazoned on the side of the vehicle before it sped out of sight, swerving down the narrow streets.

As thunder crashed in the distance and the rain beat down with renewed force, the carriage halted abruptly in front of a large building and a tall, thin man sprang out. His long light brown hair and wisp of a beard were immediately soaked but he seemed oblivious to this as he bounded up the stairs to the entrance and flung the large double-doors open.

The reception area was, as always, crowded with witches and wizards with various ailments but the man only seemed to see the Welcome Witch at the desk and nearly knocked over an old woman (who was suffering from some sort of jinx that had fixed one leg firmly to the other) on his way there. He ignored the queue and pushed his way forwards, causing many of those who were queuing to mutter and sigh.

The Welcome Witch glared at him. "Sir, if you would join the queue-"

"Where is my wife!" snapped the man, his sharp aristocratic features taut with worry.

"The queue-" began the witch again but the man wasn't having any of it.

"Woman, my wife is having my children! I demand to know where she is!"

The Welcome Witch sighed and pulled out a roll of parchment with a list of names on from under the desk. "Name?"

"Dumbledore. Ulfin Dumbledore."

"The Willow Ward. Third floor."

Without another word, the man swept towards the staircase, dark cloak billowing behind him. An unfortunate house-elf was shoved out the way as Ulfin Dumbledore jumped up the stairs three at a time, cursing something about muggle toll-gates.

The doors of the Willow Ward crashed open and Ulfin frantically ranged around, looking for his wife. His eyes found a pale, tired-looking woman with long auburn hair and soft brown eyes smiling at him weakly from a bed in the corner. A grim-faced Healer stood next to her, drawing his wand in the air over the length of her body, muttering some sort of diagnostic spell.

In three strides, Ulfin was kissing his wife tenderly and looking wonderingly at the two bundles in her lap. Maria Dumbledore saw where her husband was looking and her weak smile grew broader.

"You have two sons, darling."

Ulfin stood up, chest expanding with pride as he looked down at his children. Two sons! It was even more than he had hoped for. Already, Ulfin could see two strapping lads standing before him, identical copies of their father, both capable of taking care of the Dumbledore estate.

He beamed at his wife, only to see the glint of sadness in her eyes. He looked questioningly at the Healer, who made a silent gesture to follow him to the other end of the room. Ulfin nodded in a way that meant 'in a minute' and settled himself down on the chair beside the bed.

"We shall have to think of some fine names for them," he said, once again gazing at the two precious bundles in his wife's lap. Both children were asleep, apparently as exhausted by the labour as their mother.

"I've always liked the name Brian," whispered Maria, lightly stroking one child's cheek with her finger.

Ulfin made a little noise that meant that he thought his sons were above such a 'common' name as Brian.

"A middle name, perhaps?" said his wife tentatively.

"Perhaps," grunted Ulfin. "Personally, the name Egbert has always-"

"No, Ulfin," said Maria firmly. "I hate the name Egbert."

"Nothing wrong with it! It was my father's name, in fact."

"Yet another reason not call anyone Egbert," muttered Maria, rolling her eyes.

Ulfin pretended not to hear and rose to his feet, suggesting that his wife think about it whilst he talked to the Healer. Once Ulfin and the Healer were out of hearing distance of Maria, the Healer's grim expression returned.

"I'm afraid it was a hard labour, sir. A third, male infant did not survive."

Ulfin took the news with a slight tightening of the jaw; the death of newborns was not uncommon but the wonderful concept of nearly producing three sons was a hard one to hear and then immediately let go of. He comforted himself with again the vision of two powerful young men striding confidently through life, reminding all whom they met of the nobility of the Dumbledore family. They would have his hair and build, perhaps with Maria's eyes. Both would enter respectable professions in the Ministry and marry equally respectable women, who would bear them each two sons, who would…

He returned to his wife, to discuss names, not even mentioning that third child who had not survived. He did not notice the drenched, moody-looking phoenix that sat on the window sill outside, staring intently at the infants.

An hour later, Ulfin sighed and stood up, brandishing a finger at nearest son.

"Right. This one shall be called…" Ulfin took a deep breath. "…Albus Egbert Eric Jonathan Michael David Henry Galahad Edward Rupert Romulus Ulfin Timothy Marcus Sebastian Stuart Philip Jeremy William Percival Wulferic Brian Dumbledore."

Maria blinked at him.

"That encompasses all the possible names that both you and I like," said Ulfin in explanation. "That means that he should have least one name he himself likes and-"

His wife looked incredulously at him. "Ulfin, don't be ridiculous! How on earth is he supposed to even learn his own name? I won't remember it, for Merlin's sake!"

"Well, I suppose he…" Ulfin's voice drifted away.

Maria held up three fingers. "Three middle names and no more, Ulfin."

Ulfin looked scandalised. "Three? Only three? My dear, nobody in the Dumbledore family has ever had less than-"

"I don't care, Ulfin. I think it's silly to call a child all that."

"My father had nineteen middle names!" said her husband indignantly. "And he was proud of every one of them!"

"Yes, and I never did learn his full name! Three and no more. I personally liked the last three you listed."

"Percival… Wulferic… and Brian?"

Maria nodded.

"Three?"

"Yes."

"But… Egbert…"

"Ulfin, no."

Ulfin pouted and Maria suppressed a smile. She was not quite the submissive wife Ulfin had expected. "And the other?" she prompted.

"Thomas Edward Henry Sebastian Rupert…"

"Ulfin."

"Fine!" Ulfin threw up his hands. "Thomas Edward Henry Sebastian Dumbledore, then." He shot a nasty look at his wife. "If you had your way, they would be called things like.." He wrinkled his nose. "'Max' and… 'Dick.'"

"Now there's an idea…"

The couple dropped into friendly banter, neither noticing the phoenix still perched outside in the rain.

Fawkes was not a happy bird. He had flown for miles through the rain and the wind, with no clear idea as to where he was going or where he was and all the time becoming more and more exhausted and fed up. Now he was crouched in the meagre shelter of some unnecessarily decorative stonework over the window, dripping and rather cold. He was thoroughly annoyed about it.

Since entering his phoenix teens, things seemed to have gone rather rapidly downhill for Fawkes. Firstly, there was the fact that he had been thrown out of the family nest. Secondly, there was the even more awful idea that he was expected to fly out and… bond with some dribbling little human. What's more, he was supposed to spend years with said dribbling little human until it became a dribbling old man. He was also meant to just instinctively know which dribbling little human he had to bond with, even though they were all little and all dribbling and all dreadfully human. It was definitely not fair.

Looking at the two examples in the room beyond the window, he couldn't help but get a feeling of impending doom. They looked all right whilst they were asleep but Merlin knew what would happen when they woke up.

Fawkes knew that phoenix tradition demanded that he guide the afore-mentioned dribbling little human and therefore shape history but nobody had actually told him how to go about accomplishing this. The whole idea seemed stupid.

Blasted little imps, thought Fawkes irritably as he stared at the sleeping children. They would both grow up into dratted little brats, who would roll around in the dirt and eat their own snot and generally be so disgusting that Fawkes wouldn't want to touch them with the tip of his tail-feathers.

Misgivings, however, did not help him in deciding what to do next. So it was that, mainly out of confusion, Fawkes stayed and watched the babies inside the ward. It was on a hopeless kind of whim that he followed the thestral-drawn carriage three days later when it bore the Dumbledore children home.

A/N: Hope you like my Fawkes. Review!