Eulogy From A High Shelf
The Sorting Hat reflects.

And when the stream
Which overflowed the soul was passed away,
A consciousness remained that it had left
Deposited upon the silent shore
Of memory images and precious thoughts
That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
- Wordsworth, The Excursion

I wonder what's on your mind, Albus, my old friend.

For all these years, I could happily converse with you, and share our wisdom. Every litttle question had an answer of sorts; if I had not found it in my thousand years at Hogwarts, you had seen it in a day elsewhere.

Aren't you going to talk to me now?

For so long, we've shared every day, all the high moments and low, the joys and the sorrows, together. Suddenly the world is so quiet, so empty.

There are the sortings. You carry on the tradition and bring me each year to the sorting. I sing my song to greet and instruct, and I enter into the minds of the magic children. I see their innocent wonder and childish fears, their foolish delusions and fond hopes.

Oh, I still remember your own session on the sorting stool, well over a century ago. That was quite a long, animated discussion we had! It was the only time a headmaster ever chided me. "Well?" he cried. "Get on with it!" Remember?

As headmaster, you are my limbs. You can open books, and read me the thoughts men have left on parchment -- thoughts I could not reach otherwise, any more than I could reach for anything. You can walk to what you want to know, while I cannot.

You are my eyes. You can look around your world by day and gaze upon the stars at night, and travel here and there, and you always share your findings with me.

Moreover, you are all my senses. You kindly reward me by wearing me to the gardens each spring. Through you, I can experience the beauty and scent of the blossoms, and feel the utter softness of a rose petal, and see the odd flight of a hummingbird. I can follow a Quidditch match, or savour a fine brandy, or soar above the earth.

I am many times your age, and still keen, but out of kindness, you've treated me as a father would care for a naive little child. It is not at all demeaning to me; in many respects, I've had to take several clumsy baby steps to each of your leaps. My curiosity has kept you busy with questions, and at times you must have wearied of the intrusion, but you've never complained.

In ten centuries, no headmaster has so cared for me, and kept me so informed and entertained, and sought my counsel, as you have. As you age and grow wiser, so did I, through you.

I've spent my days on my high shelf, yet we grow so close that I can sense your every mood during the day -- whether admiration, compassion, puzzlement, hopefulness, amusement, pride, sorrow, or quiet regret.

I have always had within me a shadow of the soul of the four founders. In a way, I now also have the soul of the great teacher and latter-day warrior-king named Dumbledore.

Perhaps, I could be of help to you now. A pensieve can only store your thoughts, but I can guide you in analysing them.

But you are silent.

They tell me you are dead, Albus.

I know you too well for that. Why, you would be the last to abandon Hogwarts in its moment of need! No doubt you have cloaked yourself so cleverly that even I cannot sense your presence. Oh, I'm sure you must have a ripping good tale to relate! Whatever reason you have to avoid the others, surely you need not be reticent with your old companion. I cannot imagine a day without you.

So, tell me, Professor -- how was your day?