Dumbledore surfaced, gravely troubled. Not much time had passed. A spell of Weasley manufacture had drifted in through the open window and formed itself into an unflattering cartoon of Professor Snape, done in ribbons of lurid purple smoke. As Dumbledore watched, unamused, it intoned "Potions... sucks" before vanishing with a fizzle of sparks and a smell. But the sun had barely moved. Dust motes danced down a strong shaft of it to where Fawkes the phoenix sat half dozing on his perch; and then Fawkes opened an amber eye and fixed Dumbledore with his intelligent gaze. As if sensing his owner's mood, the phoenix whistled one chiming note -

- bringing another memory, Dumbledore's own this time, un-asked for yet clear as a bell across the years: of just such an evening as this, golden July, with the sunlight streaming across the panelling and Fawkes a gilded statue, while he, Dumbledore, seated at this very desk, watched with pride and worry as James Potter wore a path in the carpet with his distracted pacing. "I can't let you do it. It's too dangerous -"

And the young man sprawled in well-feigned nonchalance in that chair just over there by the empty fireplace had winked - absolutely winked - at Dumbledore, and said, "I don't think you're getting a choice, Mate." Which was when Dumbledore had realised he was terrified.

He had a right to be. Any sane man in his position would have been terrified, and he was hiding it superbly; so that Dumbledore, who had always prided himself on his judgment, had simply smiled sadly back and shaken his head, dazzled like all the rest of them by Sirius Black.

Was that why he had not questioned things sufficiently later on? When the Potters' home was standing in burned-out ruins, and the memory of that misplaced wink became a callous taunt. Because in spite of the boy's youth, his arrogance, his family background... in spite of all his own misgivings, Dumbledore had agreed to Black as the Potters' Secret Keeper, and if Black was guilty then so was he, for being taken in. To have wondered if Black could possibly be innocent would have been a kind of clutching at excuses, of running away.

So he had written forceful letters to the Ministry regarding the treatment of prisoners in Azkaban - letters which had gone unanswered - and had argued for the right of even the foulest crimes to be fairly tried. But he had not doubted for one moment that this particular prisoner was guilty.

Which was why it came as a shock to realise that given that decision over again, there was every chance he would be taken in a second time by Sirius Black. Despite everything he had just seen in the Pensieve, what remained was summer sunlight, and that glow of almost paternal pride.

One thing was certain. It was pity beyond measure that he had not succeeded in visiting Azkaban for himself. If only Alastor could have kept his temper under better control! Black had been barely coherent by the end: what was that he had been mumbling when Moody interrupted him? "I was afraid he could have made me talk. I thought it was only sensible I didn't know..."

"God, Boy," said Dumbledore, appalled.

Until that moment he would have said that Severus Snape was the bravest man it had been his privilege to train - and Gilderoy Lockhart the most stupid. But how could those words possibly mean what they appeared to? Dumbledore himself had sworn on oath that Black was the Secret Keeper, and after all, who else was there?

Whatever the truth it would have to wait. It had waited twelve years already, and Hagrid needed him now. It was almost time for the hippogriff's execution.

Dumbledore put the matter neatly to one side to be considered again, soon and very carefully, and hurried towards the spiral staircase. Before he was halfway down his mind was already busy with other things. But he muttered once into his beard as he went, "Sirius, you fool. You poor, courageous fool."