Albus had never mentioned it again but when you think on it, who was he - the buoyantly beneficent Dumbledore - to decide for all of them whether they should be willing to sacrifice their lives so their killers could have a second chance to grow up and learn it wasn't nice to kill people you disagreed with? For every Death Eater that had died or been captured there were two or three who'd slipped away, and all of them had left a string of dead in their wake. You don't do that and suddenly change because someone offered you a hug or a kiss.
Even a Dementor's Kiss hadn't been enough to change some of their minds. They had gone to Oblivion, willingly sacrificing their souls to their jailors rather than turn away from their beliefs. Those were the souls, the lives, Dumbledore valued so highly, higher than the people who fought for what was right, higher than the lives of their orphaned children.
Death Eaters with sense had lied to get out of trouble he had no doubt, and there must've been someone receptive very high up who was sympathetic or just as delusional as Albus was to believe the crap they were selling. Alastor had been too busy and too easily brushed aside to find out whom, but he hoped it wasn't Albus who had let it happen. He hadn't seen the true extent of the man's delusional philosophy at the time, but how can you trust a man like that once you see it?
It was a day as black as night when Dumbledore became the untrustworthy one but that's where they were and it meant everything fell to him. How many others would've lived if he had done what he should have all those years ago and used the deaths and disappearances to expose the flaws in Albus's reasoning and wrestle control of the Order away from him? Would Dorcas Meadows still be alive he had done it? Edgar Bones? Marlene McKinnon? The Potters? And how many muggles would still be wandering about today if he hadn't been so blind?
'If you can't trust Dumbledore, then who is there to trust?'
That was the most chilling thought of all. He might have been blind before he lost his eye, but he couldn't afford to remain so now his eyes were opened. Alastor spun his magical eye around on general principle, glimpsing the deluge of color and motion through it. It could be painful at times, having all those images magically shoved into your head, but he had long ago learned to filter out what he didn't need, for the most part.
If Albus wasn't ready - or wasn't fit - to do what must be done, then he had to do it himself. If Lichfield's accusations against him turned out to be nothing more nefarious than financial bungling of an old man too naïve to know that vaults don't refill themselves then he'd still be welcome as long he had actual information to contribute, but he certainly wouldn't be in charge. This wouldn't be some declawed, frilly phoenix gallivanting about and making a brave show of causing mischief either. He would have to do things his own way, in his own time, with his own people, but who was he to pick?
Alastor opened himself to the barrage of images coming from his magical eye and the real world paled in comparison to what he saw. Gone was the silvery glow on dark walls as his world became superimposed by the golden runic dinner plate bordered by translucent white walls. Slightly widening his view to what was around him, he could see the multiple other translucent compartments sharing the same space he occupied, all slightly out of touch from where he was. A certain silvery object caught his attention; he'd have to remember to take his cloak when he left.
Pushing his sight through the translucent walls, rushing through his office to the cubical farm beyond, his eye sought out the faces he knew. Pinky - 'Damn Lichfield and his nicknames, ' the man who'd been "Mad-eye" long before he lost his eye groused - Nymphadora was returning from her training classes, face flushed from the effort she put in. Distant relation to the boy or not, she couldn't be involved; too young. He wasn't going to have any half-trained, idealistic young people die because some old man thought he knew what's best, even if the old man was him.
Behind the girl was Kingsley Shacklebolt, a solid man and capable; loyal, and diligent. He was good at training new recruits and didn't cut them any slack, but Kingsley didn't strike him as a leader, not where it counted. Personable and well-liked, no doubt he'd get on well with those above him and be able to play the political game that started in the upper reaches of any department, but he had one large drawback as far as Alastor was concerned: he was Dumbledore's man. And even if he was skilled in combat, if Shacklebolt had his way Dumbledore's philosophy of violence would infect the entire office, turning them all into kittens wearing mittens when they needed to be manticores.
Kingsley, like so many others, had been raised in Dumbledore's shadow, taught from an early age to always look up to the man. It would take a lot to change that; being the last great war hero - if you discounted all the time he spent sitting on his hands against Grindelwald, which everyone did - "the only man You-Know-Who ever feared," and the only Hogwarts Headmaster most people could name, Albus was practically a cultural force. If confronted with the reality of Voldemort lingering on in some form Shacklebolt's first response would be to run and see what Dumbledore thought of it, which was something Alastor wanted to avoid.
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