Chosen Character: Albus the Dumbledore
Ratings/Warnings: 1st-2nd yr; None
Word Count: 499 on MSW
A/N: This was not easy.
Whenever he thought of visiting the grave, Albus pictured himself armed with a bouquet of bluebells. Although she’d never felt the softness of their petals, they had been her favourite flowers.
It was actually the painting Ariana had loved, if one had to break it down to the bare bones of things: a painting done by their mother, Kendra, when she’d still been cheerful enough to fiddle with her paints. How the bluebells moved on the wall of a darkened room that was ironically pink, forever tickled by a breeze trapped within the canvas. Once, when Albus had been alone with her, coaxing her to eat the egg he’d made, he could’ve sworn he saw the flowers reflected on the enthralled, shining eyes.
“Or perhaps,” he remarked to a non-existent audience, as all the portraits were sleeping, “it was just the colour of her irises.”
“Mmmpf?” mumbled a bleary-eyed Dexter Fortescue from his left. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” said Albus. “Good morning, Dexter.”
Dexter didn’t respond for a while, his attention entirely caught by a succession of deep, loud yawns. Meanwhile, Albus settled down to read the Prophet. He’d already finished skimming the front page when Dexter coughed.
“May I know what that is?”
Without looking up, Albus answered, “It’s a mirror.”
“Yes, yes, it’s a mirror, all right. But what is it doing here? Surely you haven’t fallen prey to vanity at this age?”
“I daresay you’ll find that vanity has always been a failing in my character.”
“Or have you simply decided to ignore the flamboyance of my sartorial style, Dexter?” Albus continued, now amused. “The buckles of my shoes? My complete excitement over the fact that they have a Chocolate Frog Card featuring my exploits?”
“Well, you have achieved a lot in life, Albus,” Dexter said. “You deserve to be on a Frog Card.”
“But surely, I’m under no obligation to wear a velvet cloak that sweeps majestically over the ground as I-”
“Arrgh!” cried Dexter irritably. “Don’t lead me astray. Now that I’ve observed it more closely, I can tell that is no ordinary mirror there!”
“It isn’t.” Albus paused for a second; he thought of the certainty that somebody was hunting for the Philosopher’s Stone, of the possibility of who it could be, of the young boy who must ward him off, and the role the mirror was to play. It was a long story, a secret only he knew the full details of. “It is enchanted,” he said finally.
“Enchanted to conceal something?” Dexter asked with interest. “All I can see upon its surface is fog.”
Before he could stop himself, he glanced at the mirror. It flashed something back at him, clear as Veritaserum. He blinked. Bluebells.
Don’t you dare speak her name again, threatened a young boy’s gruff voice inside his head.
“Precisely, Dexter,” he replied, eyes closed. “It's enchanted to conceal something.”
The honesty in his voice didn’t surprise him, for he’d vowed to not remember her.