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Once upon a time: a Dumbledore ficlet
A fire crackled in the hearth of Dumbledore's private study. He'd lit it the muggle way this evening. There was something about the process of stacking logs, of scattering kindling, of the slow and somewhat frustrating fiddlings required to get it to light, that soothed him. He felt a deep calm spread through him as he relaxed back into an armchair and stared into the fire.
This was a place he never invited anyone else. Not even Harry. Every man must have a place he can go to be completely alone. Every man has his secret self.
He stared into the fire, and he remembered.
He wasn't cruel. He was strong. And even now, I like to think?I like to think, but perhaps I am wrong in thinking?I saw who he might become, who he really was, underneath the arrogance, underneath the fear. He was good, once.
Or was that only through my eyes? My vision grows misty in the present. But the past clears like fog rolling back across a lake, revealing the flat grey waters. Cold and deep.
He was never good. But he was beautiful. A rough, great, charming, beautiful, terrible boy. He was never good. And he was never mine.
And yet?can an old man keep his illusions without danger? Just one illusion, that is all I ask. Just one beautiful lie.
He was good, and he was mine. Once upon a time.
A fire crackled in the hearth of Dumbledore's private study. He'd lit it the muggle way this evening. There was something about the process of stacking logs, of scattering kindling, of the slow and somewhat frustrating fiddlings required to get it to light, that soothed him. He felt a deep calm spread through him as he relaxed back into an armchair and stared into the fire.
This was a place he never invited anyone else. Not even Harry. Every man must have a place he can go to be completely alone. Every man has his secret self.
He stared into the fire, and he remembered.
He wasn't cruel. He was strong. And even now, I like to think?I like to think, but perhaps I am wrong in thinking?I saw who he might become, who he really was, underneath the arrogance, underneath the fear. He was good, once.
Or was that only through my eyes? My vision grows misty in the present. But the past clears like fog rolling back across a lake, revealing the flat grey waters. Cold and deep.
He was never good. But he was beautiful. A rough, great, charming, beautiful, terrible boy. He was never good. And he was never mine.
And yet?can an old man keep his illusions without danger? Just one illusion, that is all I ask. Just one beautiful lie.
He was good, and he was mine. Once upon a time.
