Entry tags:
Entry tags:
A Case Of Mistaken Identity
Though Albus was hardly fond of the kitchen, he could concede that it was preferable to any alternatives that would require him to attend to the preparation of his own food. He sat alone at the table, a half-eaten piece of toast before him, sipping unobtrusively at his tea. Save the occasional resident in search of a beverage, it was a remarkably quiet afternoon and he found himself enjoying the rare solitude, fully aware that it could not possibly last.
It never did, after all.
It never did, after all.
Entry tags:
of politics
Truth told, Albus had not paid much attention to the Council of Tabula Rasa. He had been so preoccupied with the nature and workings of such a dreadful place on a magical and physical plane that its politics seemed unimportant. That was, of course, until he had perused the list of nominees for the next general election.
Albus Dumbledore. Seconded.
He stared at the writing, eyes narrowing slightly as he considered its significance.
Well, he thought, that was a most interesting development.
Albus Dumbledore. Seconded.
He stared at the writing, eyes narrowing slightly as he considered its significance.
Well, he thought, that was a most interesting development.
The truth is a beautiful and terrible thing and should therefore be treated with great caution.
It was gone. He had suspected it would, of course, but still he had rather hoped that once, just this once, he could have been wrong. This was not, it seemed, to be the case.
Albus Dumbledore had lost his magic for the second time in a month.
However, he was not given to sulking as he found that behaviour unseemly and so he sought distraction in its stead. And yet he was hardly in the mood to do much of anything at that moment. The idea of returning to his research pained him in a way he could not fully understand and the piano he knew would offer no solace at that present juncture.
It was in this state of mind that he approached the bookshelf. His long fingers brushed against the spines and he contemplated the selection before him. His eyes caught on a particular name, Potter, and, intrigued, he pulled it from the shelf. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone it declared itself in a large yellow typeset. It appeared to be, for all intents and purposes, a children’s book and with sudden realization, Albus knew this to be part of the series of novels that Bartemius had mentioned upon his arrival. In quick succession he found the rest: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and lastly, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. It was the final title that made him take pause but Albus was a patient man by nature and so he decided it best to read the books in the prescribed order.
And so he read.
His older self had arrived on the scene much earlier than he would have suspected, scarcely a few pages in and there he was, resplendent in his age and eccentricity. He nearly laughed aloud at the description. Himself as an old man with a crooked nose and an interesting scar, dropping off the baby – The Boy Who Lived – that had brought about the destruction of the man sitting downstairs, one Mr. Riddle.
Fascinating.
And that, in reality, was the word that kept cropping up. Fascinating, absolutely fascinating. Thousands of pages of fascinating.
And when he was done, when all the pieces had fallen into place, when his self was long dead and buried, he left from his chair in the Rec Room, the first time he had done so for any extended amount of time in over twenty-four hours, and headed down to the beach, books in hand.
It was, after all, an awful lot to process.
Albus Dumbledore had lost his magic for the second time in a month.
However, he was not given to sulking as he found that behaviour unseemly and so he sought distraction in its stead. And yet he was hardly in the mood to do much of anything at that moment. The idea of returning to his research pained him in a way he could not fully understand and the piano he knew would offer no solace at that present juncture.
It was in this state of mind that he approached the bookshelf. His long fingers brushed against the spines and he contemplated the selection before him. His eyes caught on a particular name, Potter, and, intrigued, he pulled it from the shelf. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone it declared itself in a large yellow typeset. It appeared to be, for all intents and purposes, a children’s book and with sudden realization, Albus knew this to be part of the series of novels that Bartemius had mentioned upon his arrival. In quick succession he found the rest: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and lastly, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. It was the final title that made him take pause but Albus was a patient man by nature and so he decided it best to read the books in the prescribed order.
And so he read.
His older self had arrived on the scene much earlier than he would have suspected, scarcely a few pages in and there he was, resplendent in his age and eccentricity. He nearly laughed aloud at the description. Himself as an old man with a crooked nose and an interesting scar, dropping off the baby – The Boy Who Lived – that had brought about the destruction of the man sitting downstairs, one Mr. Riddle.
Fascinating.
And that, in reality, was the word that kept cropping up. Fascinating, absolutely fascinating. Thousands of pages of fascinating.
And when he was done, when all the pieces had fallen into place, when his self was long dead and buried, he left from his chair in the Rec Room, the first time he had done so for any extended amount of time in over twenty-four hours, and headed down to the beach, books in hand.
It was, after all, an awful lot to process.
Entry tags:
do I not bleed
Albus Dumbledore was dead.
Not now, of course. No, right now he was very much alive, if rather out of sorts, and feeling a whole myriad of emotions that were not often associated with the greatest wizard of his generation.
However, in the not-so-distant future, he was dead. Not only was dead, though that was bad enough, he had failed so completely and entirely in all of his goals that he knew no longer why it was that he had remained so renowned. For The Greater Good had ripped at the seams, ending, as such things do, with a duel between himself and Gellert. Wizards were forced even deeper into hiding while the man fashioning himself as 'Lord Voldemort' marked his followers with the ink of gypsies and sailors and indoctrinated them into a foolish regime. The Deathly Hallows had remained elusive. Why, the only thing that had appeared to keep him in the public eye was the fact that he had been Headmaster. And while that was a fairly lucrative position, he could not help but feel disappointed. Angry, even. Could the future be so bleak?
Albus rapped sharply on the door of Bartemius' hut. He did not look at all put-together. His face was flushed; his eyes bright, and his hair cascaded over his shoulders in a torrent of messy curls. His white shirt was largely unbuttoned, not to mention untucked. His feet were bare. Indeed, he rather had the appearance of someone who had left somewhere very quickly.
It was all, he thought, very uncharacteristic but such developments had called for haste.
Not now, of course. No, right now he was very much alive, if rather out of sorts, and feeling a whole myriad of emotions that were not often associated with the greatest wizard of his generation.
However, in the not-so-distant future, he was dead. Not only was dead, though that was bad enough, he had failed so completely and entirely in all of his goals that he knew no longer why it was that he had remained so renowned. For The Greater Good had ripped at the seams, ending, as such things do, with a duel between himself and Gellert. Wizards were forced even deeper into hiding while the man fashioning himself as 'Lord Voldemort' marked his followers with the ink of gypsies and sailors and indoctrinated them into a foolish regime. The Deathly Hallows had remained elusive. Why, the only thing that had appeared to keep him in the public eye was the fact that he had been Headmaster. And while that was a fairly lucrative position, he could not help but feel disappointed. Angry, even. Could the future be so bleak?
Albus rapped sharply on the door of Bartemius' hut. He did not look at all put-together. His face was flushed; his eyes bright, and his hair cascaded over his shoulders in a torrent of messy curls. His white shirt was largely unbuttoned, not to mention untucked. His feet were bare. Indeed, he rather had the appearance of someone who had left somewhere very quickly.
It was all, he thought, very uncharacteristic but such developments had called for haste.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
The Clothing Box was a small matter of legend upon the Isle of Tabula Rasa. Indeed, to hear the story told, one could be forgiven if they assumed that the Clothing Box was a rather sadistic beast, complete with teeth and, possibly, glitter. In reality, however, it was small and innocuous. In fact, it was just a box, although it did reside on one of the lower levels which was cause for some suspicion in itself.
Albus did not much like the lower levels of the Compound and he avoided them whenever he could. Unfortunately, today was not one of those days. He'd been stranded for a few weeks now and his clothing was becoming frayed from repeated wearings. It was time, he knew, that he visited the box and began rebuilding his wardrobe in earnest.
When he entered the laundry room, he could feel the magic immediately. It was a different magic from that which he was accustomed but it was there; the hair on the back of his neck stood on end and he smiled a wide genuine smile. Perhaps this wouldn't be as dreadful of an experience as he'd initially thought.
By the third dress, however, this opinion was thoroughly challenged. Frowning, he pulled out his wand and poked at the contents. Nothing happened, of course.
He sighed. "Toffee?" he asked the box warily.
Its only response was another dress.
"I thought not."
Albus did not much like the lower levels of the Compound and he avoided them whenever he could. Unfortunately, today was not one of those days. He'd been stranded for a few weeks now and his clothing was becoming frayed from repeated wearings. It was time, he knew, that he visited the box and began rebuilding his wardrobe in earnest.
When he entered the laundry room, he could feel the magic immediately. It was a different magic from that which he was accustomed but it was there; the hair on the back of his neck stood on end and he smiled a wide genuine smile. Perhaps this wouldn't be as dreadful of an experience as he'd initially thought.
By the third dress, however, this opinion was thoroughly challenged. Frowning, he pulled out his wand and poked at the contents. Nothing happened, of course.
He sighed. "Toffee?" he asked the box warily.
Its only response was another dress.
"I thought not."