armchair

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Author's note: My short introduction. It has always struck me that there is remarkably little Dumbledore fiction and this was a bit of a warm-up. Dumbledore, Hogwarts, Hagrid, Moaning Myrtle belong to the inimitable (although I'm trying, admitably rather badly) J.K. Rowling, while the title is inspired by Bruce Springstein's hauntingly sad song.BR
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It was nighttime at Hogwarts. The smooth-planked halls were still and quiet, with the freezing grey flagstones that circled each entryway a warning to stay in warm beds. The torches flickered a dull orange that reflected on the motionless suits of armor. Even the common rooms were silent, with only a few glowing embers left in the large fireplaces.BR
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Dumbledore settled into his armchair and stared into the large fire burning in front of him. The flames licked up the chimney in an endless and hypnotizing cycle of colors and shapes. He smiled and leaned back, reaching for the bowl of hot chestnuts and apple cider that he kept nearby. This corner of his office always smelled of a thick, rich autumn: damp acorns, warm comforters, stewed pumpkin, a bit of baked cinnamon, and a sweet sharp hint of sap. Dumbledore loved the corner, and sat for hours on end, late into the night, thinking. BR
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He had been headmaster at Hogwarts for so many generations, and a teacher before that. The portraits had watched his hair turn from the deep brown of a Lake District boy to the flowing white of one of the most powerful wizards in the world. His hair had been quite a joke for a number of years amongst the portraits' subjects, and one particularly mischievous fairy that flitted about the north tower's paintings still teased him about it. In those years he had met so many children, all of whom grew up. This natural occurance occasionally surprised him. Only three months ago he had been strolling down Diagon Alley when he bumped into little Willy Farrell and discovered that he was now William Farrell, Chief of the Department of Recovery of Lost Treasures at Gringots. During their conversation about Willy's wife and three children, Dumbledore couldn't help but think of the time Willy had given himself a monkey's tail during second-year Transfiguration. It had lasted for three days, and every day he tripped over it at least six times. Finally some of the other children had given him the unfortunate but apt nickname Wonky Willy which had stuck with him past graduationBR
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Sometimes when he sat by the fire he thought of Willy, or tall mousy Jenny Lane, or ham-fisted Roger Hornwell. He had known and taught almost all of the wizards under sixty in Britain, the good and the bad. Each class had its legends, of course--seekers and brains and bullies and idiots and troublemakers--but they blended in after a time. Few were remembered in any way, and even the hideous tragedies faded after time. Moaning Myrtle kept to her bathroom and Hagrid to his hut; only a handful of students knew about the year of murder and expulsion. Dumbledore remembered it all, though. And as he sat there, late at night, he thought of all the stories he could tell, of all the students whom he had known.BR
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Author's note: I thought that this was a good place to end the prologue. I welcome and encourage constructive criticism about my work. Also, any new characters are of my own rather long-winded imagination.BR
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