1860, age 7, Penelope Dumbledore
"He's a man, he needs to learn to take care of himself."
"He's a boy! Malcolm Shirley is twice the size of him and he attacked with no provocation-"
"Don't be so dramatic, Penelope. He wasn't attacked. Boys fight, it's good for them. He's a man, or will be soon, and I won't have him hiding behind your skirts his whole life."
"But-"
Smack! His father's hand on the table. Percival knows that's the end of it. Tears threaten to spill from his eyes, but he swallows them heroically.
"You're a man now," he whispers to himself. It's hollow comfort when his elbow is still throbbing every time he moves it.
When his mother comes up he's sitting on the floor waging warfare with tin soldiers, though he only uses his right arm.
"Which battle is this?" his mother asks, kneeling beside him in her voluminous robes.
"I made it up," Percival says.
"Ah."
She strokes his hair and watches him play. She doesn't like him 'playing at war' as she calls it, though his father was pleased by his choice of soldiers for his last birthday present, and it makes Percival uncomfortable to play so now under her gaze.
He puts down his knight and leans against her side. "What's for supper?" he asks, looking up with the hope of roast potatoes in his eyes.
"Your favourite," she says, grinning and tapping his nose. "Mutton, of course."
"That's not my favourite!"
"No? Oh, yes, I remember, boiled carrots."
"Mother!"
"Hmm, not that either? Could it be… roast potatoes?"
"Yes!"
She laughs at his glee, but it fades quickly.
"Are you feeling better, Percy?" she says gently.
He nods stoutly.
"I think you're lying."
"I'm a man now," he tells her gravely.
Something in her face comes undone, but she doesn't disobey his father. She leans down and kisses his forehead, and he takes the kiss as agreement.
(Years later, Percival's youngest son will say Dumbledore women are cursed with silence, and he won't ever marry. Percival won't be there to hear him, but if he were he might say The curse is on the men and the women.)
1879, age 26, Kendra Ward
They're sitting beneath the Weeping Willow at the bottom of her parents' garden, shielded from her mother's sharp eyes by the gently swaying arms close about them. Her cheeks are pink and her dark eyes luminous as he reads to her from a poetry book.
"It was my mother's favourite book," he tells her. "My father gave it to her as a wedding present."
"That's so romantic," Kendra sighs. "I fear I've left the age of romance behind me." She peers up at him, fully knowing what his answer will be.
"Don't be silly. You don't buy into all that old maid rubbish, do you?"
"My grandmother told me a woman after twenty-five is like a fading flower in the autumn, and not to even ask her about a woman after thirty."
"Lots of flowers bloom in the Autumn," Percival says, though he can't immediately bring any to mind. "Anyway, you're not a flower, you're a very beautiful woman." The words, which sounded so romantic in his mind, come out awkward and mumbling, but she doesn't seem to mind.
"You're not a bad-looking man yourself."
He meets her gaze, and like so many times these past few months, something in the air shifts, a charge running between them until his heart is pounding and his face warm.
"I want you to have this," he says, and this time his voice is appropriately clear and tender as he hands her the book.
"But it was your mother's," she says, trying to push the book back to him so that they're both holding it, fingertips almost brushing.
"My father gave it to her as a wedding present, and- and I want it to be the same for us, if you'll take it."
There's a moment where his hands are shaking and he can't look away from her, can barely breathe for the hope and fear sweeping through him-
"Yes," she says.
"You mean- You mean yes, you'll marry me?"
"Yes," she says again, grinning, laughing, dropping the book to grasp both his hands in hers.
In a moment of pure joy, he forgets himself and kisses her. His lips are pressed against hers swiftly and sweetly in their first kiss.
She looks startled and blushes deeply but doesn't pull away. They linger there together, heads bent close, and he kisses her forehead, the rise of her cheek, the curve of her jaw.
"You mustn't," she whispers, even as her hands clutch at his and her gaze flickers down to his lips.
"Or what? I'll have to marry you to keep you from ruin?" he says.
"Oh, shush." She smacks his chest playfully and the spell is broken. "Do I get a ring?"
"Yes, but I don't have it with me today. It's in my desk draw at home. I didn't expect to get a moment alone with you, with your mother around."
As though his mentioning her has summoned her, Mrs Ward's voice steals into their sanctuary, calling Kendra to come in to the house.
"When will you tell her?" Percival says, standing and holding out a hand to help Kendra. When she's standing and he begins to pull his hand away, she tightens her grip.
"I'll wait until you've gone. I don't think she'll mind, she and Father have always said they just want me to be happy, but I know she'd rather I was happy with a muggle. They missed me when I was away at Hogwarts, and they'll worry that they'll be losing me for good this time."
"They won't be. If you want to stay in this village we will. I'll buy a house next-door to them if you want me to."
She wrinkles her nose in distaste. "In this village, yes. Next-door to them, no. We'd never get a moments peace."
"Wherever you want."
Her face softens and she steps closer to him until he can feel her skirts brushing his legs.
"I love you," she says, and his breath catches. She's a tall woman, almost of a height with him, and she barely has to stretch to kiss him for one long, aching moment.
1881, age 28, Albus Dumbledore
Kendra gives birth to their first child on a summer morning. Percival is pacing outside the bedroom, flinching with every cry from his wife. Outside the sun is rising, spilling golden warmth over the world, and the birds begin to sing. As the sunlight begins to edge around the curtains of the hall window, the groans stop. A new, shriller cry fills their home. Percival waits with bated breath.
The midwife sticks her rosy face around the door and says, "You can come in now, Mr Dumbledore."
Percival strides into the room, eyes finding his wife immediately. She sits up in bed, tired and sweaty, but glowing. In her arms is a tiny, swaddled baby. He leans over them, peering into the tiny pink face and bleary blue eyes.
"It's a boy," Kendra says softly.
The boy opens and closes his mouth. Percival strokes his cheek with the back of one finger and marvels at the softness.
"Let me hold him," he says, sitting carefully on the bed beside them. The baby is heavy and warm in his arms, and Percival holds him close to his heart.
"I love you," he whispers, leaning down to kiss the downy head. "I don't care if you're a boy, I will always protect you."
1891, age 38, Ariana Dumbledore
In the kitchen sink Ariana's clothes float in pale pink water, ballooning weirdly among the bubbles. Ariana herself stands wrapped in a towel, her pale hair falling damply around her face. She looks at Percival with the vague, unknowing look of a baby.
"Ari," he whispers, reaching out but stopping when he realises she might not want him to touch her. He curls his hand into a fist and lets it drop to his side. "Can you tell me what happened?"
Beside him Kendra is shaking. It was she who found Ariana lying in the garden. Just lying there, she'd told Percival, staring at the sky, so covered in blood that Kendra couldn't tell where it was coming from.
Ariana shakes her head, looking down at her feet.
"Ari, they won't hurt you again."
She looks at him with terror in her eyes. Anger such as he's never known sweeps through him, and he wants to tear whoever it was, rip them to pieces, make them hurt, hear them cry, kill them.
"They won't hurt you again," he repeats. "I promise you, sweetheart. I won't let them. But you have to tell me who it was."
Around them the candles start to flicker, a familiar sign after three children.
"Ariana, sweetheart, don't," Kendra says. "We've talked about this."
Ariana begins to cry quietly as the table and chairs begin to tremble, rattling against the kitchen tiles. Percival reaches out, forgetting anything but the need to comfort her. When she's ensconced in his arms, the furniture becomes still and the candles stop flickering.
Kendra strokes her hair as Ariana quietly tells them three names.
"Where are you going?" Kendra asks him as he steps away from them both.
"To make sure this doesn't happen again," he says.
"Percival, I don't know-"
Kendra voice fades as Ariana presses herself against Percival's leg and turns her face up to him, as she always does when he leaves for work.
He leans down and kisses her forehead. "I'll see you in a little while, sweetheart," he says, any doubts vanquished by the trust in her gaze.
1891, age 38, Kendra Dumbledore
She looks like a stranger standing at the bars of his cell. An old, gaunt woman with flat eyes and pallid skin.
"We can't see you again," she says in a toneless voice. "The family can't be associated with you."
You did this to her, the darkness whispers. You deserve this pain.
"I'm sorry," he pleads. "I'm so sorry."
Her eyes fill with tears. Their fingers meet through the bars, intertwining, clutching.
"I'm so sorry."
"Shush," she murmurs. "Don't. Don't, darling. I don't blame you. I love you."
He weeps like a child. She's a fool to love you, you are unlovable. This is all your fault. His forehead falls to rest on their hands and his tears wet her fingers.
"I love her. I only did it because I love her."
"I know, I know. We all know, Albus and Abe know. Ariana knows-"
Ariana knows nothing. If she knew she'd hate you. You didn't stop them. They hurt her and you think you can make it better by hurting them? You didn't protect your daughter, you are despicable-
"No, shush, she does. Don't say these things, don't think them. She loves you, she knows you love her. She'll get better, I'll take care of her."
The darkness tries to tell him otherwise, but it falls before Kendra. It pulls back, hovering, waiting for her to leave.
"I love you," he says, looking up at her, desperately clinging to the momentary relief. "I love you all. Make sure they know I love them."
"I will," she promises.
It's time for her to go, but she doesn't move. Their eyes are locked through the bars.
"I love you."
"I love you, I always will."
She kisses him gently, and in all the years until his death, not even the dementors will manage to take from him the absolution of that kiss.