believing in the Jabberwocky!
Andromeda's voice had echoed through the dim room, animated and eager as she read to you; her arms waved around excitedly as the words rolled off her tongue. To be honest, you'd never really understood the story, and something in the way she occasionally glanced blankly at the pages had always given you the impression she hadn't either.
But it had never mattered to you, because Andromeda's storytelling was the one childhood memory you could look back on without cringing. For those few minutes – or was it hours, Andromeda's enthralling voice had always made you lose track of time – someone loved you, someone was willing to spend time with you, listening aptly to your thoughts and ideas and naïve and rather childish outlooks on life, and offering their own, as though you were actually a trusted confidant, despite the fact that you weren't even four years old yet.
" Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Andromeda had offered to read to Bella and Cissy as well, but they'd always refused, labeling, even at that young age, the story as pathetic and lame. Andromeda had seemed a little put-out, but you hadn't really minded, while they were out of the picture, your favourite cousin was all yours, and you could revel in the feeling that she considered you, you and not them, special in some way.
Andromeda had gesticulated wildly, using her hands to form all sorts of creatures that fought and talked and walked, and – you always giggled uncontrollably at this bit – kissed. And for a while, you had imagined that the creatures were real, that there was really a borogrove in front of you, its great big head rearing as it swooped upon a slithy tove.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
But then Andromeda had gone off to Hogwarts, armed with new robes, and a cauldron and a wand, without a single thought as to you, left alone with no-one for company. You had been surrounded by people, your mother had been in the forbidden parlor, chatting amicably with relatives and friends amongst the clouds of smoke that poured from their cigars, and your father was often around, though he was often short-tempered and cantankerous and you did not wish to anger or disturb him in anyway. Even Regulus was somewhere, but he did not believe in anything except what lay right in front of his face, and you found him, to be honest, quite dull and boring, definitely not the type to play make-believe games.
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
Often, you pulled the tome from its place on the shelf, and rifled through the pages, mimicking what you had believed to be the actions of the great warrior, battling the Jabberwock. Once, you had even found a box of crayons, and set to the task of embodying your favourite characters on paper. You had pinned the pictures to the walls of your bedroom, thinking that they looked a little bright against the grey furnishings, and acted out the story, your hands flying rapidly through the air and contorting into various shapes as Andromeda's had once done.
It wasn't quite the same without Andromeda there to read the story in her enchanting voice, but you had still believed in the magic of the book, and you could still imagine the creatures quite clearly, whirling in front of you as they fought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
Andromeda had come home that summer, and something was different. She had seemed more subdued, and less willing to believe in the extraordinary and unusual. She had still read to you though; although she had spent less and less time doing this and more and more time locked in her bedroom or out of the house completely.
Sometimes, Andromeda had told other stories, of young girls and magical potions, and spells that turned your skin a bright green colour or ate away at it like an Acid Pop on your tongue. She had also told stories of young witches and wizards rebelling against their families, and of how these people had chatted with hats and thrown mushy peas. Something in the way she told these stories had inspired you, and you knew that you too wanted to grow up and rebel.
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
All too soon the summer was over, and Andromeda was back at Hogwarts. Before she had left she had given you a hug, wrenching the now battered and torn book from your hands as she did and placing it on the shelf, with a warning about how you shouldn't believe in things you knew didn't really exist.
So, because of her words, the book had sat for months, untouched by everything except the dust that gathered on the cover. Mostly, you had tried to focus on other things, but occasionally, images of the Jabberwocky and other characters from the story had appeared in your mind.
"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
It had been a snowy, bitter afternoon in late February next time you pulled out the book. You had turned the pages, being careful not to crinkle the corner, even though the book was already in far from pristine condition. You still could not read, but you had heard the story so many times that you could recite it from memory.
But this time, when you twisted your fingers into the shape of the Jabberwock's head, you hadn't seen the magnificent creature rearing before you. Instead, all you had seen was your fingertips, pressing together in an imitation of a mouth, and you knew that you had stopped believing.
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe."
Nearly thirty years later you had opened the book again. And, despite how foolish it seemed, you had contorted your fingers into the shape of the creatures you had once loved so dearly. Smiling you had began to read, your deep voice filling the room. The had words meant so much more to you this time, because, once again, you had believed.
A/N: This was written for a challenge at the Reviews Lounge (my second home), in which we had to write a fic revolving around the words of the Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll. It was a lot easier than I thought actually, the ideas came to me and the words flowed. Perhaps it's all those boring poetry lessons at school.
Please R&R, tell me what you think, and thanks for MS Dae for pointing out a few mistakes.