Flight of the Bumblebee
Disclaimer: Same as usual. See other stories for details.
Author's Note: IMO the late and great Richard Harris, I bring you this fic. For some, time can last an eternity, but for others, it passes far too quickly- held only in a moment... a moment that lingers for the rest of time. A brief sketch of one such moment.
* * *
The room was silent. Dead silent. Nothing would have been strange about this except for the fact that it was filled with perhaps twenty people, people who, under normal circumstances, would have been talking and laughing, scolding and arguing. But despite the fact that friends and supposed enemies stood next to each other, no one spoke. And despite the fact that the over-used air had grown to a stifling mugginess, no one dared stir.
Even the minuscule particles of dust that were illuminated in the beam of light coming from the window seemed to hang suspended in time, ceasing their customary dancing. Not a robe rustled, not a shoe squeaked. Every ear strained to detect the sound of the uneven, rasping breaths that came from the center of the room.
For out of the twenty gathered, one was soon to depart into the 'next great adventure.'
Albus Dumbledore lay, still resplendent in his shimmering robes of blue, on a bed drowning in plush pillows. From all outward physical appearances, he had not changed a day since the War had begun. From all appearances but his eyes, that is. In his eyes, he was as ancient as the days themselves.
No one knew why the great Headmaster was dying. Madam Pomfrey could find no reason, no malady, nor could any of the best wizard physicians in the country. But whenever he had been examined, Dumbledore just smiled and shook his head in that way he always had. He knew perfectly well why he was dying, but he was not about to let anyone else in on the secret. That would surely spoil the fun.
But there was no doubt that he was indeed dying. His blue eyes had long since lost their sparkle, and without that, he seemed to only be half of what he was before. His eyes remained closed most of the time, leaving only the unsteady breaths as any sign of his continuing life.
The vigil had been held for days in his room, continued in varying shifts from one day to the next. But as the old man on the bed had grown frailer, they had gathered to keep watch together. Silence had prevailed for an entire twenty-four hour period before Dumbledore opened his eyes.
Silently, he gazed at those present. Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived, stood at the foot of the bed, his hand gripped tightly around the bedpost, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin flanking him, each with a hand on his shoulder. Hermione was crying, tears rolling down her cheeks without a sound, and she clung tightly to Ron's hand. Hagrid was blubbering behind them, drowning several already-soaked handkerchiefs with fat tears. Minerva stood with what was left of the teachers, her head held high as she restrained herself from crying. Only Snape stood apart from the rest, lingering in the corner, his bleak expression as unreadable as it always was. It was on him that Dumbledore's gaze fell. "Severus."
The man looked up suddenly, as if surprised to be called upon. Surely, Albus would speak to Harry, or to Minerva... not to him. He forced his black eyes to meet blue ones. "Albus."
"Won't you tell everyone to sit down?... All this standing around is ridiculous."
He had to smile, small though it was. "I believe they would all rather remain as they were, with respect."
"Respect? Ha!" The old man smiled, and the smile almost reached his eyes. Almost. "Since when have I gotten due respect, Severus?" He paused for breath. "And look at you, standing around here... just waiting for me to die. It's morbid, really." He chuckled, the sound dissolving into a raking cough.
"You do like to keep us waiting, don't you?"
"What can I say? I love suspense." It was a comment that few but Albus Dumbledore could make on their deathbed. His eyes began to close again, but he seemed to remember something and opened them again. "Severus?"
"Yes?"
His lips curved up slightly, knowingly. "Look at your arm."
He black gaze glanced down. "My arm?"
"Not on your sleeve... really, Severus, I would have expected more from you. Look under your sleeve."
Snape's breath caught in his chest. Surely he didn't mean... Hesitantly, he reached for the sleeve of his left arm and pulled it up. The alabaster flesh beneath was smooth and lacking something that he had carried with him for over twenty years. The Dark Mark was gone. His face drained of blood. "Albus?"
The Headmaster nodded with a small smile, but did not respond. He didn't have the breath left. So he simply watched as the others moved towards Snape to see if the Mark truly was gone, if it had really vanished forever along with Voldemort.
And, according to his plan, their attention was drawn away from himself, leaving him in peace, with only Harry Potter left watching. And with a subtle wink at the boy-turned-man, Albus breathed his last.
Albus Dumbledore. He had lived like his name- like a bumblebee- erratic, flitting from one place to the next with no apparent pattern, and yet so perfectly logical in the end. And like the bumblebee, his time had come to rest his wings.
So with his name preserved for all time in history books and in countless tales told to children, Albus Dumbledore was free to take flight.
And he did.
END
Disclaimer: Same as usual. See other stories for details.
Author's Note: IMO the late and great Richard Harris, I bring you this fic. For some, time can last an eternity, but for others, it passes far too quickly- held only in a moment... a moment that lingers for the rest of time. A brief sketch of one such moment.
* * *
The room was silent. Dead silent. Nothing would have been strange about this except for the fact that it was filled with perhaps twenty people, people who, under normal circumstances, would have been talking and laughing, scolding and arguing. But despite the fact that friends and supposed enemies stood next to each other, no one spoke. And despite the fact that the over-used air had grown to a stifling mugginess, no one dared stir.
Even the minuscule particles of dust that were illuminated in the beam of light coming from the window seemed to hang suspended in time, ceasing their customary dancing. Not a robe rustled, not a shoe squeaked. Every ear strained to detect the sound of the uneven, rasping breaths that came from the center of the room.
For out of the twenty gathered, one was soon to depart into the 'next great adventure.'
Albus Dumbledore lay, still resplendent in his shimmering robes of blue, on a bed drowning in plush pillows. From all outward physical appearances, he had not changed a day since the War had begun. From all appearances but his eyes, that is. In his eyes, he was as ancient as the days themselves.
No one knew why the great Headmaster was dying. Madam Pomfrey could find no reason, no malady, nor could any of the best wizard physicians in the country. But whenever he had been examined, Dumbledore just smiled and shook his head in that way he always had. He knew perfectly well why he was dying, but he was not about to let anyone else in on the secret. That would surely spoil the fun.
But there was no doubt that he was indeed dying. His blue eyes had long since lost their sparkle, and without that, he seemed to only be half of what he was before. His eyes remained closed most of the time, leaving only the unsteady breaths as any sign of his continuing life.
The vigil had been held for days in his room, continued in varying shifts from one day to the next. But as the old man on the bed had grown frailer, they had gathered to keep watch together. Silence had prevailed for an entire twenty-four hour period before Dumbledore opened his eyes.
Silently, he gazed at those present. Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived, stood at the foot of the bed, his hand gripped tightly around the bedpost, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin flanking him, each with a hand on his shoulder. Hermione was crying, tears rolling down her cheeks without a sound, and she clung tightly to Ron's hand. Hagrid was blubbering behind them, drowning several already-soaked handkerchiefs with fat tears. Minerva stood with what was left of the teachers, her head held high as she restrained herself from crying. Only Snape stood apart from the rest, lingering in the corner, his bleak expression as unreadable as it always was. It was on him that Dumbledore's gaze fell. "Severus."
The man looked up suddenly, as if surprised to be called upon. Surely, Albus would speak to Harry, or to Minerva... not to him. He forced his black eyes to meet blue ones. "Albus."
"Won't you tell everyone to sit down?... All this standing around is ridiculous."
He had to smile, small though it was. "I believe they would all rather remain as they were, with respect."
"Respect? Ha!" The old man smiled, and the smile almost reached his eyes. Almost. "Since when have I gotten due respect, Severus?" He paused for breath. "And look at you, standing around here... just waiting for me to die. It's morbid, really." He chuckled, the sound dissolving into a raking cough.
"You do like to keep us waiting, don't you?"
"What can I say? I love suspense." It was a comment that few but Albus Dumbledore could make on their deathbed. His eyes began to close again, but he seemed to remember something and opened them again. "Severus?"
"Yes?"
His lips curved up slightly, knowingly. "Look at your arm."
He black gaze glanced down. "My arm?"
"Not on your sleeve... really, Severus, I would have expected more from you. Look under your sleeve."
Snape's breath caught in his chest. Surely he didn't mean... Hesitantly, he reached for the sleeve of his left arm and pulled it up. The alabaster flesh beneath was smooth and lacking something that he had carried with him for over twenty years. The Dark Mark was gone. His face drained of blood. "Albus?"
The Headmaster nodded with a small smile, but did not respond. He didn't have the breath left. So he simply watched as the others moved towards Snape to see if the Mark truly was gone, if it had really vanished forever along with Voldemort.
And, according to his plan, their attention was drawn away from himself, leaving him in peace, with only Harry Potter left watching. And with a subtle wink at the boy-turned-man, Albus breathed his last.
Albus Dumbledore. He had lived like his name- like a bumblebee- erratic, flitting from one place to the next with no apparent pattern, and yet so perfectly logical in the end. And like the bumblebee, his time had come to rest his wings.
So with his name preserved for all time in history books and in countless tales told to children, Albus Dumbledore was free to take flight.
And he did.
END