delicate dress
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Written for: Round 2 of QLFC
Team: Kenmare Kestrels
Position: Chaser 2 — (stegosaurus) write about a character whose deceit or intent to harm ends positively for the recipient(s)
Prompts:
(colour) turquoise
(colour) light grey
(setting) Malfoy Manor
Word-count (excluding notes and title): 2,615
Beta: Keela Adoette
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"I'm bored, Daddy," she whines, and pouts.
Percival closes his eyes for a moment. "I'm busy, Ariana," he says, shuffling the papers on his desk.
Ariana glares. "You've been busy all day."
"Daddy has to work," he tells her.
She waits, hands clasped. Patient for all of five seconds. Then — bursting out of her —"I wanna play!" She tugs at his robe sleeve.
"So go play."
"Fine," she yells. "I don't want to play with you anyway."
She stomps off to the kitchen, grumpy. "Mummy?" she calls.
The only response she gets is the ticking on the clock. For a moment, she rocks on her heels, unhappy and bored and slightly hurt.
"Fine," she says to herself. She turns and bolts through the house, then bursts out the back door. The air is crisp and she sucks in a big gulp. Her feet pound down the porch stairs as she races around the back garden. Her dress flaps wildly around her knees, and her hair streams behind her.
She's giggling madly, hurt feelings forgotten.
Finally, she slows, sinking to the ground. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly. The sky is so blue, and the clouds crawl across it.
Ariana digs her fingers into the damp grass, searching out soil. Her heartbeat is slowing; her breath returning. Pleased, she hops up.
Her hands are dirty, she notices, and she draws them up close to her face and inspects them. Quickly, she wipes them on her dress. She pauses.
Mummy bought this dress for her, just yesterday. It's brand-new and so pretty. Her eyebrows draw together in distress. Mummy won't be happy. She'll yell and give Ariana that disappointed look.
Ariana clenches her jaw and stares at the mud marks on her dress. Her horror grows. Her bum is all muddy, too. And — and even her shoulders, from lying down on the wet grass. The stains are obvious against the pale blue fabric.
But as she stares, the mud and grass stains start to — well, it's odd — disappear. She smiles widely and then spins, round and round and round, and as she spins, turquoise flowers burst up around her feet. The magic is hot and happy in her body, burning strong. More giggles flow from her mouth.
"How did you do that?" she hears.
Ariana pauses. She's dizzy from all the spinning. She can't see straight.
"How did you do that?" the person says again, forcefully.
There are three boys, she notices. Her heart is thumping wildly. There are three boys, and they've pushed through the hedges.
"Tell us!" the one to the far left demands.
Her mouth is dry. There are three Muggle boys. "Go away," she orders them. "You're not s'posed to be here. This is our garden." She throws back her shoulders and lifts her chin bravely.
"No," says the one in the middle. His eyes are wide with shock. "Not until you tell us what you did."
They're all older than her, but she's a strong little girl, and she stands her ground. "I didn't do anything."
"Oi," says the boy on the right. His hair is a dull yellow. "There are flowers there, an' there weren't flowers before."
The one in the middle — the leader — walks towards her. His legs are long and he reaches her before she even knows what's happening.
"Listen," he tells her, licking his chapped lips. His friends crowd around her. "We all saw something, there ain't no point in lying. Just show us again, yeah, mate?"
She swallows. Her heart is beating unevenly. "I didn't do anything, I promise," she says. Daddy told her never to show anyone her magic. Mummy made her promise.
"Yer lying," he says, and those chapped lips thin.
"I'm not," she says, and the words are light and delicate and false.
The one flanking her left scoffs. "Just show us," he orders angrily. "We won't tell anyone."
"I didn't do anything!" she spits out, and levels him with a fierce glare. Her hands are shaking slightly. She clenches them. She just needs to make them believe her. Daddy and Mummy don't need to know that she was so reckless with her magic. She'll just be normal, and they'll go away, and then she'll go inside and eat some cake with Tinkie the house-elf. Maybe Daddy'll even be done working and they can play.
There are hands on her shoulders. These hands are heavy, and press down. She doesn't enjoy that pressure. These hands are large. The thumbs sit on her collarbone. A buried part of her twitches at the site of dirt being spread onto her dress. His hands are dirty.
"I don't like asking so much," the boy says. "I'm like my Dad, see, and I haven't got patience. I've been asking you nicely, berk, but I'm getting real annoyed."
She swallows. The dampness of the grass is getting into her shoes. And his hands are still on her shoulders.
"Don't touch me," she says. Mummy told her to never let strangers touch her. "My mummy won't like it. You'll be in big trouble."
His eyes flash. His hands press down harder.
She cries out and falls backwards. Her dress rumples. Mud spreads. Panic shoots through her. She struggles to fix her dress.
The boys laugh, except the one in the middle. He looks angrier than before. It's like his anger is growing, like it's multiplying; and it's eating him up.
She rises to her feet and pushes him back with all her strength. He staggers back a few steps.
His friend roars with laughter and slaps a thigh. "Malcolm bein' beat by some airy-fairy brat!"
When he looks at her again, his pupils are blown and black, and there is a point of red in each of his cheeks. "You bloody freak," he accuses. His mouth twists so violently that his chapped lips split. Blood spots his front teeth.
He backhands her across the face.
She falls.
She registers this: sharpness stings her cheek. It's so strong — that sharpness — that it spreads deep into her skin. A coppery taste thickens on her tongue. Her ears ring. It's as if there's a high whine in her ears. The world is spinning. She can't see properly. She can't see anything except the grass and the mud and it's getting all over her dress and Mummy will be so cross and her stomach hurts and he's getting his dirty shoes all over her dress because he's kicking her, that mean boy — they're all kicking her and they're not stopping. And it hurts.
It really hurts.
She closes her eyes.
Blood bubbles up on her lips. She can hear —
She can hear the word "freak." It's said so often that she hears it almost as often as her heartbeat.
Someone is ripping her dress. Her pretty new dress. If only she —
The hands (those awful dirty hands) paw at her —
She should have —
She screams, high and long and loud.
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His fingers spasm and he drops the quill. Someone is screaming. It's not a shriek, or a yell. It's a sound he's never heard before. His own throat aches at that sound — that sound that is so raw and terrified that it must be agony to make; that sound that is so loud that it must wring itself forcefully into existence.
And then his hands are shaking alongside his spasming fingers. He'd recognise that voice anywhere, twisted as it is with something he can't quite grasp.
He twists, the chair toppling. His feet slap against the ground as he rushes to the scream — she's still screaming, Ariana is still screaming, and he's not there — !
His hand rips his wand from its holster, and he blasts the back door off its hinges. He doesn't slow.
He sees her. He sees them. He sees red. He actually sees red. Something is torn out of his own throat — it's a sound similar to Ariana's scream — something wretched.
"Ariana!" he roars, and casts. He doesn't even know what he casts, but the magic feels thick and ugly. And then he's standing next to her and he drops the wand and simply punches the boy on top of her.
His fist smacks into the boy's head with a sick crack.
Percival doesn't spare any of them a glance. He doesn't even know if they're alive. At this point, he doesn't even care.
He sinks to his knees. "Ariana," he breathes. She stares at him blankly. There's a smear of blood on her cheek. He wipes it with the pad of his thumb, but it just smudges.
"Ariana," he whimpers pathetically, gathering her in his arms.
Her beautiful blue eyes close and then open. She doesn't respond.
A boy cries out. Ariana flinches, moaning. She writhes, like some animal, terrified and helpless.
"Shh," he whispers, rocking her. "I'm here."
A tear — just one — eases out the corner of her right eye and skates down her cheek.
"Shh," he coos, but he cannot soothe her, and she cannot be soothed.
"Ariana?!" his wife yells hysterically. She drops the shopping bags in the doorway.
"What — ?" she gasps, collapsing by her daughter's side. "What — Percival — I — I just went to the shop," she babbles. "I just — what have they done?"
Percival's numb. What had he done? He'd told her to go play. He'd told his six year old child to go play. "Shh," he says, but he cannot soothe his wife, or his child, and certainly not himself.
"I'm sorry, Mummy. I got the dress dirty," Ariana mumbles, her eyes rolling unnaturally, and it's all wrong. Even her voice is all wrong —
Kendra chokes on her tears. Her skin has turned a frightening shade of light grey.
"Take her inside," he orders his wife. "Clean her up."
His wife's attention flickers to the boys. Her gaze hardens.
She stands and picks up Ariana. She's a strong woman, his wife.
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He fixes those boys up and sends them on their way. And a day goes by, and then two, and then three, and he watches Ariana and she watches him. She's not like she was. She's broken. Those boys have broken her. And his wife cries, and dabs at her eyes, and the rage grows. It consumes him. It's so strong that his left hand is always clenched around his wand. He can't force himself to set the wand down.
And this is what breaks his control: he touches Ariana's shoulder on the third night, gently, to tell her to try and eat some more soup, and she flinches. Her magic explodes out of her and she screams, high and long and loud, and black magic scorches the ground.
He flicks up a shield and cleans up the aftermath, but his mind is elsewhere. She had flinched at his touch. And he snaps at that realisation.
"Percival — " Kendra says, but she doesn't stop him. She doesn't want to.
He hunts those boys down. What he does to them is awful. It's inhumane. He feels no remorse. He feels no pity. Only a calm, cool rage.
When it's done, he sits, and waits. He doesn't kill them — not because he doesn't want to, but because he takes his time, and the Aurors get there too soon.
Sharp cracks shatter the air.
"We've registered Dark Magic, sir," one informs him. They span the scene, wands aloft. They're pointing their wands at him, he notices grimly.
Still. No remorse. Still. That rage burns on.
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They stare at him like he's a monster. The reporters snap pictures of him, and yell out questions: "Why did you do it, Mr Dumbledore?"
"Are you a believer of Pureblood Superiority?"
"What made you attack those boys? Was it because they were Muggles?"
Kendra stands by his side throughout it all. Her eyes say thank you even as her mouth twists down with misery and pain. His eyes say, I love you. I'm sorry.
The judge implores: "Why, Mr Dumbledore? Is this Pureblood Supremacy? To think — the Dumbledore Head, a blood believer!"
But he cannot tell them why. They will take Ariana away. Those three days … he'd seen it in her face. She was different now. And they would lock her up for it — for something that wasn't even her fault. For something that he should have prevented from happening in the first place. If he'd just paid attention … He should have played with her. He should have watched her.
The Council of Magical Law says: "You are declared guilty for your actions." A sick, sadistic part of him revels in the list that they read out to him. The list that notes the Dark Magic he'd freely cast.
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Ms Hold of The Daily Prophet asks, "Did you know, Mrs Dumbledore, that your husband was going to attack those Muggle boys?"
"No, I didn't know," Kendra lies with a steely face. "I had no idea. I'm in shock."
His wife is a strong woman. He always knew that. And she understands what needs to be done.
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And as he sits in that cell, he realises this: he has saved those boys. If he had admitted what they'd done to Ariana, those boys would be held accountable. The Muggle-Wizarding Department would have become involved. His deceit has saved them. They will live .. free …
Even with Dementors gliding past his cell, he feels no regret. Ariana will remain free because of these lies. He doesn't mind dying in this cell as long as she's free.
Besides — some bitter part of him thinks — he deserves this. He should have prevented her from being hurt.
He bows his head. Her scream lingers in his ears.
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"Well, now," Cygni Malfoy says.
"What is it, dear?" his wife asks. She sips her tea carefully.
"Have you read the paper, darling?"
She wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Merlin, no. It's filled with nonsense, in my opinion."
He wipes his mouth with a napkin. "Percival Dumbledore attacked three Muggles. Children, no less."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "You cannot be serious."
He lifts the paper to show her the title: Dumbledore Sentenced to Azkaban for Shocking Muggle Attack!
Her eyes widen. She sets down her teacup. "I never thought I'd see the day that a supposed Light family did such a thing."
He hums thoughtfully.
"What?" she asks, curious.
"I'm just thinking — perhaps we should invite them here for the next gala."
"Invite the Dumbledores here? To Malfoy Manor?" she cries out, aghast. Some blonde her falls out of its tight bun.
"I don't see why not. Perhaps we have more in common than you and I previously realised. I wonder … their son — Albus, was it? — I recall he's rather intelligent. To have such an asset on our side would be rather beneficial."
She purses her lips. "I hear he's been consorting with the likes of that boy, Grindelwald. He was expelled from Durmstrang, you know." Her eyes gleam.
"The future is bright," Malfoy smiles.
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"Mummy?" Ariana asks.
Kendra sinks to her knees in front of her daughter, setting the mail aside momentarily. "Yes, baby?"
"Did you wash my dress?" Ariana asks. Her voice is soft and careless.
Kendra swallows. "I threw it away, baby."
Something dark flashes across Ariana's face. "Oh," she says. She settles.
"I'll buy you a new one, if you want," Kendra promises, and slowly clasps her daughter's hand.
Ariana looks down. "That's alright," she says. "I don't like dresses that much, anymore." Her voice is almost sad, but still so dreamy.
"Alright, then," Kendra says gingerly.
(Nothing's alright, now.)
Her eyes catch on the mail. On top, there's a letter addressed from the Malfoys.
She closes her eyes.
(Everything's different, now.)