The sound of a clock chiming.
The tinkle of broken glass.
Uneven footsteps moving across grass dewy with night.
Whispers from another century.
The greatest deception.
A summons to a waltz of grand proportions.
The grief of a broken man.
A souvenir of love long lost.
Memories that no longer have the power to hurt?
There were four stages. The first was desperation. The first stroke of midnight.
"Stop, stop! You will come back, won't you?"
"I'm afraid not."
Hope made a brief appearance, and was met with silence. Three strokes. The heavy ringing of the priory bells.
"... Someday?"
Indignation took the place of hope. He stalked her through the crashing waves of sound. Six strokes remained until the two hands met.
"Why are you doing this? It's not fair. Please!"
"No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I have to go."
Resignation warred with regret for the conclusion to his breaking. Seven, eight. She hurried ahead and he followed, the tolling bells Hamelin's flute.
"Please..."
"You're a great man- great men don't beg. Good-bye..."
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"Sunlight, the antidote to all life's little problems! And what sunlight can't fix, a good dose of Miss Ragwort's Pepper-Up Potion will surely cure!"
Robert Broomwane, The sixth-year Prefect for Gryffindor House, was a likeable enough fellow, stern but not strict, amiable but alert for trouble, and an excellent Keeper for the Quidditch team. However, he had a crush of massive proportions on the school's resident Healer. He took any excuse to escort younger students with minor scratches, aches, and pains to the hospital wing. This time, he was working on the Head Boy, who'd been sullen and morose for over a week. He knew that the older boy wouldn't want to go outside, and so it was only natural that they would take the short trip to the hospital potions cupboard– and it's lovely keeper...
His cheerful suggestions received a surly glare, conveying utter disgust, that rebuffed any further attempts on Robert Broonwane's part to get Albus Dumbledore out of the chair he'd practically lived in for the past fortnight, where he sat sullenly staring into the fire. Robert moved on, his ears alert for the slightest cough or sneeze that would deliver him into the arms of his love... Or if not exactly her arms, into the same room as her, which was all a man could ask for...
"Wait, Robert."
"Yes? You'll come after all?"
"... No Robert... I'm perfectly capable of going to the hospital wing by myself, if need be," Albus said with the air of one instructing a three-year old how to wash his or her hands. "I was wondering..."
"Yes?" Perhaps Albus wanted his opinion on a cure for this little bout of depression! Robert puffed with self-importance.
"Are you ever, you know? Going to get over her?" The tone tried to be casual, but failed. However, it went unnoticed by the oblivious Robert.
There was no need to ask who the her in question was. "Oh, never," the boy replied seriously. "Well– perhaps– if she marries Professor Ecknewt, I suppose. Then I'd have to, wouldn't I? I mean, a woman as lovely as her doesn't need to wait for someone like me."
Albus was nodding slowly. "Yes, yes... and ... How does one go about... being a great man?"
Not even the self-important Robert could think that referred to him. "A great man? Goodness... I don't know. I only ever wanted to be a Healer. Now, if you'll excuse me, Albus, I believe that second-year has a runny nose, and as you know, a healthy body is the most important thing one will ever be trusted with."
"Ah, not the most important," Albus murmured to himself and returned his gaze to the fire. He had some new things to think about.
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"Do you ever feel like you have too many thoughts in your head?" Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Order of Merlin First Class, Supreme Mugwump, etc., inquired of his Transfigurations Professor some hundred years later.
"No," was her decisive answer. "I think all the thoughts I should be thinking." Over half-moon glasses, her gaze was reproachful. "And you'll wear that into nothing if you keep rubbing it like that."
He jumped. It was not often that the Headmaster of Hogwarts was surprised, but Minerva McGonagall was one of the few people who knew him well enough to see beyond the ripples on the surface of his soul to the depths beyond. Or at least the shallows. One did not live as long as he had without learning to conceal, or at least be content enough not to need to reveal much.
"Well? Are you going to let me have a look?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Minerva, I'm not 'rubbing' anything."
They were old enough to joke about such things. "I know you're not masturbating, Albus. Hand it over, I want to see this."
"It's nothing important at all." He was not good at barefaced lies.
"Every summer you take that from the Vanishing cabinet. You rub it for good luck, or out of nervousness, until you see the first-year students get Sorted. Then you smile, you make your traditional speech. Your pockets are lighter the next day. Please, Albus?"
His long fingers caressed the warm metal resting inside his trouser pocket, and then they hooked themselves around the object and pulled it out. A simple bracelet, much worn, rested in the palm of his hand when he uncurled his fingers.
"A diabetic's bracelet?" She recieved it from him as she would prescious jewels, for it was Albus Dumbledore's greatest treasure. "You are a diabetic?"
"No... One of my students is... Or will be." The twinkle in his eye was replaced by the reflected flicker of the flames as he turned to them in contemplation.
She let the silence, the steady hiss and crackle of the comfortable fire, be her question.
"Someday... soon... a student will come to this school... bearing this bracelet. A Muggle-born student, of course. She will... lose this bracelet... in her seventh year here... a hundred and some years ago."
"Is this your secret sorrow?"
He nodded.
"Will this one disappear when the girl brings it here?"
"No," Albus said. "I don't think so. They will call to each other across time..."
"What will happen when she comes back?"
Albus shrugged, letting a small hint of his desperation show in the tilt of his head as he tired of the flames and sought the solace of the night sky. "I don't know. But she will graduate," he said, and turning to Professor McGonagall, he smiled.
Hope triumphs.