A/N This can be taken however anybody wants it to. It's Frank, obviously, Neville's father. He isn't trying to remember. He isn't trying to think. He's trying to be, and there are memories of everything all over. One thought leads to another and another and he doesn't know what any of them mean.
Insane, obviously. My baby.
Disclaimer: JKR owns Frank and Alice and the implied Neville.
Colours.
There are colours.
Red, orange, green, blue, purple, yellow, red, blue.
There are colours, all over colours. There is nothing but colours. Colours fold themselves everywhere, they are in everything. They overlap, they form, and they mix. They mix.
Wincing, shaking head, don't like.
Don't like mixing. He doesn't like mixing and it's all mixing together, foaming around him, suffocating him.
Waving arms, shaking head, don't like. Don't like.
Colours overlap and the mix and mix and mix. They never stop mixing. They go on and on forever and ever, blending smoothly from one colour to another. They flap back and forewords, never one colour, never another. They never stay the same. They are always in the middle.
In the middle.
They're in the middle. They're muddled and they melt together.
They melt.
Melting.
There's the memory of a smell of burning rubber and there's the memory of a smell of burning skin. There's red overlapping the creamy colour of skin that has never been tanned. There's darker, calloused skin that has been everywhere and been well used. There's the two colours mixing. There's darker on lighter.
Darker on lighter. Frank and Alice.
Frank. Who is Frank, he thinks. He wonders who Frank is. He sounds like an old childhood friend who he has forgotten. No, no, not childhood, because maybe he is only a child. He is never sure. Sometimes he certainly feels like a child, because there are pictures pinned up on the wall and he feels like some part of him drew them. He knows, at least, that he drew some of them, because he remembers colours mixing together and he remembers not liking the purples or the greens and only using the reds and the yellows and the blues. He remembers, but he isn't sure who made the other pictures. They have purples in them, and oranges and all sorts of mixed colours. He doesn't like those pictures, so he is sure he doesn't like whoever drew them.
No, darker on lighter is okay, though.
Frank and Alice.
Darker on lighter.
He looks down at his skin and he sees it is well-worn and it is dark, well exposed to the sun when it is younger. He doesn't remember using that skin. He doesn't remember how it got so well-worn. He doesn't remember an eager young boy who loved climbing trees and fighting through trees and bushes. He thinks that he may be a childhood friend, as well. He seems so familiar, but he isn't sure who he is. He thinks that maybe he was a very nice boy.
Alice. He remembers roses and he remembers lots and lots of flowers. He remembers pink, flowing, free dresses. He isn't sure who that is. He doesn't know who she is at all. He remembers a flowing purple hat and he dismisses the thought of her.
But she is lighter. So, surely, darker cannot go on lighter.
There is the ghost of a child in the back of his mind and he doesn't know who it is. He remembers somebody, perhaps the laughing boy who swung from tree branches into water knew that boy. Perhaps, once upon a time, he was that child. He remembers some sort of feeling, though, and he isn't sure what it is. He doesn't like it. It is unfamiliar. He doesn't know what it is.
Mixing, mixing, blending in and out.
A robin lands on the window sill and it sings and he likes the noise. He likes it and he remembers someone else liking it. He thinks it may be the girl in the purple hat, or the half-child who he cannot remember.
It sings and a woman sings along with it. She can sing so much better than the robin, but he cannot remember why, because she has a truly dreadful voice. He pats her head absently and realises she is lighter.
Lighter and darker, mixing, blending. Two bodies hot against each other, a small child neither darker nor lighter. Light hair, dark hair, blue eyes.
He doesn't know who she is but he has the feeling that he used to know her, just like he used to know the happy boy who went to a magic school and how he used to know the woman in the purple hat and how he used to know the child who he didn't know.
"Darker, lighter," he murmurs, a sing-song, child's voice. Feeble, filled with pain. He has eyes that have seen so much and forgotten too much.
"Frank and Alice," the woman says, with the voice of an old, weary woman. She has the eyes of one who has been through so much and has lost everything.
He shakes his head and continues patting her head before walking, with the experience of an old man, yet with the skill of a baby, back to his bed. It's his bed; he knows that, because it has him all over it. It is all his. He knows it is his. He lives there, it is his.
And the colours are mixing again, falling through each other and mixing and mixing and blending together and they never, never stop.