Written for: The Psychotic House-Elf
Prompt: Dumbledore is an idea. Interpret that as you like.
Story guidelines as follows:
Characters & pairings: idk
Likes: The lulz, schadenfreude, black humor, general intelligent writing that isn't just big words crammed together to make it look like the writer knows what they're talking about
Dislikes: Badly written smut, awkward smut, stupid smut, cringe-inducing smut, fangirly smut, anatomically ignorant smut... are you seeing a theme here?
Idea|īˈdēə|
3. Philosophy (in Platonic thought) an eternally existing pattern of which individual things in any class are imperfect copies.
Disclaimer: we own nothing.
Idea
They start with the Great Hall.
Minerva sits on the Gryffindor table, watching students and teachers work through tabby cat eyes. She wants to make sure that they get everything right, that every stone and every candle is right were it used to be. Filius is, quite literally, knee-deep in spell books and vials of stardust, perfecting the roof – this moon a bit further to the left, that constellation over there doesn't have quite the right shine. He's been at it for almost a month now.
Albus would have finished it in twenty minutes, fifteen of which would have been spent on making rainbows with cauldrons of chocolate Galleons at the end for the students to find, she imagines.
Pomona drops by, relieved to let her know that after seemingly endlessly pestering the Great Squid with bribes and threats, Horace had finally come up with the idea to bring Dumbledore's portrait to talk to the Squid. The portrait had just said one word – please – and the Squid finally agreed to letting them drain the Great Lake to raise the collapsed dungeons. They've left the portrait out there with the Squid to keep it happy for the evening.
Minerva drops by the next day. The now restored dungeon halls are about as ancient and atmospheric as a Muggle metro station.
Though they won't be able to start teaching for another three months –at the very least – the school is full of people. There are students, recently made orphans, they have nowhere else to go; then there are former students, now homeless, so they volunteer to help in exchange for shelter until further notice. People of all ages, houses and backgrounds are united as classrooms and bathrooms are turned into dormitories. She hopes Albus would have liked that, at least.
The Ravenclaw tower had burnt down with Fyendfire, taking twelve students, three Death Eaters and Nearly Headless Nick with it. She wonders who'll take his position at Hogwarts. There's no shortage of ghosts these days. She just hopes it won't be anyone she knew too well - she won't be able to bear seeing a former student sitting there, at her table, distant and untouchable, yet another child she failed to protect- god, no.
She misses Albus so very dearly. She misses his Hogwarts, the realHogwarts, even more so. That school, with all its peculiarities and complexities, was alive, bursting with magic and mystery. This rockery she's trying to glue together is just a water reflection in comparison, rippled and distorted. It feels like a copy, rather than the perfectly disorganized mess she loved.
Albus Dumbledore was Hogwarts. And she can never get either back.