"Whatsit?" says Ariana one day, when she's young (of course, now she's always young). She's pointing at the glimmer of their mother's ring while she's cooking; she must have forgotten to take it off like she usually does when she cooks.
"Shiny," she adds after a pause, thoughtfully. Of course it is—those are the sorts of things Ariana's been attracted to lately, the sorts of things she's always attracted to; pretty baubles and gems and things that look nice in the light.
"Yeah," Aberforth says, nodding. "It's shiny."
"Whatsit?" she repeats, gesturing at the ring again.
"Um," says Abe. "Well, it's this thing called a ring. But that ring is sort of special. See, it means that our mother's married, that she has a husband."
Ariana wrinkles her nose; Aberforth isn't sure if she remembers their dad, their brave father who avenged what happened to her (not that Ariana knew there was anything wrong with her—not like she'd ever think she wasn't normal). He's not sure if he wants to know if she does. It could lead to other things, other questions. Other things she might remember.
"M—m—married," Ariana repeats. She's like a small child, even if she's not as small as one, and like all small children, she has that talent for picking out and remembering the most important word.
"Yes, married," Abe replies, leaning against the wall of their kitchen as their mother cooks. "Marriage. When people get married, they have weddings—that's where they get the ring, kind of."
"Will I—will I—" Ariana's pretty little face screws up in determination, and she moves her lips several times before getting the words out, then noticeably exhales after, proud of her accomplishment. "Will I get married?"
Aberforth is proud too—she doesn't manage full sentences often. Maybe she's getting a tiny bit better. Not fully—she never will, he knows that—but a bit.
"Maybe," he says slowly, after thinking about it. "If you find someone you love. Then you'd have a wedding. You would walk down an aisle, dressed in all white, looking very pretty, even more than usual. It would be a lovely white dress, or dress robes, perhaps. And you'd be holding flowers."
"Flowers?" Ariana says, brightening up. She loves flowers, and she loves the garden, whenever she gets to catch a glimpse of it. She likes to make daisy chains, and Aberforth always keeps the ones she makes specially for him.
"Yes, a nice bouquet," Aberforth says. "Whatever kind you want. Maybe daisies, since you love daisies. Or, mm, maybe daffodils."
"Daisies," says Ariana, glassy blue eyes shining—she looks at Aberforth, almost, like she knows he's there, but she just can't make contact. He appreciates it, all the same. She never makes contact, not ever.
Sometimes Aberforth thinks about how pretty Ariana's eyes could have been, if you could really see them, really connect with them. Eyes might be mirrors of the soul, but Ariana's eyes are reflecting everyone else, not her.
"Maybe blue flowers," Aberforth adds, "to go with your eyes. And it would all look so pretty against you and your pretty white dress, and your new ring."
And it will never happen, Aberforth thinks, in his head. Not to Ariana, at least.
"You're not talking about marriage, are you?" And Albus comes in, not preoccupied with schoolwork (and it's summer, and he does this by choice—really) up in his room for once.
Aberforth shoots him a glare, but it's quick. "Yes," he says, while Ariana pipes up, "Married," in a bright, happy little voice, and he can't ever glare while Ariana's being so sweet.
"Daisies," she says, smiling. "White dresses. Rings—shiny. Like Mama's."
Al looks at him, like it's all his fault (well, yes, it is, he supposes—but Ariana's the one who asked about the ring, wasn't she?), and glares back at him, his face a mixture of anger—and of frustration—and of sadness.
"It would be lovely, yes," he says quietly. Then: "Would you like me to pick you a daisy from the garden?" He doesn't wait for an answer (he didn't need to ask, really—Ariana's always thrilled to get a daisy, like it's something new and special every time) and walks out of the room to go to the garden immediately.
Aberforth stares at the spot where Al was standing a moment ago. "A white dress," he murmurs, trying to keep on a smile—Ariana gets awfully upset when people get sad or angry around her, especially the latter.
He sighs, and looks at Ariana's glassy, blank blue eyes.
"You would look so pretty," he says. Images of a future that will never happen run through his head, and Aberforth sighs again, and he walks out of the kitchen.
Now it's only Ariana—Mother is still busy with the cooking, and she's very loud and busy.
"I—I'd like—I'd like a white dress," Ariana says quietly.
This was written for the same challenge as my Percy fic, the loveliest daffodils, but it's my official entry, because it's long enough.
Uncapitalized title for aesthetic reasons.