A/N: This is written for the Review's Lounge Birthday Challenge. HAPPY BIRTHDAY REVIEWS LOUNGE!!
I got there a few hours late, so I chose Kendra Dumbledore…God help me…what am I going to write about her?? I'm not sure about it...or how it turned out...Review anyway!
Disclaimer: You are MUCH too intelligent to even READ this. So you MUST know that I am, in fact, JKR. Yes. Glad we are on the same page. I am also Kendra Dumbledore. This is a memoir, you see. M-hmm. Okay, now, onto my memoir. (I will not sign any autographs.)
I have three children.
I have a husband.
That makes five birthdays a year.
Percival, Albus, Aberforth, Ariana, and me.
Percival's is the seventh of January.
Every year, we have a celebration. I bake a large cake and we eat his favorite food, roast pork. We sing after dinner, and Albus always tells his father what he's done well this year. We tend to laugh harder each year.
Aberforth then will tell his father why he is such a 'bloody fantastic dad' in his own words. Every year, I tell him not to use such language. Every year, Percy waves it away and listens with secret tears beneath his eyelids to my usually gruff son become—well, sentimental.
Ariana is too young, usually. She is three when she first begins her own tradition: She sings a song in her baby voice for her dear father, and this makes him actually shed a tear or two the first (and only) time she does it.
But now, Percy is gone. Albus is at school—Aberforth is in his own world. Ariana is not right. She's not the daughter who sang a song for my husband. She is the same physically, but she does not have the same mind.
Albus' is the thirtieth of May. We have an outdoor dinner, but 'never too much hassle' because Albus is rather humble about his birthdays.
Naturally, that means we all go overboard.
Aberforth chooses to simply say to his brother, "Another good year, then, Al," and smile. And Albus likes this. I can tell—I am his mother. He smiles back and claps Aberforth on the back.
Well, yes, not much brotherly interaction, but it's something.
Ariana is still much too young. She smiled for the first time on his birthday one year, but that is really all. But Albus doesn't mind. He rocks her to sleep on May thirtieth. That's his present to her. And it's a present to himself, too, because he loves doing it so much.
Percy and I always get him a few presents: A book, perhaps, or a new game, and always a handful of lemon drops. They are his favorite candy.
But now, Percy is gone. Albus is at school—Aberforth is in his own world. Ariana is not right. She's not the girl who smiled for her brother on his birthday. She is the same physically, but she does not have the same mind.
Aberforth's birthday is September eighteenth. He loves it. "It's finally fall on my birthday. The leaves are falling, the sky is blue, and it's all perfect."
He's never been particularly poetic, nor vocal, but that, I think, is the best thing he's ever said.
Albus creates an annual poem for his brother. He reads it, and it always makes me cry. My eldest has a way with words, I've heard, and I quite agree.
Ariana is so young; all she does is sleep through his birthday dinner, which we have outside at his request. But every year he asks us if he can show her the goats. And we say yes.
They come back nearly an hour later, and he's laughing, and she's still awake. We know, then, that the two will have a strong connection.
Percy and I usually give him candy. Lots and lots of it, and he saves it up. He gives some to Albus, some to Ariana, some even to Percival and me. He hands them to his friends, to our friends. And it always makes us happy. We have raised a good son, we think.
But now, Percy is gone. Albus is at school—Aberforth is in his own world. Ariana is not right. She's not the girl who saw those goats on her brother's birthday. She is the same physically, but she does not have the same mind.
Ariana's birthday is never much. It is August twelfth. She is young, ever so young, and so we give her new clothes and a piece of candy or two. Albus and Aberforth fuss over her, and spend almost the whole day making dinner for us—and for their only sister.
"You know, Kendra, we really should think of having more children. Look how well they go together. Look how Abe helps Al so readily, all for their sister."
I turn and smile and Percy. "You say that every year, darling. I don't know if I could handle another child."
He laughs and strokes my hair. "I know I can. You can do it, Kendra. You can do whatever you want to do."
And I believe him. Before he goes away, we talk of another baby. We talk seriously. And we almost do it.
But now, Percy is gone. Albus is at school—Aberforth is in his own world. Ariana is not right. She's not the girl who eats her brothers' homemade meals once a year. She is the same physically, but she does not have the same mind.
My own birthday is the twenty-eighth of November. Percy takes the day off work and helps the boys cook me a brunch in bed.
Albus composes something for me and has Aberforth sing it. Or he writes a poem and has Aberforth, the actor in the family, recite it dramatically. Or he makes up a silly song and dance, and Ariana and I watch as they do it, finally falling over from laughing so hard.
But now, Percy is gone. Albus is at school—Aberforth is in his own world. Ariana is not right. She's not the girl who watched her families' antics with me. She is the same physically, but she does not have the same mind.
Our birthdays used to be so fun. They were filled with laughter, happiness, hugs, and love.
But now, Percival has left. He's gone to Azkaban, where he shall surely die.
Albus is at school, throwing himself into his studies to get his mind off it all.
Aberforth is in his own world. He tries to busy himself with goats and memories. He still seeks special time with his sister, but it is never the same. He never comes back laughing.
And Ariana is not right. She is not the girl who sang a song for her father. She is not the girl who smiled for the first time on her brother's birthday. She is not the girl who saw the goats on her other brother's birthday. She is not the girl who ate those homemade meals. She is not the girl who watched the birthdays pass by with me.
She is here physically, but mentally, she might as well be with Percival.
Our birthdays nowadays are quiet, in-door, fast celebrations. We sing "Happy Birthday" and give the presents quickly, and then we pretend as if nothing has happened.
On Percival's birthday, we act like it's just another day, but every year Albus sends a poem to the family. Aberforth does not go out to the goats as much.
Ariana, of course, is oblivious. She wonders why she gets the poem as a special treat, and she asks, "Why isn't Abe with the goats?" fairly often.
We always say, "No good reason." Ariana, my poor, dear Ariana, is kept in the dark about many things.
On her own birthday, we give her presents. She doesn't know why. "Mummy, why did Al look sad today?"
"Mummy, why are you crying in your room, all alone?"
"Mummy, why isn't Abe going out to his goats?"
"Mummy, where's Daddy?"
"It's nothing, Ariana. I—I read a sad book. Abe is taking a break today. Daddy will be home soon, sweetie."
Once Albus told her is was her birthday. "But Al," she said, "what's a birthday?"
Ariana…kept in the dark about so much, including her own birthday.
Our birthdays meant something so long ago.
But now, Percy is gone. Albus is at school—Aberforth is in his own world. Ariana is not right. She's not the girl that she was once. She is the same physically, but she does not have the same mind.
I have three children.
One does not know what a birthday is.
That's three celebrated birthdays in all.
Albus, Aberforth, and me.
Ariana's and Percival's will never be the same.