A.n: Just a short one-shot that I thought up, kind of sad but meh!
Of Promises and Phoenix Tales.
I will not name myself. I deem it irrelevant.
The day Dumbledore was killed, I remember it well. I was watching the whole time, I saw it all.
I listened as he sold the world his last breath. I watched as he fell, a calm, contented expression overcoming him and overriding his fear. I could almost taste a century's worth of tension loosen from his shoulders and fly as he flew, away from him, away from the castle, maybe away from Earth itself, to ride the winds and tides of the sky.
I could smell…war. Now, you may ask, what does that have to do with anything? But, to tell you the truth, my friends, it has everything, it's a unique smell, one that could be nothing else. It begins with the sharp, bitter fragrance of anger and denial, accompanied by the twisted mix up of betrayal, all of which I could see in little Harry Potter's eyes. There is a whiff of fear, a rather soft smell that tingles in the back of your throat, like smoke from a wood fire, that I could see in young Draco's quivering lip and shuddering hands.
Then there is calm, like the eye of the storm, acceptance, you could say. Like the smell of roses, soft, sweet, but strong and tangible in the air. Then all hell brakes loose.
And finally, when they had left to alert the others, I moved over and touched the soft, wrinkled skin of his pale white face, poor Harry hadn't shut his eyelids properly, I leaned over and began to press them closed, his blue eyes still twinkled wisely behind a sheen of glazing, the only thing separating him from us, a see-through, non-seeing, gaze into the distance.
…
Even though I speak of Dumbledore, this tale I tell is not about him, it's related, of course, but not about.
For, as I sat there staring down at his limp figure, a sad trill comes from above. A large bird comes and sits beside me, on the motionless arm of his white-haired, old friend.
Fawkes leans over his bearded face, just as I had moment ago, tears streamed down his feathered beak. Not healing tears, a Phoenix is smart enough to know when someone is past their help, no, real tears, tears of untamed grief fell heavily onto Dumbledore's calmly set cheek.
The bird's brilliant plume of feathers in reds, oranges and golds seemed to dim into browns and greys, his once sharp, dangerous beak withered before my eyes, his head drooped in unquestionable sadness.
Before he left he gave me one last look, a clear demand for his lost friend. A stare that said;
'I will come, and I will leave, it is my destiny, my lives work to do so. Each time though, the pain does not relinquish it's hold on my aging heart.
I will remember, I will remember until the end of this forsaken planet. I will remember even as I note that the earth ends in fire or ice. I will remember him, if you do'.
He flew into the forest, soft notes trailing behind him.
He came to the funeral, he flew over head, he trilled sweetly his farewells to those he knew, those he didn't, his friends from over the years. And he said goodbye to Dumbledore, not the first, or the last of his 'owners', so to say, but definitely one worth remembering.
And then he was gone, he flew away forever, to find a new home, new friends, new enemies, and new adventures.
While it was sad, I think I was the only one who watched him go, everybody else focusing on the funeral.
But I watched, he swooped into the distance, just a red dot weaving gracefully in between the wispy clouds of afternoon. He twirled and danced, sailing across the setting sun.
A comet, a once in a lifetime shooting star, never to be seen again by us, just the same as Dumbledore I suppose.
…
As I recall this memory to you now, many years have passed since that day.
I have my own children, who have children, who, even they, have children. I lived to be very old, I am grateful and content with my lot.
I became a well-know magizoologist, I wrote a few books and even managed to recover the last few Crumple Horned Snorkstack's with Luna Lovegood, who specializes in rare creatures.
Harry Potter became a successful Auror and married Ginny Weasley, the Harpies legendary seeker, as expected. He has his own kids, with kids, with kids. And even they still cannot get away from his irritant fame.
Ron Weasley married Hermione Granger, as everyone knew they would, they have children and so on. Ron works as a business partner to Harry, and Hermione works in the legal department of the Ministry, giving any criminal that they bring in fair judgment. Nothing has ever come between them, no-one can split the golden trio!
Neville Longbottem married Luna, he went on to become the best Herbology professor Hogwarts had ever seen.
Draco Malfoy, he was a happy man when he died, not many years ago now, on a broomstick accident. He was an amazing Potions professor in his day, loved by almost all the student, even the Gryffindor's, and respected by all the teachers. He married Astoria Greengrass in the end, by choice, not his fathers wishes. He even managed to become rather close friend with the Golden Trio, although he and Ron where always hanging on by their fingernails.
Professor McGonagall died a contented women, 52 years after Dumbledore did, from natural causes.
Hagrid still sits in his old, wooden house on the edge of the forest. Whistling and waving at students that pass him by. Fang lays in peace outside in the pumpkin patch, a large, engraved stone marks the place that he finally came to rest.
And Dumbledore's large, white, marble tome sits where it always did, with the sunlight's rays reflecting of it's still clean surface, through years of battering from the pouring rain and tormenting snow it still lays unscratched and unmarred.
All thanks to magic.
…
Even though in years to come, all those who partook and died in that war, will fade and decay into the back of peoples minds, Seamus and Dean, Luna and Neville, Susan Bones and Lavender Brown, and so many others, Dumbledore, Harry Potter, and the Wizerding Worlds fight for survival will always be known.
Which is good.
Because, all those years ago, all Fawkes wanted was for his friend to be remembered for who he was.
Hopefully he got his wish.
…
Now, my ears may be loosing their way slightly, but, if we listen hard, perhaps we may be able to hear the soft, content trilling of a large golden bird. Floating along the wind currents and calling out his satisfaction.
We will hear, and our lives will feel complete.
End
A.n: You like?
B out!