04 - Albus Dumbledore

Smiling is no easy task. For starters, you'd have to be happy.

In a situation like mine, all I could accomplish was a sense of satisfaction for a job well done. Parents' Day saw all types of people, most of them snobs. Sometimes, when they'd turn their noses at me, I'd sniff them very loudly and state they didn't smell of money like they had originally claimed.

It was different today. For one, I hadn't been a waitress. I also hadn't needed to feel ashamed of the healing bruises in my arms because I always made sure to not have them around this time. Impressions were St. Louise's source of income and it was rotten luck to have one of the possible candidates spread incorrect gossip in their social circles. So, instead of snarking or hiding, I decided to suck it and go do my job.

I must have been doing a good job. Mrs. Darcy hadn't stopped throwing me suspicious glances.

But it was tiring. Human emotions were tiring;a roller-coaster was less dizzying than a man making girls parade, only to comment they didn't fit his criteria, or a woman who couldn't stop crying every time she spotted a gil who looked "just like darling Eliza." Then there were the others, the ones who clearly came for one thing: status.

It was hard, but I held myself in check. The world of the grown-ups was a confusing one, and I didn't want to stick my nose in it for as long as possible. No matter how angry they made me, or how much my skin was starting to itch because of the white dress, I kept my mouth shut and didn't dare to scratch my stomach.

(To the very end, Anya. Go through hell to the very end.)

"Would you like a biscuit, sir?"

The gray-haired man's smile was empty when he took a canapé.

"Thank you, little Miss."

He dismissed me quickly, turning to his very young wife, a willowy girl with wide blue eyes that didn't seem to fit with this empty crowd.

When I stepped to a table, another man appeared, taking with him a glass of wine. He looked over at me, and I was quickly discarded as unimportant.

It was a wonder that any girl here was adopted at all. All these people seemed to care about was of politics and business deals.

I made sure Mrs. Darcy wasn't looking when I fled to the kitchen. It was empty when I arrived, except for the sacks of flour scattered all over the floor. I had no doubt Carol and I would make a mess of them when we clean tonight.

Without a care, I sat on two sacks, sighing. It was tiring to hear the men talk about "keeping the wife in shape", but I couldn't do anything about it. I doubted Mrs. Darcy could either.

Forget it. Erase it. I began to sing; I began to count numbers in Spanish under my breath; I tried to replace that memory with doing other things that would eventually take importance inside my head.

Meanwhile, I straightened in my seat to take off my belt (a piece of blue fabric that was buttoned up). I let out a sigh when it loosened. The ribbon that held my hair was next to go away. I played with it until the black fabric was tangled between my fingers. Soon, it was wrapped like Karloff's hand had been in that mummy movie.

(The kitchen's outside door opened with a silent click. The wood moved aside, revealing a pair of purple pants with a star print. Oddly enough, the stars seemed to flicker in and out of sight as one leg moved forward.)

A shiver ran down my back; I stiffened. I faltered for a beat but keep wrapping the ribbon around my wrist.

There was someone behind me. I knew it wasn't Carol or Mrs. Darcy. Somehow, this presence seemed to be screaming 'look at me!'

It felt like the first time I saw Natasha.

(The legs kept moving forward, revealing a pair of leather boots. They came to a stop behind the girl at a safe distance. Hands intertwined behind this person's back.

This person waited, patiently, for Anya Barton's acknowledgement.)

I snatched a big, wooden spoon from the table, and whirled.

(A spoon suddenly touched this person's beard.

Wide hazel eyes stared at him, first with anger, then with bewilderment.)

The man looked just as surprised as I was. The spoon was touching the middle of his silver beard. It was so long it had to be tucked under his belt so it wouldn't just hover.

"I apologize," he said after a while. "I did not wish to frighten you."

Frighten? I was downright mortified to feel frightened at all.

(Anya stared. How couldn't she? Everything about the man just called for attention, starting with his hair and down to his attire. He wore an odd purple suit made of velvet with a star pattern over his pants, the neckline, and ends of the sleeves of his coat. A silver cloak hung over his arm like a towel.)

After I finished gaping, I began to analyze him. He was old. Incredibly old and thin. I was a bit surprised he didn't fall like a bag of bones would. The suit was probably holding him up (it was tight, after all). And behind his half-moon spectacles, bright blue eyes stared at me pleasantly.

He didn't fit in this sort of crowd. In fact, he didn't seem to fit anywhere at all.

Naturally, I was curious.

I lowered the spoon. "You're not supposed to be here."

He chuckled. His eyes, like his suit, seemed to twinkle. "And are you?" He gestured to the kitchen's doors; classical music came through them.

"More than you, yes."

"Again, my apologies. I did not wish to disturb you from your thoughts. Or is it 'Head in the clouds', I believe?"

"Yeah, they call it like that."

Usually, this sort of response made people angry. But the man merely nodded.

There was something about him that made me stand at ease. I couldn't tell if it was the grandfatherly appearance he gave off, the ridiculous attire, or the mere fact that he had yet to turn down his nose at me.

And there, behind his shining eyes, I could almost see it. The way his mind just whirled like cogs grinding together; that tiny spark of intelligence despite his dubious choice of wear.

"What are you doing here?" I asked curiously. "You look like you came from the circus but Mrs. Darcy doesn't allow anything that looks remotely out of place."

"I have a date."

I decided to humor him. "Really? Were you stood up then – mister...?"

"Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore."

The name itself would have made Mrs. Darcy shoo him away from the very beginning. "You really shouldn't be here."

He raised his eyebrows. Solemnly, he said, "But I am." Cheeky. He gestured to my left. "May I?"

I shrugged. Dumbledore didn't seem like he was the type to sit on dirty sacks, but I decided to give him the benefit of doubt. "Sure."

(She stared at him, unabashed. Anya never flinched away from the mystery; if anything, she seemed to chase it until she finally solved it or became too boring. And right now, Albus Dumbledore was more than a mystery.

He was the answer to all her questions, even if she didn't know it.

Usually, Anya's stares made people uncomfortable, but Dumbledore seemed pretty happy to sit in silence. It finally came to a high level of awkwardness when she simply had to say anything.

"Would you like a lemon drop?")

"Ho, ho! You certainly have a sneaky streak, Eleanor!" said Mr. Cartwright. Mrs. Darcy smiled pleasantly at him.

"You flatter me, Cartwright," she said with fake modesty. Inwardly, she wished to just grab her bottle of Whiskey and pour it on his blond wig. Yes, she was aware of that, thank you very much.

"Ah, don't you have a glass of water around here?" complained Mrs. Flaherty, waving her fan exaggeratedly. Her black curls bobbing up and down as she moved her head in what appeared to be annoyance.

Mrs. Darcy herself felt annoyed, but covered it with a smile; it seemed more like a grimace. Looking around, her annoyance grew when she noticed Anya wasn't in sight.

"Excuse me, I'll see if everything is all right in the kitchens," Mrs. Darcy said, "you never know if your personnel is lacking in their work."

Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Flaherty barked out laughs, their wives letting out a fit of giggles behind them.

"Quite right you are, Darcy. I remember when…"

She didn't stay to hear the rest of the conversation. The click-clack of her high heels could be heard as she frantically hurried out of the room. Where was the girl? Had she and Carol broken into another fight again?

But no. Carol was a few feet away from her, talking with the O'Connells. Her concern grew.

She didn't have to look far. Mrs. Darcy went to the kitchens and stopped short after pushing past the double-doors.

It was a sight to behold. Anya was there all right, talking animatedly with her companion. And it seemed willing; the smile on her face was such an odd thing Mrs. Darcy briefly considered that perhaps the girl had probably sipped at the wine.

When she noticed the man, her insides turned cold. It wasn't just his odd clothing that had her mortified, but the look on his face as well. He was smiling pleasantly, nodding here and there when Anya made a point, but his eyes – an electric blue – were dead set on her; he looked like he was hiding something and was dying to share it.

(Natasha Rosenberg stood across of her, more a shadow than a living being. Her red hair was a stark contrast against the office's décor, framing her green-blue eyes. Sometimes, Eleanor had hard trouble seeing the look in this young woman's eyes: they were, for a lack of better word, empty.

"What is it that you wanted to address, Ms. Rosenberg?"

Hands in her pockets, Rosenberg took time to reply.

"You know what I'm here for," she said. Mrs. Darcy clasped her hands. "When a letter addressed to Anya Barton comes, keep it safe until I return. But if someone dressed oddly comes –" her voice cut off.

Darcy only needed to know one thing. "Will they be a danger?"

Slowly, Rosenberg shook her head. "They won't endanger your wards."

"I was referring to Anya, Natasha," said Eleanor sharply.

But Rosenberg remained silent.)

It was that look alone that clued her in. Whoever – whatever – he was… he was no different from Anya or Natasha Rosenberg.

"Hello there."

Anya, to her consternation, turned to her with a slightly sheepish expression. As if talking with a stranger wasn't as dangerous as she'd been taught.

"Evening," said Mrs. Darcy stiffly. Her eyes darted all over him, trying to find something that proved he was a fragment of her imagination.

There was no such luck.

"I have an appointment with Mrs. Eleanor Darcy, the head administrator," the old man piped up cheerfully.

Lips thinning, Mrs. Darcy said, "Whose appointment would it be, hmm?"

"Albus Dumbledore."

"Professor Dumble – dorr -?"

How could she have forgotten? The man had called beforehand to make an appointment, something about a scholarship for a boarding school...?

"Albus Dumbledore," he corrected.

She shook her head.

"Right," she said dazedly. "Yes, Professor. Forgive me for my delay. If you follow me..."

Mrs. Darcy heard him say his farewells to Anya, but she was too preoccupied to really pay attention.

He was here to offer a scholarship of sorts, of that, she was sure. As a Headmaster, he had come to see the girls personally. He was going to choose someone, just the one he considered fit for his school's curriculum. But the school's name escaped her. Was it even on British soil?

They went through the guest room, where the party was still going on. Her guests pointed and murmured behind the Headmaster's back, but he was absently looking around, seemingly not feeling the stares.

Mrs. Darcy's office was placed on the second floor at the southeast end of the floor. The room was just as big as the guest room, except the wallpaper in her office was of gray flowery designs. Rows of bookshelves were lined on the left wall and opposite hung pictures. Most of them were of the orphanage's inhabitants since its beginnings, other were the same girls, but as grownups showing their success in business. Mrs. Darcy had been very proud of each of them.

Facing the wide window was a wooden desk, looking elder than the building itself. There were only two battered looking chairs and one high comfy armchair at the head of the table.

Mrs. Darcy reluctantly offered a seat to this Dumbleroar fella. While uneasy, she was never forgetful of her manners.

"Would you like something to drink?"

Dumbledore said pleasantly , "No, thank you."

She nodded briskly. Intertwining her fingers into a loose fist, she leaned back in her seat, watching Dumbledore beadily.

"It took me a while to consider your offer and allow this meeting, professor. And after a consultation with not only St. Louise's teachers, but the organization's psychologist, I do not have further protests. The curriculum is nearly impeccable. We will allow one of our students to participate in your exchange program."

Professor Dumbledore smiled. "I'm very glad you think so. If it's not too soon, I believe I have found the perfect candidate."

"Have you?"

"Yes. The girl I was talking to a few minutes ago. Anya."

Darcy's eyebrows rose. "Anya," she repeated sceptically. "And why her?"

"She was very polite –"

"I'd advise you to change strategies, Mr. Dumbledore." Her eyes narrowed. "Do remember I have watched every girl in this place as they grew. And I know for certain Miss Anya does not meet the program's requirements."

"I agree she doesn't seem very sociable," Dumbledore conceded with a bow of his head, "but her take on certain things is quite refreshing."

"Is it?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "Yes." He did not elaborate. "Our school would benefit with people like her."

"How so?"

"As I already told you in my letter, Hogwarts is a school for gifted children –"

"Pardon me, but the only gift I have seen on that girl is her ability to get into fights," Mrs. Darcy interrupted with a humorless smile. "Oh, and her writing. I can't deny she doesn't have talent when all she does is write."

Dumbledore's quiet smile remained on his face. "I admit I do have another motive, Mrs. Darcy. Anya reminds me of a pair of my students. A couple, actually. They married when they finished school."

Mrs. Darcy gazed at him expectantly.

"Unfortunately, they were murdered... by a mad man."

"Their names?"

Dumbledore's eyes turned cold.

"Barton. It's all I will say."

Mrs. Darcy frowned but didn't demand the complete answer. She leaned back. "So that is what happened..." she murmured. "After all these years..."

Claire had been right. Anya's parents had died and no one had wanted to look after the girl. Mrs. Darcy didn't know what to make of this.

"My suspicions are correct, I presume?"

"Quite right. Anya Carina Barton's her full name, but she doesn't know. None of them do until they leave."

"Her name has been written down for our school since birth. Can you tell me how her life has been here on your institute?"

"Difficult." Mrs. Darcy's mouth twitched into a halfhearted smile. "It can't possibly be anything but that. At my age, it's difficult to recall my childhood, but I know how children are. Their curiosity is what helps them grow and learn, after all. But imagine this: you are a child, but you do not have a family. Why? All children have parents, don't they? Have you ever had to tell a child that they're different because it was beyond their control, sir?" Dumbledore watched her quietly. "No, I didn't think so.

"Miss Anya was not different. She grew to be a very difficult child to deal. Loneliness pushed her to anger, and every day, that anger festers into something that could quite destroy her. It shames me, but there was nothing I could do – not when there were other thirty girls just as affection-starved as her. My position doesn't allow me to show favoritism, but I can admit Anya shows potential.

"However, whether or not this girl is the daughter of your late students, you must understand one thing: Anya Barton is a wild card. Here, we so easily forget she exists; she doesn't even have to try, and when she does, it is a complete chaos. And let's not forget when she does decide to make herself known; she bloody well leaves an impression. What I am trying to say, professor, is that if you still decide to accept her to your school, you're accepting everything that comes wit her."

Eleanor Darcy had not coped well with the death of her family. Her only way of moving forward was looking after the girls personally. Anya Barton had not been the exception. The girl had mostly grown to hear and adapt to her rules, and there were times Mrs. Darcy wondered if Anya would have been different had she lived with her blood relatives – if they were any out there.

But Darcy was confident Anya would survive in the real world. The girl was a fighter, after all. It was the glint in this man's eyes that made her hesitate, though.

It became obvious to Eleanor when the man remained quiet far too long that he hadn't really thought of his decision at all.

"I understand."

"Do you?"

Dumbledore solemnly nodded. "Yes. I believe I do."

"She still has to agree, you know."

"Of course," Dumbledore agreed. "If she does accept, we are willing to give her a full scholarship; we will provide her books and other equipment necessary. Also, she will have to return every summer, at the least. We can't lock her inside the school, after all."

"I'd like to see you try," said Mrs. Darcy, recalling the numerous times Anya had broken into the attic long before she had started to live in it. "Very well, Professor Dumbledore. If Anya accepts, you have my blessing." Only then did she allow herself a small smirk. "Let's hope you're in your best interests."