Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
[A/N]: There's some stuff in here I took straight fromBambi. Just changed the quotes around a little to better suit the story. So yeah, I don't own those bits as well, but I'm not entirely sure if I should be putting those sections in bold? Either way, they're there.
Now, my prompts are:
(story) Bambi
(word) effervescent
(quote) 'If you smile when no one else is around, you really mean it.' – Andy Rooney.
The word count is: 2646.
Enjoy!
The first thing you know is your mother speaking. You don't know what she is saying, but you know the comfort you feel as she rocks you in her arms.
Slowly, you open your eyes.
There are blurred faces around you, staring down at you.
Your eyes fix blearily on your mother.
You mumble sleepily, and close your eyes again.
You're lost to a world of dreams when an old woman speaks in an imperious voice, "Congratulations, Alice. It isn't every day a Longbottom heir is born."
She smiles down at you, cuddles you close and lets you grip onto her finger. Her hair is brown, a dark shade that falls around you in a curtain and shields you from the world. You giggle when she laughs, you laugh when she tickles you.
He comes over, and he gives you a grin. He plants a kiss on your forehead, he strokes your cheek.
"I love you," he says to you, and she echoes it, too.
You smile back, eyes alight with happiness, heart full of an emotion you cannot yet express to them.
He swings you up onto his hip, holds you close. He isn't smiling, but that's okay, because you can still feel his warmth by your side, his warmth that promises safety and love. He speaks, not to you, not to her, but to a stranger. The stranger gives you a small smile, and you wave back at him.
She appears next to him, and you're huddled between them. She strokes the strands of your hair, and your eyes droop sleepily. You let the sounds of their hushed voices wash over you, lull you to sleep.
You're asleep when they hug you close and bury their faces in each other's neck, whispering 'I love you's and promises of forever. You're asleep when the stranger smooths your hair gently before leaving.
You dream, and even in your dreams, you know you are loved.
You're playing with a boy your age, a boy with bright red hair and blue eyes. His mother fusses, as the two of you eye each other.
"Ron," squeals the other boy, pointing at himself.
"Ro," you try.
"Ron," he says again, slower.
"Ron."
He giggles and claps. You cheer, "Ron! Ron! Ron!"
Two adults come in, staring at you in disbelief. You look up and give them a brilliant smile. "Ma!" you say.
Your Ma walks over to you and kneels down, her eyes welling up. "Yes, baby," she whispers. "I'm your Ma."
"Ma! Ma! Ma!" you laugh. You look at the other adult. "Da?"
Your Da lets out a choked laugh and envelops you and your Ma.
On your first birthday, your parents and your grandmother place a cake in front of you. They sing to you, all three of them, as you bounce excitedly in your father's embrace. Your grandmother looks at the both of you with a tender look in her eyes, one that you don't notice.
"Blow it out," she says, and you do. You huff and you puff and you make a wish.
When you're older, you don't remember what you wished for – you don't even remember this birthday. But in this moment, surrounded by your family, you know that as you blow out your candle, your mind holds on to this scene like it's your lifeline.
The single candle is put out, just as the wax touches the pristine white cream that covers the cake.
The days pass. You don't see many people at all. The only people you see are your parents, your grandmother, and once, a man with messy, black hair, a woman with hair as bright as fire, and a boy your age that you bonded with over spilt ice cream and food fights.
You stand at the door when they leave, watching them walk out into the garden you have never been to before. Your Ma catches the wistful look in your eye. Her hand supporting you tightens, and the soft look that is usually in her gaze is replaced by something harder, something more desperate.
"You must never rush out into the garden," she says, her voice firm. "There might be danger!" Then, more gently: "Out there, we are unprotected. The garden is wide and open, and the wards aren't as powerful. So we have to be careful."
You nod slowly.
A stranger comes over one day. He looks kind and gentle, with a funny long beard and brightly-coloured robes. He gives you a smile, and you wave shyly back.
"This is Professor Dumbledore, love," says your Da.
Your mouth mangles the name, and your Da chuckles lightly.
"It's okay, love," your Ma soothes. "Professor Dumbledore is a very brave and very wise man. He's the Leader of the Light."
"Old," is your reply.
Your Ma sputters and blushes, but the very old and very brave and very wise man only gives you an amused look.
His face changes almost immediately, however, when he looks your parents in the eye. You don't know what shifted, but you can tell something rests heavier in the air.
Your Da puts you in your room, drops a kiss on your forehead. He smiles at you, but you can tell his smile is different from his usual smile. You return the smile hesitantly, but your Da has left your room already.
You've never been left alone for this long before. When your parents come back for you, you reach out your arms for reassurance. They give it to you readily, but you still don't feel quite right.
In your worry, you don't notice your parents' red eyes, nor the torturous mix of emotions in them.
You don't realise it, but they're so terribly relieved – and guilty because of it.
You don't realise they're relieved for you, for the fate you weren't chosen for.
The fate of being the Boy-Who-Lived.
You're outside for the first time since you can remember.
You rejoice in the snow, the icy water that soaks through your gloves as you try to imitate your Da rolling a snowball.
He flings his snowball – and your badly made one – at your Ma, who shrieks and laughs. She flings snow back at your Da, and you sputter as some of it splashes onto your face. The cold stings against your skin, but it's okay, because your Ma and Da are happy, and so are you.
You forget the strangeness from yesterday, and laugh with them, cheeks flushed and eyes shining with delight.
She puts you in the closet, strokes your cheek.
You gurgle, but she presses her finger against your lips.
"We're going to play a game, love, okay?" she says quietly. She smiles at you, but it makes you flinch. "You have to be the quietest. Don't make a sound. Be silent."
You stare at her with wide eyes, but your mouth remains shut and the only sound is your shallow breathing.
"Good," she whispers. She presses her forehead against yours. "Ma and Da are going to play the game somewhere else, okay? It's called" – she breaks off, choking – "Who Can Scream The Loudest? And you have to be silent, okay, love? Completely silent. No matter what you hear, no matter who you hear, even if it suddenly goes quiet, you won't make a sound. Not until the game is over, love. If you make a sound, you lose. And you'll stay in this closet, until Grandma comes and gets you, okay?"
Your hands are shaking, but you don't know why. Maybe it's the strange way your Ma is talking. Maybe it's because you don't know where your Da is. But you don't like it, and it's making you afraid.
"Don't be scared, baby." She grips your hands tightly. "Ma and Da love you. We love you so much. Remember the rules. We love you."
She presses a lingering, tear-stained kiss on the crown of your head.
"We love you," she murmurs again. "Always remember that."
You want to cry out. When she gets up, you want to beg for her to come back. But you don't know the words, and you promised not to make a sound.
So you keep silent.
She shuts the closet door, and you're surrounded in cold darkness.
Who Can Scream The Loudest?
It's a terrible game, you realise.
You listen closely. You can hear strangers shouting, your Ma and Da shouting; you can see bright flashes of light seep through the cracks of the closet door.
A sharp cry. You recognise your Ma's voice.
A lower, hoarser yell. Your Da's voice.
You listen closely.
Ma is winning the game.
Now Da is winning.
Now you aren't sure who is winning, all you know is that this game doesn't sound very fun.
But Ma told you to stay in the closet. She told you to be silent.
You listen to what your Ma said. She's always right.
You listen to what your Ma said. It will be okay.
Ma is crying. You wonder if this is part of the game.
You can't hear your Da anymore. You hope he says something – anything – because the silence makes you nervous. You don't realise you're crying, too, until your Ma resumes playing the game again.
You don't make a sound.
Someone laughs.
That's good, laughing is good.
It means they're having fun.
Right?
Ickle Alice Longbottom.
She was a tough little Auror.
She lasted longer than her ickle husband.
But look now, nobody's home!
A high-pitched giggle.
There's no one making a sound, except for the giggling stranger.
She sounds happy. Nobody's home, she says.
You wonder where your Ma and Da is, if they aren't with her.
She laughs again, the stranger alone in your house.
It's okay, you tell yourself. She's laughing. Laughing is good.
"He's here! Oh, thank Merlin, he's here, Augusta, he's here!"
You look up, blinking blearily. It's the first sign of light you've seen in a while, and you aren't sure how long it's been. Long enough that you can't feel your fingers.
Your grandmother appears before you, pale and wide-eyed. Her entire face sags when she sees you, and you barely blink before she has you in a vice grip, crushing you in her embrace. You feel your shirt dampening at the shoulder, and you hear the choked sounds she is making. You realise she's crying.
You wonder where are your Ma and Da. You give your grandmother a questioning look.
Someone places his hand on your shoulder. You look up, see the bearded, wise Professor Dumbledore.
"Your parents cannot be with you anymore," says the old man quietly.
You blink hard. You don't know what he means. But you miss your parents. You want to hear their laugh. You want to feel their warmth.
Why aren't they here?
You don't understand.
"You'll be staying with me for now, alright?" Gramma pushes your hair away from your eyes tenderly. You blink up at her, and nod slowly.
She smiles at you, strained and false.
She takes you to her home, large as a castle, grand as a palace.
Empty, save for you and her and the house elves.
Gramma tries. "Do you want to stay at home or go outside?"
You seat yourself determinedly in your room, your answer clear. The garden is dangerous, your Ma said before. You don't want to go outside without your Ma.
"Which is it?" she tries again. "Why don't you tell me?"
You shake your head.
She sighs.
"I don't know what to do, Albus," you hear your Gramma's voice. "He eats, he sleeps, he smiles. But he doesn't speak! He doesn't make a sound! Sometimes" – she breaks off, gasping – "sometimes, I forget he's even there. He's so quiet. When he cries, it's silent tears, not a sound. He used to be such an effervescent little boy, Albus, I don't know what's wrong with him."
Your house-elf spoons some food into your mouth gently.
"It will be alright, Augusta. He's been through a lot. He'll come out of his shell soon enough."
You obediently swallow, not making a sound.
On your third birthday, your Gramma throws you a party. The only person you recognise there is Ron, who brings with him his brothers and his little sister.
He looks very different. His face is slimmer, his hair thicker and his body longer.
Ron waddles over, a bright grin on his face.
"You wanna play?" he asks, waving a figurine of a familiar boy with black hair and bright green eyes. Harry Potter, you know, the hero of the Wizarding World.
You smile and nod.
Ron plays with the figurines with a wild abandon, hands waving, shouting gibberish spells that don't exist. You sit there and play quietly, until Ron gets bored and wanders off.
You sit, in the middle of a room full of loud, boisterous people you don't know, alone.
You're five and you still haven't spoken a word. Your Gramma has given up on you. She's disappointed, you know. You can see it from the way she looks at you, her eyes dark and cold and demanding.
You smile back, trying to convey your silent apology.
She sighs and shakes her head.
One day, your Gramma sits you down.
"You're seven-years-old now. Old enough for this, to know what happened to your parents. Albus believes you are too young, and so does your Great-Uncle Algie. But you must know, and you must see them. You're old enough."
You shrink back as she speaks, fear rising in your heart.
"We'll be going to St. Mungo's today, boy. Your parents are there."
You smile, even though you can't quite remember what your parents looked like, or even sounded like. All you know is that there's something missing, and that you have to keep silent until you see them again.
You fight back the dread, push it away and paste on a grin of excitement.
When you first walk into the white room, you're ecstatic. They're there! You can see them, they're smiling!
That's what they look like, you remember now.
Ma's brown hair, Da's stubble.
Then, you pause.
You wonder who they're smiling at, what they're laughing at.
There's no one in front of them, and no one is speaking.
You jump onto your Ma's bed. "Ma!" you squeal. You hear a sharp intake of breath behind you, but ignore it. "Ma, I've missed you and Da so much!"
You burrow into her warmth, marvel at how familiar it feels from the faded memories that feel more like a dream than reality. "I've missed you, Ma. It was such a terribly long game. It wasn't very fun, too. But I won, didn't I, Ma? I won!"
Your Ma doesn't answer, but you feel her stroke your hair softly, the way you think she used to.
You go to your Da next. "I kept my promise to Ma, Da. Are you proud of me? I kept my promise this whole time!"
He doesn't reply, either. You look up, into his eyes. You realise you haven't looked them both in the eye since you came in. The dread that you've tried so hard to suppress comes rising back up with a vengeance.
The back of your eyes prickle and your throat feels tight.
Your Da's hazel eyes are blank and empty. He stares off to the left of you, his lips forming silent words.
You glance to your Ma. Her blank, vapid smile.
She holds out her hand towards you, even as she stares out the window instead of at you.
You hold out your hand towards her.
She drops a sweet wrapper in to your palm.
You look up, eyes wide. When you speak, your voice is young and sweet and uncertain. "Ma?"
