Bumblebee Blood

Chapter 23

"Is this what you imagined it to be like?"

He opened the dark green journal with careful fingers, letting it rest in his lap as he brushed his fingertips over the parchment pages. The first few were left deliberately blank in an attempt to make it appear as if this journal had never been used; not that the contents were so secret that he felt the need to protect it with magic, but because he liked the concept that people could look at it and think it to be most ordinary and not consider it again, whereas he knew the importance of what was inside. Of course that concept was a metaphor for his most brilliant charge, but then he had always liked metaphors.

The first page that was not blank held a small cutting, narrow and short, from a journal that had landed on his plate at breakfast time almost a decade before. He had never really subscribed to Potions journals, knowing he had more expertise than he could ever acquire himself, sitting three seats away from him at the table that day. It had seemed perfectly innocuous, aside from the reaction of the occupant of the chair, three seats away from him. It had been the smallest sideways glance, and the pause from consuming toast, long enough for him to notice but suddenly gone as if, he was not meant to notice.

Albus would realise, a few hours later, when he sat and read through the magazine out of near boredom and that lingering curiosity. He had seen it then. Severus' first published article. Under a pseudonym, of course, but the tone and style distinctly that of his sharp and intellectual teacher. He had not really known how to approach Severus about it; the boy himself had not had a copy delivered, and Albus wondered if this was deliberate. Had Severus arranged for Albus to have a copy - after all, the Headmaster had frequently harassed the younger man about writing something - but they had never discussed it. Still, it seemed that someone had wanted him to know that Severus was carving his own path, perhaps encouraged and empowered by gentle support and unwavering belief. Severus had never even hinted, and Albus had done the next best thing; he had cut the article out, carefully, with a small craft knife, and it had become the very first artefact in this blank book where he kept those little snippets of a friendship that was nearing fifteen years.

Other articles would follow - he kept them all, even as Severus started to receive the magazine himself, and even as his fellow colleagues started to notice and congratulate him, and Albus himself never said anything because Severus never brought it up, but oh how he kept and read each and every commentary and correction and editorial and passage. It was not even for Albus to read them again in the future, it was just something he felt should be kept, in one place, all together, a testament to how far one man could come when he had people to support him and have faith in him.

Further into the journal now, the dates in his narrow handwriting showing a passage of time.

A postcard, stuck so the picture was against the page and instead he could read that spidery handwriting that crammed itself into the small space available for writing in. Some of the ink was beginning to fade but he remembered the words anyway; transactional comments about the state of the weather, how his journey had been, and how Severus hoped to find what he was looking forward and return to Hogwarts sooner than expected as he had experienced inspiration and wished to be brewing. A cursory wishing of Albus well, which was far more sentimental than some of the long and fawning letters he received from other wizards. The signing of Severus' name.

The next summer; another postcard. This one was much shorter, but perhaps it did not need length to convey the camaraderie of a mentor and ward -

Dear Albus,

Everyone here wears brightly coloured clothes. I think you would rather like it, if you were here.

I remain,

Severus.

He had always hoped there was more meaning in the second sentence than anyone else would perhaps assume. This was the sixth summer holiday that they had shared together and he had rather hoped it had meant that Severus was missing him. Severus would never admit to it of course, and the next summer holiday was very different entirely as they had gone to Egypt together.

Well, Severus had implied that maybe he would need help, and Albus had taken upon himself to go. It was the first holiday he had had in a while.

He had kept only two souvenirs from that trip.

One was a photograph - of which there were only two copies - and the other was in Severus' room, and one Albus knew by heart. The other was a pressed flower. The petals were dusky pink and the shape reminded him very much of the bluebells that occasionally grew along the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. They had been stargazing of an evening in between visiting tombs (and Albus listening to Severus' apparently very in-depth knowledge of Ancient Egypt, which Albus had not studied in any great detail but still he found himself amused and engaged) - and carelessly, Severus had been encouraging a clearly starved and dying flower back to life with some wandless magic even as he followed Albus' description of the constellations and the stories the older wizard could tell. Albus had captured the flower the next morning when Severus had been packing away. Severus himself had purchased no souvenirs, but had not refused the photograph, presented a few months later on a cold January evening in suitably garish wrapping paper.

He turned the page in the journal.

Happy 2000th Birthday, Albus. At least, it certainly feels that long. I remain, Severus.

He smiled.

Next, an article from the Daily Prophet this time, reporting on a conference that he had attended to watch various demonstrations and talks and occasionally ask deliberately awkward questions at panels he had not been invited to be on. He had watched his boy talk with passion and skill and knowledge and never had he felt quite so proud of anything or anyone, none of his own extraordinary achievements matched seeing his once shy and blunt and awkward Potions Master keep an entire room silent and intent and hooked on his every word as he had shown a more effective method for creating healing potions. The sheer brilliance was there, for everyone to see, and afterward he had sought the younger man out and found him seemingly embarrassed before a crowd of suddenly interested parties - fans, Albus would wind Severus up with for years afterward - and there had been a fleeting expression of relief as he had joined the group. Severus had tried to divert the questioning to Albus, but instead, Albus had simply put an arm around him and attested that he could answer none of the questions as well as Severus could. There was only one line about Severus in the article but the memories were as warm and as vivid as they had been six years before - and every so often, Severus himself would mention it, and therefore Albus knew it was important to him.

He flicked forward a few more sheaves.

The last of the not blank pages was from that summer just passed, merely three months before. Another birthday, come and gone.

I have run out of things to put on these infernal birthday cards. Stop living so long. What else am I supposed to say? Keep being brilliant? I remain, a now speechless, Severus.

If nothing else, Severus had always seen him as brilliant. Even when said with sarcasm, the adjective would burrow its way into Albus' heart and sometimes he clung to that word far more than he would allow his Slytherin friend to know.

The book was only half full, and as Albus stared at the next blank page, he was filled with this sudden uncertainty. He had started the journal always with the purpose of finishing it, of filling it, and perhaps then giving it to Severus to prove to him that he really did mean so much to Albus, if he did not already know. He wanted Severus to realise that Albus had never forgotten anything, and had treasured so many of their memories; the journals, the trips, the holidays, the postcards, the birthday cards. He had always assumed there would be more. Lots more. Enough to fill another half of a lifetime.

He closed the book and removed his spectacles, folding them carefully and resting them on top of the book. What if there were no more souvenirs to fill the pages?

The pages filled with memories he had shared with his son.

He admitted to himself that he had been trying not to think about it. They had stayed in the forest a little longer, until Severus' 'power' nap as he called them had woken him a mere twenty minutes later with a little more strength. They had agreed to hide his eyes until it was more strategic for such a reveal - which Albus knew to mean when their hand was forced, even as a little voice in the pit of his stomach was upset and hurt at that - and once Albus had settled Severus back into his office and promised to buy him some nicer gloves for his birthday to hide his damaged hand, he had left the younger wizard to rest and heal. The next day, breakfast had come and gone as normal and Severus had been there, and by the end of the day the house point counters showed enough of a change to rile Minerva and therefore Albus knew things were some sort of 'ordinary'.

He was not necessarily avoiding Severus, but at the same time he felt like he needed some space of his own. Albus wanted to be angry, he wanted to hurt, he wanted to process and he wanted to reflect, and then perhaps he would be able to put these thoughts away, like he did everything else, and they would cause him no more pain and he would be the objective leader of the light once more and it would be like nothing had happened. That was absolutely doable; he had done it before, with that which had caused him the greatest torment - shut it away, try to forget, as he had before.

The problem here was he could not imprison Severus in Nurmengard, despite how much of an excellent protection that would be.

Even then, it wouldn't stop the dreams.

Albus had never been as talented at Occlumency as he was at its counterpart. To be fair, he did not need to be; most people never even considered trying to penetrate his mind and therefore he was out of practice. That meant, when the darkness of an evening came, he was vulnerable. Vulnerable to the images of a man with his blue eyes and the dark hair of his mother, falling, falling so far, falling too far, falling out of reach, and he would never be there in time, and he would not be there to comfort, and he would not be there to sooth and he would not be there to save.

Why had Tom not killed Severus? He almost wished for such a thing, to spare the uncertainty and the unknowing. Why had he left Severus alive, returned him to Albus, and made sure that Severus still felt - safe, though the word was an oxymoron in itself - safe enough to return the next time the Dark Lord summoned him. Tom could kill Severus that time; or the next time; or the next time; or the next time. And yes, Albus accepted that was how it had always been; the slightest slip from Severus would have been enough, and Albus would have waited and waited and waited and then eventually have had to give up and accept and mourn and grieve.

Severus saw this situation as no different to what it had always been. Albus did. He saw the difference. He knew the difference. He felt the difference.

He feared the difference; and of course, Tom knew that, and maybe just this once, Tom had mastered the game and was using Albus' greatest weapon against him, masterfully and effortlessly and almost carelessly.

Tom knew the difference, that would torment Albus.

One single word, and that single word could break him into thousands of pieces.

The one sin he would never, ever forgive of himself.

Before, Tom would have killed Severus for being Dumbledore's man.

Now, Tom would kill Severus for being Dumbledore's son.

He picked up his quill, turned back to the blank page of the journal, and started to write.

My son, you asked me if this is how I imagined it would be. Well, instead, let me tell you how it has been...

Updated Saturday 13th June. I wrote this listening to Dumbledore's Office by Ambient Worlds on YouTube. Such a stunning piece of work. One of my head canons is that Albus is not brilliant at Occlumency (though relative to everyone else, he's probably an expert). I remain ~ SS19