Note : All righty...Someone asked for an epilogue, and I wasn't going to do it because I was uninspired like you wouldn't beleive. But I saw the new movie last night, and at the end, during the end of the year feast, Madame Pomfrey is sitting next to Professor Dumbledore. And I thought about my story, and I thought, wow, that would be really awkward. So this idea came to me last night in the middle of a dream (it was very random, and I'm surprised I still remember it, because usually I don't), and I thought I ought to write them down. So here goes.
Epilogue
The years went slowly by for both of them. Albus lived as a bachelor, working for the Ministry, until Professor Hartwood retired, and Albus applied for the position. He got it, of course. Albus loved teaching. He loved cultivating the minds of eager young students. He picked out those who were particularly gifted in Transfiguration, and nurtured their talents.
All together, Professor Dumbledore became everyone's favorite. He was patient and kind. He did not anger swiftly and give detentions. When he did reprimand a student, it was in such a subtle way that they usually did not even realize that it had happened, but it changed their character nonetheless. Students from all the houses considered him a mentor, and he recieved countless invitations to family events and dinners, banquets and balls of all types. He always declined.
Albus Dumbledore was respected, and pitied. He was beloved for his kindness and his wisdom, but no one forgot his heartbreak. In 1799, Mrs. Lawrence Green gave birth to a lovely young boy that was named Timothy. She had four more children after that, and lived an apparently happy life with her loving husband and her darling children. Everyone thought them charming, and her wicked. How could she be so happy after what had happened? Did she have no heart?
Poppy Green was surrounded by beautiful things. Sparkling chandeleirs, fine dressed, glittering jewels. Music was in her house at all times, whether it be one of her own children at the piano, or hired musicians for a ball, or the crystal music box on her dresser. If the sun was shining, all the curtains were pulled back and light filled every room. If it rained, fires blazed to life in the fireplaces and roast beef was prepared for dinner. Her children adored her. And she loved them more than the sunshine.
It was not unusual to see her, sitting on the floor with her children, rumpling her dress, reading them a story. Or showing them how to cast a charm that made real butterflies sprout out of the end of their wands and flutter about, looking like jewels. She taught her daughters how to powder their noses (an interesting lesson that ended up with the mirrors completely powdered, and none at all on anyone's face) and dress their hair with ribbons and combs. She taught her sons how to properly greet women with a charming compliment, and how to keep their shoes from getting scuffed. She taught them all how to sing and dance. And these were all important lessons, for society expected much out of even the smallest children then. But more than anything else, Poppy Green taught her children to love the tiniest blossoms that sprang up in the lawn, and the ragged clouds that crossed the sky, and the yellow and red leaves that tumbled from the trees in the fall. She taught them to love books and art and music, and to look beyond what fashions a person was wearing, and what they did for a living.
Professor Lawrence Green died in 1842. The youngest Green child, Rosalind, died in 1879. Poppy Green was 102 years old. But no one knew that. She still looked as though she were in her forties or so, though that was considered very old. Her youngest child died thinking that her mother was long dead in the family grave yard. Rosalind, like her four brothers and sisters, thought that her parents were buried, to be together forever in eternity.
In 1854, Poppy Pomfrey applied for the job of nurse at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She was immediately accepted.
Albus sat in his office. He was very still, which was not unusual for him, for he was always deep in thought. But now he was not pondering theories or calculating equations in his head. There was only one thought in his brain.
She is coming back.
Now he trembled. It had been eight-four years since he had seen her. Eighty-four years since he had looked at her from that attic window. Eighty-four years. Such a long, long time. And now he was to work with her. Every day, they would see each other. At meals, in the corridors between classes. Suppose he was to fall, or accidentally get in the way of a student practicing DADA? He would be sent to the hospital wing, and she would care for him.
Albus longed for the feel of her gentle, smooth, cool hands on his skin. The smile from under sincere gray eyes. He closed his eyes and he saw her, flickering shadows of freckles and curls. Automatically, his hand went to the ring he still wore on his finger. The lock of hair, still black by magic and love, rested in it. To tangle his hair in those dark curls and kiss her so passionately.
Albus went to the mirror. He had aged, of course. His hair was still auburn, but a little gray about the ears. He wore it long, and swept back, tied with a dark blue ribbon at the nape of his neck. His face wore many wrinkles, but he still only looked about forty-five. His robes were dark blue, embroidered in silver. Albus pulled himself straight, shoulders back. What would he say to her, when he saw her again? Would he have a chance to speak to her?
Did she still love him?
That thought was torturous. Of course, he still loved her. He felt it in his heart, ripping at his soul. Of course he loved her. He did not decline invitations and spend all his spare time alone because it was his nature. He spent all his time alone because he was afraid to go out into society. To see their pitying looks. To watch the discuss him in quiet whispers at parties, or pay him kind courtesy because poor Professor Dumbledore suffered from a broken heart.
But had she forgotten? Did she decide one day that it was all hopeless, and transfer her affections to Lawrence Green? Would she ignore him, treat him with polite courtesy, but only give frigid answers to his inquiries? The thought of her speaking to him in such a way, she who had wept for so long when she found they were to be separated, was preposterous. But after eighty-four years, Albus could not get his hopes up. He had done that once before, and they had been crushed the way a champagne glass is crushed when dropped onto a wooden floor. Time can change things, Albus thought, and I can do nothing about it.
Albus sat at the teacher's table, waiting impatiently. She was to arrive soon, and to him it was nothing short of torture. His good friend, Armando Dippet, Professor of Muggle Studies, was on his right, and kept shooting him looks.
"Albus, what has got you so jumpy?" He asked, "It is very unlike you."
"Nothing," Albus replied, "Where is she?"
"I would never be so rude as to imply this, but perhaps Professor Dumbledore is nervous?"
"Do not be ridiculous, Binns," Albus shot back to the handsome young professor of History of Magic on his left.
"Of course," Binns shrugged, "Why would you be? You have never even met the lady, have you?"
"No," Albus replied, "Never. I have a lot of work to do this evening, and I want to get on with it."
"So her coming means nothing to you?" Armando asked.
"No...Where *is* she?"
To answer his question, the Headmaster, Professor Juniper raised his hand and stood. The students stopped talking and fell silent.
"I would like to introduce your new Head Nurse," Professor Juniper said, "Madame Pomfrey."
They all stood and clapped. She entered from the back of the hall and walked forward, beaming. Albus felt his knees go weak. Her hair was dark gray, still curly, and pulled into a knot on the back of her head. She wore dark red robes, her best color. Poppy nodded politely, a pretty smile on her face. But no matter what she did, her eyes were focused on one point in the room. The sparkling sky-blue eyes that she had loved since she was eleven that were fixed, unmoving upon her face.
Time can kill humans. Time rips from our grasp everything dear and precious to us. It fills us with disgust, hatred, power, weakness. It takes our homes and lets them crumble to the ground, to dissolve into dust. Time sinks its claws into our minds and drives us mad with its undeniable force. It can not be stopped, it can not be pushed back. There is no choice but to go with it. It can wear down mountains into praries. It can shift oceans. It can tears trees limb from limb. It can melt glaciers. It can cause stars to explode into a million fragments of burning light, and send planets spinning of their axis into oblivion. Time destroys everything.
Time can not destroy love.
Epilogue
The years went slowly by for both of them. Albus lived as a bachelor, working for the Ministry, until Professor Hartwood retired, and Albus applied for the position. He got it, of course. Albus loved teaching. He loved cultivating the minds of eager young students. He picked out those who were particularly gifted in Transfiguration, and nurtured their talents.
All together, Professor Dumbledore became everyone's favorite. He was patient and kind. He did not anger swiftly and give detentions. When he did reprimand a student, it was in such a subtle way that they usually did not even realize that it had happened, but it changed their character nonetheless. Students from all the houses considered him a mentor, and he recieved countless invitations to family events and dinners, banquets and balls of all types. He always declined.
Albus Dumbledore was respected, and pitied. He was beloved for his kindness and his wisdom, but no one forgot his heartbreak. In 1799, Mrs. Lawrence Green gave birth to a lovely young boy that was named Timothy. She had four more children after that, and lived an apparently happy life with her loving husband and her darling children. Everyone thought them charming, and her wicked. How could she be so happy after what had happened? Did she have no heart?
Poppy Green was surrounded by beautiful things. Sparkling chandeleirs, fine dressed, glittering jewels. Music was in her house at all times, whether it be one of her own children at the piano, or hired musicians for a ball, or the crystal music box on her dresser. If the sun was shining, all the curtains were pulled back and light filled every room. If it rained, fires blazed to life in the fireplaces and roast beef was prepared for dinner. Her children adored her. And she loved them more than the sunshine.
It was not unusual to see her, sitting on the floor with her children, rumpling her dress, reading them a story. Or showing them how to cast a charm that made real butterflies sprout out of the end of their wands and flutter about, looking like jewels. She taught her daughters how to powder their noses (an interesting lesson that ended up with the mirrors completely powdered, and none at all on anyone's face) and dress their hair with ribbons and combs. She taught her sons how to properly greet women with a charming compliment, and how to keep their shoes from getting scuffed. She taught them all how to sing and dance. And these were all important lessons, for society expected much out of even the smallest children then. But more than anything else, Poppy Green taught her children to love the tiniest blossoms that sprang up in the lawn, and the ragged clouds that crossed the sky, and the yellow and red leaves that tumbled from the trees in the fall. She taught them to love books and art and music, and to look beyond what fashions a person was wearing, and what they did for a living.
Professor Lawrence Green died in 1842. The youngest Green child, Rosalind, died in 1879. Poppy Green was 102 years old. But no one knew that. She still looked as though she were in her forties or so, though that was considered very old. Her youngest child died thinking that her mother was long dead in the family grave yard. Rosalind, like her four brothers and sisters, thought that her parents were buried, to be together forever in eternity.
In 1854, Poppy Pomfrey applied for the job of nurse at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She was immediately accepted.
Albus sat in his office. He was very still, which was not unusual for him, for he was always deep in thought. But now he was not pondering theories or calculating equations in his head. There was only one thought in his brain.
She is coming back.
Now he trembled. It had been eight-four years since he had seen her. Eighty-four years since he had looked at her from that attic window. Eighty-four years. Such a long, long time. And now he was to work with her. Every day, they would see each other. At meals, in the corridors between classes. Suppose he was to fall, or accidentally get in the way of a student practicing DADA? He would be sent to the hospital wing, and she would care for him.
Albus longed for the feel of her gentle, smooth, cool hands on his skin. The smile from under sincere gray eyes. He closed his eyes and he saw her, flickering shadows of freckles and curls. Automatically, his hand went to the ring he still wore on his finger. The lock of hair, still black by magic and love, rested in it. To tangle his hair in those dark curls and kiss her so passionately.
Albus went to the mirror. He had aged, of course. His hair was still auburn, but a little gray about the ears. He wore it long, and swept back, tied with a dark blue ribbon at the nape of his neck. His face wore many wrinkles, but he still only looked about forty-five. His robes were dark blue, embroidered in silver. Albus pulled himself straight, shoulders back. What would he say to her, when he saw her again? Would he have a chance to speak to her?
Did she still love him?
That thought was torturous. Of course, he still loved her. He felt it in his heart, ripping at his soul. Of course he loved her. He did not decline invitations and spend all his spare time alone because it was his nature. He spent all his time alone because he was afraid to go out into society. To see their pitying looks. To watch the discuss him in quiet whispers at parties, or pay him kind courtesy because poor Professor Dumbledore suffered from a broken heart.
But had she forgotten? Did she decide one day that it was all hopeless, and transfer her affections to Lawrence Green? Would she ignore him, treat him with polite courtesy, but only give frigid answers to his inquiries? The thought of her speaking to him in such a way, she who had wept for so long when she found they were to be separated, was preposterous. But after eighty-four years, Albus could not get his hopes up. He had done that once before, and they had been crushed the way a champagne glass is crushed when dropped onto a wooden floor. Time can change things, Albus thought, and I can do nothing about it.
Albus sat at the teacher's table, waiting impatiently. She was to arrive soon, and to him it was nothing short of torture. His good friend, Armando Dippet, Professor of Muggle Studies, was on his right, and kept shooting him looks.
"Albus, what has got you so jumpy?" He asked, "It is very unlike you."
"Nothing," Albus replied, "Where is she?"
"I would never be so rude as to imply this, but perhaps Professor Dumbledore is nervous?"
"Do not be ridiculous, Binns," Albus shot back to the handsome young professor of History of Magic on his left.
"Of course," Binns shrugged, "Why would you be? You have never even met the lady, have you?"
"No," Albus replied, "Never. I have a lot of work to do this evening, and I want to get on with it."
"So her coming means nothing to you?" Armando asked.
"No...Where *is* she?"
To answer his question, the Headmaster, Professor Juniper raised his hand and stood. The students stopped talking and fell silent.
"I would like to introduce your new Head Nurse," Professor Juniper said, "Madame Pomfrey."
They all stood and clapped. She entered from the back of the hall and walked forward, beaming. Albus felt his knees go weak. Her hair was dark gray, still curly, and pulled into a knot on the back of her head. She wore dark red robes, her best color. Poppy nodded politely, a pretty smile on her face. But no matter what she did, her eyes were focused on one point in the room. The sparkling sky-blue eyes that she had loved since she was eleven that were fixed, unmoving upon her face.
Time can kill humans. Time rips from our grasp everything dear and precious to us. It fills us with disgust, hatred, power, weakness. It takes our homes and lets them crumble to the ground, to dissolve into dust. Time sinks its claws into our minds and drives us mad with its undeniable force. It can not be stopped, it can not be pushed back. There is no choice but to go with it. It can wear down mountains into praries. It can shift oceans. It can tears trees limb from limb. It can melt glaciers. It can cause stars to explode into a million fragments of burning light, and send planets spinning of their axis into oblivion. Time destroys everything.
Time can not destroy love.