Death is but the next adventure, he was wont to say to his contemporaries. Now was the time for his next, great adventure.
He had been lucky : he had had time to prepare, to leave all in order before his time came.
"Severus, please"
His plea was the signal. Kill me now, save the boy and salvage what can be.
"Now, land and life, finale, and farewell!" as a Muggle poet once chanted.*
Bright green light embraced his eyes, he was blasted off the top of the Astronomy Tower, thrust into the night. Darkness engulfed him as his body hurtled toward the ground.
And Death took him and he ceased to be.
He knew not how many houre or days or months had ellapsed by the time he finally came to. The hazy outline of a room slowly came into focus. A room he knew well, but which he had not seen in more than a century. Colours were slowly fading in, warm yellows and browns greeted his eyes, sunlight bathed the living room of his childhood home.
Godric's Hollow.
A homecoming indeed, Albus thought.
It was just as he remembered it : the glass candy jar standing on the mantlepiece, the patterns on the rug, the worn-out leather armchairs haphazardly placed around the empty hearth, an open book awaiting its reader had been left on a small coffee. The door which he knew led to the garden had been left ajar, rustling sounds seeping through the opening reached his ears.
If this was death, he would very easily accommodate it.
His gaze swept the room, seeking anything – anyone – that would confirm what he knew but could not quite understand just yet. He could see the kitchen from where he stood. Toppled chairs and a splintered table. The floor was strewn with broken glass and fragments of wood. The vestige of a century-old fight, yet it looked fresh. That cursed day that even Death would not erase.
He tore himself away from this train of thought, looking around him and finally took a good look at his hands. They were just as wrinkled as they had been instants ago at the top of this tower – or what felt like instants in any case. He found his blackened hand unblemished now, free from the dark taint that had plagued his final year. Curious.
He then heard footsteps. Someone came in from the kitchen. He slowly turned to greet the newcomer. Trepidation seized him. His heart recognised her before his eyes saw her.
A young teenage girl clad in a purple summer dress was standing on the threshold, light blond curls bouncing off her thin shoulders. Her piercing blue eyes identical to Albus's own.
Arianna Dumbledore had come to meet her brother.
Albus stood stockstill, quite incapable to move. This was it. The reunion he had been waiting for – and dreading – for decades. He just stood there, drinking in the sight of his beloved younger sister.
She said nothing – but she had never said much, even when she was alive. She blinked a few times, as if bemused by the sight of her 150-ish year-old borther, not believing how wrinkled one could get. Her demeanour was nothing but open and welcoming though. She took a few confident steps in his direction and reached for his once-blackened hand, scrutinising it in details. A gentle smile stretched her lips, a twinkle animated her eyes.
Albus said nothing. There was much he had wanted to say. He had tortured himself with the possible scenarios, the possible ways their reunion would unfold. His mind had come up with countless conversations, working up the excruciating details of what he would tell her if – when – they met again. He had imagined himself recounting his regrets, his remorse, his version of what had happened. He had imagined himself begging for forgiveness. Sometimes, such reunions featured a sweet and magnanimous Arianna. At times, he envisioned a vindictive and resentful Arianna.
This, however, fell short of the reality of their reunion, though was this even real, he wondered. Words, he found, were unecessary. Silence presided, and that was enough.
Arianna had stopped examining him, as if coming to terms with just how old his older brother had grown. She shrugged and shook her head before walking over to the mantlepiece, grabbing the candy jar and lifting its lid.
She presented it to him, inviting him to pick a piece of candy. Albus tentatively reached inside and scrapped the bottom of the jar. His fingers closed around one piece.
A sherbet lemon.
Arianna picked one for herself and popped it in her mouth, throwing a quizzical look at Albus, who had been staring at the crystallised piece of sugar between his fingers. She titled her hand, as if encouraging him to tuck in. Albus obliged and brought the candy to his mouth.
Ah, so he had retained his taste buds in the afterlife.
Arianna had never been able to stand still very long in life, and death, it would seem, had not changed her. She took Albus's hand again, urging him to follow her. He offered no resistance – he gave her his absolute trust in what was her domain. After all, he was the newcomer.
She led him to the garden door. As they neared it, sounds grew clear and clearer. Birdsong. Bees. Rustling leaves of tree. Bleating goats – Aberforth's probably. A joyous din that that lured them both out of the house. When Arianna pushed the door open, she resolutely led him on.
And this is pretty much it. Some of you may have recognised the reference to Walt Whitman's poem "Finale to the Shore", which is a personal favourite.