Chapter Four- Dreams Of A Duo
A/N: Hello! I'm back! As you can see… read, whatever, I've managed to elude my parents and update! This isn't as long as the previous chapter, not even close, but it's a necessity. It's sort of just a detached chapter, if you will, and only the first half has much to do with the CURRENT story concerning Sirius, Celia, the marauders etc. but the second is to do with Dumbledore… so you do have to read it, not skip it like mycousin did…
Amythestpony: Celia's not famous, yet. And they're shocked because she's their teacher but she's their age, so she should be in school; not to mention the four years she would have to spend training to be a teacher, which should make her at the least twenty two, but obviously she is not. So, the question is; is she really what she seems?
Disclaimer: I don't claim.
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12th September, Midnight,
Darkness, swirls of colour, pain. Unidentifiable voices, snatches of long forgotten conversations, flashing images; a faceless figure, parchment, the words elegant and flowing: the ink shining like blood, no, it was blood…
A clearing, swept bare of fallen leaves, even though they cascaded earthwards all around it, never crossing an unseen barrier. A dozen figures, clad in impeccable white robes- their faces concealed in the hoods' shadows- circled a black, bare plinth, its flat top was unburdened, its rim engraved with unrecognisable symbols…
A harbour, the thunderous waves seizing the frail boats and viscously slamming them into the ports' wall, splintering them as effortlessly as if they were built of glass. The torrential rain hammering down in icy sheets, giving birth to immense lakes of water on the pavement, shattering their surfaces, expanding them further still…
…a child, crying, desperately thrashing on it back, surrounded by rapidly growing pools of water.
… The anguished cries of a disembodied voice, the agony clear in the noise, the terrified shriek of a mother facing her worst fear.
The white clad figures, silent as stone, advancing on a black-haired girl, no more than twenty, her arms outstretched, shielding the cowering child behind her from the faceless soldiers, her face showing no hint of fear, only fury and protective instinct. As one, the dozen or so figures shook their heads free of the hoods embrace, showing their flat eyes, their granite features; the hands of each rose in unison, palms facing the girl. In sync their mouths moved, as if they were drones, controlled by a singular being, formed words incomprehensible from this distance, and simultaneously twenty four white splashes of light streaked through the air towards the girl. A metre before impact, they combined to form one colossal meteor; its destination the defiant woman before it…
Celia woke to her own screaming.
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12th September, Midnight,
The face of his enemy, but also his best friend, taunted him viciously. "Join me, Dumbledore…" the deep voice, familiar in two, disastrously contrasting ways. His enemy? His ally? Who was he anymore? Was there any difference?
"No! I will never be the same as you!"
The voice, disembodied and fearsome, laughed humourlessly-circling around Dumbledore's suspended head, seeping into his bones, his blood, so now he could no longer differentiate where he existed and his friend- enemy?- did. "No? Ah, but you already have, Dumbledore, just look in the mirror…"
Albus turned his head, the face staring back at him from the gilt frame was not his; the ragged hair, the insane glint in his eyes, the cruel, taunting grin pulling at the pale lips…
He glanced down at his hands, folded on his knees (how had they got there? He had been lying down before.) And gave a cry of horror and incredulity as he stared, mouth agape, at the pale, blood spattered fingers that were not his. No, they were too accustomed to torturing people, causing agony, too cold-blooded to be his hands…
"Do you really think that, Albus?" the voice laughed, the sound, bitter and icy echoed off the walls that had not existed seconds before… "Do you honestly believe you are better than I?"
"Yes." He gasped, ever word tore at his throat, knives that with double edges, slicing his gullet repeatedly as he forced the words out. "You are nothing but a murderer, I'm … I'm"-
"- the thinker; you made the plans, Albus," the voice stated, the ice embedded in every syllable directed at him, his dream-self, stabbing at his resolve, until he was uncertain even of his name... "All I did was perform the acts you invented."
"No! You're lying!" Albus shrieked, desperately. "I never would have wanted those things to happen! I stopped you, I saved everybody from you!"
"And yet you couldn't save your sister from yourself."
Albus' fraught arguing ceased; he floated, energy gone-to be replaced by over whelming guilt- in the timeless black void he had been sucked into via his unconsciousness.
"Stop fighting, Albus," The voice urged, and Dumbledore's spiritual eyes flickered in response. "Abandon the ways you have, you know they're trivial, useless. The world is slowly choking itself, Albus, you know that. With the two of us, we can resurrect what is destined- what is right- and save the world from itself."
"Yes," Dumbledore whispered, his will crumbling at each of the formless person's words. The welcoming black rose to greet him, and he plunged into it head first, without protest.
He did not resurface.
Albus Dumbledore's eyes snapped open, the silver light puncturing his curtains and bouncing off the ceiling in mystical, alluring dances; he rose, as he did so, he caught sight of himself in the green mirror hanging adjacent to his bed- an unbreakable habit; to gaze at himself every morning the minute he sat up. He seemed normal, the same as the previous night he had woken after a dream he failed to recollect, remembering only that it caused him mental agony. He was uninterested in his appearance today- tonight to be accurate- and maybe that was why he failed to take note of his eyes.
Coal black and seething with hatred and insanity, such so that it did not belong to a creature of this world. Or his hands. Hands that were streaked with shining red.
"For the greater good." Dumbledore whispered, his voice mangled, deformed, a mixture between his own and another's. "For the greater good."
A/N:So there you have it: my fourth chapter, hope you liked it- confused? Good. Sorry about the wait; first I had homework, then I had to figure the plot out… and it just kinda took a back seat for a couple of days.
The daughter of Slytherin: I know, they're so sweet! I couldn't believe it when the mum (Tank) appeared in my grandma's garage (apparently the old people's home had been feeding her for weeks) and gave birth to them- six in total. They're about ten weeks now.
Next chapter: a near death, a rescue and feelings no-one can explain.
P.S- The last three chapters have been replaced (don't worry, the content is the same!) so now each has a date at the beginning of the story. Most of them don't matter, but the several- mostly the first- is relevant to it, so it would be beneficial to acknowledge it.
Review?
GP