Toujours Pur
A/N: Should we apologize for taking so long to update? In a show of cliché respect, it's probably an unspoken but demanded formality. However, since when have we lived by Society's rules with an iron fist? Excuse us Dear Reader, we can be cynical and sharp-tongued. Do continue reading these words with tender fingertips or, scanning this flawed print with the coagulated orbs you call eyes. We do not, however, beg this of you, in we have never begged in our lives, by all means walk away if you wish. Striving to please society only brings more expectation and yields no prosperity and quite a lot of unhappiness. Although, one half of us is rather curious what you think of the prelude, as she herself isn't happy with it, so if you'd like to review, by all means do so now.
-Helenia Rowan-
IV: Prelude
Albus Dumbledore pinched the bridge of his nose, a habit he'd gained when first teaching. His blue eyes flicked around the Great Hall, trying to find something that would put his mind at rest. He'd just witnessed what had happened, and his eyes rested briefly upon Sirius who was slouching back to the Gryffindor table, glaring at the Slytherins, who all returned his animosity with equal verocity. The headmaster sighed, making a mental note to talk to Sirius and make sure that the lad was all right. He couldn't imagine what having another Black attend Hogwarts would mean for the other students and staff, and while Narcissa was not as vicious and fiery as her eldest sister, or as mischievous and rebellious as Sirius, she was still potentially dangerous, and a Slytherin which put her closer to her elder sister. Maybe she would help to calm Bellatrix?
Worry twisted throughout Dumbledore's stomach as he watched Narcissa and three other girls smirking and looking to Bellatrix as if for approval. That could not be a good sign.
It was no secret that Bellatrix was interested in some rather troubling things, including the effects of certain hexes and curses that Hogwarts had never taught and a spell for "splitting" as she called it in hushed tones, something Dumbledore couldn't say he was best pleased about.
"Now," He heard her predatory whisper resonating with the promise of pain as he'd strolled nearer. He saw again how she shoved Dolores Umbridge against a wall, looking into her eyes with something akin to seduction, "if you don't stop carrying on like a withered old harpy about my sisters and your foul thoughts of them, I'll split you. I don't take to insults very well. Understand, darling?" She spoke the last word in little more than a whisper, and her wand found its way back into her robes so the long, sharp nails of that hand could dig into the soft skin of her face.
"Sp-sp-split me?" Dolores stammered, trying to keep the whimper from her voice.
"Yes," Bellatrix had replied coolly, a cold smile Dumbledore knew well curling her crimson-painted lips, "I'm going to take your soul and I'm going to tear it in pieces to leave you shambling around the school just because I can, and because I want to see the looks on your filthy parents' faces when all they get this summer is a zombie."
Dumbledore went silently away after that. He ought to have done something, but Dumbledore preferred to let the students settle their differences themselves, and besides, no one was hurt, despite what Bellatrix had promised. He'd known that smile, although he'd only ever seen it on a decidedly masculine face. It was Tom's smile, the one that meant things would be taking a darker turn than planned. "Splitting" too, that was familiar, although Bellatrix Black had reversed the idea. That was Dumbledore's only consolation, because if someone like Bellatrix Black were to get her hands on the knowledge to make Horcruxes… Well, he'd only seen her like once before, and that boy was now gathering followers and power at an astounding rate, running under the name Lord Voldemort.
Dumbledore covertly turned his attention back to Narcissa Black, the golden-haired, blue-eyed sister to Bellatrix. She looked a deal more innocent than her elder sister, and nothing like any of the Blacks before her. If Dumbledore didn't know better, he'd almost say she was a Malfoy. He could see the resemblance between her and her sisters, however, when she smirked at something told to her. Suddenly, her beauty was less innocent and more coldly attractive, her mask of indifference in placce, cold humor rippling over the surface of it.
He'd had the privilege, if it could be called so, of knowing both her parents, and he'd seen the scars Bellatrix brought with her to Hogwarts. He'd known where they'd come from, although the girl had denied it. It was no wonder that Narcissa could hide her inner workings so well. That, he decided as he took a sip of pumpkin juice, was more dangerous than her sister's outwardly-shown violence, because there was no way to be certain the same fire was not reflected inwardly with the other girl.
Dumbledore stood as the last of the prefects led their houses out of the Great Hall. He noted that Bellatrix was sauntering between Alecto Carrow and Alecto's twin Amycus. Behind her, Narcissa walked with perfect posture, flanked on both sides by Zofia Nott and Dahlia Greengrass. Lorina Zabini walked slightly behind them, dark eyes keeping watch as a guard might. Dumbledore massaged his temples as the Great Hall became empty, save his teaching staff. He knew that they needed to find a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor soon, he could not teach the classes on top of being the Headmaster.
He almost wanted to find the letter he'd stowed in his desk, from years ago, from Voldemort. Voldemort was more than capable of teaching the students to defend themselves, but he was too interested in the Dark Arts themselves. In retrospect, he should have seen it coming. That boy in the orphanage had been a whirlwind of violence, stealing childrens' toys just because he could and because he was cruel. Dumbledore couldn't stop wondering; would things have changed if only he'd looked more into Tom's home life? Could he have prevented Voldemort, the idea of a dark wizard that wanted to take the world for himself, if only he'd mentored Tom Riddle and taught him differently?
Dumbledore wasn't sure why he was surprised that Tom had become what he had, but he was. He'd hoped the boy could rise above his beginning, shed the cruelty and don goodness in its place. Now, he thought ruefully, he knew he'd been naíve.
"Albus, we need a DADA professor," Minerva stated, worry creasing her eyebrows and adding to her already severe countenance.
"I am aware, Minerva," Dumbledore sighed, "but no one needs the job, apparently. That it's jinxed has bethe most popular reason for this."
"That's ridiculous." McGonagall said, pursing her lips. Dumbledore knew perfectly well that she didn't believe in a position itself being cursed; that was too close to a Muggle's perception of magic to seem accurate to her. Usually, Dumbledore thought the same, but in the matter of the DADA job, he wasn't so sure. No one wanted it, and those that had been desperate enough to take it only lasted a year.
Only two individuals had submitted applications, and Dumbledore was not comfortable with either posing as the professor. One was a vampire by the name of Sanguini, and the other, Cygnus Black. Dumbledore could only assume that the latter submission had been on orders of Lord Voldemort. He could imagine the look on Bellatrix and Narcissa's faces if they ever found out that their father would be teaching at Hogwarts. Somehow, he could not see them smiling.
"Al-Albus?"
Dumbledore blinked as he heard Minerva's voice speak questioningly. He looked up, drawn from his musings to see Pomona, Fillius, and Horace, all staring at him with varying degrees of concern.
"Are you all right?" Minerva stood from her seat. "I can finish here, you should go rest."
Dumbledore smiled in fond exasperation as the normally reserved professor put a hand on his shoulder, gently but firmly turning him toward the door.
"I think I shall," he murmured, exiting with a quiet farewell and a swish of polka-dotted robes. He trusted Minerva to take care of everything, but guilt wormed it's way through his stomach (as a tapeworm might), as he thought about the load she was carrying on top of her teaching duties.
As Dumbledore walked up flights of stairs and down winding corridors toward his quarters, the letter and two applications burned throughout his mind, flames of confliction and indecision ravaging any sensibility that had been tethering his insecurity.