A Memorial
Pensieves are rare due to the complexity of the rune-work necessary to keep the memories intact, not to mention the fiendish difficulty of the base-potion in which to store them. Severus had never crafted his own, having Albus' available to use when needed.
However, in one of the newest Potions Journals, there was a process described by which to turn Pensieve-type memories into art. At first, Severus had skipped over the article with a disgusted snort. What a waste of research energy! Upon later consideration, however, he skimmed the article and then read it with intense consideration.
This new technique was difficult and time-consuming, but not beyond his capabilities, nor financial means. It permitted the construction of a frame of any size and shape, with a small slot at the top into which a memory or memories could be placed to then be displayed across the magical canvas like a wizarding photograph - or more like a Muggle flat-screen television he had heard of. The canvas was composed of the new method of brewing the Pensieve potion, which would allow the memories to be projected against the glass of the frame rather than needing to be viewed by physical contact with the liquid.
In the depths of his personal labs at Hogwarts, away from even the now-discerning observation of June, Severus worked on his construction in private. When it was complete, he presented it to Minerva with rigid insistence that it remain completely and utterly anonymous.
Severus had watched the approach of this 'anniversary celebration' with a great deal of trepidation and not a small amount of a return of his own heavy guilt related to all which had occurred. The creation of this Memorial was cathartic, even as it left him exceedingly melancholy.
The rectangular frame was enormous, the size of a huge tapestry, crafted of wood so pale as to be almost almond. He charmed it so no memories could be removed, though the present Headmistress and future Heads of Hogwarts could add to it if they felt the contribution was appropriate. The memories were carefully duplicated - he did not want to lose them, himself, after all - before implanting into the frame.
Intricately inscribed along the base of the frame were the words:
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Headmaster. Mentor. Father-figure. Friend.
The images played across the surface in smooth succession.
Albus Dumbledore, clear blue eyes twinkling in the candlelight as he stands to greet the students now thronging in the Great Hall. His beard and hair are silvery white, gleaming like moonlit snow and he stretches his arms wide as though to gather up the entire populace of the Hall into one giant, fatherly hug.
Albus Dumbledore, striding through the corridors of the castle late at night. His white hair flows about him like a silvery waterfall but his strides are long and sure, the gait and bearing of a much younger man. Few students knew the full depth of his love and knowledge of 'his' school--but he always knew when he was needed.
This memory shows him finding a young student, likely a first-year, though the memory has blurred the student's face both to conceal the student's identity and to keep the focus on Albus. The student his huddled in a ball, hiding in a corner nook behind a statue. With the agility of a far younger man, Albus drops nimbly to his hands-and-knees and crawls right in next to her, offering a handkerchief in one hand and a bag of lemon sherbets in the other. He settles in comfortably next to her and nods his head wisely, listening to the woes of the child which has sent her into hiding. His lined face is warm and cheerful and positively glowing with benevolence.
Eventually he conjures a cup of hot cocoa for each of them before finally assisting her back to her feet and walking her to the entrance to her House. He stops to converse with Professor Flitwick to ensure the student will be watched carefully, before resuming his evening rounds of the corridors.
Albus Dumbledore sitting at the High table with the staff at Christmas, enthusiastically leading them all - with varying degrees of answering enthusiasm - in boisterous carols that have the remaining students in peals of giggles. No one is permitted to feel 'lonely' at Hogwarts at Christmas!
He deliberately visits each student in-turn, as though he has all the time in the world to chat and each boy and girl was the most important person to him at that moment. Again all identities except Albus' are obscured, and the conversation is muted. The words are not important - Albus pure presence is the material point.
Each student has the opportunity to pull several wizard crackers with the Headmaster, and, as if by magic, each 'prize' inside the explosive is uniquely suited to its recipient.
Albus Dumbledore, pulling crackers at the staff table and unembarrassedly exchanging his own flamboyant hat for a pointed witches hat with a stuffed vulture blinking malevolently down at the table. Even the ugliness of the fake bird is diminished when worn by the ever-cheerful, glowing radiance that is Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore striding tall and angry through the corridors of his school, the aura of power pouring off of him in palpable waves. His normally friendly face is set hard with fury. His clear, twinkling blue eyes are now the colour of chipped ice. Even the portraits on the walls cower as he swoops by. Someone, somewhere has threatened one of 'his' children, and it will not be tolerated.
The threat is not important, and not shown in the memory, though on this occasion it had to do with the argument regarding whether or not to allow Dementors to guard the school. The radiance of power is stark and vivid in the memory.
Albus Dumbledore, speaking to his school with gentle compassion - as he had to do many, many times both during the first war and again during the second, starting with Cedric.
Always, on these horrible, heart-wrenching occasions, Albus managed to find the words to soothe grief and offer hope. Compassion and strength seemed to surround his every word, soothing every heart which was open enough to listen.
The memory does not try to varnish the truth - the faceless, anonymous forms at the Slytherin table clearly do not always want to hear what he is saying - but the prejudice never comes from Albus' side first. His compassion knows no House, no bloodlines. He would not be human if he did not have his 'favourites', but he never made anyone feel 'less than'.
Albus Dumbledore, facing an angry Cornelius Fudge - though Fudge's image is obscured. The message given in this conversation is one Albus had expressed many times in many ways to many individuals. Rarely was he so angry or impassioned as he was at this meeting. The others are obscured as well, Potter on his hospital bed, the Weasleys and Granger all around, unidentifiable in a blurry mist of colours. Only Albus in his radiant, powerful, shining presence is clear.
"You have completely lost sight of the fact that it matters not what someone is born, but what they choose to become! It is our choices that make us who we are." *
((*OOC: Loosely paraphrased from memory from the Hospital scene at the end of Goblet of Fire by JKR. No copyright infringement intended.))
Albus Dumbledore, sitting comfortably in his familiar chair at his familiar desk, surrounded by various and sundry familiar objects and brick-a-brack. He is merrily playing chess with an unseen opponent while cheerfully sucking on sherbet lemons with child-like enthusiasm. His clear, light blue eyes twinkle with good humour. Fawkes preens himself blissfully on the perch just behind his shoulder.
Albus, at 'home', as many who knew him will always remember him. Just a man, yet ever so much more.
Then, a collage of images, the many faces of Albus Dumbledore, each image blending seamlessly with the last.
A joyful smile wreathed by the silvery white hair and beard, topped with twinkling azure blue eyes, conveying pure joy at merely being alive.
~
Disappointment so thick and heavy it feels as though a dark cloud has suddenly covered the sunny blue sky. Any student who had ever faced a disappointed Albus Dumbledore knew the sensation of wishing he would yell and scream rather than look at them... like that.
~
The heavy aura of anger and power shone forth from the lined face, giving the impression of strength and energy of a much, much younger man. All who faced this Albus Dumbledore knew fear or awe in his very presence.
~
Age lays heavily upon the usually energetic features. Blue eyes don't twinkle, but shine with unshed tears of grief. Yet another of 'his own' has fallen, and he was helpless to prevent it.
~
Laughter bubbles forth like happy water dancing over smooth stones in a dancing stream as he waltzes gracefully about the Great Hall with Madame Maxime. Her face is obscured, but it could be no other woman. Later he dances with Minerva. Sinestra. Poppy. Pomona. He leaves joy behind him like Father Christmas distributing toys among children.
Albus Dumbledore, dressed in vivid purple robes, scattered with shimmery silver stars that still do not manage to shine as brightly as his hair and twinkling blue eyes. He stands with the easy grace of a much younger man, pushing away from the Head table and addressing the Great Hall packed with students.
A flick of his wand, and words pour out of the end of his wand as though he was writing in the air. The Hall bursts into song - but in the memory, only Albus' voice is audible. Not the random, inharmonious sounds of children droning on, but the clear, gentle tenor of a man singing from the depths of his heart - even if the lyrics are more than a little undignified for someone of such obvious power...
"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,
Teach us something, please,
Whether we be old and bald
Or young with scabby knees,
Our heads could do with filling
With some interesting stuff,
For now they're bare and full of air,
Dead flies and bits of fluff,
So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we've forgot,
Just do your best, we'll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot."*
The gentle voice fades away and a gnarled but graceful hand dries a tear.
*(ooc: Hogwarts song is property of JKR, taken from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, US paperback version, p. 128. No copyright infringement is intended.)
However, in one of the newest Potions Journals, there was a process described by which to turn Pensieve-type memories into art. At first, Severus had skipped over the article with a disgusted snort. What a waste of research energy! Upon later consideration, however, he skimmed the article and then read it with intense consideration.
This new technique was difficult and time-consuming, but not beyond his capabilities, nor financial means. It permitted the construction of a frame of any size and shape, with a small slot at the top into which a memory or memories could be placed to then be displayed across the magical canvas like a wizarding photograph - or more like a Muggle flat-screen television he had heard of. The canvas was composed of the new method of brewing the Pensieve potion, which would allow the memories to be projected against the glass of the frame rather than needing to be viewed by physical contact with the liquid.
In the depths of his personal labs at Hogwarts, away from even the now-discerning observation of June, Severus worked on his construction in private. When it was complete, he presented it to Minerva with rigid insistence that it remain completely and utterly anonymous.
Severus had watched the approach of this 'anniversary celebration' with a great deal of trepidation and not a small amount of a return of his own heavy guilt related to all which had occurred. The creation of this Memorial was cathartic, even as it left him exceedingly melancholy.
The rectangular frame was enormous, the size of a huge tapestry, crafted of wood so pale as to be almost almond. He charmed it so no memories could be removed, though the present Headmistress and future Heads of Hogwarts could add to it if they felt the contribution was appropriate. The memories were carefully duplicated - he did not want to lose them, himself, after all - before implanting into the frame.
Intricately inscribed along the base of the frame were the words:
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Headmaster. Mentor. Father-figure. Friend.
The images played across the surface in smooth succession.
Albus Dumbledore, clear blue eyes twinkling in the candlelight as he stands to greet the students now thronging in the Great Hall. His beard and hair are silvery white, gleaming like moonlit snow and he stretches his arms wide as though to gather up the entire populace of the Hall into one giant, fatherly hug.
Albus Dumbledore, striding through the corridors of the castle late at night. His white hair flows about him like a silvery waterfall but his strides are long and sure, the gait and bearing of a much younger man. Few students knew the full depth of his love and knowledge of 'his' school--but he always knew when he was needed.
This memory shows him finding a young student, likely a first-year, though the memory has blurred the student's face both to conceal the student's identity and to keep the focus on Albus. The student his huddled in a ball, hiding in a corner nook behind a statue. With the agility of a far younger man, Albus drops nimbly to his hands-and-knees and crawls right in next to her, offering a handkerchief in one hand and a bag of lemon sherbets in the other. He settles in comfortably next to her and nods his head wisely, listening to the woes of the child which has sent her into hiding. His lined face is warm and cheerful and positively glowing with benevolence.
Eventually he conjures a cup of hot cocoa for each of them before finally assisting her back to her feet and walking her to the entrance to her House. He stops to converse with Professor Flitwick to ensure the student will be watched carefully, before resuming his evening rounds of the corridors.
Albus Dumbledore sitting at the High table with the staff at Christmas, enthusiastically leading them all - with varying degrees of answering enthusiasm - in boisterous carols that have the remaining students in peals of giggles. No one is permitted to feel 'lonely' at Hogwarts at Christmas!
He deliberately visits each student in-turn, as though he has all the time in the world to chat and each boy and girl was the most important person to him at that moment. Again all identities except Albus' are obscured, and the conversation is muted. The words are not important - Albus pure presence is the material point.
Each student has the opportunity to pull several wizard crackers with the Headmaster, and, as if by magic, each 'prize' inside the explosive is uniquely suited to its recipient.
Albus Dumbledore, pulling crackers at the staff table and unembarrassedly exchanging his own flamboyant hat for a pointed witches hat with a stuffed vulture blinking malevolently down at the table. Even the ugliness of the fake bird is diminished when worn by the ever-cheerful, glowing radiance that is Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore striding tall and angry through the corridors of his school, the aura of power pouring off of him in palpable waves. His normally friendly face is set hard with fury. His clear, twinkling blue eyes are now the colour of chipped ice. Even the portraits on the walls cower as he swoops by. Someone, somewhere has threatened one of 'his' children, and it will not be tolerated.
The threat is not important, and not shown in the memory, though on this occasion it had to do with the argument regarding whether or not to allow Dementors to guard the school. The radiance of power is stark and vivid in the memory.
Albus Dumbledore, speaking to his school with gentle compassion - as he had to do many, many times both during the first war and again during the second, starting with Cedric.
Always, on these horrible, heart-wrenching occasions, Albus managed to find the words to soothe grief and offer hope. Compassion and strength seemed to surround his every word, soothing every heart which was open enough to listen.
The memory does not try to varnish the truth - the faceless, anonymous forms at the Slytherin table clearly do not always want to hear what he is saying - but the prejudice never comes from Albus' side first. His compassion knows no House, no bloodlines. He would not be human if he did not have his 'favourites', but he never made anyone feel 'less than'.
Albus Dumbledore, facing an angry Cornelius Fudge - though Fudge's image is obscured. The message given in this conversation is one Albus had expressed many times in many ways to many individuals. Rarely was he so angry or impassioned as he was at this meeting. The others are obscured as well, Potter on his hospital bed, the Weasleys and Granger all around, unidentifiable in a blurry mist of colours. Only Albus in his radiant, powerful, shining presence is clear.
"You have completely lost sight of the fact that it matters not what someone is born, but what they choose to become! It is our choices that make us who we are." *
((*OOC: Loosely paraphrased from memory from the Hospital scene at the end of Goblet of Fire by JKR. No copyright infringement intended.))
Albus Dumbledore, sitting comfortably in his familiar chair at his familiar desk, surrounded by various and sundry familiar objects and brick-a-brack. He is merrily playing chess with an unseen opponent while cheerfully sucking on sherbet lemons with child-like enthusiasm. His clear, light blue eyes twinkle with good humour. Fawkes preens himself blissfully on the perch just behind his shoulder.
Albus, at 'home', as many who knew him will always remember him. Just a man, yet ever so much more.
Then, a collage of images, the many faces of Albus Dumbledore, each image blending seamlessly with the last.
A joyful smile wreathed by the silvery white hair and beard, topped with twinkling azure blue eyes, conveying pure joy at merely being alive.
~
Disappointment so thick and heavy it feels as though a dark cloud has suddenly covered the sunny blue sky. Any student who had ever faced a disappointed Albus Dumbledore knew the sensation of wishing he would yell and scream rather than look at them... like that.
~
The heavy aura of anger and power shone forth from the lined face, giving the impression of strength and energy of a much, much younger man. All who faced this Albus Dumbledore knew fear or awe in his very presence.
~
Age lays heavily upon the usually energetic features. Blue eyes don't twinkle, but shine with unshed tears of grief. Yet another of 'his own' has fallen, and he was helpless to prevent it.
~
Laughter bubbles forth like happy water dancing over smooth stones in a dancing stream as he waltzes gracefully about the Great Hall with Madame Maxime. Her face is obscured, but it could be no other woman. Later he dances with Minerva. Sinestra. Poppy. Pomona. He leaves joy behind him like Father Christmas distributing toys among children.
Albus Dumbledore, dressed in vivid purple robes, scattered with shimmery silver stars that still do not manage to shine as brightly as his hair and twinkling blue eyes. He stands with the easy grace of a much younger man, pushing away from the Head table and addressing the Great Hall packed with students.
A flick of his wand, and words pour out of the end of his wand as though he was writing in the air. The Hall bursts into song - but in the memory, only Albus' voice is audible. Not the random, inharmonious sounds of children droning on, but the clear, gentle tenor of a man singing from the depths of his heart - even if the lyrics are more than a little undignified for someone of such obvious power...
"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,
Teach us something, please,
Whether we be old and bald
Or young with scabby knees,
Our heads could do with filling
With some interesting stuff,
For now they're bare and full of air,
Dead flies and bits of fluff,
So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we've forgot,
Just do your best, we'll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot."*
The gentle voice fades away and a gnarled but graceful hand dries a tear.
*(ooc: Hogwarts song is property of JKR, taken from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, US paperback version, p. 128. No copyright infringement is intended.)