Lonely Empires (1/3)
Title: Lonely Empires
Characters: Albus Dumbledore, Tom Riddle
Rating: PG
Summary: Do you ever wish we were more than who we are?
Disclaimer: If I owned this I'd be a billionaire living in Edinburgh instead of toiling away in the Richmond humidity. You do the math.
Notes: Title and description are lyrics from the song “Before I Start Dreaming” by Anchor and Braille. This fic was inspired by a fill-in hbp LJ community prompt back in 2005. Originally, this fic was not supposed to include information from Deathly Hallows, but it's been so long that I think this story is still relevant. Much thanks to the lovely aznwolfdoll for betaing.
Words: 5,136
“Every malefactor, by attacking social rights, becomes on forfeit a rebel and a traitor to his country; by violating its laws he ceases to be a member of it; he even makes war upon it... Such an enemy is not a moral person, but merely a man.”
- Jean-Jacques Rosseau, Of The Social Contract
Part I
Butterflies and dust motes laze along peacefully, suspended in humidity and June’s afternoon sun. Quiet lies over the English countryside like a tangible veil, shuttering its residents’ thoughts and words before they begin.
An elderly man with a white beard shuffles along a dirt path in the outskirts of town, hidden from inquisitive eyes by hedgerows. His gnarled staff props up a dark suit and half-moon glasses, shielding sharp blue eyes and a bulging waistcoat. The shadows of laugh lines and crow’s feet betray a cheerful nature, but his lips are now pursed with thought.
The staff rhythmically taps on the dusty earth, followed by his hesitant footsteps. The road beneath him is narrow, following uninterrupted lines of brown, green, and blue. The incessantly buzzing flies are his only companions.
When the lane veers sharply to the left, the old man stops to observe the scene before him. Little Hangleton is a valley dotted with thimble-sized houses. An iron-grey church stands proudly in its midst, overshadowing a formidable graveyard. The old man allows his eyes to roam as it will, repainting his memories with the haze of new ones.
Turning, he follows the path downhill with increasingly lengthened strides. Dirt gradually turns to gravel, but he is sure-footed on the way down. The sun leaves cool, prickly shade as trees overtake the hedge. When the path becomes rockier the man abandons the help of his stick by turning it into a polished twig with an ornate handle with whispered words.
At a copse of trees, he stops again. In the deepest shade stands a decrepit house. Shutters have fallen off in the course of time, but its crumbling moss-covered stone remain. The jagged edges of its broken windows hint at awful happenings from an unknown dread. The entire scene is hung in an uncanny silence, at direct odds to this peaceful summer.
No living thing has called this place home in years. Yet the man watches the ruins as though it is a slumbering snake. Concentration seems to erase twenty years from his face, revealing a cautious man on the verge of discovery. Like a silent conductor, he flicks his twig in the air and mutters garbled Latin. He pauses, then makes different motions and mutters different phrases. The stops and starts continue for half an hour. When he is done, the air is noticeably warmer and the ruins are empty of their horror.
Satisfied, he picks his way through the overgrown grass and weeds to the door, which has been saved from the windows’ fate. Nailed to the sun-bleached wood is a mass of grimy string. He ignores the string as he sweeps his gaze over door, methodically repeating his actions with the handled twig and murmuring. Finally, he stops and turns his eyes to the string on the door. Grasping the bunch with his right hand, he yanks it off with a rip - and just as quickly drops it with a hiss of pain. His hand is red with blisters as though he held his hand in a fire for too long.
In his pain the man almost does not see the door swing open. Flexing his hand in an attempt to regain feeling, Albus Dumbledore enters the House of Gaunt.
N E X T:
|| part 02 ||
Characters: Albus Dumbledore, Tom Riddle
Rating: PG
Summary: Do you ever wish we were more than who we are?
Disclaimer: If I owned this I'd be a billionaire living in Edinburgh instead of toiling away in the Richmond humidity. You do the math.
Notes: Title and description are lyrics from the song “Before I Start Dreaming” by Anchor and Braille. This fic was inspired by a fill-in hbp LJ community prompt back in 2005. Originally, this fic was not supposed to include information from Deathly Hallows, but it's been so long that I think this story is still relevant. Much thanks to the lovely aznwolfdoll for betaing.
Words: 5,136
“Every malefactor, by attacking social rights, becomes on forfeit a rebel and a traitor to his country; by violating its laws he ceases to be a member of it; he even makes war upon it... Such an enemy is not a moral person, but merely a man.”
- Jean-Jacques Rosseau, Of The Social Contract
Part I
Butterflies and dust motes laze along peacefully, suspended in humidity and June’s afternoon sun. Quiet lies over the English countryside like a tangible veil, shuttering its residents’ thoughts and words before they begin.
An elderly man with a white beard shuffles along a dirt path in the outskirts of town, hidden from inquisitive eyes by hedgerows. His gnarled staff props up a dark suit and half-moon glasses, shielding sharp blue eyes and a bulging waistcoat. The shadows of laugh lines and crow’s feet betray a cheerful nature, but his lips are now pursed with thought.
The staff rhythmically taps on the dusty earth, followed by his hesitant footsteps. The road beneath him is narrow, following uninterrupted lines of brown, green, and blue. The incessantly buzzing flies are his only companions.
When the lane veers sharply to the left, the old man stops to observe the scene before him. Little Hangleton is a valley dotted with thimble-sized houses. An iron-grey church stands proudly in its midst, overshadowing a formidable graveyard. The old man allows his eyes to roam as it will, repainting his memories with the haze of new ones.
Turning, he follows the path downhill with increasingly lengthened strides. Dirt gradually turns to gravel, but he is sure-footed on the way down. The sun leaves cool, prickly shade as trees overtake the hedge. When the path becomes rockier the man abandons the help of his stick by turning it into a polished twig with an ornate handle with whispered words.
At a copse of trees, he stops again. In the deepest shade stands a decrepit house. Shutters have fallen off in the course of time, but its crumbling moss-covered stone remain. The jagged edges of its broken windows hint at awful happenings from an unknown dread. The entire scene is hung in an uncanny silence, at direct odds to this peaceful summer.
No living thing has called this place home in years. Yet the man watches the ruins as though it is a slumbering snake. Concentration seems to erase twenty years from his face, revealing a cautious man on the verge of discovery. Like a silent conductor, he flicks his twig in the air and mutters garbled Latin. He pauses, then makes different motions and mutters different phrases. The stops and starts continue for half an hour. When he is done, the air is noticeably warmer and the ruins are empty of their horror.
Satisfied, he picks his way through the overgrown grass and weeds to the door, which has been saved from the windows’ fate. Nailed to the sun-bleached wood is a mass of grimy string. He ignores the string as he sweeps his gaze over door, methodically repeating his actions with the handled twig and murmuring. Finally, he stops and turns his eyes to the string on the door. Grasping the bunch with his right hand, he yanks it off with a rip - and just as quickly drops it with a hiss of pain. His hand is red with blisters as though he held his hand in a fire for too long.
In his pain the man almost does not see the door swing open. Flexing his hand in an attempt to regain feeling, Albus Dumbledore enters the House of Gaunt.
N E X T:
|| part 02 ||