Aberforth Dumbledore - he knows everything (theoldgoat) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2009-07-17 08:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! [1980-07] july, aberforth dumbledore |
Who: Aberforth and a very pretty mediwitch
When: 16 July 1980
Where: The Rehabilitation Centre
What: Abe contemplates the merits of white walls, black spots, the colour of birds and what he is.
Rating: PG
Status: Complete
Aberforth opened his eyes and stared dully at what was in front of him.
Wall.
White wall.
Clean white wall.
He stared at it without thought. His mind was full of fuzz and fluff. Fuzzy fluff. Fluffy fuzz. It was nice. Pleasant. Calm.
Time passed. He didn’t know how much. It didn’t tell him.
He frowned as he stared at the wall. There was a spot. A small black spot. A small moving black spot.
He frowned again and sat up. That distracted him from the clean white wall and the small moving black spot. He looked down at his beard. It was clean and neat. He didn’t remember it being clean and neat. He remembered it being a place for birds to sleep.
He snickered. A birdie’s nest. Birdies nesting in his beard. He’d like that. Little birdies. Little yellow birdies nesting in his beard. He liked little yellow birdies. The colour was important. Little brown birdies were boring. Boring brown birdies. Little black birdies were bad. Bad black birdies. Little blue birdies were…
He frowned and poked at his beard. What were little blue birdies? He couldn’t remember. There was too much fluffy fuzz in his mind.
He looked over at the wall again and saw the black spot.
“Yarr!” he said with a silly grin. “It be the black spot! Yarr, matey.”
He snickered again, inordinately pleased with himself. Was he a pirate? He couldn’t remember. No, he couldn’t be. Pirates didn’t have long beards. They had peg legs and parrots. If he wasn’t a pirate, what was he? He was sure he was something roguish. He was sure he remembered being roguish.
“I am a rogue,” he announced, not noticing the slight slur in his voice. The word almost sounded right and somehow he thought it was important that he figure out what he was. “I am Aberforth Dumbledore and I am a rogue. A scallywag. A scoundrel. A rascal. A scamp. A crook. A… a… villain?”
He frowned and stared at the nice clean white wall. Was he a villain? He didn’t think he was. It sounded nasty. But he was sure he was something with a ‘v’.
Before he could grasp what he might be, the door to the room opened and a pretty young mediwitch came in carrying a tray with a glass and two flasks on it.
She smiled prettily at him and he found that charming. “It’s time for your medication, Mr Dumbledore.”
“Am I sick?” Abe asked with sudden alarm.
“Yes, Mr Dumbledore,” the pretty mediwitch said with that charming smile as she poured a measure from one of the flasks into the glass. “But there’s no need to worry. We’re looking after you and soon you’ll be well again.” She held out the glass. “You just need to drink this.”
Abe frowned at the glass and the potion inside it. He was sure there was something about this that was very, very wrong but the mediwitch was very young and very pretty and very charming and very earnest and surely she didn’t mean any harm?
He took the glass and drank the potion. It tasted rather nice and he smiled as he handed the glass back to the mediwitch. “Thank you, my dear.”