Challenge #183
First line prompt: It was raining.
Title: Rain Down
Rating: PG
Summary: The view from Dumbledore's Portrait.
A/N) It's been YEARS since I've posted here, so I'm past due. ;) Also I'm afraid I didn't edit much so please excuse any blatant errors. (Excuse them, but please point them out! Haha)
(Edited out some boo-boos and repetitive words. ;) )
It was raining.
Dumbledore's Portrait could see the sheets of falling water from his perch on the wall and he had a moment of wondering what rain felt like. He had the Living Dumbledore's memories, of course. They were the blood that flowed through his painted limbs--the reason he existed. They were what gave him, life, so to speak.
Dumbledore's Portrait was powered by those delicious quicksilver glimpses into the Living Dumbledore's past. Trouble was, the Living Dumbledore hadn't been terribly fond of rain, preferring a nice brandy by the fire and the warm comfort of thick woolen socks. Dumbledore's Portrait sifted through every last memory of Living Dumbledore and came up, well, dry.
The water was angled against the window now, directed by the ever capricious wind. Now wind, that was something Dumbledore's Portrait could experience. Dumbledore's Portrait closed his eyes and basked in the memory of a young boy's first broomstick ride, the wind playfully tugging against hair that was long and brown -- glinting with gold in the bright sunlight. The Living Dumbledore had gifted his Portrait with many memories of wind. But the broomstick ride, that was Dumbledore's Portrait's favorite. Something about how the earth fell away from his feet, and the cushion of the bright blue sky. On a broom, the world seemed exciting and accessible, in ways that a portrait on a wall couldn't help but envy.
True, he could move amidst the other frames, true also that many other portraits mimicked the elements of the Living World. But nothing in the world of Frames could hold a candle to the Living Dumbledore's memories. Dumbledore's Portrait found the Frame World an empty echo of the purity of the memories that flowed through him.
The rain continued to tap at the window with an odd kind of melody. Dumbledore's Portrait felt an strange pang when he recalled the Living Dumbledore's complete inability to play an instrument without the aid of a spell. They had called it something... Dumbledore's Portrait sifted through and recalled the exact conversation he was thinking of:
Minerva McGonagall's youthful face flashed into view. The ruckus of a pub in full swing backdropped her sly smile and the masses of curling chestnut hair that framed the witch's face. "It amazes me, Albus, that you consider yourself a music connoisseur when you have a tin ear!"
He replied with good humor and sipped slowly from a warming fire-whiskey, "And yet, for all of my shortcomings, I still appreciate music in its many forms, far more so than others I could think to name."
Minerva's eyebrow shot up, "If you can call those ridiculous chantings to drumbeats music--"
He set his fire-whiskey down with deliberation, "Not only music, Minerva, but also a calling for fertility in childbirth."
Minerva sputtered and He let the memory fade.
Dumbledore's Portrait was once again, in the Headmaster's office and overlooking the windows which were still warped with raindrops.
Dumbledore's Portrait held the privilege of being the keeper of the Living Dumbledore's thoughts. His was an honorable existence. A great one, at least in the Frame World.
Yet there were moments, memories given to him from the Living Dumbledore, that sometimes made him wish...
If only he didn't constantly yearn for the occasional lemon drop.
If only he could know the rain.
Dumbledore's Portrait sighed and settled in against his chair, framed against the wall and watching the rain come down.
Title: Rain Down
Rating: PG
Summary: The view from Dumbledore's Portrait.
A/N) It's been YEARS since I've posted here, so I'm past due. ;) Also I'm afraid I didn't edit much so please excuse any blatant errors. (Excuse them, but please point them out! Haha)
(Edited out some boo-boos and repetitive words. ;) )
It was raining.
Dumbledore's Portrait could see the sheets of falling water from his perch on the wall and he had a moment of wondering what rain felt like. He had the Living Dumbledore's memories, of course. They were the blood that flowed through his painted limbs--the reason he existed. They were what gave him, life, so to speak.
Dumbledore's Portrait was powered by those delicious quicksilver glimpses into the Living Dumbledore's past. Trouble was, the Living Dumbledore hadn't been terribly fond of rain, preferring a nice brandy by the fire and the warm comfort of thick woolen socks. Dumbledore's Portrait sifted through every last memory of Living Dumbledore and came up, well, dry.
The water was angled against the window now, directed by the ever capricious wind. Now wind, that was something Dumbledore's Portrait could experience. Dumbledore's Portrait closed his eyes and basked in the memory of a young boy's first broomstick ride, the wind playfully tugging against hair that was long and brown -- glinting with gold in the bright sunlight. The Living Dumbledore had gifted his Portrait with many memories of wind. But the broomstick ride, that was Dumbledore's Portrait's favorite. Something about how the earth fell away from his feet, and the cushion of the bright blue sky. On a broom, the world seemed exciting and accessible, in ways that a portrait on a wall couldn't help but envy.
True, he could move amidst the other frames, true also that many other portraits mimicked the elements of the Living World. But nothing in the world of Frames could hold a candle to the Living Dumbledore's memories. Dumbledore's Portrait found the Frame World an empty echo of the purity of the memories that flowed through him.
The rain continued to tap at the window with an odd kind of melody. Dumbledore's Portrait felt an strange pang when he recalled the Living Dumbledore's complete inability to play an instrument without the aid of a spell. They had called it something... Dumbledore's Portrait sifted through and recalled the exact conversation he was thinking of:
Minerva McGonagall's youthful face flashed into view. The ruckus of a pub in full swing backdropped her sly smile and the masses of curling chestnut hair that framed the witch's face. "It amazes me, Albus, that you consider yourself a music connoisseur when you have a tin ear!"
He replied with good humor and sipped slowly from a warming fire-whiskey, "And yet, for all of my shortcomings, I still appreciate music in its many forms, far more so than others I could think to name."
Minerva's eyebrow shot up, "If you can call those ridiculous chantings to drumbeats music--"
He set his fire-whiskey down with deliberation, "Not only music, Minerva, but also a calling for fertility in childbirth."
Minerva sputtered and He let the memory fade.
Dumbledore's Portrait was once again, in the Headmaster's office and overlooking the windows which were still warped with raindrops.
Dumbledore's Portrait held the privilege of being the keeper of the Living Dumbledore's thoughts. His was an honorable existence. A great one, at least in the Frame World.
Yet there were moments, memories given to him from the Living Dumbledore, that sometimes made him wish...
If only he didn't constantly yearn for the occasional lemon drop.
If only he could know the rain.
Dumbledore's Portrait sighed and settled in against his chair, framed against the wall and watching the rain come down.