In Memory of Fawkes

In Memory of Fawkes

May I tell you a story? It isn’t a particularly interesting or original one, but it is my story; and as such I have a vested interested it’s conclusion. I should also very much appreciate your thoughts on the prologue and the intermittent pieces of monologue and description that make up the middle, for I am an old man, prone to brooding on such things, living through the dregs of the last few chapters as I am, and I should like an outside opinion on the grammatical errors the years of my comparative youth produced.

It is my story, as I stated, in that it is how I came to be who I am, and why precisely I did so. No doubt others participants would lay prior claim to ownership of some passages of it, and indeed, I do not claim to have been wholly uninfluenced by the goings on of my surroundings. You will have heard various renditions of my tale, of which I am assured Severus’ is by far the most superior, though it never fails to amaze me, Severus’s grasp of all things thespian.

To tell it, I fear I must start with a beginning, and include some most trite particles of information, for that is, I am informed by Severus himself no less, what makes the foundation stones of a truly admirable tale. Attention to details often overlooked. I fear that, sadly, my ode may be lacking in many ways, and so have endeavoured to take his advice by the scruff of the neck, as it were, and carry through upon it.

I am going to be presumptuous, and assume that mine could be referred to as a historical novel, for history is forming around us every day, and at this stage in life I believe I have probably lived through more of it than most. Indeed, as I sit here in my office and view the assembled detritus of my existence, I conclude that I must span a good 22 decades of history. And that, my reader, is no mean feat for any man, be he muggle or mage.

But if I am to put pen to paper as a historical novel, then I must be accurate, as I should hate to misinform my public, and it troubles me greatly that my elderly memory may fail me at this last hurdle. Therefore one would assume the answer would be to focus upon my thoughts and observations, which must rest more clearly in the minds eye. I agree with you in so far as they do, but I fear a chronicle of my life alone would be too dull for words, and that held up in comparison to other more engaging recitals, my tale should be proved most unworthy of it’s purpose.

Alas, I fear I can make no decisions on this unfortunate state of affairs, so I shall walk a tightrope of conflicts, and attempt to fill the functions of both, at least until my elderly brain points me in the direction it desires I should walk. This will involve entirely too much input from yourself my reader, as you shall have to trust that I will eventually reach my destination, and endure a perhaps unduly tiresome prologue as I ramble hopelessly onwards.

Severus now informs me, though a trifle late, as I have by now observed the phenomena myself, that a prologue should fill the reader with a desire to continue, and sadly, I fear that mine does not. In this worst case scenario, I shall simply have to inform you that though my version of events does not match Severus’ in quality, it is still more entertaining that Harry’s. The latter I believe includes a lengthy sonnet to my interesting sock collection, that though a fascinating talking point at dinner parties, I don’t personally feel merits an entire sonnet’s worth of time. Perhaps had we both a little longer it should, but I lurk perilously near death’s door, and you, no doubt, will be hoping to have your 3 sickles refunded well before now by Flourish and Blohgk…

And with that, Dumbledore’s frail old frame slipped forwards. It felt onto the keyboard, as if as eager to work in death as in life. There were a few moments of incongruous typing of random letters; before the device installed to ensure that Fawkes couldn’t stand on the keyboard and ruin whole documents in moments kicked in and released a loud beep, informing Snape in the next room, who had been offering useful and largely ignored advice, that the owner of said keyboard had fallen on it.

Snape being Snape, on seeing a recent corpse stood for a few moments by the door frame waiting for a reaction of some sorts from the lifeless body, and when he realised that none was forthcoming, proceeded to poke the slumped form with one bony finger. When he received still no reaction, he put away Dumbledore’s cup by the tea pot. We all have our different ways of dealing with grief.

The room remained in this state of bemused balance for a good total of thirty seconds more, before McGonagall entered to enquire after the beginning of Dumbledore’s great project, and took over the situation with characteristic bustle.

After that, a few minutes of general panic ensued, which would have amused Dumbledore hugely had he been alive to witness it.

And perhaps from where he sat at that moment he did witness it, for I’ve never been one to discard any possibilities, even ones as unusual as life after death. What I do know for a fact though, is that in the corner, a huge golden flame had leapt up to consume a faithful friend in one yawning gulp of heat, and I’ll chose to see that as a sign that Fawkes wished to accompany his master on this last rite of passage.

The Hospital Wing was alerted, of course, but when some one is undeniably dead there is very little even strong magic can do for the situation, and Dumbledore had been a very old man, and was now equally undeniably a very dead one.

The funeral was held five days later, at a small church in Hogsmead, and the body was cremated in a touching tribute laced with flowers from a good many grateful students, parents and onlookers. The ashes were scattered around the base of the North Tower, and though I’m not entirely sure who, some one, I suspect it may well have been Filch, made sure a large flowering rose bush was planted there. I have never seen a plant better tended to this day.

Dumbledore’s biography, as that’s what it became, was completed jointly be Snape and Harry, and though there was much wrangling over who had done more work, who had more right to be doing it, and what made publication, it was a remarkable success. I believe the extract about sock collections did make the final cut, though it’s been a while since I read it, and I can’t check, as I foolishly leant my copy to a man who attended a dinner party I held.

As to Fawkes, we never saw him again. Though in the portrait of Dumbledore that hangs alongside the other former headmasters, you will notice a slight golden smudge in the lower left corner…