Lost in a Memory

Dumbledore stood, where he had Apparated, in the sitting room of his little flat in London. He had purchased this place when Fudge had become Minister for Magic, when Fudge had been continually requesting his help. Dumbledore felt that it was easier to have his own lodgings, with his own things; even now, when he was shunned by the Ministry of Magic, Fudge in particular, he maintained this place. It gave him a different place to think, and Dumbledore often found that different places gave varying slants on a situation. In the current climate, this could be a useful asset.

At the moment though, his mind was not on the current battle against Voldemort, but on Arabella Figg. He had fled from her house in a rather rude manner, which was totally out of character for him. Normally he would face anything, tell the truth and stand by his virtues, but lately he had found himself covering up more things. He thought of it as protection. He was beginning to realise that this was just, to some extent, an excuse. When the truth wasn't told the first time, it made telling the truth subsequent times harder and harder; this was particularly true in Harry's case. Perhaps he should have told Harry more at the end of last year, or the year before that, or even earlier, when he had first asked the questions. Maybe if you are old enough to ask the questions, you are old enough to know the answers.

Dumbledore realised he was getting diverted from his initial thoughts. He could pretend he had fled Arabella's because she wasn't ready to know the truth, wasn't prepared for the enormity of it. He could say that he had answered some of her questions, given her some things to think about, given her a chance to be more prepared. He could even think that it wasn't really his place to tell her what she wanted to know, it was for her parents to tell and he didn't have their permission to divulge that sort of information. He was aware though that these were poor excuses and not proper reasons. It was like that age-old student excuse, 'the owl ate my homework', when it is perfectly obvious that no owl would fancy tucking into a meal of thick parchment and ink. If they did, they wouldn't be much use for transporting letters!

He sat down in his elegant and grand armchair and glanced at his unusual watch. Having reassured himself that he still had some time before he was required to apparate to Grimmauld Place, he allowed his mind to wander back to the matter in hand.

Dumbledore found some comfort in that at least one of his excuses had some validity. It really wasn't his decision on whether Arabella should be told the truth about what she had seen; it was up to Cecil and Miranda. Dumbledore doubted that they would ever tell her themselves, but maybe, if they knew what was going on, then they would finally want to relinquish the spirit of the past and enlighten Arabella. Possibly it would help them move on, it would be hard on all of them, but perhaps it was time. Old wounds could be helped to heal, and although no doubt it would be hardest for Arabella, she would have the answers to the questions she's asking and the questions she's never thought to ask.

However, none of that will ever come to fruition, if Cecil and Miranda are not informed. Arabella would never tell them. As far as she knew, the family she was born to had always been cold and distant; consequentially, since she had first moved out of home, nigh on eighty-five years ago, parents and daughter had had little contact. It was highly probable that she wouldn't even consider going to see them, let alone actually contacting them about this. Dumbledore sighed as he acknowledged that it was up to him - he could not contact them and risk losing Arabella's trust, or he could contact them and cause much hurt and pain by ripping open unhealed wounds.

Really, thought Dumbledore, there is no choice.

Glancing at his watch again, he rose from his seat and disappeared with a gentle pop.

*

Arabella sat in her living room at a loss as to what to do next. Mr Tibbles leapt into her lap and she absentmindedly stroked his thick fur as he settled himself down. Her whole mind was occupied with the memories, no matter how much she tried to force her mind to think about something else, anything else, she couldn't shake the thoughts swimming around inside her head.

It was all so confusing. She seemed to be lost in a series of memories. If they could even be called that. She wasn't sure if it was possible to call something she could visualise but couldn't remember a memory - surely a memory is something you are able to remember, not something you seem to be endlessly searching your brain for but are unable to find. Every time she thought about this her head began to spin and she felt as if it was going to burst because there was too much going on inside it.

It seemed as if she'd found a piece of a jigsaw puzzle and she was searching through all the sets to find where this belonged. Only she couldn't find the rest of the pieces so she couldn't complete the picture, she couldn't discover what every part of her seemed to ache to know.

She found it all so tiring. She trudged up the stairs to her bedroom and tried to get some rest. She knew that it was futile, yet she didn't know what else to do. She needed to at least try to be rested because she was aware that whatever Dumbledore was going to need her to do was going to require as much concentration as she could muster.

*

I hope you understand that my reason for this letter is not purely to exchange pleasantries. The main subject matter will be as difficult for you to contemplate as it is for me to raise. However, unpleasant tasks must be undertaken sometimes, and this is one of those. I shall get to the point, as I am rambling - it concerns Arabella. The other evening she had an encounter with some Dementors, or rather was in the area when someone else was having such an encounter. I do not know the exact details of what she saw, yet I do know enough, from the questions she has been asking and her general listlessness, that it cannot be good news. I imagine it is fragments of what happened in July 1901, we all know what I am referring to and I shall not cause you more discomfort by relating anything further just here.

We were aware that Arabella would be a different case from anyone else who had undergone the treatment. What occurred in her case was unique, and as no one else underwent the treatment following what happened to her, there is no one else to whom we could look for patterns and help in understanding how magic would affect her. Evidently, the charm did not work in the same way as on any normal magical person, be they Squib or not, and this has now caused her to recall, if only fragmentally, some of the events.

In light of this, I feel it is my duty to ask you whether you wish her to know the truth. She has already begun to ask questions and I'm sure she will soon want more answers than I feel comfortable giving without your consent.

I shall conclude here, as I am conscious that this letter will have come as a shock and will leave you with a lot to discuss. I sincerely hope that you will consider carefully what I have said. I am willing to confer further about this should you wish to know any more details.

Yours truly,

Albus Dumbledore

Dumbledore sat in the spare bedroom of his little flat, which he used as a small study, reviewing the end of his letter. He felt that it was too formal for old school friends and yet there didn't seem to be a better way of wording it. How did one broach such a thing with someone one had once been close to, but had had little contact with for several years?

He had spent a good two hours sitting here since his return from Grimmauld Place working on what now lay before him and he sat back with a discontented sigh. He realised that this had to be the finished product; nothing had come close to being as eloquent as this, despite its awkwardness. The start hadn't changed in any of the drafts, it was full of the usual small talk that was place at the opening of any letter, it had been the ending that had caused the trouble. Now, however, it had to be done.

He summoned a thick envelope from a pile on top of the shelves and, dipping his quill in the inkpot beside him, wrote:

Mr Cecil Benedict and Mrs Miranda Rosemary Turner

As he folded up the parchment and placed it into the envelope, he reflected that ordinarily he would have addressed the envelope less fully, but he wanted them to be aware that this was for both their eyes. It would be easier for them both if they read it together.

He sealed the envelope and strolled into the sitting room. On the perch was his owl, few knew he had one, but he had found it useful and in the Owlery at Hogwarts it was as anonymous as most kept there. He attached the letter to the owl's leg and opened the window and the owl soared out into the balmy evening with silent grace.