#forgavethem

            "It is unfair.” He stood, watching from the stained glass windows as students, packed together like herds of sheep, made for Hogsmeade. He hadn’t gotten a signature on his permission slip and as a result, he was stuck inside the school, accompanied only by the ghost of a little girl.

            He turned his head away, eyes finding the transparent form of the girl. “It is, isn’t it? Why couldn’t Slughorn simply give me permission? It should not be so hard, should it? And it isn’t quite like there is a REASON as to why I can not go----the madam simply wouldn’t sign the slip.” Bitterness colored his tone as he crossed his arms.

            “Not that I would have had much to do----I hardly have a pound to my name, nevermind a galleon.”

"minerva. minerva up here!! yes, i will require some assistance getting down."

grindxlwald replied to your post “braverytaught replied to your post “tell us about Albus’s hobbies…...”

. . .considering that *Minerva* is the cat, this got 2x as funny. . .

i hate .... you both .... so much

                              “I, uh-- ... I didn’t know Dumbledore has-- had a                               sister? Are there normally talking paintings of ...                                you know ... living people or?”

also i don’t think a bunch of people would make an effort to commit murder to become immortal and then tell people about it. that seems like a dumb thing to do

albus gets cold very easily.  

that being said, winter and autumn are his favorite seasons --- he likes the coziness of those seasons, likes being able to pull on wool socks, a blanket, a sweater (etc), and sit in front of a fire with hot chocolate and the latest edition of transfiguration today. 

as a result he loves snow, absolutely adores it, and his mood automatically lifts when it’s snowing. it doesn’t matter how old he is, albus is 100% the person who will always stick his tongue out to catch snowflakes. 

       Albus wonders if Ariana saw the world in delicate, pencil-sketched outlines after her attack  ---  if the horrendous violence, the heartbreaking aftermath, sucked the color from her world, and along with it, any meaty substance leaving the world too simple, too black-and-white.

He’s feeling fond of her this afternoon, more like how he recalls feeling when they were younger and still in Wales ------ not like nowadays when too many dense, moist emotions curdle in his chest whenever he sees her that fondness has no room to rear its little head. “It’s still there,” he says, voice delicate and kind. “Just look up at the sky. And if that doesn’t work ---” he summons charcoal and parchment, “ --- then create some beauty for yourself.”