A burning summer

30th July 1899

As soon as Albus realised he was awake, an overwhelming sense of nausea invaded him. For two nights he hadn't dared to sleep, frightened by the tricks his mind might play on him when he wasn't in control. During the third evening he had collapsed, however, his body screaming at him in exhaustion that he needed rest. So he had forced himself to take some Sleeping Draught and had gone to bed well aware that he needed to regain strength for what awaited him the next day.

The feelings of guilt that had tortured him in the past few days returned all at once as he forced himself to open his eyes. He got up with an inhuman effort; he wanted to slap himself. She deserved him to face that day, to honour and love her like he hadn't been able to in recent times. His sister deserved him to kneel humiliated at her feet to say goodbye properly.

The most terrible moment was when he looked at himself in the mirror with his suit on and he actually realised he was wearing black for his sister. For Ariana.

He ran into the bathroom when he felt a retch in his throat, but he didn't allow himself to let out even a sob of self-pity.

He went downstairs. The house seemed incredibly empty, it was as if it had been gradually abandoned: first by Kendra and now by her daughter. The kitchen shelves were empty, eating had been the least of his thoughts in those days, and a heavy veil of dust had settled on the living room furniture and on the kitchen table: places usually occupied by Ariana when she drew.

He hadn't seen his brother since that fateful afternoon, they had carefully avoided each other during those three days. This morning Aberforth had already left the house and it was better this way. At the moment he would not even know where to start to apologise to him, and in any case he feared that it would not be enough to repair their relationship that they had so badly ruined in the last few weeks.

There weren't enough words of apology. How could anyone apologise for the loss of a sister? It was a sin that he would carry on his back for life in a sisyphean task of living with it.

He went to get his shoes and fastened them; for a while he would limit his use of magic to the bare minimum, he badly needed to keep his feet firmly on the ground.

He left the house and walked towards the square. He barely managed to take about ten steps, when he was forced to stop and close his eyes, trying desperately to push away the thought that had constantly chased him.

He didn't want to allow himself to think of him now, of all the times they had walked that same path hand in hand. He didn't want to focus on his aching heart on this day, this day was just for Ariana. Just for her.

He hadn't dared look for Gellert after the tragedy, and he hadn't come to him. He was terribly afraid of what they would say the next time they saw each other, however, the thought of him was constant. Albus wanted to apologise and receive an apology, but he knew he didn't deserve anything so indulgent.

He passed the chapel and lengthened his pace so as not to give himself time to think about the kisses they had exchanged there and turned the corner towards the cemetery. He entered through the little gate at the back so as not to have to pass by the grave of Ignotus Peverell and see that symbol that he had drawn so foolishly on sheets and sheets of parchment until a few days before.

The image that appeared before him was ghostly and terrible. Ariana's black coffin was at the side of the grave, there was no one there. There was only the most absolute emptiness like the one she had left.

They hadn't sent invitations for their sister's funeral, it was too risky that rumours would start circulating if there were people present; Godric's Hollow was a small village and any kind of gossip would have resonated very quickly throughout the whole town like an echo. All the secrets of the Dumbledore family would be revealed and thus rendered the deaths of Kendra and Percival useless.