Heavenly Waters||Sirius Black

Chapter 2

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore stares out across the mounds of sand, the green grasses pulling at his silver robes.

He'd never been to the beach before.

At least not this beach.

The air smelled like the salt water taffy he used to sometimes keep in his office. He'd always had a sweet tooth, though that seemed to fade with the passing of some of his favorite students. Though a particular group of three had him feeling much more spry these days.

Albus finds that his gaze lingers on the dark waters that lay before the expanse of sand, the ocean turbulent and a shade of midnight blue that he doubted could be replicated exactly. It was unique. This beach was unique.

The evening has turned the sky grey, a potential storm causing his old bones to ache and his lungs to fill with misty air. His mind was as heavy as the sand sucking his shoes deeper and deeper as he walks. He wonders when the last time the sky was blue.

His foot finally touches something hard, his eyes flickering down to appraise hints of a driftwood path, buried by sand and the winds of time. It's not the only thing that seems hidden away, a white picket fence is half buried by overgrown weeds, the small gate to an old garden hanging on by one rusted hinge.

He forces himself to look away, forces down remorse and sorrow. Forces his eyes higher, to a cottage with tiny white flowers on green vines that smell sweet on the stiff breeze. For summer, it was oddly quiet.

Oddly empty.

Oddly dark.

If Albus new his intuitive student the way he thought he did, then she must know he's here. She must know that he has finally come to speak to her. Though the quietness of the surroundings beg to differ.

He clears his throat quietly and smooths out his robes, his feet scuffing the sand on the uneven path that gives him a glimpse at the past. He wonders briefly if anyone had been here in some time, if anyone had stepped foot on the driftwood, had peaked into the garden. Had stepped foot on the darker colored sand by the shore that grows darker with each stretch of the tide. It didn't seem like it.

Finally, he reaches the front door, his heart hopeful and mind clear as he reaches for the familiar crooked knocker in the shape of an eagle.

Unfortunately, no amount of time had dulled his Gryffindor bravery.

Or rather stupidity.

The headmaster's finger barely brushes the metal before he's sent flying backwards, arms and legs flailing and a silent shout desperate to leave his lips until he makes contact.

The sand that had seemed so soft moments before slams into his back like a stone wall, the air leaving his lungs in a harsh and huffed exhale. His mouth opens and closes for a brief moment, his fingers reaching for his wand while his mind tries to figure out just what spell had nearly broken him in half.

A painful groan leaves him, his body aching tenfold as he slowly rolls to his stomach, pushing himself up into his hands and knees. He sucks in a few uncomfortable breaths, his lungs screaming at him in pain and his eyes clenching shut for a brief moment.

When he opens them again, he freezes.

A pair of blue sock covered feet are right in front of him, an odd sight amongst the vast beige sand. Still wheezing, Albus Dumbledore lifts his head and finally settles his gaze upon the being he hadn't seen in nearly twelve years.

The Veela of Hogwarts.

Gwenyth Whitlock looks much like she did under the lamppost at Privet Drive all those years ago. Perhaps a little worn by time, her cheek bones sharper, the lines of her face faint but present. But the same pearlescent hair, the same unimpressed face. The same unwavering eyes whose paleness even perplexed him. Young, she looked young despite the war that has waged on in all corners of her life.

She blinks, a slow and lazy one that reminds him of a cat. The headmaster coughs, forcing out hoarsely, "Miss Whitlock, I can't say I was expecting a warm greeting but that was certainly a surprise."

The Veela's hands twitch as he stumbles to his feet, as if she were about to help him up. Perhaps twelve years ago she would have. Albus smiles faintly when he finally steadies himself, his hands brushing a bit of sand from his robes. He doesn't speak again, instead he waits. He stands patiently, allows her to size him up. He's not sure what to expect with her, though now he leans more towards anticipating more bodily harm. He holds his breath when she opens her mouth, though he's surprised once again when she asks,

"When I was a student and you first offered me candy, what did I say?"

It's his turn to blink at her. His smile grows at her blasé tone as she verifies that he is who he seems to be. A brilliant witch, and a rather brilliant question.

As he pushes his glasses up his nose, he muses calmly, "I believe you told me that only a pervert offers candy to children."

The Veela nods once at his answer, replying flatly, "What a shame. It is you."

Albus winces, fearing that the conversation he hopes to have is over before it's even started. He responds quickly, nearly pleading as he says, "Gwenyth—"

"Since it is you, not a person pretending to be you, that means you are in fact stupid enough to attempt to touch my door without casting a detection spell for wards. I think you could have made a brilliant Slytherin, Albus. If only you weren't so daft."

The Headmaster stares at her, stunned silent for one of the few times in his life. A response doesn't come to mind, not when the tact of the Veela had not been dulled over the twelve years where they hadn't spoken. He should've known better, should've attempted to prepare. But preparation with his old confidant was futile. Sirius Black had once told him that. Expect the unexpected. She was consistently one step ahead.

The thought of his old student reminds him of why he had stepped foot on this beach, but the Veela promptly turns her back and begins walking away before he can say anything. He considers his options, weighs the value of his rehearsed speech. Perhaps he should leave it for another day.

But this couldn't wait. Not when it involved her, both her past and her future. Just as he opens his mouth to speak once more, she interrupts him yet again by calling over her shoulder,  "I haven't got all day, Professor. And please do try to brush off before you come into the kitchen."

She pauses, peers back to where he's standing frozen. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore on her beach, as baffled as he'd ever been.

Though the elderly wizard nearly rejoices when he spies the faintest twitch of a smile as she continues to speak passively,

"You have sand all over your robes."

He fights a smile of his own, nodding once and beginning to brush off the light sand sticking to him as she slips inside her cottage without another word.

Perhaps he didn't have to anticipate any further physical pain, any more wards or spells. The aching in his back was reminder enough of the suffering she'd experienced. The suffering he couldn't help but feel he'd contributed to, though she hadn't yet said such a thing. She hadn't said much of anything, a potential good sign. Soon, he too enters the house, feeling a sense of hope he hadn't felt in sometime.

People often underestimated Gwenyth Whitlock.