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delphiTitle: A Dream of Winter
Characters: Kendra Dumbledore and family
Rating: G
Word Count: ~1400
Summary: Three glimpses into the life of Kendra Dumbledore.
Content Info: I can't be the only one who paused at the description of Kendra Dumbledore in Deathly Hallows. I don't know if it was racial stereotyping on JKR's part, or if it was supposed to be racial stereotyping on Harry the character's part, or if it was being stated that Kendra Dumbledore was in fact of First Nations heritage—but I'm sure you can all guess which interpretation I prefer.
When Kendra Alban was a little girl, she dreamed in Kanien'kéha. Behind her sleep-heavy eyelids, friends and strangers—her father and the other Englishmen of the town, and the Frenchmen and the Mississauga people too—all spoke to her in her mother's tongue. This pleased her mother, who spoke English slowly and carefully but in her own language would tell jokes and stories that made everyone laugh. Father did not say they had to speak English when he was home, but if they didn't, he would interrupt, even if her grandmother was there, and put his hands on his hips with a too-wide smile. "Are you talking about me again?" he would ask, even though they never were.
"What were you dreaming about last night, o daughter of mine who is too heavy to carry. Oof!" Her mother let her drop. "You sounded like you were jumping on the bed."
Kendra landed on her feet with a laugh. The snow was not very deep, no higher than her boots, and she trudged through it at her mother's side on their way to the village to see her grandparents. It was very early in the morning, and all the world was white and pine-green under a quiet sky. "I dreamed I was flying."
"Oh? Were you flying like a robin or like a bumblebee?"
Kendra considered this, watching a chickadee hop weightlessly atop the powder. "Like a hummingbird," she said. "I was floating, and then I fell."
She had woken up just as she collided with the bed.
Her mother laughed then, but it was a quiet laugh. "When you're young, you have a dream like that and say you dreamed of flying. When you're older, you'll say you dreamed of falling."
That it was not a dream at all did not come to light until three winters hence, when an envelope arrived at their house carried in the talons of a Spotted Owl. The letter inside came all the way from Scotland, by way of London and Ottawa, and was stamped by the government besides—something called the Department of Colonial Magic, which even her father had not heard of—and it said that Kendra was special, and that she ought to go away to school in Britain to learn wondrous things.
Her mother put her foot down. She had seen what had happened to Kendra's cousins, who were taken away to school when they were very small. "No," she said, in English and then in Kanien'kéha. "No."
Her father, in turn, would not have her taught in the longhouse, and after a year or more of arguing, inquiries were made, and a tutor was sent for. He was a wandering Englishman of seventeen years by the name of Percival Dumbledore, and he had the nicest blue eyes. He made Kendra's cheeks flush when he sat close by, reading with her, and her heart beat faster when he taught her how to cast a charm, and when she dreamed of him at night, he told her sweet things in perfect, clever Kanien'kéha, and he sang to her his lilting English songs, just slightly off-key.
"The moon was bright and the night was clear, no breeze came over the sea...when Mary left her highland home and wandered forth with me..."
She was sixteen years old when they ran away together, and as she agonised over the letter she would leave on the mantel, all she could write with the strength of two languages and ten years of schooling behind her, was: "Forgive me."
~*~
In England, the language—like the damp—got into her bones, and by the time she and Percy finally settled in the countryside with a little house of their own, she spoke and thought and dreamed in English. Their two years in London had not been kind to her. She had thought she knew how it would be; she had grown up in an English town, after all. The protection of her father's' house had not armed her, however, not nearly well enough.
She was a curiosity here. "Muggleborn," they called her. "Red Indian." She was quite alone, save for Percy, and in time she learned to shut her mouth and speak little of her past or family.
"We met abroad," she would say, and Percy, who loved language to be sneaky and precise both at once, would smilingly agree as the inquirers took her for Spanish or Chinese, old blood or mixed. He thought it was funny, but it gave her a pang at the oddest times: when the wind blew cold, or when she caught herself humming a song her mother had once sung to her.
The winters in Mould-on-the-Wold proved to be wet and grass-green. It smelled of spring all the year through, of rich soil and growing things and fat, rain-drowned earthworms. She sat out in their garden every morning, and she shivered sometimes, for while the air was warmer, her dresses and coats were thinner here. She would breathe in the lush scent of the world, and she would breathe out and be startled not to see the fog of her own breath on the air.
"Are you certain you shouldn't be in bed?" Percy asked her, rather fretfully, as he wrapped another blanket around her shoulders.
She bit her lower lip to hide a smile, and she rested her hand upon her belly, which was only a little swollen. "There's six months yet left to fuss. When summer comes and I'm as big as a house, I will lounge in bed with all the windows open while you bring me ices and fan me."
His hand joined hers, and she sighed in contentment as she admired the dew-glinting roses and snow drops and winter jasmine. She did not miss London in the least, with its crowded, stinking streets and its double-edged parties.
"What shall we call him? Or her?" Percy asked.
She leaned against him, closing her eyes and daydreaming of a little black-haired babe with his father's pretty eyes. She imagined a toddling child, resting against her breast and calling her 'Mama.'
"Oh," she sighed. "Whatever you think best."
~*~
She could not say when her dreams became silent, but surely it was the house at Godric's Hollow where she became a deaf old woman before her time. Neither widow nor wife, her dreams were banal, brittle things there. In the painful night, Percy would come home to her. The door would open, and there he would be, or else she dreamed of him in the bed beside her, his breath puffing softly against her cheek and his arm around her waist. In her dreams, her children smiled, and the house was full of sunlight. Her little daughter raised her arms, wishing to be lifted, and Kendra swept her up and carried her effortlessly through the peaceful, quiet rooms.
By day, the little house was restless. It groaned to itself, complaining at every gust of wind and tap of rain. Sometimes, in her more fanciful moments, Kendra imagined that it was lonely. This was not the suite of rooms in London, with its noisy neighbours to the left and right, under the floor and above the ceiling. It was not the townhouse in Mould-on-the-Wold, where she had exchanged pleasantries with her neighbours every morning while she sat out in the garden with a cup of tea or hung the washing to dry. Here, if she stood outside the front door, she could see no one at all in any direction, and it was only when all was dark that the village lights could be spied in the distance.
"Never mind," her younger son muttered impatiently, startling her from her reverie as she gazed out at the distant glow of lamplight. He gently led his shrieking sister away, promising her a cup of hot milk and honey before bedtime.
Kendra sat down at the window, pressing her cheek to the cool glass. Her hand was throbbing with yet another deep bite-mark, but she did not have the energy to tend to it just yet. She closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of another mild, wet English winter, and for a moment—only a moment—she imagined that when she opened them again, she would wake up from this long, strange dream to find a fresh blanket of snow on the ground and all the world white and pine-green once more.
Characters: Kendra Dumbledore and family
Rating: G
Word Count: ~1400
Summary: Three glimpses into the life of Kendra Dumbledore.
Content Info: I can't be the only one who paused at the description of Kendra Dumbledore in Deathly Hallows. I don't know if it was racial stereotyping on JKR's part, or if it was supposed to be racial stereotyping on Harry the character's part, or if it was being stated that Kendra Dumbledore was in fact of First Nations heritage—but I'm sure you can all guess which interpretation I prefer.
When Kendra Alban was a little girl, she dreamed in Kanien'kéha. Behind her sleep-heavy eyelids, friends and strangers—her father and the other Englishmen of the town, and the Frenchmen and the Mississauga people too—all spoke to her in her mother's tongue. This pleased her mother, who spoke English slowly and carefully but in her own language would tell jokes and stories that made everyone laugh. Father did not say they had to speak English when he was home, but if they didn't, he would interrupt, even if her grandmother was there, and put his hands on his hips with a too-wide smile. "Are you talking about me again?" he would ask, even though they never were.
"What were you dreaming about last night, o daughter of mine who is too heavy to carry. Oof!" Her mother let her drop. "You sounded like you were jumping on the bed."
Kendra landed on her feet with a laugh. The snow was not very deep, no higher than her boots, and she trudged through it at her mother's side on their way to the village to see her grandparents. It was very early in the morning, and all the world was white and pine-green under a quiet sky. "I dreamed I was flying."
"Oh? Were you flying like a robin or like a bumblebee?"
Kendra considered this, watching a chickadee hop weightlessly atop the powder. "Like a hummingbird," she said. "I was floating, and then I fell."
She had woken up just as she collided with the bed.
Her mother laughed then, but it was a quiet laugh. "When you're young, you have a dream like that and say you dreamed of flying. When you're older, you'll say you dreamed of falling."
That it was not a dream at all did not come to light until three winters hence, when an envelope arrived at their house carried in the talons of a Spotted Owl. The letter inside came all the way from Scotland, by way of London and Ottawa, and was stamped by the government besides—something called the Department of Colonial Magic, which even her father had not heard of—and it said that Kendra was special, and that she ought to go away to school in Britain to learn wondrous things.
Her mother put her foot down. She had seen what had happened to Kendra's cousins, who were taken away to school when they were very small. "No," she said, in English and then in Kanien'kéha. "No."
Her father, in turn, would not have her taught in the longhouse, and after a year or more of arguing, inquiries were made, and a tutor was sent for. He was a wandering Englishman of seventeen years by the name of Percival Dumbledore, and he had the nicest blue eyes. He made Kendra's cheeks flush when he sat close by, reading with her, and her heart beat faster when he taught her how to cast a charm, and when she dreamed of him at night, he told her sweet things in perfect, clever Kanien'kéha, and he sang to her his lilting English songs, just slightly off-key.
"The moon was bright and the night was clear, no breeze came over the sea...when Mary left her highland home and wandered forth with me..."
She was sixteen years old when they ran away together, and as she agonised over the letter she would leave on the mantel, all she could write with the strength of two languages and ten years of schooling behind her, was: "Forgive me."
In England, the language—like the damp—got into her bones, and by the time she and Percy finally settled in the countryside with a little house of their own, she spoke and thought and dreamed in English. Their two years in London had not been kind to her. She had thought she knew how it would be; she had grown up in an English town, after all. The protection of her father's' house had not armed her, however, not nearly well enough.
She was a curiosity here. "Muggleborn," they called her. "Red Indian." She was quite alone, save for Percy, and in time she learned to shut her mouth and speak little of her past or family.
"We met abroad," she would say, and Percy, who loved language to be sneaky and precise both at once, would smilingly agree as the inquirers took her for Spanish or Chinese, old blood or mixed. He thought it was funny, but it gave her a pang at the oddest times: when the wind blew cold, or when she caught herself humming a song her mother had once sung to her.
The winters in Mould-on-the-Wold proved to be wet and grass-green. It smelled of spring all the year through, of rich soil and growing things and fat, rain-drowned earthworms. She sat out in their garden every morning, and she shivered sometimes, for while the air was warmer, her dresses and coats were thinner here. She would breathe in the lush scent of the world, and she would breathe out and be startled not to see the fog of her own breath on the air.
"Are you certain you shouldn't be in bed?" Percy asked her, rather fretfully, as he wrapped another blanket around her shoulders.
She bit her lower lip to hide a smile, and she rested her hand upon her belly, which was only a little swollen. "There's six months yet left to fuss. When summer comes and I'm as big as a house, I will lounge in bed with all the windows open while you bring me ices and fan me."
His hand joined hers, and she sighed in contentment as she admired the dew-glinting roses and snow drops and winter jasmine. She did not miss London in the least, with its crowded, stinking streets and its double-edged parties.
"What shall we call him? Or her?" Percy asked.
She leaned against him, closing her eyes and daydreaming of a little black-haired babe with his father's pretty eyes. She imagined a toddling child, resting against her breast and calling her 'Mama.'
"Oh," she sighed. "Whatever you think best."
She could not say when her dreams became silent, but surely it was the house at Godric's Hollow where she became a deaf old woman before her time. Neither widow nor wife, her dreams were banal, brittle things there. In the painful night, Percy would come home to her. The door would open, and there he would be, or else she dreamed of him in the bed beside her, his breath puffing softly against her cheek and his arm around her waist. In her dreams, her children smiled, and the house was full of sunlight. Her little daughter raised her arms, wishing to be lifted, and Kendra swept her up and carried her effortlessly through the peaceful, quiet rooms.
By day, the little house was restless. It groaned to itself, complaining at every gust of wind and tap of rain. Sometimes, in her more fanciful moments, Kendra imagined that it was lonely. This was not the suite of rooms in London, with its noisy neighbours to the left and right, under the floor and above the ceiling. It was not the townhouse in Mould-on-the-Wold, where she had exchanged pleasantries with her neighbours every morning while she sat out in the garden with a cup of tea or hung the washing to dry. Here, if she stood outside the front door, she could see no one at all in any direction, and it was only when all was dark that the village lights could be spied in the distance.
"Never mind," her younger son muttered impatiently, startling her from her reverie as she gazed out at the distant glow of lamplight. He gently led his shrieking sister away, promising her a cup of hot milk and honey before bedtime.
Kendra sat down at the window, pressing her cheek to the cool glass. Her hand was throbbing with yet another deep bite-mark, but she did not have the energy to tend to it just yet. She closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of another mild, wet English winter, and for a moment—only a moment—she imagined that when she opened them again, she would wake up from this long, strange dream to find a fresh blanket of snow on the ground and all the world white and pine-green once more.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-24 07:49 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-25 04:49 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-19 02:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-19 05:32 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-19 02:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-19 05:34 am (UTC)Her face had a carved quality about it. Harry thought of photos of Native Americans he’d seen as he studied her dark eyes, high cheekbones, and straight nose, formally composed above a high-necked silk gown.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-19 05:47 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-19 02:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-19 04:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-19 05:36 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-19 04:29 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-19 05:36 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-19 04:30 am (UTC)Wow.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-19 05:36 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-19 05:28 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-19 05:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-19 06:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-21 04:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-20 09:55 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-21 04:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-20 10:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-21 04:26 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-24 03:08 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-25 04:49 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-06-13 01:29 pm (UTC)I love that you really made her Native American -- it's the interpretation I personally prefer as well -- but even more, I love how you depicted her transformation, her fall in terms of a move from mother tongue to foreign tongue to silence. The language you used to do this was as dreamy as the dreams it depicted, dreamy yet incredibly precise, like Percy's ideal; it was full of absence, and an astonishing number of individual passages were representative of the whole, such as:
She was sixteen years old when they ran away together, and as she agonised over the letter she would leave on the mantel, all she could write with the strength of two languages and ten years of schooling behind her, was: "Forgive me."
or the passage where Kendra leaves the naming of their eldest son to Percy.
I loved more than the structure, of course -- Kendra's descriptions of nature were incredibly beautiful, for example, even as they gave insight into her mental state. In short, this is absolutely wonderful, and I will be coming back often to re-read.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-06-16 05:52 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for your recent feedback. I can't tell you how much reading your comments has brightened my day.
(no subject)
Date: 2012-01-27 06:39 am (UTC)But your story is very beautiful and sad...
(no subject)
Date: 2012-01-27 08:24 pm (UTC)