Life Has a Way of Making Change

-like the seasons-

Summer means sweet smells, flowers releasing their essence, before wilting, falling to the ground in a series of brown petals.

Dead.

Sweet smells, like her mother's perfume, imported straight from France, encased in only the finest glass, topped off with a solid gold cap. The last bottle is almost empty now, but a few drops still linger around the bottom, desperately trying to fill the dozens of empty spaces in the bottle.

Her mother does not wear that perfume anymore. It sits on her shelf, accompanied by a pair of dusty bronze picture frames, and isn't touched, just left alone, for the dust and wind to destroy gradually, over the course of time.

Still, Ariana swears, and Al looks at her likes she's crazy, when she lies in her brother's strong embrace, tears flowing down her face, somehow, someway, she can still smell a wisp of the perfume.

It blows around her when her mother collapses.

And she cries, horrible sobs escaping her throat as she crawls over to her mother's body, and buries her nose into her neck, hiccupping loudly.

Her fault.

And the flowers die.

Summer means holidays.

Like the end of term, when Al and Abe are home again, free to do whatever they want, whenever they want. Free to sit with her, and stroke her hair only the way the two best bigger brothers in the world can. She loves those days, when they sit, all three outside together, her with her sketch-pad, little teeth gnawing down on the stump of charcoal, Al with his open book, eyes intensely scanning the pages, and Abe folding paper airplanes out of scraps of paper.

On a day, like those, the sun beating down on them, Ariana giggles with glee as she watches a paper airplane soar, softly, oh so softly, and land with a soft crash, in Al's long, straight mass of auburn hair; that flops over his face whenever he reads and covers his eyes from view.

He looks up from his book, grinning at Abe. Slowly, so very slowly, her brothers creep forward, identical blue eyes gleaming and twinkling at her, until Abe's strong arms land around her and lift her into the air.

And she is soaring, the way only birds can.

She screams happily, pumping her legs in the air, squealing as Al's long fingers tickle her stomach, her mouth flapping open and shut, nothing of understanding escaping the confines.

Ariana loves holidays.

Summer means guests.

One night, when she is already dressed in her blue nightgown, hair already brushed and cloaking her face, the doorbell rings. Al jumps up from his spot on the couch, wand poised in hand, although it shakes nervously. Abe jumps up as well, hand resting over his pocket, where she knows his wand lays.

Al gestures him back, and he comes to stand behind her, hands on her shoulders, kneading the flesh delicately. Bit by bit, Al pulls the door open. Silence. Her breathing is loud in the hushed room, and she tries to jerk her head around Abe's grasp to try and capture a glimpse of what is going on. He pulls her back, but lets his hands rest by his side, instead of on her, cracking his knuckles in the silent room.

Al laughs with gladness, and the door bangs shut, the wind howling through the thin cracks. She squeezes her blue eyes shut, before Abe chuckles, and pries them open, forcing her to see the world.

There is a man, taller than Al, with blond hair to his ears, the hair shaped in small tuffs around them, and sparkling brown eyes which look straight into her soul. He beams down at her, and crouches to her level.

"Hello," he begins, taking one of her hands within his.

"Hello," she repeats back, smiling softly down at him, retracting her hand, fumbling with it in her lap.

"You are Ariana, are you not?" he asks, still looking curiously up at her. She nods, too quickly, blushing softly; a red flush appears across her cheeks. "I have heard of you," he murmurs, lowering his heated gaze to stare at the floor, tuffs of red carpet falling out, plucked by his steady hand.

"Ri, this is Gellert Grindelwald. He lives down the road, with Bathilda. You know, the one who smiles whenever she sees you?" Al looks down at her behind wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes looking concernedly into hers, unblinking, a constant smile on her face. "You know?" he asked, softly, his voice almost a whisper.

Abe scoffs. "Don't talk to her like she's retarded, Albus!" he snaps, placing his protective hands on her shoulders again, twirling blonde locks around his fingers. "Just because you're the oldest, it doesn't meant you know what's best for her."

Ariana turns to face her brother, pulling his hands away. "What's best for me?" she questions softly, a stump of charcoal rolling around in her fingers, turning the pale skin black.

"Nothing." Her attention is switched back to Al when he murmurs this, lowering his gaze to the floor. Gellert, beside him, straightens up, smoothing down his robes as he clears his throat loudly in the silent room.

"Shall we go into the kitchen?" Al asks, gesturing his hands towards Abe. He shakes his head disapprovingly, but Al doesn't acknowledge it, and walks towards the brightly-lit kitchen, Gellert behind him, long black cloak trailing on the floor.

She stares up at Abe curiously, eyes blinking slowly.

"Time for bed, I think," he tells her, and lifts her up into his arms, her long golden hair falling over his face. She squeals with delight, dropping the stump of charcoal from her tight grasp.

It lands, with a soft thump, on the floor. It is never used again.

Summer means guests.

But none have been quite as havoc-wreaking as Gellert Grindelwald was.

Summer means hot days, spent under the shade of the one, large oak tree that casts a black shadow over the yard. Gellert visits them almost every day, and becomes almost like a brother to her, giving her piggy-backs around the yard, tickling her nose with the end of pink feather, "plucked from the back of his owl," he says, and is always a willing participant in her games, when Al and Abe refuse to join in, pleading exhaustion.

She hums softly, a stump of charcoal grasped inside her hand. Giggling softly as Gellert lifts her into the air, she captures Al's eyes, her brother's nose safely inside a book, where no harm can come to him. She doesn't want him to leave, no, never.

He smiles back at her, glasses perched on his nose. Abe scowls by his side, quill scurrying furiously over his parchment, biting his lower lip softly, his mind trapped in thought.

Gellert starts to sing softly, his voice filling the silence. "Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, and I say it's all right. Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter," he murmurs, his voice rising as he twirls her around in his strong arms, loosening her hair from its clip. Abe snorts at the irony of it, shaking his head humourlessly. Gellert smiles up at her, and she beams back. Al grins in the distance, and even Abe seems to force a tight-lipped smile at her as Gellert twirls her around the garden, singing nonsense to her softly all the while.

Summer means happiness. And she will never ever, for the life of her, give the happiness up. Her whole life is an endless cycle of summertime. Ariana Dumbledore will live forever in the sun.

Long fingers start to tickle her stomach and she twists and turns on the green grass in a state of bliss, bubbles of laughter erupting from her throat.

Beatle lyrics are so not mine. As always, reviews are love!