A/N: Thanks for the reviews guys! As to the fate of Lottie, well, the final post comes after this so you'll just have to see :) And don't worry I will finish it this time, I swear it.

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I ache in the places where I used to play

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Behind Dumbledore's desk to the left of the office sits a cabinet. The frame is made from wood. A gold leaf pattern of the moon progressing through its stages dances up the claw footed limbs of the cabinet. The doors are plated with thick crystal that distorts the contents of the cabinet and tickles my curiosity. I find if I dangle out of my chair at a shaky angle, I can just make out the cabinet's obscured possessions.

There are many oddities carefully positioned on the cabinet's shelves. None of them seem to have a practical function; all of them appear to be souvenirs of sentiment. Between an unopened envelope and a broken cuckoo clock stands a crudely sewn likeness of Dumbledore. The soft figurine is a handmade tribute to the Headmaster. I can just imagine the cheery old witch who lovingly crafted it, sewing on the periwinkle blue button eyes as the finishing touch.

The sympathy I reserved for my childhood toys comes rushing back to me. A metal stand pulls the doll up into a rigid stance. He's propped there with pride, despite the fact that there are no other toys encased in the cabinet to keep him company. The doll's stitched mouth is tweaked upwards in mirth, despite the barrier of cool crystal that keeps him from being held with affection.

Suddenly I feel guilty for all the sympathy I bestowed on the doll on a music box. It's true that she was dealt a lonely lot, stuck in her velvet-lined prison. But there's no reason why she couldn't have learned to be more satisfied with her solitude. She spent all her time feeling sorry for herself because she couldn't be part of the world buried in her mirror. If she had looked a little closer into the reflective plate, she would have spied a kingdom of toys suffering problems much more dire than her own.

If she wasn't so concerned with her own reflection, she might have expended some thought for Rupert the bear, who'd misplaced his button eyes, or Millie the goat, who had all her legs ripped off by my dog's teething teeth. And there's the doll, fairly intact, pining over a fickle pirate. She wasn't even smart enough to set her sights on a prince charming.

She chose to dedicate herself to a figure riddled with flaws, someone who was destined to be unreliable. She brought it on herself, really. Her selfishness was the real culprit of her disgruntled loneliness. If she hadn't concentrated on her own problems so much, maybe she wouldn't have felt them so sharply.

With a stutter of my heart the office door opens and shuts. I quickly recoil from my snooping position as Dumbledore eases into his armchair, flattening his folds of robes around him. I stare with shy wonder at this wise old wizard who seems so sure of himself, a pillar of independence. I wonder if in his youth he ever let the beating of his heart drown out the reasoning of his mind.

was a time in my younger years when Dumbledore would pretend to be absent from his office whenever I happened to knock on his door. This might have been because of my then deeply set infatuation with him. Sure he's old but Merlin does that man know how to carry off ankle high boots. My crush on him evidently gave way to a harsher crush on Sirius, which developed into a treacherous kind of love. I've heard people say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Sirius' absence has made my heart ache with a cold pain.

Dumbledore lets me into his office now. It's usually in the lunching hour I request admittance. I don't know what it is but something about taking meals with the student body distresses me. There's nothing like being surrounded by hundreds of people to make you really feel alone. I even struggle in the company of my friends at times. I can handle Frank and Alice now. It's James and Lily I can't stand being around.

I feel like something's changed in me. I've stumbled across some invisible line of maturity that cuts me off from petty teenage trivialities. The expense for this new found wisdom was high and I don't believe it was at all worth it. When James and Lily go through their charade of squabbling I feel like tearing at them with frustration, just as Remus did when Sirius and I were the culprits of ingratitude all that time ago.

Dumbledore allows me to sit in silence across from him while he writes and receives urgent letters. I never ask him what the letters entail. I'm sure the words staining the parchment only reference the blood staining Voldemort's hands. Every now and then Dumbledore passes me words of comfort that makes me suspicious of just how much he knows about Sirius' movements.

The first time Dumbledore said, "Sirius is safe," I collapsed under the gratitude. It was so nice to have an adult step in and help me with my silent struggle. I thrive off those moments when Dumbledore can offer me the slightest morsel of reassurance. I think he knows that he's more informed about Sirius' whereabouts than I am. He pities me, I'm sure, and that's what makes him so lenient to my frequent visits.

Even though Sirius' departure from Hogwarts didn't have anything to do with me, I still feel abandoned. It's not because he's hardly communicated with me, it's because he's not ready to come back yet. It's because no matter how much I wish it, he'll never allow me to fully scale his wall of strength and allow me to take care for him. He'll always deal with his problems by hurling himself into a storm of solitude, and he'll always seek solace in independence.

This isn't a bad quality; it just leaves me out of the equation a lot of the time. It makes me feel less than whole, like there's something inadequate about me if I of all people can't comfort him. It makes this relationship feel even more incomplete. There's a part of him I'll never fully know. His strength will always render him a stranger to me.

This is something I've always known about him. From the very first instance I recognised that he was a creature of solitude. That he would always follow his own tune of independence, and there's was nothing I could do to change it. That the best I could be to him was an occasional companion. I've always known this about him.

But what I didn't know is whether I was willing to resign myself to the same fate and settle for him in such a disjointed state. I clutch my book bag to my chest, careful not to crinkle the rolls of parchment that are competing to fall from the strained bag. Dumbledore, noticing my new prop of a book bag, lifts his creased forehead in surprise.

"Do you have any homework to complete, Miss Cherrywood?"

"No, Sir." I deliver my negative answer a little too quickly. Dumbledore's expression coils into a suggestion of doubt. I can almost see the arc of a question mark forming in his wispy eyebrows.

"I mean, yes, I do have some outstanding homework that desires some attention," I say slowly, mending my hasty reply, "but I wouldn't like very much to complete it right now." The Headmaster releases the subtlest of sighs before reaching for his flamboyant quill.

"There is something I'd like to show you, though." My erratic nerves launch my heart into my throat as I tighten my hold on the bulging leather satchel. Dumbledore's quill hovers above a piece of blank parchment. A drop of black ink sags on the quill's nib, threatening to spill with each second of my hesitation.

"I don't want anyone to be sad anymore," I say meekly, my gaze wandering across the vaulted ceiling while I explore my inability to articulate my idea.

"Quite." Dumbledore is appreciative of my statement but he seems a little perplexed by the generalness of it.

"I want everyone to be happy," I state sincerely, dropping my gaze to his eternally patient expression.

"What do you suggest we do, Miss Cherrywood?" Dumbledore questions me kindly in an attempt to steer me away from the vague dwellings of my thought trail.

"Well, we're just kids, aren't we?"

Professor Dumbledore nods with understanding, as if I meant the whole of humanity, him included. I meant the students of Hogwarts, but you can't blame the man for being ever the philosopher. My confidence falters as I remember how small I felt when Sirius said we have to grow up on top of the Astronomy Tower. Not everyone's like Sirius. In fact, hardly anybody is.

I don't think I've ever met someone who can hurl himself with the fearless confidence of a pirate into the throws of an oncoming storm. He's incredibly reckless and ridiculously stupid. But he is brave. Not everyone is blessed with such courage. Sirius deals with adversity by punching it in the face. But most of the terrified students can't deal with the current political climate like that. We are mostly kids, after all.

"I think we should play."

I spread out my rolls of parchment a little obtrusively over across his desk. Dumbledore's gaze roams the diagrams that convey my idea much more clearly than my clumsy words ever could. I've invested a lot more time and sweat on these drawings than my previous stick figure portraits.

Like the crudely sewn figure of Dumbledore my drawings aren't an example of fine art, but I think it's the thought that counts. Gently, he lifts his head. His approving smile floods my cheeks with warmth. After my successful meeting with Dumbledore I retreat to the girls Dormitory. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I take the music box and the pirate and place them in front of me.

I notice after Sirius' reconstruction of the box that it's expanded slightly in size. With a severe pang I notice that the pirate's disjointed limb makes it possible for it to fit in the box now, comfortably enough for an intimate visit at least. I close the lid on the both of them, and send them back to whence they came, by courtesy of a strong-footed owl.

I add a note to my father requesting they be placed in the attic. I think it's fitting that their dysfunctional relationship be left in the dark for now. I don't need them at my bedside repeating the ritual every night of dredging up a very private pain. Maybe one day I'll be able to display them in a glass cabinet with a detached affection, as souvenirs of my youth. But not right now. There are more important things at hand.

Sirius was right when he said we had to grow up sometime. But there are kids at this school who are having their childhoods ripped from them. I want to do something to give a little nonsensical whimsy back to them, even if it's just for one day. I'm guilty of burying myself in fantasies to escape my problems. I want to spread my talent of escapism to kids whose imaginations are having trouble stretching to a world that can be fun.

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A/N: Where is that bloody lopsided pirate huh?