FIC: A Slice of Lemon
Title: A Slice of Lemon
Author: cabepfir
Pairing: Minerva/Albus
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: #79. Minerva/Dumbledore. Unrequited love. Minerva is broken when she discovers that Dumbledore is gay.
Content Information/Warnings: Violent imagery.
Summary: One love I had in my life, and it was denied me.
Author's Notes: Whopping thanks to my beta for her enthusiasm and support, and to featherxquill for organising this wonderful fest.
It happens like this: for weeks, months, you don’t think about it. You meet along the corridors, you greet one another politely, warmly, even, and you don’t think about it at all. As if nothing had ever happened. You sit next to him at the High Table and you don’t pay attention to the slenderness of his fingers, or to his tongue as he licks the soup from his spoon. All you think about are your own food and your lessons and the callus troubling your right toe.
For years, even, the feeling is quiescent, sleeping, silent. It slips out of you, as if it never had been. And those are the best years, the best months, when you are made to believe that forgetfulness is possible indeed, and you experience: calm. Quiet. Peace of mind. All that you ask for.
Then, the smallest of gestures, and everything comes back. You pass him by, and his breath catches the back of your neck, smelling of lemon and of his own smell, and your nostrils remember that you once felt that same breath during that summer sunset, on the seashore, oh so many years ago. Or he taps your arm to point out that the stairs have moved, and that simple touch sends goosebumps to your skin, and your senses are inflamed for the remainder of the afternoon.
Then you find yourself in your bed, your toes relieved by an ointment for calluses, and a hand travels up to your breast while the other slides down your hip. And when, once more, you stop before you can reach any satisfaction, you wonder once more: why? There you are, a middle-aged woman, with an unassuaged call for companionship still screaming in you, losing your better years for a man who has never loved you like that, who could never love you like that.
And the next morning, business as usual.
***
I remember that the first time they told me, people less blind than me, I didn’t believe it. Mary Hillocks in the common room kept repeating that Professor Dumbledore was ‘on the other bank of the river’. I told her to shut up and stop spreading nonsensical gossip. And I didn’t believe it for many years to come. Carmen McNamara would say that Dumbledore preferred ‘to dine with men’, and when I blushed, Pamela Babcock would squeak in a mocking tone, “Minnie is in love with Professor Dumbledore! Minnie is in love with Professor Dumbledore!” I would tell them they were disturbing me while I was trying to study, and they would flounce back to their sofa, wrinkling their noses. And I would forget what they had said, at least until the next time.
But then, during my years at Hogwarts, many others would repeat that gossip, in the Gryffindor common room and elsewhere. Every time it was brought up to me, I denied it. It was impossible, I would say. Professor Dumbledore is such a respectable man. He is a great wizard, one of the greatest of our century. Stop spreading slanders.
I refused to see the evidence for years.
When somebody asked me, I said, in an attempted frilly tone, “If only he was twenty years younger, I’d try to seduce him!”
And when he called me into his office to propose that I continue studying Transfiguration, I felt elated. He offered me a slice of lemon cake and I took it to be as an intimate gesture. It was, the lemon cake, like a piece of himself, sweet and stimulating at the same time. I went back to my dormitory as though I were walking on a cloud.
I could silence the gossip of my mates, but I couldn’t dismiss Professor Merryweather.
When I entered the staff room, a tall, bony girl shrouding her emotions in a dour attitude, Professor Merryweather took me under her wings. She lent me books, gave me suggestions on how to behave towards the students, and above all tried to enlighten me about what happened in the great wide world.
“My dear, you shall find another object for your affections,” she told me once at tea. “Someone who can reciprocate your feelings and give you support, and comprehension, and keep you warm at night, which is just as good of a bargain. Professor Dumbledore is a great wizard, and a wise man, but he can offer you none of those things, no matter how much he respects you as a scholar and a colleague. He is… differently inclined, you see? He cannot change that part of his nature, even if I’m sure that he holds you most dear.”
I managed not to cry.
I swallowed, clenched my jaw, and almost tore my robe under my fists, but I did not cry. Not even at night. A woman must not cry over men, I told myself. There are so many things more important than love. There will be more reasons to cry in the future. This is just not the day. I have lessons tomorrow.
I did not cry. Neither did I surrender. I simply allowed myself to forget, at least until the next time.
***
And now your murderer is about to walk back into Hogwarts unimpeded, Albus. I can hear the rustle of his black, dirty robes from the courtyard. I can just see him climbing the steps up to the front door, with his crooked teeth and awful proboscis, and I pray that Hogwarts’ stairs will sway beneath his every step and make him fall. I pray that the Slytherin dungeons will open and swallow him alive, horns and tail, and that the Giant Squid will crush each of his bones until they’re reduced to dust. This I pray and this I ask of Hogwarts.
Your master has been slain, I tell the stones. You can’t allow his killer to rule here. You can’t. He can’t enter the Headmaster’s office and sit at that desk. The sword of Gryffindor will unsheathe itself from its scabbard and chop his head from his neck.
I had thought it inconceivable that I could hate someone more than Voldemort. Now I know that I can. There’s nothing I won’t do to you if you ever fall under my hands, Snape. I will twist your elbows until they crack. I will slash your ribs with that disgusting spell of yours. I will rip your throat open and delight in the sight of your blood.
One love I had in my life, and it was denied me. Vengeance won’t escape me now. You will pay for his murder and for the things I never had, Snape. You are guilty of everything you took from me, of all the time you stood with him when I didn’t, of all the secrets you shared, and of all the trust you didn’t earn. You shall repay me, and dearly. Every night you spent with Albus, every time you touched his body, every time he smiled at you, shall be returned in pain.
Albus was mine to punish, had I wished to. You had no right. You had nothing to do with all of this, Snape. Curse you.
Hogwarts allows this scum to pass, to intrude once again where he doesn’t belong. The stairs stand steady under his feet. If Hogwarts does not act on its own, I will.
For great honour is acquired by revenge.
Author: cabepfir
Pairing: Minerva/Albus
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: #79. Minerva/Dumbledore. Unrequited love. Minerva is broken when she discovers that Dumbledore is gay.
Content Information/Warnings: Violent imagery.
Summary: One love I had in my life, and it was denied me.
Author's Notes: Whopping thanks to my beta for her enthusiasm and support, and to featherxquill for organising this wonderful fest.
It happens like this: for weeks, months, you don’t think about it. You meet along the corridors, you greet one another politely, warmly, even, and you don’t think about it at all. As if nothing had ever happened. You sit next to him at the High Table and you don’t pay attention to the slenderness of his fingers, or to his tongue as he licks the soup from his spoon. All you think about are your own food and your lessons and the callus troubling your right toe.
For years, even, the feeling is quiescent, sleeping, silent. It slips out of you, as if it never had been. And those are the best years, the best months, when you are made to believe that forgetfulness is possible indeed, and you experience: calm. Quiet. Peace of mind. All that you ask for.
Then, the smallest of gestures, and everything comes back. You pass him by, and his breath catches the back of your neck, smelling of lemon and of his own smell, and your nostrils remember that you once felt that same breath during that summer sunset, on the seashore, oh so many years ago. Or he taps your arm to point out that the stairs have moved, and that simple touch sends goosebumps to your skin, and your senses are inflamed for the remainder of the afternoon.
Then you find yourself in your bed, your toes relieved by an ointment for calluses, and a hand travels up to your breast while the other slides down your hip. And when, once more, you stop before you can reach any satisfaction, you wonder once more: why? There you are, a middle-aged woman, with an unassuaged call for companionship still screaming in you, losing your better years for a man who has never loved you like that, who could never love you like that.
And the next morning, business as usual.
***
I remember that the first time they told me, people less blind than me, I didn’t believe it. Mary Hillocks in the common room kept repeating that Professor Dumbledore was ‘on the other bank of the river’. I told her to shut up and stop spreading nonsensical gossip. And I didn’t believe it for many years to come. Carmen McNamara would say that Dumbledore preferred ‘to dine with men’, and when I blushed, Pamela Babcock would squeak in a mocking tone, “Minnie is in love with Professor Dumbledore! Minnie is in love with Professor Dumbledore!” I would tell them they were disturbing me while I was trying to study, and they would flounce back to their sofa, wrinkling their noses. And I would forget what they had said, at least until the next time.
But then, during my years at Hogwarts, many others would repeat that gossip, in the Gryffindor common room and elsewhere. Every time it was brought up to me, I denied it. It was impossible, I would say. Professor Dumbledore is such a respectable man. He is a great wizard, one of the greatest of our century. Stop spreading slanders.
I refused to see the evidence for years.
When somebody asked me, I said, in an attempted frilly tone, “If only he was twenty years younger, I’d try to seduce him!”
And when he called me into his office to propose that I continue studying Transfiguration, I felt elated. He offered me a slice of lemon cake and I took it to be as an intimate gesture. It was, the lemon cake, like a piece of himself, sweet and stimulating at the same time. I went back to my dormitory as though I were walking on a cloud.
I could silence the gossip of my mates, but I couldn’t dismiss Professor Merryweather.
When I entered the staff room, a tall, bony girl shrouding her emotions in a dour attitude, Professor Merryweather took me under her wings. She lent me books, gave me suggestions on how to behave towards the students, and above all tried to enlighten me about what happened in the great wide world.
“My dear, you shall find another object for your affections,” she told me once at tea. “Someone who can reciprocate your feelings and give you support, and comprehension, and keep you warm at night, which is just as good of a bargain. Professor Dumbledore is a great wizard, and a wise man, but he can offer you none of those things, no matter how much he respects you as a scholar and a colleague. He is… differently inclined, you see? He cannot change that part of his nature, even if I’m sure that he holds you most dear.”
I managed not to cry.
I swallowed, clenched my jaw, and almost tore my robe under my fists, but I did not cry. Not even at night. A woman must not cry over men, I told myself. There are so many things more important than love. There will be more reasons to cry in the future. This is just not the day. I have lessons tomorrow.
I did not cry. Neither did I surrender. I simply allowed myself to forget, at least until the next time.
***
And now your murderer is about to walk back into Hogwarts unimpeded, Albus. I can hear the rustle of his black, dirty robes from the courtyard. I can just see him climbing the steps up to the front door, with his crooked teeth and awful proboscis, and I pray that Hogwarts’ stairs will sway beneath his every step and make him fall. I pray that the Slytherin dungeons will open and swallow him alive, horns and tail, and that the Giant Squid will crush each of his bones until they’re reduced to dust. This I pray and this I ask of Hogwarts.
Your master has been slain, I tell the stones. You can’t allow his killer to rule here. You can’t. He can’t enter the Headmaster’s office and sit at that desk. The sword of Gryffindor will unsheathe itself from its scabbard and chop his head from his neck.
I had thought it inconceivable that I could hate someone more than Voldemort. Now I know that I can. There’s nothing I won’t do to you if you ever fall under my hands, Snape. I will twist your elbows until they crack. I will slash your ribs with that disgusting spell of yours. I will rip your throat open and delight in the sight of your blood.
One love I had in my life, and it was denied me. Vengeance won’t escape me now. You will pay for his murder and for the things I never had, Snape. You are guilty of everything you took from me, of all the time you stood with him when I didn’t, of all the secrets you shared, and of all the trust you didn’t earn. You shall repay me, and dearly. Every night you spent with Albus, every time you touched his body, every time he smiled at you, shall be returned in pain.
Albus was mine to punish, had I wished to. You had no right. You had nothing to do with all of this, Snape. Curse you.
Hogwarts allows this scum to pass, to intrude once again where he doesn’t belong. The stairs stand steady under his feet. If Hogwarts does not act on its own, I will.
For great honour is acquired by revenge.