The Beguiling

Headmaster Dumbledore had been standing in the Potions classroom fver ver twenty minutes. Snape had gone about his occupation, mixing a trial preparation brew for the following day’s Newt level Potions class. He could feel something radiating from the other man, an energy he could not quite classify, so he stopped attempting to and maintained his steady movements. He glanced at the hourglass in the corner and raised one eyebrow as it dropped another minute’s worth of sand.

Then the gravelly voice broke ragged around the edges and Snape closed his eyes from a momentary stab of sympathy. He stilled his hands, wiped them absentmindedly on the front of his robes and turned to look at Albus.

He was standing quietly beside a student table, but his hands pressed flat against its surface spoke of tension. “Is it,” for a long moment he looked down at his hands, spreading his fingers wide across the marble topped lab table, “ridiculous? I mean, is it…”

Snape moved quickly, beside the older wizard in two strides. He cut him off with an unexpected hand on his forearm. “Albus, it is the furthest thing from ridiculous. I think, and I have spent hours now contemplating it, I think that this is what is referenced when Destiny is discussed.” The most powerful wizard in the world peered at him, his blue eyes wary, his upper lip twitched once. “Do not twist this around in such a way that you feel shame or guilt or a need for denial. You have been denied for,” the Potions Master turned away, crossing his arms, sliding his hands down into the sleeves of his robe, “you have been denied for a lifetime. This is yours. It belongs to you and to her. You have more than you can imagine. Yes, less than some, but more than most. These questions are maneuverings in a mental labyrinth that I feel I can wander through, but not you. These questions represent the maze itself and to question that, to question that part of the conundrum is to negate. And we are not going to say no. Not to you, not to the Fates, not to this Destiny that is part of what you are. Some questions need to be answered with a simple, it just is. I think,” he paused and tripped over a desire to bestow an endearment upon the Headmaster, “this is one of those questions.”

~***~

Sunday morning breakfast. The house tables empty. Staff wandering into the Great Hall slowly, relaxed, but not yet acclimated to their free time. The Headmaster sat in his usual spot, eating slowly, his ears ringing with the phantom melee of students now departed for the summer holiday, he missed, suddenly the comforting sound of the morning owls. The casement windows were flung open, the smell of the green perfuming the room and a lone bird flew in on the breeze. The bird swooped gracefully down towards him.

It was a capercaillie. And draped around its neck was a crown of flowers. He reached out and lifted the crown from over the bird’s head and with a flick of his wrist held out a small tidbit. The bird took it from between his fingers before hopping to the edge of the table and taking flight, fading against the blue sky outside the windows.

Albus looked down at the woven flowers in his hand. And closed his eyes.

A voice beside his shoulder shook him gently. “It looks like a perfect day for a dip in that small pond just inside the forest, Albus.”

The celestially-robed wizard looked up slowly into the eyes of the black-robed wizard standing just behind his chair. The other lazily cocked one eyebrow at him.

With a deep-throated laugh, he rose from the chair, nodding, “I believe you’re right, Severus.” He clasped the younger man’s hand, “And, Severus? Don’t expect me for lunch or dinner.”

Snape smirked, “Or breakfast tomorrow?”

Albus strode out of the Great Hall. The crown of flowers in his hand.

~***~

Slowly she walked toward him, both her hands out, palms down, fingers beckoning. Instinctively he reached out, reached back, towards the woman, towards the past and as she took both his hands in hers and turned them over, bringing them to her face, he let her pull him into the present towards the future. She pushed one of his hands up against her cheek and he responded by holding it there, caressing her with his thumb. His other hand she bent her head over and kissed. Slowly she ran her tongue down the length of his index finger to the squared tip and with a slight pursing of her lips sucked his finger deeply into her mouth. He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. She smiled around his finger and brought his middle finger up and between her lips. He moaned softly and Vivian let her own eyes flutter shut, her awareness completely centering on his fingers. She took the last two into her mouth, swirling her tongue around each, licking between them and then kissing his palm. She held his hand splayed before her and he opened his eyes and looked down at her. Very slowly she pulled his hand to her breast and cupped it there. He responded instantly by pulling her into his arms and kissing her wildly. She moaned his name. He held her tightly by the shoulders and gently pushed her away from him. He looked down into her face.

“Vivian,” he whispered and her heart leapt into her throat. She remembered this, she remembered. But in the memory his voice held no such pain and she ached and surprised herself as a tear broke from one eye and skirted down across her cheek. He caught it with the ball of his thumb and rubbed it dry against her skin.

She nodde at at him, “Yes, Albus, yes.”

His eyes questioned her and she brought a finger up to his lips, quieting him, nodding still. She whispered, “I want you. You.” She traced his upper lip, curled her finger under his flowing moustache and smoothed back the long, white hair. She combed up through his beard, both hands now on his jaw line, cupping his face, tracing the strong bones.

And he closed his eyes and brought his mouth down to hers and gave himself over completely. This moment defined by decades of searching and decades of waiting and nights of remembering and nights filled with dreaming. She was here, in his arms, and he pulled her closer to him. His body was on fire and he wanted nothing more than to pull her into his conflagration and have them both consumed, devoured by flame, turn to ash and fall upon the earth, commingled together for all eternity, fearing nothing but the wind. He would not let go of her again. Ever again.

~***~

“If I come not,
The lady Vivian will remember me,
And say: \'I knew him when his heart was young,
Though I have lost him now.
Time called him home,
And that was as it was; for much is lost
Between Broceliande and Camelot.’” ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson’s “Merlin”

~Author’s Notes~

This piece is dedicated to LeoGryffin. She has created one of the most inspiring writing communities at www.livejournal.com called 30minutefics. This fic was birthed there.

Find and read Robinson’s lovely epic poem “Merlin” - a rare interpretation of the wizard’s famous female apprentice as a positive love interest. Yay, Edwin!