Post by Drake on Aug 8, 2007 21:28:53 GMT -5
Title: Mutually Exclusive
Summary: Gellert and Minerva are fire and water. And he is air, flowing freely between them, but he cannot reconcile them.
Rating: PG-13. for slash and implications of sex.
Author's Notes: Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, shippers all, I present to you now the first Grindledore/Dumblewald fic that includes also the MMADness in equal proportions! Which is great, except that is sucks, as I have no beta. It's almost like creative vomit. But if anyone wants to snark at me and bash me on the head with canon and pick me apart molecule by molecule, the position is open! Now, the story.
How can he speak of her?
When he is with Gellert, peering into the dark depths of his lonely prison cell, where is Minerva McGonagall? Minervae McGonagall, who looked lovely today with a strand of hair falling on her bright white face? How can talk about her, how she touched his hand at breakfast with mourning eyes and pulled him into a corner and kissed him like they were seventeen? How can he speak of her beautiful slender hands, and how they looked, circled around a jolly, round, fat mug of chocolate? And how she sipped it, her great green eyes on him, and how she touched his sleeve? And how the mist from the chocolate haloed her face until it concealed it?
She seems an illusion here, in this place, a fleeting fancy, a spirit as ethereal and intangible as Ariana in a feverish dream.
How could there ever have been anything as pure and beautiful as she was today, her arms around him, and her face buried in his chest? How could he have been so very, very happy with her, then, when Gellert is here, and Gellert is dying and Gellert coughs and shudders, and he, the lonely, omnipotent Head, can do nothing? Nothing, nothing at all, to stop Death from claiming it’s birthright?
What else could he have done, what else, but turn his face away form that dark hole to nowhere? What could he have done but not speak of her black, black hair and her green, green eyes and her bright, bright smile and her light, soft fingertips upon his face?
And later, back home, and always, how can he speak of him?
When she asks about him? When her face hovers above him, her arms propping her up, a smile or a look of morbid childish curiosity upon her face, how can he tell her of that summer? That summer, colored in gold and heat and death and folly? How can he speak of the excitement in Gellert’s violet eyes as he burst forth with brilliant ideas and ingenious schemes, more and more and more of them? And how he scribbled almost violently on the parchment always piled around him, and the sly curve of Gellert's pale pink lips right before he kissed him for the first time?
Could she understand the way his deep red vest wrinkled and pooled on the floor, and the way it wrinkled and bunched on him, later, after it had been thrown back on in haste and fear? Could know what it was to bury his head in Gellert’s endless curls? And, in those glorious, glorious curls, to feel for the first time in his life what it was to be home?
That summer seems no more than a fantasy a story for children, here in this castle. The brilliance and luminosity of those two beautiful, burning months seems too dazzling and too scorching, here. It was never real. It cannot have been real. Not when the world is all in pastels and soft green and a friendly, clean gray that last will forever and will not burn out.
But neither will it shine.
And that's a wrap! Probably, it's also crap. LOL rhyme.
So did you like? Love it? Hate it? And how does reading it affect your views of teh bootimous Grindledore/Dumblewald? If nothing else, tell me that, please!
Summary: Gellert and Minerva are fire and water. And he is air, flowing freely between them, but he cannot reconcile them.
Rating: PG-13. for slash and implications of sex.
Author's Notes: Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, shippers all, I present to you now the first Grindledore/Dumblewald fic that includes also the MMADness in equal proportions! Which is great, except that is sucks, as I have no beta. It's almost like creative vomit. But if anyone wants to snark at me and bash me on the head with canon and pick me apart molecule by molecule, the position is open! Now, the story.
oO0---X--x--X--0Oo
How can he speak of her?
When he is with Gellert, peering into the dark depths of his lonely prison cell, where is Minerva McGonagall? Minervae McGonagall, who looked lovely today with a strand of hair falling on her bright white face? How can talk about her, how she touched his hand at breakfast with mourning eyes and pulled him into a corner and kissed him like they were seventeen? How can he speak of her beautiful slender hands, and how they looked, circled around a jolly, round, fat mug of chocolate? And how she sipped it, her great green eyes on him, and how she touched his sleeve? And how the mist from the chocolate haloed her face until it concealed it?
She seems an illusion here, in this place, a fleeting fancy, a spirit as ethereal and intangible as Ariana in a feverish dream.
How could there ever have been anything as pure and beautiful as she was today, her arms around him, and her face buried in his chest? How could he have been so very, very happy with her, then, when Gellert is here, and Gellert is dying and Gellert coughs and shudders, and he, the lonely, omnipotent Head, can do nothing? Nothing, nothing at all, to stop Death from claiming it’s birthright?
What else could he have done, what else, but turn his face away form that dark hole to nowhere? What could he have done but not speak of her black, black hair and her green, green eyes and her bright, bright smile and her light, soft fingertips upon his face?
And later, back home, and always, how can he speak of him?
When she asks about him? When her face hovers above him, her arms propping her up, a smile or a look of morbid childish curiosity upon her face, how can he tell her of that summer? That summer, colored in gold and heat and death and folly? How can he speak of the excitement in Gellert’s violet eyes as he burst forth with brilliant ideas and ingenious schemes, more and more and more of them? And how he scribbled almost violently on the parchment always piled around him, and the sly curve of Gellert's pale pink lips right before he kissed him for the first time?
Could she understand the way his deep red vest wrinkled and pooled on the floor, and the way it wrinkled and bunched on him, later, after it had been thrown back on in haste and fear? Could know what it was to bury his head in Gellert’s endless curls? And, in those glorious, glorious curls, to feel for the first time in his life what it was to be home?
That summer seems no more than a fantasy a story for children, here in this castle. The brilliance and luminosity of those two beautiful, burning months seems too dazzling and too scorching, here. It was never real. It cannot have been real. Not when the world is all in pastels and soft green and a friendly, clean gray that last will forever and will not burn out.
But neither will it shine.
oO0---X--x--X--0Oo
And that's a wrap! Probably, it's also crap. LOL rhyme.
So did you like? Love it? Hate it? And how does reading it affect your views of teh bootimous Grindledore/Dumblewald? If nothing else, tell me that, please!
