Pensieve (UPDATE: 013: Yellow)

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks, OSUSprinks! Here's another, after weeks of block.

008: Weeks

“Minerva, I would like you to accompany me.”

The preposition had been so unexpected - so inappropriate, her colleagues whispered. Only ten years of teaching, and selected to accompany the Headmaster to an international teaching conference! Surely a slight to those who were more senior, and more qualified. Yet the true level of meaning only struck her afterwards, out of the sight of the hypnotic blue eyes…

“There is no reason why not,” he had said, anticipating her objection before her mouth had opened, and leaning back in his seat. Fawkes, perched on the desk, gave a trill of apparent agreement. “I believe you will find it particularly beneficial. And a young mind at the Mentis conference is always welcome.”

“But Headmaster, surely someone more experienced-”

His expression had been strangely solemn. “Please come.”

The argument died on her lips. Please. She shifted in her seat and looked awkwardly at her hands. Embarrassment resulted in a simple nod of submission; he had humbled himself, and she did not know why…

So it was that she would attend the prestigious Mentis conference, usually the territory of head teachers and their senior management. The shock and impropriety of it had forced the blood to her cheeks, as though it was a personal irregularity rather than a professional one. In the following days, the self-conscious warmth remained with her, heightening at every glance of a faculty member. The possible meaning of the invitation did not escape the others; the elderly Professor Greer nodded frostily at her at the High Table, and an overheard conversation drew her nerves taut:

“… Deputy? Her? My good woman, her years-”

“-Are few. Horace, he is taking her to Mentis. Everyone knows what that means.”

That alone had been enough to make her avoid Albus for at least three days. A preposterous idea, but an impression that would only ensure hostility. Worse inevitably followed, as those who felt themselves cheated grew more venomous-

“-Very young. But perhaps a pretty face is a sore sight to old eyes-”

“-Well, have you noticed that she’s always been a favourite? In the staff meetings. Always ‘what does Minerva think?’ Or ‘perhaps our Transfiguration professor would like to add a word?’”

“-Well, he’s getting on. Who can blame him if he needs some extra warmth at night?”

Her temper, ever waiting below the surface, exploded. She could still remember the circle of stunned faces as her voice rose uncontrollably. In some ways she was not sorry; Albus was no doddery old pervert! Yet they had left for Mentis under a pall - her outburst had merely cemented the perceptions-

Deputy! Who on earth would want a Deputy without any sense of diplomacy?

“The first lecture is beginning in ten minutes, Minerva. I believe we should make our way down into the hall.”

She jumped, forced back to the present. Albus had returned from his trip to the toilet and was standing by the breakfast table, lips curved in a patient smile. Flushing, she stood up. They made their way to the Mentis lecture hall, passing down extravagant corridors, past pompous oil-painting and smug sculptures, treading over embroidered carpets. The vaunting ceiling rose above them, oppressing them with grandeur. Albus hummed, at ease, and she hid herself in the sound.

The hall was dominated by a large round table, fringed by head teachers and their deputies. A quick look at the nametags revealed to Minerva that she was the only non-senior teacher present, and another, more gradual observation made her spot the raised silver eyebrows and suspicious glares. The assumptions behind them seemed to creep over her skin; she dropped her eyes and simply listened as the first speech and round of discussions began. Only the half-moon spectacles next to her made her sit up, and express an opinion.

He will not be ashamed-

Lecture passed into lecture, and the days passed surprisingly quickly. She remembered little of the long-winded speeches, only the sensation of Albus’s closeness, and the focus of his attention. One week flashed by, and then another. They lunched at various local restaurants, discussing Transfiguration and teaching by turns, telling anecdotes of misbehaving students. Did she value the comparative intimacy because he was the greatest wizard in the world? Yes, that was it. A companionable silence was occasionally experienced, and she would look up to see herself already being observed-

Please come.

Why her? Why not Greer or Slughorn..?

Those eyes.

The weeks were gone, and they returned to Hogwarts, irrevocably altered. The comments behind closed doors intensified, but something inside her had been so soothed as to make them irrelevant. More weeks would pass, and there would be other, more obvious additions, such as that of the silver seal around her neck. Greer grumbled, Forsyth whinged. Dumbledore’s ‘whore’ had become Dumbledore’s Deputy. Yet those weeks had made her something else, if only in terms of address-

My dear.

[childminerva]

"he had humbled himself, and she did not know why…"

ooh, good line.
This was wonderful--very realistic thoughts and behavior from the other staff members. Great work--thanks for the update!

[jayejaye]

How on earth have I missed this series???

My favourite has to be Ends....but they are all exceptionally written. Well done hon... Jaye :-)

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks Jaye!

009: Months

Winter came suddenly, a freezing hand that traced the window panes with rime. The unexpected earliness of it caught the students shivering in their autumn robes, and made necks ache for scarves that were not there. The temperature in the staff-room plummeted; the spasmodic talk was interrupted with multiple warming charms, the power of which was insufficient to prevent the chapped lips and running noses. The marking of the day abruptly became the marking of a premature night.

She was not alone in sitting in the darkness of a hoary chamber, dispensing grades for work that the weather had sapped all passion from. Slughorn was in the dungeons, wrapped in the warmth of his own corpulence, and the new Arithmancy professor was most probably shuddering over a desk in one of the towers. Yet she could feel no communion with them; the cold deepened the feeling of isolation. Where was Albus?

Not where physically, not where as in the Great Hall, or the office, or away on a business trip.

Where was he? Where was she?

Sitting next to each other at the High Table, talking about the curriculum, or at a conference about something meaningless - ‘international learning directives’ and ‘action plans’ and ‘convergent teaching’ – or perhaps in the his office, conversing about Transfiguration over tea…

Albus now. Not Headmaster, never Headmaster.

Albus, Albus, Albus.

She was professional. She spoke professionally, acted professionally, taught professionally. Never mind that her needs were entirely unprofessional, or that the golden friendship grated more with each clumsy expression or meaningful nod. Meaningful nod? She snorted at the essay in front of her. What man was ever attracted by a meaningful nod?

Were there times when the sapphire blazed more fervently? She could not be sure that it was not wishful thinking. Where was sometimes nowhere, and yet there were moments when she seemed to glimpse him from a distance, inhabiting the same reality, traversing a river of the same emotion, as if the chasm between fantasy and life was one that could be bridged. She crossed a student’s answer with unnecessary savagery. The frost thickened. The corridors whistled with wind, and the darkness grew heavier, more absolute. Then he came.

“Minerva, forgive me for bothering you, but there is something depressing about drinking cocoa on one’s own.”

His presence in the doorway was blinding; the dressing-gown was bright purple, the beard mostly auburn, each grey hair a minor tragedy, the eyes the blue the sky had forsaken - he was vivid, warming, unreal… She belatedly noticed the steaming mugs in his hands.

“Oh - Albus - of course, I was finished marking anyway…”

“My dear, it is far too late and far too cold to be doing anything of the sort.” He sat down, comfortably out of place on her demure settee, and warmed it with a charm. “And chocolate is the only medicine for sick souls.”

He said it almost shyly, eyes wide, as though confiding a secret. The heat enveloped her as she sat down; a shudder of pleasure went up her spine. She took a mug.

“Albus, am I a sick soul?”

He smiled strangely. “We all have our sicknesses, Minerva.”

“Not you.”

“Yes, even me - particularly during these dreary winter months, I must say. There is nothing like a dark sky to dampen a spirit.”

The cocoa flooded her mouth, rich and sweet. Did his mouth taste like that? She shoved the thought away and nodded, looking into the swirling brown.

“You are still shivering, my dear.” He seized her hand, and frowned, oblivious to her blush. “You are frozen! Lie back.”

Obediently she lay back, deeper into the heated cocoon he had woven. To her surprise, he lay back with her, suddenly shockingly close, tired smile filling the world. A dazed passivity entered his expression. A pleasant silence stretched; the agitation and misery of the previous hours was entirely gone, lost in warmth and companionship. Weariness which before had made her haggard returned, in the form of comfortable repletion, an unsung lullaby. Her eyelids drooped, and when he moved slightly closer to her, she lay back against him, exhaustion a willing surrender. Albus. There was no better bed designed for dreams. The winter was swept away. His heart beat through the dressing-gown, and a beard tickled her cheek. Nowhere but here…

She woke up still against him. Had some knowledge been communicated in the night? There was no way of discovering, as he apologised for falling asleep in her rooms and left immediately afterwards, and she allowed herself a smirk, whilst lying on the heated settee, imagining certain faces, certain reactions as the Headmaster dashed from her rooms, dressing-gown flying…

The winter months continued. So did the cocoa, and the night visits.

…Sick souls…

They were sick together, mended together. Perhaps, Minerva thought, they even had the same disease.

[childminerva]

"Perhaps, Minerva thought, they even had the same disease."

wow...this was a beautiful update. Your writing is just amazing.

[osusprinks]

I missed one! I'm so sorry!

Weeks is my favorite I think. I love them all but it was wonderful. I felt so bad for her, but I loved that she no longer cared. Great job with that one!

Months was beautiful as well. Cocoa and night visits with Albus Dumbledore, there are much worse ways to spend the winter I'm sure!

I love your writing style. It's beautiful. Thank you for sharing!

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks OSUSprinks and Childminerva! Childminerva I didn't see your previous review, so don't think I just ignored you in my thanks!

010: Years

Those wild months would never be forgotten, those months of the initial courtship, the first conspiracy of glances. The tide burst forth; there was the time they had lost to compensate, as well as the words they had thought but not voiced. Small heavens came in snapshots. That first Christmas, walking with him in the snow, and laughing as he made an angel. That meal down in Hogsmeade, entwining hands under the table, and saying nothing as nothing was needed. The dances, the dinners, the operas and the concerts, and the quiet moments curled together in front of a fire – and most of all, the sacred and the profane-

“Minerva, Minerva…”

His voice in the dark, whispering, endearing – and the knowledge of what was to come-

Silence replaced the words. Instead there were movements, and the maturation of wine. The seasons cycled. They were suddenly at the Yule Ball, dancing the dance which had never ended, and the war, grief and the flux of that bloody century were nothing, for there was this one constant-

Anniversary grew upon anniversary. His hair whitened; she gained some grey. Ripeness came with time, the intensity not lost but enriched. They held hands, and loved more comfortably. Their dance continued, more elegantly, revolving in and out of work and their castle full of children. Their silence continued, as a new language made up of gestures and expressions and thoughts, and even their constant was changing, but changing benignly, and their love continued…

…Moving into the deepening of years.

[osusprinks]

Beautiful, my dear. Just beautiful. I love that they feel like one big story. Great job.

[Apocalypticat]

A/N: No, I've not died! My life went into melt-down a few months back! I'm back on my feet now, but hampered by exams! I'm short on time, especially for Him Again, but I promise that the summer will see an update-fest from me!

A little randomness for you!

011: Red

Minerva McGonagall!

In red robes, with red lips, half-floating down the stairs for the feast, rubies at her throat.

Minerva McGonagall, large devouring eyes set in skin so flawless it was like the surface of a pool. Minerva McGonagall, love spelt in her name, in the surprisingly sultry curve of her mouth, in the sable waterfall of her hair.

Minerva McGonagall, ‘moody Min’ on Rolanda’s tongue, untamed, uncompromised, never conforming, mind keened for the present, soul froma dream. Stern, upright—but indifferent, unique. An imagination that allowed conversation to go beyond the trivial, to stray beyond what was right in front of her; a swimmer in the same intense glass box he floated in… He was no longer alone.

He took her hand; they danced under the dim red glow of a thousand candles. His thoughts were red: red for Gryffindor, red for courage, red for the wine, red for the glow that suffused her cheeks when he kissed her hand… Red for the throbbing go of his passion.

“You look ravishing in that red, my dear!”

Red for his own blush, for stepping beyond the polite. He stopped speaking, caught the crimson flash of her tongue as she delicately licked her lips free of wine. The way she gestured as she talked… the most erotic thing he had ever seen. Those large eyes.

“Albus, I think you’ve had quite enough wine—”

“Not nearly enough, my darling!”

Enough to brush his mouth against hers, dissolve the world into red…

…

“Minerva?”

He poked his head round the doorway. Minerva gave a start and looked up.

“Sorry to bother you, but I was using your pensieve earlier as I could not find my own. I think I may have left a memory—”

“By any chance was it red?”

[Apocalypticat]

012: Orange

For a moment, response was impossible. She could only stare, stunned, blinded.

Orange!

Her temper roared; she felt her hair bristling like a cat’s fur on end. Merlin, what on earth…? The blood began to pulse in her temples. She found herself marching out of the classroom, almost knocking over a hovering student on her way out.

“Professor McGonagall—"

An irrelevance; she shoved it to one side. She was going straight to the Headmaster, she was going to complain. Who had dared…? An image arrived in her head, of Albus at a staff meeting, eyes twinkling benignly as he said something about House-elves and decorating—

“I believe the House-elves may have a few surprises for us over the next few days…”

He had said it with an amused smile, and the pompous phrase the documents to the school board demanded, ‘decoration initiative,’ had been spoken with such a consciousness of irony…

Under the surface of her anger, something stalled. Of course she was going to the Headmaster’s office purely to voice a complaint; the pleasure of having yet another chance to see Albus had nothing to do with it… That his company was soothing even when she was angry was merely a side-product of the situation… If the fact that, in a few moments, she would be in his office, and those sapphire eyes would be fixed on her, had any meaning at all it was completely and utterly…

She rounded a corner, wildly.

Can I never express it to you?

No, the problem was orange!

The gargoyle was in front of her unexpectedly soon, before she has even formulated what she was going to say. Her temper carried her up the spiralling stairs on inexplicably weakening legs—inexplicable but obvious—and she was suddenly in front of his door, knocking, breathing herself into rage, clinging to the white-heat of her fury—

“Enter!”

He looked up as she swept in and smiled—a smile that froze when he saw her face. Was that a dash of apprehension in those blue orbs?

“My dear—"

“Albus, my room is orange!”

The half-moons glinted. “Orange?”

“The House-Elves have painted my classroom orange. I cannot work in such an environment!” She paced agitatedly across the floor in front of his desk, and then turned sharply to look at him. “Who authorised this?”

Was it her imagination, or did he sink backwards slightly? The twinkle remained his eyes.

“Ah, orange. Doubtless they thought to make the room livelier, my dear—"

“Who authorised this?”

His fingers fumbled with each other. “Well I allowed them to work under their own jurisdiction—I quite dislike their subservient mentality; I was hoping that a little independence—"

She felt her nostrils flare. “So you allowed them to paint my classroom orange? It is not lively, Albus, it is distracting and garish! I demand—"

“Well perhaps if the shade is a little exuberant—"

Her lips twitched unexpectedly; she had to suppress a smile.

“Exuberant? Hideous—"

He leaned forward seriously. “Do you dislike the colour orange, Minerva?”

“This is not about my preferences, it is about practical—"

“My dear, you preferences are all important to me.”

The wind went out of her, and suddenly the atmosphere was different; he was sat still in his chair, fingers interlocked, expression sincere, and she was frozen mid-pace, gaping, searching for another suitable expression of now non-existent anger—

He stood up, and walked around the desk. One gentle hand rested on her shoulder. The blue was startlingly close, drawing her in…

“If you dislike it, then of course it shall be removed.”

There was a secret in those eyes—something she glimpsed, a flash in the darkness, a disturbance in an ocean as an ancient mystery began to surface. The realisation brought the blood to her cheeks; she was glowing beyond the boundaries of her body, so strongly that she expected him to notice. The conversation had changed, moved onto some subtle dimension where any response she made was obsolete before she opened her mouth…

He seemed aware. “Minerva…”

…Closer to, closer to…

“I think…”

…His mouth, the prickle of the beard…

…The broken barrier—

He was drawing back, and her lips were burning, and the eyes were wide, opening the secret, disgorging the truth—

He cleared his throat and turned his back abruptly, spreading his hands on the desk, as if the air wasn’t ringing…

“My dear, about the orange…”

[mugglemin]

For some reason I couldn't access this one on ff.net. Of course, I knew it would be here too, so rushed straight over. Oranage is definitely not a colour I would associate with Minerva. You would think the house elves would know better...

[laundry basket]

Oh, wow, they came so darn close! But I enjoyed this. I can see Albus allowing the House-Elves to paint her classroom orange . . . LOL!

[Apocalypticat]

A/N: Thank you for the reviews, mugglemin and laundry basket! Here's another—and this one is rather strange!

013: Yellow

Yellow was a trumpet-blow, particularly on a Thursday.

Several years had passed between the time when he had first made the connection and when she had understood it. Understanding was usually a creeping thing, like the passing from animated discussion to the holding of hands. That Thursday—that first among Thursdays, crowned with yellow, which crept over them like the summer, and something else unspoken—had finally yielded an explanation, unexpectedly, like a sudden windfall of gold.

The vale below Hogsmeade was a sea of buttercups, an impressionist painting on a blue, sky wall, made lovelier by the fact that she was there at Albus’s invitation. Eyes as clear as the heavens rested on her as their owner spoke, nattering pleasantly about the location of the picnic. The summer holidays still stretched before them; the freedom was dramatic, like a bird spreading its wings. He had suggested the picnic the previous day—suggested it as if it was perfectly normal for a headmaster and his deputy to lunch together without interruption. In the vastness of the world, they were intimate and together, or at least in her own mind.

They were walking across the grass when it happened: the swelling cry of a trumpet, from the direction of the village. The auburn-haired man in front of her immediately stopped, suddenly rapt.

“Ah… yellow. And it’s a Thursday, too!”

She stopped, as similar baffling moments flooded her mind. “What do you mean?”

At that moment, the trumpet sounded again, differently, as though its owner was struggling to reproduce the sound he had made seconds earlier. Albus was crinkling his nose, apparently oblivious to all else.

“A nasty yellow. Jaundiced yellow, I would say.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

The blue eyes seemed to notice her, and regain their twinkle.

“Yellow is a trumpet-blow and a Thursday,” he said adorably, unhelpfully.

“And what does that mean?” she demanded, with a false irritation. “You’ve said similar things before, and never explained yourself—like yesterday, saying that Wednesday was cylindrical. I remember during a governors’ meeting someone banged their fist down on the table and you sat back and said ‘red Saturday.’ And then seemed surprised when they asked if you had lost your senses.”

A crafty grin spread beneath the half-moons, making the her own lips threaten to curve in imitation. The balance between them had changed again; she had broken out of subservience and made her tongue cutting and quick, expecting the quirk of an eyebrow, a game on the same level. He set down the basket and began to spread the blanket, but she was standing, arms folded, waiting… The boy—for that was sometimes how mature he was—flopped down on blue check.

“Ah, senses being the key word! A little secret of mine. Monday is a blue flame and the sound of a hammer hitting marble. Tuesday is pink and round, with a sound like a triangle. Wednesday, as I said before, is cylindrical and usually grey—though I have noticed tinges of green before. Thursday is a yellow trumpet-blow, and a trumpet-blow is always yellow. Friday is—”

Utterly bewildered, she raised a hand to halt the flow of words.

“Albus, is this some sort of silly riddle or—?”

“My dear, it is gravely serious. I’m offended that you should think I could be otherwise.”

The twinkle was now illuminating his entire face; she found it difficult to maintain her prim mask. Sinking down on the blanket beside him, she gave a mock-scowl.

“That’s not an explanation.”

“No,” he agreed. “Have you heard of a condition called synaesthesia?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, it’s essentially a confusion of the senses. I occasionally hear colours and see sounds, and each day of the week has different associations. I believe the Muggles have the condition well-documented.”

The mask was dropped; her fascination overrode the need for distance to cover alarming proximity. She leaned forward, wondering how the sapphire orbs saw the world.

“And you just… ‘felt’ yellow because someone was playing a trumpet?”

The Headmaster gave an emphatic nod, long fingers fiddling with the picnic basket. This was yet another layer of the enigma, another sensuous mystery. The thought strained her closer, incredibly close…

“What else is yellow?”

His look turned thoughtful, inwards and away from her, even as the scent of sherbet lemons reached her nostrils—for she was falling, had always been falling...

“Well, there are different shades and moods of yellow, my dear. For example, I am overwhelmed by the idea of a sickly yellow the moment someone says the number four. At the same time, a harp playing will always suggest a bright, almost whitish shade, and a kiss will produce a most beautiful variant, almost gold.”

Her heart gave a thump, almost of recognition.

“Gold?”

The half-moons glittered, ever closer, their owner looking obliviously upwards. “Yes. It’s a most exquisite colour; I can’t quite describe—”

And she was forward, pressing her mouth against his, one hand on the side of his face—

—And then running, up and away from stunned blue eyes, over the grass, past the yellow buttercups back up to Hogsmeade, lips burning, the sound of a trumpet sounding yellow in her ears.

[mugglemin]

Hee hee. I liked Albus' eccentricity in this one - even though it's a reasonable condition, it adds to the mystery of his character in its rarety, just as Minerva says.

[Drake]

I do that too. "Have" that too. Synaesthesia, though I'm sure it's not a condition. Didn't know there was a name for it.

Like July. July is red. And nine is a brownish orange.

I love them so much. They're beautiful.

[Apocalypticat]

lemonykittens said:

I do that too. "Have" that too. Synaesthesia, though I'm sure it's not a condition. Didn't know there was a name for it.

Like July. July is red. And nine is a brownish orange.

I love them so much. They're beautiful.

Thank you .

I'm not sure that it's a condition, but I assure you there's a name for it; my Art teacher had it and told me all about it. I THINK (I'm relying on what my teacher told me) that it's not all that uncommon, but only recognised in quite extreme cases.

I don't have it, but I do have some odd associations. Like the word 'secret' is hourglass-shaped and pink. LOL

Thanks to both you and mugglemin for reviewing, and I'm glad you like them!

[Asphodel]

Synaesthesia is actually technically labeled as a condition. A popular theory is that brain uses different receptors for different senses than a normal person's does. Most people associate numbers and words with colors or feelings, though in severe cases, people actually "taste" sounds. so the sound of a hard 'k', such as 'kite' or 'sock' or 'cake' would actually taste like something, such as eggs. A large percentage of the population actually has it to some moderate degree. They've got an awesome article about it on wikipedia. (This is my favorite condition/'disorder' to study, haha, sorry)

That aside, these are some of the best stories I've ever come across. The imagery, the flow, the sheer feeling evoked in every passage is incomprehensibly amazing. I get lost in it, and it carries me further than almost anything I've ever read. So I've got ask: does the style come naturally to you? Or do you have to work hard at getting things to come out so beautifully and poetically and PERFECTLY?

So, basically, I want more. Really, really bad.