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TITLE: Time
AUTHOR: noe ([email protected])
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: AD/SS
SUMMARY: Albus remembers.
WARNINGS: angst, drama.
BETA: Thousand thanks to Vaughn. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
NOTES: I consider that in Harry's first year, Severus is thirty-one and Albus one hundred fifty.
This story was written for the Albus Dumbledore/Severus Snape Buggering Bee, part of the Snapledore Carnal Carnival, at http://snapledore.slashcity.net/bee.
CHALLENGE: Write a story incorporating the following sentence: "In time, all things decay."[Jeddy]
Albus Dumbledore feels old. He is two hundred and eleven, after all. He *is* old.
Sometimes, when he thinks about his age (which is often), he wants to laugh. He never had desired immortality, but still... what had he thought? That his gaze would always be penetrating? That his wits would keep sharp, that his voice would always carry command, that his hands would remain strong?
Albus looks at his hands, those parched, claw-like fingers... so weak, so unfit to hold a wand. No, no wand for him now. Wands are for the young, and he remembers -he does that a lot now, to remember- how his hands held his first wand when he was only a child, so firm and unwavering, so sure his grip would maintain. The memory is so crystal clear it could have been just yesterday.
It could had been yesterday was his first day at the magic castle as a pupil, the first day he was a teacher, the first day as a Headmaster, holding the same wand with these aged hands.
But Albus knows. It was long, long ago.
His hands have another memories. He thinks his thumb can still recall how it felt the skin of *his* cheek, and it was soft, because the boy was only sixteen. Albus can see him asleep in his mind, with fear written in his childish frown and in the disarray of his black hair on the pillow. He can still felt the wetness on his fingertip, because the boy was crying.
Now Albus passes the time looking intently at the roof, and his eyes follow the shade slowly creeping in the corners, turning white into grey and later into black. The colors reminds him of the past, the white snow on the grounds that winter, the grey sky above... it's afternoon; the black stain of a robed man slowly drags himself to the castle's main entry. Albus can describe perfectly the sickly yellow cast on his face, the red line of his lips, the blue sadness hanging around him like a cloud, the acid lemon taste of his desperation.
*Oh, yes, come to me, I will help you, young man. Sweet, sweet nineteen year old, come to me.*
Ah, Albus can still taste his thoughts that day.
*Spy for me, Severus, spy for me.*
Albus can still taste Severus' fear, and later his false liberation, although he does not remember why. It's not important, however, because Albus recalls how he measured teaspoons of trust in the following years, and cups of fondness; how he felt vases of desire in his loins each time Severus stalked the halls, the big bad Potions master role that he had played.
There are... memories now in his mind that only exist in an age long lost to everybody and everything, but him. Such as Severus' body on his bed, pale and lean, so pliant under his own. A body who is twenty-four, willing and aroused, expanding long limbs around his own, urging him on.
Or a thirty-one year old mouth, which spews unrelenting complaints about a 'golden Gryffindor boy' Albus cannot bring himself to recall now. But he remembers the pleasure of shutting that mouth up, oh yes, of turning that silky voice into ragged moans and surprised cries.
There are phantom hands petting his shoulders up in the Astronomy tower, there are little kisses and black eyes burning raw with need for his one hundred and fifty-three year old being; the same eyes Albus had seen burning hate for a lone werewolf whose name Albus has forgotten, but he knows Severus will not.
And there is an ugly mark on an arm, and fear again; and a kind of pain aged thirty-six years inside a Slytherin wizard. Albus recollects how his knees hit the ground, a reminiscence of events long ago, and how his arms bend to pick up Severus' broken body, to nurse him away in his bedroom.
Now, Albus has this sunny white tiled room, and he is aware he should wonder about what is outside -he cannot stand up and look through the window; but in truth, he doesn't care.
Whatever for?
Albus thinks about his age; it's enough to make him laugh. He knows he has been old for a long time, but still... what had he thought? That his wisdom would never know fail? That he could have his little manipulations without cost? That Severus' love would last forever?
Albus now sleeps on a soft mattress, and his plush surface reminds him about Severus' hard thighs when Albus rode him, buried to the hilt in his body, feeling *inside* him, but still without seeing him, because Severus' thirty-seven year old eyes were closed.
There is a war inside his brain which never ends, a parade of dead witches and wizards, all strangers and friends. There is also a boy who lives and fights, and a castle under siege. Albus remembers a phoenix who leaves him because it has to help the boy, and the cup of wine that thirty-eight year old Severus brings him, one last time.
There is a memory etched in each part of his body, Albus thinks.
Dirt under his feet, dread in his navel, cold between his legs. There is void inside his lungs, worthlessness in his hands, and tears clouding his eyes.
There is a dark lord laughing far away, but in his ears there is only a word that burns its way through his body. A word said by those lips he had kissed so hard, carried by that voice that caressed him at night.
Severus says... *Crucio. Crucio. Crucio.*
So Albus loses himself in counting the white tiles that covers the walls of his room.
There is not a single memory of after that moment, as if the word 'crucio' stopped his life, and all those following years mounting on his run-down body are nothing but dust.
But Albus doesn't care. He knows that in time, all things decay. Even the pain of betrayal.
SSSSS
A knock on the door, and then comes the man who brings him food.
"How old am I?" Albus asks, looking vaguely at his visitor. He is younger but still old; grey haired, hawk nosed, with deep-set black eyes. Albus doesn't remember his name.
"Two hundred and twelve," a soft voice like velvet answers. "Here, take your potion first."
Albus tries to obey, and the blood-like liquid swirls in his cup before the man holds the cup and Albus' hands, so he can drink. A burning feeling settles in his throat, and Albus coughs.
"I will heal you, Albus. Then you will remember." The man says softly, almost painfully.
But Albus looks at him uncomprehendingly. He has no problem remembering, it's his main occupation, nowadays.
The man helps him to eat, and later he arranges the bed so Albus can take his nap.
"How old am I?" Albus asks, again.
"Two hundred and twelve."
The man waves his wand to the window, the shutters close and the room falls into shadows.
*So, I'm old*, Albus thinks. The little magic performed reminds him of another time, when he had a wand of his and a lover named Severus.
He falls asleep.
FIN
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