Just take a moment to admire, to anticipate...
Breathe.
How cool and dry these dungeon walls must be, standing
untouched as they have for so very long. Even deep
down where solid rock is as permeable as water,
molecules of magic cluster together in haughty atoms
between the sleepy bunches of carbon and bauxite,
loathing to even brush the ancient granite whose
thoughts move with the speed of a continental drift
and whose powers are its own.
Touch then, is not something to be taken lightly. It
requires the weight of stone.
"Severus..."
And the smell...
There is the smell of magic, like the grape soda-pop
scent of faie-grown kudzu. There is dust that tickles
the nose, and sickly sweet nightshade that tickles the
blood. The little shoots of the latter are young and
tender, and they yield like butter under the knife.
With proper preparation, the slips are as lethal as
their berries, and they masquerade as fresh green
morsels to tempt the palate.
But there is no real need for the deception, now is
there. Death may wrap itself in the flavour of onions,
or in a pretty, stuttering body, but eventually it
must be...tasted.
Tip of tongue to tip of finger - wet metal and salt.
This is a secret ritual, to take in each of the parts
and let them brew inside the body into the whole. The
stomach as cauldron...and the spit and blood and acid
make it that much more potent.
Poison. The things that man will take willingly into
his body.
Consider the alternative.
Swallow.
Candles are lit. Their solemn flames stand at
attention from wick to crown in the still, still room.
Mere ambience, in respect for the alchemists of ages
past who never dreamed of fire's capable and bastard
sons: fluorescent lighting and the microwave oven.
Smile...at the little pewter melting pots and the
polished crystal phials, holiday gifts and gracious
indulgences. The set of scales is delicate and
perfectly weighted with sliver-thin bases of silver.
It's all quite decadent, yes, but there is a
voyeuristic sensuality in this mating of art and
science. And what is magic, but the spawn of that
unlikely union?
Smile again, because no one is here to see.
Ritual continues, as ritual must. Encumbering cloth is
rolled away from hands and forearms. Knuckles are
cracked to limberness. Lips are licked.
The half-filled cauldron reflects the very pale palm
of a hand growing warm and wet with condensation and
perspiration.
Perfect.
Perfection is, after all, as necessary an ingredient
as serpent's milk. And the price of perfection is the
demand for it.
"Severus..."
Watch -
There is that...
suspended...
...fall.
Bits of crushed - sliced - drained ingredients that
were once part of something living and will be again.
Colours, black and green spiral to the cauldron's
depths. The waters churn gently as the Foxlick and
Witch Rose react with one another; settle as the
essence of manticore liver overpowers them both. As
always, blood swirls to its own rhythm, holding to the
memory of veins and arteries traveled and life
sustained.
And...
Wait for it...
Wait for it...
The cauldron sings out in the voice of a drowning man.
Appropriately, a loose scrap of Shakespeare flutters
into mind. Macbeth's three witches...shocking
generations of young wizards to laughter with the
sheer audacity with which they trod the boards of
stereotype. Spouting prophecy in twisted riddles,
brewing scavenger's soup skyclad -
And that last is almost rather...tempting, isn't it?
And it's not the first time the notion has tried to
take root. The temperature rises - what would it feel
like to strip off the robe and shirt and let the steam
press and envelop bare skin like a lover's body? Would
each pop of bubbling water feel like a kiss - or a
bite?
Touching gently...beneath wool and cotton. Short hairs
rise along the path of cool fingertips and a warm
belly.
"...it's late..."
Eyes closed...it's all right to smile softly, with no
one here to laugh. To take a breath full of complex
scents and simple magic. To go very still.
And there is that moment, which a student must
fretfully search for with eyes glued to the
thaumometer, but which a master may pinpoint by merely
closing his eyes and opening his hand...
There.
//Auctor. Ardet...ore...iratus. Gratiae.//
Words...oh, the will and the wonder of them.
There is the movement of lips and tongue, kissing the
air with a skill bred of familiarity.
A flash -
the taste of wet smoke -
- the glint of silver hair in the periphery.
A shimmer of colour falls off of the furthest end of
the spectrum into thin air, shaped like Latin.
Does anyone else see the words that slip from their
lips into law? How fleeting and...beautiful they are,
and selfishness aside, what a pity it would be if only
one person could admire them. But of course,
Albus...Albus must see them, to give and take pleasure
in his words as he does.
Breathe out slowly. Catch a breath in a cupped hand.
And to take the first mouthful that is a potions
master's due -
"...come to bed?"
The voice apparates through stone and time, ending its
journey as low words and warm breath. Much too
innocent to be anything but knowing.
Eyes shut, it's almost...there - A kiss pressed softly
above the collar.
There are layers upon layers of meanings in that
single phrase, and yet they are all the same.
And perhaps...
Perhaps salvation, distilled, will keep until morning.
For now...
Just take a moment to admire...to *anticipate*.
Title: Salvation, Distilled
Author: Delphi
Email: squibke@yahoo.ca
Rating: G
Category: Drama/Angst
Disclaimer: All characters described herein belong to
JK Rowling who - despite not letting them have
graphic, sweaty, kinky sex - does a fine job with
them. My intent is not to infringe on any copyrights,
nor to make money from these portrayals. I'm only in
it for the aforementioned kinky sex
