Cherry Red
AN: This is a very AU ficlet.... Minerva is around 25. Albus is older. Takes place in 1920s America, in an anonymous speakeasy.
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She twirled the cherry across her lips, the dim lights turning both the same shadowy shade.
Albus had been watching her all evening, wondering what about her was mesmerizing him so. Her dark dress was plain when compared to the other girls' wild, colorful clothing, yet he found himself searching the sleek lines of it for hints of her curves. Her hair was dark, and a bit longer than the majority of the other women's, though not the overly long locks of the older generation. Her features were clear, familiar, though he could not place where he had seen those striking, piercing eyes before.
He moved up to the bar again, buying himself another drink, his eyes only leaving her when he was forced to.
"Eye on that one? Good luck," said the bartender, pushing a glass towards Albus.
"Why? She someone's sheba?"
"No, she never goes with anyone. She mostly sits over there, and only occasionally will dance," the bartender said, "though not for lack of offers."
"She won't snub me," Albus said, more to himself than to the bartended. The bartender just snorted, as though he had heard that a thousand times. "She won't," said Albus with the upmost confidence.
"Whatever you say, buddy," said the bartender.
Albus looked back at the girl, and said to the bartender, "Get me one of what she's having."
The bartender made the drink, and Albus took it, and made his way across the bustling speakeasy. The girl was looking down at something in her bag, and didn't look up even when he slid into the empty seat across the table from her.
"Hello, sweet," he said in his best 'the cat's meow' tone. "I bought you a drink."
He had just set down the two glasses when she looked up, and he sputtered. "Minerva?"
How had he not recognized her? She looked different, oh so different, but still... he had seen her nearly everyday for years.
"What are you doing here, Albus?" she asked calmly, like they met in illegal bars everyday.
"I was-wait, what are you doing here?" he said. Minerva just was not the type to show up at a jazz club wearing something that showed her knees.
"Relaxing," she replied with a toss of her bobbed hair.
Albus looked at her intently. "You relax by sitting alone in a bar?"
"Yes, I do," snapped Minerva. She lit the cigarette she had been digging out of her bag when he'd arrived. "Got a problem with that?"
He watched her take a deep drag off the cigarette, and then hold it loosely between two fingers. There was a dark smudge from her painted lips on it already.
No, you're a grown woman," he said. "You can relax any way you want."
She seemed relieved that he wasn't going to lecture her on proper behavior.
"Though," he said, "you should at least dance some."
"Are you asking me to dance, Professor Dumbledore?" she said, a playful smile on those lips.
He stood, and bowed slightly, offering her a hand. "That I am, m'lady."
"Well, I couldn't refuse that offer," she said, winking and standing gracefully.
And thus Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall found themselves dancing to the energetic jazz that the band played with fervor and soul, imbibing in every spirit that flowed in their direction. Limbs swinging wildly, feet kicked up, veins sizzling with energy and life and alcohol, they laughed together as their bodies moved.
Finally, after what felt like hours of dancing, they left the dance floor, Minerva leaning heavily onto Albus, giggling madly as she tried to smooth her hair down and hitch her left stocking up.
"Where have you been staying?" he asked, and she named an expensive hotel only blocks from where he was staying. "I'll walk you."
"Thanks," she said, only slurring the word a little- speaking much better than he was, at this point.
They reached her hotel, and he didn't leave her. They reached the door to her room, and he leaned over and kissed her. He fancied that he could still taste that cherry on her lips, under the taste of whiskey and cigarettes. She responded as though she had been waiting for the kiss to arrive all night, and wrapped her arms around him.
They ended up in the room, necking like drunken teenagers- not too off the mark, in Minerva's case, though Albus didn't think about that while he was lost in the touch of her lips on his, her body under his hands, her skin against his.
They didn't stop, giving in fully to the pure recklessness of the night, with no thought of consequence or awkwardness or what might become of them in the morning. They simply were, and they loved it.