Saudade
By: The Girl Who Wasn't There
We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.
-Tom Stoppard-
They tasted like ash in his mouth. They tore at him every time he so much as saw them, because the yellow color reminded him of golden hair and bright eyes and a young man who burned like the sun and never failed to steal his breath away. The tartness reminded him of a wicked smile and a voice full of fire that, even in his memories, could still set him aflame.
Sometimes, he wanted to howl and curse and throw the damned bowl at the wall. He wanted to watch it shatter into nothing and take it contents with it. Sometimes, he wanted to huddle it close and cry and beg for yesterday, voice soft and broken. Sometimes, he wanted to rage and rage and demand that the only sweets allowed past his castle doors were the ones so full of sugar and sweetness that he couldn't stomach them. Or that no sweets were allowed in his halls at all, that everything be as bland and colorless as possible; nothing at all like the shining boy who was once so full of life.
Sometimes, when no one was looking and he had no reason to don his mask of Headmaster, of Powerful Wizard, of Leader, he lost himself in his mind. With no reason to pretend to be strong, he could feel the walls closing in on him and the light dimming; he could feel his throat getting tighter and his hands shaking and moisture gathering in his eyes and he couldn't breathe and oh, how he wanted to see his Sun again.
But then he remembers his sister. He remembers her smile and her laugh, her kind voice and her love of all things, everything that she was and everything that she could have been. He is drowned once again, by his regret and his guilt and his shame that, instead of memories of her, the only thing he ever keeps with him are Lemon Drops.
They are like ash in his mouth, like burned bridges and graveyard dirt and empty mirrors, but he can't bring himself to stop. He catches himself sometimes, on the days when he wants to curl up and hide away from the Sun and his shadows, reaching for them. First one, and then another and another, because even though they taste like regret and sorrow, like pain and anger and like the only thing left in his shrunken chest is a hole where once his heart must have been, he cannot bring himself to stop. Because it wasn't always like this. No, once upon a time, they tasted like warmth on his face, like gentle fingers running down his cheeks and like eternity in his ears.
Once, they tasted like love.
A/N: Because my HeadCanon says that Dumbledore secretly hates Lemon Drops but keeps them around because Gellert Grindelwald used to love them. Also, I haven't written or posted anything in the longest time, so go easy on me, please? Maybe? Have mercy?
