An Exhalation of Pity.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Author: Unanon
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Remus Lupin visits Sibyll Trelawney.
~~~~~
Her mouth tasted of the earth. Dry bones and dust blended together over eons, eroded by wind and time. The moistness of his own created a slight adhesion when he pulled away. He ran his tongue over his lips firmly before leaning in again.
He hadn't planned to kiss her. He had only gone up to her tower for the short initial visit that politeness deemed necessary between two members of the same teaching staff. Her reclusive nature was well known.
She had been quite startled to see him and had sneezed several times after inviting him in to sit. He perched uncomfortably on a ridiculous pouf of a chair, hands folded on his knees. The firelight had reflected in her glasses when she offered him a cup of tea.
"I don't get many visitors." Her breath blew lightly against a wisp of frizzy hair that had escaped from the kerchief on her head; it floated dreamily into the air, remaining suspended by a shimmer of heat reflected from the fireplace. "I was rather surprised when the Fates told me of your impending arrival."
He smiled and pretended to believe her. The tea was rather good.
Her voice settled over him, blanketing him with its soothing, misty drone. It was so pleasantly non-invasive, too embroiled in its own dramas and fears to spare a lingering whisper for his own torment. She was entirely oblivious to what he was, perhaps willfully. He found it absurdly charming.
He spent the moments while she spoke surveying the room only to find his heart wrenching for her solitude. There was little cheer to be had among the shelves of crystal balls, chipped teacups, and mismatched decks of tarot cards. Her voice continued to buffet him without really saying anything; it beat its pathetic words against his consciousness as a bat might flutter desperately when trapped within a net, or a tower. He felt free to disregard it, until it became shrill and insistent.
"Professor Lupin. Are you even listening to me?"
Her eyes were grotesquely magnified behind those terrible glasses; the long beaded necklaces around her neck made nervous, rustling noises with her breathing.
"Of course I'm not." He hid a smile behind his hand as she gulped air and huffed in hurt bewilderment. The impulse to grasp those bony shoulders through her shawl and pull her to him was sudden and sharp. He resisted bravely as her voice started up again and her bejeweled hands began fluttering around the teapot and twining nervously through necklaces. When she leaned toward him to refill his teacup he felt his fingers curl, seemingly of their own will, around her wrist (so slim and knobby) and draw her into his lap, his other hand removing the teapot from hers and setting it carefully aside.
Her body was rigid beneath her shawls (so many layers), and he couldn't tear his eyes from the fantastic thrumming of her pulse at her neck. When his mouth covered it, she let out the smallest squeak, one fist pushing weakly at the patched shoulder of his robe before flattening, spreading to feel lightly, questioningly, at his nape.
Her skin tasted of incense. She was saturated with it; he found the flavor, the smell, both heady and mildly repulsive. He ignored the aversion along with weak whispers from the part of his consciousness that remained rational. She was trembling in his arms, and very little else seemed to matter at the moment.
~fin~
Her mouth tasted of the earth. Dry bones and dust blended together over eons, eroded by wind and time. The moistness of his own created a slight adhesion when he pulled away. He ran his tongue over his lips firmly before leaning in again.
He hadn't planned to kiss her. He had only gone up to her tower for the short initial visit that politeness deemed necessary between two members of the same teaching staff. Her reclusive nature was well known.
She had been quite startled to see him and had sneezed several times after inviting him in to sit. He perched uncomfortably on a ridiculous pouf of a chair, hands folded on his knees. The firelight had reflected in her glasses when she offered him a cup of tea.
"I don't get many visitors." Her breath blew lightly against a wisp of frizzy hair that had escaped from the kerchief on her head; it floated dreamily into the air, remaining suspended by a shimmer of heat reflected from the fireplace. "I was rather surprised when the Fates told me of your impending arrival."
He smiled and pretended to believe her. The tea was rather good.
Her voice settled over him, blanketing him with its soothing, misty drone. It was so pleasantly non-invasive, too embroiled in its own dramas and fears to spare a lingering whisper for his own torment. She was entirely oblivious to what he was, perhaps willfully. He found it absurdly charming.
He spent the moments while she spoke surveying the room only to find his heart wrenching for her solitude. There was little cheer to be had among the shelves of crystal balls, chipped teacups, and mismatched decks of tarot cards. Her voice continued to buffet him without really saying anything; it beat its pathetic words against his consciousness as a bat might flutter desperately when trapped within a net, or a tower. He felt free to disregard it, until it became shrill and insistent.
"Professor Lupin. Are you even listening to me?"
Her eyes were grotesquely magnified behind those terrible glasses; the long beaded necklaces around her neck made nervous, rustling noises with her breathing.
"Of course I'm not." He hid a smile behind his hand as she gulped air and huffed in hurt bewilderment. The impulse to grasp those bony shoulders through her shawl and pull her to him was sudden and sharp. He resisted bravely as her voice started up again and her bejeweled hands began fluttering around the teapot and twining nervously through necklaces. When she leaned toward him to refill his teacup he felt his fingers curl, seemingly of their own will, around her wrist (so slim and knobby) and draw her into his lap, his other hand removing the teapot from hers and setting it carefully aside.
Her body was rigid beneath her shawls (so many layers), and he couldn't tear his eyes from the fantastic thrumming of her pulse at her neck. When his mouth covered it, she let out the smallest squeak, one fist pushing weakly at the patched shoulder of his robe before flattening, spreading to feel lightly, questioningly, at his nape.
Her skin tasted of incense. She was saturated with it; he found the flavor, the smell, both heady and mildly repulsive. He ignored the aversion along with weak whispers from the part of his consciousness that remained rational. She was trembling in his arms, and very little else seemed to matter at the moment.
~fin~