A/N: A continuing thank you to all reviewers! Enjoy!
013: Yellow
Yellow was a trumpet-blow, particularly on a Thursday.
Several years had passed between the time when he had first made the connection and when she had understood it. Understanding was usually a creeping thing, like the passing from animated discussion to the holding of hands. That Thursday—that first among Thursdays, crowned with yellow, which crept over them like the summer, and something else unspoken—had finally yielded an explanation, unexpectedly, like a sudden windfall of gold.
The vale below Hogsmeade was a sea of buttercups, an impressionist painting on a blue, sky wall, made lovelier by the fact that she was there at Albus's invitation. Eyes as clear as the heavens rested on her as their owner spoke, nattering pleasantly about the location of the picnic. The summer holidays still stretched before them; the freedom was dramatic, like a bird spreading its wings. He had suggested the picnic the previous day—suggested it as if it was perfectly normal for a headmaster and his deputy to lunch together without interruption. In the vastness of the world, they were intimate and together, or at least in her own mind.
They were walking across the grass when it happened: the swelling cry of a trumpet, from the direction of the village. The auburn-haired man in front of her immediately stopped, suddenly rapt.
"Ah… yellow. And it's a Thursday, too!"
She stopped, as similar baffling moments flooded her mind. "What do you mean?"
At that moment, the trumpet sounded again, differently, as though its owner was struggling to reproduce the sound he had made seconds earlier. Albus was crinkling his nose, apparently oblivious to all else.
"A nasty yellow. Jaundiced yellow, I would say."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
The blue eyes seemed to notice her, and regain their twinkle.
"Yellow is a trumpet-blow and a Thursday," he said adorably, unhelpfully.
"And what does that mean?" she demanded, with a false irritation. "You've said similar things before, and never explained yourself—like yesterday, saying that Wednesday was cylindrical. I remember during a governors' meeting someone banged their fist down on the table and you sat back and said 'red Saturday.' And then seemed surprised when they asked if you had lost your senses."
A crafty grin spread beneath the half-moons, making the her own lips threaten to curve in imitation. The balance between them had changed again; she had broken out of subservience and made her tongue cutting and quick, expecting the quirk of an eyebrow, a game on the same level. He set down the basket and began to spread the blanket, but she was standing, arms folded, waiting… The boy—for that was sometimes how mature he was—flopped down on blue check.
"Ah, senses being the key word! A little secret of mine. Monday is a blue flame and the sound of a hammer hitting marble. Tuesday is pink and round, with a sound like a triangle. Wednesday, as I said before, is cylindrical and usually grey—though I have noticed tinges of green before. Thursday is a yellow trumpet-blow, and a trumpet-blow is always yellow. Friday is—"
Utterly bewildered, she raised a hand to halt the flow of words.
"Albus, is this some sort of silly riddle or—?"
"My dear, it is gravely serious. I'm offended that you should think I could be otherwise."
The twinkle was now illuminating his entire face; she found it difficult to maintain her prim mask. Sinking down on the blanket beside him, she gave a mock-scowl.
"That's not an explanation."
"No," he agreed. "Have you heard of a condition called synaesthesia?"
"Vaguely."
"Well, it's essentially a confusion of the senses. I occasionally hear colours and see sounds, and each day of the week has different associations. I believe the Muggles have the condition well-documented."
The mask was dropped; her fascination overrode the need for distance to cover alarming proximity. She leaned forward, wondering how the sapphire orbs saw the world.
"And you just… 'felt' yellow because someone was playing a trumpet?"
The Headmaster gave an emphatic nod, long fingers fiddling with the picnic basket. This was yet another layer of the enigma, another sensuous mystery. The thought strained her closer, incredibly close…
"What else is yellow?"
His look turned thoughtful, inwards and away from her, even as the scent of sherbet lemons reached her nostrils—for she was falling, had always been falling...
"Well, there are different shades and moods of yellow, my dear. For example, I am overwhelmed by the idea of a sickly yellow the moment someone says the number four. At the same time, a harp playing will always suggest a bright, almost whitish shade, and a kiss will produce a most beautiful variant, almost gold."
Her heart gave a thump, almost of recognition.
"Gold?"
The half-moons glittered, ever closer, their owner looking obliviously upwards. "Yes. It's a most exquisite colour; I can't quite describe—"
And she was forward, pressing her mouth against his, one hand on the side of his face—
—And then running, up and away from stunned blue eyes, over the grass, past the yellow buttercups back up to Hogsmeade, lips burning, the sound of a trumpet sounding yellow in her ears.