?

Log in

Fic: 'The Progress of a Tear', Dumbledore/Merfolk, Dumbledore/Grindelwald, Dumbledore/Doge - By the Fountain

Oct. 8th, 2009

10:28 pm - Fic: 'The Progress of a Tear', Dumbledore/Merfolk, Dumbledore/Grindelwald, Dumbledore/Doge

Previous Entry Share Next Entry

Title: The Progress of a Tear
Author: purplefluffycat
Pairings: Albus Dumbledore/Merfolk, Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Albus Dumbledore/Elphias Doge (unrequited)
Rating: R
Warnings: Implied group sex, voyeurism
Words: ~1700
Summary: A distressed Albus Dumbledore is returned from the defeat of Grindelwald, August 1945. The tale of how he came to speak the language of the Merpeople.

Author's notes: Written for daily_deviant challenge, 'Coitus a unda aka undinism: sex in/under water'. I originally thought a crack!fic would be spawned from this prompt... but this one seems to have turned somewhat serious while I wasn't looking. Poor Elphias...





Albus had been back in England for three weeks, now; three shocked, mournful weeks that had involved avoiding the press, evading his friends and denying that he was a hero.

He sat perfectly still on the lake shore, soft breeze disarranging his hair such that vision was from within a shifting, filamentous frame, and buttocks becoming slowly numb from the press of smooth pebbles. The lap, lap, lap of the water was soothing; meditative. It could not make him forget, but it did help him to reach toward the blankness he craved.

At heart, Albus knew he had done what had to be done, but that did not make the events any lighter to bear. No feeling man would find it easy to incarcerate his lover for the rest of time, no matter how twisted that lover had become. No red-blooded wizard could regard those perfect features, those shining golden locks, and not mourn for their touch - not even when curses were thrown and insults traded.

An image of Gellert - naked, pliant and beckoning - assaulted Albus with such force it caused him to gasp into the night. The summer breeze whipped more strongly around him, it seemed, and the moon was disquieted as she shone in the water. He squeezed shut his lids, willing once more for peace.


Displaced from troubled eyes, a bulbous tear rolled silently along a crooked nose. Singular. Unnoticed.


Stillness, however, evaded him this night; his mind raced and the ache in his gut twisted raw. Albus was struck again by how it was the passion that he craved, and once more berated himself for being so foolish.

He had spent decades cultivating an image of himself as above such things, and sometimes - when he was self-absorbed and busy and admired - he could have convinced himself that it was true. The Great Albus Dumbledore had no need for the contact of others; his blood did not boil with erotic memories. Those memories did not become stronger with each passing year, sensation and nuance embroidering themselves upon events with each retelling, every pained recollection. A man such as himself could not countenance such things - and besides, he knew he could not be trusted.


Stretching it's heavy globe downward, the tear dangled from that patrician nose... longer, longer, and then - splash. It was caught on the side of a finger, laced together too tensely with its brethren to feel the drop.


In Albus' mind's eye - vivid and brutal now, this night - it was not Gellert laying inanimate in that dank, hopeless prison, but himself; the virile young man he once was, full of hope and dreams and life. Perhaps they sprawled together, their corpses; intertwined and broken in parody of the embraces they once shared, eyes as empty and gouged as his heart now felt.

Albus shivered, even though he was not cold. He had evoked the very thoughts he sought to push away: the burn of Gellert's touch upon his skin, the texture of his golden hair in his palm, the swirl of a coarse Germanic tongue about his cock... Oh Merlin.

The muscles in his back twitched involuntarily, remembering of their own accord how Gellert made him arch from the bed, whimpering, gasping, and feeling at last alive.


The tear was dislodged, falling upon the very tip of a glossy black boot. Leather and saline gleamed together in the twilight, like a watching eye.


Albus found himself gripped by panic; the painful desperation, the suffocation, the loss - it all came at once and threatened to overthrow both his weeks of careful quietude and years of studied denial. He bowed his head as phantom kisses rained upon the back of his neck, too weak to push the fantasy away, and hugged his legs more tightly toward him as the shameful tension boiled in his blood.


The boot tipped with a shuffle, and that small movement was all it took for the drop to fall. Tiny concentric ripples announced the merging with the vast lake. With others. Noticed.


Suddenly the water surged with crash and spray, and Albus sprung back from his bunched position in shock. The lake seemed to explode with shapes; limbs and weapons and gnarled plant life all as one amid the shadowy, thrashing water. He was stopped in his retreat by the sounds, however - screeching, keening, mesmerizing. Albus' robes were half-soaked, but he barely noticed, such was the power of that, that... music.

Slowly, the movement stopped and the sounds also abated, but Albus was by then too rapt to flee. A long moment passed as he regarded: four humanoid creatures, visible to their waists, slickly glistening in the moonlight. They bore various implements of rock and weed, perhaps deadly, certainly intriguing. Albus had heard of Merfolk, but had never before encountered them.

Then, one of the beings spoke; the timbre hissing and awkward as it coped with the English tongue. "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes," choked Albus, "And who are you?" In all his time as a student or teacher at Hogwarts, he had not known the lake was home to communicable beings.

"My name is Murcain, Merchieftain of this village. We sense your longing and deem you worthy of our balm."

"I..." Albus was at a loss. What could this mean? What was he to do? He was a mess of mourning and bitter excitement; he had no wish for such challenges.

The creatures reacted calmly to his hesitation, however, as if it were to be expected. The pause stretched onward, and Albus felt his skin began to tingle where it had been splashed. The sensation was fascinating, welcome; like a cool ointment seeping inward.

"Come to us, Landman," the leader hissed at last - but this time the speech was not English. No, the words were strange and foreign - yet Albus found he understood, had been gifted with their language... and then the music - the singing - began once more, louder, more melodious, more pervasive.

Albus found himself calming, his troubles lifting strangely free as the sounds wove about him, focusing his attention upon the singers and instilling in him the desire to draw closer. The Siren song echoed about the trees, the rocks, his brain; pushing forth from the very water itself until he was submerged in its melody, drowned in its rhythms. Albus had not choice but to follow that song; trance-like he rose and stepped forth into the lake, feeling no chill as the sound clothed him in warmth and comfort amid the water.

The first touch was blissful; electrifying. Albus' eyes closed as his body floated upon a cloud of smooth, webbed hands, caressing and exciting as they sang. He felt no bashfulness without his robes, as he was explored and pleasured, as years of tension were drawn from him, as the pace gathered and they mirrored his abandoned thrashes; all still singing, singing.


*****


Slightly about of breath, Elphias rounded the corner of the woods and spied the lake ahead of him. At the distant sight of a figure there, his heart leapt and a smile threatened to split his features in two. He hastened his steps in delight; it had been so long and he cared for Albus so very much.

They had said that Albus was very quiet at the moment, that he didn't really want visitors, but Elphias had summoned all his courage and decided to ignore them. He knew that congratulations were in order, but he also knew there to be something else; something less jovial; something that it would take an old friend to realize.

Elphias had always suspected there had been a to-do with the German; it had made him sad and envious. He did not have any details, however, and had no wish to find out now, not when it was all finally over and they could start afresh.

They could go to Paris. Yes, and maybe on to Italy. It wasn't too late, after all.

They could smile together, laugh together. He could wrap Albus in his arms and soothe his nerves; press kisses to his brow and hold him tight until he could believe it was over, that things were better. Until he realized how very much he was loved.

Elphias stilled his paces for a moment, the summer night licking warm about him, sultry and full of promise. He had been waiting for a goodly number of years for this moment; the moment when at last there was nothing and no-one barring the way between he and Albus. He was determined to do it right. The uncustomary boldness within his breast spoke of nothing less.

- And if he did, perhaps there could be more between them; more than just affection and closeness. Now - now that Grindelwald was gone - Albus might come to see Elphias as he so wished to be seen; as a lover, as his own lover.

The moonshine winked lasciviously upon his notions, but Elphias pushed them to the back of his mind. He knew that it was selfish, that the man was troubled and such thoughts were inappropriate... but he did care for Albus so very, very much... so much that his blood ran hot and his skin prickled with excitement at the very idea.

Any moment now he thought, almost running toward the lake, the heartfelt reunion blossoming in his imagination. Albus would hear footsteps at any second...

However, as he drew closer and closer, Elphias saw something peculiar happen. The beloved silhouette was no longer curled as he sat, with head downcast and auburn beard carpeting his knees. No, now he rose and waded forth, robes discarded, bathed in both the lake water and an expression of bliss.

At the sight of the other figures, boiling forth from the water in a riot of passion, Elphias felt sick to the stomach. He cared not who they were, but the disappointment crushed his heart as a sapling in a landslide.

He stopped dead barely a dragon's tail away, unable to tear his eyes from the sight of Albus' beautiful form - pale and curving in the moonlit water as he was pleasured.

When a silvery tear slipped from his cheek onto the dusty earth, nothing happened. Nothing at all.