Title: Endgame.
Author: Pol.
Rating: Harmless.
A/N: My very first HP fic. Please tell me how I went. This is actually the last part of a long history I have been writing for ADMM, so watch this space for the prequel. I know this part is short, but when you see the disgusting length of the rest of the thing you'll probably want to kill me. So enjoy my unusual lack of verbosity.
All feedback and helpful comments gratefully received. And all the thanks in the world to Jane for having a sister, and to Alice for being my sounding post.
xxxxxxx
She is looking at him in a way he has never seen before. Her eyes are wide, terrified. The colour has drained from her face. Her jaw is tense, as it often is when she is disapproving or argumentative. He cannot in that instant imagine what she is thinking, which is probably just as well because he has no idea how to save her from this. How to save himself.
"Minerva…" he begins uncertainly, alarmed at the softness of his voice. He wishes that she was still his student, that she was still cross with his interference, that she was still fueled by that youthful indignation. She knows better now. She has accepted the hand that life has dealt her. He supposes she came close to dying enough times as an auror that she has stopped expecting life to be about more than survival.
She shakes her head in a quick, sharp gesture of warning.
"Don't. Just…don't."
But the silence is worse than anything, worse than the expression on her face.
"It would be easier if…"
"No! You don't understand, Headmaster," she says stiffly, falling back into formality. "There's no escaping it now."
He hopes that she is wrong but she clearly doesn't think so. She's so horrified by the prospect too that he could really take offense. But he can understand this much. He's horrified also. He knows that he isn't going to stop her.
"You always were fatalistic, Minerva," he murmurs, letting himself step slightly closer. If they're going to do this, they may as well get it over with quickly.
"It's pragmatism. I know you don't like it, but I have seen even you exercise it from time to time."
"Have you indeed?"
She is getting angry now, although her stance and expression haven't changed much. Meanwhile he finds that he is right in her face and it is lucky she is so tall, because he is still able to look at her eyes and nowhere…less appropriate.
"Min…"
"Don't even think about it, Albus Dumbledore!" She snaps then, probably fully aware of what he's doing. Anger has always been her natural defense mechanism and he is not put off by it in the least. He has had years of study in that particular area.
"But you're the one who said…" he begins gently. There is no need to exacerbate the situation.
Her eyes soften slightly; she takes a breath.
"I know," she admits, "but I'm not entirely happy about it."
"Can I suggest that…?"
"No."
Her eyes are holding his. She doesn't want to talk about it. Words make things so much more real, so much more tangible. Especially if you are Minerva McGonagall and your life has been devoted to the study and manipulation of them.
He is at an impasse. It is not surprising that she has him cornered like this, despite letting him make all the moves. This is how she plays chess too, luring him into his own destruction. It is of the mildest frustration to him that her stillness, her catlike patience, always provokes him into giving himself away.
Nevertheless, it is an unfortunate time for it to happen now and he knows very well that the next move will be the end of both of them.
For a split second she does not look terrified. Instead she seems to be profoundly apologetic. Just sorry.
And then she has kissed him, hard and very angry, and she is walking away before he can recover.
He has never been kissed quite like that before, quite so furiously, quite so lovingly. He does not think he wants to play this game again. It is horrifying.