Author's Note: This was originally written mere hours after I had finished reading HBP, but I was unable to post it until today, seeing as how a vacation got in the way—another one may follow this (standalone, not sequel). I'm still toying with the idea.
After the Eyes
She was dying, she knew it. She was cold and she was broken, and she was dying. No force other than death could have rocked her so deep, tearing at her insides and writhing through her veins. No force other than death could have brought her to the floor, ravaged by heavy sobs that ravaged her entire being to the point of breaking. No force other than death could have affected her like this.
Her lungs screamed for oxygen, her nails bled from clawing at the threadbare rug, her throat felt unbearably rough and scratchy, and still she sobbed. She couldn't save herself this time—the only one who had the power to sooth her anguish was lying inhumanly encased in a cold, white tomb, quite powerless. No, no one could save Minerva McGonagall from the all-consuming pain she felt.
She'd managed not to cry until now. Somehow, throughout the days spent arranging his funeral, shepherding in guests from the outside, and getting the students and remaining staff in order, she had managed to stay strong, a pillar of strength. It was only now, sitting in her rooms, that she had broken down. She'd been rummaging around her bedroom, looking for her spare cloak, when she had found his favorite nightshirt. Still slightly rumpled, he had thrown in over a chair, intending to send it down for cleaning later. It smelled of lemons and chocolate, and something distinctly Albus. It was deep maroon, and he had loved it.
He'd given it to her one day while they were preparing for bed, this time in his rooms. She'd been searching for her nightgown when he had slipped her dressing gown off and slowly pulled the nightshirt over her head, kissing her exposed collarbone as the too big shirt fell into place.
"Beautiful," he had whispered, and she had shivered, despite being wrapped tenderly in his embrace. Minerva had always felt beautiful around him.
But now, clutching at her sides as she rocked in her knees, tears spilling down her cheeks, she felt less like the woman he had loved and more like the hysterical woman he had left behind. He'd kissed her goodbye—he always did. He'd told her he loved her, and would be back in time to finish the chess game they had been playing for ages. He'd held her close as she clung to him, the feeling of uneasiness rising inside her. And when he had finally parted, he had not said good goodbye, but had told her he would see her soon. It was this last thought that drove still more tears from her emerald eyes.
She cried for many that night. She cried for Harry Potter, alone and burdened; she cried for Bill, bloody and disfigured; she cried for her Gryffindors, who would likely never return to the castle; she cried for Severus Snape, who had betrayed them all—but mostly, she cried for him. The startling blue eyes would twinkle no more. She would not be woken in the night as he pondered how best to manufacture his own lemon drops. The school would not be led in song as he jubilantly conducted. All that was left of him was the maroon nightshirt, and the fragments of her heart that had broken.
Slowly, the tears began to cease. It seemed that she had exhausted her eyes of the salty drops that still trailed down her face. She could not go on like this. He would not have wanted it. He would have wanted her to move on with what was left of her life and find happiness elsewhere. The only trouble was there was no comforting voice to tell her this, no fingers that would gently tilt her chin up so he could see into her emerald eyes and whisper nothings in her ear to sooth her.
It was up to her now. She would carry on his legacy, standing firm and proud as she was handed the reins. She would celebrate him; make sure that not one person wavered in their support, their beliefs. She would carry him with her until the day she died, when she would finally reunite with his embrace, with his twinkling eyes, his wise voice.
Even as she pulled on the maroon nightshirt and silently slid under the sheets of their bed, Minerva promised herself this. And when she eventually joined him in the beyond, he would meet her with open arms, his smile proud as he saw what she had done for him—for them. It was then that the world would know, finally, the depth of the love shared by Minerva McGonagall and Albus Dumbledore, carved in history and time forevermore.