How's it going? Curlycurlz here. I was getting bored, waiting for a week to go by so I could update my Wicked fic (it's called Back to the Desert, it's really good, read Power of Passion first!) and this little gem came out of me. I'm not lying when I say I really like it, and I hope you do to.
A frantic knock on Albus Dumbledore's door mingled with the pounding of the rain on the windowpanes, jerking the professor out of his deep ruminations. Hurriedly, he stood and crossed the tiny room to the wooden door, drawing his wand as he did so. "Announce yourself," he intoned in his rich, deep voice.
"Minerva McGonagall!" shrieked the woman on the other side.
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows; this was most unexpected. "My favourite sweet?"
"Ah – licorice wand!"
Dumbledore stepped back as the door burst open, letting Minerva McGonagall stumble, drenched to the bone, forward onto the hardwood floor, the door locking shut behind her. Dumbledore waved his wand, drying her clothes in an instant. As the steam cleared, Minerva straightened up and faced him, and Dumbledore stumbled backwards in shock: her face was crumpled, blotchy and tearstained, and her shoulders still shook with sobs. He could honestly say he'd never seen her so emotional as long as he'd known her, and as such he couldn't immediately bring himself to comfort her.
"Amelia. Albus, they got Amelia." She shook her head, lips pursed. "I can't bear it anymore, Albus."
Now, Dumbledore instinctively moved forward and embraced her, stroking her back. "I know, Minerva. I know." Gently, he led her to his two-person sofa, where they sat heavily, never letting go of each other.
"I never forgave her. Albus, it was an idiotic, petty schoolgirl fight and I never forgave her!"
Dumbledore knew better than to interject; he kissed her cheek, but didn't otherwise acknowledge that he'd heard her. He'd never heard this story; the worst part of him, the one he tried to suppress, was interested, and desperately wanted to know more. Surprisingly, Minerva obliged.
"It was ten years ago, so long ago, but to me it always felt as new as yesterday. It was when she passed that law, that one about stricter monitoring of Animagi, and it wasn't even that restrictive but I wrote that article against it for Transfigurer's Monthly, and she sent an owl and we had a row, and in the end the law was repealed but Albus, I never forgave her!" Dumbledore blinked away a tear but remained silent. "My best school friend died thinking I h-hated her!"
Eventually, Minerva's pained gulps subsided, and Dumbledore sat back, keeping one hand loosely wrapped around her shoulders. "Minerva, it's his fault. Hate him. But you can't do this to yourself."
Minerva sniveled. "Oh, but I can and I am."
"No." Gently but firmly, Dumbledore cupped her face in his wizened hands, forcing her warm brown eyes to meet his own ice-blue ones. "You didn't kill Amelia Bones. He did. Minerva…" Dumbledore realized how aggressive he was being, and dropped his hands. "None of us have long left to live." Minerva nodded resolutely. "You and Madam Bones will meet again. Always remember that. But take that hurt, that anguish, and turn it into drive to save the rest of your loved ones."
Minerva sighed. "I'll never stop regretting, though."
Dumbledore smiled ruefully. "No, you won't." They sat quietly for a few seconds, listening to the rain. "And, for the record, I changed my password three days ago."
Minerva frowned for a second before the full impact of his words hit her; she stared at him with wide eyes. "Pumpkin Pasty! Oh, Albus, you should not have let me in," she scolded, but Dumbledore smiled and shrugged.
"I flatter myself that I can recognize a woman I've deeply admired for decades," he said smoothly.
Minerva seemed to be thinking to herself; she drew her knees up onto the couch as a child would. Dumbledore reclined, resting his head closer to hers. She did the same, hesitated; and then sealed her lips over his.
Dumbledore's synapses exploded; it took a second before he fully understood what was happening. He pushed gently on her shoulder and broke what felt like a suctioned seal. "Minerva, we can't!"
"Oh, hang convention," she said thickly. "We could die at any moment and it's been years, Albus," she whispered as she leant back in.
For a fraction of a second, he considered letting her go ahead so as not to embarrass her, but his unbearably truthful side won out in the end. "Minerva, please. I love you…"
"Oh, Albus, I love you too."
"…You're my best friend." Minerva started and opened her eyes. "My sister," he clarified.
He watched the turmoil in Minerva's eyes nervously. She seemed paralyzed, but snapped out of it quickly, reverting to the schoolmarm attitude never seen between the months of June and September. Briskly, she stood erect and straightened her traveling cloak and headscarf. "Good evening, Albus," she intoned, turning on her heel and starting towards the door. Dumbledore stood to follow her, mentally kicking himself.
"Minerva, stay and have a drink, you can't Apparate in this condition." She turned and cast a fiery eye over him. "I mean this weather condition," he amended. She shrugged.
"I hope I've had enough practice."
"Please, I'll put the kettle on right now." Seemingly to demonstrate his honest intentions, he waved his wand and set his kettle boiling, but Minerva opened the door anyway. She balked for a moment at the sight of the torrential rain pour, placing a hand on the doorframe and slouching, but she recovered quickly and marched into the storm.
"Good night, Professor," she spat, and by the time her back was once again towards the house she had vanished.
Dumbledore stood paralyzed for a second before the full impact of the encounter hit him. He was embarrassed; she hadn't seemed to have guessed his secret, but nevertheless, he felt stripped naked. Overpowering these fears, though, was his worry for Minerva. To Apparate in such weather was always dangerous, but they were in a war, and she would be arriving at an empty, isolated abode in the middle of a Scottish Highland moor; her reflexes were bound to be impaired due to her emotional state. He cursed himself one more time, then Summoned a scrap bit of parchment and a quill. He muttered as he wrote, his legendary loopy script spreading wide, and inkblots appearing over the page.
Minerva, I apologize and I am worried. Respond to this message immediately; if you don't do so within five minutes I will assume you are in trouble, and will be on my way to your home.
In less than a minute, Fawkes had departed with the letter, and Dumbledore sat heavily in his gaudy, squashy armchair, tensely counting the seconds. Just before five minutes had been spent, as Dumbledore was preparing to Apparate, Fawkes blazed back into the room, dropping the same piece of parchment onto Dumbledore's lap. The script was careful and the message curt:
Thank you for your concern. I am well.
The rest of the summer had been overwhelming. Dumbledore would walk into an Order of the Phoenix meeting; only to hear Minerva excuse herself, and her correspondence with him followed the same clipped pattern of her response to his frantic message. He looked forward to the last week of August, the week during which the teachers and staff arrived at Hogwarts to finalize their year-long plans and welcome any new staff members (there was always at least one); he was fully intending to corner Minerva and force her to listen to a proper explanation. How chancy that it was that week in which he was either working to unlock the enchantments surrounding the Horcrux of the Resurrection Stone, or he was recovering from his fatal encounter with Voldemort's soul fragment. Minerva had paid him only one "get-well" visit, during which her manner was as curt and icy as it had been all summer; yet he heard the tremor in her voice and saw it in her hands, and the realization of what his death would mean to his loved ones impacted him like a speeding Hogwarts Express.
Finally, late at night on the first day of term, Dumbledore gathered his courage and paid a visit to Minerva's quarters. As Headmaster, he reserved the authority to barge directly into her office; yet he knocked, and waited, as would a nervous student, for the deputy headmistress.
As soon as the office door had clicked open, Dumbledore stepped through it. "I was wondering if I might invite myself in for a cup of tea?" he quipped, smiling at Minerva in her formal Hogwarts robes and walking through her office to her living quarters. Flabbergasted, Minerva followed behind him, starting her kettle with a wave of her wand.
"Is there something I can help you with, Albus?" she asked tentatively.
"No, Minerva. I owe you an explanation."
Evidently, Minerva knew what the conversation would be about; her entire body slumped. "I don't believe you owe me a thing, Professor."
"Oh, but I do. But let us wait until the tea is ready, to eliminate the risk of being thrown from the room before I've had my drink." He sat back and smiled, although inwardly scoffing at how much of a cliché he had become. He attempted to hold a light conversation with Minerva until the tea whistled; then, he summoned them both cups. He sipped his gently, casting about for how to start. Finally, he took the plunge.
"Minerva, you must understand something about me." He set the teacup onto the table and clasped his hands on his lap, inexplicably nervous about what he was about to do. "We both know my expiry date, and it's not receding. You will be the first person I tell." He drew a deep breath and tried to look at her with confidence. "While I do love you, it's true that I am not romantically inclined towards you. In fact…" he added quickly, before she closed herself off completely, "I've never felt romantically inclined towards any woman, and I don't believe I ever will."
Minerva was frozen with humiliation, staring at her hands, but gradually she came to realize the meaning of Dumbledore's words. "Do you mean…? You are… You…"
"Yes, I believe we are on the same proverbial page," he said, trying a shaky smile.
"Albus, have you ever been in love?" she asked, her eyes wide.
"Yes," he responded testily.
"With a man?" she clarified.
"Yes, with a man." He sat tensely; still unsure of how he would be received. This was why he was so shocked to see Minerva laughing.
"Oh, I was so foolish. I was seventeen again," she chortled. But when she met his eyes, her own were filled with tears. "I've wasted all this time being embarrassed when I needn't have been at all."
Within seconds, the two best friends were locked in an embrace, silently pledging to hold true to each other until death parted them.
Right. I know that Dumbledore messed up his hand earlier in the summer, since he had the injury when he fetched Harry from the Dursley's. But, if I fixed that, imagine how detrimental it would be to my story! How could Minerva ever overcome herself if her best friend wasn't facing death?
I know it's realistically impossible to get as many reviews as I'd like on a Harry Potter fic because it's approximately half an hour or less before a new one gets pushed off the front page, but I do so love reviews.
I love them almost as much as I love you.
Curlz