AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this for my friend Miranda's birthday; she wanted a fic about Albus and Minerva getting closer. :D !POTTERMORE SPOILERS! If you haven't been on Pottermore yet or have not yet spoiled Minerva McGonagall's backstory for yourself, I highly recommend stopping right now and turning away!
The owl swooped gently to my side, and I released its letter as I took another sip of pumpkin juice.
"Another letter from home, Minerva?" I started at his sudden interest, snapping my head up to his far-away position in the center of the table. He smiled kindly, and his voice would've been softer if he hadn't had to call over our coworkers between us. "They must miss you terribly."
I could only nod awkwardly, adding not quite loudly enough, "Yes, I suppose so." Another smile before the Headmaster stood from his breakfast, bowing us all goodbye and departing from the Great Hall. Rather quickly, I followed suit, absently placing the tiny, folded parchment into my pocket.
The day passed like any other, and I fought off a headache as I collected together the essays that still needed to be graded. The activity kept me busy well into the night, and my eyes were pulling themselves shut when I finally reached the last. I sighed with glorious relief, and leaned back in my chair, but a rustling sound surprised me.
Oh! Of course! My letter. And with a grin rather in spite of myself, I once more took the envelope and undid it easily.
My mother's cursive was a balm to my weary eyes, but the content did not help my headache: "And would you believe Mary's about to take in lodgers!" one paragraph began. I groaned. Just another gossip letter.
My fingers tightened around the sides, anxious to crumple, but a familiar slant of letters caught my eye, and immediately I smoothed the paper against my hands to make it flat again.
"Remember that boy who always hung around the house, Dougal McGregor? He's married now! To the eldest of the family that moved into the old MacDonnel's—the Fishers? Their daughter, Lila. She's sweet, but rather a dull thing."
The letter continued with the unrelated topic of the market fair, and our profits in it, but I couldn't concentrate. My eyes only flickered up to his name.
Dougal McGregor.
-a flash of dark hair, blue eyes
Dougal.
-another flash of a wide smile, an easy laugh
Married.
Married.
-sunset, ploughed field, the boy on one knee.
-no ring, but a question
-Minerva
-the sound of my name on his tongue
-Will you be my wife?
-a promise
-I swear to love you till the end of my days if you say yes.
-a kiss on the back of my hand, the hand he'd taken after he kneeled.
-I swear to care for you, to support you for the rest of our lives.
-a light-hearted grin on that playful face
-If you turn me down, Minerva, you'll break my heart. I don't know if I'll ever be able to move from this spot unless and until you accept me.
-my own laughter at his stubbornness, a laughter which turned into tears, which turned into a whisper
-Yes, a thousand times yes, Dougal.
-and a kiss that lasted for eternity
No. I didn't want to remember this. But my memory refused to stop.
-his face, so relieved, illuminated by the falling sun
-his palm and my palm together, our finger intertwining
-I love you.
-I love you too.
All the things I'd tried to suppress, flooding my brain.
-moonlight seeping through my lonely bedroom window
-I can't.
-the thought of the steely silences at dinner during childhood
-I can't do this.
-the image of his face when I would tell him, when our child could do things others couldn't
-I can't do this to him.
-my mother's envy when I'd come home from Diagon Alley with my wand: the expression of a woman aching for freedom
-I can't do this to me.
The tears streamed down my cheeks too quickly for my trembling wrists to wipe away.
-the excitement on his face when I appeared on his doorstep early the next morning
-I'm sorry, Dougal—but I can't. I can't marry you.
-his desperate eyes
-I've got a job offer—in London. I have—I have to take it.
-the desperation turned to fury
-You're turning me down for a job?
-the pleading motions of my hands
-I'm sorry—Dougal!
-and I almost tell him the truth00I'm moments from it—but he cuts me off
-You always have been ambitious, Minerva.
-the fury cools in his face
-But I never thought it would make you heartless.
-a door closed in my face
And now he was married, married to a woman he couldn't have known for six months. Married in such a short span of time that it was as if he'd forgotten me.
That was it, plain and simple: he had forgotten me, and forgotten our summer days of bliss where we'd pledged to love no one else.
The letter was a tearstained, crumpled mess in my hands, tearing slightly as my fingers crushed it tighter and tighter, sobs wracking through me, uncontrollable.
A soft knock on my door, the soft call of "Minerva?" and I was in his thin and narrow arms.
"No! No!" I called out from my sobs, sniffling and gasping ridiculously as I tried to push him away. "I'm fine. I'm—really—fine."
But he reacted to my resistance by holding me even closer, his long fingers clutching at my forearm and stroking my back. "Shh, Minerva, shh." His face was pressed against my hair, and the caress of my name on his voice, so close to my ear, relaxed me; I let him hold me, my tears dampening the place on his robe where I had buried my face. The letter, now a destroyed mess, fell from my hands.
It took several minutes for my obnoxious sobs to quiet, but he held me all the tighter for it; by the time I could take regular—if shaky—breaths, he conjured a seat for himself, handed me his handkerchief, and took my free hand as the other mopped my face.
He said nothing, but his eyes were always on me, though I constantly stared at my first row of desks. I knew he was waiting for me to volunteer something, but I couldn't—I didn't trust my voice.
"Was it the letter from home?" His voice was so soft, so gentle, and so blessedly familiar. I nodded. "Is someone ill, would you like some time off?" Violently I shook my head. "Then what is it?"
"My—I—" They were semi-guttural noises that came from my throat, and I paused to collect myself. "It's—it's really—nothing."
He smiled. "You know that won't make me go away."
Another shudder and a sob. "I know." And a faint laugh. "The boy I loved—he's—he married someone." More uncontrollable tears.
His hand stroked my back. "Do you know," he began slowly, his voice so solemn, so calm and clear to make sure I wouldn't lose a sound, "the only person I was ever truly in love with, I nearly killed?"
It startled me so harshly that it stopped my tears, stopped the shakiness of my breath. "What?"
His smile was so filled with pain as he studied my face, brushing a loose lock of hair behind my ear. "We've known each other for so long, but we know so little about each other, don't we? I suppose now is as good a time to start as any other, eh?"