Minerva McGonagalll threw down her quill in disgust. She could not write more than she already had. She could not; and this was a strange, new experience to her. She had always had too much in her head to write down, like an over-filled bucket of letters, of words of apology, of words of accusation…
Now her words were just all spent.
As she leant her head on her slender, pale hand, she almost smiled as she noticed the pile of letters, neatly lying on a reserved corner of her desk. But it was a wry smile, and she knew it. How many letters had she written, after all, how many words had she spilt on her daughter?
Thousands.
And how many of them had she sent?
None.
She couldn't do it. Every time, every single time- in the glorious days when she could at least still fool herself and pretend to really plan on sending them- she decided she just couldn't. Sometimes she muttered she hadn't got a right to, sometimes she yelled her daughter did not deserve it. But never did she send one of those now yellowish, folded pieces of parchments to their natural recipient.
With a sigh, almost a groan, Minerva covered her ears with her hands and started reading out loud, again, the words she had for about the thousandth time entrusted to the parchment.
"Belle,
I am sorry. I am so terribly, terribly sorry. I shouldn't have run away, I should not have left you, but I have and what yet can I do? I don't agree with the path of life you have chosen, but it was inevitable and I even understand- I as well have once loved your father. I still do.
But really, Belle, after all those years, I just want to spread my arms and just once hold my daughter tight again. I-"
Here a huge tear stain had made her ink unreadable, but Minerva did not care. She reached out her hand and hesitated. She did not tear the letter into pieces, though. With a sudden tender gesture, her thin finger folded it and added it to the pile. There.
But how many more, she pondered bitterly, letters will I have to add to that pile?
For forty years she had been writing them… for heaven's sake, when she started writing letters to her daughter, the child had probably not even been able to speak, let alone read! But it had helped her. In a way, it really had. Or perhaps it hadn't. Because every letter had taken a bit of her burden away, but had also weighed on her heart almost as happy as the burden had.
As she shook her head, she took one of her large, tartan handkerchiefs and blew her nose.
It was all the same, anyway.
But she burst into tears without even knowing exactly why or what for.
It was not the same.
Only minutes, perhaps hours later, a soft knock on her door made her look up.
"Minerva?"
Despite herself, Minerva McGonagall smiled.
"Come in, Albus."
She loved Albus. She adored Albus. She worshipped Albus with every fibre of her being.
She had loved him since she'd been seventeen. He had come to teach at Hogwarts in her 7th year, and when blue eyes linked with green ones…
She had loved him and he had loved her since that very moment.
Then, Tom had come and she had fallen in love like only a teenager could. Entirely. She had seen the darkness in him, he had been a Slytherin, but she had never given a damn. He was Tom and he was hers. Eighteen had she been when she'd ran away with him. Twenty had she been when she'd ran away from him. She remembered every single moment, every second of those two, wonderful and yet horrible years of glorious madness. She had seen him be corrupted and right when she'd decided, finally, finally gathered the strange to decide to leave him… she had found out the mere fact that had scarred her life forever.
She, Minerva McGonagall, was carrying Lord Voldemort's child under her heart.
And suddenly, she could not run away anymore. She had to stay, she had to give Tom the heir he had hoped for. Her love was already strong enough to grant him that child he'd wanted for so long. Her hate was already strong enough to both leave her child and his father.
Because it would be a he, wouldn't it? A Heir to Lord Voldemort, a Tom junior, a child to inherit his Slytherin slyness and her bright Gryffindor intelligence. Who would inherit his pronounced cheekbones and her green eyes.
And then Bellatrix had came.
The child had inherited his Slytherin slyness and her bright Gryffindor intelligence, his pronounced cheekbones and her green eyes.
But it was only one mere detail that really mattered to him.
It had been a girl.
One, hard slap, right into her face she had received.
One, hard slap had made her make the decision she knew she had to make.
Now her words were just all spent.
As she leant her head on her slender, pale hand, she almost smiled as she noticed the pile of letters, neatly lying on a reserved corner of her desk. But it was a wry smile, and she knew it. How many letters had she written, after all, how many words had she spilt on her daughter?
Thousands.
And how many of them had she sent?
None.
She couldn't do it. Every time, every single time- in the glorious days when she could at least still fool herself and pretend to really plan on sending them- she decided she just couldn't. Sometimes she muttered she hadn't got a right to, sometimes she yelled her daughter did not deserve it. But never did she send one of those now yellowish, folded pieces of parchments to their natural recipient.
With a sigh, almost a groan, Minerva covered her ears with her hands and started reading out loud, again, the words she had for about the thousandth time entrusted to the parchment.
"Belle,
I am sorry. I am so terribly, terribly sorry. I shouldn't have run away, I should not have left you, but I have and what yet can I do? I don't agree with the path of life you have chosen, but it was inevitable and I even understand- I as well have once loved your father. I still do.
But really, Belle, after all those years, I just want to spread my arms and just once hold my daughter tight again. I-"
Here a huge tear stain had made her ink unreadable, but Minerva did not care. She reached out her hand and hesitated. She did not tear the letter into pieces, though. With a sudden tender gesture, her thin finger folded it and added it to the pile. There.
But how many more, she pondered bitterly, letters will I have to add to that pile?
For forty years she had been writing them… for heaven's sake, when she started writing letters to her daughter, the child had probably not even been able to speak, let alone read! But it had helped her. In a way, it really had. Or perhaps it hadn't. Because every letter had taken a bit of her burden away, but had also weighed on her heart almost as happy as the burden had.
As she shook her head, she took one of her large, tartan handkerchiefs and blew her nose.
It was all the same, anyway.
But she burst into tears without even knowing exactly why or what for.
It was not the same.
Only minutes, perhaps hours later, a soft knock on her door made her look up.
"Minerva?"
Despite herself, Minerva McGonagall smiled.
"Come in, Albus."
She loved Albus. She adored Albus. She worshipped Albus with every fibre of her being.
She had loved him since she'd been seventeen. He had come to teach at Hogwarts in her 7th year, and when blue eyes linked with green ones…
She had loved him and he had loved her since that very moment.
Then, Tom had come and she had fallen in love like only a teenager could. Entirely. She had seen the darkness in him, he had been a Slytherin, but she had never given a damn. He was Tom and he was hers. Eighteen had she been when she'd ran away with him. Twenty had she been when she'd ran away from him. She remembered every single moment, every second of those two, wonderful and yet horrible years of glorious madness. She had seen him be corrupted and right when she'd decided, finally, finally gathered the strange to decide to leave him… she had found out the mere fact that had scarred her life forever.
She, Minerva McGonagall, was carrying Lord Voldemort's child under her heart.
And suddenly, she could not run away anymore. She had to stay, she had to give Tom the heir he had hoped for. Her love was already strong enough to grant him that child he'd wanted for so long. Her hate was already strong enough to both leave her child and his father.
Because it would be a he, wouldn't it? A Heir to Lord Voldemort, a Tom junior, a child to inherit his Slytherin slyness and her bright Gryffindor intelligence. Who would inherit his pronounced cheekbones and her green eyes.
And then Bellatrix had came.
The child had inherited his Slytherin slyness and her bright Gryffindor intelligence, his pronounced cheekbones and her green eyes.
But it was only one mere detail that really mattered to him.
It had been a girl.
One, hard slap, right into her face she had received.
One, hard slap had made her make the decision she knew she had to make.