Author: Saint Potter
Rating: K
Category: Angst/ Romance
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns everything. No money is being made.
Summary: I tried to portray the way Albus Dumbledore would grief about the loss of Sirius. It is writtenthrough the eyes of Minerva McGonagall. A missing scene in OotP-> Major Spoilers.
The Tears of Those Left Behind
She was frustrated.
Walking as quickly as she could and not getting anywhere had this special effect on her.
Why in Merlin's Name did she not take the walking stick with her?
Of course she knew the answer but decided not to think about it. And who could blame her? After two weeks in St. Mungos, her arrival back at Hogwarts had been her first possibility to lay down the stick that in her opinion hindered more than it used, and walk freely again.
One could not call this freely though, Minerva thought angrily as once again a student came to her and asked worriedly if he could help. In fact she was walking so slowly that the children passed her every other second, casting curious glances at her.
It was discriminating.
Umbridge, the reason for this embarrassing performance, could call herself lucky that she wasn't within her reach. And Albus whom she was searching right now better was in his office, because she wasn't up for another round in the castle. With or without walking stick.
Finally reaching her destination she quickly spoke the password and gladly let herself spiral upwards. She sighed when she found the Headmasters' office empty. The desk was laden with parchments, files and loose pieces of parchments; the silver instruments glowed in the warm evening sun.
"Professor McGonagall, it is good to have you back," said a deep and familiar voice.
She turned around to see Professor Dippet smiling at her from his portrait. The others nodded their greetings.
"Thank you, Armando. Do you by chance know where I can find the Headmaster?"
"He has gone into his private quarters," squeaked the portrait of Elizia Wuritz, a small stout woman with noticeable huge ears. "But he is not to be disturbed."
Minerva furrowed her eyebrows. "Did he say why he withdrew?"
"No he didn't. I guess the events of the last days finally got to him," Armando replied with a sad sigh.
She had heard the news in St. Mungos. Healers and patients had talked excitedly about Harry Potter who had once again faced You-know-Who and survived, about the appearance of You-Know- Who in the Ministry of Magic and the battle that took place.
How all of this was connected and how in Merlin's name Potter had got himself into trouble again was beyond her, hence her desperate wish to talk with Albus about the recent happenings.
"I better go looking for him," Minerva said and slowly made her way up the small staircase, ignoring the disapproval of the former Headmasters and –mistresses around the room. Luckily they had no right to stop her, as she was the Deputy Headmistress with the permission to over pass anyone except the Headmaster himself.
Shutting the door behind her, the angry voices were immediately shut out. Another spiralling staircase was in front of her, which on her order set into motion and let her to the private quarter of Albus Dumbledore.
After having knocked three times and not getting an answer she let herself in, faintly surprised to find the door open.
In front of her stretched the semicircle living room, containing a huge fireplace, two couches and several chairs that stood around it. On the other side, on a slightly higher level was the library with all the books that didn't fit into Albus office. They still filled six bookshelves that extended from the ground to the ceiling and seemed helplessly overstuffed. The little windows normally prominent in a castle tower had been replaced with huge glass fronts that captured the sunlight and sent the whole room into a glow.
Minerva still knew what her thoughts were as she set foot into these quarters for the first time. It certainly was worth becoming Headmistress.
She had just opened her mouth to call out for Albus, when she spotted him on the other end of the room, sitting on the couch. A bottle with golden liquid -Fire-whiskey she assumed- and a glass stood on the table before him, four third of it still full. The glasses of his half moon spectacles that lay beside reflected the last sunlight of the day. Albus sat his head in his hands, slouched on the couch and starred into the cold fireplace.
"Albus?" She called, wondering what it was that justified him drinking something stronger than wine.
He spun around in his seat, quickly fixing her with his eyes. Eyes that she noticed held tears.
Silence descended around them, filling the room with an uncomfortable tension.
He is crying. Minerva needed a moment to realize. In all their years as friends and colleagues she had never seen him shed a tear. Although it was only natural, she had never actually thought him able to. He was the great Albus Dumbeldore after all, her mentor, the personification of calm and control. Seeing him sitting there in front of her looking utterly miserable and crying ever so slightly made her feel out of place, like an intruder who witnessed something very personal.
"Minerva," he exclaimed in a faked cheerful tone, quickly blinking away the tears. "Welcome back-" His voice quivered, he pressed his lips together in order to hold back what was to come.
Minerva could literally feel the struggle that took place inside of him: his need to cry battled against his will not to be weak. Never had she seen him so completely lost.
The first tear left his eye and slid down into his white beard.
Impulsively, and as fast as she could manage, she moved across the room and kneeled before him, looking up into his grief stricken face. Albus tried to turn away from her. She stopped him by gently taking his chin into her hand and making him face her. His eyes were closed, one single tear hung in his auburn eyelashes, threatening to roll down his face. Minerva fought the lump that formed in her throat.
"Albus, what is it?" She whispered frantically. "Please talk to me. What had happened?"
He opened his eyes, and revealed his deep poles of blue. Those eyes which she had often accused of seeing right through her were now looking at her through a curtain, shadowed with the intensity of his sadness.
"I killed him, Minerva," his voice was hoarse.
Her eyebrows shoot up. "Who do you think you killed?"
Another tear followed, this time leaving a visible path. "Sirius."
Minervas eyes went wide and her free hand went up to her mouth. What was he talking about? "How-"
"I made a mistake, Minerva. You have to understand that I didn't want to, but I knew of the consequences and-" his voice left him, tears were flowing freely now.
"Shh, Albus," she tried to sooth him by caressing his cheek with her hand. "I know you would never kill a person willingly."
"I should have told Harry-"he whispered, and nodded vigorously. He leaned his head against her hand, enjoying the warm sensation and his mimic relaxed for one single moment.
Then a new wave of tears came over him, and his face distorted in agony.
Tears welled up in her eyes and Minerva took him into her arms and rubbed his back. Albus buried his face in her neck and cried on for a long time.
Despite her sadness, Minerva was astonished at the way Albus grieved. No sob escaped him; he was completely silent. His body leaned heavy against her but was completely still. If his tears weren't trailing down her neck, she wouldn't know that he was crying at all.
"You should go, Minerva," he mumbled finally. She could feel his lips working against her sensitive skin. It sent shivers through her body.
He suddenly looked up at her, a worried look gracing his features. "You are cold. Come here." He produces a blanket and carefully draped it over her shoulder and with a surprising strength pulled her up onto the couch.
An urge stronger than anything she had felt before rose in her chest. She wanted to sooth him, to make him feel better, anything that would take away his tears.
But she didn't know how.
In fact she felt insecure. Like a sixteen year old teenager that stood at a crossing, wondering what path was the right one. What would be the consequences if she took the wrong one? When she was this age, Minerva always had refused to accept the given possibilities and had solved such decisions by making up a third path; a path that ran in between the other two.
For one short moment she studied his face. His eyes were brighter than she had ever seen them before. The paths the tears had created glinted on his cheeks, before Minerva's hand, seemingly taking a life of its own, came up and wiped it away.
Slowly she sunk into his arms, pressing him flat onto the couch. She nestled in between his legs, and laid her face against his chest. Arms sneaked underneath the blanket and circled her, holding her tightly.
Taking a deep breath she snuggled into the blanket. His scent –a mix of chocolate, tea and sandalwood- invaded her senses and made her feel warm and safe. The steady heartbeat and the raising and falling of his chest reminded her how long it had been since she had the luxury of a warm body next to her.
Neither spoke a word, neither moved, but both enjoyed the warmth and comfort of the other while they tried to come to term with the unnecessary loss of a former student and friend.
My first story. What do you think?