Disclaimer: They are not mine. For ownership, please see one J.K. Rowling.
"Then you don't love me. You've lied!"
Albus reached out to touch her face, but Minerva reared back, slapping him away, her pounding heart causing the still fresh wound on her temple to bleed. It had only been three days since Grindlewald fell; even with magic, wounds didn't heal overnight. His eyes flashed with pain, his hand retracting slowly, his fingers curling in on themselves, wrapping around an invisible lock of her hair. "I've loved you from the moment you said my name."
Minerva shook her head, ignoring the clenching of her stomach and the pounding in her ears. She wanted to smack him, make him hurt, but he stood there, tall and solid in his blue dressing gown and a bandage over his shoulder. He had almost lost the arm. He still smelled like cedar. "What do you want from me? You don't love me! You don't cast off someone, don't throw them aside, if you care about them."
"That's exactly why you have to go. We could be together for decades, skulking in the shadows or basking in the glow of day. But one day will come when you look back on your life and realize what you've missed by being with me, the anniversaries missed because I've been called to the Ministry, dinners because of paperwork. You will hate me for it. I'm getting old and I'm dangerous, Minerva; it's not a promising life. I want you to be happy, love, and I won't be the one to make you so. I will love you until my last breath and ache every moment until then, but I will let you go if it means you can have the life you deserve, then I do it gladly and with joy."
She turned on him, her blue robes flicking across her heels, as she headed for the door of his summer home. It was supposed to be their home. A strand of hair flicked into her eyes, making them sting before she brushed it away. The doorknob was cold in her hand and her shoulders ached with tension. The air was stifling. "Then be joyful, Albus, be joyful for us both. Your heart is my home, but I have been sent to wander through the mist. Be joyful for us both; I'm forgetting how." The door clicked behind her; it was done. He no longer stood tall.
Minerva blinked, her eyes refocusing on the man standing before her. He was kind, generous, strong. He was a good man. He was the wrong man. "Thomas, I'm sorry."
His brown eyes plead as he reached out to her, his hands straining. "You can't leave; I love you! I want you with me."
She reached out and ran her thumb over the small scar beside his mouth an attempt at muggle-style shaving gone wrong. Thomas had been there when she was lost and loved her almost as long. He could make her laugh, make her smile. "And that's why I have to go. I don't love you, Thomas; I never could. You've always known. I could be content by your side, but never happy. Let me go."
He shook his head, grasping her wrist. His hand trembled and his grip tightened. "I can't let you go; please, don't go."
She pulled her hand back, squeezing his as it passed. His hands were thick and rough from the harvest. He smelled of earth and hay. "Then you do not love me."
She arrived a moment before the thunder struck and was soaked to the bone before it settled. The wind howled around her, the trees groaned, but the small cottage seemed to hide in shadows of the lightening. The July heat was stifling around her, the cool rain providing little comfort. Her cloak was heavy on her shoulders with the water. She pounded three times. Another bolt, only a flash, before the rumble and another source of light washed over her.
He was tall and solid in his blue dressing gown. She watched as his eyes darkened to match the night sky and gloss with tears. They escaped as easily as her own and his mustache shook with the quiver of his jaw.
She was a mess; soaked and covered in mud from the walk. Tired. "I've wandered, but the mists are cold. I just want to come home."
A noise she had never heard before escaped him and he seemed to collapse in on himself, looking more real than she had ever seen. She was a mess; soaked and covered in mud. He stepped aside and let her pass. The door closed, his fingers grasped her cloak. She was home.