Chapter 3: Trading Confidences
The letter fell from her hand, unnoticed by her as she sat heavily in her chair, staring disbelievingly at the wall. She could feel her teacher's mask cracking, her eyes beginning to water. Her gaze shifted down to her lap, then to the floor where the letter had innocuously fallen. With a sudden urgency she reached down and snatched it up, rereading it as though that would change the message.
Dougal McGregor was married now.
Minerva tossed the paper onto her desk, put her face in her hands, her elbows on her knees, and let her tears fall. She tried to push back the memories, but they were coming as freely as her tears. Then she heard a soft cough, which made her look up to find the headmaster watching her with concern.
"Are you all right, dear?" he asked, a sense of worry permeating his words.
His voice quickly roused her from her seat, hurriedly wiping away her tears, "Professor Dumbledore, I didn't hear you come in, my apologies." She noticed her hat on the floor, having fallen off the desk with her sudden change in position, and quickly bent down to retrieve it before forcing a small smile of welcome onto her face. "Was there something you needed?"
"Minerva, you've been here for over a year now, and as I've been telling you the whole while, please, call me Albus," he said kindly before adding, "And I believe the real question is if there is anything you need."
She sat down, her legs seemingly unable to support her any longer, "I'm fine, there's nothing the matter, nothing to worry about. Truly, I'm fine," she responded unconvincingly.
He sat down opposite her desk as he returned, "Your tear-stained cheeks tell a different story, my dear, which leads me to conclude that you are most definitely not fine."
She stared at him, uncertain if she should continue. He was her boss after all and may think her an inane individual for crying over a boy she had purposely put aside a few years ago to be where she was now. Seeing the concern in his eyes, she was reminded of all the times she had come to him as a student looking for help with homework or consolation after a poor Quidditch game or an even poorer practice, and soon found herself divulging the whole story to him. Even the trip through the forest following will o' the wisps, which she suddenly thought ludicrous and figured he would think her mad. Her tale was colored throughout with self-doubt and regrets.
At the end of her spiel detailing the last four or so years, she watched him apprehensively and concluded, "I don't know if I made a mistake. I loved him, and would have spent the rest of my life with him, but I didn't want to lie and lock away my wand. I thought he felt the same, but now he's married. I couldn't have made the right choice otherwise I wouldn't feel like this. I was wrong, wasn't I?" The tears welled in her eyes, beginning to fall down her cheeks once more as she waited for his verdict. Minerva felt like a student again, waiting for him to provide solace or to right her wrongs. Her focus was so fully on him that she hadn't even noticed that the letter, the cause of her consternation, had fallen to the floor a second time during her cathartic speech.
Albus paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts together and seemed to weigh his words carefully before he began, "Never doubt this: you made your decision. It was not the will o' the wisps; they merely showed you the truth and gave you the courage to follow through. They also provided a scapegoat if you turned out to be wrong. You ran into the forest crying because you were scared. But you were not afraid of the difficult choice you had to make. You were frightened by how easy it was to make that choice." He sat back in his chair, settling his hands on her desk before continuing, "Remember what I said a few years back, Minerva? The animagus speaks true. You are undeniably a cat; your very nature is feline. Cats are proud and never deign to suffer a fool. But most prominent is their independence. They will give their loyalties to only those who earn it, but they will never give ownership. Locking away your wand and living as a muggle would have been tantamount to giving ownership, giving away your freedom. Magic was truly your only choice; it asked only for your loyalty. If you married Dougal, you would not have been happy, and neither would he for he would have found that he married a different young woman. That bright, witty woman he fell in love with would more likely than not become a bitter woman, mourning her clipped wings and wanting to fly again. You will have your doubts, of that I'm sure, but promise me, Minerva. Promise me that you will never regret it. Promise me that even when it seems as though magic has given you nothing but grief, that you will soar through the heavens and never cage yourself with regrets."
She had been watching him earnestly for his whole speech, her tears forgotten and once again his student, "Am I a cat or a bird, Professor? They are both two very different things, conflicting natures. They're enemies, for Merlin's sake."
He leaned towards her with a smile on his face, "Enemies they may be, but they both want the same thing: their freedom. And as the air is for the birds, and the underbrush for the cats, so is magic for you. You chose freedom, never regret that you didn't choose the cage."
Minerva looked down towards her lap, watching her hands as they kneaded one of the folds of her teacher's robe. Her words came out haltingly, unsure, almost as though she were embarrassed, "Albus . . . why does it matter to you so much?"
She glanced up quickly to see his reaction, but couldn't seem to tear away her gaze once she saw his face. He looked at her with an expression of worry mixed with surprise, "Is it so shocking that I care about you? You were always one of my brightest students, so adept at Transfiguration, and always ready for every lesson." His eyes almost seemed to shine with memories as a small smile formed, "Many wanted to become animagi, but you were the only one whose desire grew after realizing how much work it would take. You relished the challenge as much as you enjoyed the success; there aren't very many people like that, and more's the pity. I knew you would go far." He amended his statement with a proud smile, "I know you will go far. I do not want to see your progress stunted by worry over the path not taken. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live." He sat back once more; his voice seemed to become weary, "I need not remind you, Minerva, that I am an old man. I lived a full life before you were born. Believe me when I say that I know the sorrows of the path not taken. It does not matter whether the sorrow is deserved, it still haunts me. But I do not let it burden me; I turn it into a strength. It reminds me to know my path, and that whatever I choose I will stay with it no matter the consequences. It is my path; I chose it so I will accept it."
Minerva felt as though this was the discussion, the moment, that would decide if they had moved past the stage of professor and student, mentor and protégée, and be actual equals. When she asked for a teaching position and was granted it mere hours after she sent the owl, she had known they would be colleagues but didn't feel as though they would be on equal footing. Now it seemed as though the time had come, almost two years later, to see if it was time to take the step up to level ground. And it all rode on whether or not he would answer her simple yet deeply personal question.
"Prof—Albus, what, what was your crossroad? What did you have to choose?" she stammered with uncharacteristic nerves. Minerva watched him, fearful that she was out of bounds.
He gave her a sad smile, "Between love and family," and told her of a summer long ago that was astonishingly happy as he basked in the shared brilliance of his new friend and a better future before it provided heartbreak to most of those involved, tore his family asunder, and ultimately led to a reign of terror across Europe that only he could stop though he was afraid of what he would find.
"I- I am so sorry, Albus," she said with fresh tears on her cheeks. "I can't even comprehend . . . the, the strength it must have taken for you to, to do all of that."
"I am not that strong, my dear, not as strong as you," seeing her shocked expression he expanded his thought, "I was not strong enough to realize what Grindelwald truly was; I denied the truth that was staring me in the face. It took my brother, who was never seen as particularly bright, and the death of my sister for me to see the truth. That is not strength. Strength is looking at the situation and preventing love from clouding your judgment. Strength is choosing the path that is best for you, not the one that feeds your arrogance. Of the two of us, Minerva, you are most assuredly the stronger."
Her blush colored her cheeks, "My choice wasn't as important, Albus."
"It may not seem as though your decision was on the same scale as mine, my need to feel brilliant one summer had a hand in starting a wizarding war, but never doubt its significance," he stated seriously then continued in a more cheery tone, "Now, I find that a friendly chess game tends to alleviate my dour moods. Would you care for a match in my rooms? I haven't had a decent opponent in a long while."
His blue eyes seemed to twinkle with the promise of an exciting game and maybe many more to come, and an unexpected sense of déjà vu seemed to come over her, causing her throat to constrict. His eyes seemed hauntingly familiar. With sudden clarity she could picture the will o' the wisps in the forest that twinkled like stars in the night sky and Albus' eyes. She also realized that she had been staring at him for the past ten seconds having an epiphany while he sat there waiting for her answer.
"Yes, I would love to, thank you," her blush returning though not as deeply as before.
He stood and proffered his arm to her, wearing a seemingly knowing smile, and with a shy smile she took it, not for the first time feeling as though he could read her thoughts. They left her classroom to his private rooms for a pleasant game of chess that was only interrupted by dinner and was resumed late into the night. The letter lay forgotten underneath her desk not to be found until the end of the year when she promptly threw it out.