Wish

July 1978
About three months later

Minerva sat at the staffroom table rolling her quill between her fingers. She could not concentrate. The final lesson of the day had ended half an hour ago and the tedious agendas in the afternoon staff meeting were certainly not enrapturing.

Her day had not started off well as it was. She had been jolted awake by a nasty twinge across the long, red and whitening scar on her back, which had made her back arch and her eyes water with pain. Then, throughout the morning, the other scars had decided to join in the little game of torture and had stabbed across her skin at consecutive intervals for the rest of the day.

This ceaseless, not to mention painful, nuisance had put her in a fabulously irritable mood and she noticed that the staff as well as the students had been giving her a wide berth; a reaction all too familiar since her return to the school. Dumbledore and Minerva's secrecy and apparent disregard of the nature of their visit to St. Mungo's had put the staff in a state of discomfort and unease. They were either too nervous to be around them or else hurt that neither Dumbledore nor Minerva were confiding in them.

The final bell came as something of a relief to both Minerva and her students and the one thing that Minerva had been trying to prevent herself from thinking about all day was the only thing her mind would rest on – it had been four months; four whole months since she had awoken from the trauma of the Disunion.

As she sat at the table in the staffroom, staring through the parchment upon it, she kept playing the events of the few weeks after she had regained consciousness over and over in her mind.

She had seen Dumbledore barely twice more during her stay at St. Mungo's. It had been Horendus who had given her the information she had wanted to know. He had informed her that the project was closed, though whether or not Minerva believed him was an altogether different matter – he had asked an awful lot questions on behalf of said 'completed' project. Minerva despised his dishonesty. He had shown his lack of morality simply by creating the project in the first place.

Horendus' last visit to her had come as something of a surprise when he burst through the door, his eyes wide and his face burning red beneath his long black hair and beard.

"You have not been honest with me, Professor McGonagall!" he had raged. Minerva had looked calmly up at him, though her surprise at his abrupt entrance was present in the racing of her heart.

She had remained silent while Horendus had marched to her bedside looking as though his head was about to zoom off his neck.

"You told me that productum intumesco had taken place."

Minerva frowned at him.

"It had," she had replied in her usual whisper.

"Yes, I know that!" Horendus had said with biting impatience. "But after, after," he continued. "What happened then? You failed to mention that rather gigantic detail."

Minerva had felt her irritation rise. How dare he speak to her like that when it was he who had caused this disaster in the first place? Created it. He looked wild, mad even, quite unlike his usual self.

"I was in rather a hurry when I spoke to you at the Ministry, in case you fail to remember," she had replied coldly. "Or have the events of that night completely evaporated from your mind? I assure you they are not leaving my memory any time soon."

Was it a pang of guilt she had witnessed in his eyes? Whatever it was it had past quickly.

"Listen," he had replied, far too venomously for Minerva's liking. She had glared at him dangerously, causing Horendus to stumble in the progression of his speech. She looked away from him after a few seconds, allowing him time to recover himself, and he was much calmer when he spoke next.

"I've just spoken to Dumbledore," he had said. "Something happened to you after productum intumesco occurred, didn't it?"

Minerva had thought back to that night, to the short moments in the Hogwarts grounds after productum intumesco. It was not easy to forget it. The fear on Poppy Pomphrey's face was still a vivid image in her mind. The encroaching blackness and silence that had then surrounded and finally encompassed Minerva and Dumbledore had been terrifying.

She had recollected Dumbledore's calm words to Poppy, telling her there was nothing to be afraid of, and she had remembered how Dumbledore's figure had slowly reappeared out of the total darkness that had encased them. He had been calm, but that was before the pain had hit them both. It had felt as though someone was wringing out her chest with fingers sharp as knives. Then her throat had constricted so that no air could break through.

Dumbledore's touch had saved them both that night. A touch that had meant far more then than it did now, in so many ways. But then he had disappeared – absorbed into the blackness that had entombed them. She had lost her grip on him.

Then there was Poppy's account of the incident. Why had it been so completely different to what Minerva and Dumbledore had seen? She had described droplets from their eyes, black – the colour of doxycide, she had said – floating between them; Dumbledore's tears drifting into Minerva's eyes and hers into his. Neither Dumbledore nor Minerva had been able to recollect any of this.

But why should Horendus mention it now? she had thought.

"I thought that that was just a part of productum intumesco that you had not predicted," Minerva had replied, confused. That was what Dumbledore had assumed anyway. But then again, that was before either of them knew that Horendus had created productum intumesco as the Department of Mystery's warning signal. Horendus ignored her.

"I understand that it was witnessed by another; Pompey… Pom… Pom… something, no matter, who saw differently to what you and Dumbledore claim happened, is that correct?"

The way he talked to her and the way he spoke about Poppy had rankled Minerva. He had even dared to speak to her of Dumbledore; something she thought outrageously distasteful given the matter of the project.

She had given him a curt nod as if daring him to insult her further. It had hurt her neck but she bared it no mind. She was furious with the man who stood before her.

"And what she saw she claimed to be some black substance passing between the two of you?" Horendus had continued.

Another nod. Minerva had winced that time and was furious with herself. Horendus, on the other hand, had clapped his hands together and a sudden mad burst of laughter had erupted from his lips.

That was it; nothing more. He had not said a word after that and had left the room abruptly.

Since that time, no one had been able to locate him, not even Dumbledore who was just as frustrated and in the dark about Horendus' behaviour as Minerva was. And now not a soul knew where Horendus was. Minerva did have her suspicions, though – Kalypto was still missing too.

The ink from Minerva's quill dripped and blotted onto her piece of parchment that rested on the staffroom table, but it went unnoticed by Minerva. She was still absorbed in her thoughts. The past few months had been strange and indistinct. She and Dumbledore had led divided lives with all the memories of a united one. The awkwardness had gradually faded and been replaced with pleasant silences in which they could both work undistracted.

But something had been creeping up on them silently, barely discernible. Minerva had felt it stir inside of her, moving gradually into her conscious mind only in the last few days until she had become fully aware of its presence. It felt as though something had been left undone, like the feeling that occurs when you leave a place thinking you have left something behind which you desperately need, but cannot for the life of you think what it could be.

"What do you think, Minerva?"

She heard the words, but only vaguely. They past her ears but seemed to bypass her brain. She continued to unconsciously roll the quill between her fingers, her mind still playing over the last few months of her life.

"Minerva?"

Her name was spoken louder and this time it registered. She tore her eyes away from whatever it was that she had not been looking at.

"Pardon?" she said.

It had been Professor Sprout who had spoken, one of the newest members of the Hogwarts teaching staff. She had been assigned the post of Herbology teacher when there had been a reshuffle of positions while Dumbledore and Minerva had been away. Minerva liked her a lot. She was enthusiastic and had a very direct manner and approach to things. Unfortunately, that was not so desirable a trait at this moment.

"Oh for heaven's sake, what do you think, Dumbledore?" Professor Sprout asked forcefully.

No reply came from the end of the table where Dumbledore was sat staring into the fire in the grate on the other side of the room.

"Dumbledore!" Professor Sprout exclaimed.

Dumbledore slowly turned his attention back to his staff.

"I beg you pardon?" he said innocently.

"Oh! Haven't either of you been listening to a word I've been saying?" Professor Sprout asked in exasperation.

Minerva's chest gave a lurch that had nothing to do with her guilt at the annoyance in Professor Sprout's voice, nor with the red raw scar that ran the width of her chest. It felt vaguely familiar, though she could not place the sensation it left her with.

"Excuse me," Minerva said, and to the surprise of the Hogwarts staff she abruptly rose from her seat and left the room.

The cool of the corridor was pleasant on her face. Once she had closed the door behind her, Minerva picked up her pace and walked the corridors that would take her to the grounds of Hogwarts. It was a clear afternoon and she craved the warm fresh air in her lungs.

What was the matter with her? She had not been feeling herself all day, and now, to make matters worse, people would be asking her why she had left the meeting; a meeting that she was usually very vocal in. And what could she tell them? She herself had no idea why she left.

Her heel snapped loudly on the floor as she took her first step into the marble entrance hall. Then a voice interrupted her thoughts.

"What is it you're trying so hard not to give away?"

Dumbledore had followed her. Her footsteps fell silent and she heard him walk towards her from the corridor through which she had just come.

A sudden flash of anger overwhelmed any other emotion as Minerva stood in the entrance hall facing away from the man who was approaching. His assumption was alarmingly accurate. Minerva's world had been dislodged ever since the Disunion. Nothing was the same. It felt as though she was living her life through the eyes of a stranger, not knowing what she was feeling. She was holding it all in; her grief, her loss, her confusion. She had been getting used to the mask she had been wearing since she awoke in the hospital.

She had been forcing this anger down for the better part of the last few months and it had suddenly retaliated at his words. She could not speak for fear that it would burst out of her and strike the man who drew nearer.

She could not explain why her fury at him wanted to break the surface so suddenly after all this time. He had done what he had thought best – by carrying out the Disunion instead of her he had tried to save her from the pain he knew she would suffer. What was to say that Minerva would not have done the same if she had known how? After all, had they not agreed that the Disunion would be the best for both of them? Had she not argued for it?

But that was all before she knew what it felt like to be cut in two; to live her life only as half of herself.

She saw him out of the corner of her eye as he stepped around her. She looked up. Her chest lurched as if something was moving around inside it, trying to escape.

Minerva felt weighed down. The pain her scars had caused her today, these new and unfamiliar emotions that had been stirring inside her through the last few days, her flash of anger that had erupted silently only moments before, and this new discomfort in her chest all suddenly became too much. Tears leaked uncontrollably from her eyes. She saw Dumbledore's face contort with concern just before she felt his arms around her, pulling her tightly to him, resting her head where it used to fit so comfortably in the depression beneath his collarbone.

Minerva's breaths came in gasps and she could feel her chest and back heaving with her sobs. Dumbledore said nothing. He simply held her calmly for several long moments until she regained control.

"I think you have answered my question," he said softly into her ear.

Minerva pulled gently away from him, avoiding his eyes and wiping her wet cheeks with her fingers.

"I hate this," she whispered faintly. "Everything feels off balance and… distorted. I wish –"

Minerva throat caught her words just in time. She could not believe what she was about to say. The thought had never crossed her mind, so why should the words be so ready and comfortable on her lips? Dumbledore was looking at her and her stomach tightened with unease – he was going to ask her what she was going to say.

"You wish what?" he said, as expected.

"Never mind," Minerva replied, a little too quickly.

"You wish what, Minerva?" Dumbledore persisted.

She looked up at him with red eyes and blemished cheeks, and saw him looking back at her in bewilderment. Why had she not realised that what she was about to say had been what she had been feeling for so long? Why had she not been able to identify it?

"Tell me, please," Dumbledore whispered.

His plea gave her confidence. It was as though he wanted confirmation about something and Minerva was the only person who would – or could – offer it. Could it be that he felt the same way? There was only one way that she would find out.

She held his eyes with hers, building the composure that threatened to topple once again at any moment. She breathed in slowly and shakily, willing herself to speak the words that had been a rude awakening to her in the last few seconds.

The words that came from her lips were the first words she had spoken that came sincerely from her and not from the stranger whose life she was living. They were quiet but the meaning behind them was deafening – something must be changing between them for her to wish this at all.

"I wish," she began quietly, but faltered. She took a deep breath and made another attempt. "I wish I still loved you."

She could feel her cheeks colouring. It was an uncomfortable moment for her to reveal such a personal feeling to a man with whom she felt no connection. To her surprise, however, Dumbledore smiled. But it was a smile filled with sadness and regret.

"I am glad you said that," he told her. "And, for any difference it might make, I feel it too".

Minerva returned his sad smile.

"Thank you," she said.

A sudden noise at the open window above them interrupted the peace of the entrance hall and a large brown owl fluttered through clutching a tatty, rolled up piece of parchment. Minerva and Dumbledore followed it with their eyes as it flew down to Dumbledore, who then held up his arm. The owl landed smoothly upon it, its claws holding on tightly to his robes.

Dumbledore took the parchment from the owl with a frown and before he'd finished unrolling it, the owl flew off, back through the window.

Minerva saw Dumbledore's eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he read what seemed to be a remarkably short letter. Then, to her astonishment, he handed the parchment to her.

Minerva took it, not looking away from him until he nodded to the letter in her hands, letting her know that it really was all right for her to read it. She looked down and her surprised matched Dumbledore's as she read:

We are at the gates. You must let us in. URGENT! Lee