PART IV
Chapter One: Falling
Worry plagued her.
He was avoiding her. Willfully. Purposefully.
It was a pestilence that attacked not only her mind, but her body. Nervous electrical currents ran from her toes to her stomach to her ears and back down again. She felt the buzz. What an unmistakable tingle it was! Her heart sped to keep in time with the surge of electricity.
Albus was not at dinner last night.
But she couldn't see it from the outside: in her mirror, she was every bit as normal as she had ever been. Her reflection showed nothing but a pale faced, green eyed, dark haired girl with an inquisitive, intelligent air about her: that was Minerva.
And Albus did not answer when she rapped on either his office or bedroom door.
She blinked slowly.
Today was the day, wasn't it?
Her fingers rolled on top of themselves nervously, lathering every quidditch scar and callus with natural secretions.
Professor Dippet had never looked so pleased with himself as last night at dinner, where Albus certainly was not. She did not make this up in her mind. No, last night as she was frantically searching the staff table with her eye, he stared at her. And he smiled when their eyes locked. The monster grinned at her.
She was not an idiot. By all accounts, she was exceptionally bright and observant. And she was not wrong.
Why else would he be avoiding her?
Her throat tightened and her vision blurred for a moment.
Not speaking with him for twenty-four hours was difficult enough. How could she quit full-stop?
She let her head fall back and blinked away the blur as she stared into the ceiling of the room she shared with Gwen. Over the course of the evening, she and it had become very well acquainted. It naturally already knew that she was having an affair with her professor, but she confessed that it was for love, not grades or power or any of those other things that cause humans to do things. And in return for her honesty, the ceiling simply listened to her thoughts of anxiety as though it were a friend.
Her stomach turned and she fought back a groan.
Albus was her only friend.
"You alright? You haven't moved in minutes."
Minerva took in a deep breath and set her head forward upon her neck.
Then there was Gwen. She mostly was a cause of annoyance, a young girl who took and took and gave back only what she didn't want. She did not see the world as Minerva did. Minerva accepted that everyone could, in fact, have reasons for the things they do and that those reasons had to make sense to no one but the doer. Gwen believed in the absolute nature of things. They were fundamentally incompatible.
"I didn't sleep well last night," Minerva stated simply. "Trying to get up the gumption for today."
"Oh," Gwen paused. "Can I use the mirror, then? I need to meet Jez for breakfast."
Minerva blinked past the wave of white-hot rage that traveled through her extremities. Why did she expect anything better?
She did not respond, but walked over to her bed and braided her hair without the use of the mirror. She didn't need it. She didn't even want it. Moreover, she had given up on expecting any sort of awareness from Gwen. Gwen lived in a bubble and saw no one else but those directly in it, that is to say, within her line of vision. And now, Minerva was decidedly worlds away from Gwen, over on her bed in the corner.
The minutes ticked by as Minerva's vision went out of focus, her hands having dropped to her lap from her hair. She stared out the window, entranced by the cover of white that descended upon the grounds within the last day. Nothing was whiter than snow. A blank canvas had fallen on Hogwarts and it would stay blank until the spring, where green would overwhelm the shadows of winter.
Fitting, she thought, the stark white was a metaphor for how she felt inside: empty and yet so ready to burst that she hardly could keep it in. The anticipation of the day was killing her.
How badly would it smart?
Minerva's ears perked as Gwen left the room in a hurry. She did not say goodbye or "Good luck" or "see you in class". In fact, she said nothing for her departure. She simply left.
It was better this way.
She shifted her weight on the bed and looked at the other two beds in the room, one well used and one completely unoccupied. Minerva did not mourn Helen, exactly. She missed her: her presence and laughter, her way of guiding Gwen, her intelligence. But she did not feel the loss of her classmate on any sort of deeper level. Whatever tears Minerva shed for the incident were because of the greater injustices of the war. There was no personal loss, only a greater loss that she could share with others, that she could work to prevent in the future.
It occurred to Minerva how cosmically insignificant the loss of her best friend would be: she was the only one losing sleep, the only one hurting. And perhaps Albus. But she would not know that. That was the point.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Minerva craned her head around and looked at the window where a handsome tawny owl stood, waiting for entry.
She opened the window, allowing the icy air in.
The owl didn't bother to come in, it just simply stuck out its leg, waited for Minerva to detach the envelope and left for the owlery again. She watched for a moment as it spread its wings and glided into the air above the white.
She shut the window.
The girl looked down at the letter addressed thus in swirly, familiar handwriting:
Minerva McGonagall
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
3rd Window on the Eastern Side of Gryffindor Tower
She swallowed and slid her shaking hand under the lip of the envelope, running from edge to edge. Slowly, she took the little card and read it without completely removing it: "Please come to my office after morning classes. It is important. Professor Dumbledore"
Her heart dropped.
"Professor", again.
For a moment, she forgot to breathe.
She wasn't wrong, was she?
She had hoped that she was wrong.
Albus felt the weight in his chest as he watched the owl fly from Gryffindor Tower back to the owlery with crusty eyes: it was done and the day was now in motion.
He would teach his classes, discuss poorly written papers and the expectations of the last four weeks before the winter holidays, and then instead of eat lunch, he would break Minerva's heart. And after he broke that poor girl's heart, he would teach some more classes. He probably would not eat dinner—Albus did not expect to be good company. Perhaps he would finish his bottle of scotch. But of course, then he would just think about Minerva and spilled scotch.
The problem with Minerva was that she was everywhere, now.
There was no surface that he saw in his day that was not tainted with her memory: his office, his classroom, his rooms, his bed. Her scent of lavender clung to his sheets and his clothes. Her laugh echoed in his chambers and office. And when he closed his eyes, he saw her contented smile. Already, she haunted him.
Albus swallowed down his own heartbreak.
"I love you. And that's done."
–That's what she said to him after they made love for the first time.
It was done: nothing more to do, nothing more to say, it simply was a fact. And they were a fact. They happened.
Only they never did—not so far as anyone could prove.
And it was his mission to make damn well sure that it stayed a secret. He was protecting her the only way he could: if no one knew, no one could hurt her, could expel her, could accuse her of seduction or manipulation. She had to be better than their love affair.
The snow crunched beneath his boots as he came upon the entrance hall. It was still snowy white, but in no time at all, it would be black and then it would melt before the next bit of snow came. He hoped things would look cheerier by then.
Truth be told, everything about seeing hurt him. There was no sleep last night as he wrote and rewrote over and over again what he thought he should say to her. How personal could he be? Should he be? Could he tell her that he was acting under Armando's orders? That he was protecting her from not only the headmaster, but everyone else that had the power to expel her? From Albus's enemies, even?
And how to keep himself from caving, from crying, from showing how disgusted he was with himself?
He felt sick.
How could he possibly tell her that everything he ever said, he meant. And that they purposefully never made promises to each other, never aloud. He said things with his smile and his eyes and he never doubted for one moment that she understood…but the unspoken promises were heard nonetheless. He promised to keep her close and to love her. Well; he couldn't keep her close anymore.
And he had to deny it all.
Albus walked through the doors and stopped, staring at the unoccupied entrance hall with its cold stone floor and trailing puddles of water. Nearly everyone would be at breakfast, students and staff alike—he would not be joining them. Albus preferred to ruminate on his own.
His feet carried him to his big, empty classroom. The books had been thrown in an unseemly cluster on the top of the bookshelf. A set of battered old china sat on his desk, waiting for his first class of the day. Nothing was written on the blackboard yet.
Albus's fingers ran over the top of the second desk down on the left: it was where Minerva sat.
The man swallowed before sitting down.
Head cocked, he wondered a great many things: for example, why she loved him. He was selfish and angry. He was broken. He wasn't strong like she was, built with optimism and moral fiber at her core. She would do anything, anything at all if she believed it was right and her principles left nothing to be desired: she was good.
Why hadn't he said that he loved her more often? Why hadn't he made sure that she knew?
Because he took it for granted.
He closed his eyes and let out a groan.
No, that wasn't right. He knew how lucky he was to have her.
They just understood it, their relationship.
…and now, he would tell her to forget it all.
Behind him, Albus heard the footsteps of a confident stride walking in his direction. It was too early for students, too early for Minerva. Albus took in a slow breath as the figure stopped and placed a piece of dry toast in front of him.
"Not very much of a lesson, now is it?" Rudy pointed at the empty board.
Albus tried to smile politely and felt his voice crack as he stated, "Transfiguration is all useless, anyway."
"Hm," Rudy sighed. He balanced back and forth of the heels of his feet in what he must have perceived as awkward silence. He cleared his throat and rubbed his nose, "Feeling well? Cora had me bring you toast."
"No," he said simply. His world was ending, of course he felt like hell. "Felt ill all night. Very nice of both of you to think of me."
Rudy bobbed his head, digging his hands into his pockets. "Well…feel better, I suppose. Take a bite before I leave, that way I can tell Cora you did it."
Albus took the bite.
Rudy nodded, but did not move. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, "What did Armando want with you yesterday, if you don't mind my asking?"
Albus swallowed the dry, dry piece of crusty bread and looked up at the man. Of course Rudy had a motive for coming—it wasn't that he did not have a good heart, but he was by nature a lazy man. Nothing but pure curiosity could have brought him there, which did not necessarily make his motive bad. "Oh," he shrugged, "just the usual threats."
"Be careful. He'll put you on probation, too," Rudy warned.
He took a moment to process this: Rudy was afraid of losing an ally, a friend. It didn't scare Albus at all. He was already losing the one that mattered most in a relatively finite way. "There are worse things, I think," he nodded back. "Thank you for the toast."
"Right," Rudy gave a nod, accepting his dismissal. "Have a good day, then."
"You as well," he stated gently as Rudy left the room.
Albus listened for his footsteps to fade, afraid, maybe, that someone would overhear his thoughts: there were worse things than probation and Armando had certainly found them. He found what Albus loved most in the world and was taking it away. Or rather, he was forcing Albus to toss it aside and destroy it.
It never was.
She felt the calm before the storm dancing inside of her.
Anxiety was cast aside and replaced it with reasoning: the worst he could do to her was stop being friends…and people did that every day. People came and went out of others' lives constantly. And she always knew he would leave her in one way or another…today would simply be the consequences of her actions, consequences that she expected.
Her eyes closed for a few moments longer than a blink before opening again.
Maybe she was wrong about everything and she was reading too much into it. Maybe he was simply out doing dangerous work over the evening. Maybe the headmaster had had a change of heart and no longer saw her as an enemy of his. Maybe he really had been looking longingly at a glass of pumpkin juice when she thought he was looking at her. Maybe…maybe Albus had changed his mind again and was leaving the school.
Was that any better?
She could at least write him, then.
Heart pounding, she turned the corner into the empty transfiguration classroom and stared the distance to Albus, who was at his desk. He seemed so far away already: miles, valleys, oceans. The room had a starkness about it that she had not felt before now. Maybe it was the cloud cover from outside; or the gray of stones; before her, there was nothing but shadows and Albus. Even he already seemed a ghost, unmoving at the end of the room as he graded.
And she was transported to a memory that held no bleakness at all—in fact the reason she thought of it could only be explained in some form of irony.
The man made eye contact with the girl as his hand began opening the drawer to his classroom desk, "Actually, I have one more thing for you."
"Oh?" she laughed from her own desk, "Is there chocolate, too?"
Albus laughed back, not out of nervousness, but because he thought she was funny. "Not exactly." And he revealed a silver chain with an oval charm. He dangled it in the light of the early fall air, small stones glowing as it rocked back and forth.
He brought it to her with a soft smile and placed it in her palm. "This is for you as well," he said gently.
Minerva stared at it while it rested in his hand. She didn't know what to say. It was beautiful, it was remarkable, really, but it was a rather strange gift coming from her professor. How could she possibly interpret it? "A necklace?"
"More precisely, a locket," he swallowed, unable to hide his nerves.
This was the sort of thing lovers gave to each other. It was a love token by any standard. Surely he couldn't mean it that way. Surely she was letting her heart assign meaning when there was none. But then she noted how very close he was. And how he had remembered her birthday.
Her voice was soft and unsure, "Why?"
"I thought you would like it," he said in earnest, "And I wanted to say thank you for everything this past term." Albus smiled softly and added with sincerity, "You've been more help than you know."
She felt her cheeks grow warm. She didn't understand at all. "Help? You're the one that's been helping me." He had been helping her to achieve her goal against his will. He had been forced into it. How could she possibly be helping him?
His eyes were so blue today and full of honesty. He could not tell a lie if he wanted to and she knew it. "You know, I was not myself and have not been myself for quite some time. I felt stuck here," the man paused in thought, then added with a soft smile, "But helping you with your lessons has reminded me that I am still needed here and that I am not useless. You are responsible for a much needed change in me and I am grateful. That's what this is." He looked away from her face and down at the locket.
So it was a token of gratitude.
She was in very dangerous territory in accepting it—not because she did not want it or his affection, but because it was not the sort of thing a teacher should be giving a student. But they both knew that. Her lips smiled softly, "Why not just write a note?"
He was quick to respond, no doubt having had these thoughts himself, "I can write a note any day of the week, but it's your birthday. You deserve something different."
Minerva was unsure if she deserved this gift. She deserved his gratitude, perhaps. She deserved to feel needed on some level. Did she deserve something so beautiful for simply being herself? But perhaps that was the point: having a lovely reminder of their friendship that lasted past her lessons and graduation.
"Thank you," she finally said with certainty and gratefulness. "It must have been expensive?"
"Don't worry," he said gently, "It was a cost, but not too expensive."
At a cost? What could that enigmatic phrase possibly mean? She didn't dare linger on the thought.
She swallowed, "Are you certain about this?"
And he didn't answer. There was no nod, even. He simply allowed a smile to cross his face and changed the subject, "Can I have a lemon drop?"
They were clearly done discussing the nature of the gift. It was hers and that was all that needed to be said. What difference did it make 'why'? He meant to show nothing but gratitude and she was grateful for his need to show it. Everyone liked to be thanked.
She nodded with a small chuckle, "Of course."
"Then I am absolutely certain," Albus said.
Minerva looked down at her gift and unclasped the ends. She slid out of her desk and asked softly, "Help me put it on?"
He smiled kindly at the girl and nodded.
She gave him either end of the necklace and turned around as he indicated with his index finger to do so. His breath was warm against her skin, sending a wave of excitement down her stomach. Minerva swallowed. She watched at his arms go around her, either end of the necklace in his hands. His limbs didn't touch her as he carefully navigated around her, but the locket fell heavily upon her collarbone.
Her ears rang with her heartbeat and she reminded herself to breathe.
"Could you move your hair for me?" he asked softly into her ear.
"Oh. Of course," she whispered as anxiety filled her. Her hand quickly grabbed the braid which she draped over the top of her head as if it were a hat. "Sufficient?"
"Sufficient," he breathed.
Minerva closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, wishing that his fingers would graze her neck. They didn't of course, but she desperately wanted the heat of his touch. She desperately wanted him to caress her skin, to even kiss it. Unconsciously, she imagined his wet lips sucking the flesh beneath the silver.
The charm slid down her chest as he released the chain, "There."
She ran her fingers along the chain, feeling its weight at the end. Minerva clenched the locket in her hand when she reached the bottom and smiled to herself in her sexual awareness: he made her feel lovely in every description of the word.
The girl turned around slowly and he took a few steps back.
What was she thinking?
"Thank you," she whispered with very large, very green eyes.
"You are," he sighed with well-meaning, very blue orbs for eyes, "most welcome. It looks nice on you. Very elegant."
And she felt it.
But of course, there was a rub in the gift: "I won't be able to show it off."
He shook his head in agreement, "Don't feel guilty," the man said softly, his eyes looking from the charm in her hand up to her face, "No need to show it off."
Her hand continued to clutch the trinket. Of course there was no need. It would be their secret. "This is the nicest thing I've ever been given," she said in earnest.
Albus smiled softly, "Now I'm the one who is flattered."
"Minerva," he said simply, without any warmth or any coldness, but rather, as though she were a fact that he stated from memory. He looked up, but did not smile. In fact, it looked as though he had forgotten how to smile; his lips twitched sideways.
Her stomach buzzed with dread.
He looked terrible. His eyes were red where there should have been white and gray where there should have been blue. He took no time for his hair or beard this morning, either, his entire head appeared to be grease-lined. Even his nose seemed more crooked than normal. Her professor hadn't slept at all, that much was evident.
"…Albus?" she took another step towards him, waiting for an invitation.
The man stood up, but stayed silent. He was not happy to see her.
The dread in her stomach grew up into her chest. She swallowed it down, but felt its fight against her throat. "What's happened?" she whispered with a shaking head. "You don't owl me like that. Ever. Were…were you off the grounds last night?"
He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He was hurting. "Please," he motioned to the door behind him morosely, "in my office."
His office. Was he…was he really going to do it there?
Disbelief mixed with her fear as she walked the eternity that seemed to be his classroom into his office. He did not look at her. Instead, he stared at the ground with a frown on his face.
Why wouldn't he look at her?
Minerva stood next to the chair reserved for unruly students, waiting for a command, hoping that he would tell her it was only a guise and that he had a plan against the Headmaster.
He did not change his demeanor upon closing the door. Instead, he walked around to his position behind the desk in a manner becoming defeat. The man did not sit, though he looked at his chair. He continued to do everything in his power not to look at her.
"Alb—" she whispered, but was cut off by his raised hand.
Albus's sorrow-filled eyes looked into hers as he stood hunched over his desk, "Please, Minerva, take a seat."
The walls moved in on her as she never expected them to do. The room seemed so small, suddenly, as she took her rightful place in the student's chair. There was no one but them. He stood like a mountain, tall and immovable behind his beloved desk, and she shrank. She was so small, now, so helpless to change her fate that she always knew would be.
Albus took in a deep breath and exhaled painfully slowly.
She demanded his eye contact. If he was going to do this to her, it was going to be with eye contact, with absolute awareness that she was every bit deserving of his respect as anyone else.
And he did look into her eyes as the first blow was made: "Miss McGonagall," he said gently—
She felt her throat tighten at the formality of it. Not two minutes ago, she was Minerva. She was Minerva twice. And now she was Miss McGonagall. She was a student and he was a teacher. They were not equals.
"I hope you believe me when I say that I," he paused to close his eyes in anguish, pursing his lips simultaneously, "love you."
His words hung in the air and disappeared with a blink. Loved is what he meant, wasn't it? Past tense. He loved her. And she believed him, cruel as it was.
He pressed on, clearly having practiced this over and over again until it was perfect in his mind. He lost sleep over her. "But we must stop. We've been careless and wrong."
Must. Stop.
He said it. He said the words that she was expecting: it was over.
A flash of memories sped past: a kiss, a laugh, earnest blue eyes, a smile. And then the sobering look upon his face in the present: his features were hardened and gray. Stony, that was the word. All warmth had been sucked from him. He had one mission today and that was to make it clear to her that she was wrong.
Wrong?
She felt her lips separate as she had the impulse to fight it.
Her feelings for him were only wrong because she was still in school. She could have left and it would have been fine. He could have left Hogwarts and it would have been fine. She was old enough to consent and she did. She consented to be his friend, his lover, whatever she needed to be for him.
…And he to her.
"You," his voice rose in anticipation of her retort, "are a student and I am a teacher. It is my duty to protect you and I have not been doing that."
Protecting her from what? The Headmaster? He had not failed her on that front at all. Who but he had come to her rescue? He was her only defense. How could he think he had failed her on that front? No one was as chivalrous as he.
…was this some sort of act of chivalry?
Her eyes began to water at the thought.
Nothing short of disgust fell over his features and his voice turned cold in a moment as he pressed on, "I was bewitched by you. I forgot my place."
…it was her fault?
She was responsible for this? She bewitched him? She…who gave up her friends and free time, she who risked her position as Head Girl, who kept her first love a secret from everyone she held dear, she was the reason for it?
And now he hated her because of it.
There had never been such a hatred in his eyes as the one she saw now.
He hated her.
She felt herself melt beneath his scorn, which only grew louder with every word.
"There will be no more secret meetings," he placed one hand in the other with a single finger showing"—
Minerva looked away from him, down to the corner of the desk, that desk where they had their first kiss…
"No discussions behind closed doors"—
Or open ones.
Her eyes began to blur.
"No exchanges of any kind that are not related to academics or the school"—
…They weren't friends anymore…
"You and I are no longer. What's more, we never were."
The words echoed through her mind a million times: never were never were never were never were never were…
Of course they never were. No one but they knew. And now, no one would ever know.
Poof.
Memories obliviated. Only…not really. They had plans to haunt her.
He added emphatically, "There never was a "we", never, so far as anyone is concerned."
And she lost all ability to speak as emotion overwhelmed her throat.
Albus placed his hands on the desk and leaned over it again.
She stared at the blurry tips of his fingers, but could not bring herself to look up.
She was numb.
Silence fell over the room for a moment before he added a little bit gentler, "This is for your protection. I don't expect you to understand, but let me assure you…this is in your best interest."
Was it?
Was this verbal beating what she had coming from her lover?
Merlin, she just wanted out of that room.
She nodded, seeing no other way out.
"Do I make myself clear?"
She whispered hoarsely to the professor, "You do."
"You may leave," he stated with finality.
Minerva stood up and did what only felt natural: she unclasped the chain around her neck.
Her eyes met his for the last time. He reminded her of a soldier who had a long, hard battle and finally succeeded. And she was defeated. She never thought they were enemies before today.
Now, he would get his spoils: she watched the token fall under the weight of gravity onto his desk. He did not watch the locket fall, however. He continued to stare at her.
The knot in her stomach tunneled upward to her throat and eyes.
She left without another word.
She wouldn't have very many words anytime soon.
The sinking feeling was immediate: his head and heart both slid down his body and slithered on the cold floor, stopping somewhere short of the entrance to his classroom. His eyes followed the girl who did not leave as herself. He watched the spirit withdraw from her as though he were a dementor and she were defenseless. Minerva left a shell of a human—and he took the soul from her.
He kept his mouth closed for fear that he would sob.
He bit his bottom lip and felt the familiar crunch of his face.
What had he done?
His head dropped and he began gasping for air as he fought against the urge to wail. But he did wail silently, the cries resonating from somewhere deep in his chest and arriving to the world as a high-pitched screech.
Warm tears fell out down his face and blurred his vision.
He rocked back and forth as he fought for control.
All he seemed to see was the silver puddle at the edge of the desk: she didn't want his gift.
He shook as he found his voice, short exhalations living and dying in seconds within his office.
He wanted her to have it. He wanted her to have the memory of it.
"Damn it!" he cried as he slammed his open palm against the desk. "Damn it. Damn it!"
He looked up at the ceiling and let out a scream from deep down in his core, willing the heavens to hear him and feel for his cause or smite him. When his voice died and nothing happened, he called out again at the loudest voice he could muster. He stood open mouthed, eyes and arms facing upward.
The silence greeted him coldly.
What had he done to her?
His legs gave out from under him and he allowed the rest of his worthless body to follow in the same manner: he sat as a ragdoll on his office floor, eyes fixed at the corner of his wide-open door.
Would anyone come to the shouting?
Had he truly ruined it all?
Heavy tears fell down his face. He did not stop them as they came into his beard, or as he inhaled them.
He deserved to feel this way: Albus was a selfish, terrible human being who went around playing with a young girl's heart. It was his prerogative to break it into a million pieces so that she would learn her lesson. He was one hell of a teacher.
"I think it came from in here," someone said in the distance. "Professor Dumbledore?"
His head fell back against the wall and he brought his hands to his face to wipe away the tears. It almost certainly was a student coming from lunch. They did not need to see him like this. They did not need to know that he had feelings at all. "Just had a fall," he called out to the doorway and unnamed voice.
Several shadows appeared at the office threshold, but did not come closer.
Definitely students; probably his fourth year Hufflepuffs.
"Just got the wind knocked out of me," he said hoarsely. "Just…just give me a moment and I'll start class."
There was a general shuffle at the threshold before the bodies broke apart and went out into the classroom. Albus waited for their shadows to disappear before getting to his knees. He reached out and used the desk to leverage himself onto his feet.
His eyes darted to the corner of the desk where the locket lay dead.
With a shaking hand, he gripped it tightly before opening a drawer and placing it inside.
There is a moment when out in the cold that the senses begin to fail: Minerva felt nothing in her fingers and the shivering had stopped. She was perfectly content watching the other students in the distance walk through the snow towards the castle as the sun cast its last twilight rays.
The gloomy moon threw its light like a blanket over the glittering winter floor.
No one would ever bother her in her tree. No one would hardly notice her. Even as she quietly cried to herself, her sobs of heartbreak would go unnoticed against the wails of the icy wind. She hated herself: why couldn't she be like all the other fucking teenagers and cry in her bed?
Because she hated all of them, that's why.
Disgust and loathing reigned over her as she exhaled every molecule of air she had in her system, watching it glimmer in the moonlight as though it were a ghost. And she was lost in the thought for a moment as she chose not to breathe: how freeing, to simply disappear and never expect to come back.
Even as her chest ached for oxygen, even as drowsiness clouded her already blurred vision, she fought the urge to gulp in the freezing evening air. Minerva had spent her entire day swallowing it and then finding that it was not enough. No matter how many breaths she took, the sobs and the tears still came. She had no control over it.
Minerva had no control over anything at all.
—Except whether or not she breathed in this moment.
It was her fault.
She bewitched him. She was the cause for all of this. She made him kiss her. She made him want her. She was wrong.
So wrong.
The frigid air snaked its way into Minerva's mouth, slithering down her throat and back out again as the near voiceless gut-reaction of a sob left her body again. And the shaking started all over—not from cold, but from heartache. The burn radiated from her chest through her stomach and arms and head; she shook to keep it inside and failed.
What had she been trying to accomplish?
To be needed. That's all. She just wanted to be needed.
It wasn't about power.
It wasn't about right and wrong.
She just…she wanted to be his purpose, maybe.
Her hands came crashing over her mouth instinctively as a crackly sob exploded from her lips. She didn't feel it at all and the wind was a better sound barrier than her red frozen fingers could ever be. The pink flesh sticks twitched before her eyes. Her frozen face glazed over with ice.
What was she going to do?
Her everything hurt: her legs, her stomach, her eyes…her heart.
It didn't matter what her mind knew. It didn't matter that she knew that she would wake up tomorrow and the next day and for the next seventy, eighty years. It didn't matter that she knew that this is where her relationship would end. It didn't matter that she believed that she helped him. Her mind could not control her body.
The tears pooled.
The air burned.
The chest crushed into itself, imploding, sinking, burning.
Despair ravaged her.
"We never were," he had said.
Then what was she to do with the memories? Where was she to place them? God, if she could just throw them in a box and never look at them again, she would. Or burn them. Was there something wrong with oblivion?
If they never were, then had she ever been?
What was she before him? A student. That was all. She identified herself by the measurements the school and her parents had set for her. Her grades were excellent. Her athleticism was unrivaled. She was very friendly, but preferred to be unattached, seeking accreditation as a leader and role-model. But what role was she playing in her own life? Nothing happened. Ever. Year after year she simply went through the motions. She was bored.
She sought the thrill of love.
And she was unprepared for it.
Minerva blinked as the frozen air lined her throat. She watched the white hell around her come into focus and then let it slip out again. What was the point of focusing at all?
It wasn't that she thought she needed him. She didn't. She got on fine before him. She went through the motions and she could go through them again.
It was the emptiness of it all.
Her life was a lie.
She had no friends.
One by one she cut them out, finding them dim or childish. And if given the chance again, she probably would. Because she was not like the rest of the students.
She wasn't.
How could she possibly make herself like something she didn't? How?
That's what Albus had done for her: he brought her to life. He made her feel. All of her senses were engulfed in being with him. She could smell his cologne, taste his lips, stare into the eternity of his eyes, touch his warm flesh, hear his soft voice as he exhaled…
She was so numb that it was past the point of pain.
Was it cold anymore?
It was for her protection that he said those things to her? How was he protecting her, now, as she sat in the wintery evening, willing the snow to just swallow her whole? How blue could a body turn? Or would it turn white?
Gray, maybe.
Minerva bolted upright, a shock of awareness electrifying her spine.
Tears fell from her eyes, but for a new reason.
What was she thinking?
She suddenly was aware of the panicked way her heart seemed to be pumping blood through her freezing extremities.
Her eyes blinked away the frost from her lashes.
She looked from side to side at the branches of the tree that she used as rungs to her current position.
It was time to go back inside: she was scaring herself.
Her shaky hands reached down to the nearest branch and she stared at her fingers as they held as tightly as they could. With a trepidatious swallow, she edged her body forward. Her foot tapped on the next branch before she put any weight on it.
She watched herself gingerly transfer her weight over and reach with her left hand for the next branch.
The sound of splintering wood rampaged the frosty air.
For a moment, the girl was weightless.
Albus watched the flames dance merrily in his study fireplace.
He had nothing left to give, no more shouts to make or tears to shed. He depleted his surplus of emotions and was quickly running out of coping mechanisms. Even the glass in his hand had but a swallow of scotch left. He felt nothing and everything all at once.
Mostly, he felt heavyhearted. It was hard to move under the weight of his chest now that he had time to let the burden settle.
He had never felt this way before.
For all of his mistakes, he carried the pain in his mind and let the guilt brew until it started attacking other bits and pieces of him. This terrible thing he did, it ravaged his ribcage and throat, his eyes and mouth, his hands. Everything felt heavy and wrong.
Unconsciously, he brought the glass of scotch to his lips and sipped. The hot liquid dripped down his throat and he could breathe fire. He was a dragon, burning everything in his path out of despair. He threw his treasure away—not by squandering it, oh no, but by calling it worthless and walking away. Would it be there when he came back for it?
He would come back for Minerva someday.
Once she had graduated, maybe even the day she graduated, he would find her. He would tell her everything: why he did it, how lonely he had been without her, the splendid future they could have together if she would only be the source of goodness he knew she was, and forgive him. There would be no secrets when he begged to be hers.
And he would beg. There would be no shame about it at all—he didn't deserve her if he couldn't drop to his knees and promise her the moon and the stars. And he would get them for her, too. Whatever she wanted.
Only, she wouldn't want the moon and the stars. Minerva would never want something so metaphorical—she was too pragmatic for that.
What would she want?
A ring? A house?
Albus swallowed his fiery saliva.
What was it that she sought from him?
He blinked through his weary, blurry eyes.
It wasn't sex. If it had been sex, then the relationship would have started very differently, if at all.
It wasn't advancement. She was impressive enough on her own—she didn't need him to connect her with people or to better herself. Minerva would have found a way to become an animagus without him and that was the reality.
Was it love? Could it be that simple? It was so easy to love her.
He licked his lips.
Somewhere in the distance, he heard the gentle echo of a voice in alarm. "Professor!" it called.
Albus turned his head towards his door, focusing on the noise. He expected no one. But he also was stupendously numb from drink. What could he have forgotten? Or who could he have forgotten? There would be a who at the door, not a what.
Clumsily, he placed the empty glass on the nearest surface and swayed his way to the door.
He furtively pulled the knob out to the main corridor.
"Professor!"
The voice was much louder out in the corridor, so loud that he would have sworn that the person was right next to him. But the corridor was empty. Albus looked both ways in confusion. Was he hallucinating, now?
"Here! Professor!"
He blinked and turned his head slowly to his right, noticing out of the corner of his eye the frantically waving portrait.
"Oh," he laughed a short laugh. "Hello there."
The woman in the portrait did not laugh back. In fact, she was nothing but seriousness: her arms were outstretched and knees were bent in a frantic necessity. "She hasn't come in. I've asked absolutely everybody and she hasn't come in. She's been out there"—the woman pointed past Albus to the grounds—"for hours! She's gone!"
Albus blinked. How inebriated was he?
"I am not sure you have the right person, Miss…?"
"For Merlin's sake! Minerva McGonagall hasn't come back!"
He felt his fuzzy world come into focus. He cocked his head to the side to look at the violet-robed woman whose portrait he had never noticed before. "What do you mean 'come back'?"
"She left crying and hasn't returned!"
Albus threw his head back and took in a deep breath. Certainly, she would go somewhere that she couldn't be seen upset: that was Minerva. She probably went to the quidditch pitch. Or her tree. And if neither of those, perhaps the owlery where she could write a letter to her father. She would not have left the school…and even if she did, she was of age to remove herself.
Fear descended upon him: she would not have left the school. Surely, she saw that he ended things so that she could stay.
He let out a short incredulous laugh and ran his hand over his forehead.
Was it all for nothing?
"I'll get a search party," he stated simply, completely sure that he could not be, under any circumstances, alone. "Thank you."
Albus turned around and walked back into the study to grab his wand. Before pocketing it, he took a glance out at the moonlit grounds towards Minerva's tree. The moon was bright and the snow reflective. There were no extra shadows. But there were footsteps in the white powder. And a dangling limb.
He leaned closer to the glass and used his wand to throw out an orb of light which hovered over the twisted black arms.
His eyes dropped to the floor where the footsteps ended.
An angular figure too haunting to be roots was strewn across the base of the tree, unmoving.
He took in a horrified breath.
"Minerva."
R&R...this chapter has been a long time coming.