Professor M. McGonagall stared glumly into a
mug of steaming hot black
coffee. Seated - alone - in her private
quarters at three o'clock in the
morning, she was musing most glumly over the
events of the previous day.
Rarely could anyone find her in such a mood
- she was, although strict and
quite realistic, an optimist. Her morose
state was caused by a trivial
episode in the day - hardly anything to be
upset about, or so she told
herself. A favourite student of hers,
named Andorra Mieruski, had a
detention weighing on her young shoulders,
simply because she had been
penning in a much-loved journal when Minerva
had assigned them to be reading
in their Transfiguration books.
Normally, the ordinary act of disciplining a
student wouldn't bring her down.
But this time, the sight of a dog-eared
book full of the scribbles of a
young girl's heart had resurfaced the memory
of another journal. A journal
from fifty years before.
Minerva slammed her thoughts short right there.
_I will not think of that_,
she told herself strictly, then drank from
her mug, trying desperately to
drown the small pang of hurt that arose.
But no matter how hard she tried,
still the memory came, flooding every sense
and emotion she had, until she
was weeping softly at the pain of remembrance.
Fifty years ago. . .
Fifty years ago, when she was younger and had
just begun her teaching
position at Hogwarts. Fifty years ago,
when Akon -
_No._
But the memories persisted, whether she wanted
them or not.
When Akon had left.
She wiped away her tears angrily and lifted
her chin in defiance of the past.
She hadn't needed him. She had
gotten along just fine by herself. It did,
she grudgingly admitted to herself, sting a
bit that she hadn't heard from
him in so long. The teacher rose mechanically
and refilled the coffee cup,
gulping it down nearly as quickly as it filled.
After half a cup more,
however, she simply left it be, steam rising
and disappering just as fast.
She stared silently into the coffee as it cooled,
fighting back tears.
_Oh, Akon..._
~*~
Loretta Jawwok, Professor of Defense Against
the Dark Arts, woke in her bed
at quarter to three, slightly confused as to
what had woken her. She stared
at the ceiling for several minutes before shrugging
and rolling over,
attempting to drift back into slumber, but
it eluded her. Eventually she
gave up, swung her legs over the side of the
bed, and stood.
Loretta was young, perhaps around thirty, with
thick blonde hair and dark
brown eyes, short, and with a curvy figure
that had attracted the most
unwanted attention of a certain Professor Snape.
She shuddered slightly as
she thought of the man - sneaky, devious, and
cruel, he was everything she
was NOT - and everything she despised. Figuring
that she was unlikely to get
any more sleep that night, Jawwok bathed quickly
before dressing herself in
her usualy royal blue robes. She pulled
her fabulous hair back into a thick
ponytail and brushed a small amount of eyeshadow
and blush on before kissing
her lips with the touch of a dark lipstick
tube.
Now she was ready - with no place to go.
She stared up at the ceiling for a
few minutes more before something inside her
nudged - _go to Minerva._
She blinked.
Minerva? McGonagall? The woman was
sweet enough, surely, but Loretta always
had the distinct impression that she was being
colder than she needed to be.
It was obvious, at least to the younger witch,
that Professor M. McGonagall
liked nothing better than to be left to her
own devices - and yet, she was
filled with a compulsive urge to go to her.
Odd. No, she decided, this was
more than odd, this was downright peculiar.
Still . . .
She chewed on her lower lip for a moment before
making up her mind - _I'll
just check to see if she's asleep, which of
course she will be. Just glance
at her door to see if the light's on.
Then I'll come back to bed, feeling
positively foolish for running around on wild
goose chases at three o 'clock
in the morning, when I need to be resting.
Stupid Muse._
She glared up towards the ceiling, where an
entity of pure blue light
hovered, no larger than a cat. It was
dark blue with streaks of every other
shade of the color swirled in, not to mention
a touch of white and black. It
pulsed rhythmically, almost as a heartbeat,
and was constantly in motion, the
colours swirling and dancing and interchanging
every moment, making it quite
dizzying to look at for an extended period
of time. Jawwok clucked her
tongue at it and wagged a finger.
"Mrre, Mrre, was it thee that waked me?"
The Muse throbbed innocently, and again the
witch felt the touch against her
heart. _Minerva...._
_But that makes no sense_, Loretta argued half-heartedly.
Mrre's form
stretched, growing longer - a sure sign that
she was aggravated. _Alright,
I'm going!_
She shook her head slightly, sighed, and slipped
into the empty hallway,
padding towards the small room she knew belonged
to Minerva McGonagall . . .
~*~
At the first sound of footsteps Minerva started,
straining her ears. Soft,
and feminine . . . heading this way . . . she
frowned lightly as they stopped
directly outside of her door. She bit
her lip. After a moment, a gentle,
nervous knock sounded - and the Professor called,
just as softly, " - Come
in..."
Confusiion flitted across her eyes as she saw
Loretta. She batted it away
impatiently, her fingers getting slightly tangled
in the emerald green
strains of her own Muse, who headed towards
the ceiling to sulk. "May I help
you, Professor Jawwok?" she asked, more impatiently
than she felt. She
glanced at the clock on the wall, a Muggle
one that she had recieved as a
gift a decade before.
"Ah...Well...please call me Loretta," the younger
witch stammered, then
cursed herself slightly for sounding the fool.
"That is - Not really. I
couldn't sleep and wondered it, perhaps, you
wished for a little company..."
she trailed off uncomfortably.
Minerva frowned slightly. "Loretta, then..."
She was tempted to know how
the other had known she was still awake at
such an ungodly hour, but
refrained from asking. "Company would
be lovely. May I offer you some
coffee?"
"Please - with cream and sugar, if you have
it..." Loretta flushed slightly
when McGonagall shot her an I'm-A-TRansfiguration_Teacher,-Remember?
Look and
chuckled.
Suddenly, she felt Mrre's presence in her mind
and she scowled. :_WHAT are
you doing in here?:
|_Ask her about the hope chest._|
:_What kind of answer is that?_:
|_Ask her about the journal._|
:_Are you trying to play God again or something?_:
|_Ask her about the hope chest._|
:_Why should I?_: she began, but before she
could finish the thought, Mrre
had extracted herself from her Mistress's mind
and Loretta returned to the
present moment to find Minerva staring at her
with a peculiar statement on
her face.
"Are you alright?" she asked for what Loretta
realized with embarrassment
must have been the third or fourth time.
A smile quirked at the Professor's
lips, and Loretta blushed slightly.
"Fine...just got a bit distracted..." She took
the coffee Minerva held out to
her eagerly, as it gave her something to do;
something to hold. McGonagall
lifted her own cup to her unpainted lips, sipping
at the lukewarm coffee.
Loretta let her eyes travel around the small
living quarters, taking in the
modest bed with the typical chest at the foot...sturdy
wooden desk and chair,
neatly organized....blank walls and spotless
wooden floor...and over in the
corner, a small, ornately carved hope chest,
made of perfect cedar. "What's
that?" she questioned, pointing before she
could stop herself. Mrre had
piqued her curiosity, whether she wanted to
admit it or not.
Minerva followed Loretta's finger. "That?
Oh...here, let me show you." She
rose from her seat on the side of the bed and
strode to the corner where the
hope chest was tucked. She knelt, and
hesitated for a brief moment before
lifting it carefully and carrying back to the
main section of the room,
setting it carefully on the desktop.
Loretta leaned forward and blew off a thin layer
of dust.
Minerva smiled, slightly self-conscious for
the first time Jawwok had ever
seen her. Hesitantly she lifted the lid
of the miniature trunk.
A delicious smell of cedar rose into the room,
bringing a smil to both
witches' faces. The inside of the chest
was lined with emerald green velvet,
and nestled perfectly in the center rested
a dog-eared, homemade journal.
The front cover, which was all that was visible,
was covered in drawings and
sketches of only the most beautiful magical
creatures - dragons, unicorns,
pegasus, mermaids, faeries . . .
Jawwok drew a breath. "Wow," she said
finally, after several minutes.
"Whose is it?" She glanced up - then
started in surprise. Minerva was
crying again, silently, silvery tears slowly
trailing down her cheeks.
"It - was Anok's," she said quietly, and Loretta
looked blank.
Minerva drew a deep breath, and wiped away her
tears. "Let me tell you a
story..."
"There once was a young witch named Minerva.
She was over-achieving and
ambitious, a top student at Hogwarts and certain
that nothing stood in her
way to becoming first a Professor, then the
Headmistress of Hogwarts. When
she was in her seventh year, a wizard named
Anok Nkul transferred from
Beauxbaton. He was handsome, fair, and
romantic - and Minerva was
fascinated. She had never truly had time
for boys before, but Anok had
captured her imagination - and, after only
a few months, her heart as well.
"They dated for nearly five years before he
proposed, and when he did, she
was ecstatic. But, only a week after
they became engaged, he was drafted for
the second World War - and she had to stand
by helplessly as he prepared to
fight against Germany. She didn't want
him to go, of course, she wanted him
to stay with her so they could get married
like they had planned. They told
each other that they had waited seventeen years
to meet each other, and
another five before finally becoming one, and
this setback was only
temporary. But she was still heartbroken
the day he left.
"Anok was an avid journal-keeper - he wrote
everything in a tattered,
dog-eared journal he had made when he was ten.
His emotions, drawings,
poetry, memories - everything was captured
in that book. It was his most
prized possession. In fact...Minerva
often wondered whether the journal
meant more to him than she did, although he
assured her this was not the
case. On the morning he left...he left
his journal on my - on Minerva's
doorstep, encased in this cedar hope chest
with a single red rose resting on
the lid. She treasured it...but she never
heard from Anok again."
An ironic smile quirked at the story-teller's
lips as she wound up her tale.
"He called it his 'Visual Soul' . . . I think
it even had a name, but I don't
remember..."
Loretta listened keenly. "You never heard
from him again?" she repeated in
almost disbelief. "That's horrible."
Mineva forced herself to shrug casually.
"It's alright. I suppose - we
never were in love....we just pretended we
were. I suspect he met a pretty
young nurse on the battlefield and took her
to his bed, then wed her after
the war." She kept her voice carefully neutral.
"Still..." Jawwok sighed in sympathy.
Suddenly, the clock on the wall chimed
three thirty, and both witches jumped, then
laughed nervously. "Well...I
should be going..." the young Professor said
uncomfortably, standing from her
seat at the wooden desk. "Thank you for
your hospitality..."
"Most welcome," Minerva echoed, obviously lost
in thought again.
With a stiff nod goodnight, Loretta Jawwok backed
from the room, mentally
cursing her Muse for pulling her into a situation
that was OBVIOUSLY *none*
of her business.
After she had gone, McGonagall sat thoughtfully
on the corner of her bed, the
hope chest beside her. She reached in
and gently stroked the edge of the
journal. _I never have read it clear through,_
she thought absently,
desperately ignoring the love-pangs shooting
through her heart. She picked
up the journal for the first time in a decade
or more. _I remember...for the
first year after he left, I carried this with
me everywhere. Then I kept it
on my dresser...then, when the war ended, I
put it back in the chest and
moved it to that corner..and only looked at
it when I was in a melancholy
mood, remembering him. Lord, I loved
him..._ She turned the cover.
Three hours later, the sun was beginning to
creep up as she finished the last
entry, her head pounding as she struggled not
to give in to tears. It was
everything she had imagined it to be - it was,
indeed, his visual Soul. It
was like talking to him again. It was,
she decided, bittersweet - and she
didn't look forward to doing it again.
A small slip of paper fluttered to the geound
as Minerva closed the journal,
almost slamming the covers together in her
valiant effort to remain
emotionless. Creased and yellowed with
age, the note was folded tightly into
quarters. Minerva frowned, stooped, and
picked it up. Akon's familiar
cramped handwriting met her eyes, "Minerva"
penned carefully on one side.
With trembling hands the professor unfolded
the fifty-year-old paper. Her
eyes welled with tears as she read the opening
- "My beloved Minerva:" As she
continued reading, her body, held stiff with
pride, began trembling
violently. Her grey eyes were opened
wide in shock and horror - her mouth
opened in a silent howl of anguish - She fellt
heavily to her knees,
clutching the letter to her chest, screaming
hysterically, but silently -
fervent sobs forcing their way out from behind
her clenched teeth - she
shrieked and wailed, burning tears coursing
down her cheeks as she forced
herself to reread the letter - and reread -
and reread - and reread -
My beloved Minerva ~
Perhaps it is wrong of me to test you like this, but I must know
whether you truly love me. If you
read this journal - my visual Soul - you
will find this note. I pray you do.
I am not going, my darling. They did
not need me. Now I know you honestly
and without fail love me - and now we
can be together forever, like we dreamed.
So please, beloved, come and kiss
me and we will at last be wed. O,
my love, at last we will be together
always - I am here. I have stayed.
Forever yours, my darling,
Akon
