Widmung

Du meine Seele
Du mein Herz
Du meine Wonn'
O, du mein Schmerz
Du meine Welt in der ich lebe
Mein Himmel du, darein ich schwebe
O, du mein Grab in das hinab ich ewig meinen Kummer gab!
Du bist die Ruh'
Du bist der Frieden;
Du bist vom Himmel mir beschieden.
Daß du mich liebst macht mich mir wert,
Dein Blick hat mich vor mir verklärt
Du habst mich liebend über mich
Mein guter Geist, mein bess'res ich.
Du meine Seele
Du mein Herz
Du meine Wonn'
O, du mein Schmerz
Du meine Welt in der ich lebe
Mein Himmel du, darein ich schwebe
Mein guter Geist, mein bess'res ich.

F. Rüchert

She had been very good at not remembering. She typically made a point of being very good at everything, earning everyone's admiration and respect but her own; yet with that small part of her subconscious that still was allowed to know that there was something not to remember, she congratulated herself.

She had been very methodical, carefully weeding out anything that might, in the slightest sense, remind her. All photos, all letters, even going so far as to remove from her everyday sight and familiarisation old clothing and sheets. Draperies. What few pieces of jewellery she owned. Most of all, her old sheet music and LPs.

Except one.

She could never put away Dvorak. Doing so would not only check old memories, but also her own essence. Whilst she told herself she was being silly and immature, she still could not seriously imagine life without his music. It had become as much a part of her as had her trademark bun, or teaching.

Still, she only permitted this luxury to commence once every month or so, in order to minimise totally any risk of remembrance. Besides, it wasn't as if she'd not allowed herself to be engaged by other music. The names were all dear to her: Tchaikovsky, Schumann, Puccini, Strauss, Verdi, Offenbach, Wagner... they all filled her with delight.

But Dvorak filled her with memories too. Once she got to the Romance for Violins, she lost control; her ever-so-tightly-clenched memories started to sift through her consciousness.

warm hazel eyes laughing at her, sparkling jovially, and that once-familiar smell, half of orange tea, half of him

Such images would float back to her

staring down a long, dark country road, her only companions the starlight, the soft cast of the waning moon, and the cheery yellow windows of a house not too far away, shimmering slightly in the snow

that she would invariably lose control of the spell and shatter the record. She would leave it that way, angrily thinking herself better off, and attempt to sleep,

warmth, and dark, her companion this time of flesh and blood, the only sound in her ears the thudding of their hearts, the only thought in her mind his overwhelming presence, and too many feelings to feel, only the softness of his mouth on hers reaching her overwrought brain

waking in the morning only to repair it and put it up. No, she hadn't the heart to throw it out, even if it was only a last-ditch effort to keep living in the past. And so the never-ending cycle of stoicism and nuances of half-forgotten misery and passion continued until the fateful day when she was nearly killed by something resembling a small dragon.

Minerva McGonagall was not one to mince words. Thus when Hagrid nearly bowled her over on his way to the Owlery, she made rather vehement protestations. Hagrid was, true to form, properly aghast.

'Eee, I'm sorry Professor McGonagall.'

Minerva, after her heart rate had returned to normal, said with some clenching of her teeth, 'That's quite all right, Hagrid. Just try to watch where you're going.'

'Are you alright, Professor?'

'Yes, fine, thank you,' she said, holding her hand against her temple where she had hit the wall.

'You're bleedin'!'

She pulled her hand away, and saw that blood, albeit not a copious amount, covered her palm.

She sighed, and concurred dazedly, 'Well, I suppose I'd better go see Poppy after I mail this letter off to the Ministry.' Come to think of it, she did feel a bit light-headed.

' 'Ere, I'll take it there fer you; I'm goin' up there as it is.' At this his face darkened perceptibly as a new thought hit him. He smiled warmly and cautiously at Minerva.

'Actually Professor Dumbledore 'as given me the day off, ter fix summat up fer Harry. A photo album.' His voice had been becoming increasingly soft. He finally said, 'You wouldn't happen to have any pictures of Lily n' James, would ya?'

Her mood altered unfathomably. Her face looked as if it had been set in stone. Finally, she murmured, 'Yes.' She paused. 'Yes, I'll bring them around your cabin after I see Poppy,' she continued briskly, and quite composedly, though her eyes belied her.

Hagrid was silent for a moment, and then he said, 'Thank ye, Minerva.'

'It's nothing,' she said with a faraway look on her face.

She looked in his eyes for a moment and then turned briskly and went back the way she had come.

As fond as she was of Poppy, Minerva had to admit that she could be awfully overbearing when it came to her patients. She frowned slightly. After being detained for two hours over a simple little scratch, she felt anyone else would have been irritated as well. 'Now, now, Minerva,' she had said, 'you are my patient, and as such, your well being is under my care. So don't be so obstinate and lay down.'

She laughed wryly. Poppy wasn't so unlike herself. Which gave her slight pause. However, she dismissed the thought as quickly as she had entertained it, for as strict as she was, she had good reason to be, and no one who acknowledged that could bear her ill will because of it. Which she supposed wasn't so unlike Poppy either. But she did tend to take things too far....

Which, Minerva acknowledged, wasn't too hard when twenty people were trying to stuff themselves noisily into the Infirmary at the same time, with half of Honeydukes along with them. She had a very sparing sense of humour at any rate; she had looked at Minerva in disbelief when she had snorted at the Weasley twins' 'gift' to Harry.

When she finally reached her rooms, however, she felt like going to sleep, despite her pretension. The only thing that stopped her was a glimpse of Hagrid's cabin out of her window. This made her frown deepen and her eyebrows furrow in consternation. She sat down slowly on her bed, not allowing her posture to go slack, and stayed there, not moving for some time. If someone had been looking at her face, it might have appeared to be carved out of stone, but her eyes -- which had the not so unusual ability to emote clearly when not masked by thick glasses and authoritarian severity -- flitted from hazel to a flashing green-grey to, perhaps most truly, a clear amber in the brilliant sunlight from her tower window.

Finally, she inhaled deeply, sighed, and left, searching for something she had not willingly sought in over ten years.