Un bel di vedremo

Un bel dì vedremo
levarsi un fil di fumo
sull'estremo confin del mare
e poi la nave appare.
Poi la nave bianca
entra nel porto
romba il suo saluto!
Vedi! Egli è venuto!
Io non gli salgo incontro, io no...
mi metto là, sul ciglio del bosco
e aspetto, e aspetto tranquilla
e non mi pesa
la lunga attesa.
E uscito dalla folla cittadina
un uomo, un picciol punto
s'avvia per la collina.
Chi sarà, chi sarà,
e come sarà giunto?
Che dirà, che dirà?
Chiamerà "Butterfly" alla lontana,
io, senza dar risposta,
me ne starò nascosta:
un po' per celia... e un po'...
per non morir, al primo incontro!
Ed egli alquanto in pena chiamerà,
chiamerà:
"Piccina mogliettina,
olezzo di verbena"...
i nomi che mi dava al suo venire...
Tutto questo avverrà, io lo prometto!
Tienti la tua paura,
io con sicura fede
lo aspetto!

It was the watch that made him decide. Plain, serviceable, and functional. As he performed the task daily: pulling the band round his wrist, flicking the clasp open and shut, it surprised him that on this of all mediocre days, it would have any special effect. Yet somehow, it did. Perhaps it was the sound of the brown leather stretching slightly as he wrapped it on, or the flash of light on the gold-coloured clasp that put the memory in his mind. But as uncertain as he was about why he suddenly had this flash of longing now, he knew the watch was the reason behind it.

It was a good memory.

Precious few from that period were.

Yet even those were tarnished by the overwhelming guilt he felt.

He took the watch off slowly, being careful this time not to let the leather creak, and looked at the engraving on the back.

RJL
Happy Birthday

It had been an unusually cold September.

Remus hated cold weather. Especially cold, rainy weather. Snow he could handle, but days of rain when the temperature refused to dip below 0° but hovered right above it....

Those were intolerable.

September 22 dawned, drearily, with the promise of just such a day.

Remus looked blearily out of his window. He could only hope that the weather in Godric's Hollow would be better than that in London.

Lily had insisted on throwing a party for him. For his birthday. Despite the heavily guarded suspicions that were running rampant among their number, Remus suspected this was more of a chance for everyone to relax than a show of thin hospitality.

He hoped, at any rate.

So he busied himself: getting ready and trying to seem happier.

Despite everything, he was looking forward to it. He would have to sit away from Sirius. That saddened him. But at least Lily and James weren't against him. And Sirius had agreed to come.

He prayed his fears for the day were unfounded.

Remus was filled to bursting.

Satiated in a way he had not been since he was very small, if not ever. Certainly not recently.

It wasn't just the food, either, though it certainly was enough. The whole situation had him on sensual overload.

It was perhaps the oddest experience he had ever had.

The atmosphere had been vibrant. The whole Order had been present, eating, drinking, and talking, generally having a good time. If an outsider had been present, the oddity of the situation would not have been immediately noticeable to that person; yet having spoken to most of these people on a weekly, if not daily basis, Remus was very affected by it all. It seemed like one of those masquerade balls out of legend of centuries ago, to which revellers had travelled to be generally gay and flamboyant in complete and total isolation from their true selves. Everyone acted his or her part. Remus suspected the wine, scotch, and sherry to be abettors in these happenings, as their amounts were distinctly lessened from their original volumes.

Having eaten an appalling amount of food and imbibed far too much Firewhisky to be good for one's self, Remus was relaxing on the living room floor in front of the fire, which happened to make the room rather stuffy. The party had quietened down quite a bit after the departure of Mundungus and Dedalus, and now only a more intimate group of friends were left: the Weasleys, who were also preparing to leave owing to their twins, Fred and George, turning their youngest son's teddy bear into something unsavoury; Peter, who was sitting quietly in the corner, looking rather nervously at Sirius, who was currently flying Harry around the room, whizzing purple and gold stars after him; James and Lily, who were laughing and watching Sirius like a hawk, respectively; and Minerva, who, curled up in the crook of Remus' leg, was reading a book and occasionally sipping her red wine.

It was the last memory he had of seeing them, all of them, together.

Remus, feeling drowsy and not just a bit nauseous, decided that enough was enough, proclaiming, 'Well, I'd best be off.'

Lily, her eyes never leaving Harry, said, 'Oh, no, surely you can stay a bit longer, Remus.'

''Fraid not. Feeling a bit sleepy actually. Good night, all.'

'Hang on a minute and I'll come with you,' murmured Minerva, closing her book and standing up.

They had been dating, more and more seriously, for a little over a year now. Even in the middle of the storm of fear, accusations, and safeguarding, those had been the happiest months of his life. It had been the classic story of an easy friendship turning into something more; they had been in congruent circles all throughout Hogwarts, and Lily, perhaps their most direct link, had slowly been pushing them together. He was initially as fascinated by her exciting life as a Chaser for Scotland as she was by his Auror training, each pursuing a different path of life through the other.

'Fine. I'll go and get your things, alright?'

'No, no, I'll go fetch them; you stay there.'

'Mmmm. Alright.'

As he sat there, a wave of nausea came over him. Shutting his eyes, he breathed in and out slowly.

So it was not too unexpected that as he stood to meet Minerva and Apparate home, he slowly crumpled onto the carpet in a dead faint.

She reached the cool back of her palm out to touch his forehead. A furrow appeared between her brows. She leaned over him, her eyes preoccupied. Gently, she eased him on his side and proceeded to rub circles in his back, at first lightly tracing his skin with her fingertips, then with increasing pressure until his muscles were so loose that he felt he could hardly move.

She stopped, and Remus could tell by the stillness of the bed that she hadn't moved.

'Relaxed?' Her tone was quietly qualitative as per usual, but he detected a note of anxiousness that bothered him slightly.

'Mmmmmm,' he gave in reply, turning over to face her.

'Feeling better?' she posed.

'Hmmmm. Apparently werewolves can't hold their own.'

'I don't think,' she replied, 'that it was just the alcohol.' She paused and gave him a stare.

'What do you mean?' he replied, staring right back at her.

'Well, Remus, when I can lift you easily without magic, something's wrong.'

Remus looked down for a moment, collecting his thoughts. 'Minerva, I'm a student. Students aren't exactly famous for making loads of money, and-'

'Look, I know that. But you're painfully thin. When was the last time you had a proper meal?'

'Oh, about an hour ago.'

'Remus, I'm serious.' She paused. 'If you need-'

'Minerva,' he cut her off. 'Listen to me. I'm quite serious too. I don't think this is working out. My training, that is. The administrators are making more and more restrictive rules in the school. They're trying to get rid of, oh, let's say, complications. I knew something like this would happen eventually; the Ministry's just been becoming more and more biased, and--' He stumbled to a halt.

'So you're leaving,' she said flatly.

'Yes.'

He stared out into nothingness. 'I'd rather turn to something else, even if it isn't what I want. Rather than starving myself just to be belittled.'

'My Judas. You try to stand all by yourself.' Her demeanour was soft, resentment brimming just below empathy, telling him she'd never thought him capable of treachery.

He was silent.

Minerva considered him. She knew that he wanted to be an Auror more than anything. She also knew that he was used to giving up his dreams to face reality.

'I'm sorry I haven't been around.' There was a tense look on her face.

His eyes widened slightly. 'There's nothing you could have done about that, love.' He rubbed her cheek lightly with his thumb.

She looked rather bemused and faraway. 'You know, somehow, I'm glad. It's too competitive for my taste. Well, it's not the competition that I mind so much,' he smiled wryly at this confession, 'but just the petty meanness that goes along with it. But if I'd have been here, with you instead of at Hogwarts, you would--'

'Oh, stop it, Minerva. Do you honestly think you could have convinced me to leave if I hadn't wanted to? Besides, I hear you're a big success there....' He grinned at her suggestively, sitting up suddenly.

She scoffed at him. 'Silly boys. That Charlie Weasley had better stop daydreaming in class or he'll fail.' She paused. 'I wouldn't have wanted you to leave unless you really felt it best. I don't want you to leave unless you think it best. I just could have made sure you were fed properly.'

'Yes, mother.' She shot him a glaring glance that would have made him cower secretly if he hadn't known it to be in jest. He simply returned her a slight smile.

There was a short companionable silence, until he took her hand in his, holding it up to his cheek, his eyes not quite focusing on the fireplace before him. 'How is it that your hands are always so cold?' he added, glancing up at her, smiling slyly.

She laughed slightly, and considered. 'Just poor circulation, I suppose.'

He took the other and covered both with his own.

She laughed again, and teased, 'How is it that yours are always so warm?'

He looked at her in mock-seriousness. Her eyebrow was cocked just higher than the other. His mood shifted, and he slowly closed the space between their lips, only shutting his eyes at the last minute. They kissed chastely, again and again just touching lips with increasing urgency. As her mouth eased open, he removed one of his hands to circle the back of her neck.

She held onto him, breaking off and running her fingers along his jaw line. Kissing him lightly on the forehead, she whispered, 'Sleep.'

'I can't.'

'Don't be ridiculous, of course you can.'

'Fine, what if I'd rather not?'

She looked at him bemusedly and repeated, 'You need to sleep, Remus.' She paused.

'Don't worry. I think you've made the right decision. You can't let them just push you around, whatever the consequences.' She put his hand against her lips and kissed it softly. With what could have been a sigh, she continued, 'I could never do what you're doing.' She smiled, and kissed him softly, breaking off after a moment. 'Sleep.' She stood up as if to leave the room, but Remus, still holding one of her hands, did not release her. After a minute of searching his eyes, she sat down again.

She added tenderly, 'I will love you until the end of my days.'

He smiled warmly, kissed her fully, and undid her shirt.

Oh God, she was delicious.

The way she smiled, her lips slightly parted in anticipation, her teeth glittering in the soft firelight, the way she moaned slightly as he kissed her neck, her collarbone, her jaw, the way she made every nerve in his body sizzle, white hot, the way she tasted, the way her tongue felt against his, the way her breasts slid across his chest, the way her hair felt, smooth and cold and silky-light against his skin, the way she smelled, feminine and clean and alluring, the way she shivered despite the heat, the way her fingers traced his spine, the curves of the muscles of his back, his jaw-line, the way they wound in his hair, the way she later grabbed his back and clung to him, the way she wrapped her legs around him, the way they shook across his, the way she drew herself closer to him, pulling him into her, the way he fell into complete oblivion....

But most of all, when they were finished, the way she lay there, her breathing not quite normal, looking in his eyes.

And as he was looking back at her, in those expressive eyes that could contain steely fury, light mischief, calm content, bright desire, and a myriad of other emotions, he found a new one.

He knew the same was reflected in his own.

In her fairly extensive rooms, Minerva McGonagall had one that she never entered, a room devoted solely to storage.

She was entering it now.

It felt odd even to touch the doorknob, to twist it, push the creaky door open. There was a slight crisp smell in the air, like the smell of the Restricted Section: it hinted of little use, and of much care.

She noted the layer of dust covering everything in the room, eyeing it unfavourably.

She saw the piles of books, photo albums, and old records. She saw, with a slight sense of regret, her old spinet. Slowly, she walked towards it, feeling rather transported. Taking a lacy handkerchief out of a pocket, she attempted to wipe the dust off the main frame of the piano, the keyboard cover, the bench. After a minute's work, she stepped back to observe her work. It took a lot of restraint not to open the cover, to test the ivory keys. She would be out of practise anyway, and the spinet would be out of tune, and not worth hearing. Not worth replacing the few memories she still kept.

She instead opened the bench top, looking in wonder at all of her old, yellowed sheet music.

Grieg... Rachmaninov and Bach... names she had almost forgotten.

She vowed to ask Filius Flitwick for his book on music charms.

Her throat feeling rather tight, she closed the bench top quickly, sending a cloud of dust all over her. She backed away quickly, coughing and spluttering. It was then that her gaze fell, hesitantly, on the albums.

Breathing through her nose despite the dust she carefully bent and lifted the top one.

Sitting down on the piano bench, she carefully opened its cover.

The first pictures were merely landscapes, scenes of Hogwarts, mostly. Some were of the countryside around Aberdeen, near her aunt and uncle's old farm. A very old picture of her mother, which she skipped purposefully. But she only found another, and another. She regarded her, smiling slightly in her wedding picture. It was remarkable how she resembled her mother. She looked at her father instead, throwing his arm round her mother's shoulders. He had been quiet, reserved, and very intelligent. He had taught at Hogwarts also, had been the Potions master. Her worst subject. They had had a strange relationship, loving but very strange, especially as her mother had died when she was very small.

The next pictures were the ones she was looking for: mostly pictures of a toothy girl with shockingly red hair, though there were a few of other schoolmates. There were pictures of her, riding her first broomstick, and later ones, Lily smiling enthusiastically in her graduation robes, Lily and James dancing a rather exuberant tango, with Remus and Sirius looking on amusedly, all of them sitting around the lake. There were pictures of her and the other Scotland Quidditch players. There was a picture of what appeared to be a person falling rapidly from the sky, a blur of blue and white. There were various notes stuck into this section as well. Minerva sped past these. A picture of the Order. There was a lone picture of Peter, looking very nervously at the floor. Minerva skipped this one too.

And stopped. More pictures of her. And him. Remus.

He was sitting next to her in the stands of the practise field outside Glasgow. He was standing in front of the Auror training section at the ministry. In the Leaky Cauldron in London. There he was, proudly flashing the watch she had given him for his birthday. Grinning like a maniac. Standing right next to her. She had her hair down. It was very odd to see herself, ten years younger, and in dressy muggle clothes. He kept trying to put his arm around her shoulder.

That look in his eye....

She shut the book quickly. She had not needed to see that.

She knew that he had come back. He had been in touch with Dumbledore, and Hagrid, and even Snape.

At any rate, it wasn't as if she had tried to contact him either.

For the first time in eleven years, she allowed herself to remember him. All of him, not just the precise hazel colour of his eyes in the filtered sunlight of the Potter's porch or the soft-smoothness of the skin of his abdomen against hers. All of him. The way he was forever late, the way he smiled wryly when he thought something ironic was amusing, the way he would always poke her lightly in the very middle of her back just to hear her giggle. The way he kissed. And the way he looked at her.

The way he had looked at her, half lost and half tired and completely sorry, when he had said goodbye.

It was a beautiful night. The stars did not shine, and it was a beautiful night.

The wind howled through the trees, and it was a beautiful night.

The snow did not shine under the bright face of the moon; the clouds did not frame her lovely face; her noctiluminescence was not to be noted.

It was a beautiful night.

It had been a beautiful night, such as this, before.

Yet it wasn't the same.

Never quite the same.

It had been November, and he had left.

She knew that they were going in circles. They had been, for days. As soon as they had reached his flat after the triple service, he broke down.

It alone was enough to tear her apart.

But partnered with every other trouble they had faced, all it did was quiet her. She had been tearful before, but all her tears fled as his broke out.

She was filled with nothingness, was emptied of everything; was filled with everything, was emptied of nothingness.

He did not sob. He was soundless, as was she, and together, they could hear the roaring of cars, the footsteps of others, the creaking of floorboards, the ticking of his wall clock.

He was sucked into nothingness, was spit out of everything; was sucked into everything, was spit out of nothingness.

Their inaction was over-action. Their actions meant nothing. They understood each other.

'Remus,' she tried to say.

Neither looked at the other.

'I can't stay.' Finally, it hung in the room, repeating endlessly in her ears and head.

'I know.'

She wondered if they were talking at all, or if her mind was malfunctioning and filling in text. She felt as if her eyes and ears had failed her.

'I'll come with you.'

'No.'

She knew it to be the only answer she'd get. She knew he wanted her to forget him. She knew that she would often wish she could forget him.

She rose to her legs as he murmured, 'I love you.'

She turned to look at him, seeing the deadness of his features.

'I know.'

An eternity passed.

He rose to his feet, his cheeks still wet.

'Goodbye. Minerva.'

Somehow she was at his side. Closing her eyes against her failing vision, she brought her cheek to his, his mouth to hers.

'Goodbye,' she whispered, and left through the door.

As she looked out her window at the landscape of Hogwarts, the clouds shifted, and the moon began to become visible. She closed her eyes, took off her glasses, and left the window for her bed.

It was November, and she went back to sleep.

It had been a beautiful night.

She had been angry.

She hadn't known if it had been with him, or if she as angry at their fate, or if she was angry at herself.

Angry at him for not realising that he could stay, for not taking her with him, angry at circumstance for forcing them into this, angry at herself for not being strong enough to deal with it, for not bracing herself, for not bracing him.

Angry for not realising that he couldn't stay sooner, for not following him, for not allowing him to brace her for what he knew he must do.

It was irrational, and that in itself was enough to maker her angry.

Perhaps she was just angry that they were different. She wanted to help him, and he wouldn't let her. But it didn't matter, for the time being, because he was gone.

He would be back. If he lived, he would come back.

Only time would tell when.

She would forget her anger. It was irrational. She hated irrationality.

She loved him.