Title: I've Grown Accustomed
Author: soft lite
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not only are Albus and Minerva not mine, but "I've Grown Accustomed to Her Face" is not mine. The song was written by Lerner and Loewe for the musical "My Fair Lady."
Author's note: My first songfic.
I've Grown Accustomed
Albus paced unhappily in his brother's hidden room above the pub on yet another day. He wanted to be at Minerva's side at St. Mungo's, but he was in hiding. And he had no right to be with her – at this moment he was nothing to her but a friend, not even the Headmaster at the school where she taught. Until this moment, he had taken for granted that she would be always at his side, and he had never admitted even to himself that she had become more than his best friend.
"Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn!" he shouted in the empty room.
At first he had thought being cooped up with only his brother for company was responsible for his loneliness, but as he had continued pacing angrily around the room day after day, he had realized it was much more.
"I've grown accustomed to her face!" This whispered revelation filled him with wonder at the strength of his feelings for her, and he sat heavily in a chair.
After a long time, he added, "She almost makes the day begin." His mind wandered, recalling his particular loneliness each morning since leaving Hogwarts. Missing breakfast in the Great Hall, not seeing her first smile of the morning as she came to sit next to him – only in retrospect did he recall how his heart and spirits had risen every day after those few moments with her. And indeed after any few minutes in her presence.
Wryly he smiled, remembering. "I've grown accustomed to the tune she whistles night and noon." He chuckled at the memory of her early days as a professor when he had accused her of whistling simply to distract him when they played chess. Of course he had since frequently caught her whistling on many occasions. And she was now capable of distracting him with far less than a whistle.
"Her smiles," he recollected fondly, were enough to start a warmth in his chest, and when she aimed a smile at him, he could feel a blush growing on his cheeks. His visage clouded over as he added, "Her frowns." Even thinking of her unhappiness could drive the joy from his heart. "Her ups, her downs, are second nature to me now." He realized that without her, he had been drifting aimlessly through the days of his exile, and he couldn't conceive of life without her.
Over the years he had learned how she would react to almost anything, and he sometimes delighted in baiting her, knowing she would rise, anticipating a tirade that he could then talk her down from. "Like breathing out and breathing in." The best way he'd found to think through a problem was to discuss it with her. Consulting her now felt so natural that he felt crippled without her.
"I was serenely independent and content before we met." He stood and turned to resume his pacing, his robes swirling around him, but he was no longer angry. How could he think of Minerva and remain angry for long? No, now he was thoughtful. Had he been independent and content before? Or simply lonely? He had had friends and lovers, of course, but no friends as fast as she, and since she had come to teach at Hogwarts he had had no desire for lovers.
"Surely I can always be that way again – and yet." He stopped pacing and realized that he had stopped desiring women because they all paled in comparison with Minerva. She was so smart, not just in her chosen field, but also about life. Sensible. And though he knew many of their coworkers didn't consider her a beauty, he always had.
She had a quiet elegance that he found quite compelling. Dazzling eyes that he had to concentrate not to get lost in. A complexion like silk that he longed for any excuse to touch. Her smile, he now admitted, ignited fires in more than his chest. On the rare occasions when he had glimpsed her figure, usually with a swish of her robes, even through her clothes he'd seen roundness that he longed to hold. She had become his standard for loveliness. "I've grown accustomed to her looks."
One look at her lips would drive him to distraction if he wasn't careful, and if she happened to lick her lips, he could easily be left in the middle of a sentence without any idea what he'd been saying. And that was before she ever spoke a word. Her voice could be comforting and relax him when nothing else would. Or sometimes it aroused intrigue, among other things, in him. "Accustomed to her voice."
Though he knew it was a dangerous and stupid thing to do, he had to go see her, to see for himself that she was alive. Give himself hope that she would live. He could tell his brother didn't understand when he said, "Accustomed to her face."
In St. Mungo's, invisible, in the middle of the night, Albus's breath caught the first second he saw her. After a suspended moment, he stepped forward and took her hand in his. He had come because he needed to tell her what he had discovered about his feelings for her, but now that he was there, he found it hard to find words. He had thought that seeing her in the early morning hours would raise his spirits as it did at Hogwarts. "But I'm so used to hear her say, 'Good morning,' every day," he finally whispered.
Seeing her lying there unable to speak was depressing his spirits, and he tried to correct this by thinking of, "Her joys." But searching her still face, he could find no memory of happiness, and his mind soon turned to, "Her woes." She was now severely injured after trying to defend a friend who had nearly been arrested. Their entire world had been under siege for far too long. The pressure had been enormous on them all.
Even though he knew he must sound like a rambling fool, he couldn't stop himself from trying again to remember the good. "Her highs." Her excitement upon arriving at Hogwarts to teach. But this reminded him of the travails of her first year teaching. "Her lows."
He stroked her hand, tracing every line, grateful that he could at last hold her hand without her drawing away or asking questions. Being here with her, holding her hand now felt like the most natural thing to do. "Are second nature to me now." As one hand continued to hold hers, his other hand went to caress her face and neck. Her steady breathing was reassuring, and he realized that he had unconsciously begun running his finger over her lips. "Like breathing out and breathing in."
Recognizing the intimacy of his actions, he drew away, turned his back, and looked out the window. Going through with telling her was more scary than he had thought it would be, and he was having second thoughts. Trying to convince himself that they could return to the way they had been, he informed the window sill, "I'm very grateful she's a woman and so easy to forget." Except he knew he never could forget. Casting about in his mind for another way out, he tried out the sound of some other words. "Rather like a habit one can always break."
The words sounded not only false in his own ears, but hurtful.
Returning to her side, he held her hand in one of his and stroked her face with the other has he haltingly whispered, "And yet I've become accustomed to the trace of something in the air." He felt the tears on his cheeks before he was aware of them forming in his eyes, and he finally confessed, "Accustomed to her face."
I've Grown Accustomed
Albus paced unhappily in his brother's hidden room above the pub on yet another day. He wanted to be at Minerva's side at St. Mungo's, but he was in hiding. And he had no right to be with her – at this moment he was nothing to her but a friend, not even the Headmaster at the school where she taught. Until this moment, he had taken for granted that she would be always at his side, and he had never admitted even to himself that she had become more than his best friend.
"Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn!" he shouted in the empty room.
At first he had thought being cooped up with only his brother for company was responsible for his loneliness, but as he had continued pacing angrily around the room day after day, he had realized it was much more.
"I've grown accustomed to her face!" This whispered revelation filled him with wonder at the strength of his feelings for her, and he sat heavily in a chair.
After a long time, he added, "She almost makes the day begin." His mind wandered, recalling his particular loneliness each morning since leaving Hogwarts. Missing breakfast in the Great Hall, not seeing her first smile of the morning as she came to sit next to him – only in retrospect did he recall how his heart and spirits had risen every day after those few moments with her. And indeed after any few minutes in her presence.
Wryly he smiled, remembering. "I've grown accustomed to the tune she whistles night and noon." He chuckled at the memory of her early days as a professor when he had accused her of whistling simply to distract him when they played chess. Of course he had since frequently caught her whistling on many occasions. And she was now capable of distracting him with far less than a whistle.
"Her smiles," he recollected fondly, were enough to start a warmth in his chest, and when she aimed a smile at him, he could feel a blush growing on his cheeks. His visage clouded over as he added, "Her frowns." Even thinking of her unhappiness could drive the joy from his heart. "Her ups, her downs, are second nature to me now." He realized that without her, he had been drifting aimlessly through the days of his exile, and he couldn't conceive of life without her.
Over the years he had learned how she would react to almost anything, and he sometimes delighted in baiting her, knowing she would rise, anticipating a tirade that he could then talk her down from. "Like breathing out and breathing in." The best way he'd found to think through a problem was to discuss it with her. Consulting her now felt so natural that he felt crippled without her.
"I was serenely independent and content before we met." He stood and turned to resume his pacing, his robes swirling around him, but he was no longer angry. How could he think of Minerva and remain angry for long? No, now he was thoughtful. Had he been independent and content before? Or simply lonely? He had had friends and lovers, of course, but no friends as fast as she, and since she had come to teach at Hogwarts he had had no desire for lovers.
"Surely I can always be that way again – and yet." He stopped pacing and realized that he had stopped desiring women because they all paled in comparison with Minerva. She was so smart, not just in her chosen field, but also about life. Sensible. And though he knew many of their coworkers didn't consider her a beauty, he always had.
She had a quiet elegance that he found quite compelling. Dazzling eyes that he had to concentrate not to get lost in. A complexion like silk that he longed for any excuse to touch. Her smile, he now admitted, ignited fires in more than his chest. On the rare occasions when he had glimpsed her figure, usually with a swish of her robes, even through her clothes he'd seen roundness that he longed to hold. She had become his standard for loveliness. "I've grown accustomed to her looks."
One look at her lips would drive him to distraction if he wasn't careful, and if she happened to lick her lips, he could easily be left in the middle of a sentence without any idea what he'd been saying. And that was before she ever spoke a word. Her voice could be comforting and relax him when nothing else would. Or sometimes it aroused intrigue, among other things, in him. "Accustomed to her voice."
Though he knew it was a dangerous and stupid thing to do, he had to go see her, to see for himself that she was alive. Give himself hope that she would live. He could tell his brother didn't understand when he said, "Accustomed to her face."
In St. Mungo's, invisible, in the middle of the night, Albus's breath caught the first second he saw her. After a suspended moment, he stepped forward and took her hand in his. He had come because he needed to tell her what he had discovered about his feelings for her, but now that he was there, he found it hard to find words. He had thought that seeing her in the early morning hours would raise his spirits as it did at Hogwarts. "But I'm so used to hear her say, 'Good morning,' every day," he finally whispered.
Seeing her lying there unable to speak was depressing his spirits, and he tried to correct this by thinking of, "Her joys." But searching her still face, he could find no memory of happiness, and his mind soon turned to, "Her woes." She was now severely injured after trying to defend a friend who had nearly been arrested. Their entire world had been under siege for far too long. The pressure had been enormous on them all.
Even though he knew he must sound like a rambling fool, he couldn't stop himself from trying again to remember the good. "Her highs." Her excitement upon arriving at Hogwarts to teach. But this reminded him of the travails of her first year teaching. "Her lows."
He stroked her hand, tracing every line, grateful that he could at last hold her hand without her drawing away or asking questions. Being here with her, holding her hand now felt like the most natural thing to do. "Are second nature to me now." As one hand continued to hold hers, his other hand went to caress her face and neck. Her steady breathing was reassuring, and he realized that he had unconsciously begun running his finger over her lips. "Like breathing out and breathing in."
Recognizing the intimacy of his actions, he drew away, turned his back, and looked out the window. Going through with telling her was more scary than he had thought it would be, and he was having second thoughts. Trying to convince himself that they could return to the way they had been, he informed the window sill, "I'm very grateful she's a woman and so easy to forget." Except he knew he never could forget. Casting about in his mind for another way out, he tried out the sound of some other words. "Rather like a habit one can always break."
The words sounded not only false in his own ears, but hurtful.
Returning to her side, he held her hand in one of his and stroked her face with the other has he haltingly whispered, "And yet I've become accustomed to the trace of something in the air." He felt the tears on his cheeks before he was aware of them forming in his eyes, and he finally confessed, "Accustomed to her face."