AN: To Rikki, because she saved my life by helping me with my religious education assignment (hysterical squee!).
The day AlbusDumbledore received Minerva's letter came, ironically, the next morning. The explanation for its rather long delay was simple, and in fact even due to a mistake of Minerva herself. In all nervousness and hurry, namely, she had picked an owl still way too young and small for the delivery of long-distance post- and when the poor animal finally arrived, it was indeed more dead than alive.
But even though the condition of the owl rather shocked Albus- always quite fond of birds- it could not at all match the sheer surprise which rushed through his veins at reading the contents of the letter the owl had- finally- delivered.
In fact his first reaction- after sinking back into one of the large chairs in his living room- was disbelief. Someone playing a cruel trick on him. A student, perhaps, who thought he was being funny- or perhaps- well, he didn't know. An enemy? The idea did sound rather ridiculous to him, true- but… As he leant his head back, closing his eyes in the process, though, he realized that it did not only sound ridiculous- it was ridiculous, too. First of all, no-one knew Minerva was on a mission. Second of all, no-one had heard their parting conversation. Third of all- and most of all- it was Minerva's handwriting. He was sure of it.
He'd not taught her for seven years for nothing- he would recognize that neat, simple handwriting of hers everywhere, and even though the letter had obviously been written rather rushed, it didn't matter. Minerva had written it, and he couldn't really care for anything but that.
Carefully, very slowly, Albus allowed his fingers to graze the rather rough parchment it had been written on, travelling all down to the final words of the letter. "Yours, if you will have me."
He hardly noticed a big tear trickling down his cheek and staining the parchment as his trembling lips tentatively formed a rather timid smile.
"Minerva, Minerva, how can you ever doubt that? I will have you, my dear, of course I will- I've never wanted anything else. No, we'll marry, my dear, and we will be happy, and you will wear a bright white wedding dress, and flowers in that amazing, black hair of yours, and-"
Yet here, Albus fell silent. Dropping his hands- along with the letter- on his purple-clad lap, the man who was quite rightfully called the most powerful wizard of his age realized he'd acted as a serious fool.
Marry Minerva.
Marry the girl who'd gone off to Grindelwald himself as a spy, a girl who was on what most probably was the most important as well as most dangerous mission of this whole war. The girl- woman- who had left, knowing it was highly unlikely that she would ever return- who had lied to him and broken both their hearts in the process because of that.
Only now did he realize how very brave her decision had been. She loved him- that he realized now- love was literally radiating from every letter she had entrusted to the parchment- and yet she had left him. Left him for an uncertain duty, for a future which she knew literally nothing about- left love and her easy chance on happiness behind.
At first he had assumed she'd done it because she did not love him, but if she did- if she did, her decision to leave was the bravest thing he had ever heard of.
Albus knew- out of his own experience of years- that it took a lot of courage to choose the hard way over the easy one- and an easy one he had offered her indeed. But she, so very young, so very beautiful, had not hesitated for as much as a split second. And he admired her for it, more than he could say.
And if she should return- he barely dared to think about the other possibility- he would marry her, no matter what. No matter how scared, no matter how traumatized, no matter how- did he dare to say it? No- but what he did know what this- no matter what, as long as she would have him, he would marry her, with or without white dress, with or without flowers in her hair.
But he would marry her, make her happy, love her.
No matter what.
And with a pensive look in his eyes and a pencil clutched between his still shaking fingers, Albus Dumbledore started to write.
