It is late night and Albus is gone. I sit up with a cup of comfrey tea warming my cold fingers, staring out the window, waiting for him. When he comes I will bury my nose in a book and pretend I was not waiting to say hello and goodnight. He will smile calmly, drink my tea, lay down his burdens beside my heavy hewed table and sleep will come at his gentle presence.
My elbows are propped by the castle window, chin cupped in my hands. The new moon is hidden in a hail of Filibuster's tonight and owls swoop. I scan the grounds, waiting for him. When he comes he will be all long shadow, and twinkling stars, I will hover in his shade while comforting his tired body and weighted heart. He is very late tonight.
There. I see him now. He pauses at the gate, leaning gently against the November freeze and swirling leaves, lifts his hands. Waves at me. Hand to heart, hand to me. I smile, flustered, send a hand up in greeting as I rummage, pretending I am in a deep and particularly interesting read, just as he knows I must pretend. A flick of the wand and his tea is seeping. I bend my head, don't look up when he comes in but smile a secret smile at my book and to him.
He sees it. I know. I can hear his secret hum. It is just for me. He is sipping the tea, waiting for me to lift my head.
His sky blue eyes are a sad twinkle.
I smile at him fondly. Old friend, dear protector. My hero.
Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. I whisper it. He tilts his head to one side to catch the words. How I wonder what you are.
He takes a thoughtful sip of tea. I wait for him to speak. Words are slow tonight. A sip for a sentence. A whole pot for a paragraph. Of course there are the things he will never share, no matter how I beg to carry it with him.
I begged him once to tell me all. To let me take his load with him. "I can handle it! Let me!" And I threw my shoulders back in pride and preparation.
Of course he did not. "You have burden enough for the whole world, Poppy." He said this mostly to himself, a deep sadness resonating from him. I have not pushed the matter since. There lies the separation.
After the death of Grendelvald Albus brought me to his home, his school: Hogwarts. Beside a wizard of no small repute, the world bent to greet me, where before they would have used and trampled me. He brought me to the hospital wing, and when I got up the next morning I did not leave and he never stopped bringing me flowers.
Soon I had tea waiting for him each night when he came with his flowers. Cold, strong english tea with red and yellow summer roses. Soft mint in the spring with lucky heather from the moors surrounding the lake. Seeped and boiled pumpkin seeds in the fall with white hyacinth. Comfrey drizzled with milk and honey while he breaks boughs of green pine, pinged with small red berries in the winter. We sat like that each night, year after year with our cups of tea, the flowers lying there untouched between us. And instead of kisses we began to trade words.
He is my father who is dead and burned, and the lover I can never have. I have never loved a man more.
Albus raises his eyes, watches me behind the mound of hyacinth while he drinks his tea down. He looks so old, so tired. I lift my hands, gingerly touch his knee as if to prod the terrible truth from him.
He swallows. "Dear Poppy. How I love you." And he smiles. I wait.
He watches a particularly fine firework explode in the inky black sky and beams in appreciation. "You'll be wanting to know?" He turns his eyes to me. I bite my lip.
"Voldemort?" My body is stiff when I say his name.
Albus brings his fingers together, and shakes his head in resignation.
"He is not dead. The final battle is only forestalled."
I swallow convulsively. "I heard news of Lily and James. But Harry? Will he be okay?" I rise to my feet in anxiety. "Should I tend to him? I will go to him."
Dumbledore raises his hand and tugs me back down. He shakes his head at my raised eyebrows. "Give it ten years or so." He chuckles. "If he takes after his parents, I'm sure you'll get the chance."
I curl into the rocker with a quilt, clutching my tea, watching him. He puts his feet up with a groan of relaxation, high heeled boots toe up on my kitchen table. His chair is a portable loo on wheels, a standing joke between us. "I am old," he had said one day.
"You will never be old," I countered. "Never."
"Yes, I will." He was laughing when he said it. "I am not immortal, merely clever. There is a difference."
I had the chair ready for him the next day, wheeled in from the hospital wing two doors down. He sat down on his chamber pot with gusto, and drank his tea with his pinky finger out.
Now he stretches, like men do when they are comfortable and tired. He smiles at me and he loves me. "Poppy," he says. And he is silent in the warmth that follows. He swallows and looks at me with sudden agony.
"I was too late for Lily and James. Too late for so many."
"Not too late for me!" My voice cracks. I have never spoken of it before.
He turns to me and is fierce now. "For you, latest of all." He moves forward, towards my hand lying on the table and grips it, moves up the sleeve of the robe. It is still there, a violent red against my pale skin, twisting like a bracelet from raised tail to forked tongue. "Some wounds never heal."
I love him more fully now then ever. This is a soft love that demands all of me. I move towards him. "No! All wounds heal." I lean closer and he looks surprised at my proximity. I roll my sleeve and rub Grendelvald's snake. We hear it hissing it's magic, it blisters my skin, Dumbledore was not able to remove it.
"Albus, we don't know what strange and beautiful things lie after life." I lean in closer. "It doesn't hurt. Not like it used to." I touch his lips with my shackled hand. He does not move, only looks at me.
His lips are warm and gentle and he responds when I kiss him. It is the first and fear is in my belly. He whispers in my ear to soothe. I keep kissing.