Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter -- stop rubbing it in, you'll make me cry!
Albus Dumbledore sighed and sank wearily into his chair. With practiced care he removed his half-moon glasses, which glittered and flashed orange in the evening sunlight. He squinted at them, detected a smudge; slowly he polished them, rubbing them on the silky violet fabric of his robes in a vague circular motion.
He knew that he was doing this simply to avoid coming to the point. With other people, he could make his conversation as concise, even as inane, as he liked, and nobody minded because they took him for a genius. How kind of them. But from his thoughts there could be no evasion, no escape, no matter how hard he tried. He had to think about her.
As for people considering him a genius – yes, it was a kind sentiment, but was it well founded? As he sat there, reclining in his chair as much as its height and hard wood would allow, polishing his glasses (the strength of which was no longer quite effective), staring unseeingly at the sunset, and shuffling his feet in his slippers, he did not feel like a genius. He felt tired, inadequate – and old. Too old, for her.
She thought he was a genius, too.
He knew it to be so, and the thought unsettled him. For almost all of his adult life, he had had a reputation for being one of the greatest men of his time. Very flattering, of course, and he had succeeded in doing great things, using his power and reputation to further the cause of good in ever so many ways…. But where had that led him – as a human being?
Slowly, for his back pained him slightly, Albus Dumbledore walked over to the cabinet inside which he knew the Pensieve lay waiting. He removed the remarkable object with care and carried it over to his desk; it sat there calmly, contents gleaming as whitely and enigmatically as ever. Then, placing his wand to his temple, he drew from the inner depths of his mind a long, silvery strand, neither liquid nor quite solid, and let it slip off his wand's point, to mingle and swirl with the contents of the mysterious stone basin. Sadly, knowing what he was about to see, he took his wand and prodded the silvery fluid gently.
The Pensieve's contents whirled slowly, picked up speed, and stopped again, to bring him the image of her face, smiling at him, her dark brown hair gathered in the tightest bun humanly possible.
Dumbledore smiled fondly. Minerva always had been the strict one… he gazed at her, and found himself unable to take his eyes away. We've been through a lot together, you and I, he thought.
And it was true. In the terrible struggle against Lord Voldemort's forces, she had always been by his side fighting – not to mention being his second-in-command in the struggle to keep Hogwarts just a step above utter chaos. No matter what the situation, no matter what exigencies he was called upon to deal with, she was there to help… no matter what.
There to help… yes, she had always been there to help, but she didn't view their relationship the way he wanted her to view it: as equal aiding equal. He had always encouraged her to make executive decisions on her own, or else discuss them with him as a colleague. But she would consistently insist on bringing the final decisions to him, and worse, with the air of one reporting to a superior.
She considered his power far surpassing hers. And, a few years previously, when his power was (he smiled again slightly) admittedly immense, she would have been correct. But his power was waning, and hers was growing, for she was so very talented… and every time he looked at her, he saw in the depths of her heart what she was either unable or afraid to face: that it was within her reach to be as strong as he was. But she was only as strong as she believed herself to be, and that was the trouble. She considered herself secondary.
He would never succeed in making her see him as an equal… and only in an equal relationship could there be love.
The portraits were all taking their late afternoon naps; their gentle snores added a soft background noise to the room but were not distracting. Satisfied that he was alone, Dumbledore slowly and quietly removed his glasses once more, and buried his lined face in his hands.
Yes, he was powerful, yes, so much so that he could rival, perhaps even surpass, the power of Voldemort! Where had that gotten him – what had that given him? More gray hairs than he could count, and more pain even than that.
He was in love with Minerva McGonagall, with every single thing about her – her beautiful eyes, the way she smiled, her shrewd sense of humor, and yes, even her strictness and stubbornness and insecurity…. He had never felt like this, this deep, bottomless love, about anyone in his life – had never even had time to feel like this. Didn't he – and she – deserve happiness? True happiness – love and laughter and smiles? Couldn't they simply leave all the problems for the younger generation to take care of, go off somewhere, and live – really live? Was asking for life asking too much?
He had spent his career bettering the lives of others, and had paid with his own.
Suddenly, forcefully, almost angrily, Dumbledore raised his head and perched his glasses back on his nose. It was no use feeling sorry for himself, wasting valuable time in fantasies of happiness. He knew, deep down, that he and Minerva would never be together. He closed his eyes. That knowledge gave him so much pain that he could scarcely think.
The sun slowly sank beneath the horizon, giving one final glare off the surface of the lake before its brightness disappeared. Dumbledore sat in his old oaken chair, lost in thought, as the darkness closed in around him. At long last, when the tentative, jewel-like stars started peeping out in the dark sky, he came to a final decision.
The younger generation could cope very well: he had passed on as much knowledge as he could to Harry, and though that wasn't enough, he knew also that nothing ever would be enough. It pained him to think of what an effect his decision would have on Harry – he had loved him like a son – but he was resolved; he was not turning back. It was better this way.
Minerva McGonagall always had been and always would be overshadowed by him, and she needed her chance to shine, to rise to the full level of her abilities, to show the world that she was strong, talented, and powerful – and most of all, show herself.
And he knew, as sure as he loved her, that he was the one person who could give her that chance.
Dumbledore took one last look at the face in the basin, the face he knew so well, and this strengthened his resolve, completely and irrevocably. Asking for a "normal" life for himself and Minerva, just two old people thrown together to make the best of a terrible situation, was asking too much when it came at the price of the lives and happiness of others. But, for Minerva, the woman he would love till the end of time, death was not too much to ask of himself. He would not stand in her way any longer.
He would continue to help Harry and prepare him in every way he could. But when the time was right, and the opportunity came – and come it would – he, Albus Dumbledore, would die.
Unhurriedly, Dumbledore stood and carried the heavy stone basin back to its home in the old cabinet, then walked over to the window of his office, which was open slightly. Raising his eyes to the moon, he gazed out at the velvety darkness; and as he did so the cool night breeze blew softly in, and kissed him on the cheek.
Author's Note: This is my first ever fanfic. What did you think? How did you like it? Please, please, take a few moments of your time to give me a review -- it means a lot. Thanks!