A/N: At this point, I still have space to respond to every reviewer :)
Well, here I go:
Alois: No, this isn't done, not by a long shot. I'm writing as I go, so what you see is what I got.
Whisper: Thank you so much! I promise I will make it exciting :)
Sir/Lady Lupin: You bet it'll be fluffy. But not right now. Fluffiness will abound when everything else is straightened out.
Kala: So many questions! I guess that means I'm on the right track. Minerva's secret will not be fully revealed for a while yet; it's my only source of suspense :) But you get a little bit of an answer in this chapter. No, she isn't related to Harry; their bond isn't by blood, but you will find out more about that later. Her headache was only an indication of her problem; it has nothing to do with a scar or anything like that.
Ilfje: Thank you so much for reading!
HPluvva: I'm glad that amused you. I throw little jokes into things I write hoping people will notice :)
One more thing: this chapter doesn't really stand alone, it's too short, but it seemed complete in itself, so I decided to post the other part separately. But this also means the fourth chapter will follow very, very shortly. Ok, on with the show.....
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the people, places or things in this story. That privilege belongs exclusively to the lovely J. K. Rowling, as I'm sure you're all aware.
Minerva sat at her office window, watching the golden rays of light on the window pane deepen into crimson. Each sunset was a stroke
on the tally of her life, but the bell that would toll for her had not been forged yet, and the beauty of nature, essentially the peaceful
coexistence of life and death, forbade her to look away. She felt summoned, and she would have gone if it had been her time.
This was how she had lived it thousands of times in her dreams, both wakeful and lost in slumber, both behind the glass
and before it. She was like a relative with an invitation who is not really expected to show up. She suddenly felt alone
when the knock came, but she was not surprised to see the hesitant, determined green eyes surface from behind the looming
oak door. She was sure that his talk with Albus had contributed very little to the further enlightenment of either, but she knew
it had been productive in as much as it had strengthened the resolve of both, and she knew there could be no resistance.
"Come in, Potter," she said softly, so weakly that he barely heard the words behind the breath. "I'm sorry to bother you, Professor.....,"
he began feebly. She fixed her eyes to his and sent him what in any other woman would have been a sweet smile but in her
was unaccountably bitter. "Don't concern yourself with formalities like that right now. You're in my private chambers at sunset,
not in the classroom, and I don't look much like your Professor now. Do I?" The boy shook his head truthfully. In point of fact,
he scarcely recognized the slight, dour woman by the window as Professor McGonagall. She was smaller, somehow;
her presence had left her. And then his eyes widened. Hers was the body of defeat. He burned with curiosity to know what was
hurting her, but he didn't dare ask. What if she threw him out? He would never get this close to the truth again, never. He would have
to be very careful. "You might as well sit down, Potter," she whispered, turning her attention back to the wings of vermilion
scraping the evening sky. "Thank you," he answered after a few moments, settling down in the scarlet armchair opposite hers.
They sat still for hours, seemingly, until Harry, knowing he should not be the first to speak but unable to help himself, asked quietly:
"Why did you let me in?" "What?" She turned from the window in her confusion, and he took advantage of the fleeting eye contact
to continue. "If hiding was so important to you, why did you let me in?" "Hiding, Potter?" she asked wistfully. "If only it were that simple.
You're a child; real fear hasn't touched you yet. It should have, after all that you've seen, but it hasn't. Nothing can defeat you, Potter.
That's why you're our hope, the best one we could have wished for. But pain..... Pain is another story altogether. You can't know
true, all-consuming pain until your time comes. Mine is drawing nearer, lad, nearer with every passing day, but it's only today
that I realize there is no place so deep or so secluded that pain can't find me if I try to conceal myself there." Harry listened eagerly,
but the driving force behind his actions, curiosity, was being overtaken and destroyed with every word she uttered. She was not an animal
caged for purposes of observation. She was a human being, and he realized, with an electric jolt of sadness and sympathy that echoed
and reverberated back and forth along his nerve endings, how very strong she was. And she was not long for this world.....
it was an unthinkable contradiction, and it made the room swim with unreality. He grabbed her hand frantically, as if he were
afraid she would slip away in that moment. "Are you saying that's it?" He felt the lame question hover in the air between them,
and he felt ashamed, but she laughed, as if it were a joke she had heard before. "If you mean to ask if there's a cure, the answer is:
not that I know of. And if you want to know what is killing me, you'll have to come again another time," she finished hurriedly,
so much so that he would have thought Professor McGonagall had manifested herself again, but for the almost imperceptible
squeeze of her hand in his. They sat in silence again, drinking in the darkness, until the clock struck eleven. "You should
get some sleep, my lad, unless you want to sleepwalk through your classes tomorrow. And I for one will not allow it," she added with
a sly smile, the first genuine one he had ever seen on her face. A rush of joy poured through him that he had not even known
was connected to her; he for one would not mourn a beating heart, air- filled lungs or warm, comforting skin. She deserved more tribute
than that, more respect. "Goodnight, Professor," he declared firmly, becoming a boy once more and awkwardly dropping her hand
on the armrest of her chair. "Sweet dreams," she whispered to the carpet, and Harry nodded, then turned for the door. "Potter."
"Yes?" he answered. "You may tell Professor Dumbledore that his little schemes have no effect on me whatsoever."
Harry grinned sagely. "Whatever you say, Professor," he replied, and left her alone in the twilight.
Alois: No, this isn't done, not by a long shot. I'm writing as I go, so what you see is what I got.
Whisper: Thank you so much! I promise I will make it exciting :)
Sir/Lady Lupin: You bet it'll be fluffy. But not right now. Fluffiness will abound when everything else is straightened out.
Kala: So many questions! I guess that means I'm on the right track. Minerva's secret will not be fully revealed for a while yet; it's my only source of suspense :) But you get a little bit of an answer in this chapter. No, she isn't related to Harry; their bond isn't by blood, but you will find out more about that later. Her headache was only an indication of her problem; it has nothing to do with a scar or anything like that.
Ilfje: Thank you so much for reading!
HPluvva: I'm glad that amused you. I throw little jokes into things I write hoping people will notice :)
One more thing: this chapter doesn't really stand alone, it's too short, but it seemed complete in itself, so I decided to post the other part separately. But this also means the fourth chapter will follow very, very shortly. Ok, on with the show.....
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the people, places or things in this story. That privilege belongs exclusively to the lovely J. K. Rowling, as I'm sure you're all aware.
Minerva sat at her office window, watching the golden rays of light on the window pane deepen into crimson. Each sunset was a stroke
on the tally of her life, but the bell that would toll for her had not been forged yet, and the beauty of nature, essentially the peaceful
coexistence of life and death, forbade her to look away. She felt summoned, and she would have gone if it had been her time.
This was how she had lived it thousands of times in her dreams, both wakeful and lost in slumber, both behind the glass
and before it. She was like a relative with an invitation who is not really expected to show up. She suddenly felt alone
when the knock came, but she was not surprised to see the hesitant, determined green eyes surface from behind the looming
oak door. She was sure that his talk with Albus had contributed very little to the further enlightenment of either, but she knew
it had been productive in as much as it had strengthened the resolve of both, and she knew there could be no resistance.
"Come in, Potter," she said softly, so weakly that he barely heard the words behind the breath. "I'm sorry to bother you, Professor.....,"
he began feebly. She fixed her eyes to his and sent him what in any other woman would have been a sweet smile but in her
was unaccountably bitter. "Don't concern yourself with formalities like that right now. You're in my private chambers at sunset,
not in the classroom, and I don't look much like your Professor now. Do I?" The boy shook his head truthfully. In point of fact,
he scarcely recognized the slight, dour woman by the window as Professor McGonagall. She was smaller, somehow;
her presence had left her. And then his eyes widened. Hers was the body of defeat. He burned with curiosity to know what was
hurting her, but he didn't dare ask. What if she threw him out? He would never get this close to the truth again, never. He would have
to be very careful. "You might as well sit down, Potter," she whispered, turning her attention back to the wings of vermilion
scraping the evening sky. "Thank you," he answered after a few moments, settling down in the scarlet armchair opposite hers.
They sat still for hours, seemingly, until Harry, knowing he should not be the first to speak but unable to help himself, asked quietly:
"Why did you let me in?" "What?" She turned from the window in her confusion, and he took advantage of the fleeting eye contact
to continue. "If hiding was so important to you, why did you let me in?" "Hiding, Potter?" she asked wistfully. "If only it were that simple.
You're a child; real fear hasn't touched you yet. It should have, after all that you've seen, but it hasn't. Nothing can defeat you, Potter.
That's why you're our hope, the best one we could have wished for. But pain..... Pain is another story altogether. You can't know
true, all-consuming pain until your time comes. Mine is drawing nearer, lad, nearer with every passing day, but it's only today
that I realize there is no place so deep or so secluded that pain can't find me if I try to conceal myself there." Harry listened eagerly,
but the driving force behind his actions, curiosity, was being overtaken and destroyed with every word she uttered. She was not an animal
caged for purposes of observation. She was a human being, and he realized, with an electric jolt of sadness and sympathy that echoed
and reverberated back and forth along his nerve endings, how very strong she was. And she was not long for this world.....
it was an unthinkable contradiction, and it made the room swim with unreality. He grabbed her hand frantically, as if he were
afraid she would slip away in that moment. "Are you saying that's it?" He felt the lame question hover in the air between them,
and he felt ashamed, but she laughed, as if it were a joke she had heard before. "If you mean to ask if there's a cure, the answer is:
not that I know of. And if you want to know what is killing me, you'll have to come again another time," she finished hurriedly,
so much so that he would have thought Professor McGonagall had manifested herself again, but for the almost imperceptible
squeeze of her hand in his. They sat in silence again, drinking in the darkness, until the clock struck eleven. "You should
get some sleep, my lad, unless you want to sleepwalk through your classes tomorrow. And I for one will not allow it," she added with
a sly smile, the first genuine one he had ever seen on her face. A rush of joy poured through him that he had not even known
was connected to her; he for one would not mourn a beating heart, air- filled lungs or warm, comforting skin. She deserved more tribute
than that, more respect. "Goodnight, Professor," he declared firmly, becoming a boy once more and awkwardly dropping her hand
on the armrest of her chair. "Sweet dreams," she whispered to the carpet, and Harry nodded, then turned for the door. "Potter."
"Yes?" he answered. "You may tell Professor Dumbledore that his little schemes have no effect on me whatsoever."
Harry grinned sagely. "Whatever you say, Professor," he replied, and left her alone in the twilight.