Yay. I'm here. :) Enjoy…I actually cried while writing the end. It's just one of those bittersweet things…and then next chapter we shall hit what I'd like to call the climax. :)
Chapter Thirteen: Albus
She was surprised at how quickly evening came upon them; it seemed only a second before the bright, magnificent world was made dark and thoughtful.
Minerva sat alone at the top of her lover's house, cradling her knees as she surveyed her surroundings while waiting for Albus to return with something or other that he failed to mention.
The moon glimmered brilliantly at the top of the lake's water, casting its white shadow along the smooth liquid. Had she been in more of a tawdry mood, she'd have taken to the water and swam alone while waiting for the man. Alas, she had no real desire to be surrounded by filth, left over from the rain storm only the day before.
She could see lighting far off into the distance, still an hour away perhaps, making her quite certain that the waters would be back before long. Still, she sat at the top of the house and thought to herself of the wonderful world in which she was suddenly a part.
There was Albus, of course, but there was Aberforth, and a school, and love; all of it was wonderful. Well, the idea of it all was wonderful; incredibly romantic.
"You're rather alone up here," a warm, though only vaguely familiar voice called from the other side of the roof top. Aberforth approached her slowly, sitting himself down beside the woman, keeping his boundaries of course, and then sighed when Minerva merely replied, "yes".
Many seconds of silence fled by, though the woman did not feel as if she'd ever before heard such a devastating amount of tension. "So," he sighed again, much to the woman's dismay, "what did he do when you told him about that drunkard chap?"
Very, very slowly, the woman turned her head to stare at the man with wide eyes. He couldn't possibly mean her drunkard, could he? He couldn't have meant Edwin? "Drunk-ard?" she replied slowly.
"Yes. I'm sorry to say that I recognized you the second…well, second time I saw you this morning. Maybe that's why I shut up so quickly—not simply because it was an awkward situation," he blinked innocently. "Anyhow, I suppose you have a face that men can't forget—and trust me, I forget women I have affairs with, but not yours. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that you were with such a drunkard…or maybe because I always felt guilty," he nodded slowly, "forgive me, but you looked rather out of place when you came into my bar, looking for that man. I don't think you ever noticed me; you were always much too busy with getting him away from the table."
In total and complete awe, the woman peered at Aberforth. She knew him, not because he looked like Albus, but because she really knew him; he must have ran the tavern that Edwin went to—God. Minerva blinked to herself, suddenly recollecting the nights at the end of their last year where she found him indulging on a drink or two quite regularly.
"Well, anyhow," he shrugged, "Fuck it," he threw a careless hand away, "I read an article after I realized that he'd been missing for over a week; it had a dame, which I can only assume was you, face down on the floor and a picture of the man. Article said that he went on a drunken rampage, practically killed the woman—hell, I think the article even said that the girl was labeled as critical. I suppose it's rather lucky that you weren't hurt too badly to go on with life. Rather twisted turn of fate that you should be involved with my brother."
She opened and closed her mouth for many seconds, unable to find any words at all with which to either scold the boy or beg him to stay quiet about what he obviously knew. In the end, she merely shook her head from side to side, disbelieving; the articles that had been published never once said her name; merely that Edwin's "fiancée" had been beating within an inch of her life—and never had there been a picture of her face. The woman swallowed, "Please don't tell Albus about that."
Aberforth's eyes went into a concerned and surprised state; he obviously thought that Minerva had told her lover. "You mean he isn't aware that you…were…?"
"Beaten? Nearly killed? No," she shook her head defensively, "He doesn't. He…" she stopped quickly, reflecting on what she was about to say, but went on with it anyway, "he doesn't know many things about me." She said it quite matter-of-factly, but there was an air to her, and she would admit it if the time came, that sounded scared—and she was, way deep down.
The man shook his head gently. "You know, he wants to marry you, Minerva; where do you think he went?" he looked at her inquisitively.
Minerva blinked, utterly and completely daunted. She had never given it a thought; of course she dreamed of being with him, even been promised by him that she'd stay with him, but she never expected a proposal so…soon. There were, indeed, too many things that she had failed to tell him that he was entitled to hear. Thus, she was suddenly hit with the worst wave of fright that she had felt, held second only next to her last evening with Edwin.
Quickly, she jerked her head to face Aberforth, panic written all over her face. Merlin, she had to tell Albus so many things, but couldn't; she feared, more than anything, that he would leave her with the mention of her torments—all the others had. What's more was that she loved him, no lie, with all of her heart and he would not ever, in a million years, do anything to harm her, save for perhaps leave—but that would be the worst thing possible for him to do. Minerva would not want to go on living if he were to say goodbye.
A deep breath that sounded very near a cry escaped her mouth before speaking to Aberforth, "What shall I say?"
He blinked softly. "That is up to you, but I think he ought to hear it." Then there was another long silence before the man decided to speak up again, this time keeping way from his brother's affairs and moving directly to Minerva's. "And I…er…have a question if you don't think it too horrible of me. I've always felt a little bit responsible."
She nodded slowly, as to tell him to go on.
"The paper had said that you were not stable, which always made me wonder. I mean, we live in a world where everything is curable. I was just wondering as to what he did to you that caused you to be labeled as critical."
A sad, sad smile crossed her face. "I suffered internal damage from the waist up," she spoke forlornly, "And I suppose it does not help when they give you a potion that doesn't work. The acidic balance, they told me, wasn't balanced at all. My insides were worse off after the first go-round than in the beginning," she sat up from where she was on the room as she saw the rain begin to fall just across the way, and then looked at the brother once more. "Some problems won't ever be cured."
Then she left—not from fear or hatred, but Minerva felt suddenly very sorry for herself.
Aberforth sat at the top of the house for a fair few more seconds before the rain came, thinking sadly to himself. He had given Minerva quite a turn by mentioning what he knew for he was sure that she did not remember him. Why would she, anyhow? The only reason he had ever made such a mental note of the woman was the way she came into his tavern the first time; she had been so young, he remembered, and in all honesty, he did wish that he could have laid his hands on a patch of her smooth skin that was then covered in burgundy robes, but that's not what grabbed his attention. What made him remember the woman was the way that she spoke to the man who appeared as well-to-do as she was, though he knew from past experience that he was nothing more than a scoundrel—not that it bothered him, that's about all that ever came into his bar.
The man had been taking shots for a long while and was in a state of drunkenness that would have made sailors proud, but she came in anyhow. Minerva had put her hand on his shoulder which was slumped over the table and whispered into his ear—Aberforth couldn't hear what she said, he was too far away. And then the boy lifted up his head almost giddily and looked up at the woman.
"Of course, Love," the boy said aloud. "I'll be there this evening. I've got some people to meet here and some figures to manipulate."
She nodded her head slowly, obediently, and then pecked him on the lips. "I love you," she whispered, though this time Aberforth could read her lips.
"I love you too," he smiled as a hand drifted down to her young buttocks and he squeezed. Aberforth only took note of this because of the disgusting look that appeared on the man's face; it was as if Christmas had come early and he knew damn well what he was getting and in what quantity.
It had struck him odd, above all, that Minerva, who came off as perhaps snobbish—never whorish—would let such a man grope her, but he was not stupid enough to not recognize that look that enters a woman's eyes when she's in love, and Minerva certainly was not lacking it. She was young, he knew, and naïve, which explained it all, but he never quite got over what he saw perhaps a month after that scene.
Some of his customers had left the Daily Prophet in pieces at the table; he was picking it up when he saw the article—what a sad sight, indeed. There was a picture of that young woman, a deep gash on her head, leaking blood upon the floor where nothing else of her dared to move out of pain, or concussion, whichever applied. Beside her picture, there was one of the drunkard, whose name Aberforth never knew. Immediately, the man read the article after glancing at the headline: Murder Attempt to Be Judged by Courts.
What a sad story it was, indeed. The man came home, drunk, and ruined the woman's hope of survival, nearly. The article didn't say very much on their relationship of where either of them worked, merely the fact that a man had physically beaten a woman and the woman was near death.
It was something that he'd always carried on his shoulders; Aberforth surely was the instigator of that horrific night, though he never cared so much as he suddenly did with the re-introduction of Minerva to him, let alone the fact that his brother was involved with the woman. He suddenly felt so very sorry that he ever chose to work at a bar, but there was no turning back by then; he was stuck with his regrets and could never change a thing. He only hoped that all would work out well between the girl and his brother; they were both broken by love and it was only right that they should be mended by it as well.
He apparated straight to his room, which was thankfully empty, a
nd put a small blue box with a small gold circle with a small diamond beneath a book in his drawer. Minerva would never be going in there, he knew, if only for the reason that it held his array of knickers; Albus chuckled to himself at the thought of the woman invading his drawer: "Green and yellow, Albus? Green and yellow?"
The man just couldn't get over the amusement; he loved her. And as such, he wasted no time in beginning a search for Minerva, who had promised to stay at the house until his return. Out the room, into the bland hallway, and down the stairs he went, considering the fact that she would find no business upstairs if he was not present. After all, there were only bedrooms; one for Aberforth, one for Albus, and one for guests with the addition of a library. It was only an afterthought to consider searching his reading room. By then, however, he was downstairs, looking at an open room holding only one soul—not the one he had been looking for, either.
Albus approached his brother who seemed to take no notice of his presence until he was close, by only a few meters.
Aberforth looked at him quizzically. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
The man nodded slowly. He would forgive Aberforth's expression in light of his soaring happiness; indeed, he had found the most perfect ring that he ever could have found. "Where is she?" was all that he could ask—and conceivably all that was on his mind.
Perhaps not so young, younger brother shrugged his shoulders, "She disappeared not long ago. I would think that she went to her home for a few moments, though she didn't say."
Bobbing his head gently, curiously, he turned his attention to the upstairs where there was indeed a library to be searched before he left to the woman's home. "It isn't like Minerva to leave when she said she would stay," he sighed. When there was no response from his brother, the man decided to apparate to the reading room which had only a candle or two floating near a settee by the window.
He walked slowly up to the couch, only to find a very young girl looking back up at him with a soft smile. She looked different, Albus noted, though he couldn't figure out what it was that made her appear so…young suddenly. Perhaps it was the simple fact that he had never considered it before Aberforth brought it up; he always thought the woman his equal in mind, and as such, the body only took notice when making love—and as his brother had mentioned, age was a great handicap for such action.
"You're back," Minerva spoke in a mild, touching voice. Her big eyes never left his in the few seconds that followed; her admiration was well endowed in the abyss of black in front of the gray as the candles flickered above her. She did, in all right, look magnificent in such a setting; the woman was so very beautiful when she let herself be vulnerable in his presence.
Making his way around the settee, he took the side of a cushion near the woman's waist, who was laying flat on her back. Albus put her hand in his and squeezed (the rain, he noticed quite accidentally, was pounding hard on the window, not unlike his heart in his chest). With his other hand, he grabbed the tiny book that stood on her torso and read its title: Help, I've Transfigured My Mother: A Comedy. The man chuckled to himself and then kissed her hand.
"Not the sort of thing I'd imagine you reading in the candlelight with the," he stopped to glance outside the window, "rain outside; I'd have thought you'd pick up something closer to the romance department."
Softly smiling, she tightened her grip upon his hand. "I needed to laugh."
"Oh?" he batted an eye, utterly baffled, "did my brother do something while I was gone to offend you? If he did, I most certainly can take care of him. Of course if he hasn't done anything, I can go by whim," he shrugged, smiling insensitively at his words, which were meant to be a joke.
"No," she shook her head, "he hasn't done a thing; in fact, he's been rather good to me this evening."
He blinked, unable to believe her words. It was not that Albus did not trust Aberforth, but rather the tone that came from her mouth that led him to feel ever so slightly misled; she did not put on her best performance, he knew, when she was severely irked. But the man drew no attention to it, if only for the woman's interest and instead turned towards something good, something entertaining.
"And I suppose that is why you've chosen this outrageous book to lighten you up?" Albus searched over the cover once again and then opened it, flipping to a random page. "Feline Frenzy: that's what they call it. She tore up all of my furniture and curtains. Who would have thought that such a change would have such a negative effect on mother? Of course, it does no good to dwell on what I may have done; if I change her back, she'll only turn me into a cat as means of punishment. Say, I wonder if there's a potion to make cats forget? Maybe then I can—"
Albus stopped. The entry skipped a date. He read on to the next page, "Sorry, she went on the floor; hideous mess," he turned towards Minerva who had a smile on her face. "Amusing, isn't it?"
The woman nodded her head gently. "I've always wondered how it is that idiots make it in this world," she rolled her eyes, "and the solution is apparently to write a book about all of the ignorant things they've done. It keeps the intelligent ones humored," Min smiled.
A short chuckle escaped his mouth and then he quickly realized that he had nothing to say back to her remark, though he rather agreed—not that he necessarily considered himself above the normal person. Minerva, on the other hand, seemed slightly ignorant herself in stating what she had, if only for the reason that she dared to say it. The fact that the woman was intelligent did not make her very different from everybody else; in the end, all humans had a heart and emotions—though Albus had to admit that she appeared to have an abundance of each. "Some more than others, I suppose," he added gently to the woman whose eyebrows rose quickly at the statement; she was not ignorant enough not realize in what context he meant his words.
"Tell me Albus," she breathed after a fair few seconds of thought and mental accusations, "how is it that you're so trusting, so kind, so forgiving," she spoke gently, "after you've lived life for so long and seen so many things? After," her eyes grew large, "the sort of heartbreak you've been through with war and Ellie; I don't see at all how you can be so good-natured." Her eyes were focused on his and did not leave, though he turned away from her to place the book upon the floor.
When he turned upon her again, in all fairness, he knew that she looked just as worried as he felt; for whatever reason, the both of them knew that they were not on the happiest of subjects. After all, Albus had tried for years to make himself a good person; not everyone was able to forgive themselves after being in a war, or heartbroken for that matter. Though he did find it odd that Minerva would bring up the subject of war; they had only touched on it once, and that was a very short, very subtle, conversation in which she asked no questions and he told no answers.
The man sighed softly into the flickering darkness, though his gaze on the woman could never be broken. His words, he realized, were far too doleful for such a setting, but there was no escaping once he started, "War, Minerva, does things to people mentally, especially the way that we wizards fight; one second there is a being, standing in front of you and in the next second, you see a green light and then they're dead on the floor. It's," he nodded his head methodically for a reason quite unknown to himself, "it's horrible. They, the soldiers, don't have a chance, not really for either side—good or evil. You see, you're too young to know very much about the war of 1945, but there were no rules; people apparated and disapparated only long enough to cast a curse and then leave before they were killed themselves. It became a deadly game…a game of wits," he nodded and then stopped abruptly.
Her eyes were fixated on his with a look somewhere between adoration and horror; he was not sure if he was meant to go on, but he could not answer her question without telling the story; she was too young to realize what sort of pain could come with battle. Thus, he took her hand again and went on; Minerva said not a word. "I remember," he sighed, "the day the war ended. I have never told anyone but my closest friends what happened that day—the press hasn't ever been told a word; only that it was I who defeated Grindewald. It was a cold, cold winter's night; it was one of those evenings where you could have frozen to death if you chose to sleep, so no one slept, but everyone—a group of about one hundred men—walked around like the living dead; we were all tired of war, tired of seeing random good men killed for no reason other than perhaps goodness. That's all the fighting had been about; the good versus the bad—pitiful reason to let men die."
Minerva squeezed his hand tightly, so tight that he had to stop speaking; the man stared at the woman who had eyes waiting to be wrung. She sat up then from the settee and walked towards the window; when she reached it, she turned to look at the man and then put her body next to his, resting her head on his shoulder. Gladly, he put his arms around her and pulled her closer. He felt that she wanted to say something, but only a silence came, wretched and unwanted; Albus continued, if only to avoid the loneliness of the quiet.
"We, that is the designated leaders, were talking about plans to invade—the other side had only just gotten us, limited our numbers by far too many—and realized that we really had no idea where the other side was hiding; after all, they could have been anywhere in the world. As it turns out, they decided to take another wack at defeating our entire camp right about that moment; the screaming, banging, clanging began yet again and I immediately apparated around camp, casting what spells I could; it was the way things were done. If one stood in the wrong place for too long, then there was death; no person in their right mind would stay in one spot for it offers reason enough for the other side to do away with you.
Eventually, I apparated myself right to Grindewald himself; he and I met at the top of a hill, overlooking the camp. I don't suppose he was fighting, merely scavenging, being the coward that he was." Albus leaned in to look at the woman who looked much too downcast for being such a pretty creature, and kissed her softly on the cheek. The man continued quietly, finishing the story, "He knew I was there and he had a wand out, ready to do away with me; even then I was something to be feared, I suppose. I drew my wand, he drew his, and then there was a flash of green light; it was the end, but the battle went on that evening. The good won, of course, but there were bodies littering the floor; there was no end in sight; just rows and rows and of monstrously askew bodies, soaked in freezing mud. I won't ever forget that…that vision. Maybe that, Minerva, is why I am the way that I am; being evil, growing hate in one's soul, does nothing, except for kill."
And there was a silence, begging for warmth at the end of such a cold story that filled their worlds. She wrapped her arms around him after minutes of the rain's sound hitting the window became drilled in their minds and he put his arms around her, too. He held her so very tightly; much, much tighter than he ever remembered doing and she stayed there for an unknown but blessed time. He had never, never, cared so much about having something to hold as he did in those fleeting moments; Albus, though he was a romantic man, was not one for tears, but when she spoke gently into his ear, he felt his throat tense up if only for he really realized what Minerva meant to him. Her words, ever so subtle, were quite simply, "I love you."
When she released her hold, she looked at him with streaks of tears across her cheeks. He brought his thumbs to where the water was and wiped it to the darkness. The woman smiled softly and then ran her fingers through his hair as he pecked her gently on the lips. "I love you too, Minerva."
"Albus," she whispered to him as she allowed her hands to trace across his lined face, "I don't deserve you."
He shook his head gently and then met her lips with his own, much too hard to consider it a peck. "My dear," he breathed heavily into her ear, "It is I who do not deserve you."
The woman looked at him with her unusually emotional eyes and shook her head in turn. "You are everything that I am not," she spoke with a trembling voice, "you're brave and noble and forgiving. You are what I wish I was—what I once was—what I want to be and I just don't deserve you."
In spite of himself, he had to smile at her comment; she thought so little of herself when he thought her the world. "Ah," he kissed her on the cheek this time, "but you are loving and emotional and beautiful and everything else that I could want in anyone. I dare to say, I don't deserve to love someone as wonderful as you."
He could see her lips trembling as she searched for the right words to say, for the appropriate response, but no words came at all. Instead, she leaned into his kiss; her soft, usually tender lips grew wanting, hungry for something that even he perceived to run deeper than sex; deeper than his touch or his mouth; deeper, perhaps, even than love. Still, they made love. They made love like they had never done before; like they were saying goodbye and hello in the same moment; like love was all they had to hold on to.
I shall let you ponder now on that thought. Please review, it let's me know what to do for the next chapter.
