A/N - Well, I do believe we've reached the end of this particular story. That's not to say there won't be plenty more fics with this pairing - I've got quite a few one shots in mind and another multi-chapter, don't worry. This just seemed like a good place to end this one. Many thanks to all my loyal reviewers, you guys are awesome! So here we go, last chapter - as always, read, review, but most importantly, enjoy!
Raindrops splattered on the windowpane, beating a heavy rhythm against the glass. The fire burned dully, long banked over for the night, orange glow and shadows playing on the common room wall. A quarter past midnight chimed on the old clock, though only Minerva remained awake to hear. All other Gryffindors had long since departed for bed, the last particularly studious bunch vanishing in a rustle of books and papers well before the clock struck twelve. Minerva lay curled against the arm of the sofa, wrapped in a tartan blanket and entirely unmoving, blinking away the sleep from her eyes.
Augusta had made three separate appearances over the course of the evening. The first had been shortly after Minerva returned to the common room after the fight with Tom Riddle. Minerva had been furious and badly frightened and placed herself on the sofa, arms crossed and refusing to move. Some traitor, Minerva guessed Tiberius, had sent for Augusta, who all but dragged Minerva upstairs to the dormitory. No questions were asked, and if Augusta noticed that Minerva seemed to be on the verge of tears she never commented. Instead she suggested a warm shower and clean clothes, ushering Minerva in the direction of the girls' bathroom. Of course, the mention of 'bathroom' forced a bitter reminder of the prefect's bathroom, and Alastor, and the butterflies, and Minerva bolted for the safety of the showers. She would not cry. She simply refused. Dumbledore had come along, and everything was alright. Alastor was alright. And yet Minerva could not help but remember Alastor's beaten face, the sight of him sprawled on the ground, still defiant and glowering up at Tom Riddle. Her throat felt awkward and tight, and an unpleasant ache had settled in her chest, and Merlin but Minerva wished her heart would stop pounding. Alastor was fine. Would be fine. He would return to the tower anytime now, all smiles and swagger, and all the world would go back to the way it was supposed to be. She would apologize the moment Alastor returned, too, because a sick, awful feeling nagged at the back of her mind and constantly informed Minerva that his injuries were her fault. Shoving her still-damp Quidditch robes into a laundry bin, something solid met her fingers, and Minerva hastily retrieved Alastor's wand from an inside pocket. She had rescued the wand from washing back down the hill, and could not precisely imagine Alastor would be too thrilled if she managed to lose his wand entirely.
Clad now in a clean nightdress and carrying her old tartan blanket, wand wrapped safely into the folds, Minerva descended the stairs and now took up position on one side of the sofa, leaning into the pillows and content to watch the world go on around her. Tiberius appeared to be entirely absent, as were most of the other fifth years. Charlus did stagger through the portrait, a broad grin on his face. Or at least, Minerva thought he must have staggered through the portrait – he was staggering, at least, but Charlus tended to appear places as if by magic. Scrimgeour and Lockhart had yet to return from detention, and without their ringleaders the little band of third years who usually provided a shocking amount of noise remained relatively quiet. A group of sixth or seventh years, the Head Girl among them, had scooted all the desks into a circle and begun some sort of transfiguration game in the center. Minerva watched the proceedings for awhile, eyes instantly on the portrait any and every time the door swung inward. Gryffindors came and went for an hour, then two, but Alastor never appeared. Minerva ignored the gnawing worry, the phantom images of blood and rain that played across her mind. All sorts of horrible scenarios occurred to Minerva as she waited, all sorts of reasons why Alastor had yet to return. Perhaps he had been hurt worse than anyone expected, or had run afoul of an angry Tom Riddle. Not to mention the distinct possibility that Alastor had stubbornly decided he could forgo a trip to the nurse entirely. Minerva hated not knowing, hated having to patiently wait to see what happened. Hated the thought that Alastor had only been hurt in the first place because of her.
As the rain fell harder on the roof of the tower, more and more Gryffindors poured into the common room, trailing puddles on the floor. Slowly, achingly slowly, time passed, the clock chiming for ten, then eleven, and with each passing hour the students vanished upstairs in pairs and bunches. Idly Minerva toyed with a loose string at the end of the blanket, some part of her mind suggesting she might ought to be studying. That happened to be a very small part, however, and was rather drowned out by concern for Alastor.
Augusta appeared once more sometime just before midnight, trying her best to be understanding and persuade Minerva to come back to the dormitory and go to bed. Minerva refused, at one point ignoring Augusta entirely and pretending not to hear even a slight suggestion that the watch be abandoned. Augusta had sighed, rolled her eyes, and looked fully prepared to argue further. In fact, Minerva settled deeper into the sofa and closed her fingers around Alastor's wand, just in case Augusta decided a more physical approach was necessary. The two girls stared at each other for a moment, each one daring the other to move first. Then Augusta sighed again and climbed back upstairs, muttering to herself and toying with the sleeves of her nightgown. Ten of fifteen minutes passed, and then Augusta made her third and final trip down the stairs. Minerva had braced herself, fully expecting an argument. Augusta walked behind the sofa, looking down at Minerva with an odd expression.
"You're determined to wait up then?"
"Until he gets back," Minerva answered without hesitation. Augusta bent down behind the sofa, vanishing from sight for a moment. Something rustled against the carpet, and Minerva leaned up to see what precisely Augusta was doing. The answer came in the form of a very large, very soft pillow that arched through the air and landed on Minerva's head. An extra blanket followed, and as Minerva struggled to free herself from the sudden onslaught of bedding, Augusta left without a word or backward glance. Reminding herself to thank Augusta later, Minerva shoved the pillow behind her head and settled into place, warm and comfortable and snug on the sofa. The fire's pop and crackle mingled with her own breath and heartbeats and battled against the sound of pounding rain and distant thunder. The night stretched on, and if Minerva had not been watching the clock she would have sworn that time had stopped altogether, leaving her trapped in some awful in between place for the rest of eternity.
Then the room faded to rain and darkness, flashes of lighting and thunder and furious fighting. Shadow played on the faces of the Slytherin boys, cruel and sneering. Tom Riddle, with his awful words and dark eyes and terrible face breaking through the mask. Tiberius and Alastor, dueling with identical, grim smiles on their faces, scarlet Quidditch robes swirling, framed in rain and twilight. And then only Alastor, sprawled on the ground, face bloodied and lying entirely too still, and Minerva felt her heart falter and miss a beat and panic overwhelmed her because Alastor simply had to be alright.
The clock chimed at half past midnight, startling Minerva and drawing her out of the dream with a gasp. She must have dozed off, Minerva realized, snatching her glasses from where they had fallen onto the floor. The images lingered, taunting, at the edge of her mind, and Minerva scrubbed at her eyes and willed the memory away. Footsteps sounded on the staircase, heralding the arrival of someone from the boy's dormitory. Her arm was already halfway up, wand outstretched, before Minerva remembered that she currently had Alastor's wand and not her own. Hastily she returned both arm and wand to the warm space beneath the blankets, settling back into place just as the footsteps reached the common room floor. Tiberius Kirk loomed in the narrow doorway, all arms and legs. His pajamas did not seem to fit quite properly, too short at the wrists and ankles and rather baggy every place else. At the rate he was growing, Minerva had a feeling that Tiberius would be having to duck through doorways by Christmas.
"What are you still doing awake?"
Tiberius shrugged, seeming pleasantly surprised to find Minerva still occupying the couch. He tumbled into a seat at the opposite end, long legs stretched out in front of him.
"Cunnae sleep. Figured tha you would still be awake as well."
"I told him I'd wait," Minerva said, a little more sharply than she had intended. Tiberius merely gave her an odd sideways smile.
"Tis why I thought I might find you down here," he answered matter of factly. Silence passed for a moment, then two, save for the rain on the rooftop.
"So what's keeping you up? Minerva asked finally, cutting off Tiberius, who had opened his mouth to speak. She found herself uncomfortable with the idea that Tiberius might try and talk about the fight, and she had no idea why, but for some reason the only person Minerva even remotely wanted to discuss the fight with had yet to return from the Hospital Wing.
"Oh, all sorts of things," Tiberius feigned a serious face, "OWLs, Quidditch. A certain pretty Hufflepuff girl. Bad dreams," he added a wink and a yawn for good measure. Minerva thought perhaps the last two had been intended as a joke, but then again Tiberius always tended to make jokes about things that were in fact quite serious. She had been just about to ask who precisely this particular Hufflepuff girl happened to be when Tiberius made an attempt to steal the tartan blanket. In the ensuing struggle, Minerva lost her grip on Alastor's wand, which clattered to the floor. The pair of them froze, each holding one end of the blanket, Tiberius' eyes passing from Minerva to the wand on the floor and back again. Minerva merely remained entirely still, feeling her face flush and praying Tiberius failed to notice anything out of the ordinary. No such luck seemed to be available to her tonight, however.
"Is tha...is tha Alastor's wand?" Tiberius looked slightly incredulous. Minerva ignored this as best as she possibly could, releasing her hold on the blanket and bending to retrieve the fallen wand.
"I...well. Yes,"
"You stole his wand?"
"No!" Minerva insisted, jerking the blanket away from Tiberius, who had given up his efforts entirely. "He dropped it in the fight, when Lestrange hit him. I picked it up and...and I forgot to give it back. But I was going to give it back to him tonight!"
"He probably hasn't even realized he's lost it," Tiberius pointed out.
"I'm sure he'll still be happy to have it back," Minerva said firmly, doing her best to end the conversation. Based on the smirk Tiberius currently wore, he seemed unlikely to drop the subject anytime soon.
"So you stayed up just to give him back his wand?"
"I...no, I mean, I wanted to, yes, to give him the wand and to talk...to him..." Minerva winced, faltering over words and watching as Tiberius' eyebrows shot upwards.
"Oh really? Talk to him about what?"
"About the fight."
"Telling him you think he ought ta be a prize fighter, hmm?" Tiberius grinned and shifted into a boxing pose from his seat on the sofa, pretending to punch at an opponent. The firelight cast his shadow onto the far wall, a dark shape taking swings at an old tapestry.
"To apologize to him," Minerva murmured, holding Alastor's wand in both hands and watching the shadow Tiberius on the far wall, not daring to look at the real one. The shadow boxing stopped abruptly, arms dropping away and melting into one large dark shape against the wall. Slowly, Minerva turned her attention to Tiberius, who sat watching her with an odd, almost sad expression. Half of his face glowed orange in the firelight, like he wore only half of a mask.
"Minerva, you cannae think tha any of tha mess was a fault of yours."
"I...know. I know. But I still. I need to talk to Alastor. I just...I just do," Minerva insisted, biting her lip as her throat chose that moment to tighten and her eyes prickled with tears. Tiberius slid to his feet, suddenly towering over the sofa. The firelight caught him in silhouette, but she could tell that he was smiling, or at least attempting to smile.
"Aye. Then you talk ta him."
Tiberius bent rapidly and gave her an awkward, sideways hug, then crossed the common room in three long steps and vanished up the stairs. Minerva sighed, scrubbing at her eyes again and resisting a bizarre urge to laugh. Tiberius never much cared for emotional situations, but he usually made an effort to convey that he genuinely cared. Of course hugging Tiberius was rather like hugging a scarecrow, and he tended to bolt from the room immediately after, and really one would expect that a boy with three older sisters would know better how to deal with emotional moments. But he tried, at least, and Minerva appreciated the effort.
The clock chimed one, and Minerva began to resign herself to the possibility that she might very well spend the night on the common room sofa. Voices in the hallway caught her attention, the sound of someone arguing with the Fat Lady. Minerva's heart sped up and she watched as the hinges creaked and portrait swung inward. The Fat Lady still seemed to be grumbling about students out wandering the corridors at odd hours of the night, but the boy who entered the common room entirely ignored the noise. His shoulders were slumped, hair hanging in his face, and he seemed to be paying no attention at all to anything but putting one foot in front of the other.
"Alastor," Minerva said softly, apparently too quietly for him to hear. He passed by the sofa, tripping up over some unseen obstacle, and Minerva reached up and grabbed his wrist. "Al."
The sudden contact startled him badly, and Alastor jumped and swore, then blushed when he realized who precisely had grabbed him.
"Merlin, Minerva, why aren't you in bed?"
"I told you that I'd wait up for you," Minerva reminded him gently, tugging him around the side of the sofa and into the firelight. He moved willingly, watching her with a faintly bemused expression. The blood and cuts and bruises that had covered his face hours before had vanished entirely, save for a few streaks of soft pink here and there and the spectacular purple smears around his right eye. Minerva resisted a sudden urge to trace the lines gently with her fingers.
"Why didn't she fix this?"
"Oh," Alastor grinned a bit, "Well, she fixed my nose. And everything else, really. I told her she might as well leave the black eye. Else I'll have nothing to show for it."
"You want everyone to know you got hit?" Minerva asked, wondering if perhaps some sort of severe head trauma had in fact been suffered in the course of the fight or if boys really did think like this on a regular basis. Alastor frowned and seemed a bit put off by her question.
"No. I mean. I don't mind them knowing I was in a fight though. A fight I won, mind you. Think of it as a battle scar."
"Alright, fine then. A battle scar it is. Would you care to have this back as well?" Minerva revealed his wand, which had been safely hidden in the blankets since the incident with Tiberius. Alastor's eyes widened, hands probing at the pockets of his Quidditch robes.
"Merlin, I'd forgotten I'd dropped it. Thank you."
She handed him the wand, fingertips brushing against his, and for a moment their eyes met and some sudden spark arched between them. Then the moment passed and Alastor was hastily stowing his wand in a side pocket, tugging uncomfortably at his half-dry robes.
"So, you stayed up just to return my wand?"
"Sort of. I...well I wanted to um...I wanted to apologize," Minerva mumbled, the words struggling to come. Alastor seemed rather surprised, mouth opening and closing.
"Apologize...to me? I...why? I was going to apologize to you."
Minerva frowned confusedly at this particular revelation.
"For what?"
"Ah, you...you go first," Alastor smiled softly and gave a halfway bow. "Ladies first, after all."
Minerva took a deep breath, ignored the dangerous threat of impending tears, and blurted the words in a rush before she could change her mind.
"I'm really sorry that you got hurt because of me, because I don't want you to be hurt, and it was all my fault, and I'm so so sorry."
Her hands twisted in the folds of the tartan blanket, vision blurring, and she did not dare to look and see Alastor's reaction. Whatever his reaction though, his hand suddenly closed overtop of hers, warm and rough. Minerva glanced up and saw that he had leaned down, smiling softly again. Easily he pulled her to her feet, still holding both of her hands in one of his and knocking against his head with his free hand.
"Come on now. Takes more than a few knocks to the head to stop me. Besides, I wouldn't...I won't let them talk about you like that. I won't."
The last was said with such conviction that the words themselves brought back the butterflies, and Minerva became suddenly aware of precisely how close they were standing, and his hand still wrapped around hers, and the fiercely protective look in Alastor's eyes. Unfortunately, a lingering guilt remained, and Minerva felt a stray tear or three race down her cheek.
"I still feel awful," she admitted, "They called you a...well, you know."
"Aye," Alastor murmured. "Though I'd like to point, I sort of am."
"Don't say that!" Minerva said sharply, fixing Alastor with a stern look. "Please, don't start thinking that way."
"Does it matter?"
"Does what matter?"
"If I am a bit of a Mudblood. Does it matter to you?" Alastor asked. Minerva winced at his use of the word, but answered without hesitation.
"Not at all."
Alastor's face brightened considerably, as though the question had been some sort of test to reassure himself. Minerva was tempted to smack him for doubting her, but now really did not seem like the proper time.
"Good. Then it certainly doesn't matter to me," Alastor declared. "It's you I won't stand for them to call names."
Her heart bounced and skipped and Minerva's breath caught in her throat, and she really wished she could manage to get rid of the last of the tears.
"Weren't you going to apologize for something?"
"Oh. Aye," Alastor glanced to the floor, face coloring in the orange half-light. They stood for a moment, her hands in his, cast into silhouette and shadow by the dying flames. "I'm sorry...I felt really awful about...that I'd scared you. I didn't mean to, I certainly didn't."
Instantly the images from the dream, from the fight, flashed before her eyes, Tom Riddle's eyes and Alastor's bloody face, and the tears came unbidden this time. The fact was that she had been scared, scared very badly.
"N-no, I'm sorry, don't cry," Alastor pleaded hurriedly, looking baffled and upset and entirely unsure of what to do. "I really...oh. I didn't want you to cry."
Minerva locked eyes with Alastor, and for a moment she had a bizarre worry that he himself was about to cry as well. Then the moment passed and Alastor made an attempt at the Tiberius method of dealing with awkward conversations. Of course, the moment Alastor's arms closed around her, Minerva wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him, crying into his shoulder. Alastor froze, entirely stunned by this sudden turn of events. Then he was holding onto her, still apologizing and murmuring under his breath, and suddenly Minerva felt warm and content and altogether safe, breathing in the smell of wet wool and sweat as butterflies raced through her stomach. Alastor was still talking, his chest rumbling against her and heartbeat positively racing. With a deep breath, Minerva banished the last of the tears and glanced upwards towards Alastor's face. He had stopped talking now, watching her with an odd expression that could best be described as a mixture of surprise and awe. His hair was still hanging a bit across his face, and the shadows almost hid his black eye. Minerva's heart pounded slow and heavy, and she reacted on impulse, raising up on her tiptoes and pressing her lips against his. The kiss lasted only a moment, a few seconds at most, but there was a spark there, a passing magic that Minerva instantly missed the moment their lips parted.
"Well," Alastor took a deep breath, the corners of his mouth quirked up in a smile, "If you're going to do that every time I get punched in the face..."
Minerva rolled her eyes and thunked him in the chest with the flat of her palm. He grinned and tugged at a stray curl of her hair, watching her with the same slightly awed expression. Then she shifted her hold, fingers running through the back of his hair as she pulled his face down to meet hers. Neither one of them hesitated for the second kiss, and time passed in a flurry of warm breaths and heartbeats, touch and taste. Magic was the only word that Minerva's mind managed to produce. The whole effect, the kiss, Alastor, together they formed some sort of magic, something that just felt altogether right. Raindrops pounded on the windowpane, and thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, but sound and time passed unheeded. Alastor's back thudded against the wall and he rumbled a laugh against her lips as they paused for breath, foreheads pressed together and grinning shyly at each other. They were safe, they were together, and then they were kissing again, and all the world felt entirely perfect, as though two missing pieces had finally found their place.