12 June 1978
Approaching the entry to the Headmaster's office, Minerva gave the password and slipped past the stone gargoyle as soon as the aperture was large enough to allow her passage. She took the stairs two at a time and blasted the mahogany door open with a flick of her wand, striding through it to stand, hands on her hips, staring at the room.
Replacing her wand in its pocket, she moved to the nearest bookcase and swept her arm across it, sending the various mementos and doodads crashing to the floor. She repeated the procedure with several other shelves and finally tipped the now-empty bookcase over on top of the heap of detritus.
She moved about the room, alternately sweeping items to the floor and hurling them to shatter against the walls of his office. The Heads' portraits fled for the safety of other paintings.
In her final paroxysm of fury, she pushed against the glass shelving unit that held the phials of the memories he had stored for later examination. It didn't budge, so she hurled her full weight—all seven stone of it—against the shelf, glad of the burst of pain the impact produced in her shoulder; glad to have a physical sensation to compete with the agony of her other hurts. When the shelf still wouldn't budge, she withdrew her wand, pointed it at the offending item, and sent it hurtling against the wall, where it shattered and crumpled into a defeated heap.
Panting now, she stood back and surveyed her work.
It would do for a start.
She was about to leave when she espied the heavy stone Pensieve in the corner. Wiping her sleeve across her perspiring face, she approached it, thought for a moment, and then used her wand to withdraw a long, silvery strand of memory from her head and deposited it into the Pensieve. She then backed away from it, barely hearing the crunch of the debris under her feet for the coursing of her blood in her temples.
She backed through the open door, and then turned and fled, the long tendrils of hair that had escaped her bun flying about her face like the Gorgon's snakes.
/***/
It was late—after dark—when she heard the door to her quarters creak open. She opened her eyes—she must have dozed off—and saw him silhouetted in the doorway. He didn't step farther into the room, and she didn't speak a word, either in greeting or rebuke.
He finally took a step inside and waved the door closed behind him.
"Minerva," he said.
"No."
"What?"
"You don't get to be kind."
Moving farther into her sitting room, he asked, "What can I say?"
"Nothing you haven't already said."
"If I had known you were coming, I never would have . . . exposed you to that."
She gave a bitter laugh."Oh, Albus. Only you could be concerned that fucking another woman would offend my sensibilities."
"You're hurt."
"Fifty points to Gryffindor, Mr Dumbledore. Although you'll forgive Mrs Dumbledore if she doesn't rejoice that we are now in the running for the House Cup.
"It meant nothing."
Sweet Nimue, will he never tire of speaking in clichés? Even to me?
"It never does, to you."
"Tell me what you want."
"What I want is no longer possible."
He sighed and went to the sideboard, poured two tumblers of Scotch, and silently handed one to her, which she accepted without comment.
He stood opposite where she was perched on the settee. He didn't attempt to sit down. After taking a sip of his drink, he asked, "Would it help if I told you I have no idea why I do it?"
"No. And as an excuse for infidelity, it leaves something to be desired."
"Perhaps if you would accompany me to these things, I wouldn't be—"
"Damn it, Albus, you will not make this my fault! I'm your wife, not your nanny!" she exploded.
He hurled back, "Sometimes, Minerva, it is hard to tell the difference."
"That's not fair."
"Fuck fair."
"No, that's your department."
"Christ, Minerva, can you stop being clever long enough to talk to me? Gods, if I had a Sickle for every time you tossed off a bon mot in order to avoid dealing with the issue, I'd be richer than the Blacks."
So it's to be the "best defence" gambit tonight, is it?
She spoke very quietly. "I am dealing with the issue."
"By destroying my office?"
"That was only a fringe benefit."
She was shocked when he hurled his glass at the wall.
He then hung his head and buried his face in his hands.
When he regained his composure, he said, "I'm sorry, Minerva. For the glass . . . for everything. There is nothing more I can say. You've heard all my apologies, all my excuses before. You have every right to be angry, and to strike out at me in any way you can."
She moved to put her glass down and winced at the sudden pain in her shoulder.
"You're injured," he said, and moved to where she sat.
"It's nothing, just a bruise," she said.
"Let me—" he said, reaching toward the injured shoulder.
She brushed him away angrily. "Don't touch me!"
She thought: We're going to go through the entire sordid play, aren't we?
His face contorted with his pain. It was genuine enough, she thought, and was surprised that seeing it actually hurt. She wished she could enjoy it, just a little.
"Minerva . . . oh, Minerva . . . I . . ."
She shook her head violently and put her hand up to stop him, and, closing her eyes to block out the sight of him, took several deep, steadying breaths. She had promised herself she wouldn't cry. Not this time.
When she felt in control of her voice again, she spoke.
"It has to end."
"It already has. I told her I would not be seeing her again."
"I meant us. We have to end."
During the long silence that followed, Minerva felt the planet shift underneath her and wondered if he was experiencing the same feeling of disarticulation that seemed be pulling at her very bones.
"You don't mean that. You cannot."
"I do." The irony of those words spoken in this context was lost on neither of them.
The part of her that had maintained a certain detachment over the years as a form of self-preservation observed the twitching and quavering of his moustache with clinical interest. How would he try to play it this time?
"Minerva, tell me what to say . . . what to do . . .I'll do anything . . ."
Oh. "Passing the Knut".
It was either a testament to his skill or her enthralment that it very nearly worked.
"I don't think so," she said quietly. "I'm leaving you."
There.
That wasn't so bad, was it, Miss McGonagall?
Why, yes . . . yes it was.
"Minerva—"
She rose, moved to the small desk, and opened a drawer, speaking over him a bit louder than was actually necessary. "I've withdrawn two hundred Galleons from our joint Gringotts account and had them stop the automatic deposit of my wages."
She withdrew a rolled piece of parchment from the drawer and held it out to him. "This is my letter requesting a sabbatical for the autumn term. You'll see I've waived any request for wages during that time, given the short notice for finding a suitable replacement."
Pulling out another piece of parchment, she continued, "I've taken the liberty of making a few suggestions as to my replacement here. You are, of course, free to dismiss my recommendations. You have copies of my standard lesson plans. I had planned to revise them over the summer as usual, but I think I shan't this year, unless you insist. I suggest you ask Filius if he would fill in as Deputy during my absence, but whatever you decide will be fine with me. I won't object if you choose to offer him the position permanently, regardless of whether I ultimately decide to return to Hogwarts, but in all honesty, I would be surprised if he accepted.
"I would appreciate it if you would recommend to the board that they approve my request. I don't especially want to make any irrevocable decisions regarding my position here right now, but if my request is denied, you should know that I intend to tender my resignation. I would like to take the next few months to decide if I can continue working here with you. I think you should consider the same."
She pulled one more sheet of parchment from the drawer. "I have retained a personal solicitor—her name and contact information are here—please owl her with the name of yours once you have settled on one so we can begin initiating divorce proceedings."
He hadn't spoken during her oratory, and he seemed incapable of speech now. She held out the sheets of parchment—the ones that summed up in dry pulp and stark, black ink their future as employer and employee rather as than man and woman—but he simply stared at them as if they were Venomous Tentacula spines.
Slowly she lowered her hand and turned to place the parchment on her desk.
Finally, he spoke: "All right, Minerva. If that's what you want . . ."
"It isn't what I want, but it's what I intend, nevertheless."
He nodded.
She continued, "I'll take only the necessaries tonight, but I'll return within the week to clear out these rooms."
"You're leaving tonight?"
"Yes. I see no reason to draw this out any longer than necessary."
"Where will you go? To the cottage?"
She gave an involuntary shudder at the idea of going to the small holiday cottage on the island of Formentera they had bought ten years previously, back when betrayal was an abstract notion that only applied to other people.
"No. I'll spend a few days with my brother until I can organise something more permanent. I'll owl you when I know where." After a moment, she added, "Please don't try to contact me."
He just stood there, wearing the look of a man who had just lost a wager larger than he could afford.
"If there's nothing else, I should like to get on with things," she said.
"Yes . . . no, there's nothing." Before he stepped through the doorway, he said, "I am sorry, Minerva."
"I know."
The he was gone.
I'll just be getting on with things. There's nothing else.
She went to her bedroom to continue her packing.