Post by primadie on Jul 8, 2007 20:09:57 GMT -5
Title: Final Days
Summary: The last few days of Minerva's life.
Rating: Pretty much everyone, I think.
A/N: This is my first ADMM fic. I got the idea from the song "Sweet Bride," by Kate Rusby. It's a beautiful song and I would recommend downloading it.
Also, this isn't totally angst but I wasn't quite sure where to put it, so there you go. I hope you like it!
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She comes every Wednesday, without fail, and every Wednesday she buys the same things – three apples, half a dozen eggs, and a loaf of bread. The old woman lives close enough to walk to his shop but far enough away that it turns into a day trip for her and often she has to stop and rest for a moment when she has reached the halfway mark, between her cottage and the store. Tom does not know that this is the only regular contact she has with another human being anymore.
So every Wednesday she buys her items, her three apples and her half dozen eggs and her loaf of bread, and every Wednesday Tom asks her if that’s all she wants, and every Wednesday she peers quietly at him and says yes, that will be all, and she pays for it and leaves the store.
She used to be great, you know, thinks Tom to no one in particular. He feels that he has never seen a more defeated-looking person and he feels proud for pointing that out to himself, although he is only eighteen.
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But Tom doesn’t know how it feels to plan one’s entire week around a visit to a village store. Minerva McGonagall is one hundred and five years old and her days are mostly filled with a sort of wistful loneliness. Out of this loneliness, she has come to imbue her possessions with their own personalities. The blue jug on the windowsill – it’s calm, phlegmatic, and the wrought-iron table, it’s graceful and timeless but it doesn’t mind holding up a few dishes. Sometimes she talks to them. They do not answer her.
She is quite deaf, although not entirely, but at one hundred and five she feels it is hard to blame her body for failing her. She is long past her prime and she knows that. She now walks hunched over, with a cane, and she cannot see very far in front of her even with glasses. As for death, a close friend of hers once told her that death was merely the start of another adventure, and over the thirty years or so since his passing she has come to accept his view of it.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Minerva McGonagall does not only visit the village store, however. Every Sunday, she shuffles with her cane down to the shoreline, and she watches the tides come and go, and tries to hear the rhythm of the waves. Often she cannot. But she can feel it – she feels the sea in her bones, her flesh, with the very fibre of her being she is a part of it.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
On this, like any other, Sunday, Minerva picked up her gnarled cane and thunked with it down the path from her doorstep, and then began the long trek to the ocean. She imagined the birds were probably whistling prettily on that morning. It was just that sort of morning. The grass reached to the middle of her calves, or it would have done if the hemline on her dress was shorter. It was a breezy day and the light wind brushed against her arms and played with the ends of her unkempt hair. She was no longer beautiful, but the woman had a certain indefinable quality, je ne sais pas quoi, a forgotten grace that seemed to envelop her being and follow her about.
Naturally, she didn’t hear the horse approaching, or it would not have startled her so. She recovered quickly from her fleeting moment of shock and looked up at the figure in front of her. The horse had a pure white coat and tail, so white that its skin seemed almost translucent, as if it might melt if you touched it. It was resplendent in a finely made bridle and saddle. Minerva could tell it would have been expensive because her father had been a leatherworker, so many years ago, and he had taught her these things which turned out not to be as important as he had thought they would, considering. Funny, the things you remember and the things you don’t, thought Minerva. Her eyes moved up the horse to its rider. She could not quite make him out. It was a masculine figure and yet, Minerva was unable to fixate on any of the specific details of his physiognomy. Minerva could find no word to describe him but “dreamlike.” She felt the person, for some reason, would not have liked “transcendental.” It was at this moment the figure spoke.
“Good morning!” he said cheerily. His voice…she knew that voice from somewhere. The odd thing about it was that it had cut through her deafness like a clear sword would cut through a twisted jungle.
“Good morning,” she responded, guardedly.
“Where might you be going?” he asked.
“I am headed to the seashore. It’s all I have left now,” she replied, almost bitterly but not quite.
“I will walk with you.”
She felt no urge to argue, which, looking back, was odd, since she preferred the company of herself to the company of strangers on fancy horses.
For the rest of their jaunt, they chatted about Minerva and Minerva’s life at the moment, where she lived, what she did, why she did it. He was remarkably easy to talk to for a woman who had not had a meaningful conversation in six years. Oddly, she still could not see him. It was as if he was a shadow made solid, he had no definition in his form and yet Minerva did not find it disturbing in the least. On they talked. The man asked about Minerva’s years of teaching, and whether she missed it (she did), and why she had left (she could no longer complete her duties as Headmistress). She also mentioned that after Albus’s death, it had not seemed quite so enjoyable anymore. She did not know why she was confessing this to this man. Perhaps, after six years, she needed to expunge her soul to something that was not a teapot. She told him Albus had been the reason she had taken the job and the reason she had stayed; Albus had been her truest friend and confidante; Albus was the only one who understood her and she him. She had loved him, she told the man by her side, and he had never known.
At this the man seemed to smile, or at least gave off a little vibration of happiness. “Come with me,” he said. “Minerva, we can live in the moon or deep under the sea. Please, take my hand.”
At that she knew. She could never forget the way he had said her name, “Minerva,” he had made it sound beautiful and this man had stretched out every syllable and rolled it around on his voice until it was perfect. She grasped his fingers – her vision cleared – her spine straightened – her hearing became more acute – her hair lengthened and regained its luster. And she saw the man for who he was – Albus – the only man she had ever fallen for – and there was the twinkle in his eye – the sparkle in his hair – he was just as she remembered him. She caught a glimpse of herself in the water and saw herself at thirty, the prime of her life. He pulled her up onto his horse and off they rode, into the surf and high up into the air, until anyone watching would not have seen even a speck of them left.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Tom called the authorities the following Wednesday, as he had begun to worry about his old professor when she did not come down to his store. She was a schedule-oriented person, Tom thought. They found her body lying on the sand the next day. Tom had never seen a more peaceful-looking person.
Love makes all the difference.
Summary: The last few days of Minerva's life.
Rating: Pretty much everyone, I think.
A/N: This is my first ADMM fic. I got the idea from the song "Sweet Bride," by Kate Rusby. It's a beautiful song and I would recommend downloading it.
Also, this isn't totally angst but I wasn't quite sure where to put it, so there you go. I hope you like it!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
She comes every Wednesday, without fail, and every Wednesday she buys the same things – three apples, half a dozen eggs, and a loaf of bread. The old woman lives close enough to walk to his shop but far enough away that it turns into a day trip for her and often she has to stop and rest for a moment when she has reached the halfway mark, between her cottage and the store. Tom does not know that this is the only regular contact she has with another human being anymore.
So every Wednesday she buys her items, her three apples and her half dozen eggs and her loaf of bread, and every Wednesday Tom asks her if that’s all she wants, and every Wednesday she peers quietly at him and says yes, that will be all, and she pays for it and leaves the store.
She used to be great, you know, thinks Tom to no one in particular. He feels that he has never seen a more defeated-looking person and he feels proud for pointing that out to himself, although he is only eighteen.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
But Tom doesn’t know how it feels to plan one’s entire week around a visit to a village store. Minerva McGonagall is one hundred and five years old and her days are mostly filled with a sort of wistful loneliness. Out of this loneliness, she has come to imbue her possessions with their own personalities. The blue jug on the windowsill – it’s calm, phlegmatic, and the wrought-iron table, it’s graceful and timeless but it doesn’t mind holding up a few dishes. Sometimes she talks to them. They do not answer her.
She is quite deaf, although not entirely, but at one hundred and five she feels it is hard to blame her body for failing her. She is long past her prime and she knows that. She now walks hunched over, with a cane, and she cannot see very far in front of her even with glasses. As for death, a close friend of hers once told her that death was merely the start of another adventure, and over the thirty years or so since his passing she has come to accept his view of it.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Minerva McGonagall does not only visit the village store, however. Every Sunday, she shuffles with her cane down to the shoreline, and she watches the tides come and go, and tries to hear the rhythm of the waves. Often she cannot. But she can feel it – she feels the sea in her bones, her flesh, with the very fibre of her being she is a part of it.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
On this, like any other, Sunday, Minerva picked up her gnarled cane and thunked with it down the path from her doorstep, and then began the long trek to the ocean. She imagined the birds were probably whistling prettily on that morning. It was just that sort of morning. The grass reached to the middle of her calves, or it would have done if the hemline on her dress was shorter. It was a breezy day and the light wind brushed against her arms and played with the ends of her unkempt hair. She was no longer beautiful, but the woman had a certain indefinable quality, je ne sais pas quoi, a forgotten grace that seemed to envelop her being and follow her about.
Naturally, she didn’t hear the horse approaching, or it would not have startled her so. She recovered quickly from her fleeting moment of shock and looked up at the figure in front of her. The horse had a pure white coat and tail, so white that its skin seemed almost translucent, as if it might melt if you touched it. It was resplendent in a finely made bridle and saddle. Minerva could tell it would have been expensive because her father had been a leatherworker, so many years ago, and he had taught her these things which turned out not to be as important as he had thought they would, considering. Funny, the things you remember and the things you don’t, thought Minerva. Her eyes moved up the horse to its rider. She could not quite make him out. It was a masculine figure and yet, Minerva was unable to fixate on any of the specific details of his physiognomy. Minerva could find no word to describe him but “dreamlike.” She felt the person, for some reason, would not have liked “transcendental.” It was at this moment the figure spoke.
“Good morning!” he said cheerily. His voice…she knew that voice from somewhere. The odd thing about it was that it had cut through her deafness like a clear sword would cut through a twisted jungle.
“Good morning,” she responded, guardedly.
“Where might you be going?” he asked.
“I am headed to the seashore. It’s all I have left now,” she replied, almost bitterly but not quite.
“I will walk with you.”
She felt no urge to argue, which, looking back, was odd, since she preferred the company of herself to the company of strangers on fancy horses.
For the rest of their jaunt, they chatted about Minerva and Minerva’s life at the moment, where she lived, what she did, why she did it. He was remarkably easy to talk to for a woman who had not had a meaningful conversation in six years. Oddly, she still could not see him. It was as if he was a shadow made solid, he had no definition in his form and yet Minerva did not find it disturbing in the least. On they talked. The man asked about Minerva’s years of teaching, and whether she missed it (she did), and why she had left (she could no longer complete her duties as Headmistress). She also mentioned that after Albus’s death, it had not seemed quite so enjoyable anymore. She did not know why she was confessing this to this man. Perhaps, after six years, she needed to expunge her soul to something that was not a teapot. She told him Albus had been the reason she had taken the job and the reason she had stayed; Albus had been her truest friend and confidante; Albus was the only one who understood her and she him. She had loved him, she told the man by her side, and he had never known.
At this the man seemed to smile, or at least gave off a little vibration of happiness. “Come with me,” he said. “Minerva, we can live in the moon or deep under the sea. Please, take my hand.”
At that she knew. She could never forget the way he had said her name, “Minerva,” he had made it sound beautiful and this man had stretched out every syllable and rolled it around on his voice until it was perfect. She grasped his fingers – her vision cleared – her spine straightened – her hearing became more acute – her hair lengthened and regained its luster. And she saw the man for who he was – Albus – the only man she had ever fallen for – and there was the twinkle in his eye – the sparkle in his hair – he was just as she remembered him. She caught a glimpse of herself in the water and saw herself at thirty, the prime of her life. He pulled her up onto his horse and off they rode, into the surf and high up into the air, until anyone watching would not have seen even a speck of them left.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Tom called the authorities the following Wednesday, as he had begun to worry about his old professor when she did not come down to his store. She was a schedule-oriented person, Tom thought. They found her body lying on the sand the next day. Tom had never seen a more peaceful-looking person.
Love makes all the difference.
Keep writing, please!
