Post by Nerweniel on Apr 21, 2006 10:56:19 GMT -5
Know it's been a while since I posted something, but this one just randomly came 
. Any comments are appreciated.
Rating: K
Summary: A rather sad, random little ficlet set during HBP. No-one dies though, so no panic
.
Promises
“Some other time, Minerva, when I’ll be back again.”
It does not sound like a promise, and she does not reply in words – all she does is nod. A lock of dark hair falls from her bun in the process, and in an irritable gesture, she pushes it back, behind her left ear. She does it clumsily – he is still holding her right hand, after all, and she never quite had an ambidextrous bone in her body.
He opens his mouth – closes it again. She knows he expects her to speak up, she knows that what he expects her to ask is, if he will promise her. He underestimates her with that, and it hurts her. She thought, no, she knows, that he knows her better than that.
But things have changed, and she knows that it must seem almost unbelievable to him that she, that the ever-imperturbable Deputy he has counted on for so long, has not changed in the process. And yet she has not; and all she can do is hope that he knows. Somehow.
She knows he cannot promise her anything, she knows exactly the value of promises in these days and she can, quite frankly, do without having her heart broken by something as abstract as a promise.
Minerva McGonagall remains, despite everything, a proud woman. If her heart must be broken, then it shall be broken properly – by him, not by his words, not by his oaths, but by him and him alone.
“I know you can’t, Albus.” she answers his unspoken statement, and she sees astonishment in his darkened, blue eyes. He looks old, she notices, and it pains her, but she knows him well enough to realize that even through old age and a skin that has never looked quite this transparent, he is still very much himself – and she’s never been one to take his unwanted name of greatest wizard of modern times lightly.
He does not understand what steers her, she sees. He’s always known what was on her mind, at any given point in time – but now, for the first time, his judgement is clouded. Perhaps it is better this way. It won’t hurt him as much, then. Perhaps.
Should she be begging, then? Should she be asking him not to go – not to leave her?
She raises her chin and puts her hand over his hand – not the good one, but the blackened one, one of the two visible signs of his mortality – of his weakness. The other one, as she knows very well, is she herself.
“Go.” she then says, simply.
Not because she wants him to go, no – if she would have the choice, she would beg. She would cry. But she does not have the luxury of choice.
One step forwards, she is still holding his hand and half-turns around. The rumpled sheets of their bed tell a story, and it makes her smile. She does not have to look up to him to know that he is smiling too, despite everything. The light pressure of his hand in hers is more than enough for her to see that. The light pressure of his lips on hers only assures her of what she already knew.
She feels a lump in her throat as he, finally, moves towards the door. It’s stupid, she keeps telling herself, but there you go; it is there, and it is only as he turns around to nod once more than she, too, nods, pulling her dressing gown a bit closer around her shoulders in one, simple gesture.
“I promise you, Albus.”
She does not explain about the contents of this promise of hers, nor does he ask. He simply goes.
. Any comments are appreciated.Rating: K
Summary: A rather sad, random little ficlet set during HBP. No-one dies though, so no panic
.Promises
“Some other time, Minerva, when I’ll be back again.”
It does not sound like a promise, and she does not reply in words – all she does is nod. A lock of dark hair falls from her bun in the process, and in an irritable gesture, she pushes it back, behind her left ear. She does it clumsily – he is still holding her right hand, after all, and she never quite had an ambidextrous bone in her body.
He opens his mouth – closes it again. She knows he expects her to speak up, she knows that what he expects her to ask is, if he will promise her. He underestimates her with that, and it hurts her. She thought, no, she knows, that he knows her better than that.
But things have changed, and she knows that it must seem almost unbelievable to him that she, that the ever-imperturbable Deputy he has counted on for so long, has not changed in the process. And yet she has not; and all she can do is hope that he knows. Somehow.
She knows he cannot promise her anything, she knows exactly the value of promises in these days and she can, quite frankly, do without having her heart broken by something as abstract as a promise.
Minerva McGonagall remains, despite everything, a proud woman. If her heart must be broken, then it shall be broken properly – by him, not by his words, not by his oaths, but by him and him alone.
“I know you can’t, Albus.” she answers his unspoken statement, and she sees astonishment in his darkened, blue eyes. He looks old, she notices, and it pains her, but she knows him well enough to realize that even through old age and a skin that has never looked quite this transparent, he is still very much himself – and she’s never been one to take his unwanted name of greatest wizard of modern times lightly.
He does not understand what steers her, she sees. He’s always known what was on her mind, at any given point in time – but now, for the first time, his judgement is clouded. Perhaps it is better this way. It won’t hurt him as much, then. Perhaps.
Should she be begging, then? Should she be asking him not to go – not to leave her?
She raises her chin and puts her hand over his hand – not the good one, but the blackened one, one of the two visible signs of his mortality – of his weakness. The other one, as she knows very well, is she herself.
“Go.” she then says, simply.
Not because she wants him to go, no – if she would have the choice, she would beg. She would cry. But she does not have the luxury of choice.
One step forwards, she is still holding his hand and half-turns around. The rumpled sheets of their bed tell a story, and it makes her smile. She does not have to look up to him to know that he is smiling too, despite everything. The light pressure of his hand in hers is more than enough for her to see that. The light pressure of his lips on hers only assures her of what she already knew.
She feels a lump in her throat as he, finally, moves towards the door. It’s stupid, she keeps telling herself, but there you go; it is there, and it is only as he turns around to nod once more than she, too, nods, pulling her dressing gown a bit closer around her shoulders in one, simple gesture.
“I promise you, Albus.”
She does not explain about the contents of this promise of hers, nor does he ask. He simply goes.
But I wanted to tell you it's absolutely brilliant! ;D I'm glad you told me about it. *hugs Lies* I love it, I love it...so sweet and so sad. Especially the bit about the rumpled sheets, hehe...When exactly is it in the book? *tries to think when this would take place* 
