Post by esoterica1693 on Aug 24, 2007 4:52:56 GMT -5
A/N:
This fic is DH-compliant. It is set in 1943 at the time of the first opening of the Chamber. At this point MM and AD are just student/professor, each very important to the other but nothing yet explicitly romantic, though that could certainly develop in the future. It also involves a bit of MM/TR, which is a ship I usually hate, but this plot bunny grabbed me..... A hint of AD/GG from years ago though it could have been simply a platonic infatuation not anything sexual. Basically, how would Albus react, and why, if he learned MM had been with TR, if only briefly?
One-shot.
Rating: 11+. Snogging mentioned. Character death.
- - - - - - - -
Minerva stood up, glad to have come to a decision. She would ask to speak to Professor Dumbledore privately the next time she saw him. He had been away over a fortnight; he would surely be returning to Hogwarts soon. She still could not truly believe that Tom could be involved in the attacks, or rather she hoped he was not. But she would talk to Dumbledore just to be safe.
It had only been just over than a year ago, after all, that she had still thought Tom charming, even beguiling, as well as brilliant, and the two had been a couple for a few short but intense months. Their relationship was responsible for the one and only detention Minerva had ever served—Dippet had come upon them snogging rather obliviously in a remote passageway after the Spring Social. In fact Tom qualified as her most involved and lengthy romantic involvement to date.
But by the end of last year she had begun to see his less winning traits—the self-absorption, the cold calculating tendencies, occasionally using other people as instruments to achieve his ever-more-ambitious goals. She had broken it off with him at the beginning of the summer. When they had returned to school in the fall they had maintained a decidedly cool friendship, once again focused on academics. The energy that had once sparked between them was gone, and while Minerva still found him handsome, and his dark eyes mysterious in their depths, and his mind amazingly nimble, her body no longer responded to his presence and glance as it once had. All the same, she did not want to think him capable of deliberately harming another student, or abetting anyone else in doing so.
But the growing list of odd coincidences, the look in his eyes when the last attack had been announced, and again today—her intuition was telling her there could possibly be some connection. Today he had been in the midst of a gang of his Slytherin hangers-on as the younger boys discussed the attacks and who might be next. Thus far one Gryffindor and two Hufflepuffs had been Petrified.
“Seems to only happen to the duller sort,” one of the Slytherins had said. “Whatever’s doing it must be pretty easily outwitted by anyone with brains or ambition.”
“But now that it sees how little resistance its victims are capable of, its tastes might expand, and quickly. Ravenclaw is not free from the attracting tinge of muggle blood, though it is admittedly not as filthy as Gryffindor or Hufflepuff,” Tom had countered, with more assurance than anyone could expect to have on the question. The look that had flashed in his eyes as he had said that had frightened Minerva to the core. His gaze had once caused her body to tingle with warmth, but today she had shivered in fear.
In her animagus training over the past year one thing Professor Dumbledore had been stressing was that she needed to pay more attention to her intuition, and not rely so exclusively on cerebral and logical analysis. And as much as she wanted to deny it, her intuition was telling her that Tom knew something about these attacks.
Her suspicions were entirely too conjectural to take to Dippet—accusing another student of such a thing was a grave matter. But Dumbledore would listen to her. He would not dismiss her intuition, but nor would he leap to conclusions, and if this was like every other subject she had ever discussed with him, she would come away with new understandings and insights. They could converse easily on any number of subjects, and despite the age gap he had grown from being her teacher and mentor to one of her best friends, albeit a friend she still called ‘Professor’ and ‘sir.’
He also had the most uncanny ability to soothe her anxieties and worries, no matter their cause. When she was with him, when she was held in the focus of those blue eyes, all else seemed to melt away. There might be fear spreading like an epidemic inside the castle, and war ravaging both the Muggle and wizarding worlds beyond, but in Dumbledore’s presence none of that seemed to have any true weight at all. His presence surrounded her with an aura of deepest calm. It was his unique magic to make her feel more capable, more confident, more sure of herself and her abilities than she ever had been or thought she could be. When he looked at her, his esteem and his expectations were clear in his gaze, and the combination drew more out of her than she had ever imagined herself capable of. She did not want to ever disappoint him.
She heard Filius’ sharp knock on the Common Room door and stepped out into the hallway to join him. She enjoyed making night Rounds with the Ravenclaw prefect. He was a lively conversationalist, and also quite a competent duelist—a good combination to have at your side in such times as these. Many underestimated him because of his small stature and gentle disposition, but he was a force to be reckoned with both academically and magically. They fell into an easy stride together.
Half an hour later they were working their way down a rarely-used second-floor corridor. Filius had gone ahead to check the boys’ loo while Minerva checked the girls’. She pushed the door open and stuck her head in, not expecting to see anything amiss in this dingy WC.
The next few minutes became a blur. She yelled for Filius and the two examined Myrtle quickly. She was not stiffly Petrified as the other victims had been, but cold and lifeless. Filius stayed with his fellow Ravenclaw while Minerva raced to the Headmaster’s tower in her animagus form, which she had only recently achieved—Filius was actually the first student to see her as a feline. A bit later they followed numbly behind Dippet as he levitated Myrtle to the Hospital wing, the pallor on his face and the sweat at his brow confirming their worst fears.
The Headmaster gestured Minerva into an empty examining room while he sent messages to the Heads of House to secure the students in the Common Rooms, and to the Ministry and to Myrtle’s parents to inform them of the death. Filius was sent back to Ravenclaw Tower to help break the news to Myrtle’s Housemates. As she sat on the cold metal chair with nothing but images of Myrtle to occupy her mind, Minerva shivered and fought off waves of nausea. Finally Dippet entered and began to question her closely about what she had seen and heard on her rounds as well as once she had entered the bathroom.
Before Dippet had gotten very far in his questioning Dumbledore suddenly dashed onto the ward, his breathing heavy and labored. He was dressed in a well-worn muggle Army uniform, his auburn hair mashed beneath an officer’s peaked cap, his face cleanshaven, the sidearm holstered on his belt seeming redundant given the wand in his hand. If it were not for his distinctive eyes, voice and the strong sense of magic which radiated from him, Minerva would never have recognized him. He had clearly rushed back to the castle from one of the missions he was so secretive about immediately upon receiving word of the crisis.
Dippet quickly described the situation to him, and Dumbledore nodded, his brow furrowed, his eyes dimmed. He concurred that the Headmaster had done all that could be done for the short term, which seemed to reassure Dippet, who then resumed his questioning of Minerva. Dumbledore conjured a chair next to Minerva’s and sat down heavily, resting his chin on his steepled fingers, lost in thought. Minerva had little to tell the Headmaster, which Dippet seemed to find frustrating. She said nothing of her suspicions about Tom—they were still entirely too nebulous to repeat, though over the course of the past half-hour she had become all the more sure she was correct. And all the more ashamed of herself.
Finally Dippet concluded his questioning. “Well, if that is all we can learn, I must prepare to meet with Myrtle’s parents—they will be arriving shortly. Miss McGonagall, we need to get you...”
“Miss McGonagall is in my House, Armando. I will look after her from here. You go on.”
“Very well. Good night, Miss McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore.” Dippet darted from the room.
Dumbledore stood and faced Minerva full-on for the first time since arriving. He took in her whiter-than-usual complexion and the slight tremble in her hands. His face softened and he reached a hand to her shoulder. “Come along—I think we could both use some hot chocolate before we go back to Gryffindor.” He took her arm in his and guided her out of the Hospital Wing to the kitchens. He prepared the drinks himself, mixing medicinal chocolate in with the confectioners and handed her a steaming mug.
Minerva drank in silence, clutching the mug so that Dumbledore would not notice the tremors which still shook her. She trembled not from a physical chill, but from the sickly mixture of fear, weakness and disgust which had taken up residence in her stomach as soon as she had seen Myrtle on the floor in her Ravenclaw robes.
Dumbledore seemed to have regained his strength and energy, and he now focused his gaze intently on her.
“Miss McGonagall, you did very well tonight. In a most tragic and trying circumstance, well beyond what any Prefect should have to deal with.”
“Thank you. I just wish, I just wish we knew what was happening, that we could have stopped it, or found her in time…” Despite her best efforts to hold them back, two tears brimmed over and ran down Minerva’s face. It was as if now, in the safe company of her mentor, the chocolate warming her center, Minerva could feel what she hadn’t allowed herself to earlier.
“Of course you do. We all do. We’re doing all we can to find out what is behind these attacks. We just don’t know enough yet.” Dumbledore transfigured a nearby napkin into a handkerchief and handed it to her. She dabbed at her eyes and took a deep breath.
“Professor, I know should have said something to you earlier, I’ve been thinking, maybe I do know something, but it’s nothing, really, just a few odd looks, a laugh, I told myself it couldn’t possibly mean anything, it really couldn’t, I don’t think it does, but, I was going to tell you the next time we met, honestly I was.” She began to sob, quietly at first but then more forcefully.
Dumbledore came quickly around the table and sat next to her on the bench, putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling her towards him. He had never seen Minerva measurably distraught in five years of teaching her and a year of tutoring her towards her animagus transformation. Even given the shock of the night’s events, her sobs seemed entirely out of character. His concern for her swept away all his other thoughts, obliterating the propriety he strove to maintain whenever around his talented protégé. Normally he guarded his actions lest his words or gestures betray the increasingly strong effects she was capable of having on him, but seeing her in such distress erased his caution.
“Minerva, Minerva.” His left hand gently rubbed her shoulder while his right covered the hand she still had wrapped around her mug. “Minerva, it’s all right. You can tell me now. I’m here now. It’s all right. Tell me what it is that has you so upset. What is it, my dear?”
“Professor, I’ve been afraid, I think—Tom Riddle—I think he might have something to do with the attacks.”
Dumbledore did not react in shock or disbelief. Instead he answered her in as calm a voice as in a class recitation. “Tell me more, Minerva. What makes you think Tom might be involved?”
And she narrated the series of odd coincidences and comments which had finally grown too numerous to ignore, climaxing in that afternoon’s comment about Ravenclaw perhaps being the next target.
“So, it could be, probably is, just a bunch of coincidences, things I’m making too much of, right? It can’t really be Tom doing this, can it, Professor?”
“I would like to think that no student could possibly be behind these attacks. Especially now that someone has been killed. But, and Miss McGonagall, what I am about to say I do so in strictest confidence, to you alone, and I do not want you to repeat it, not even to the Headmaster--I have myself been having similar fears about Tom Riddle for some time. Like you, it has been more on the level of intuition, hunch and fear than any concrete evidence I could point to or act on. But what I have observed and felt, now combined with what you have told me tonight—yes, putting all that together, I think it could well be Tom—in fact, it is increasingly likely it is. As much as that pains me.”
“You really think it could be?” Minerva erupted in sobs again. “I should have said something earlier. If I had, maybe you could have done something.”
“Shhh, shhh. Don’t blame yourself. I have been gone for over two weeks, Minerva, since before most of these things you observed happened. I was not here for you to tell. If anyone should have done anything it was me—I should have returned, and stayed, once the attacks started. Clearly I was needed here even more than elsewhere.”
“But since you weren’t here, I should have gone to the Headmaster. I should have done something.”
“Going to Headmaster Dippet would not have made any difference.”
“But, surely…”
“It would not have helped, and might have made things worse. Believe me. Armando would not have taken you seriously. He wouldn’t have. Why do you think I haven’t gone to him more forcefully with my own suspicions? Hmm, I have said too much, Minerva. I should not speak ill of Armando. But do not blame yourself for not going to him. Believe me, it would not have made a difference. Do not blame yourself.”
“I blame myself for not seeing it sooner, then. How could I have been so blind? How could I have missed it? Now I see, it all fits….with other things, even before the attacks started. Awful things he’d say, and the way he would insult some people. All this year, I’ve been seeing it, more and more clearly. Things I’d blindly overlooked before. And I wouldn’t let myself see them this year either, because I didn’t want to think I’d misjudged him so badly, had let him deceive me all of last year, had let him get so close.”
Dumbledore suddenly thought back to the detention Minerva had earned the previous year, and Armando’s description of her offense. At the time he had wondered if perhaps the Headmaster was exaggerating and overreacting, as he could not see Riddle and Minerva as a serious couple. Evidently he had been wrong. Her sobs began to make more sense now.
“I can’t believe how foolish I was. To think that…to think that I ever saw him as decent, that I gave so much, I mean, that I spent so much time with him….
“You must be disgusted with me, sir. That I let some sort of infatuation blind me. If I hadn’t been so concerned with myself, with my own feelings, I would have seen the signs sooner, and been able to say something, maybe we could have stopped….How could I have been so stupid. And look where it has led. Oh, you must think me such a brainless emotional fool, Professor--you must hate me...”
“Minerva, Minerva! Don’t even say such a thing. Stop it! I most certainly do not hate you. And I do not think you a brainless emotional fool, or any of the other things you have said.”
“How can you not? I let myself be carried away by flattery, attention, infatuation, and didn’t see what was right in front of me, what kind of person he really is. I didn’t take seriously some of the things he said, didn’t believe he really meant them. If I’d seen it sooner, or if I’d done something the minute I did see it, rather than just hope I was wrong about my fears, maybe he could have been watched, and stopped. But I didn’t, and now an innocent girl has died. Oh, Professor, I am so sorry. I have been such a fool. I am so very sorry. You can’t imagine how awful I feel.
“Shh, Minerva, shh. Stop this! I do not think you a fool, and you do not need to apologize. Shh. It is not your fault. You are far from the first person to fall in love and want to believe the best of the one you love, only to be cruelly disappointed. Believe me. You are far from the first. Do not blame yourself. And I do not, I cannot possibly, hate you, or think any the less of you for it, not even a bit. I promise. Shh.”
“If you really mean that, then thank you, Professor. I don’t know how you can not think less of me, but thank you.”
“Of course I mean it.”
If Minerva had been looking into Dumbledore’s eyes during their last few exchanges, she would have seen them lose their focus for a time. The kitchens had faded from his view, replaced by the brilliant sun of summer days almost a century earlier. It was no longer a raven-haired witch he embraced, but a blonde, blue-eyed wizard, whose laughter intoxicated him, whose wild gaze captivated him, whose dreams ensnared him, and whose brilliance blinded him. Had blinded him for just a short while, but for long enough . . .
“No, Minerva, I cannot possibly hate you,” he whispered under his breath.
This fic is DH-compliant. It is set in 1943 at the time of the first opening of the Chamber. At this point MM and AD are just student/professor, each very important to the other but nothing yet explicitly romantic, though that could certainly develop in the future. It also involves a bit of MM/TR, which is a ship I usually hate, but this plot bunny grabbed me..... A hint of AD/GG from years ago though it could have been simply a platonic infatuation not anything sexual. Basically, how would Albus react, and why, if he learned MM had been with TR, if only briefly?
One-shot.
Rating: 11+. Snogging mentioned. Character death.
- - - - - - - -
Minerva stood up, glad to have come to a decision. She would ask to speak to Professor Dumbledore privately the next time she saw him. He had been away over a fortnight; he would surely be returning to Hogwarts soon. She still could not truly believe that Tom could be involved in the attacks, or rather she hoped he was not. But she would talk to Dumbledore just to be safe.
It had only been just over than a year ago, after all, that she had still thought Tom charming, even beguiling, as well as brilliant, and the two had been a couple for a few short but intense months. Their relationship was responsible for the one and only detention Minerva had ever served—Dippet had come upon them snogging rather obliviously in a remote passageway after the Spring Social. In fact Tom qualified as her most involved and lengthy romantic involvement to date.
But by the end of last year she had begun to see his less winning traits—the self-absorption, the cold calculating tendencies, occasionally using other people as instruments to achieve his ever-more-ambitious goals. She had broken it off with him at the beginning of the summer. When they had returned to school in the fall they had maintained a decidedly cool friendship, once again focused on academics. The energy that had once sparked between them was gone, and while Minerva still found him handsome, and his dark eyes mysterious in their depths, and his mind amazingly nimble, her body no longer responded to his presence and glance as it once had. All the same, she did not want to think him capable of deliberately harming another student, or abetting anyone else in doing so.
But the growing list of odd coincidences, the look in his eyes when the last attack had been announced, and again today—her intuition was telling her there could possibly be some connection. Today he had been in the midst of a gang of his Slytherin hangers-on as the younger boys discussed the attacks and who might be next. Thus far one Gryffindor and two Hufflepuffs had been Petrified.
“Seems to only happen to the duller sort,” one of the Slytherins had said. “Whatever’s doing it must be pretty easily outwitted by anyone with brains or ambition.”
“But now that it sees how little resistance its victims are capable of, its tastes might expand, and quickly. Ravenclaw is not free from the attracting tinge of muggle blood, though it is admittedly not as filthy as Gryffindor or Hufflepuff,” Tom had countered, with more assurance than anyone could expect to have on the question. The look that had flashed in his eyes as he had said that had frightened Minerva to the core. His gaze had once caused her body to tingle with warmth, but today she had shivered in fear.
In her animagus training over the past year one thing Professor Dumbledore had been stressing was that she needed to pay more attention to her intuition, and not rely so exclusively on cerebral and logical analysis. And as much as she wanted to deny it, her intuition was telling her that Tom knew something about these attacks.
Her suspicions were entirely too conjectural to take to Dippet—accusing another student of such a thing was a grave matter. But Dumbledore would listen to her. He would not dismiss her intuition, but nor would he leap to conclusions, and if this was like every other subject she had ever discussed with him, she would come away with new understandings and insights. They could converse easily on any number of subjects, and despite the age gap he had grown from being her teacher and mentor to one of her best friends, albeit a friend she still called ‘Professor’ and ‘sir.’
He also had the most uncanny ability to soothe her anxieties and worries, no matter their cause. When she was with him, when she was held in the focus of those blue eyes, all else seemed to melt away. There might be fear spreading like an epidemic inside the castle, and war ravaging both the Muggle and wizarding worlds beyond, but in Dumbledore’s presence none of that seemed to have any true weight at all. His presence surrounded her with an aura of deepest calm. It was his unique magic to make her feel more capable, more confident, more sure of herself and her abilities than she ever had been or thought she could be. When he looked at her, his esteem and his expectations were clear in his gaze, and the combination drew more out of her than she had ever imagined herself capable of. She did not want to ever disappoint him.
She heard Filius’ sharp knock on the Common Room door and stepped out into the hallway to join him. She enjoyed making night Rounds with the Ravenclaw prefect. He was a lively conversationalist, and also quite a competent duelist—a good combination to have at your side in such times as these. Many underestimated him because of his small stature and gentle disposition, but he was a force to be reckoned with both academically and magically. They fell into an easy stride together.
Half an hour later they were working their way down a rarely-used second-floor corridor. Filius had gone ahead to check the boys’ loo while Minerva checked the girls’. She pushed the door open and stuck her head in, not expecting to see anything amiss in this dingy WC.
The next few minutes became a blur. She yelled for Filius and the two examined Myrtle quickly. She was not stiffly Petrified as the other victims had been, but cold and lifeless. Filius stayed with his fellow Ravenclaw while Minerva raced to the Headmaster’s tower in her animagus form, which she had only recently achieved—Filius was actually the first student to see her as a feline. A bit later they followed numbly behind Dippet as he levitated Myrtle to the Hospital wing, the pallor on his face and the sweat at his brow confirming their worst fears.
The Headmaster gestured Minerva into an empty examining room while he sent messages to the Heads of House to secure the students in the Common Rooms, and to the Ministry and to Myrtle’s parents to inform them of the death. Filius was sent back to Ravenclaw Tower to help break the news to Myrtle’s Housemates. As she sat on the cold metal chair with nothing but images of Myrtle to occupy her mind, Minerva shivered and fought off waves of nausea. Finally Dippet entered and began to question her closely about what she had seen and heard on her rounds as well as once she had entered the bathroom.
Before Dippet had gotten very far in his questioning Dumbledore suddenly dashed onto the ward, his breathing heavy and labored. He was dressed in a well-worn muggle Army uniform, his auburn hair mashed beneath an officer’s peaked cap, his face cleanshaven, the sidearm holstered on his belt seeming redundant given the wand in his hand. If it were not for his distinctive eyes, voice and the strong sense of magic which radiated from him, Minerva would never have recognized him. He had clearly rushed back to the castle from one of the missions he was so secretive about immediately upon receiving word of the crisis.
Dippet quickly described the situation to him, and Dumbledore nodded, his brow furrowed, his eyes dimmed. He concurred that the Headmaster had done all that could be done for the short term, which seemed to reassure Dippet, who then resumed his questioning of Minerva. Dumbledore conjured a chair next to Minerva’s and sat down heavily, resting his chin on his steepled fingers, lost in thought. Minerva had little to tell the Headmaster, which Dippet seemed to find frustrating. She said nothing of her suspicions about Tom—they were still entirely too nebulous to repeat, though over the course of the past half-hour she had become all the more sure she was correct. And all the more ashamed of herself.
Finally Dippet concluded his questioning. “Well, if that is all we can learn, I must prepare to meet with Myrtle’s parents—they will be arriving shortly. Miss McGonagall, we need to get you...”
“Miss McGonagall is in my House, Armando. I will look after her from here. You go on.”
“Very well. Good night, Miss McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore.” Dippet darted from the room.
Dumbledore stood and faced Minerva full-on for the first time since arriving. He took in her whiter-than-usual complexion and the slight tremble in her hands. His face softened and he reached a hand to her shoulder. “Come along—I think we could both use some hot chocolate before we go back to Gryffindor.” He took her arm in his and guided her out of the Hospital Wing to the kitchens. He prepared the drinks himself, mixing medicinal chocolate in with the confectioners and handed her a steaming mug.
Minerva drank in silence, clutching the mug so that Dumbledore would not notice the tremors which still shook her. She trembled not from a physical chill, but from the sickly mixture of fear, weakness and disgust which had taken up residence in her stomach as soon as she had seen Myrtle on the floor in her Ravenclaw robes.
Dumbledore seemed to have regained his strength and energy, and he now focused his gaze intently on her.
“Miss McGonagall, you did very well tonight. In a most tragic and trying circumstance, well beyond what any Prefect should have to deal with.”
“Thank you. I just wish, I just wish we knew what was happening, that we could have stopped it, or found her in time…” Despite her best efforts to hold them back, two tears brimmed over and ran down Minerva’s face. It was as if now, in the safe company of her mentor, the chocolate warming her center, Minerva could feel what she hadn’t allowed herself to earlier.
“Of course you do. We all do. We’re doing all we can to find out what is behind these attacks. We just don’t know enough yet.” Dumbledore transfigured a nearby napkin into a handkerchief and handed it to her. She dabbed at her eyes and took a deep breath.
“Professor, I know should have said something to you earlier, I’ve been thinking, maybe I do know something, but it’s nothing, really, just a few odd looks, a laugh, I told myself it couldn’t possibly mean anything, it really couldn’t, I don’t think it does, but, I was going to tell you the next time we met, honestly I was.” She began to sob, quietly at first but then more forcefully.
Dumbledore came quickly around the table and sat next to her on the bench, putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling her towards him. He had never seen Minerva measurably distraught in five years of teaching her and a year of tutoring her towards her animagus transformation. Even given the shock of the night’s events, her sobs seemed entirely out of character. His concern for her swept away all his other thoughts, obliterating the propriety he strove to maintain whenever around his talented protégé. Normally he guarded his actions lest his words or gestures betray the increasingly strong effects she was capable of having on him, but seeing her in such distress erased his caution.
“Minerva, Minerva.” His left hand gently rubbed her shoulder while his right covered the hand she still had wrapped around her mug. “Minerva, it’s all right. You can tell me now. I’m here now. It’s all right. Tell me what it is that has you so upset. What is it, my dear?”
“Professor, I’ve been afraid, I think—Tom Riddle—I think he might have something to do with the attacks.”
Dumbledore did not react in shock or disbelief. Instead he answered her in as calm a voice as in a class recitation. “Tell me more, Minerva. What makes you think Tom might be involved?”
And she narrated the series of odd coincidences and comments which had finally grown too numerous to ignore, climaxing in that afternoon’s comment about Ravenclaw perhaps being the next target.
“So, it could be, probably is, just a bunch of coincidences, things I’m making too much of, right? It can’t really be Tom doing this, can it, Professor?”
“I would like to think that no student could possibly be behind these attacks. Especially now that someone has been killed. But, and Miss McGonagall, what I am about to say I do so in strictest confidence, to you alone, and I do not want you to repeat it, not even to the Headmaster--I have myself been having similar fears about Tom Riddle for some time. Like you, it has been more on the level of intuition, hunch and fear than any concrete evidence I could point to or act on. But what I have observed and felt, now combined with what you have told me tonight—yes, putting all that together, I think it could well be Tom—in fact, it is increasingly likely it is. As much as that pains me.”
“You really think it could be?” Minerva erupted in sobs again. “I should have said something earlier. If I had, maybe you could have done something.”
“Shhh, shhh. Don’t blame yourself. I have been gone for over two weeks, Minerva, since before most of these things you observed happened. I was not here for you to tell. If anyone should have done anything it was me—I should have returned, and stayed, once the attacks started. Clearly I was needed here even more than elsewhere.”
“But since you weren’t here, I should have gone to the Headmaster. I should have done something.”
“Going to Headmaster Dippet would not have made any difference.”
“But, surely…”
“It would not have helped, and might have made things worse. Believe me. Armando would not have taken you seriously. He wouldn’t have. Why do you think I haven’t gone to him more forcefully with my own suspicions? Hmm, I have said too much, Minerva. I should not speak ill of Armando. But do not blame yourself for not going to him. Believe me, it would not have made a difference. Do not blame yourself.”
“I blame myself for not seeing it sooner, then. How could I have been so blind? How could I have missed it? Now I see, it all fits….with other things, even before the attacks started. Awful things he’d say, and the way he would insult some people. All this year, I’ve been seeing it, more and more clearly. Things I’d blindly overlooked before. And I wouldn’t let myself see them this year either, because I didn’t want to think I’d misjudged him so badly, had let him deceive me all of last year, had let him get so close.”
Dumbledore suddenly thought back to the detention Minerva had earned the previous year, and Armando’s description of her offense. At the time he had wondered if perhaps the Headmaster was exaggerating and overreacting, as he could not see Riddle and Minerva as a serious couple. Evidently he had been wrong. Her sobs began to make more sense now.
“I can’t believe how foolish I was. To think that…to think that I ever saw him as decent, that I gave so much, I mean, that I spent so much time with him….
“You must be disgusted with me, sir. That I let some sort of infatuation blind me. If I hadn’t been so concerned with myself, with my own feelings, I would have seen the signs sooner, and been able to say something, maybe we could have stopped….How could I have been so stupid. And look where it has led. Oh, you must think me such a brainless emotional fool, Professor--you must hate me...”
“Minerva, Minerva! Don’t even say such a thing. Stop it! I most certainly do not hate you. And I do not think you a brainless emotional fool, or any of the other things you have said.”
“How can you not? I let myself be carried away by flattery, attention, infatuation, and didn’t see what was right in front of me, what kind of person he really is. I didn’t take seriously some of the things he said, didn’t believe he really meant them. If I’d seen it sooner, or if I’d done something the minute I did see it, rather than just hope I was wrong about my fears, maybe he could have been watched, and stopped. But I didn’t, and now an innocent girl has died. Oh, Professor, I am so sorry. I have been such a fool. I am so very sorry. You can’t imagine how awful I feel.
“Shh, Minerva, shh. Stop this! I do not think you a fool, and you do not need to apologize. Shh. It is not your fault. You are far from the first person to fall in love and want to believe the best of the one you love, only to be cruelly disappointed. Believe me. You are far from the first. Do not blame yourself. And I do not, I cannot possibly, hate you, or think any the less of you for it, not even a bit. I promise. Shh.”
“If you really mean that, then thank you, Professor. I don’t know how you can not think less of me, but thank you.”
“Of course I mean it.”
If Minerva had been looking into Dumbledore’s eyes during their last few exchanges, she would have seen them lose their focus for a time. The kitchens had faded from his view, replaced by the brilliant sun of summer days almost a century earlier. It was no longer a raven-haired witch he embraced, but a blonde, blue-eyed wizard, whose laughter intoxicated him, whose wild gaze captivated him, whose dreams ensnared him, and whose brilliance blinded him. Had blinded him for just a short while, but for long enough . . .
“No, Minerva, I cannot possibly hate you,” he whispered under his breath.
And. If you haven't read the fic at the very bottom - 'The Hero of His Own Life' - you've been seriously missing out. It's amazing.