Resolving a Misunderstanding (complete)

[MMADfan]

Part XXIXb: A Sudden Change of Circumstance, continued

After taking a few breaths, Albus realised that they might still be seen from the road. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, pulled Alastor’s wand out, and quickly cast three Disillusionment Charms. Then, raising himself up a bit more, he looked out toward the road.

A Disillusionment Charm wouldn’t be very useful if anyone saw the tracks and trails of blood that clearly led in this direction, thought Dumbledore. If anyone shot blindly from the road, they could still hit them; the Charm wouldn’t protect them from flying bullets, no matter how aimlessly fired. Dumbledore swished Moody’s wand, and felt it respond sluggishly. Beginning with those closest to them, gradually the tracks of blood and drag marks began to whisk away. Albus was unable to finish, however, before several German soldiers appeared from around a bend in the road.

He lay back down on the icy ground, and shivered. His head was pounding, his left arm was useless, his magic was weak . . . but then he looked toward the two boys beside him, blinking to try to see them through the Disillusionment Charm.

Carson was breathing shallowly. Alastor, who had rolled over toward Carson and put an arm around the other boy’s waist, was almost completely still. Even knowing they were there, and having cast the Charm himself, Dumbledore could barely make out their forms. He wished he dared move a little closer to them, both to add his warmth to Alastor’s, and to take a bit of warmth himself. Whatever happened, he would do all he could for these boys, for as long as he was able. Albus had not been unaware of the dangers posed by travelling in a Muggle war zone, but he had always believed that if he were going to be badly injured, it would be in a wizarding battle. He chuckled inwardly at the irony. This hadn’t even been a battle.

Albus turned his head slightly, hoping to be able to see something of the road, but was unable to. He could just make out their voices and footsteps as they examined the charred remains. He couldn’t hear enough to understand much of what they were saying. He thought he heard something like, “Schau mal hier,” and “Es muss noch . . . ,” then, “Doch, doch.” It sounded to Albus as though they were having a debate of some sort, probably about whether there had been any soldiers other than the two whose partially charred remains lay with the wreckage of the jeep.

He heard one of the men say, “Ja, wir werden doch seh’n – wenn sie da sind . . . ” and a laugh. Then shooting, shooting, and more shooting. A machine gun. Albus closed his eyes. One of them had apparently decided to shoot into the trees on either side of the wreck. Now Albus could hear bullets as they whished through the bushes, just inches above where the three wizards lay, and then skipped along the ground behind them. Neither Alastor nor Carson twitched. Albus swallowed dryly. Then there was more shouting, seemingly from several of the soldiers all at once.

“Du! Horst! Bisst du total verrueckt?!”
“Der ist uebergeschnappt!”
“Es gibt niemand, verstehst du? Was meinst du dabei?”
“Bloedsinn . . . .”
“Hoeren Sie auf! Alle!”

After more argument and shouting, and a few desultory prods into the dead weeds at the edges of the road, the group began to move away. It appeared they were not a particularly happy group of soldiers, thought Albus, grimly. They had sounded young, and they certainly weren’t well-trained, nor well led. Their greatest concern had seemed, first, whether the shoes of either of the dead soldiers were still intact, and second, the waste of ammunition that Horst had committed when he went off his rocker and began shooting aimlessly into the trees at, as far as the others believed, no one.

The three wizards lay still a while longer. Albus wasn’t sure whether the other two remained still out of caution, or because they were unconscious. Finally, he rolled over, cancelled the Charms, and examined the two younger men. Carson was still breathing, air and blood bubbling around the wound in his chest, but he didn’t respond when Albus whispered his name. Alastor didn’t seem much better. His leg had begun to bleed again, though not as profusely as Albus would have expected. He put the young Auror’s make-shift tourniquet back on, for lack of any better treatment, this time using the remains of his own wand to tighten the knot. As he did so, Alastor blinked open his eyes.

“Still here,” he whispered. Albus wasn’t sure whether the boy had meant it as a question or a statement, so he just nodded slightly.

Ignoring the pain in his head and shoulder, and the chill in his bones, Albus reached into his shirt and pulled out a St. Christopher medal. It was cheap, and would attract no attention if found on him. Not bothering to try to unclasp it with his one good hand, Albus yanked hard at the flimsy chain. It cut into his neck some before it snapped, but he barely noticed the abrasion amongst all his other injuries. Laying the small medallion on the ground in front of him, he began to pass his wand over it. Yes, he could alter it to transport someone other than himself. But only one of them. Which? How could he choose?

“Carson, Carson, my boy, can you rejoin us for a moment? Hmm, good lad!” he said softly as Carson’s eyes fluttered open. “Carson, I have a Portkey here. It can bring one of us to Amiens.” Albus looked over at Alastor as he spoke quietly to the other young Auror. “Would you like a free Portkey to Amiens, Carson?”

Carson’s eyes, which had been glazed over, seemed to sharpen at that, and he tried to say something, but Albus couldn’t make it out.

“What’s that, my boy?” Albus leaned nearer to him.

“Alastor,” he whispered. “Send Alastor.” Carson coughed weakly at the effort, and more blood bubbled from his chest. “Never make it there. You know it. Can’t Portkey. Can’t Apparate,” Carson gasped.

Albus turned toward Alastor, who had been unable to hear what Carson said. “Well, Alastor, it seems I will need your help here.” Albus reached over and pulled up the end of the tourniquet. “Hold this just so, please.”

Alastor, without knowing why, obeyed. Dumbledore raised the wand, and, with a quick Diffindo, sliced off the end. He took it from Alastor, who was looking puzzled. Albus placed the bit of bloody cloth next to the Portkey and began to cast the spells necessary to change it to allow Alastor to use it.

Alastor raised himself up on one arm. “What? What are you doing, Professor? That’s your Portkey! What are you doing?”

This was as lively as Alastor had been since Albus had pulled him from the road. “You know the way this Portkey functions, Alastor. I am changing it so that it is not tuned to me.”

“Stop! Stop it! Send Carson! He’s worse off than I am. I’ll be fine, just, please, stop,” Alastor finished with a choke.

“It’s too late, Alastor, it’s done. And this was Carson’s request. Let him do this for you, eh, my boy?” Albus said gently.

“You should have gone already,” complained Alastor weakly. “If they’d wanted everyone to have Portkeys, they would have given them to us. That one was for you.” Alastor lay back and closed his eyes.

Carson made an effort to sit, and gasped in pain.

“There, now, my boy, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Need to sit up,” he whispered. “Need to sit, need to talk to Alastor.”

“All right, then, I’ll help you.” Albus assisted him into a sitting position, leaning the young wizard against his right shoulder.

“Hey, there, Alastor,” Carson said weakly. “Don’t fight us on this one. We need to get out of here in case more Germans come, or any of Grindelwald’s people. Arguing will just take time, and you’ll lose, anyway. So do what the Professor asks, and take the Portkey.” This speech, spoken in barely a stage whisper, exhausted Carson, and he sank back against Albus, who tried not to wince.

“So, Alastor, that’s set. Given your current condition, I would not be surprised if you passed out as soon as you arrive in Amiens – or even as soon as the Portkey activates. I don’t know if you will be in any shape to tell them what has happened, so I am going to write a little note for you to take with you, all right?” Without waiting for his answer, Albus continued, “I obviously have no quill or parchment, but I do have a bit of paper in one of my pockets. Unfortunately, it is my left pocket, and I’m afraid my left hand isn’t working very well at the moment. Alastor, if I move around, can you just – that’s right, thank you. Now, something to write with. I usually have a bit of a pencil with me, but I don’t know where that’s gone.”

“I have a biro, sir, in my jacket pocket. Good British Air Force issue,” Carson said with a weak grin.

Albus composed a brief note, explaining that the jeep had blown up after they had got out at the crossroad, that Carson was gravely injured, and that they would try to find someplace nearby to shelter, as there were German soldiers in the area. He sighed, knowing that, unless someone was at Headquarters who had been here before and could Apparate directly to them, they would have to wait for someone to make a Portkey, and that could take time, depending on whether there was anyone skilled with Portkey charms at Headquarters at the time, and whether they had the crossroads already plotted or not. As far as Dumbledore knew, they had relied on a Muggle map to choose this particular spot, and he doubted it had been magically plotted for any reason.

He folded the small note and put it in the top pocket of Alastor’s shirt, then he took the St. Christopher medal and placed it in the young wizard’s right hand, closing his fingers around it.

“There you go, my boy. Well done today. I am proud of you both. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to borrow your wand for a bit longer. Now, don’t delay. The Portkey will activate at the word ‘spero’,” Dumbledore said. “Go, now, and we’ll be fine. We’ll just look for someplace a little more comfortable.”

“What’s the word? ‘Sparrow,’ like the bird, Professor?”

“No, ‘spero,’ as in ‘hope,’” Albus replied, “‘I hope.’”

“’Bye, Carson, Professor. I’ll buy us all a fire whiskey when you get back.” With that, Alastor tightened his grip on the little medal and said, “Spero.” And he was gone; Carson and Albus were now alone.

Note: More to follow in a day or two!
Rough translations of the rough German:

[/i]“Schau mal hier” = "Look here"
“Es muss noch . . . ” = "It must still . . . " or "There must still . . ."
“Doch, doch” = untranslatable (for me!) interjection indicating the speaker thinks that something is to the contrary of what was just said.
“Ja, wir werden doch seh’n – wenn sie da sind . . . ” = "Yeah, we'll sure see – if they're there . . . "
“Du! Horst! Bisst du total verrueckt?!” = "You, Horst! Are you completely mad?!"
“Der ist uebergeschnappt!” = "He's gone around the bend!"
“Es gibt niemand, verstehst du? Was meinst du dabei?” = "There's no one there, understand? What do you think you're doing?/What do you think you're accomplishing by that?"
“Bloedsinn . . . .” = "Idiocy/Utter foolishness . . . ."
“Hoeren Sie auf! Alle!” = "Stop it! Everybody!"
[/blockquote]

[PiER]

I'm lovin' it!
Can't wait to find out how Minnie got on with her mission of saving Albus!
And Churchill's speach was marvelous I could really picture the scene! Well done!
Looking forward to more!

PiER

[MMADfan]

pier said:

I'm lovin' it! [. . . ]
And Churchill's speach was marvelous I could really picture the scene! Well done!

Thank you, PiER! I tried to make his speech "Churchillian" -- glad you liked it!

There will be more to come, although updates will be slower than they were in the beginning (I think that at one point, I was uploading four or five long-ish Parts in one day), they will still be regular.

-MMADfan

[Apocalypticat]

Another splendid update! I liked seeing how Alastor lost his leg, though of course I wasn't too happy on his behalf. I thought the addition of Carson and the soldier's promise was particularly emotive and the entire scene was quite painful to read.

Ahh, I must do what I did before: refer to something that came before. PiER was right; Churchill's speech was great. I must confess that it resulted in me looking up your nationality on your profile - whilst there is nothing to say that you have to be British to write a Churchillian speech, it was so 'in character' that my brain screamed 'patriotic Brit.' Whilst obviously I was wrong, I'm assuming you're quite familiar with his speeches. It showed!

[MMADfan]

apocalypticat said:

Another splendid update! I liked seeing how Alastor lost his leg, though of course I wasn't too happy on his behalf. I thought the addition of Carson and the soldier's promise was particularly emotive and the entire scene was quite painful to read.

Thank you, Apocalypticat. It was actually quite painful to write, as well. Unfortunately, there are a few more painful scenes to come before we are finished here.

apocalypticat said:

Ahh, I must do what I did before: refer to something that came before. PiER was right; Churchill's speech was great. I must confess that it resulted in me looking up your nationality on your profile - whilst there is nothing to say that you have to be British to write a Churchillian speech, it was so 'in character' that my brain screamed 'patriotic Brit.' Whilst obviously I was wrong, I'm assuming you're quite familiar with his speeches. It showed!

*Blushes* Thanks! I'm a bit of a Brit-lover; have been all my life (although with a family history of impressment, persecution by the Crown --beheading is rather dreadful, don't you think? --, and such, that resulted in a couple branches of my family coming to the Colonies/States a couple centuries ago, or so, it's never been an unqualifiedly blind love, I must say -- I won't even get into the Irish Potato "Famine"). I also was in love with a Geordie, and set to marry him, when he was taken by cancer. Having lived with him, with our mutual love of language, probably helps as well. Anyway, I did put quite a bit of effort into his speech, particularly the last one, so I'm extremely glad that a bona fide British subject found it believable!

-MMADfan

[Apocalypticat]

mmadfan said:

beheading is rather dreadful, don't you think?

Rather. One of my ancestors, Anne Boleyn, would be inclined to agree with you. Irish Potato Famine? Yes, I have a few ancestors who would agree with you about that too!

*Now rushing off to attack Him Again*

[Gemmie Lou]

i am sooo lovin how quickly you are updating cant wait for more xxxxxxxxxxxx

[elivania]

So your announcement that you have written more....does that mean you will post more tonight???

Or perhaps you should sleep after posting so late/early. Looking forward to Minerva's adventure to get Albus.

[MMADfan]

Hi, durc09 & Elivania! I do indeed have more written, but it's not finished enough yet to post.

And I do think I will get some sleep!

--MMADfan, yawning and blinking bleary eyes.

[MMADfan]

Note: As is often the case, this installment is too long to post in one go, so I have divided it up. It is one, integrated section, however, so it is best read all at once.

Part XXX: Waiting

As Sprangle poured over the maps spread out at the other end of the large conference table, Minerva began to eat the sandwiches and soup that the Minister’s secretary had brought her. She ate steadily, although she was not hungry and had no appetite. Under other circumstances, she would have stuck up her nose at the dry fish paste sandwiches and the bland vegetable soup, but she ate two of the sandwiches and finished the bowl of soup, not knowing when she would eat next, and aware that she would need the energy for what lay ahead. She had begun eating the milk biscuits when Auror Scrimgeour returned with another man, whom she assumed was Frankel. Why do none of these men ever introduce themselves? Minerva asked herself.

Frankel ignored her presence and went over to Sprangle, where they held a hushed conversation. Scrimgeour sat down beside Minerva.

“Good, you’re eating,” he said.

“It seemed sensible,” Minerva replied.

“Hmm, Gryffindors are not always known for their good sense, and from the way you looked when Ouellette told you Dumbledore was missing, I didn’t think you’d have any appetite.”

“I didn’t,” she replied. “But as I said, it seemed sensible.” Minerva was unsure whether to like or resent this Auror. He certainly thought a great deal of himself.

“I don’t think they’re sending enough Aurors with you,” the intense Auror opined. “That area is dangerous, and it’s all well and good that Frankel speaks German, but you’re going to France, for Merlin’s sake!”

“You just wanted to go yourself. I suppose you speak French?”

“No, that’s not it. I do, of course, want to go . . . but . . . I just have a bad feeling about it. And yes, I speak French. My mother’s French, and I went to school there. Small wizarding school in Alsace. It was beautiful until Grindelwald destroyed it. Completely. Levelled it as though it had never been there at all. It wasn’t Hogwarts, of course – academically, it was just as good,” he said slightly defensively, “but it was small, just a little chateau, and never more than fifty students at a time. It didn’t have the history, or the protective wards, of Hogwarts. No one ever thought they’d be needed. Grindelwald doesn’t appreciate anything he perceives as competition, though, and when our teachers and Headmistress refused to co-operate with his agents . . . .” Scrimgeour shook his head.

“I’m sorry.” Minerva didn’t know what else to say to this little speech. “Don’t you think, though, that Auror Sprangle knows what he’s doing?”

Despite her view of Scrimgeour as an over-confident, competitive young Auror, she was a bit uneasy, herself. Now that she thought about it, it did seem odd to send in only one Auror, no matter how experienced, and a completely untrained young animagus. She understood her value as a member of a team, but perhaps that team should be a little larger. . . .

“If he was just popping in and popping out to do some reconnaissance, wearing an Invisibility Cloak, or Disillusioned, then . . . perhaps. But this is supposed to be the search, not just a brief look-see,” responded Scrimgeour.

Minerva considered what he said. She wished that she had had some kind of training for this. She possessed no standards by which to evaluate the Auror’s statements.

“I thought you were supposed to be doing something with the Portkeys,” Minerva asked, changing the subject.

“Yes, well, there wasn’t much to do. I told them the trigger words for your return Portkey – they’re setting Dumbledore’s to that, as well – and left them to it. They already had the co-ordinates plotted; I just confirmed the time of departure. Someone will bring them up when it’s time.”

“What do you mean my ‘return Portkey’?” asked Minerva. “What about the outbound Portkey? Was it too late to change the trigger word?”

Scrimgeour looked a little uncomfortable, but answered, “You heard that they want you to Portkey in your Animagus form. They have determined that Frankel will be, um, carrying you, um, in a . . . bag.” Scrimgeour squirmed under Minerva’s glare. “Don’t look at me like that! It wasn’t my idea! Talk to them about it,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of Sprangle and Frankel.

“I most certainly will!” Minerva got up and stalked toward the two men seated at the far end of the table.

“I need a word, Auror Sprangle.”

“We will give you a final briefing just before you Portkey out, Miss McGonagall. At the moment, I am discussing the situation with Auror Frankel.”

“That is precisely what I need to speak with you about, sir. I understand that you apparently have made certain plans for my journey, without consulting me and without even considering how inappropriate they may be.” Minerva spoke quietly and evenly, but with a low, angry edge.

“I certainly do not know what you are talking about, Miss McGonagall. Now, I suggest you settle down and wait. The Minister’s secretary can get you more tea, I’m sure. You will not be leaving for more than an hour yet.” Auror Sprangle turned back to the parchment he had been looking at, apparently believing he had dismissed the young Ministry employee.

“Well, then, let me tell you what I am talking about, Auror Sprangle. It is my understanding that you plan on having me transported to France in a bag! Please do tell me that I am incorrect in this understanding, sir, as I am having trouble believing it, myself.”

The pot-bellied Auror looked up again, to see a very angry witch. “Now, now, Miss McGonagall. You have to understand the security involved here. It is safest for you to Portkey over in your Animagus form. There is no guarantee that the destination point will not be under surveillance of some kind.” The Auror smiled condescendingly at Minerva. “This is for your own safety, I assure you!”

“Well, let me assure you, sir, that I will never consent to being transported in a bag. Have you lost your minds? First, even if I were an ordinary cat, cats do not like being carted about closed up in a bag. Second, I am not an ordinary cat. Third, I would be unable to transform myself back into my usual form if I were trapped in a bag. Fourth, since you are so concerned with my ‘safety,’ if something happened upon our arrival, I would be unable to do anything to save myself – even run away in my Animagus form. Fifth, that is the most undignified thing I have ever heard of! I would be willing to put up with any indignity if it were to aid us in finding Professor Dumbledore, but this most assuredly would not!”

At the end of her speech, Frankel chuckled slightly. “Told you, Septimus, didn’t I?”

Sprangle sputtered, “It’s too late now; we can’t make you a separate Portkey. Besides, cats can’t use Portkeys. They don’t know how!”

Minerva laughed shortly at that, “I think you are very confused, Auror Sprangle. You want me to go over there because as an Animagus, I have certain abilities. You surely must realise that I do not lose my power for human thought while in my Animagus form. And yet you speak as though I would be unable to use a Portkey! Of course, it would have to activate via my touch, or be set to go off at a certain time, but those things are quite simple to arrange. I am sure that all of this would have occurred to you, if you weren’t concerned about having to send an untrained witch on this mission. Since, as you point out, time is growing short, Auror Frankel may hold me when he uses his Portkey. He may not put me in a bag or a cage, however.”

“That’s fine with us, isn’t it, Septimus?” answered Frankel with a wry grin.

“Yes, yes; now go back and finish your tea,” Sprangle said, with some exasperation.

Minerva returned to her previous place to see Scrimgeour grinning at her.

“Well, I wish you’d talked to them about sending additional wizards along, since you managed that so nicely,” he said as she sat down.

“Hmmpf. I doubt I would have prevailed there. It is sometimes wise to choose one’s battles, don’t you think?”

“I completely agree with you. And a quiet retreat, or biding one’s time, can often bring greater success than a reactive attack,” the Auror said. “Eventually, if you wait and watch, you will achieve your ultimate goal.”

Minerva wondered briefly what his ultimate goal was. “I am concerned, though, about one thing,” she said.

Scrimgeour raised his eyebrows as if to ask, Just one?

“From the briefing, it seems clear that Professor Dumbledore was injured, perhaps badly, since we know he didn’t Disapparate. Either that, or Carson Murphy was badly injured, and he didn’t want to leave him behind. Or both,” Minerva continued.

Scrimgeour interrupted. “Actually, and I assume they will brief you on this before you go, anyway, we do know a bit more now. Moody regained consciousness. He said that Dumbledore’s wand was broken, and that he himself was injured – apparently at least a head injury, although from what Moody told us, it sounds as though Dumbledore also injured his left arm, or possibly the entire left side of his body. It appeared to Moody that Dumbledore’s magic was somewhat weakened, as well, although that might have been because he wasn’t using his own wand. In addition, all three wizards were very close to the jeep when it exploded, and were knocked to the ground by the force of the blast; it is possible that Dumbledore has other injuries that Moody was unable to see. Dumbledore was apparently so covered in blood, it was difficult to determine what injuries he may have suffered.”

Minerva’s gut contracted at this new information. “Covered in blood?” she said faintly.

“Yes, although most of it may have been Murphy’s. It didn’t sound good at all. Moody, well, he thinks that Murphy was likely to die without immediate medical treatment. Apparently Moody protested when Dumbledore made the decision to alter the Portkey for his use, but Murphy and Dumbledore both insisted he take it. It’s probable that the two knew that Murphy wouldn’t survive the trip, anyway.” Scrimgeour conjured a cup, and poured himself some tea from the large pot on the table.

“Isn’t it even more important, then, that someone else go with us, if they’re both injured so badly? A Healer, or at least a mediwizard?” Minerva’s mind was reeling from the shocking new information.

“I think, well, I don’t know if they think it would do any good, you see. And the only way to get them out is by Portkey, or possibly Side-Along Apparition.”

Scrimgeour didn’t need to explain his meaning any more clearly. Minerva saw immediately that they either believed that Carson was already dead, or that getting him out was bound to kill him, even if he received some kind of medical attention beforehand. She didn’t know where that left Albus, though.

“But what about Professor Dumbledore? It sounds as though he was fairly badly injured, as well.”

“Moody didn’t seem to think he was in immediate danger of death. He was apparently up and about, although clearly weakened by his injuries. Of course, it’s cold, which complicates things, and he doesn’t have his coat; Moody said he’d given it to Murphy.”

That was Albus Dumbledore; he could be freezing to death, and he’d give his coat to someone he thought needed it more – particularly if it were a former student. He is always so protective of his students. It must be torment for him to be able to do so little for them now, she thought.

Minerva had the sudden realisation that if Carson were unlikely to be returning home, it was possible she might not be, either. Of course, it was not as though she hadn’t known this when she’d agreed to the Prime Minister’s request, but now it truly engaged her awareness.

Continued in the next post.

[MMADfan]

Part XXX: Waiting, continued

“Excuse me a moment, please,” Minerva said, getting up from the table. She walked to the door of the conference room, and, opening it, saw that the Minister’s slightly plump, grey-haired secretary was still at her desk.

“Pardon me, do you think I might have some parchment, and a quill, please? Thank you,” Minerva said, as the secretary handed her the items she’d requested. Returning to the conference room, but sitting a bit further from Scrimgeour, she prepared to write.

“Letter to your parents?” asked the Auror.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“We all do it, at least once. A letter to parents, or to a wife or husband, or a lover, or to sons or daughters . . . .” Scrimgeour squinted slightly; Minerva didn’t know whether he was affected by his own words, or not. He said no more, but got up to examine the large map on the wall.

“Dear Mother and Dad,

“If you are reading this, then I must apologise for the pain I have caused you. You must know that I wanted to return home to you, and that I would have done what I could in order to see you again. But you also know that I could not refuse the mission that was given me – I do not know if you are aware of its nature, so best not speak of it here – nor could I leave anyone behind if leaving him would mean abandoning him to an evil fate.

“You have both always given me the greatest encouragement and love that any daughter could receive from any parents. You always allowed me the freedom to find my own path, and, where possible, gave me the tools to do so successfully. I have always known that you were as proud of me as ever you could be, no matter what I chose to do. So please, be proud now. You raised me to find what was right and to pursue it. I am doing that now.

“Please give my love to Malcolm, Morgan, and Murdoch, and Melina, too. Tell her to study hard when she gets to Hogwarts, and to take advantage of the opportunity to learn everything she can.

“There is one other thing that I must mention. It may be possible that although I do not return, another will. You will remember this person well, as I did not throw up on his shoes, as you had warned him I might, Mother. It is likely that in this event, he will feel some guilt that he was unable to bring me back with him. You must tell him that I did only what I had to do, and that, as I wished to ‘emulate him in every way,’ could not choose to do elsewise. Remind him, too, that I am a Gryffindor and a McGonagall, and we tend to be a bit headstrong; no one could have prevented me from coming after him and finding him, and no price would be too high to pay in order to accomplish that. I only hope that I was sufficiently successful in my task that he was able to return, even if without me. If I was successful in that regard, please tell him that my gratitude toward him is immeasurable, and that some of my happiest memories include time spent with him.

“Do know that I love you all, although I may not say it often enough.

“With apologies,
“I remain your loving daughter,

“Minerva
"5 January 1945"

Having finished her letter, feeling that it was hardly adequate to her intent but would have to suffice, she folded it and sealed it with a quick Charm without re-reading it. She then wrote “Egeria Egidius McGonagall and Merwyn Marcas McGonagall” on the outside. She hesitated, unsure what to do next.

“Give it to the secretary. She’ll know what to do with it,” Scrimgeour said, having turned from his apparent scrutiny of the map.

Minerva rose, and did as the Auror suggested. She explained to the secretary that the letter was only to be sent in the event that she did not return from her trip for the Ministry, or if she died. The secretary appeared used to such requests, and took the parchment from Minerva, opened a drawer in her desk that was filled with similar such parchments, and placed Minerva’s with them.

“And if you do return? Will you retrieve it, or should I simply destroy it?” asked the secretary.

“I . . . I don’t know. What do you usually do?”

“I generally keep them until they are retrieved, or until the sender’s conditions for posting it have been met,” replied the witch. “I compare the List of Missing and Dead each day with the list in the drawer to see what letters need to be posted. See,” she said, pulling the list from the drawer. “The parchment is Charmed to detect the writer and the recipient of each letter. There’s your name at the bottom. I do have to cross them off manually, however, once I remove a letter from the drawer. I keep meaning to have someone Charm it to do that automatically, but I have never found the time.”

Satisfied with the secretary’s arrangements, Minerva asked her to keep the letter until she returned for it, or until it needed to be sent off.

Sitting back at the conference table, Minerva poured herself another cup of tea, although she didn’t particularly want it. It was something to do. She’d have to visit the loo before they left, that was certain. Minerva tried not to think about the two wizards, wounded and waiting in the cold for uncertain rescue, but she was unable to do so. Albus – she had called him that at his insistence since she’d left school – had most likely found somewhere away from the vehicle for them to hide. She doubted he would have sought shelter in a house or barn, even if there were one nearby, since if anyone other than a friend were looking for them, they would certainly begin their search with any habitations or outbuildings in the area. No, he would probably look for some sort of naturally occurring shelter – perhaps a cave, or an overhang. She realised that she had no sense of the geography involved, and wished that Frankel would finish his conversation with the other Auror and show her the maps they had spoken of.

Minerva got up and approached the two wizards. Before she had the opportunity to speak, Frankel looked up and greeted her.

“Miss McGonagall, we should prepare ourselves to leave very shortly. I gather from Auror Scrimgeour that you are aware of our latest information regarding the status of the two wizards we’ll be looking for. That’s good; I won’t have to go over that with you, unless you have any questions. I think we might profitably take a few minutes to look at a particular map, however.”

“Yes, that’s why I was coming over here, actually. I don’t know what the geography is like, and that will be important to know, if we are to find them as quickly as possible,” she responded.

“Yes; here’s the map I think would be most useful to you, especially in your Animagus form. It is similar to a Muggle topographic map, but we have enhanced the maps they gave us in order to provide more detail. It was in the works when Dumbledore left, but hadn’t been completed yet, which is unfortunate for him. Nonetheless, he is on the ground there, and will likely attempt to use the topography to his advantage.”

“That’s what I thought, as well,” said Minerva as she pulled the map toward her so she could see it better.

“I’ll just go and check on those Portkeys, then, whilst you two go over your plans. Come along, Scrimgeour. Don’t you have something to be doing? If you’re not on duty, then go get some rest; if you are, then go make yourself useful somewhere.”

Minerva and Frankel spent some time going over the map, paying particular attention to the areas to the north and northeast of the crossroads. Moody had described their last location as being on that side of the road, and it seemed unlikely they’d return to the road it had already taken them such an effort to get away from. Frankel filled her in on a few more of the details that Moody had shared, including his belief that Carson could not have walked anywhere under his own power, and that Dumbledore’s physical and magical strength both seemed low. That certainly narrowed their search area even further.

After they had finished discussing the map and their initial plans – Minerva not arguing or questioning the wisdom of send only the two of them, since she did not wish to waste time, but wanted to leave and begin to search for Albus and Carson without delay – Frankel recommended that she visit the loo, get some chocolate bars to put in her pockets and bring with her, and rest a little during the short time they had before their Portkeys were ready.

She did as he recommended, using the loo, then asking the secretary where she could find some chocolate, as she didn’t want to take any time to go to the cafeteria. The secretary opened another of her desk drawers and pulled out several bars of candy.

“Honeydukes’ finest,” she said with a smile, “just wrapped up to look like Muggle sweets. I keep them for the ones who have to be out and about mixing with Muggles.”

Minerva placed a cooling Charm on her pocket, tucked the chocolate bars into it, then returned to the conference room, to find it empty. She sat down in the chair that had been vacated by Sprangle and pulled the map toward her, attempting to memorise every contour of the land around the area Moody had left the other two. Her mind continued returning to thoughts of Albus and Carson.

Continued in the next post.

[lemonygingersnaps]

Oh my this is fantastic - I can not wait for more! :-)

[MMADfan]

This is the final part of this installment. Please remember when reading the following bit that there is MMADness to come -- after all, I am MMADfan, aren't I?

Part XXX: Waiting, continued

Why did it have to be the two of them? It was bad enough that it was Albus, but Carson, too . . . . Minerva remembered how she had got to know the good-natured Ravenclaw, and how it became clear that he had a bit of a crush on her. She hadn’t minded; Carson was a nice boy, and very bright. They had a great deal in common, and he was always sensitive to her feelings, never pressing her for more than she was willing to give. Later, she hadn’t minded because she had believed that “keeping company” with him would help diminish her feelings for Albus. She believed that if she could become involved with someone more appropriate, she could get over whatever it was she felt for her Transfiguration Professor, perhaps even transfer some of the feelings to this more appropriate person. And there was no denying that Carson was appropriate. He was bright and talented, though no more than she, if perhaps in different areas; but most importantly, he was young, he was available, and he wasn’t everything that Dumbledore so clearly was. Not that he wasn’t a good wizard; no, not at all. The Ravenclaw Seeker was kind, open-hearted, and generous, and his magic was strong, as well, although not nearly on par with Dumbledore’s – but whose was? Yes, Minerva had determined that Carson was a highly appropriate person to begin, well, not dating exactly, but spending time with.

Carson had been very happy when, their sixth year, Minerva agreed to accompany him to the village on Hogsmeade weekends, and to study with him in the library instead of going off who-knew-where to study by herself. He never pressed for more than she seemed ready to offer, though, afraid that he would lose her if he tried too hard to persuade her to do more than just “spend time” with him. He was even more thrilled, therefore, when Minerva agreed to go with him to the St. Valentine’s Day Dance, which Headmaster Dippet thought might cheer the students, with all the bad news they had been hearing lately.

Late in the evening, when the Dance was almost over, Carson took Minerva for a walk in the frozen rose garden, regretting that it was not spring and he couldn’t present her with a more romantic setting. He cast a Warming Charm on a cold stone bench, and, with what he hoped was a gallant sweep of his hand, gestured for her to sit. Then he’d sat beside her, taken her hand, and told her how pretty she was, and how smart; he told her how much he enjoyed being with her, and how happy he was that she was there with him now. He smiled at her and called her “my fair Minerva.” Then he had tried to kiss her, just holding her hand, leaning forward, and placing his lips gently on hers. At first, she seemed to respond, to return his kiss, but, in a bare moment, she pulled her hand from his and gently pushed him away.

Minerva still remembered the crushed look on Carson’s face, and how he had tried to hide his disappointment and hurt. She couldn’t bear to hurt him any more than she already had by pushing him away – he was her friend, after all, and a good wizard, one any young witch at Hogwarts should be happy to have kiss her – so she simply said that it was all a bit too fast, and she’d never had a boyfriend before, and wanted to take things more slowly. Carson had happily agreed, since to him, it did not seem like a rejection. Minerva, though, knew that she was rejecting him, although she did not want to.

Minerva’s body had rebelled. She had begun to feel a bit warm when Carson took her hand there in the moonlight, and she thought perhaps it was a good warmth. And when he bent toward and kissed her gently on the mouth, she thought his lips felt rather nice, despite the discomfort that was growing in her. But when she tried to respond as she thought she ought, and return his kiss, the warmth grew, not passionate, but merely more uncomfortable. She felt short of breath, but not breathless, and her stomach was not filled with the butterflies other girls spoke of, but with nausea. In fact, bile had risen in her throat, and Minerva was sure that if she had not broken off the kiss, she would have been sick there and then.

Minerva had continued seeing Carson after that, sure that if she just saw him enough, if she just liked him well enough, she could kiss him without feeling ill. She was almost ashamed at her physical reaction. Carson was a gentleman who treated her with courtesy, kindness, and thoughtful affection. How could she possibly feel sick when he touched her?

Finally, midway through their seventh-year, Minerva sat Carson down in a secluded nook in one of the seldom-used corridors and told him that he should bring someone else to the next Hogsmeade weekend. She felt guilty that he was spending time with her when he might be spending it with someone who would appreciate him more than she could, someone who could return his affection in a way that she couldn’t. And she also felt as though she were betraying the true object of her affection, although he would never even know it. Trying to explain why to Carson seemed impossible. She told him the truth, as far as she was able: that she liked him very much, that she enjoyed spending time with him, and that she always would. She just didn’t think that she could ever like him in quite the way that he obviously liked her.

Carson had just sat there, listening, quiet, blinking hard. When she was finished, he reached for her hand, looking at her questioningly as he did so. When she nodded, he took it between his, and stroked it gently. Not looking at her, he had said, “There’s someone else, isn’t there?” Although he had phrased it as a question, it had sounded more like a statement.

“No, no, Carson, there’s no one else. I just can’t explain it. I want to like you the way that you like me, but I just haven’t been able to. Maybe I just can’t care enough, maybe I can’t give my heart as freely as you give yours, or maybe I’m just too young yet. All I do know is that you are a good wizard, and a good friend. I care about you, Carson; I want you to be happy. I don’t want you to miss the opportunity to meet some other witch who is better for you than I am.”

Carson had argued with her only a little, then, resigned, said, “You may not even know there’s someone else, Minerva, but I think there must be. I think you can’t give your heart to me because you’ve already given it away.”

Minerva said nothing to that, only shaking her head sadly. She leaned forward and gave him a kiss, first one on the cheek, then one on the mouth. Ironically, it was the first time that kissing him had not made her feel queasy. They continued to study together in the library, and sometimes they’d meet at the Three Broomsticks on weekends, but always with a group of friends. Despite her encouragement, Carson didn’t invite any other girls to go with him on Hogsmeade weekends, and after the Leaving Feast, he had come over to her and hugged her hard, holding her tightly. When he finally broke their embrace, he said, “You know I’ve been accepted into the Aurors’ programme. As soon as I’m done with the initial three-month training, I’m going to be staying at a flat my family keeps in London. I’ll Owl you – or maybe even stop by and see you at the Ministry – and let you know. Our ‘free’ time is highly structured those first few months, but maybe after that we could have lunch sometimes, or get out in the evening? As friends, of course,” he finished with a slight flush.

“Of course. I’d like that. I don’t know many people in London. I’ve found a bedsit through a friend of my brother Morgan’s, myself; it’s not much, but it’s close enough so that I can walk to my job without having to Apparate or be on the Floo-network.

In fact, after those initial three months, Carson kept his word, and turned up at her desk one day and invited her to lunch, explaining that he had the whole afternoon off, and if she could take the time, perhaps they could go to Diagon Alley for lunch. Minerva had gladly closed up her tiny office – she was convinced she’d only been given her own office either because they didn’t want to have to look at all the boring parchments she got, or because they didn’t want her to see all of the more interesting things that everyone else was assigned – and went to lunch with him.

There was no awkwardness between them as they sat in the Leaky Cauldron and talked of their work, and his training. They had significantly shortened the normal Aurors’ training course, so he would be ‘out in the field,’ as he put it, as a fully-qualified Auror in just three more months. Minerva thought he looked tired, and somewhat stretched, herself, but he was excited about his work and seemed happy. He ate ravenously, explaining that, although there had always been plenty of food available, it had been pretty bad, so now that he had more freedom, he was going to make up for lost time – and meals – and eat as much good food as he could whenever he had the opportunity.

As time went on, he and Minerva began to meet regularly for lunch; whenever he was at the Ministry, or nearby, he’d stop at her desk, she’d close up, and they’d take off for lunch. No one seemed to mind how much time Minerva took, since she often stayed late, and never left any work undone. The two would often go to Diagon Alley, but almost as frequently, they would find themselves in Muggle London, which Carson seemed to know well. He would Charm his Auror uniform to a less conspicuous brown, and they’d set out for some restaurant that he’d found, and that she “just had to try.” Despite the wartime restrictions and rationing, Carson always seemed to manage to find somewhere with what he considered “good food.”

One Friday, a few months after their first lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, and shortly before he was to finish his training, he picked her up and asked her if she needed to get back to work that afternoon, or if they could spend it together. She’d asked her boss, who had just nodded and waved dismissively at them from over her parchment. Minerva shrugged, and said she guessed that meant it was all right. Instead of exiting the Ministry in the usual way, Carson asked Minerva whether she would mind Apparating, instead. Minerva hesitated. Although she no longer vomited every time she Side-Alonged, she still became nauseous and dizzy.

“I’d like to bring you somewhere special for lunch today, Minerva. It’s easier if we Apparate.”

Minerva reluctantly agreed, although Carson would not tell her where he was taking her for this lunch. They went to the designated Apparition Point in the Ministry, signed the watchwitch’s book, and Minerva stepped to his side, took his hand, closed her eyes, and swallowed in dread. It actually wasn’t as bad as usual, she thought when it was over. She only felt slightly dizzy and a tiny bit queasy.

Minerva looked around her; she was in what appeared to be a sitting room in a private house, but she didn’t recognise anything. There was a small sofa, what one might actually call a “loveseat,” and two armchairs in front of a fireplace, with a small table in between; a few bookcases lined one side of the room, and there was a Comet leaning against the wall next to one of the doors. Minerva could see there were two doors leading to the room, one of which was closed, the other of which opened out to a dimly lit hallway.

“Welcome to my humble abode, Miss McGonagall,” Carson said with a tentative smile. “I have a little kitchen here, and I’ve been trying to teach myself to cook. I’m still somewhat limited in what I can safely feed another person, but, well, I wanted to try out my new skills for you.”

He and Minerva had a pleasant lunch, quite edible, in Minerva’s opinion, although Carson kept apologising for each dish as he served it. Once Minerva had put a stop to such foolishness, they went on to talk of other things, from Minerva’s dissatisfaction with her job to Carson’s eagerness to finally be done with training so he could do something “real,” as he put it.

After lunch, they went into his little sitting room, Carson apologising this time for the size of his flat.

“I do wish you’d stop apologising for everything, Carson. When you have something to apologise for, I’ll let you know. Save it until then, all right? Besides, you should see my place. It’s just one not-particularly-big room, and although I have my own small loo, I have to share a bath with all the other lodgers on my floor. I have a tiny corner in which I can make tea and sandwiches, but I can’t do any real cooking. I have so little room that most of my books are still shrunk and in boxes, and I had to make an inventory and number the boxes so I am able to find a book when I want it. Your place is practically a palace in comparison!”

They sat on the small sofa in front of his fireplace, which was unlit although it was almost the end of December, with Christmas just a week away. Carson explained that the flat had last been used by one of his uncles, who hadn’t used the fireplace in so long that Carson needed to get it swept before he could use it, but apparently it was hard to find a good wizarding chimneysweep in London these days. It wasn’t on the Floo-network, anyway, and Warming Charms had done well enough for him so far, although, he said, he’d always wake up at about three-thirty in the morning to have to refresh it, since even with an extra blanket, it would get cold at night. Then he looked at Minerva and blushed, and looked away again.

They talked more of everything in their lives, of Hogwarts, of their work, of what they wanted to do after the war. Carson asked her if she’d like some supper with him, and when she agreed, he told her to stay in the sitting room and look at a book – he didn’t have as many as she did, he joked, but at least she wouldn’t have to unshrink them before she could read them!

Minerva settled down on the loveseat, shoes off and legs curled up under her, with a copy of Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes, and waited for supper. When Carson had returned some twenty minutes later, it was to find the book open to page three, and Minerva asleep. He gently removed the book from her grasp, and when this woke her up, he apologised.

“I told you not to apologise, Carson! It is I who should apologise, in any case, for being so rude and falling asleep on your couch.”

“You are welcome to fall asleep here anywhere you like,” replied Carson. “What I mean is, um, you should feel at home here. We’re old friends, after all.” He was blushing again, and this time Minerva found herself blushing, as well.

“You brought sandwiches, I see, and tea. It looks delicious, Carson! Thank you,” she said, diverting their attention away from wherever it had been going.

They sat together and ate sandwiches in a comfortable silence. As he took her plate from her, she remarked, “You have a very cozy flat, Carson, thank you for your hospitality. I haven’t been home to my family in ages, and I don’t visit anyone in London much, so this has been very nice.”

“I’m glad; you’re welcome. And I mean that: you are always welcome here, Minerva.” He gazed at her and reached toward her; when she didn’t move away, he took her hand, as he had once in the Hogwarts’ rose garden. “I know we’re friends, Minerva. And I know . . . I remember what you said before, at Hogwarts, I do. And I don’t want to make you uncomfortable after the nice day we’ve had, but I just need to tell you that I still care for you, my fair Minerva, probably more than ever. And I understand if you will only want lunch, or supper, and conversation when we’re together, and if that’s still so, I will learn to content myself with that.”

Minerva didn’t know how to respond to her friend’s heartfelt words. So she didn’t say anything, but merely squeezed his hand. Carson raised his other one and gently caressed her cheek. “Minerva, my fair Minerva . . . .”

She leaned into his caress and closed her eyes. He was good, and kind, and gentle, and she did care for him. And she was young and yearned for a touch from a wizard. This was not the wizard she wanted, but Carson was there, and she cared for him. So when he leaned in, much as he had almost two years before in the rose garden, and touched his lips to hers, she did not push him away. Encouraged, Carson moved closer, still kissing her, delighted that she was responding, that she had raised an arm and put it around him, urging him nearer.

His kisses moved from her mouth to her face; he kissed her cheeks, her lidded eyes, her forehead, and then returned to her lips again; he caressed her cheek, lingering, as if cherishing her, and then drew his fingertips gently downward to her throat, barely touching it. Releasing her hand from his, he put his other arm around her and pulled her still closer, kissing her lips, sucking them lightly, then stroking them with the tip of his tongue. Minerva gasped at the sensation, and he tentatively entered her mouth with his tongue, first lightly running it over her teeth, then flicking the tip against the roof of her mouth, before finding her tongue and gently prodding it with his own, as if asking her to join him.

Minerva remembered the rest of that night very well. She spent it with him, in his arms and in his bed. She did feel a warmth from being with him, which was now not unpleasant. Minerva recollected how, even in his passion and his need, he had tried to be gentle with her. He was barely more experienced than she, having been with a woman only once, that July, shortly before he began his Auror training. She was a Squib whose family lived near his own, he told Minerva, as they were lying in bed that first night. The two had played together as children, before he went to Hogwarts. He said he felt guilty about the encounter afterward: he didn’t want to be in a relationship with her, but apparently she had wanted just that, and so she believed that he had used her and then rejected her because she was a Squib.

“You know, it wasn’t that at all, Minerva. In fact, I thought that I might want to court her, once the war was over, but when we were together that time, I wasn’t thinking of her at all . . . and that wasn’t right.” He left unsaid that he had been thinking of Minerva, but Minerva knew that he had been. Minerva felt her own guilt then, for she knew that, although she hadn’t thought of another wizard while Carson was making love to her, it was only because she wouldn’t allow herself to.

Despite her promise to herself that she would not let it happen again, that she would not stay with him like that, that it was wrong of her, she did nonetheless, although only a few times more. It was actually Carson who ended that part of their relationship, to Minerva’s surprise. On her sixth visit to his flat, on a sunny Saturday morning, he’d brought her tea in bed, then sat beside her with his own cup.

“Minerva, I think we should go back to the way things were,” he said, looking into his teacup as though it held the answers to the universe. “I know that you care for me, but you don’t love me, and I don’t believe you ever will.” He spoke over her protest. “You may love me in some way, Minerva, but you were right, back then at Hogwarts: I feel differently for you than you do for me. I’m not saying this to condemn you, Minerva. I say it because I do love you. Not only do I not want to settle for whatever affection you may have for me, which I fear would eventually turn to resentment, but I want you to find whoever it is who holds your heart in his hands. I know there is someone; I feel it when we’re together – there’s a part of you that isn’t there, that belongs to someone else. Don’t protest this, Minerva; I know what you’ve said, that there’s no one else, but there is – maybe you haven’t even met him yet, and it’s like in those stories my gram used to tell me when I was little, where you’re destined not to love until you’ve met the wizard whom Fate sends you. Or maybe you have met him, you just haven’t recognised each other yet.” Carson sighed. “She always loved those tales, my gram did. I just hope it is so for you, my fair Minerva, and that you will find each other soon, so that you will be both happy and fair. I shall dance at your wedding and shall toast your groom when I know you have found your love.”

Minerva had sat, tears on her cheeks, and ceased her protest. Although she did try to laugh and tell him that he was obviously Irish, with his Romanticism and his celebrating Fate, come what may to himself, she did not try to convince him that they should be anything other than friends.

And so it was with dread for the two wizards waiting in the frozen night, that Minerva slipped into her Animagus form and settled herself in Frankel’s arms, and Portkeyed away from all that was familiar.

Note: More to come, but not tonight. Next up, we are back with Albus and Carson after Alastor Portkeyed away. (I hope no one minded the lightly citrus-scented scene with Carson. Albus didn’t mind it.)

[MMADfan]

merry22 said:

Oh my this is fantastic - I can not wait for more! :-)

It's there now! I'm glad you like it!

[elivania]

Very nice job. I love how you integrated Carson back into the picture. Very good job. Though I suppose that particular comment can go unsaid by now.

Brilliant nonetheless and I am greatly looking forward to your next installment when you are well rested.

Thanks for the update! *Eli*

[MMADfan]

elivania said:

Very nice job. I love how you integrated Carson back into the picture. Very good job. Though I suppose that particular comment can go unsaid by now.

I suppose it could go unsaid, but if it did, I might think I was slipping.

I'm glad you liked the way I brought Carson back in. I rather like him, and I hope no one's too unhappy about his 'special moments' with Minerva. Besides, Minerva's not a nun, or something -- and she does, I assume have normal hormones and urges! ;D (When she'd not fainting in her Transfiguration Professor's arms, I mean!! )

elivania said:

Brilliant nonetheless and I am greatly looking forward to your next installment when you are well rested.

Thanks, Eli! It may not come tomorrow, or if it does, it may be quite late, since it has a few difficult scenes in it. I also, unfortunately, do have some RL stuff I have to do. *sigh* I suppose that's a good thing.

-MMADfan

[Gemmie Lou]

woohoo it just keeps getting better xxx

[lemonygingersnaps]

I love this! I loved the bit with Carson, it really showed min's struggle with her own feelings!~

[MMADfan]

merry22 said:

I love this! I loved the bit with Carson, it really showed min's struggle with her own feelings!~

Thanks, lemony! (or do you go by "ginger" -- perhaps just "snap" --sorry, my goofy sense of humor kicking in there!)

I'm glad you liked part with Carson -- I was afraid it might offend die-hard ADMM'ers -- but it fits with the rest of the story, and as you say, Min's struggle with her own feelings.

Thanks for reading and for letting me know what you think!

--MMADfan

[MMADfan]

durc09 said:

woohoo it just keeps getting better xxx

There's a lot more left to tell -- I hope I can continue to please!

[Hogwarts Duo]

Whew! I've finally managed to catch up to the end of the story so far and I have to say that I'm truly captivated by everything so far. The way you blend past and present is virtually flawless and I can easily make the transition between the two without feeling like I'm missing something or losing track of time.

The Carson bit was perfect...even for a die hard Albus/Minerva fan. I don't ship them with other people...I just can't do it...but I don't believe they've never had another relationship, at least until they became a couple.

Like everyone else, I am eagerly awaiting the next installment of the story and thanks for updating so quickly.

Ang. from Hogwarts Duo

[MMADfan]

hogwartsduo said:

[ . . . ] I have to say that I'm truly captivated by everything so far. The way you blend past and present is virtually flawless and I can easily make the transition between the two without feeling like I'm missing something or losing track of time.

Thanks, Ang! I get concerned about that at times, and have tried to make it clear where/when we are when I make a change. Sometimes it's easy, because you can see that someone was remembering something, and the "past" bit is an extrapolation of their memory. Other times, it's not as clear, and I have to try to make sure that there are sufficient cues in the first sentence or two to show where I've taken the reader this time!

hogwartsduo said:

The Carson bit was perfect...even for a die hard Albus/Minerva fan. I don't ship them with other people...I just can't do it...but I don't believe they've never had another relationship, at least until they became a couple.

That would be rather . . . unusual, to say the least -- I mean, Albus is how old -- to think he'd never been in a relationship before Minerva came along would be somewhat peculiar -- even if such a relationship never "went anywhere" -- I mean, he's a busy wizard, but he likes people, right? Besides, it would be very sad to think he had to wait all those long years before he enjoyed any female companionship -- even if you ship him younger than he apparently is in canon, which I have seen done.

I'm glad you're enjoying this! (And just think, this story started out because I didn't want to put the two in a PWP -- they wouldn't let me! ;D -- they said I had to tell their whole backstory, or nothing at all! -- Yeah, I know, I'm a bit peculiar, but that's what makes me MMADfan, after all! )

-MMADfan

[MMADfan]

I had to split this up for posting.

Part XXXI: Hiding

Albus spared not another thought for Alastor after he had Portkeyed away, instead, focussing his attention on the wounded young Auror who lay, still on his side, on the ground next to him.

“Carson, do you think you’d be all right on your own for a moment or two? I am going back to the jeep and see if there are any salvageable supplies we might use.”

“S’fine, Pr’fess’r,” Carson slurred.

“I will try not to be very long.” Albus rose from the cold hard ground. He had never felt so old in his life. He didn’t think there was a part of his body that didn’t ache; it was only a matter of the degree of pain. He was rather amazed he hadn’t lost consciousness again, as he was fairly certain that he had sustained a bad blow to the front of his head, and another, lesser one, to the back of it – the latter probably sustained when Carson pushed him to the ground. Albus blinked hard. Foolish boy! If he hadn’t done that, Carson might very well have been able to walk away from the scene with only a few scratches, instead of the large piece of shrapnel that now protruded so disturbingly from his back and chest.

Albus walked gingerly back toward the charred wreck, alert for any sound that might indicate there was someone nearby. A few years ago, he might have risked capture by the German army in order to get Carson some medical attention, but now, with the war going so badly and supplies too scarce for their own troops, he doubted that any German soldier would look at Carson as anything other than already-dead-but-still-breathing. As for himself, there was good reason that the Ministry had arranged the emergency Portkey for him. Grindelwald was very aware that Dumbledore was searching for him, and undermining him in his attempt to become the sole power in both wizarding and Muggle Europe.

As the war went worse for the Axis powers, Grindelwald became increasingly desperate. He had wizards, usually half-bloods or Muggle-borns, planted in strategic positions in the Nazi apparatus, particularly in the Gestapo and the SS. At first, he had planted some of his most powerful wizards in the Muggle government, but he soon came to see that he needed the strength of those wizards working with him, and that he could utilise weaker and less talented wizards as spies and manipulators. As the Muggle war went on, Grindelwald lost several of his key infiltrators, whether from Allied attacks or from the paranoia of the Nazi leaders. And his hold on wizarding Europe was declining as Muggle Europe became more chaotic.

Grindelwald blamed Dumbledore for it all. If Albus were captured by the German army, it would take very little time for Grindelwald to learn of it from his operatives within the Nazi machine. He had never had large numbers of followers, but instead had relied on the disunity of the fractured German wizarding world, with its archaic boundaries and allegiances, and had exploited the megalomania of the Muggle Hitler. Grindelwald vastly overestimated his ability to manipulate the Muggle world, and underestimated to the same degree the European wizarding world’s ability to unite against him.

Dumbledore had little hope of finding anything of value left in the still-smoking remains of the vehicle, particularly since the German soldiers would have taken anything of value, but he was going to look, nonetheless. His primary concern at the moment was water. Carson had lost tremendous amounts of blood, and his blood pressure was dangerously low. Perhaps if he could rehydrate him, he might last long enough to . . . what, Dumbledore did not know. If no friendly wizards Apparated in during the next few minutes, he could safely surmise that no rescue would be forthcoming for quite some time, perhaps several hours. Carson needed a Healer immediately.

As Dumbledore searched the remains of the car, attempting not to look at what was left of Lieutenant Rogers and Private Merrick, he thought again of the way that Carson had pushed him to the ground, saving him from the blast. He still was a “Gryffy-Ravenclaw,” as his friends at Hogwarts were wont to call him. And Albus couldn’t do anything for him. Even if his magic were at full strength, his knowledge of Healing was insufficient to deal with wounds as extensive as the ones the Auror had suffered. Although, perhaps, he would have been able to treat him sufficiently to give him more time, enough time . . . .

Miraculously, Albus thought, he found a flask, a canteen, undamaged and with water in it, on the other side of the road from the vehicle, apparently having been thrown there by the explosion. It was full, since they had only left the British camp less than an hour before their journey had been so abruptly interrupted. Albus took two swallows of the water before heading back to the spot in the bushes where he’d left Carson. He could have easily drunk the entire contents of the flask, and still wanted more, but Carson’s need was greater.

Albus returned to the scrubby bushes, dreading what he might find behind them. But Carson was still breathing, still lying on one side. He knelt beside the young Auror. “Look what I found, Carson, some water. Would you like a drink? I’ve had mine already,” he said softly.

Carson’s eyes fluttered open. A Muggle would be dead by now, Albus thought. He didn’t know if the relative toughness of the wizarding constitution was a blessing or a curse at the moment.

“Here, now, I’ll just help you sit up a bit, that’s right.” Albus held the flask to the boy’s blood-stained lips and dribbled a little in. Carson choked, and blood began to froth around his wound again. “A little more slowly, then. I’m sorry, Carson, truly.”

“S’a’right, Pr’fess’r. I’ss good.”

Albus slowly dribbled water into the injured Auror’s mouth. He seemed to take it well, after the initial coughing.

“All right, now, Carson? We can save the rest for later, then.” Albus stuffed the flask’s strap into his belt and wound it around a few times. He didn’t think he could bear having anything slung around his shoulder.

“You should drink . . . .” Carson whispered.

“I’ve had mine. I’m fine. Now we need to find a better place than this. I think I can manage another Disillusionment Charm for you, then I’m going to go see what is nearby, hmm?”

“’Kay.”

Albus tucked the coat back around the boy more snugly, then he had a thought. “Carson? You know, I don’t think it’s wise to remove that bit of metal from your chest – it may be the only thing keeping you from bleeding out completely, I don’t know. However, I may be able to make you a bit more comfortable by cutting off the ends of the thing. It wouldn’t take much more energy than cutting off that bit of Alastor’s tourniquet did. Would you like me to try, my boy?”

“Sure. ’Vry time we move, i’ hurts. Maybe i’ wouldn’t pull so much. . . .” Carson trailed off.

Dumbledore’s concern was mounting, which he hadn’t thought possible. Carson seemed much weaker than he had even twenty minutes ago. At least he was still conscious. The old wizard gently peeled back the great wool coat. Starting with the piece protruding from Carson’s chest, since that was closest, Albus tried a simple Diffindo and succeeded in trimming the metal shard so that only a few millimetres emerged from the young wizard’s chest. Albus found the Diffindo had taken more energy to cast than he had anticipated. On the other end of the metal shard, he decided to use the Amputatio Charm, believing it would require less energy for the same effect, as it was a naturally more powerful Charm. As he prepared to cast it, he hoped that the Healers in Amiens were not performing the same Charm on Alastor’s mangled leg. Putting that thought out of his mind, Dumbledore cast the Amputatio, and was pleased to see the metal end slice cleanly off at just the point he had intended, and yet with less effort that the Diffindo had taken. Albus hadn’t had to pay so much attention to his Charms work since he was a first-year at Hogwarts.

“There we are, much better. Now, I’ll just put the coat back over you, here. And you really should be sitting up a bit, but I don’t want to move you just yet. What if I take off my jacket and just fold it under your head and shoulders. Hmm, not ideal, but better. Now don’t go anywhere, young man! I’m going to put the Disillusionment Charm on you now, and I don’t want to have a hard time finding you when I get back.”

Carson looked at his former teacher and smiled wanly. “Thanks, but i’ss cold. You need . . . .”

“No, no, I’m fine. I’ll be moving, so I won’t even notice, I’m sure.” What Albus had noticed, however, when he removed his jacket, was that there was definitely something wrong with his shoulder, although he couldn’t see any wounds. Perhaps something was broken.

After Disillusioning the young Auror, Dumbledore began walking northeast, carefully noting his path. It wouldn’t do to get lost and be unable to find Carson again. Of course, he could always just head south to the road, which was fairly straight, as he remembered, and follow it back to the jeep, but he’d prefer not to have to approach the road again.

Dumbledore was looking for some kind of natural shelter, if possible, or at least somewhere he could bring Carson and not feel as conspicuous as they were, just yards from the road. He also knew that it would have to be someplace relatively close, since he doubted he’d be able to transport Carson very far, even if the young wizard could have tolerated such a trip. It would also make it easier for them to be found by whomever they sent to rescue them, if they didn’t go far, he reasoned. They had to be far enough from the road so that no enemy would stumble across them serendipitously, and yet close enough to be found by friends, when they came.

Dumbledore found a likely spot about fifteen minutes after he’d left Carson. Large, flat rocks had been shoved up through the earth, most of them creating only a nuisance for anyone trying to pick their way across country – and also, no doubt, to anyone who wanted to farm the land, or lay roads, Dumbledore thought to himself – there was one large rock, however, that had been heaved from the earth at an acute angle, and, as luck would have it, a rather sickly-looking tree was growing in front of the gap between the rock and the earth. Investigating more closely, Albus found that the area beneath the rock was filled with dead leaves and small sticks. Using the wand, he cleared some of the debris from between the ground and the overhanging rock. There was less than three feet clearance between the rock at its top-most edge and the dirt beneath it, and the niche only extended a few feet back, but it would have to do. The tree that stood in front of the gap would provide them with some shelter, as well, he reasoned.

Before returning for Carson, Albus drank a little water from the canteen and wondered whether there was a source of water nearby. It seemed likely, and it shouldn’t be a problem to purify the water . . . although he wasn’t sure of the spell, and he still wasn’t able to rely solely on his intent and the power of his magic in order to create the effect he wanted right now. He couldn’t even cast nonverbally or wandlessly in his current condition. Sighing as he began walking back toward Carson, Dumbledore decided not to dwell on that particular aspect of their problems yet.

It only took him ten minutes to reach Carson where he’d left him lying in the bushes, almost invisible to the eye, since he was able to walk straight back without pausing to survey the area around him. He was cold, but he had been right when he’d told Carson that he wouldn’t notice it, since he’d be moving about. He didn’t know how long he could take the near-freezing temperature, though, and it would only get worse as it began to get dark.

Kneeling next to the wounded wizard, Albus murmured, “Still with me, Carson, my boy?”

Carson didn’t reply, but his eyelids moved, as though he was attempting to open them, and Albus could hear his faint, uneven breathing.

“Don’t worry about anything, son. I’m going to move you now. I’ve found us a slightly better place, not to far from here.”

Albus was surprised when Carson opened glazed eyes, and whispered, “No. ’Sokay. Should take your coat. Go. Maybe y’ can Apparate later. ’M fine here.”

“What? I can’t do that, son. I won’t be Apparating anywhere for a while, anyway, and I’ve cleared a place especially for you.”

“’S no use, y’know. Jus’ a bit o’ time . . . dangerous here . . . go.”

“Whatever the use or the amount of time, I cannot leave you here, Carson. And you are right, it is dangerous, which is why you must come with me. I just have a few preparations to make, then we’ll be going. Remember what you said to Alastor: don’t fight me on this; you won’t win, and it will just take time, hmm?” With that, Albus looked around for a likely dead branch. Finding one he approved of, about four feet long and a couple inches in diameter, and not so dry as to be brittle, he went back to where Carson lay.

“Just going to remove the Disillusionment now. And don’t be alarmed, but I am going to cut a couple of holes in the top of the coat, but I don’t need to remove it from you yet.” Albus took the wand and sliced two neat, parallel holes on either side of the coat’s yoke, then pushed the branch through them. “Alright, now I do need to take the coat off of you.”

Albus lay the coat on the ground, the back of it against the dirt. Using the wand again, he cleaned as much of the blood from it as he dared, then he turned back to Carson.

“I don’t think I can use Mobilicorpus all of the way to the site I found; I’m afraid I’m still not recovered enough; I’m sorry. I do think I could manage it to get you onto the coat, though, if you’re willing to risk it.”

Carson just grunted slightly without opening his eyes. Albus took that for consent, and waved the unfamiliar wand. Carson raised up a few feet off the ground, somewhat tippily, to be sure, but Albus was relieved as he settled the young Auror down on top of the coat as gently as he could. With Carson’s head just below the branch Albus had inserted through the top of the coat, Albus buttoned the coat around the boy until he could only see his face. He then retrieved the jacket and sliced off both sleeves. Trying not to expend more of his magic than necessary, Albus attempted to tie the sleeves together manually, but his left hand was not equal to the task, so, once again, Albus waved the wand Alastor had loaned him, and tied the sleeves together, then tied the ends of the sleeves to the branch. When he was finished, he put the jacket on like a waistcoat, and buttoned it part way up with his good hand.

“Okay, all set now, Carson? We will see how this works.”

Slowly, painfully, Albus dragged the semi-conscious Auror along the uneven ground, unable to avoid the tree roots and small rocks that were scattered over their path. He hadn’t the breath to apologise, though, and Carson seemed to have slipped into a state in which he didn’t notice the further assaults his body was enduring. Half-way to his goal, Albus gave in, and stopped to rest and take a sip of water. He squatted beside Carson.

“Are you still with me, lad?” There was no response but a slightly quickened breath. “I’d give you a little more water, but I’m afraid you might choke on it. Best wait till we get where we’re going.”

Carson did open his eyes then, but Albus wasn’t sure whether the dilated pupils were seeing anything. Wishing that he could use his left arm, as well, Albus stood, took up the jacket sleeves in his right hand, and again began the labourious process of pulling his companion across the dirt to the miserable shelter he had found. It took him forty-five minutes of pulling and heaving, and he needed to rest several times during the last half of the ordeal, but he finally reached the spot he had cleared for himself and Carson.

NOTE: Next section to follow immediately; it is a continuation of this Part.

[elivania]

Brilliant first half! Can't wait for the second! *Eli*

[MMADfan]

Part XXXI: Hiding, continued

Every time that Albus had stopped pulling on the make-shift litter and collapsed beside it to catch his breath, he feared he would find that Carson had expired since the last break, but each time, Carson would open his eyes and look at his former Transfiguration Professor, then close them again with a sigh. Now they had finally reached the little hole that Albus had found, and Albus was unsure of what to do next. His head was spinning from exertion, pain, injury, and hunger. He lay next to Carson for a few moments before turning to him.

“Carson, I’m sorry if that was worse than the worst Night Bus trip you could imagine. I feel terribly that I can do so little for you.” Albus’s exhaustion was gaining on him, and his voice cracked in sorrow.

“’S’okay, really. Better be dying with you, helping me . . . .” Carson rasped.

“Ah, my boy!” Tears gathered in Albus’s eyes, and he gingerly raised up the young man and held him in his arms, heedless of the pain in his shoulder. He swallowed hard a few times, then gently eased the young man back down.

“Now, I know it doesn’t look like much, but I think it will do for now, just until we’re found. It’ll take a bit of doing to get you in there, I’m afraid, but you’ve been very brave, and it won’t be as bad as the trip was,” said Albus as he removed the branch from the holes he had made.

Resettling Carson on the overcoat, Albus tugged and pushed until he managed to get Carson settled into the hole beneath the large rock. He would have tried Mobilicorpus again, but between his exhaustion and the fine co-ordination it would take not to hit Carson against the tree or the rock, he couldn’t risk it.

“I’m just going to rest a few minutes, right here next to you, my boy. It’ll be nice and warm for you that way. Then, in a bit, I’m going to go and make sure we didn’t leave much of a trail. We don’t want the wrong people to find us, now, do we?”

“Take my . . . sidearm, sir . . . . dangerous.”

“Yes, they are dangerous, which is why I’m leaving it with you, my boy. I doubt I could use it without hurting someone!”

Somehow, the idea of shooting someone, even someone who was shooting at him, was wholly repugnant to Albus. It was fine for Muggles, he supposed, but he never wanted to kill a Muggle, even with a Muggle weapon, if he didn’t have to. With a wand, you could Stun someone, or Petrify them. You didn’t have to shoot them, and kill them, so they couldn’t get back up and shoot at you again.

Albus lay there a scant five minutes before forcing himself out of the hole and back toward their original position. There was no missing the path they had made, Albus thought. When he reached the bushes where the three sham British soldiers had taken refuge as the German soldiers had examined the remains of the jeep, Albus took out the borrowed wand, wishing again for his own, and began to clear the ground, making it appear untouched by anything but wind and rain. He considered for a moment eliminating their scent, as well, thinking of the large dogs that might hunt them down, but then he decided against it. Eliminating their scent altogether would be nigh on impossible for him now, anyway, and whatever he could manage would only drain his magic further. Best to trust to luck on this, he thought.

Twenty minutes later, he returned to find Carson awake. He was surprised, and pleased. He scootched into the opening to lay beside his former student. He used Alastor’s wand, somewhat awkwardly in that small space, to Summon some dry leaves to settle behind him, then he cast a light Warming Charm, before rolling onto his right side and lying to face the young man next to him.

“I’ve done what I could. I didn’t completely eliminate our trail, but I think it’s enough, at least, to fool the Muggles. Would you like some water now?”

“Yes, please,” Carson whispered. “Very dry, sir.”

“Now, none of that ‘sir’ business. We aren’t in the British Army, nor with anyone who thinks we are,” said Albus as he carefully removed the flask from where it hung from his belt, wishing he’d thought to do so before lying down on his one good arm. “And I’m not your teacher, anymore, either.”

“’Kay, sir.” Carson smiled slightly.

“You are incorrigible, you know that?” Albus said with as much of a grin as he could muster, and tipping some water into the young man’s mouth.

“Mmm, ’s good, sir. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I wish I had something to give you to eat, but I’m afraid I expected to be back in Amiens for elevenses, and didn’t bring anything with me.”

“Why’d’n’t you say so? I have choc’let. Pro’ly melted. Some in my left jacket pocket, ’n’ some in my right trouser pocket. ’M not hungry, but you eat some. ’S Honeydukes’. Wrapped it up in parchment so Muggles w’dn’t wonder.” After this long speech, Carson closed his eyes, breathing shallowly.

“Thank you, but you must have some, too.” Albus felt through the pockets that Carson had indicated and found the sweets. As much as he wanted some – his mouth began watering as soon as he unwrapped the first piece of dark chocolate – he broke off a small piece and said, “Here, now, my boy, open your mouth. Just let it sit there and melt on your tongue. That’s right. It didn’t melt much; I suppose the cold weather is good for something.” Albus unwrapped a piece that had been in the young Auror’s trouser pocket. It was more melted than the ones from his jacket, so Albus raised the parchment to his mouth and ate it right from the parchment, licking up the last morsels hungrily.

“Ready for more yet?”

“No, you save it. Not hungry, really.” Although he spoke, Carson kept his eyes closed.

“Just a bit more, for me, Carson.” Albus broke off another small piece of the candy and put it in the injured wizard’s mouth. “How’s that taste?”

“Fine, sir. Good.” Carson turned his head to look at his former teacher. “It’s all right, Professor,” he whispered, clearly but faintly. “You don’t need to try so hard. I know . . . .”

“What, my boy? What do you know?” Albus was feeling somewhat better; lying in that small hole in the earth, just inches from his former student, he was beginning to feel a little warmer, and the chocolate was beginning to work its magic, as well.

“I know I’m probably not . . . going to make it home . . . this time, . . . not unless a . . . Healer comes out . . . of the bushes. ’S’okay, though. I . . . I think I did what I was . . . s’posed to. . . . I’m okay.” Carson tried to smile at Albus.

“It might not be long, Carson. Just hold on, all right? Don’t despair, lad.”

“’M not despairing, sir. ’S’okay, really. Just wish I could say good-bye, ’s’all. I never wrote one of those letters, y’know the kind, sir? Thought it might be . . . bad luck.” Carson grinned, and Albus could see the Gryffy-Ravenclaw seeker beneath the blood and dirt.

“I still have your biro, and the paper. Just give me a moment.” Albus squirmed about in the little niche, finally pushing himself partly out of it and sitting up, so that he could pull out the paper and pen, and have room to write. He cast another Warming Charm on the air about Carson, then said, “Set, my boy? I’ve got the paper out, just tell me what you want to say, and I’ll write it. To your mother and father, then?”

“Yes, mum and da, I always call them.”

“All right, then, ‘Dear Mum and Da,” began Albus, looking up inquisitively at Carson. “That’s a start. What do you want to say to them?”

Carson began dictating his letter to Albus, stopping to gasp for breath every few seconds. When he was done, Albus asked if he’d like him to read it back to him, to see if he wanted to add anything, and Carson nodded slightly, still trying to catch his breath.

“Dear Mum and Da,
“I’m here with Professor Dumbledore, who’s writing this for me. He’s taking very good care of me, just like always. He’s worked hard to make me comfortable, and I’ve had chocolate, so I’m okay.

“I know when you get this letter, you’ll be sad, but don’t be too sad, because I think I’ve done a good thing or two, and I’ve had great fun doing it. Today hasn’t been as much fun as usual, but I think it is all worth it, anyway.

“I know you won’t want Aiden to join the Aurors after this, but you should let him if he wants, Mum. I never would have been able to do so much good doing anything else, I know it. And Aiden’s more co-ordinated than I am, so maybe he could jump out of the way of exploding cars faster than I could. That’s a joke. Please laugh.

“A friend of mine got hurt in this accident, too. His name is Alastor Moody. If you can find out where he is, would you visit him for me? Bring him a bottle of Old Ogden’s. I told him he was too young for it, but maybe he isn’t after this. Tell him it’s from me.

“I love you and Aiden and Rory, and I’ll miss you, too, but maybe I’ll get to see Gram and listen to her stories again.

“Until I see you again,
“Carson”

By the time Albus had finished re-reading the letter to Carson, tears were rolling down his cheeks. He thought absently that he shouldn’t cry because it might upset Carson, besides, he already had a miserable headache.

“Is that what you wanted to say, Carson, my boy?”

“Yes,” Carson breathed. The rasping in his chest had gotten worse, and dictating the letter seemed to have taken his last good breath. “Ta, sir.”

“I was happy to do it for you, Carson. Would you like more water? There’s a bit left.”

Carson shook his head weakly, and opened his eyes. “One more.”

“One more what, son? Piece of chocolate?”

“No, letter.”

“All right,” Albus said, pulling the last unused sheet of paper out and preparing to write. He thought that he’d have to do something about the bloodstains on the paper, since they would upset the recipients beyond what the letter would already do. “Who should I address this one to?”

“’Nerva.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite understand.” Had he said “Minerva”? Albus thought.

“Minerva.”

“All right, then, ‘Dear Minerva,’” Albus began.

“No, ‘My Fair Minerva,’ please.” Carson’s breath was coming in short gasps.

“‘My Fair Minerva,’ then. What next?”

“Thank you for . . . spending time . . . with me. ’Specially in London. Very nice. . . . Good person, Minerva. . . . Hope you find him. . . . I’ll see Gram soon and . . . ask her.”

“I wasn’t sure of everything you said, Carson, but how’s this:
“My Fair Minerva,
“Thank you for spending time with me, especially in London. It was very nice to see you there.
“You are a good person, Minerva.
“Then I wasn’t sure what you meant. I thought you said something about ‘finding him,’ and then something about your Gram.”

Carson tried to lick his lips. Albus leaned over and gave him a dribble of water. Carson began again, then stumbled, started again, and finally stopped altogether, closing his eyes. Finally, he said, “Don’t know what to say; it was happy, being with her.”

“Is she your girlfriend, then, son?”

“No; wished she was. But she’s meant . . . for . . . someone else. . . . Still want her to know . . . how lucky I was . . . to know her.”

“All right then, why don’t I try to put that down for you, and you can let me know if I got it right – do you want that bit about your Gram in there, too?” At Carson’s weak nod, Albus began to write. When he was finished, he asked, “Carson, are you awake?”

Carson’s eyes opened, then closed.

“Would you like me to read what I’ve written for you?”

Carson nodded again. “One more thing, . . . first. Please . . . write it for me,” Carson whispered, his breathing laboured, his eyes glassy.

“Anything, son.”

“Tell her . . . she must . . . look after . . . you . . . when she gets the letter . . . you’ll feel bad about it.”

“All right.” Albus swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and did as he had promised. Finishing the letter, he read it back to Carson:

“My Fair Minerva,
“Thank you for spending time with me, especially in London. It was very nice to see you there.

“You are a good person, Minerva, and I am thankful I was able to know you. When I was with you, I was more myself than I am with anyone else. Time spent with you always left me feeling warm and good.

“You are meant for someone special, Minerva. I hope you find him. I will see my Gram soon, and will ask her.

“Please take care of Professor Dumbledore for me when you see him. He will feel responsible for what has happened.

“Thank you, my Fair Minerva,

“Love always,
“Carson.”

Albus cleared his throat, blinking hard against his tears. “How’s that, Carson?”

“Perfect. You know . . . how . . . I felt. . . . Thank you. Gotta . . . give it . . . to ’r y’rself . . . be upset.”

“All right, I’ll do that for you. Do you just want to lie quietly now, my boy? Would you like more chocolate?”

“No chocolate. . . . Talk a while. . . . Before I can’t anymore.” Carson managed a weak smile, but his eyes were partially closed. Albus reached out and laid his hand against his cheek. The young Auror had become cold despite the Warming Charms and the extra coat.

“All right, then. Umm. . . .” Albus, who had been able to keep up inane prattle earlier in his effort to cheer Carson, felt lost for words. “Minerva. You saw each other in London, then?”

“Yeah; hates her job.” Carson coughed weakly. “Stuck with . . . parchments . . . no magic at all. . . . A waste. . . .”

“She’s just doing desk work?” Albus asked, puzzled. He had asked that she be kept out of any dangerous jobs, but he hadn’t realised that she wasn’t using any of her skills. He’d been told she was in the Charms Office of the War Division, and he hadn’t inquired further. And the few times they had seen each other in London, Minerva hadn’t mentioned her job to him at all, except to say that it was fine.

“Mmm. . . . All day. . . . Ev’ry day. . . . Parchment here. . . . Parchment there. . . . She’s a good one. . . . She keeps at it.” Carson’s breath was coming hard, now. “Tell me . . . a story . . ..”

“Let me think,” Albus said, laying back down beside the boy. “How about a story about Minerva, then? I’m sure she won’t mind.” Albus recounted how he had taken Minerva’s Charmed book from her during the Gryffindor Tea, and feigned displeasure, in order to have her show him how she’d Transfigured it.

“’At’s our . . . Minerva . . . right, Pr’fess’r?”

Albus spoke a bit longer, telling about the last Ravenclaw Quidditch match; he couldn’t see him well in the gloom beneath the rock, but he could feel the young wizard’s breath grow shallower. “Carson, are you awake? Still with me?”

“Mmm. ’Sokay, I’m going to go . . . have that drink . . . with Merrick . . . now. ’N’ see my Gram. She’ll know . . . her true love. . . .”

“Carson, Carson, stay with me, son!”

“Don’t worry . . . ’bout me. ’S’alright.”

“I’m just selfish, Carson. You are right. It is all right. You go on and rest now, and, when you’re ready, you can go off and meet your friend for that drink, and visit with your Gram, and keep a stool warm for me. All right, son?”

“Mmm. Good. See’em soon. . . . Don’t worry.”

For another hour, Albus lay there beside his former student, trying to keep him warm. Carson never spoke again, and as his breathing changed, Albus knew he’s lost all awareness of the world around him, and of his own hurts and pains. When finally Carson sighed and did not breathe again, Albus allowed himself to weep for the boy, and for himself and his weakness. A few minutes later, Albus pushed himself from the small shelter, unwilling to lay there beside the remains of the young wizard who had saved his life just hours before.

Leaning back against the rock, he ate more chocolate, and became very aware that, although it was unlikely that he would die of his own wounds any time soon, he was growing physically weaker. Adrenalin and necessity had pushed him to do what he would have thought impossible in his current condition, had anyone asked him about it before today.

The sun would be setting soon, and help might arrive with the dark. Or the soldiers could have reported what they had seen to the wrong person, someone who might realise that there had been wizards present at that explosion. He wished again that he had been able to remove all traces of their blood and their tracks. It was clear that no other vehicle had been there to transport any victims from the site of the explosion. There was nothing that he could do about it now.

He flicked his borrowed wand experimentally. Still lacklustre results. He couldn’t Apparate anywhere. He had to stay here. Moving back around the rock to where Carson’s body lay still, as if already in its grave, Albus took his overcoat and put it back on, heedless of the blood and gore that stained it inside and out. Then, drawing on all of his magical reserve, he waved his wand. In a moment, the body before him was Transfigured into a moderately-sized log. They could bring him back to England – Ireland, Albus corrected himself – for burial, reversing the Transfiguration and cleaning up the body before delivering it to his family.

Albus crawled back into the little hole, Summoned some dry leaves to cover him, and wasn’t surprised when only a few responded. He then ate one more bit of Carson’s chocolate, drank the last of the water, and lay back, hoping that he could keep himself awake, and warm, now that there was no one else there needing his attention.

-/-/-

Note: This section was somewhat difficult to write. I would appreciate your thoughts on it. -- MMADfan

[elivania]

Wow. You did a brilliant job. Really. Just awsome. I'm so impressed. The feeling of Carson's death and Dumbledore's inner anguish...just...wonderful.

*Eli*

[Miss Q]

Another absolutely wonderfully written chapter! The way you let us follow these two, Carson and Albus, and the description of their feelings in this situation... it is absolutely amazingly written!!!

I do hope that you plan on continue this story! Because I feel really bad for Albus!!

Thank you for sharing your work with us!!

M

[MMADfan]

missq said:

Another absolutely wonderfully written chapter! The way you let us follow these two, Carson and Albus, and the description of their feelings in this situation... it is absolutely amazingly written!!!

Thank you very much. This was one of the harder chapters to write -- I knew exactly what was happening, and how they were feeling, but putting it in words was difficult. (The fact that parts of it are sad didn't help me much, either.)

missq said:

I do hope that you plan on continue this story! Because I feel really bad for Albus!!

Don't worry, I won't leave Albus lying on the cold hard earth underneath a rock -- next to the transfigured corpse of a friend, no less! I do have some pity!

missq said:

Thank you for sharing your work with us!!

You're very welcome! I'm glad you're reading it and enjoying it!

-MMADfan

[MMADfan]

elivania said:

Wow. You did a brilliant job. Really. Just awsome. I'm so impressed. The feeling of Carson's death and Dumbledore's inner anguish...just...wonderful.

Thanks, Eli. I don't think I "do" death particularly well, so this was hard to right. I'm glad you felt I conveyed the feelings well.

Gotta go crawl under my own rock, now, and get some sleep .

-MMADfan

[lemonygingersnaps]

This is absolutely brilliant! You writting gripped me throughout Carson's last moments! Very Good Job!