Post by DrMMAD on Apr 17, 2010 22:56:01 GMT -5
The Long Farewell
Disclaimer: I have been a hardcore McDumble shipper since I was seven. Do you honestly think the sixth and seventh books would have ever been written if I happened to own the rights to Harry Potter? No. No, I think not. Also, I am not William B. Yeats, or Christina Rossetti.
And now for some back-story: Albus and Minerva have been married since the fall of Grindelwald and Hitler. They have four children, three sons and a daughter, multiple grandchildren and, recently, a great-grandchild. When this scene takes place, Albus has had his cursed hand for about four months, now, and their great-grandchild is a week or so old.
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“I rather feel like Yeats tonight, my dear. You do not mind, I hope?”
“Of course not, Albus. One can never go wrong with at bit of Irish whimsy.” Minerva replied readily, fluffing the pillows and settling on her side of the bed. Her eyes followed Albus as he crossed the room to one of their overstuffed bookshelves, the long, blackened fingers of his cursed hand trailing over the battered spines of the much beloved books. There was a lifetime of stories and ideas encased in theses shelves, collected by he and Minerva over long years of peril and joy, war and uneasy peace. As he scanned the titles of the collection, some of them flaking and faded with the touch of many hands, Albus recited the origin of each novel.
A gift from Nicholas one Christmas, wedding present from Minerva’s sister, found it in a secondhand bookshop in the States, Brooklyn, I think. Haunted place, that… Nice little volume of poems, a birthday gift from Minerva, on long term loan from Abe, open air market in London, trip to Dublin…
When he at last tipped the leather bound volume of Willie Yeats’ collective works off the shelf, Albus had a soft smile upon his aged face. For the first time in a very long time, there was something akin to peace in him. Here was a lifetime of memories, shelved and patient…they would be there for Minerva when he was not.
“Ah, ‘Shy one, shy one, shy one of my heart, she moves in the firelight, pensively apart’…” he recited grandly, flipping immediately to To an Isle in the Water and crawling into bed beside his wife, reciting all the while.
“Shy? I rather doubt that this is directed at me, Albus.” She teased, curling into his side and resting her head upon his shoulder with a smile. Her husband merely chortled, turning the dry pages with blackened fingers, the contrast of white paper and black flesh no longer disturbing to him. He stole a glance at the witch beside him, and summoned up the lines he had long turned over in his mind, calling up a different page from a different book in his memory.
“What think you of this? ‘Remember me when I am gone away, gone far away into the silent land…’” he looked askance at her, watching carefully to see her reaction. A faint glimmer in the depths of her clear green eyes, a slight fading of her smile, and she reached for the book.
“Rossetti, Albus? And so dour! Here- I relieve you of your duties as Bard for tonight. You cannot be trusted to stay with one poet, it seems.”
Propping the battered collection against her middle, Minerva flip, flip, flipped until she found The Two Trees, and ran a slim finger under the well loved lines, the parchment just a bit worn.
“‘Beloved, gaze in thine own heart, the holy tree is growing there; from joy the holy branches start, and all the trembling flowers they bear.’”
It was a reminder, almost, a gentle turning away from the dark unknown to the joy of the present. Their first great-grandchild, a little newborn sun in their collective Universe, innocent and serene. Think of her, think of her, Minerva said within the poem’s verse, banishing the darkness Albus had conjured with Christina Rossetti’s opening lines. It dawned on her, in that quiet moment, that Albus was speaking to her, telling her something that she would not hear, could not hear.
Gently, Albus pried the book from his wife’s long, worn hands and thumbed his way towards the back, his eyes deep and sad. He put his arm around Minerva, drawing her into his side and kissing the crown of her head, savoring the clean, sweet scent of her silvering hair. With a low voice, he read:
“‘When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.’”
Minerva found herself weeping, silent and helpless against the tears that rolled so determinedly down her pale face; soft, wet gasps slipped up from her throat before she could stop them, and she felt as though her world was too fragile to survive a moment more.
“Albus…?”
Her voice was frail and wavering, and she would have hated herself for it had it been any other situation but this. Her husband, for his part, smiled sorrowfully at her, cradled her face in his mismatched hands as he prepared for the next few moments. Carefully, he lifted his dead hand away and held it before her stricken eyes.
“One way or the other, my darling girl…one way or the other. You knew that my time was short from the first moment I came home with this.” He said gently, flexing the stiff fingers as best he could. Minerva flung her arms about him, sobbing and raging even as she buried her face in his neck. He was being taken from her, from their family. Slowly-imperceptibly, even- but she was losing him.
“Do not leave me. Not so soon, not…not in this way.” She whispered fiercely, clinging to him, holding him with all the strength in her mortal limbs. Death could not have what she would not relinquish. She would keep him with her, always, binding him to this earth by force of will alone. Yet still she wept, and Albus bent his head over hers, his hands tangled in her dark hair, and he whispered to her,
“No, not yet. I will be gone soon, Minerva, but for now…ah, for now; ‘O, penny, brown penny brown penny…I am looped in the loops of her hair…’”
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I always thought he and she were poetry magpies, collecting this and that. I've often wondered how they might have said goodbye to each other...Albus knew it would be soon, just no definite idea of exactly when, and you can bet Minerva was crossing through hell and high water to make sure everything was as close to their version of normal as possible.
I might be compelled to do more about them, but for now let this be it. Let this stand as my tribute to Albus and Minerva, who have long been the gatekeepers of my imagination.
