Post by Nerweniel on Jul 21, 2005 10:59:06 GMT -5
A/N: To Kaitlyn, my partner-in-angst, who gave me this song 
! It's "This Woman's Work" by Kate Bush.
I Should Be Crying
Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside this man's work,
this man's world.
Ooh, it's hard on the woman,
now his part is over.
Now starts the craft of the mother.
It was only that night that Minerva McGonagall realized that she had lost him.
It was nearly funny, she realized, a vague smile on her face- a smile that didn’t reach her eyes- it was indeed nearly funny how just a few hours before, witches and wizards from all over the world had been shaking her hands- the hands that lay now, shaking, in her lap. They had congratulated her.
They had spoken of her courage, of the power which she had shown all through the present times of tragedy- with the presence of mind with which she had effectively calmed everyone down, with which she had managed to organize one of the most important- and saddest- events of the latest decades.
His funeral.
It was only that night that Minerva McGonagall realized that his work was hers now.
And how could she ever replace the father of the wizarding world- she, who had so failed as a mother?
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking.
The office she was sitting in was hers- not his. Not yet- not now. She’d been there, after all- earlier, with Harry, and despite it being stuffed as ever, it had felt too eerily empty to be bearable. Not yet, at least. One day, perhaps, when her heart would have healed- when her tears would have been cried- she would enter it.
But not yet.
Because she couldn’t cry. She had tried, but she couldn’t. Even at the funeral, she had just sat there- back stretched, eyes dry, face serious, mind empty. They’d all congratulated her for her strength- but she herself knew that it wasn’t that. It wasn’t strength, it wasn’t self-control, it wasn’t even the Gryffindor courage she had always been so famous for.
It was something else.
It was something else, something that expressed itself in the numb, broken feeling, low in her stomach. It was something else, something that tore her insides apart- something that screamed her ears deaf.
Something that was called despair- despair, by lack of hope.
Of all the things I should've said,
That I never said.
All the things we should've done,
That we never did.
All the things I should've given,
But I didn't.
Oh, darling, make it go,
Make it go away.
Fifty-seven years. Fifty-seven.
She’d been just fourteen when, all of a sudden, her old Transfiguration teacher had died and there, on September 1st, suddenly a wholly other wizard had taken his place at the High Table. Younger, naturally- not very young, but still handsome- remarkably handsome.
With a faint smile, Minerva recalled how all girls of her year had been remarkably quick to declare Transfiguration their favourite subject- but not Minerva. The young, serious girl with her black braid and big, green eyes had merely, in her own, quiet manner, gone on the way things had been before.
She would not make a fool out of herself in front of a teacher. She would not act on the silly crush that had somehow found its way to her heart, too. She would remain the calm and serious student she was- it would leave.
Until, at nearly seventeen, it had hit her like a Bludger in the chest.
She did not have a crush on her teacher.
She loved him.
Give me these moments back.
Give them back to me.
Give me that little kiss.
Give me your hand.
And he loved her.
A mere three years after her graduation, as the two of them had stood side by side in front of Grindelwald’s defeated, broken body, she had known that for the very first time when, in an impulse, in a wild gesture of victory, of triumph, he had pulled her closer and kissed her on the lips- hard.
She had laughed, she remembered. Laughed until her lungs had hurt- and so had he- and they had kissed again, wild and uncontrolled- and they had cried over the world they had lost and cried over the world they had gained.
They had known years of happiness- not married, but free, and both knowing that they did not need a ring. Not yet, at least- both knowing they had lives, long lives, in front of them, that they didn’t need to hurry.
Voldemort had made that knowledge irrelevant with one swish of his wand.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking.
The speech he had given her was something she would never forget. The love in his eyes. The despair in hers. And his words, ripping it all apart- returning it all to what it had once been- nothing.
It was the speech, though perhaps a little longer, that she knew Harry Potter had given young Miss Weasley mere hours earlier. It would be dangerous for us to be together. I have to let you go because I love you. Just imagine Voldemort finds out.
As if she had ever cared about that one. As if she would not have died for him, rather than betray him- as if she would not have fought with him, the way she had fought with him all those years earlier.
But she had not spoken a word.
She had nodded, and once more she had not been able to cry.
Her eyes been wide open- as had, once, been her arms. That was, after all, how she had always throw herself at life- always, always.
With arms wide open.
Of all the things we should've said,
That were never said.
All the things we should've done,
That we never did.
All the things that you needed from me.
All the things that you wanted for me.
All the things that I should've given,
But I didn't.
All those years she had stood by his side, stubbornly- but never had she overcome her pride, never had she cried, cried and yelled at him that he could not just tell her not to love him anymore. It just didn’t work that way.
Oh yes it did.
And now all she had left was a broken world and a lot of memories.
His legacy.
And yet, as a knock on the door echoed through the room that was hers, Minerva McGonagall, daughter of Gryffindors and perhaps the pearl on that crown herself, straightened her back- wiped off the tears she hadn’t cried- mended as much of her heart as she possibly could, and then, face pale yet determined, spoke four words.
“Come in, Miss Weasley.”
Not the same mistake.
Not twice.
Oh, darling, make it go away.
Just make it go away now.
! It's "This Woman's Work" by Kate Bush.I Should Be Crying
Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside this man's work,
this man's world.
Ooh, it's hard on the woman,
now his part is over.
Now starts the craft of the mother.
It was only that night that Minerva McGonagall realized that she had lost him.
It was nearly funny, she realized, a vague smile on her face- a smile that didn’t reach her eyes- it was indeed nearly funny how just a few hours before, witches and wizards from all over the world had been shaking her hands- the hands that lay now, shaking, in her lap. They had congratulated her.
They had spoken of her courage, of the power which she had shown all through the present times of tragedy- with the presence of mind with which she had effectively calmed everyone down, with which she had managed to organize one of the most important- and saddest- events of the latest decades.
His funeral.
It was only that night that Minerva McGonagall realized that his work was hers now.
And how could she ever replace the father of the wizarding world- she, who had so failed as a mother?
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking.
The office she was sitting in was hers- not his. Not yet- not now. She’d been there, after all- earlier, with Harry, and despite it being stuffed as ever, it had felt too eerily empty to be bearable. Not yet, at least. One day, perhaps, when her heart would have healed- when her tears would have been cried- she would enter it.
But not yet.
Because she couldn’t cry. She had tried, but she couldn’t. Even at the funeral, she had just sat there- back stretched, eyes dry, face serious, mind empty. They’d all congratulated her for her strength- but she herself knew that it wasn’t that. It wasn’t strength, it wasn’t self-control, it wasn’t even the Gryffindor courage she had always been so famous for.
It was something else.
It was something else, something that expressed itself in the numb, broken feeling, low in her stomach. It was something else, something that tore her insides apart- something that screamed her ears deaf.
Something that was called despair- despair, by lack of hope.
Of all the things I should've said,
That I never said.
All the things we should've done,
That we never did.
All the things I should've given,
But I didn't.
Oh, darling, make it go,
Make it go away.
Fifty-seven years. Fifty-seven.
She’d been just fourteen when, all of a sudden, her old Transfiguration teacher had died and there, on September 1st, suddenly a wholly other wizard had taken his place at the High Table. Younger, naturally- not very young, but still handsome- remarkably handsome.
With a faint smile, Minerva recalled how all girls of her year had been remarkably quick to declare Transfiguration their favourite subject- but not Minerva. The young, serious girl with her black braid and big, green eyes had merely, in her own, quiet manner, gone on the way things had been before.
She would not make a fool out of herself in front of a teacher. She would not act on the silly crush that had somehow found its way to her heart, too. She would remain the calm and serious student she was- it would leave.
Until, at nearly seventeen, it had hit her like a Bludger in the chest.
She did not have a crush on her teacher.
She loved him.
Give me these moments back.
Give them back to me.
Give me that little kiss.
Give me your hand.
And he loved her.
A mere three years after her graduation, as the two of them had stood side by side in front of Grindelwald’s defeated, broken body, she had known that for the very first time when, in an impulse, in a wild gesture of victory, of triumph, he had pulled her closer and kissed her on the lips- hard.
She had laughed, she remembered. Laughed until her lungs had hurt- and so had he- and they had kissed again, wild and uncontrolled- and they had cried over the world they had lost and cried over the world they had gained.
They had known years of happiness- not married, but free, and both knowing that they did not need a ring. Not yet, at least- both knowing they had lives, long lives, in front of them, that they didn’t need to hurry.
Voldemort had made that knowledge irrelevant with one swish of his wand.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking.
The speech he had given her was something she would never forget. The love in his eyes. The despair in hers. And his words, ripping it all apart- returning it all to what it had once been- nothing.
It was the speech, though perhaps a little longer, that she knew Harry Potter had given young Miss Weasley mere hours earlier. It would be dangerous for us to be together. I have to let you go because I love you. Just imagine Voldemort finds out.
As if she had ever cared about that one. As if she would not have died for him, rather than betray him- as if she would not have fought with him, the way she had fought with him all those years earlier.
But she had not spoken a word.
She had nodded, and once more she had not been able to cry.
Her eyes been wide open- as had, once, been her arms. That was, after all, how she had always throw herself at life- always, always.
With arms wide open.
Of all the things we should've said,
That were never said.
All the things we should've done,
That we never did.
All the things that you needed from me.
All the things that you wanted for me.
All the things that I should've given,
But I didn't.
All those years she had stood by his side, stubbornly- but never had she overcome her pride, never had she cried, cried and yelled at him that he could not just tell her not to love him anymore. It just didn’t work that way.
Oh yes it did.
And now all she had left was a broken world and a lot of memories.
His legacy.
And yet, as a knock on the door echoed through the room that was hers, Minerva McGonagall, daughter of Gryffindors and perhaps the pearl on that crown herself, straightened her back- wiped off the tears she hadn’t cried- mended as much of her heart as she possibly could, and then, face pale yet determined, spoke four words.
“Come in, Miss Weasley.”
Not the same mistake.
Not twice.
Oh, darling, make it go away.
Just make it go away now.
! This was wonderful 50/50 and it still made me cry even the second time! 
Did you have to make me cry again? Beautiful fic, but just so sad.
