Post by Nerweniel on Oct 5, 2006 9:02:12 GMT -5
A songfic to "Into The Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie... a response to crystalphenioxeyes's challenge 
.
I'll Follow You
The young woman bit the back of her pen – writing her thoughts down the Muggle way as she was. She knew her people would think it an unusual, even bizarre thing to do for a witch, as she was, but she did not think it was any of their business. She had scribbled notebooks full since the beginning of the war, since her missions had started, and somehow it felt good to her to, through old notebooks that fell apart with wear and unpractical, Muggle pens, escape the magical world for a while.
The year was 1944.
“Love of mine,” she began. She would never send the letter, but she had occasionally written her diary in the form of letters – it often helped her to focus her mind, something she thought very important.
“Some day you will die, but I’ll be close behind – I’ll follow you into the dark. No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white, just our hands, clasped so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark.”
She knew her diaries were, occasionally, more poetic than anyone would ever believe of her. She’d been the ice queen of the Auror training, Infallible McGonagall, that girl of iron who had an unwavering sense of right and wrong and who could – so people whispered – be merciless.
Minerva smiled. At least on that front, they were wrong – she did know mercy. Only in the circumstances she, they, lived in, that was better kept a secret. She’d kept a lot of secrets during her war duties, but the two greatest were her mercy… and her love.
“If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied, illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs… if there’s no-one beside you when your soul embarks…”
She thought of him – how she had first met him, had it really only been four years? – and smiled again as she brought the pen back to the faded line on the thin paper. She remembered how he had told her that he loved her, she remembered how they had sat there, in the middle of a forest somewhere in some god-forgotten hellhole in France, or in Germany, or somewhere in between – it all hadn’t seemed to matter that much anymore, at that moment. They had sat there, two people, one idea, astonished and shocked and in awe about what had just happened to them – something that had, they felt, never happened before… surely this had to be unique, surely no other human being had ever experienced this before?
Minerva leaned her chin on both hands. Of course it had happened before and it had happened again after that, to probably millions of people all around the world… but that realization had not changed a single thing.
“… then I'll follow you into the dark.”
*
And then, one year later, the war had ended, and they’d married and fallen in love over and over and over again, and they’d, the two of them, restored Hogwarts to what it had once been – something to be proud of, their own child of which they were proud – which they would die for.
And a little over five decades later, an older, wiser and more pensive Minerva McGonagall had found herself above an opened Muggle notebook again.
He had fallen from her and she had not followed.
‘In Catholic school, as vicious as Roman rule, I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black.”
It was a stupid starting point, she knew it, but something one of the Sisters had said, once, had somehow stuck with her and she had to tell him. Silly, of course – he could not hear her, he was gone, she was alone – but she had to try.
It was the thought of Catholic school, all those years ago, that brought a rare smile to the Headmistress’s face. Oh surely, she’d had her knuckles bruised, and she had utterly disliked it at the moment itself… but it had been her youth, her free, her careless youth in a small, Muggle village in Scotland’s highlands.
I wished I was there still.
“And I held my tongue as she told me; ‘Fear is the heart of love.’”.
But then I would never have met you.
“So I never went back.”
*
As Albus Dumbledore read his wife’s writings, less than a year later, there was one, particular fragment that made him believe that Minerva McGonagall had, indeed, remained an enigma to him ‘till the very end. It’d been written in ’44, even before their marriage – the notebook had fallen apart and the thin pages were nearly unreadable, but he could still make out what she had wanted to say.
“If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied, illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs… if there’s no-one beside you when your soul embarks… then I’ll follow you into the dark.”
He smiled, an old man as he sat there, hair whiter than ever before, his age finally having caught up with him – or so he felt it. Her last entry was, though different, no less poignant.
”You and me have seen everything to see, from Bangkok to Calgary, and the soles of your shoes are all worn down.”
“Albus!” she had screamed, and then, the next moment, their hands had locked and they’d run, run like they would never stop again. She was, had always been, a great deal shorter than him and he had been ready to adapt to her pace – and she had had it difficult to keep up with him, he’d noticed, but that thin little figure in green had struggled on beside him – indeed, from Bangkok to Calgary- and it had been at that moment that he had realized that he loved her.
He closed his eyes momentarily as if to fight the flashback.
“The time for sleep is now, it's nothing to cry about… ‘cause we'll hold each other soon… the blackest of rooms.”
This was the last line she had written, and it felt so much like a personal message to him that once again, he felt, right against his shoulders, the guilt, the shame about what he had done to her. He knew she had understood, had forgiven him, had claimed there had been nothing to forgive – but somehow, it did not seem to help.
He’d put her through the worst, he’d hurt her worse than anyone else could. He knew that faking his own death had been his last resort and somewhere, deep down, he understood that he had not been able to tell her.
And somehow, that didn’t change a thing.
*
When Albus Dumbledore held his wife’s hand as she breathed her last, struck down by a common Death Eater during the last battle – the last battle which they had won, but that was a small comfort – he thought of all this and more, but most of all of her, of that woman who was lying there, pale and wounded and thin, her black hair spread out messily over the white fabric of her pillow, that woman who had given her heart to him and whom he had never deserved.
“If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied… illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs…”
Her eyelids fluttered as he spoke these words and – but perhaps he just imagined this, after all – as he went on, it seemed almost as if her lips moved along with his.
”If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks… then I'll follow you into the dark."
He felt her fingers press into his and then, in what was as well the most natural as the most magical action in the world, she smiled and opened her eyes.
“Then I'll follow you into the dark, Albus.”
And then she died.
.I'll Follow You
The young woman bit the back of her pen – writing her thoughts down the Muggle way as she was. She knew her people would think it an unusual, even bizarre thing to do for a witch, as she was, but she did not think it was any of their business. She had scribbled notebooks full since the beginning of the war, since her missions had started, and somehow it felt good to her to, through old notebooks that fell apart with wear and unpractical, Muggle pens, escape the magical world for a while.
The year was 1944.
“Love of mine,” she began. She would never send the letter, but she had occasionally written her diary in the form of letters – it often helped her to focus her mind, something she thought very important.
“Some day you will die, but I’ll be close behind – I’ll follow you into the dark. No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white, just our hands, clasped so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark.”
She knew her diaries were, occasionally, more poetic than anyone would ever believe of her. She’d been the ice queen of the Auror training, Infallible McGonagall, that girl of iron who had an unwavering sense of right and wrong and who could – so people whispered – be merciless.
Minerva smiled. At least on that front, they were wrong – she did know mercy. Only in the circumstances she, they, lived in, that was better kept a secret. She’d kept a lot of secrets during her war duties, but the two greatest were her mercy… and her love.
“If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied, illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs… if there’s no-one beside you when your soul embarks…”
She thought of him – how she had first met him, had it really only been four years? – and smiled again as she brought the pen back to the faded line on the thin paper. She remembered how he had told her that he loved her, she remembered how they had sat there, in the middle of a forest somewhere in some god-forgotten hellhole in France, or in Germany, or somewhere in between – it all hadn’t seemed to matter that much anymore, at that moment. They had sat there, two people, one idea, astonished and shocked and in awe about what had just happened to them – something that had, they felt, never happened before… surely this had to be unique, surely no other human being had ever experienced this before?
Minerva leaned her chin on both hands. Of course it had happened before and it had happened again after that, to probably millions of people all around the world… but that realization had not changed a single thing.
“… then I'll follow you into the dark.”
*
And then, one year later, the war had ended, and they’d married and fallen in love over and over and over again, and they’d, the two of them, restored Hogwarts to what it had once been – something to be proud of, their own child of which they were proud – which they would die for.
And a little over five decades later, an older, wiser and more pensive Minerva McGonagall had found herself above an opened Muggle notebook again.
He had fallen from her and she had not followed.
‘In Catholic school, as vicious as Roman rule, I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black.”
It was a stupid starting point, she knew it, but something one of the Sisters had said, once, had somehow stuck with her and she had to tell him. Silly, of course – he could not hear her, he was gone, she was alone – but she had to try.
It was the thought of Catholic school, all those years ago, that brought a rare smile to the Headmistress’s face. Oh surely, she’d had her knuckles bruised, and she had utterly disliked it at the moment itself… but it had been her youth, her free, her careless youth in a small, Muggle village in Scotland’s highlands.
I wished I was there still.
“And I held my tongue as she told me; ‘Fear is the heart of love.’”.
But then I would never have met you.
“So I never went back.”
*
As Albus Dumbledore read his wife’s writings, less than a year later, there was one, particular fragment that made him believe that Minerva McGonagall had, indeed, remained an enigma to him ‘till the very end. It’d been written in ’44, even before their marriage – the notebook had fallen apart and the thin pages were nearly unreadable, but he could still make out what she had wanted to say.
“If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied, illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs… if there’s no-one beside you when your soul embarks… then I’ll follow you into the dark.”
He smiled, an old man as he sat there, hair whiter than ever before, his age finally having caught up with him – or so he felt it. Her last entry was, though different, no less poignant.
”You and me have seen everything to see, from Bangkok to Calgary, and the soles of your shoes are all worn down.”
“Albus!” she had screamed, and then, the next moment, their hands had locked and they’d run, run like they would never stop again. She was, had always been, a great deal shorter than him and he had been ready to adapt to her pace – and she had had it difficult to keep up with him, he’d noticed, but that thin little figure in green had struggled on beside him – indeed, from Bangkok to Calgary- and it had been at that moment that he had realized that he loved her.
He closed his eyes momentarily as if to fight the flashback.
“The time for sleep is now, it's nothing to cry about… ‘cause we'll hold each other soon… the blackest of rooms.”
This was the last line she had written, and it felt so much like a personal message to him that once again, he felt, right against his shoulders, the guilt, the shame about what he had done to her. He knew she had understood, had forgiven him, had claimed there had been nothing to forgive – but somehow, it did not seem to help.
He’d put her through the worst, he’d hurt her worse than anyone else could. He knew that faking his own death had been his last resort and somewhere, deep down, he understood that he had not been able to tell her.
And somehow, that didn’t change a thing.
*
When Albus Dumbledore held his wife’s hand as she breathed her last, struck down by a common Death Eater during the last battle – the last battle which they had won, but that was a small comfort – he thought of all this and more, but most of all of her, of that woman who was lying there, pale and wounded and thin, her black hair spread out messily over the white fabric of her pillow, that woman who had given her heart to him and whom he had never deserved.
“If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied… illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs…”
Her eyelids fluttered as he spoke these words and – but perhaps he just imagined this, after all – as he went on, it seemed almost as if her lips moved along with his.
”If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks… then I'll follow you into the dark."
He felt her fingers press into his and then, in what was as well the most natural as the most magical action in the world, she smiled and opened her eyes.
“Then I'll follow you into the dark, Albus.”
And then she died.
