Post by morgan72uk on Jun 20, 2006 14:50:23 GMT -5
This popped into my head last week. It might be a one-shot. I’m not quite sure. I’d like to write a second part from Minerva’s perspective but at the moment I can’t find the write words. So – anyway.
Title: In memoriam
Author: Morgan72uk
Rating: 11+
Summary: Albus Dumbledore isn’t dead. But something else is.
Disclaimer: Don’t own the characters, don’t have any money.
In memoriam
They say that history is written by the victorious; that it is awarded, like one of the spoils of battle, to those who claim honours at the last. They say that what we learn in the darkness of war is all too easily forgotten in the stupor of peace – until once again it is too late. They say that what we learn from history is that we do not learn from history.
Albus Dumbledore didn’t know if he would ever want to remember this day, if he would ever feel comfortable with the plaudits and the accolades that were already falling at his feet. He didn’t know what there was to be proud of in forcing a 17 year old boy to kill someone, in sending children into battle or indeed in forcing a man with too many burdens to return over and over to his own personal hell. What was there to celebrate in the terrible things that had been done, all for something he loftily called ‘the greater good’?
He had led and his friends and comrades followed – for many it had been a journey to the death. He had made mistakes, been economical with the truth, dabbled in the darkest of magic. No doubt these crimes would be brushed over by posterity – a biased judge if ever there was one. There was hardly anyone left to hold him accountable.
But still, this passing day he had glimpsed greatness. He had seen it in the love and friendship between a trio of young adults who had risked all together. It had lived in all those who had faced their own demons and chosen to fight with the Order – even though it set them at odds with their own kin. It lay Severus Snape – in the lines on his face and the fathomless caverns of his eyes. And in one more place.
A goddess and a lioness. The current Headmistress of Hogwarts had been well named.
Knowing her contempt for those who blew their own trumpets he thought it likely that accounts of the last battle would fail to recount her actions and their consequences. But he knew that no one who had fought on the side of the Order would forget easily what she had done that day or in the months that had culminated in their final struggle for victory.
For it had been Minerva who had defeated Bellatrix Lestrange - stopping Neville from killing her or, more likely, from getting himself killed trying to avenge his parents. Voldemort’s favourite had miscalculated, almost fatally, failing to take account of Minerva’s skill and precision. She had never understood how far the Headmistress of her old school would go to protect a student. But, Bellatrix had never played chess against Minerva, she had never learnt just how ruthless she could be.
Minerva hadn’t killed her; instead, she had rendered her unconscious with a single powerful curse. Then, with just a little of the magic that belonged only to the Head of the school, the Death Eater had been apparated away – to a very secure location. Her removal had made a huge impact, one that had reverberated across the whole battlefield. It was the moment the tide had turned, the moment that they started to believe they could win.
He knew of some of the trials Minerva had faced over the last year. He knew she had fought to keep the school open, fought to hold onto those students whose parents wanted to take them away. The credit for Draco Malfoy’s decision to join their side was undoubtedly Severus’ – but Minerva’s scrupulous fairness had made that decision possible.
He knew that for a year she had struggled to keep Ginny Weasley safe. Her relationship with Harry made her an obvious target and the young woman had been desperate to be at his side. She had fought with her parents and siblings, but Minerva had succeeded in persuading her to remain at school.
It had been a day since Minerva had learnt of his deceit, his betrayal and he knew that there was every chance that their friendship would not survive the knowledge.
As he surveyed the battlefield a flash of green caught his eye and he turned to see her – deep in conversation with Remus and some of the aurors.
As though she knew he was watching her she turned her head, finding him unerringly despite the people standing between them. When their eyes met he felt the full force of her anger – cold fire. She would never forgive him, looking at her he was certain of that. Their friendship was one more sacrifice to the cause.
The cost was enormous; he’d loved her for so long now that he had almost forgotten that there was ever a time when his heart wasn’t hers. Had she ever felt the same way? Did it matter now that it was all gone?
She was the Headmistress; the school knew it and he had felt it in the magic around the castle when he returned after his year long exile yesterday.
He was an old man, with a withered hand and a battered conscience. His bones were old and tired, his soul wretched and the knowledge that it had to be done was no comfort at all.
History belongs to the victors and he had lost. This was not his time – he should not have lived so long.
The End (I think)
Title: In memoriam
Author: Morgan72uk
Rating: 11+
Summary: Albus Dumbledore isn’t dead. But something else is.
Disclaimer: Don’t own the characters, don’t have any money.
In memoriam
They say that history is written by the victorious; that it is awarded, like one of the spoils of battle, to those who claim honours at the last. They say that what we learn in the darkness of war is all too easily forgotten in the stupor of peace – until once again it is too late. They say that what we learn from history is that we do not learn from history.
Albus Dumbledore didn’t know if he would ever want to remember this day, if he would ever feel comfortable with the plaudits and the accolades that were already falling at his feet. He didn’t know what there was to be proud of in forcing a 17 year old boy to kill someone, in sending children into battle or indeed in forcing a man with too many burdens to return over and over to his own personal hell. What was there to celebrate in the terrible things that had been done, all for something he loftily called ‘the greater good’?
He had led and his friends and comrades followed – for many it had been a journey to the death. He had made mistakes, been economical with the truth, dabbled in the darkest of magic. No doubt these crimes would be brushed over by posterity – a biased judge if ever there was one. There was hardly anyone left to hold him accountable.
But still, this passing day he had glimpsed greatness. He had seen it in the love and friendship between a trio of young adults who had risked all together. It had lived in all those who had faced their own demons and chosen to fight with the Order – even though it set them at odds with their own kin. It lay Severus Snape – in the lines on his face and the fathomless caverns of his eyes. And in one more place.
A goddess and a lioness. The current Headmistress of Hogwarts had been well named.
Knowing her contempt for those who blew their own trumpets he thought it likely that accounts of the last battle would fail to recount her actions and their consequences. But he knew that no one who had fought on the side of the Order would forget easily what she had done that day or in the months that had culminated in their final struggle for victory.
For it had been Minerva who had defeated Bellatrix Lestrange - stopping Neville from killing her or, more likely, from getting himself killed trying to avenge his parents. Voldemort’s favourite had miscalculated, almost fatally, failing to take account of Minerva’s skill and precision. She had never understood how far the Headmistress of her old school would go to protect a student. But, Bellatrix had never played chess against Minerva, she had never learnt just how ruthless she could be.
Minerva hadn’t killed her; instead, she had rendered her unconscious with a single powerful curse. Then, with just a little of the magic that belonged only to the Head of the school, the Death Eater had been apparated away – to a very secure location. Her removal had made a huge impact, one that had reverberated across the whole battlefield. It was the moment the tide had turned, the moment that they started to believe they could win.
He knew of some of the trials Minerva had faced over the last year. He knew she had fought to keep the school open, fought to hold onto those students whose parents wanted to take them away. The credit for Draco Malfoy’s decision to join their side was undoubtedly Severus’ – but Minerva’s scrupulous fairness had made that decision possible.
He knew that for a year she had struggled to keep Ginny Weasley safe. Her relationship with Harry made her an obvious target and the young woman had been desperate to be at his side. She had fought with her parents and siblings, but Minerva had succeeded in persuading her to remain at school.
It had been a day since Minerva had learnt of his deceit, his betrayal and he knew that there was every chance that their friendship would not survive the knowledge.
As he surveyed the battlefield a flash of green caught his eye and he turned to see her – deep in conversation with Remus and some of the aurors.
As though she knew he was watching her she turned her head, finding him unerringly despite the people standing between them. When their eyes met he felt the full force of her anger – cold fire. She would never forgive him, looking at her he was certain of that. Their friendship was one more sacrifice to the cause.
The cost was enormous; he’d loved her for so long now that he had almost forgotten that there was ever a time when his heart wasn’t hers. Had she ever felt the same way? Did it matter now that it was all gone?
She was the Headmistress; the school knew it and he had felt it in the magic around the castle when he returned after his year long exile yesterday.
He was an old man, with a withered hand and a battered conscience. His bones were old and tired, his soul wretched and the knowledge that it had to be done was no comfort at all.
History belongs to the victors and he had lost. This was not his time – he should not have lived so long.
The End (I think)
