[fic] Even After All These Years
Even After All These Years
Ship: Minerva/Alastor
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Minerva takes inventory.
A/N: For xylodemon, who wanted to see more fics in which Minerva McGonagall gets laid. I hope this counts, even though the sex isn't the focus of the story. Approx. 1,300 words.
Alastor comes to see her the evening after the students leave for the summer holidays. He stumps past her with only a grunted greeting, and proceeds to make a thorough check of her quarters while she watches in amused silence, her arms crossed over her chest.
Satisfied at last, he plants himself on her sofa, laces his fingers together in his lap, and stares determinedly at the fireplace. It isn't cold even this deep in the Highlands, but she's feeling her age these days, so she lit a fire a short while ago, and for a time the crackling of the flames and the snapping of smoldered twigs are the only sounds in the room.
She doesn't bother offering him tea or brandy; she can see he's got his hipflask, and if he's thirsty he'll drink from that. She pours herself a snifter of brandy and sips it slowly, watching him.
At length she says crossly, "If you've got something to say, say it. I have things to do, and little time for anyone's nonsense, even yours."
He looks up at her. His face is gray despite the fire's warmth, the creases deep and slack. He looks older than he did the last time she saw him, at the last Order meeting. He says, "Spoke to the Dursleys. They'll not be mistreating young Harry this summer, I think."
"I'm glad you did. There're things I've wanted to say to that lot for quite some time, but Albus asked that I-"
"Arthur Weasley was there," Alastor cuts in. "Tonks, too. And Lupin."
There's a slight hesitation before that last name and suddenly Minerva knows why Alastor is here. She steals herself, but his next words strike her anyway, like a mallet to her chest.
"Sirius Black is dead."
"I know." But she doesn't know, really. She's been told by Albus, she's seen the triumph in Severus Snape's dark eyes, and she's seen Harry Potter drifting through the corridors like a ghost, but she doesn't know. The words still sound like a foreign language to her. The Potters and Peter Pettigrew had been dead for three weeks before she knew that Sirius Black had joined You-Know-Who. He'd been on the run in some southern country for a month before she knew that he was innocent. His death isn't in her blood yet.
"You were fond of him," Alastor says. "I remember."
"He was one of my best students," Minerva replies dispassionately.
"Always had a thing for athletes, you. Intelligent athletes."
"He was my student."
Alastor grimaces. "Lupin's a mess. Doesn't show it, of course. Strong man, Lupin. Best to leave him alone for a bit. The boy, too."
"You're surprisingly insightful this evening," Minerva remarks.
Alastor's magical eye spins in its socket. It looks like a marble in the firelight, icy blue on the surface, but flecked with reds and golds.
"What are you looking for?" Minerva asks impatiently. "We’re the only two people here. I doubt Peeves is lurking in any of my cupboards."
"Constant vigilance," Alastor snorts. "Can never be too cautious. Black's death bothers me."
She doesn't trust her voice, so she simply purses her lips and nods, clutching her snifter.
"Not the manner of his death. We're fighting a war. People die. Plenty of people died in the last war. Good people. Better people than Black." He looks away from her. "Shouldn't've been locked up all those years. Without even a trial. Terrible miscarriage of justice, that. Terrible business."
"I see," Minerva says, and she is beginning to. She sets her snifter on the mantel, and goes to sit beside Alastor.
"Bothers me," he grunts. "Crouch is to blame. Of course, Crouch is dead, too, now. Can't answer to anyone. And no one said a word. I didn't protest. Had my fill of pointless trials. Tired of listening to excuses. The one time I should've listened…"
"He'd have been convicted anyway," she hears herself say. She feels the rough fabric of his sleeve beneath her palm but she doesn't remember reaching out to touch him. "There was a lot of evidence against him. Several witnesses. And the fact that Peter Pettigrew-"
He swings back to look at her stonily. "Woman," he says, "a year ago you and everyone else here mistook Crouch's Death Eater son for me. Evidence gets planted. Senses lie. Can never be too cautious."
"I know," she says again softly, and that is something that she knows. All too well.
They sit for a while in a silence that is not quite companionable. The glance of his magical eye continues to roam about the room, but his good eye remains focused on her. She studies him as well, unabashedly, noting new scars and wrinkles. There's a slice of chin missing; in its place is a shallow, discolored indentation. She doesn't remember that wound, so it must be new.
She shivers abruptly.
"What?" His voice, though gruff, is barely louder than the rustle of the fire.
"Nothing," she says, but he doesn't need a magical eye to know that she's lying. "Well…" Her cheeks burn slightly, but the shiver keeps its talons hooked in her shoulders. "Just don't go losing any more bits and pieces, all right?" The words don't come out half as sternly as she would have liked.
He grins. It's not a pleasant grin - more like a seam coming undone than anything approximating a smile - but it's comforting in its familiarity. Leaning closer, he rumbles, "There's some bits and pieces of mine that still belong to you, and they're intact."
"Not much good to me without the rest of you."
"Yes, well. I'll try to keep myself together as long as I can. Done fairly well, considering." His magical eye stops spinning. He's concentrating on her, now. She feels the force of his concentration pushing away the shivers.
"I don't want to lose you," she admits in a small voice, and is immediately angry with herself for being so sentimental.
She's grateful when he responds not with more sentimentality - as if he would - but with a teasing, "Care to take inventory now?"
"Inventory." She's able to smile now and it warms her better than the fire has. She touches her fingertip to the dent in his chin. And suddenly she knows - knows in her blood - that Sirius is dead, and that she's getting older, and so is the man seated beside her. What's left of him.
For all that, she kisses Alastor as fervently as she did when they were much younger and when there was more of him to kiss. Her joints gasp when he puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer, but she doesn't protest.
When he unpins her hair it falls around her shoulders not the way it used to, in bright auburn ringlets, but in soft, faded clouds. He spends a few moments combing his gnarled fingers through it with a gentleness that causes her chest to tighten.
They move stiffly, awkwardly, bumping knees and elbows, getting tangled in layers of clothing.
"Purple lace," he murmurs when they're down to that. "Very prim and proper."
"Oh," she says tartly, reaching behind to unhook her bra because he still has trouble with that, even after all these years, "a woman needs her secrets."
It's no secret how much she needs him right now, or how much he needs her. It isn't the best sex either has ever had, but it satisfies, and it's likely to be the best sex either will have for some time. Or ever again, Minerva can't help but think as, afterward, she lies in his arms, her head on his chest, listening to the erratic beating of his heart.
She traces the scars on his ribs. They're pale as teeth in the firelight. She feels the cold nipping at her again, but his arm around her keeps it at bay.
07/10/05
Ship: Minerva/Alastor
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Minerva takes inventory.
A/N: For xylodemon, who wanted to see more fics in which Minerva McGonagall gets laid. I hope this counts, even though the sex isn't the focus of the story. Approx. 1,300 words.
Alastor comes to see her the evening after the students leave for the summer holidays. He stumps past her with only a grunted greeting, and proceeds to make a thorough check of her quarters while she watches in amused silence, her arms crossed over her chest.
Satisfied at last, he plants himself on her sofa, laces his fingers together in his lap, and stares determinedly at the fireplace. It isn't cold even this deep in the Highlands, but she's feeling her age these days, so she lit a fire a short while ago, and for a time the crackling of the flames and the snapping of smoldered twigs are the only sounds in the room.
She doesn't bother offering him tea or brandy; she can see he's got his hipflask, and if he's thirsty he'll drink from that. She pours herself a snifter of brandy and sips it slowly, watching him.
At length she says crossly, "If you've got something to say, say it. I have things to do, and little time for anyone's nonsense, even yours."
He looks up at her. His face is gray despite the fire's warmth, the creases deep and slack. He looks older than he did the last time she saw him, at the last Order meeting. He says, "Spoke to the Dursleys. They'll not be mistreating young Harry this summer, I think."
"I'm glad you did. There're things I've wanted to say to that lot for quite some time, but Albus asked that I-"
"Arthur Weasley was there," Alastor cuts in. "Tonks, too. And Lupin."
There's a slight hesitation before that last name and suddenly Minerva knows why Alastor is here. She steals herself, but his next words strike her anyway, like a mallet to her chest.
"Sirius Black is dead."
"I know." But she doesn't know, really. She's been told by Albus, she's seen the triumph in Severus Snape's dark eyes, and she's seen Harry Potter drifting through the corridors like a ghost, but she doesn't know. The words still sound like a foreign language to her. The Potters and Peter Pettigrew had been dead for three weeks before she knew that Sirius Black had joined You-Know-Who. He'd been on the run in some southern country for a month before she knew that he was innocent. His death isn't in her blood yet.
"You were fond of him," Alastor says. "I remember."
"He was one of my best students," Minerva replies dispassionately.
"Always had a thing for athletes, you. Intelligent athletes."
"He was my student."
Alastor grimaces. "Lupin's a mess. Doesn't show it, of course. Strong man, Lupin. Best to leave him alone for a bit. The boy, too."
"You're surprisingly insightful this evening," Minerva remarks.
Alastor's magical eye spins in its socket. It looks like a marble in the firelight, icy blue on the surface, but flecked with reds and golds.
"What are you looking for?" Minerva asks impatiently. "We’re the only two people here. I doubt Peeves is lurking in any of my cupboards."
"Constant vigilance," Alastor snorts. "Can never be too cautious. Black's death bothers me."
She doesn't trust her voice, so she simply purses her lips and nods, clutching her snifter.
"Not the manner of his death. We're fighting a war. People die. Plenty of people died in the last war. Good people. Better people than Black." He looks away from her. "Shouldn't've been locked up all those years. Without even a trial. Terrible miscarriage of justice, that. Terrible business."
"I see," Minerva says, and she is beginning to. She sets her snifter on the mantel, and goes to sit beside Alastor.
"Bothers me," he grunts. "Crouch is to blame. Of course, Crouch is dead, too, now. Can't answer to anyone. And no one said a word. I didn't protest. Had my fill of pointless trials. Tired of listening to excuses. The one time I should've listened…"
"He'd have been convicted anyway," she hears herself say. She feels the rough fabric of his sleeve beneath her palm but she doesn't remember reaching out to touch him. "There was a lot of evidence against him. Several witnesses. And the fact that Peter Pettigrew-"
He swings back to look at her stonily. "Woman," he says, "a year ago you and everyone else here mistook Crouch's Death Eater son for me. Evidence gets planted. Senses lie. Can never be too cautious."
"I know," she says again softly, and that is something that she knows. All too well.
They sit for a while in a silence that is not quite companionable. The glance of his magical eye continues to roam about the room, but his good eye remains focused on her. She studies him as well, unabashedly, noting new scars and wrinkles. There's a slice of chin missing; in its place is a shallow, discolored indentation. She doesn't remember that wound, so it must be new.
She shivers abruptly.
"What?" His voice, though gruff, is barely louder than the rustle of the fire.
"Nothing," she says, but he doesn't need a magical eye to know that she's lying. "Well…" Her cheeks burn slightly, but the shiver keeps its talons hooked in her shoulders. "Just don't go losing any more bits and pieces, all right?" The words don't come out half as sternly as she would have liked.
He grins. It's not a pleasant grin - more like a seam coming undone than anything approximating a smile - but it's comforting in its familiarity. Leaning closer, he rumbles, "There's some bits and pieces of mine that still belong to you, and they're intact."
"Not much good to me without the rest of you."
"Yes, well. I'll try to keep myself together as long as I can. Done fairly well, considering." His magical eye stops spinning. He's concentrating on her, now. She feels the force of his concentration pushing away the shivers.
"I don't want to lose you," she admits in a small voice, and is immediately angry with herself for being so sentimental.
She's grateful when he responds not with more sentimentality - as if he would - but with a teasing, "Care to take inventory now?"
"Inventory." She's able to smile now and it warms her better than the fire has. She touches her fingertip to the dent in his chin. And suddenly she knows - knows in her blood - that Sirius is dead, and that she's getting older, and so is the man seated beside her. What's left of him.
For all that, she kisses Alastor as fervently as she did when they were much younger and when there was more of him to kiss. Her joints gasp when he puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer, but she doesn't protest.
When he unpins her hair it falls around her shoulders not the way it used to, in bright auburn ringlets, but in soft, faded clouds. He spends a few moments combing his gnarled fingers through it with a gentleness that causes her chest to tighten.
They move stiffly, awkwardly, bumping knees and elbows, getting tangled in layers of clothing.
"Purple lace," he murmurs when they're down to that. "Very prim and proper."
"Oh," she says tartly, reaching behind to unhook her bra because he still has trouble with that, even after all these years, "a woman needs her secrets."
It's no secret how much she needs him right now, or how much he needs her. It isn't the best sex either has ever had, but it satisfies, and it's likely to be the best sex either will have for some time. Or ever again, Minerva can't help but think as, afterward, she lies in his arms, her head on his chest, listening to the erratic beating of his heart.
She traces the scars on his ribs. They're pale as teeth in the firelight. She feels the cold nipping at her again, but his arm around her keeps it at bay.
07/10/05