f o o l i s h . g i r l

Foolish Girl
[by victoria p.]

Rating: G

Summary: "Tom made a fool of her in more ways than one, and she is not sure she will ever forgive him, or herself."

Notes: Thanks as always to Jen, Pete/Melissa, Dot, and Meg. Written for bowdlerized, who requested "Minerva McGonagall, an old-fashioned tortoise-shell hairbrush, penitence."

Date: March 12, 2004

Minerva stares out the window as the nurse brushes her hair. It is long and thick, her one true vanity, and the woman has a brush worthy of it -- heavy, old-fashioned, with a tortoiseshell handle, matching comb and mirror. Minerva secretly covets the brush, and then immediately feels repentant.

Giving into her desires is what has brought her here, to lie in St. Mungo's like the heroine of a Muggle romantic novel, pale, wan and dying of consumption, abandoned by her lover.

At that thought, she swallows hard against threatening tears, and wishes the nurse wasn't treating her with warm kindness, but was instead scolding her as her mother had been wont to do. Her foolishness doesn't deserve such mercy and gentle treatment.

Professor Dumbledore arrives, his face kind and grave. "Give us a moment," he says, and the matron moves off, down the long rows of white-cloaked beds, filled with anonymous patients; it is wartime and she cannot afford a private room.

He takes Minerva's hand. "How are you, Minerva?"

She tries to avoid looking at him, his blue eyes bright with concern, but finds herself unable to look away. "As well as can be expected," she answers, hearing a hint of her usual acerbity in her voice, beneath the thick rawness of too many tears cried.

"I see."

His hand is warm against hers, and strong, the fingers long and elegant, stained with ink. It is a hand one can trust, she thinks, a hand that would never strike a loved one, even in anger.

"Riddle is gone."

She lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Where?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know. I haven't been able to track him down." The world -- both Muggle and magical -- has gone mad, and Tom is skilled at hiding.

"It was my fault--"

"No." Dumbledore's voice is sharp, definite. "A man never raises his hand to someone he loves, Minerva."

"Then I was wrong to believe he loved me. I should have known better." Foolish girl, she thinks, has repeated it to herself over and over again. Tom made a fool of her in more ways than one, and she is not sure she will ever forgive him, or herself.

Dumbledore has no answer for that, which makes her feel somewhat better.

"I'm so sorry about the others."

"That was also not your fault. You tried to prevent him from killing those Muggles."

"And I did such a splendid job of it." She drops her gaze, plucks at the bandages on her arm. "I should like to make amends, Professor. Help those families he--"

"As you will, my dear. But first you need to help yourself, forgive yourself." She shakes her head, his words echoing her earlier thoughts. He strokes his beard, the bright ginger shot with gray. "It is often the hardest thing to do, but you are a strong woman, and you shall succeed." He pats her hand and stands. "But my offering you platitudes does you no good. You rest and heal. There will be time enough to deal with Riddle, now that he's shown his true colors."

He leans over and presses dry lips to her forehead. His beard tickles her skin, and he smells of the lemon candy he favors.

She clutches his hand again as he turns to go. "I don't know if I can do this."

He looks down at her, a sad smile playing about his lips. "Some Muggle religions have a ritual for penance, Minerva. I sometimes think we would do well to emulate it." He squeezes her fingers. "I would absolve you if I could, because I know you are truly sorry. But only you can make peace with yourself."

He gently disentangles his hand from hers and leaves. Minerva returns to staring out the window, and hopes she can find the strength within herself that he sees.

end

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