Dumbledore's Secret

Prologue

Albus Dumbledore fell wearily into the chair beside her hospital bed. As she watched him remove his half-moon spectacles and pinch the bridge of his nose, Minerva McGonagall thought that, for once, her husband looked his full 117 years. "It was that bad, was it?" she asked quietly.

He said nothing for a few moments and instead stared blankly at the sterile white wall behind her. Minerva raised a tentative hand to his shoulder. Immediately, he took it and pressed it gently to his lips.

"Ah, Minerva, I'm too old to do this."

She squeezed his hand tightly. "Don't say that," she scolded, taking her other hand and gently tracing his now closed eyes.

A hint of a smile flickered across his face before he murmured again, "I tell you, I am too old." He opened his eyes suddenly, and Minerva drew back, recognizing the angry glint in those usually twinkling orbs. "If I had been younger, I never would have made such a mistake!" he boomed.

"Albus, you couldn't have spared him. You couldn't have spared him any of this."

"But I could have better prepared him!" he responded, his voice still angry. He jumped out of the chair, and Minerva felt slightly relieved as she watched him pace in front of her bed. The rest of the world saw him as the calm, kindly old professor, but it had been this fiery man she had fallen in love with so many years ago. Though she hated to see him so upset, she was glad that he had recovered quickly from his bout of despondence. She knew no man who was less suited to self pity than Albus Dumbledore.

"So he was that angry then?" she asked him quietly.

He stopped pacing for a moment and gave her a wry smile. "My office is in shambles."

She rolled her eyes. "He has too much of a temper! I don't know how many times he provoked that Umbridge toad this year ..."

"What's that muggle phrase?" Albus laughed softly. "The pot calling the kettle black?"

She grimaced. "Well, she couldn't threaten me with detention."

He frowned. Then, sitting on the edge of her bed, he took her in his arms. "No, but I think four stunners to the chest was a great deal worse," he said, his words slightly muffled against her hair. He pulled back and gave her a lopsided grin. "What kind of husband am I? I come to visit you in St. Mungo's, only to bring you worry and strife. How are you?"

She lay back against the pillows and said, "Quite well, my dear. They're going to let me out tomorrow, I believe." She smiled at the happiness in his eyes. "But you know I'm fine, you saw me just yesterday." She waved a finger at him. "Sneaking into the hospital like that! Really, you could have gotten caught!"

He smiled sadly. "Ah yes, I was still a man on the run then, wasn't I?" He sighed. "So much has changed in a single day. I can't believe Sirius is gone. And Harry ... my god, I've truly failed the boy."

Minerva felt her spirits lag. He had fallen back into his depression. "Albus, I'm telling you ..." she paused. "Listen, Remus came by earlier and explained everything ... how Harry ran off to the ministry to save the day ... you couldn't have known something like that would happen! The boy ... we all know he's too impetuous, too hotheaded for his own good. As much as I hate to agree with Severus about anything, he's right about Harry."

Albus shook his head fiercely. "Another one I've failed."

Minerva huffed. "For goodness' sake, Albus! People make their own choices!"

When his eyes, so full of anguish, met hers, she felt as if her heart would break in half. "They depended on me," he whispered.

She knew, suddenly, that he was not talking about Snape or Potter. She didn't know what to say. She never did when his mind wandered back to that time before they had met. So she laid a hand on his arm and said nothing at all.

It was in this difficult silence that she heard the owl tapping on the window beside her bed. Albus had heard it as well, and he grimaced when he saw the fluttering bird. "Probably from Hogwarts," he murmured, getting up to let the owl in. But Minerva didn't recognize the large, gray bird.

As Albus tore open the message and began to read, Minerva watched his cheeks slowly drain of all color. Sitting up suddenly, she said, "What is it?"

He handed her the parchment without a word.

Hands shaking, she held the letter close to her eyes and scanned the red ink that spiked across the page: "I know your secret, old fool." It was not signed, but Minerva had no doubt who had sent it. When she looked up from the parchment, her husband was gone.