She pauses, fork halfway to her mouth when he starts talking, and talking and oh my god it doesn’t stop and her fingers are clenched are her fork to the point that the small useless plastic utensil shatters and is that blood? But it doesn’t matter because she is pretty sure, no she’s absolutely positive, that Alastor is going to kill her. He has to– his words just keep washing over her and it’s as if he read one of the more elaborate pages of her first diary and decided to try it in real time.
And it hurt, god how it ached. This strong, fearless man in front of her, declaring all of these things– She closes her eyes to shield herself from the hardest parts of his speech to hear, only to feel tears on her face when her eyes reopen, needing to look at him, needing for him to see that this was killing her. But it nearly killed her the first go around, and she knows, god she knows, that she doesn’t have the strength to live through it again. She doesn’t have the strength to lose him like a lover– tempting the world by trying to recreate what was lost seems like too dangerous of a game for her to play in these uncertain times.
She sits there, eyes wet, hand bleeding, trying to understand, or better yet how to even respond. “You’re not an idiot.” Is what she finally settles on. Then she takes a breath, this one is so much more labored. “But what do you want from me, Alastor? From this? There is….very little directive in the declaration.” God, she sounded like an ass, she felt like an ass– she just hoped that Alastor,who really did know her better than most anyone, could see that this, this moment was running her ragged with overwhelming emotions, as they were not inherently in her wheelhouse.
“That’s the thing, see,” his voice sounds miserable to his ears, and coupled with the incessant rubbing of his hands, he looks like a very grave man indeed. “I dinna want ye tae think that I—well—,” Alastor pauses, eyes fluttering shut to gather his thoughts. What have you done, fool? “I want ye to have an out, Amelia, because I cannae spring this on ye without giving ye that at the very least. I want ye to be able to turn now and forget about this forever. I told ye this now because I have a giant target on me back and I am not infallible. The war—it’s like to go in the other direction, ye ken it as well as I do. I couldnae die without telling ye I loved ye one last time. I had t’tell ye.”
With a shock he notices the blood trickling down her hand. “Oh, m'eudail, yer hurt—” he pulls out his wand and lurches to her, gingerly assessing the wound. The cause of it was clear by the bloody remnants of the utensil near her plate. Ignoring their closeness and his frantically beating heart, he switches to battle mode—to head of the department mode—and, after some thought, settles on a charm which he whispers—a little too lovingly—under his breath. When he’s satisfied with the way the skin sealed itself, he sits back on his heels, staring up at her.
“I spent sae many years thinking about what was to come. We’ve lived with this fear for so long. Fear of Voldemort, fear of the world he would create, fear of the unknown... I couldnae live with another regret, or fear. I am prepared to die, though I will not seek it. I had tae make peace with the last thing on this Earth that kept me tethered here.”
