Hands Clean
by Riley

"We'll fast-forward to a few years later

No one knows except the both of us

I have more than honored your request for silence

You've washed your hands clean of this

You've washed your hands of me."

--- Alanis Morissette, "Hands Clean"

At first, it was little more than rumor.

And Minerva McGonagall dealt in facts. Solid, hard facts. The objective order and reason of Transfiguration spells--- not the gossip that surged through the Ministry, of a powerful, inhuman Dark wizard who was steadily gathering followers to his cause. A creature with the face of a snake and red eyes, who claimed to be immortal.

She kept to herself, to her work. And tried not to think of a night, so many years ago, when she had sat on her couch with the man she loved and he had shown her his plans for immortality. For changes to his body that would make him less than human--- and infinitely more so.

But she knew. She could not help but know.

After a time, his name surfaced. Voldemort. Lord Voldemort.

Flight from death, of course. Apt name for a creature seeking immortality.

And no one else noticed the simple, elegant anagram that twisted that forbidding name into something far more prosaic.

And still she would not speak of it. It would do no good, after all, except to tarnish her own name.

Besides, once upon a time, he had asked that she keep his secret.

And--- though he must needs be dead to her now--- she would honor the last request that Tom Riddle had made of her.

*****

The ring was red gold, the crest in the center enameled. A man's ring, a strong ring.

A gift from a strong woman.

Lord Voldemort turned the ring in his thin, scaled fingers. Remembered the night--- had it been that long ago?--- when she had placed it on his finger.

Promised to one another. For life and beyond.

A promise she had broken. Or rather, had renounced.

He had offered her life--- his life, and the power that came with it. And she had refused.

Oh, she hadn't said the words. But she didn't need to. He knew and she did what her silence had meant.

And no one else knew.

Oh, they knew that Minerva McGonagall and Tom Marvolo Riddle had been sweethearts. Some even knew that they had been engaged to be married.

They might even know that the contract had been broken.

But of them all, only she would read the signs and know that he had returned, triumphant.

Yes, she knew. She knew... and did not come to him.

Not that he had truly believed she would come. Their goodbyes had been as final as they were silent, that night so many years ago.

But he had hoped. Had wanted it.

She was not coming to him. And Minerva coerced was not what he wanted. He wanted her to see, on her own, the truth of his beliefs, and to join him for that truth, more even than for love.

She had left him for--- what? For that strange code of honor of hers that he had never quite fathomed.

And it would do no good to violate the last of their trust.

He took the ring from his finger and slid it onto its chain, placed it beneath his robes.

He would honor her request for silence. As she had honored his.

And they would wash their hands of each other. Forever.