Rough Times

Well, let’s see. There were five essays left to grade, including that one still soaked in black ink – that is unfortunate, she had told Mr Longbourg before picking it up with the tip of her fingers. She lowered her gaze. Bugger. They were still stained.

Then there was patrolling to do for an hour, and some sewing to tackle, because her right sleeve was in dire need of mending – ah, and before that, a short meeting with Albus, to get the updated list of next year’s young recruits. She sighed heavily and turned around, heading towards the headmaster’s office. She hoped that this time, he would be mindful of his handwriting. Albus Dumbledore was a talented wizard, but he wrote as neatly as a muggle doctor when he was in a rush, and she spent enough time already trying to decipher her student’s poor attempts at calligraphy.

“Truffe au chocolat”, she said in a dry voice as soon as she stepped in front of the gargoyle. She felt a tinge of regret at the thought she was the one who had encouraged Albus to go back to Savoie in the Summer when two students behind her glanced over their shoulder, and started sniggering.

She climbed the flight of stairs quickly. The door to the office was opened. She was about to get in when the echo of a voice stopped her in her tracks: it was Albus’.

His voice was cold, almost menacing, unusually low. Her mind, still infatuated with the image of the adorable, foolish old man who had not ceased to speak about Chambéry chocolates since the beginning of the term two days ago, did not quite comprehend how that voice could be emanating from the same person. She froze completely.

“I expected better from you. Do you not see how Mr. and Mrs Sweeney will be valuable assets to us when the time comes, Severus? Is there any need to treat their son this way? Do you take pleasure in belittling children?”

“I don’t understand what you mean, headmaster. I have... told you before that your definition of a “harmless prank” differs from mine. Mr Sweeney deserves the detention, and I stand by my decision.”

“You are hounding the boy.”

“No. He is neither special nor important, and I intend to teach him so. You usually do not meddle with my decisions, headmaster. Am I to understand Mr Sweeney deserves special treatment?”

Minerva raised her head. That is bold of him.

“Mr Sweeney deserves equal treatment, Severus – all Gryffindors do. You will call off this detention at once.”

A pause.

“I cannot do that, headmaster. With all due respect, this would embolden the students to -”

A chair being pushed back.

“This is an order, Severus. I am not leaving you a choice. I am tired of your methods, and tired of the parents’ complaints. You cannot rule by Terror alone.”

“I have no other choice, headmaster”, Severus replied. It was subtle, but even Minerva did not miss it: his voice was trembling slightly.

There was another pause. She thought of clearing her throat, or perhaps turning back – but Albus’ voice rose again.

“You have a choice, Severus. You always do, and yet again you take the easy way out. You do not try. I don’t know what I am to do with you.”

There was no reply.

“Do not forget why I have taken you in, Severus. We are building a network. I will not have you jeopardize the school’s reputation or my plans because of your personal vendettas.”

“Headmaster-”

“Do not disappoint me again, my boy.” A pause, clearly planned. “You owe me as much.”

“What is the meaning of this?”

Both men turned their heads towards the threshold of the office, taken by surprise. Minerva, herself only half-conscious of her movements, made her way towards the desk.

“What, Albus, is the meaning of this?” she repeated, stopping right next to Severus. The young Potion Master was hunched in an armchair, his shoulders down in defeat; the headmaster, standing tall, was on the other side of the desk, his hands clenched on the edge of the wooden surface. He was looking at her with slight confusion.

“Minerva”, he greeted her. He took a step back from the desk. “I apologise; Severus and I had not planned for this meeting to last this long. Please, have a seat.”

The Potion Master immediately rose to his feet, his face a mask of complete indifference.

But his eyes, there was something in his eyes, pain, anger perhaps– Minerva caught his arm.

He froze, his gaze locked on her hand.

“Albus,’ Minerva said slowly, still peering at Severus, “of all the vile things I had to hear in my life, what you have just said to Severus must be one of the worst.”

There was a slight change in the headmaster’s countenance. He frowned, and his face contorted – it was both sudden and disconcerting.

“Minerva, please”, he told her quietly. “This only concerns Severus and I.”

“Severus was right to punish Mr Sweeney”, the deputy headmistress replied, still refusing to let go of Severus’ arm. “And I will make sure his parents pay for the acquisition of his classmate’s new cauldron. I often complain about Severus’ methods, they are rather harsh, I must admit – you have consistently insisted on each teacher’s right to their own modus operandi. You know that I disagree with that.” She paused. “You cannot speak like this.”

“This does not concern you”, the headmaster repeated blankly.

Severus’ face had turned as white as a sheet. He did not dare make eye contact with either of them, and looked obstinately at something in the far distance.

“But it does concern me, Albus”, Minerva replied, thin-lipped.

Her tone was hard to describe, many-layered and, or so it would seem to the careful listener, surprised at itself, respectful still, perfectly certain of its legitimacy.

Albus’ gaze made direct contact with his colleague’s.

“It does”, she went on. “Aren’t you the one who told us last year that the boy’s well-being concerned us? That this whole situation requires collective effort? Or does this only apply to us? Enlighten me.”

The headmaster was looking at her gravely. He had recovered from his surprise, regained his natural charisma: one glance from him and Minerva felt herself wavering, for a second incapable of justifying to herself why, out of the two men present, her enemy wasn’t Severus.

It should have been natural. She and Albus on one side of the office, the boy on the other. It should have been natural.

Was there something new?

“My dear professor, please be mindful of your tone”, Albus told her politely, though his voice was firm and low. “It is my responsibility to keep the staff in line, as you know.”

Minerva pursued her lips.

“I am aware. And does that involve humiliation? Power play? Albus… I have seen you do better.”

He flinched, and once again she felt her assurance falter – but she was right, and she wanted to tell him acidly, to mutter angrily, need I remind you that the boy is fragile?

And there was more. An awful feeling of discomfort, the uncovering of something truly vile that terrified her.

“As my deputy, I ask that you follow my lead, Minerva. I assure you there are no hard feelings between Severus and I.”

As if the mention of his name had broken his trance, the Potion Master finally freed himself from Minerva’s grasp, taking a step back. He cast a defying glance at Dumbledore, he could not help it – the headmaster raised an eyebrow. He lowered his head.

“There is no need for this, profess- Minerva. This is nothing serious”, he told her drily.

For a moment, the deputy headmistress looked as though she was going to burst out. Her jaw contracted painfully as she closed her mouth tightly, at a loss for words. She used a few precious seconds to calm down, careful for her silence to not last too long. She did not want to look upset: it was not the kind of person she was. She was composed, and grave, and rigid, and that was how she would handle the matter.

“Like I said before, Mr Sweeney deserves this detention. As his head of house, I insist on it.”

Dumbledore took a deep breath in. He, on the other hand, did not bother to hide his growing frustration.

“I have already established that this detention is not justified, Minerva. You will handle the matter accordingly.”

A pause.

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You have heard me, Albus.”

A longer pause – one filled with tension, almost electric, terribly heavy. It was the first time Minerva was opposing her superior, her friend, so frontally; never before had any of their many disagreements turned into a violent confrontation.

Under his scrutiny she felt like a little girl, like the young teacher that had cried in his arms after the marriage of Dougal. He had been there too, when Dougal had died. The boundless empathy he had shown, the strong and reassuring hand he had extended to her each time - she had thought, vaguely, foolishly perhaps, that it had been extended to Severus also. Albus had taken in him, had defended him, had nursed him, and this all was genuine, she could swear it.

But there was something foul. A sort of… a repulsive kind of submission that Albus demanded as payment.

He liked the boy. But the boy was complicated: he was defiant, and stubborn. She had thought that, like her, when he showed signs of frustrations, he could simply not understand this behaviour. She had shared his annoyance. She had complained about the Potion Master, confronted him, called him out sometimes even during staff meetings. And this had been carried out, always, on equal footing. There had even been some cup of teas shared afterwards, in her office. But Albus did not expect to argue. He did not expect Severus to yield before reason. He expected him to yield, because he had been brought to the castle under such condition.

Was it servitude? When Severus had lowered his head just a moment ago?

“Severus”, Albus said slowly, “you are excused.”

The Potion Master was looking at Minerva, a strange expression on his face. It seemed as though he was going to say something, his muscles contracted in contradictory ways.

Finally, and not without violent struggle, he seemed to decide against speaking, nodded confusedly, and turned back.

He disappeared in the staircase. Albus’ gaze lingered on the threshold for a moment. When it returned to Minerva, he looked furious; still, when he spoke again, his voice was calm.

“What has gotten into you, Minerva?” he asked simply, his tone exaggeratedly casual.

He was looking at her intensely. She looked back; he held her gaze. For a moment she felt as though he was going through her mind, looking for clues – then, slowly, he sat down.

“Do not patronise me, Albus. This is not about me.”

“Indeed. And yet we have not closed the subject.”

She squinted slightly.

“You gave the boy a second chance. I thought it was generous of you. He does owe you his life. But you, of all people…” she was lost in thought for a second, searching for the right words. “Why do you hold this above his head? Why do you… expect him to bow before you for that reason alone? We have always spoken. Argued, even. You listened. Why do you not extend this favour to Severus?”

Albus smiled.

“I am glad to see that you now care for the boy, Minerva.”

“That is not what this is about!”

She was livid. Albus tilted his head, searching for her gaze once more.

“Answer me”, she said sternly.

He sighed.

“The boy needs to be disciplined, Minerva. For his own good.”

“Perhaps. But even when you disagreed with my choices, even when we held vastly different opinions, Albus; I was never, in all these years, under the impression that I could disappoint you.”

He frowned.

“You could never disappoint me, Minerva”, he replied, and for the first time since they had started talking there was a slight trace of weariness in his voice. “I care about Severus. He is important; more than he knows. I need to bring him in line.”

“You had countless colleagues – employees – that proved to be more or less insubordinate. It never really mattered. But Severus… he is different, is he not?”

The older man did not reply. He handed her a long parchment, which she recognized to be the list of addresses she had come to retrieve. She did not move.

“Indeed, Minerva. He is different.”

She put the parchment under her arm.

“I have disagreed with you countless times tonight, Albus. I have shown myself to be defiant, even insolent at times. You listened to me. You replied. You expected reason, and not mere hierarchy, to settle this matter.”

She glanced at Severus’ empty chair.

“You will extend this courtesy to the boy, Albus.”

It had been both an order and a plea.

Minerva McGonagall held on to a strict, crystal-clear image of Albus Dumbledore, one that comforted her even when her own moral compass wavered. She was brave, intransigent, heroic; but she was not fearless. One thing only could trouble her, and it was the disturbance of her strongest beliefs, of the pillars of her soul. For her sake, Albus Dumbledore needed to conform to the idea she had of him.

Severus had not. Severus had changed everything.

Her mind, her neatly ordered inner-self could not afford to be derailed again.