Resolving a Misunderstanding

As Minerva entered her quarters, whispering her password, alvarium album, her heart felt heavy, her eyes burned, and her throat was dry. She would follow Poppy’s advice and take a warm bath, but she should have thought to ask her for a calming potion of some sort – or at least a light Cheering Charm. Sighing, she knew that neither of those would have provided more than temporary and artificial relief. She shed her outer robe, draping it across the small bench in front of her vanity, and went into her bathroom to draw her bath. While not as elaborate as the Prefects’ Bath she had used during her last years as a student, it was still lovely, with pretty tiles lining the walls, depicting various scenes from wizarding history – most focussing on the deeds of witches, she had realised several days after arriving at the castle that winter.

The bathtub had several taps, each with its own control that could be adjusted either manually or with a wand. She bent and adjusted the hot and cold taps to fill the bath, then turned to the other spigots lining one side of the bath. Whilst she normally chose rose-scented bath oil in the evening and a bright, bubbly citrus mix in the morning, today she adjusted the lavender and rosemary taps to lightly scent her water.

Having done that, she returned to her bedroom and called out, “Blampa!” The house-elf popped in.

“Is Miss Professor Minerva ma’am wanting anything? Blampa very happy to serve the Professor ma’am!” Blampa was practically quivering with joy at having been called. The other house-elves had teased her and told her she must not be a very good house-elf because her new Professor hardly ever called her for anything.

“Yes, Blampa, please. I would like a large pot of hot tea. Orange pekoe, strong. And milk, no sugar.”

“Oh, Miss Professor Minerva ma’am!! Blampa be’s so happy to bring the Miss Professor her tea!” At this, Blampa actually jumped for joy. “But wouldn’t Miss Professor like some nice honey with her tea? Very good honey, Blampa knows. And very good for sore heart and sore throat, Miss Professor ma’am!”

Minerva stiffened. Sore heart and sore throat, she thought. What does that creature know? There are far too many of them in the castle; who knows what they talk about down in those kitchens. “Why would you offer me honey, Blampa? I asked for no sugar.”

Blampa’s mood seemed dampened by Minerva’s chilly tone. “Honey is only sweet like sugar, but good for tea when a witch is sad. Blampa knows. Blampa sees many sad witches and wizards feel better when they drink tea with good honey. Blampa feels Miss Professor might like good honey with Miss Professor’s tea, too.”

Minerva relaxed. Of course. Blampa had simply sensed that Minerva was not herself that morning.

“Very well, Blampa. Bring the honey with the tea – but don’t put any in it! I shall be in the bath. You may bring it to me there.”

“Yes ma’am Miss Professor!” replied Blampa, quivering again in anticipation of being able to serve.

“Thank you, Blampa; that will be all.”

Blampa popped out, and Minerva returned to the bathroom, where the taps had automagically shut themselves off. Minerva shed her shoes, socks, underrobe, chemise, and knickers, dropping them to the floor by the door. She sighed and stepped into the warm bath. Although it was early July and her rooms were warmed by the afternoon sun, the castle still seemed somewhat chilly to her. She conjured a soft terry-cloth pillow and leaned back against it. Just as she was beginning to run through the events of the morning in her mind again, Blampa reappeared, a large tray hovering in front of her. In addition to the tea, Blampa had brought a plate of shortbread and one of ginger newts.

“Thank you, Blampa, but I only asked for tea.”

“Blampa want Miss Professor Minerva to be happy. Miss Professor Minerva likes shortbread, and ginger newts is very good for Miss Professor and taste happy, too.”

Minerva, never having tasted anything “happy” before, decided not to argue with Blampa. She’d had sufficient unpleasant encounters for one day, she thought.

“Thank you, Blampa.”

Blampa popped out again, and Minerva reached over to the tray, which still hovered at a convenient height. She poured a little milk in the bottom of her cup, following it with the steaming golden tea. After only a moment’s hesitation, she added a small dollop of honey and stirred it. Just as she was taking her first sip, Blampa popped back in again, startling her.

“Goodness, Blampa, you startled me! I didn’t request anything else,” she said, eyeing the pile of fluffy towels floating behind the house-elf.

Blampa’s eyes filled with tears. “Blampa want to serve Miss Professor Minerva. Blampa want her Professor Minerva happy!”

Minerva groaned internally. Infernal house-elves! The McGonagall house-elves didn’t have all of these annoying habits – Fwisky would box the ears of any elf who started to cry over nothing – and none of them spoke in that irritating manner, speaking of themselves only in the third person and never addressing a witch or wizard with “you.” No McGonagall would have stood for it very long.

“It’s fine, Blampa. You merely startled me. I wasn’t expecting you. If you cry, I shall be very unhappy, Blampa!”

Blampa stopped her sniffing and gave a watery smile.

“There, now, that’s better. I see you’ve brought towels. You may leave them over there before you go.”

“Yes, Miss Professor Minerva ma’am.” Blampa had begun quivering slightly again.

“That will be all for this morning, Blampa. Please do not come in again today until I call you.” Minerva knew she had to be specific about that; after arriving at Hogwarts in December, she had once told the elf not to return until she called her, and Minerva became puzzled as to why her laundry was piling up in its basket and it didn’t appear her rooms had been cleaned. She called Blampa to ask her why. Blampa began moaning and weeping, saying that she was waiting until she was called. “Blampa waits, Miss Professor Minerva ma’am. Blampa waits and waits.” Since then, Minerva always specified how long Blampa was to wait before returning uncalled for.

“That will be all, Blampa. And thank you for the tea. It is very good.”

Blampa Apparated away in the midst of jumping for joy at her Professor’s praise.

Minerva leaned back again, sipping the tea and relaxing into the warm bath water. Talking with Poppy had helped a lot, she thought, but she still didn’t know what she would say or do the next time she saw Professor Dumbledore. Albus, she corrected mentally. Shortly after she’d left Hogwarts, he had insisted that she address him by his first name. He had suggested it before, during her sixth year, saying that he wouldn’t mind her using his first name when they were in private – after all, he’d reasoned, she was of age, and they were working closely together on several projects. She had politely declined at the time, for reasons that she didn’t give him, saying instead that she didn’t believe it to be a good habit to get into when she would need to remember to address him properly in public for the next year and a half. He hadn’t pressed the issue, although he did seem a little disappointed.

Minerva sighed and stretched in her bath. It was a lovely bathtub, charmed to keep the water at its original temperature without its occupant having to keep casting warming spells. Nonetheless, Minerva rarely soaked for long. She finished her first cup of tea, then poured another, again adding a dribble of honey. After a few sips, she thought that tea with honey and a warm bath did help one to relax enough to deal with one’s problems. Just as she thought that, however, her words mockingly rang back at her, Fuck Albus Dumbledore. And fuck his stupid beard, too!

Her eyes filled; she pressed her lids shut, and hot tears trickled down her cheeks. How could she have said such a thing? She set her teacup back on the tray and let out a sob. Despite what she’d said to Poppy, she knew very well that it was not only about respect. She never allowed herself to think about It, to consider It, to examine It, or, God forbid, develop any hopes about It, but It was there. It was the way she felt about Albus. It was the way being near Albus made her feel. It was the way just knowing him made her feel. It had never been clearly defined, not since she’d first become aware of It. She avoided It – avoided not only thinking about It, but also feeling It, as far as that was possible. Whenever It emerged, she would tamp It down vigorously. As she’d grown older, that had become easier – until she’d arrived at Hogwarts to teach. Over the previous ten years, It had never gone away, although It did seem to slumber occasionally; but then she would see Albus again or receive an Owl from him, and Minerva would become acutely aware that It was still there, no matter how much she wished It weren’t.

Over the first years that Albus was her Transfiguration teacher, she had got to know him as well as any student could know her teacher at Hogwarts and better than she knew any of the others. He nurtured and encouraged her. Under his tutelage, she had been able to explore all of the topics in Transfiguration that fired her imagination and excited her intellect, and, with his guidance, she had made continuing leaps of progress. As the years went on, the Muggle war in Europe raged hotter, and the wizarding war escalated to the point where even the most isolationist British wizard recognised that not only was the Continent threatened by the mad wizard Grindelwald, but England was, as well. Not to mention that as the Muggle war continued, wizarding Britain was becoming affected by it, too.

It was during her fifth year, then, that Minerva first saw Albus as something other than just another grown-up and her favourite Hogwarts teacher. He had cancelled their Friday afternoon tutorial meeting, explaining that he had business away from the school to attend to, as much as he would prefer to stay and meet with her. She nodded her head, eyes round, thinking of the rumours whispered amongst the students: their Professor Dumbledore was involved in the War Effort, and the Ministry was relying on him to find Grindelwald and stop the War. The first time that Minerva had heard that rumour, her heart had swelled with pride that it was her Professor Dumbledore upon whom the Ministry was relying. After a while, however, that pride had become worry as she saw him arriving in the classroom looking ever more weary. He was rarely seen at breakfast or dinner anymore and was never to be found on weekends, even when there was a Quidditch match; although he hadn’t yet missed a Gryffindor game, and he cheered just as enthusiastically as ever, he always arrived just as the match began and left as soon as it was over.

So when he told her that their Friday afternoon tutorial was cancelled, she swallowed bravely and said, “That’s all right, Professor. I’ll revise on my own. And there are some second-years who have been asking me for my help on their Transfiguration homework. May we use your classroom?”

“Yes, you certainly may, Minerva,” Albus twinkled. “In fact, I doubt that we will be able to continue our Friday afternoon sessions for a while. Please feel free to use the classroom. I shall set a password for you, so you may use it at other times, as well. What would you like the password to be, my dear?” he asked with a smile.

“Spero et expecto,” Minerva replied, thinking of her hopes for the War and her worry for her professor. It, to hope and to await, seemed appropriate, both the end of the War and the return of her Professor Dumbledore.

“Very good, my dear; spero et expecto it shall be. I trust you to use the classroom responsibly, of course, but do try not to miss curfew, if at all possible,” he said, smiling at his star pupil.

Minerva blushed, thinking of the time a few days before when he had found her at two o’clock in the morning, slumped over a book in the library. She had promised Madam Perlecta that she would only be a few minutes, and the genial old librarian made her promise to close the door tightly before she left, in order to reset the overnight wards. She really hadn’t meant to stay so long, but when Minerva became engrossed in a book, a blasting curse wouldn’t disturb her; she was like her father that way. So it was that, at two o’clock in the morning, she woke to a very dark library, Professor Dumbledore gently brushing her hair from her cheek and calling her name softly. He had escorted her back to Gryffindor tower, but only after retrieving some hot chocolate for them both from the kitchens. Once their hot chocolate had been brought, mounds of whipped cream floating on top, Dumbledore dismissed the house-elves.

Minerva had noticed earlier that Dumbledore was wearing a travelling cloak, a dark brown affair with an attached hood of the same colour, and a pair of dark brown boots. What was even more unusual about his attire than the drab hue, however, was the fact that he was wearing trousers beneath the cloak, and when he pushed back the cloak to sit at the kitchen table, she could see what appeared to be a Muggle Army uniform. She couldn’t help but goggle at it.

“So, do you like my choice of outfit, Miss McGonagall?” he had asked softly, but with a gentle smile.

“Um, it’s all right.” Minerva blushed. What should she say? “Did you Transfigure it?” That sounded stupid to her own ears, but Albus answered her quite seriously.

“No, my dear, it is quite genuine. Of course the rank and the right to wear it are somewhat counterfeit, but the Prime Minister believed that providing me the uniform – and the appropriate credentials – would be useful at any times I would need to work with the Muggle forces.”

“Who? The Prime Minister? You mean Churchill?” Now Minerva goggled even more. Even the wizarding world had heard of Winston Churchill, and his speeches were broadcast on the Wizarding Wireless at the same time as they were on the Muggle wireless. There was some speculation about his genealogy and whether he had wizarding blood, for certainly his words were more stirring than one would expect of a mere Muggle.

“Yes; it is not reported in the Daily Prophet as much as one would expect, but the Ministry has been cooperating with the Muggle government more closely in the last few years, as both have come to realise that our fates are bound. Minister Clypeus has asked me to work directly with the Prime Minister since the fewer in the Muggle government who know of the wizarding world, the better; after all, this war will end someday, one way or another.” Albus sighed at that, but then looked up at her and smiled. “Miss McGonagall! You have a lovely white mustache! You should add a beard, however, to complete the effect.” With that, he dipped his finger into the whipped cream melting on his hot chocolate and swiftly reached across the table and deposited a dollop of it on her chin.

Minerva laughed then and wiped her face clean with her napkin. “Although I would like to emulate you in every way, Professor Dumbledore, I fear that a beard and mustache will never suit me as they do you!”

They both chuckled and finished their hot chocolate. Something occurred to her just then.

“Professor Dumbledore, the uniform is a very good idea, but none of the soldiers I’ve seen have beards. Didn’t the Prime Minister think of that?”

Albus chortled. “Indeed, he did, my dear. He insisted I shave and cut my hair.” Minerva was aghast at that. She couldn’t imagine her Transfiguration professor without his long auburn-and-grey beard and his flowing hair. “But never fear! A simple wave of my wand convinced him that such a drastic step was unnecessary.”

With that, Dumbledore demonstrated, waving his wand. Suddenly, on the other side of the table sat a shaved and shorn British military officer. At first she thought he had used an elaborate Glamour to change his entire appearance, but then she realised that it was still her Professor Dumbledore, just with short hair and no beard. His features were still the same, those twinkling blue eyes, the sharp nose. She could now see that he had a well-formed jaw and a slight cleft in his chin. Somehow, his forehead seemed higher now that his beard was gone and his hair was closely cropped. Minerva stared in fascination.

Dumbledore chuckled at her reaction. “Recognise your old professor, Minerva?”

“Of course, sir! Um, I was wondering, don’t the Muggles usually have hats with their uniforms?”

“Ah, yes, my hat.” He reached into the deep pocket of his cloak and drew out a very small hat.

Tapping it with his wand first, to restore it to its normal size, he settled it onto his head. He then shed his cloak altogether and stood at attention. “What do you think of the effect, my dear? Do I pass inspection?”

Minerva giggled, then got up from her seat and walked around the table, where she looked him up and down. In as military a fashion as she could muster, she said, “Very good, er – ” she paused. “What’s your rank?” she whispered.

“I’m a general,” Albus whispered back.

“Very well, General Dumbledore,” Minerva continued, circling him, looking him up and down. “Your tie needs straightening. And don’t neglect your boots; an army is only as good as its boots!” Minerva had no idea where that had come from; probably the film she had seen with one of her Muggle-born classmates when she had visited her last year and gone to the cinema for the first time. It had been made to encourage the civilian population and was filled with heroic, handsome English soldiers and nasty, evil Nazis.

They both laughed at that. For a moment, looking at him standing there, broad-shouldered and laughing in his smart uniform, Minerva thought he would have looked well in such a film. He could play one of the experienced soldiers, delivering rousing speeches of encouragement and leading his men into battle . . . that thought froze her where she stood. Her amusement fled. Albus sensed her change in mood as he removed the hat, shrunk it, and pulled his cloak back over the uniform.

“What is it, my dear?” he asked gently.

“You don’t have to go into battle, do you, leading Muggles through trenches or anything?” Minerva tried to remember what she knew of Muggle warfare, and none of it was good.

“I wear this uniform so that I can order Muggle troops to move away if they are in imminent danger of entering an area of wizarding conflict and so that I can be taken seriously when I have intelligence about German troop movements. It would likely be disastrous for me to lead any Muggle troops, as my expertise is not in Muggle battle tactics,” Albus replied quietly.

Minerva tried to feel reassured by his words, and now that he had covered the uniform with his cloak and removed the Glamour, restoring his beard and hair, he looked more like her Professor Dumbledore. It still sounded as though he was not doing anything particularly safe. She had always envisioned him sitting in an office in the Ministry of Magic, telling people what to do and where to go, poring over maps and performing locating charms. This sounded rather different from that.

“But you still have to go into dangerous places, don’t you?” Minerva asked sombrely.

“There is danger all around us, Minerva. And it will only grow if those of us who are able do not do what we must in order to stop it. Come now, it is past time for you to be asleep. I think you should try to sleep late in the morning and skip your first class. I shall inform your professor.”

Minerva giggled at that as they walked toward the kitchen exit. “You are that professor, Professor!”

“Ah, am I? I shall have to have a word with myself, then,” Albus said with a mild twinkle.

They walked silently back up to Gryffindor Tower. Just before they reached the portrait, Albus laid his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “Minerva – ”

“Professor, thank you for the hot chocolate; I appreciate it. I will be sure not to mention it – or our conversation – to anyone. You found me in the library and escorted me back to Gryffindor Tower.” Minerva hesitated. “Shouldn’t you give me detention, sir?”

“You are the soul of discretion, my dear. I think that I shall be, as well. No need for a detention. But do try not to fall asleep in the library again.”

She promised dutifully and went upstairs to bed, resolving that she would not miss her Transfiguration class that morning. If Professor Dumbledore could be there after being up so late, so could she.

Author’s Note: As you have no doubt noticed, Resolving a Misunderstanding is a very long story. I could have posted it as sequels, but after consideration, I decided to keep it in one story, particularly as there is a very clear story arc, and the ending chapters contain reflections of the beginning ones.

This chapter, "Spero et Expecto," marks the beginning of Part Two of nineteen parts. The parts are not all equal in size, but each contains a distinct portion of the narrative. To see the table of contents with the nineteen parts labelled, visit my Blog and the outline/table of contents. If I were to divide RaM into "sequels" of separate books, I'd likely divide it into five, possibly six, books.

There are time indicators throughout the story, but the outline/table of contents (on my Blog and LJ) has the dates for each chapter, so that you can see that the first few chapters take place on the fourth of July, for example, introducing the characters and their situation at the beginning of that summer, and then many of the subsequent chapters (such as "Spero et Expecto") bring us back to show us the development of Minerva and Albus's relationship. The final full chapter of the story, "Sorted," takes place from the 30th of August through the 6th of September, and the Bonus Epilogue takes place on the 4th of October. So while the overall story covers from October 1937 through October 1957 (with the exception of the bit of Albus's story, which covers events from his youth), the romance story arc for the summer of 1957 covers only approximately two months, three if you include the epilogue.

The outline/table of contents does contain some spoilers, but not many, and you might find it interesting to take a look at it.

Thanks for reading!