Resolving a Misunderstanding

“Sir, why do we need to consult Wilspy about dinner? Don’t the house-elves just serve it like normal?” Minerva asked as they approached the double oak doors leading to the Entrance Hall.

“If we wish to eat this evening, we must consult Wilspy. All of the other house-elves have been confined to the kitchen and other house-elf-appropriate places for the day; in addition, as we are the only residents of the castle until tomorrow morning when Headmaster Dippet will return and the rest of the staff will begin trickling back from holiday, it seemed foolish to have the house-elves serve their normal dinner.”

“You mean we’re the only people in the castle?” Minerva asked incredulously as they entered the cool entry way. “Is that exactly safe?”

“Oh, yes, my dear, quite. We renewed the wards just a few weeks ago, as I mentioned earlier, and now that we have finished our conversation, I can tell Wilspy that the other house-elves have the freedom of the castle again.”

“It’s just, just, well, creepy, sir, this huge empty castle, and just the two of us and the Hogwarts house-elves.”

Albus stopped midway up the stairs and turned to Minerva, who had been walking up beside him. “I am sorry, Minerva. I had not thought. I am so used to so many things that I have forgotten, perhaps, what it might be like for you,” he said gently. “If you would like to return to your parents for the night, or even for the rest of the weekend, I would be happy to escort you there after dinner – or sooner, if you are bothered.”

“No, no!” Minerva did not want to have to go home like a little girl who had cried when left with her aunt and uncle for a few hours. “I didn’t mean it like that. I want to stay. Really, sir.”

“Are you sure, my dear?” asked Albus, still not moving from the stair on which he had stopped. “Would you feel more comfortable if Wilspy stayed with us during dinner? She could even spend the night in your room, if you like.”

Minerva suddenly understood Albus’s concern. “Oh, no, that would be even weirder. I don’t mind it if you’re here, Professor. What I mean is, it wouldn’t matter where we were, I’d feel safe if you were with me. Even if we were in the middle of Grindelwald’s camp,” she said.

“Hush, now, don’t even think such things,” responded Albus.

“All I’m saying is that it’s just the castle that bothers me, not being here with you. In fact, if I had to be alone in the castle with a bunch of house-elves, I’d rather you be with me than anyone else.” Minerva felt slightly embarrassed at the sentiment she expressed, but she didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable being alone with her, either.

Albus started back up the stairs to the Transfiguration classroom. “Well, that’s settled, then. I don’t think I had ever been at Hogwarts when it was this empty until after I’d come here to teach. I stayed over Christmas holidays one year, and there were only three students staying in Gryffindor Tower, but that was practically crowded, compared to our current, though highly temporary, situation.”

“Professor, what about the ghosts? What I mean is, Headmaster Dippet had everyone leave the castle and grounds, and the house-elves were confined – although I don’t understand why; I thought they had to be loyal to their House or family – what did you do with the ghosts? And what about the portraits?”

Albus chuckled as he let them into the classroom. “My, I suppose that after hours of listening to me talk, and saying so little, the urge to ask questions has asserted itself again. Well, the ghosts have willingly bound themselves to the wards and its Keeper, with the exception of Peeves – who, it turns out, is one of the unintended by-products of those seventeenth century wards meant to keep the children in check – and the portrait network is also tied into them. Although you may have noticed a distinct lack of portraits in our picnic area! The elves, although bound to be loyal to Hogwarts, can interpret that loyalty in whatever way they wish. They do have their own internal structure for dealing with miscreants” – Minerva thought of Fwisky’s discipline when he said this – “but I thought it best to take the added security measure of eliminating the possibility of being overheard by them, or the portraits, which, although a part of the ward structure, are not completely controlled by it. Does that answer all your questions?” he asked with a slight smile.

“Yes, but why is Wilspy free?”

“Do not let her hear you say that she is free, my dear, although she has the freedom of the castle, of course. It is because she is a Dumbledore house-elf; she has a deep-seated loyalty to me personally, not just to the school and its ever-changing population. Besides, she packs a lovely picnic basket!”

Minerva smiled broadly at that.

“Well, Minerva, why don’t you avail yourself of the washroom, and I will ask Wilspy about dinner. Do you have anything you’d particularly care for? No?”

Through the closed door of the loo, Minerva could just hear Dumbledore speaking in low tones to Wilspy, presumably releasing the other elves from their confinement – they must have been driven to distraction without being able to “serve” – and ordering dinner. She walked out of the office just as Wilspy Apparated away with a gentle crack.

“I have ordered a light supper for us. I hope that suits you. If you are hungry later, or at anytime this weekend, call Wilspy, and she will be at your service.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“I also had an idea that I spoke with Wilspy about. If it meets with your approval, she can make the arrangements necessary. As Deputy Headmaster, and, of course, in my other roles here at Hogwarts, I have somewhat grander quarters than most of the other teachers. They include a small guest room with its own loo and a separate entrance to the corridor. If you would feel more comfortable there than in Gryffindor Tower tonight, you are welcome to make use of it. There is no bath, only a somewhat cramped shower, but it is at your disposal,” Albus finished.

“That’s very generous of you, Professor, but I don’t want to disturb you, or have Wilspy go to extra trouble.”

“You know that Wilspy would be glad to serve, as would I. Please stay wherever you feel most comfortable. I would suggest the library, but my recollection is that one’s slumber is never particularly restful there.” Albus grinned at her.

“I really don’t know. I am used to my room in Gryffindor Tower, but, well, I hate to admit it, it sounds so childish, but it feels different when there’s no one else there. Can we eat supper first, before I decide?”

“Of course; and I understand. Why don’t we stop by the guest room on the way to Gryffindor Tower, that way you can see it and decide then.”

Wilspy appeared with their supper at that moment, which consisted of some kind of pickled fish, bread, cheese, tomatoes, a bowl of grapes, and a pitcher of pumpkin juice. Minerva thought she’d avoid the fish, as it looked rather disgusting, but Albus helped himself to it and ate it with such a relish, that she tried a little and decided it wasn’t too bad, but she wasn’t going to be calling Wilspy for more.

After finishing their meal, Albus walked with her along the first floor corridor to one of the narrow flights of stairs that she’d always thought led nowhere, which they climbed upward past several landings until they reached one that opened onto a wide corridor. Finally, they turned into a narrower hallway with large windows along one side and several portraits along the other. Stopping at the third portrait, Albus clearly said, “Chocolate Frog,” and the portrait and the door it was guarding swung open.

“‘Chocolate frog,’ Professor?”

“Mmm, a new sweet. They have them at Honeydukes. You should try one! Don’t worry, no frogs involved. They just look like them and have a tendency to try to hop away until you bite their legs off.” With that explanation, he gestured for her to enter.

The room was almost a precise square, which was quite surprising for any room at Hogwarts. There were two windows along the opposite wall, with a typical Hogwarts four-poster bed between them. There was a small desk along the wall to the right and a wardrobe across from it. Each of the two side walls featured a door. Albus stepped in behind her and opened the door on the left, showing her a small but efficient bathroom, with toilet, shower, and sink. He went to the door opposite the bathroom, and explained to Minerva that it led to his sitting room and that his bedroom was beyond that.

He opened that door for her, and she peeked through to see what appeared to be a combination study and sitting room decorated in deep burgundy, moss green, gold, and cream, and furnished with a desk, a few chairs, a couch, a small table, and a fireplace. Along the walls were bookcases; they even stood in front of the windows, blocking out what light was left in the evening sky. There were also stacks of books and parchment everywhere, although they were in neat piles, and it seemed that they had been placed in some kind of order.

“My bedroom is through the door on the other side of that rather crowded room,” Albus said. “It would only be for the one night, but if you suddenly needed me, I would be close at hand. Of course, if you stay in Gryffindor Tower, you can always call Wilspy, and she will come.”

Minerva was torn. On the one hand, she didn’t want to seem a little girl who couldn’t spend one night alone in the dormitory. On the other, she thought she would feel a little more at home in the small bedroom next door to the comfortable, Dumbledorish mess. On the third hand, if she had a third, she was used to the Tower room, but on the fourth hand, she felt honoured that he would allow her to stay in his guest room.

“Well, do you mind if I fetch a few things, then? If it’s really all right for me to stay here?”

“Of course, come, we will walk to Gryffindor Tower together, and then you won’t have any trouble finding your way back. After you’re settled in, we can have some tea, and you can tell me your decision.”

Soon, Minerva was sitting comfortably in an armchair in Albus’s study, drinking chamomile tea. “I’ve decided to help you, Professor. And not just because you asked, but because it’s important for the future safety of Hogwarts, even if there’s no immediate threat. From what I’ve read in the Daily Prophet, Grindelwald has only conducted a few attacks here in Britain, and he seemed to focus on specific people, rather than on places. But if he ever were to launch an attack in Britain, Hogwarts might be a target. Even if he only did enough damage to lower the morale of the wizarding world, people – children – might still be hurt. And if one of the holes in our security is the Animagus identification problem, then we must address that. Even if he does not know of or exploit that weakness, someone else might, someday. I am willing, Professor, and will put all of my efforts into achieving the Animagus transformation.” Minerva gazed earnestly at her professor.

Dumbledore smiled at the end of her speech. “Thank you, Miss McGonagall,” he said softly. “But you must put some effort into your other schoolwork, as well. Do not forget your NEWTs are less than two years away!”

Minerva furrowed her brow. “Of course not, but isn’t this more important than how well I do on my NEWTs?”

“It would be only if I thought you were disposable, Minerva, only if I valued your life solely to the extent to which you might benefit me in this moment. Even then, a longer view might prove that wrong. But your life is important; whatever we may be able to accomplish with the wards, with your help, is not to be compared with all that you may achieve throughout your life. Your NEWT-level classes are the foundation for that life. I also want you to be happy, my dear. Once your part in the warding project is over, do you think you would be happy to find that you have lost the opportunity to study subjects other than the Animagus Transfiguration? No, my dear, you must apply yourself to your extra credit project, to be sure, but not to the exclusion of all else.”

Minerva thought about what her mentor had just said. It made sense, and it warmed her heart, as well, to know that he appreciated her, Minerva McGonagall, not just some useful, trustworthy potential Animagus. She smiled at him then, her affection for him bubbling through, and said, “Thank you, Professor Dumbledore. I will follow your advice. But I am still honoured to be able to help you.”

Shortly thereafter, Dumbledore managed to convince Minerva to retire for the night, pointing out that yawning three times in as many minutes was probably an indication that she needed her sleep. He reminded her that he was just one room away and that she could call Wilspy at any time.

Minerva didn’t remember falling asleep that night, and when she awoke, it was bright morning and Wilspy was calling her name. “Miss Minerva, Professor’s Miss! Wake up! It is time for Miss to have breakfast.” When she saw Minerva stirring, Wilspy popped away.

Minerva sat up and swung her feet over the edge of the bed, then padded into the little bathroom to wash up and use the toilet. As she dressed, Minerva wondered where she was supposed to go to have breakfast, and she was just buckling her shoes when she heard a rap on the door that led to Dumbledore’s sitting room.

“Yes?” she called. “Professor, is that you? You may come in. Wilspy woke me up a while ago.”

The door opened, revealing Professor Dumbledore, who apparently was not at his best first thing in the morning. He was wearing a long brocade and satin dressing gown over what appeared to be a long night shirt, and his feet were clad in peculiar fuzzy slippers with wiggling ears.

“Good morning, Minerva. I haven’t dressed yet, as you can plainly see, but I wanted to let you know that when you are ready for breakfast, you can just come into the study and call for Wilspy. I will join you when I am more properly attired.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

After they had eaten breakfast, Minerva packed up the few things she’d brought from her dormitory the night before. When she stepped into the study to tell Professor Dumbledore that she was returning to the Tower and to ask if he wanted to meet with her later that day, he was engrossed in what looked like Arithmantic calculations, but with symbols she had never seen used before. That reminded her of the book that her father had sent for him. The two agreed that they would meet at two o’clock for a few hours and that she would bring the book with her then.

On her way back up her dormitory, which was surprisingly close to Professor Dumbledore’s rooms, she encountered, separately, both Professor Gamp, who did not seem startled to see her, but who simply nodded a curt greeting, as usual, and Professor Dustern, who did seem surprised to see her. At the explanation that she had arrived early in order to prepare for a special project in Transfiguration, Dustern seemed miffed, Minerva thought, that the project was not with her. Shaking her head at the oddness of adults, she gave the password to the Fat Lady’s portrait and entered the common room. In the middle of the day, having just run into two teachers after having had a nice breakfast with Professor Dumbledore, she did not find the empty Gryffindor Tower at all creepy or weird and settled down with a book, luxuriating in the peace and quiet.

Thus, Minerva spent the few days before the rest of the students arrived back at the castle Monday evening, reading, thinking, and having tutorials with Professor Dumbledore. Taking lunch and dinner at the round table in the Great Hall wasn’t nearly as strange as she’d thought it would be, and she enjoyed talking with the different teachers, although she always preferred to sit by her Head of House.

At the Welcoming Feast, when other students, chiefly fellow prefects, asked her why she hadn’t been on the train, she explained, “Family business,” in such a tone as to forestall any questions, even from her friends. The new school year started, but to Minerva, it felt anticlimactic after her long conversation with Dumbledore about the Hogwarts’ wards.

And so the weeks went by, and late summer faded as cold autumn winds blew in off the lake, and the days grew shorter. Minerva’s birthday came, largely unremarked, although her parents sent her a lovely necklace that had been her Great-grandmother McGonagall’s, and her three brothers had each sent a book, which was what they usually gave her for her birthday, with their congratulations on coming of age. Professor Dumbledore also gave her a book, a very old copy of The Book of Taliesin, saying “Felicitations, Miss McGonagall!”

It was clear that the volume he gave her had at one point been comprised of separate parchments that had later been cut apart and sewn together into its current form. Looking through it, Minerva recognised that there were poems there that she had never seen before, and others that she did expect to see were not there. Her Welsh was very rusty, Minerva having studied it with her father before she came to Hogwarts but not having used it much since. She got the feeling, holding and examining the book, that this was not something one could pick up in Flourish & Botts for any price.

“Professor,” Minerva said slowly, “where did you get this? It’s very old. . . .”

“It was in my grandfather’s library, and in his grandfather’s library, and as far as I remember being told, in his grandfather’s grandfather’s library, as well. You needn’t worry it’s stolen,” he teased.

“It’s not that,” Minerva said, gently closing the book, “it’s that I don’t think I can accept it.”

“Minerva, I will be very disappointed if you don’t. I wanted to give you something special; you have come of age, but you have also been working very hard to achieve a part of the Art that Taliesin is said to have attained with no effort. You deserve to receive something special to acknowledge that hard work. It seemed that this book would find a good and worthy home with you.”

After that speech, Minerva could not refuse the gift, but she did keep it wrapped and in a locked, warded drawer in her wardrobe, only taking it out to look at when no one else was present.

Some weeks later, Minerva was sitting in the Transfiguration classroom late one evening. She had advanced in the exercises that she was able to practice without supervision and was in the midst of one that required particularly intense concentration, when she was startled by the opening classroom door. She had the impression that she was trying to stand, when suddenly, everything went black and cold.

“Minerva, Minerva! Here, now, can you open your eyes, my dear?”

Minerva slowly became aware that, although she had apparently fallen to the floor, she was being held in someone’s warm, strong arms. She knew it was Professor Dumbledore calling to her, and she could tell by the feel of the arm around her shoulder, and from the slight aroma of lemon and sandalwood wafting down, that it was he who held her. She knew she should open her eyes for him, but she was comfortable, and just wanted to stay there. Just stay there forever . . . .

But he called again, “Minerva, Minerva, please, my dear, open your eyes. Now is not the time for sleep.”

Her eyes fluttered, then she closed them again, relaxing even more deeply into his arms. “Don’t want you to let go . . . ,” she mumbled.

“I won’t let go, my dear, but you need to open your eyes for me. Open your eyes!” The last sounded like an irresistible command, and so Minerva obeyed.

“Professor?” she whispered.

“Yes, my dear. I am so sorry to have caused your accident. It seems that my entrance caused you to switch your magical focus from internal to external too quickly. It’s not a common occurrence, but not unexpected, either. Rather like the magical equivalent of fainting when standing up too quickly if you haven’t been eating right.”

“I don’t faint,” murmured Minerva blearily.

“Now, don’t close your eyes again just yet. That’s right, just look up at me. That’s good, Minerva, my dear . . . .”

Minerva scarcely heard any more of the reassuring words he said: she was aware only that she was resting across his lap, cradled in his left arm, head resting against his chest. She could feel his right hand gently stroking her forehead, long fingers softly stroking her temple then caressing her cheek, and in the flickering candlelight, she saw his blue eyes, filled with concern, focussed on her face, focussed on her alone. But what she was most aware of was the beating of his heart, the thrumming of his magic, and the answering throb of her own pulsing life. Minerva wanted to stay in his arms forever, to have him hold her; to kiss him, to have him return her kisses. She felt the steady beat of her own heart increase, and the heat of her blood spread upward to fill her breast with an almost painful new passion. And then the heat spread lower, heavy, flowing, swelling, throbbing, inexorable, filling her with a desire she’d never known before, but which, even in the haze of her acute awareness of him, she recognised.

Some part of Minerva was appalled at the unexpected arrival of these intense feelings for the wizard holding her, some part was ashamed, but the part of her that was melting into her professor’s arms – that part of her never wanted to let him go and never wanted to let go of the feelings that his embrace engendered in her. Need, want, and desire bubbled through her. A giving, grasping, needing, embracing passion leapt in her chest.

The passion rising up in her body and soul merged gladly with the love for him already in her heart. Unable to help herself, Minerva turned her face further towards him, not wanting to lose sight of his brilliant eyes, nor of his sensitive lips, but nonetheless wanting to bury her face in his warm beard and burrow closer to the beating heart that throbbed an echoing call to her own pulse.

Albus, unaware of the emotional turmoil his young Gryffindor was experiencing, continued stroking her forehead and caressing her cheek. “There, there, Minerva, you’ll be all right soon. All will be well. There, there, stay awake for me, Minerva, my dear.”

She was his dear, his Minerva, some part of her thought muzzily. And she would be his forever.

Abruptly, another awareness broke through her sweet content and assaulted the warmth that had settled in her soul. A cold, clenching, acute pain encircled her heart with a cruel realisation: She was a student. She was his student. That was all she was, and all she could ever be, whispered a voice within her.

He was Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore: hero, renowned Alchemist, Keeper of Hogwarts’ Wards, Deputy Headmaster, Head of Gryffindor House, and Transfiguration master. She was Minerva McGonagall, sixth-year Gryffindor Transfiguration student. Perhaps he valued her for herself; but there was no denying that what she was . . . well, that wasn’t much at all.

She began to weep, almost silently, against him, tasting the salt of her tears on his beard as she opened her mouth to draw a gasping, choking breath. It would never go away. It would never go away. She knew that, as surely she knew that the sun rises in morning. It was lodged in her, bound to her soul. As her tears continued to flow, hot and silent, Minerva knew that hers was not even to dream, never even to dream. Never even to dream . . . . It had consumed her rapidly, completely, and left her with only a taunting glimpse of what she could never have.

She would die of It, she was sure. Yes, she would die of It.