Resolving a Misunderstanding

Having finished dressing and casting a few discreet Glamours to conceal the redness and puffiness of her face, Minerva went into the small loo to relieve herself of some of the tea she had drunk. She had always liked having her loo separate from her bathroom. The tiny room had three doors: one led to the bathroom, one to her bedroom, and one out to her sitting room. She exited through the latter and sighed when she looked at the clock that sat on her mantlepiece. Fortunately, it was an ordinary clock, with ordinary chimes and, to Minerva’s way of thinking, the correct number of hands. She really didn’t like being told, “Almost time for lunch!” or “Time to teach Transfiguration!” or “You’re going to be late if you don’t leave NOW!” This more civilized timepiece merely informed her, when she glanced at it, that it was four minutes before noon. She would technically be late, even if she were to leave now, although staff drifted in any time between noon and twelve-thirty during the summer; generally, she arrived no later than five past the hour.

Minerva sat down on her small sofa and gazed at the clock, not really seeing it. If she left now, there would still be many chairs left to choose from. She would likely have to leave at least one chair free beside her. If Albus came in after she did, as she presumed he would since he usually arrived between five and ten minutes later than she, he might choose to sit next to her. Minerva didn’t think she could bear that just yet, sitting beside him in public, trying to behave as though everything were normal, when it was not. At least, it was not to her. For all she knew, the injured expression Poppy thought she saw in his face had never been there, or if it had been, any hurt was as fleeting as the expression had been. Not that Minerva believed that Albus had forgotten what she had said, but perhaps he had simply dismissed it from his mind. Perhaps . . . no, Minerva was not going to go ’round and ’round again, tormenting herself with thoughts of her own inadequacy or of her relative unimportance in Albus’s life.

She couldn’t pretend to believe that she was completely insignificant to him any more than she could bring herself to believe that she held a special place in his life. At one time, she had thought that they were becoming good friends – despite It and the dangers she believed that It posed to her ability be near him – and she had imagined that being at Hogwarts together again would strengthen and deepen their friendship. Her hopes had risen after he had come to her house-warming party – late, but it hadn’t mattered at the time – all that had mattered was that he had come, and he had stayed for hours. No, Minerva told herself firmly, she must not think of that lovely evening, nor of her disappointment when, over the ensuing weeks, she rarely saw the Headmaster alone . . . or even in an informal setting in which they could simply talk together.

Minerva gritted her teeth and watched the clock. The hands moved slowly; finally, Minerva judged it late enough to be able to reach the Great Hall before there was only one chair left – possibly beside Albus – but early enough to be able to sit between two other people, in the event that Albus hadn’t arrived yet.

Minerva didn’t know whether to be happy or disappointed to see that Albus wasn’t in the Great Hall yet, but she was pleased to be able to sit between Professor Gamp and Hagrid. She and Gertrude got on well enough, she supposed. They were never overly friendly with one another, but neither of them was the effusive type, either. Back then, during the summer between her sixth and seventh years, Minerva had always appreciated both Professor Gamp’s silent acceptance of her as a quasi-colleague and the teacher's matter-of-fact attitude about her inclusion in the wards project. She never seemed to have trouble distinguishing between Miss-McGonagall-the-student and Miss-McGonagall-the-wards-tester. Minerva had been grateful that Professor Gamp had never treated her with condescension, as though she were a mere pupil, on the occasions she had joined Albus and Minerva in their work.

Gertrude had to be the most blunt, forthright Slytherin whom Minerva had ever met. Not that she was particularly talkative, of course, and Minerva sometimes wondered about what was going on behind those sharp eyes of hers. Nonetheless, Minerva could hold nothing against her, personally, although she sometimes envied Gertrude her access to the Headmaster.

Minerva greeted everyone as she took her seat between Gertrude and Hagrid, nodding particularly to Gertrude. Apparently, Professor Gamp took this as a sign that Minerva wished to begin a conversation.

“Did Albus find you this morning?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” Minerva’s stomach clenched. She really couldn’t get into a discussion of Albus, or this morning, with Gertrude right now.

“He and I left his office together this morning after we’d met,” she said between chews. “He told me he was going to look for you. He seemed to think you might be in the hospital wing if you weren’t in your rooms. Did he find you?”

“Yes, he found me,” Minerva mumbled, stuffing a lettuce leaf in her mouth.

“So you were able to meet, then? Good. I know he had wanted to. Asked me whether you had arrived or not when I fetched him from his bathroom.” Gertie shook her head, grinning slightly at the memory, and ate a bit of her quiche.

“No, we didn’t meet,” Minerva answered distractedly, thinking of Gertrude finding Albus in his bathroom. She supposed that was where a wizard would condition his beard, but still, it seemed a bit intrusive to her.

“No? Unfortunate,” Gertie clucked. “He was so sure he’d find you.”

“Well, he did find me, and I was in the hospital wing. It wasn’t a good time for us to meet,” Minerva answered curtly.

“Not feeling well, Minerva? You do look a bit peaky, come to think of it.” Gertie squinted at her. “You could do with a holiday. First term of teaching is always the hardest. Take a little holiday, and you’ll feel right as rain.”

Minerva had never understood what was so “right” about “rain,” and she really didn’t want to discuss her health or well-being with the older teacher, but she recognised that Gertie was trying to be helpful, so she simply said, “Thank you, Gertrude. I may do that.”

Gertrude, thankfully, then turned to Grubbly-Plank, who was sitting beside her, and interrupted a rather loud conversation about the mating habits of the Norwegian Ridgeback that she was having with Hagrid from across the table. Several staff members were clearly grateful not to have to listen to Hagrid discuss a particular dragon appendage that was, as he put it, “as long as me arm and as big ’round as me thigh,” and Minerva was simply grateful that she could begin playing with her food in silence.

Minerva knew she should eat, but her stomach felt as though she’d swallowed a Bludger, and her throat was still constricted and dry, despite the tea she’d drunk earlier. She picked at her food, trying to chew and swallow a few fresh vegetables, washing them down with cold strawberry lemonade. As she drank the lemonade, Hagrid asked her how she liked it, and when she replied that it was quite good, he regaled her with his new fertilising method and how fantastically the strawberries had done that spring as a result; in fact, they were still producing well – some of them as big as his fist, he said, demonstrating by making a fist and holding it in front of her face.

Albus entered the Great Hall and headed toward the table just in time to see Hagrid make a fist and apparently shove it in Minerva’s face. His eyebrows rose at that, but his pace didn’t alter.

When he reached the table, he stopped to stand between Hagrid and Minerva. “So, Hagrid,” he said, “are you threatening one of my valued staff members, then?” Albus smiled brightly at the amiable half-giant.

“Oh, no, P’rfesser Dumbledore, sir, I’d never do that, oh, no, sir! I was just demonstratin’ ter Miss Minerva here, er, P’rfesser McGonagall, I mean – ”

Albus interrupted then. “No worries, Hagrid, no worries. I was only joking. I presume you were discussing your prize strawberries with Professor McGonagall,” Albus said, remembering having a similar conversation just last week, although as they had been standing in the garden at the time, Hagrid’s fist had remained a more respectable distance from his own nose.

Gertie chose to get up from the table at that moment and come around to stand behind Minerva. “Albus, I must be going now. Thank you for taking the time to see me this morning. I am aware that it was not the most convenient time for you. And I will think about your request while I am on holiday, as I promised you; however, I do not believe that I will change my mind.”

From her position, Minerva could not see the interaction between the two without being very obvious and turning around. She could see, though, that the Headmaster’s left arm rose toward Gertrude, while his right hand remained resting on the back of Hagrid’s chair.

“Very well, Gertie. I will expect an owl or two from you, as we discussed, and you can be certain to be hearing from me, as well!”

Minerva could tell from Albus’s tone that he was smiling. She would not allow herself to be curious about the content of their conversation. As she had so often said, she did not run the school, and Albus’s life was his own, and so nothing they were discussing could be any of her business. Nonetheless, it seemed that the Bludger in her stomach grew heavier.

Minerva continued to listen and pretend to eat as the Headmaster and his Deputy concluded their short conversation. Minerva’s stomach clenched as she heard Gertie’s parting words.

“Well, Albus, it seems the house-elves have already cleared my place; since I’m leaving, why don’t you take my seat?”

“No; thank you, Gertie, but I’ve really needed to speak with Professor Birnbaum about the state of the Madragoras. I think I’ll take the opportunity now. Have a safe trip, my dear.”

Minerva ran through such a gamut of emotions in those few moments, she was surprised she was able to remain upright and maintain her grip on her fork. First, she was terrified that Albus was going to sit beside her; her fear was quickly followed by disappointment that he wasn’t going to, then injury from the apparently disingenuous excuse. The final blow, though, was Albus’s parting “my dear.”

Certainly Minerva had heard Albus call many others “my dear” over the years. She recognised that, for him, it was an almost automatic form of address he used for anyone with whom he had more than a passing acquaintance and of whom he was at least slightly fond. Still, there had been a time when she had imagined that he used that particular appellation more frequently with her than with any other, often combining it with her name: “Minerva, my dear.” That wasn’t “my dear Minerva,” of course, but during her final years at school and those years between her NEWTs and her return to Hogwarts as a teacher, she thrilled despite herself each time she saw him and he used those sweet words.

Minerva continued to play with her food for a while, disguising her lack of appetite by pouring a second glass of lemonade, all the while trying to eavesdrop on Albus’s conversation with the Herbology teacher over Hagrid and Wilhelmina’s renewed conversation about dragon mating rituals. Throughout lunch, Poppy had been shooting her sympathetic and curious glances from across the table where she sat on the other side of Johannes Birnbaum. Minerva wished she had noticed earlier that there had been another empty chair between Poppy and Hagrid, for she would have preferred to have sat there, but it had been hidden by Hagrid’s bulk. Minerva had just taken the first available seat. She would not only have been sitting next to Poppy – although they couldn’t have discussed anything about the events of the morning, at least she was a warm and friendly face – but she would have been slightly closer to the conversation she was now trying to overhear. Were they really discussing Madragoras? Remembering the privacy ward Albus had cast in the Three Broomsticks so many years ago, she wasn’t sure if she would know whether they were actually talking about Herbology or whether it would only sound like it, even if she could hear them.

Minerva sighed and gave up pretending to eat. Sitting here was torment. He had said they would speak during lunch, and now it appeared he was ignoring her. Perhaps he would have said something to her earlier, when he was joking with Hagrid, had it not been that Gertrude had stood at that moment to leave. Minerva made an attempt to relax and unclench her jaw. Gertrude hadn’t even finished her pudding! It was almost as though she had wanted to interrupt the conversation before Albus could speak with her. That would be a Slytherin thing to do, after all. No, that was absurd, Minerva decided. After all, she had then offered Albus her vacated chair. But perhaps she knew he wouldn’t take it? Minerva almost groaned aloud at her convoluted and paranoid thinking. This was not like her at all.

Deciding that she had better leave before she suffered any more self-inflicted torture, Minerva rose from her seat, and nodded to Hagrid and Wilhelmina, who didn’t notice, so engrossed were they in their current discussion of the length of a dragon’s tail relative to its other appendages and how it varied by species. Minerva glanced at Poppy, who now appeared to be speaking with Birnbaum and the Headmaster about something to do with the greenhouses and didn’t seem to notice that Minerva had risen from the table. The three other staff who had been present when Minerva had arrived had all left when Hagrid and Grubbly-Plank had begun discussing certain dragon effluvia a few minutes earlier. Feeling a bit as she had during the first months as a student at Hogwarts, Minerva wondered dolefully if she should begin bringing a book with her to meals, and she turned to leave.

She hadn’t taken more than a few steps, however, when suddenly Albus appeared at her side. “Professor McGonagall, I believe we need to reschedule our appointment.”

Well, if he was going to be formal, so would she. “Yes, Professor Dumbledore. I am available this afternoon to review the curriculum, if you like.”

Albus smiled at her slightly, but said, “As much as I would like to meet sooner, I believe that later in the afternoon would be more suitable. Will you still be available at, say, five o’clock?”

Five o’clock? Was he putting her off? And that wouldn’t leave them much time . . . but, of course, if they were only going to discuss the sixth- and seventh-year curricula, perhaps they could be done in an hour or so. Minerva quickly replied, “Five o’clock would be fine, Professor Dumbledore. I will see you then. Would you like me to come prepared to discuss anything other than the curriculum?” she asked, thinking it Gryffindor of her to raise the subject, even so obliquely, and feeling her hands go numb with anxiety at the same time.

“Just bring along the lesson plans, as we had agreed, and any other books or parchments you may think useful in our discussion.” Albus looked at Minerva, perhaps expecting another question, but when she merely nodded, not quite meeting his eyes, he added, “I look forward to seeing you at five o’clock, then, my dear Professor.”

Minerva didn’t have time to blink, and he was gone, returned to his conversation with Birnbaum and Poppy. As she walked slowly from the Great Hall, then climbed the stairs, she thought absently that she ought to ask Poppy what she and the two wizards had been discussing so intently. She no longer cared very much what they had been talking about, however, as she turned Albus’s last words over in her mind, savouring them. “My dear Professor.” Perhaps she was making too much of it, but she hadn’t ever heard him put those words together in that particular way before, not when speaking with her, not when speaking with anyone, in fact. Certainly, whatever else it meant, it must mean that he had not held her own words against her. How different, she thought as she approached the portrait guarding her door, how very different from the last words he had heard from her mouth that morning in Poppy’s office.