A Lovely Sight to Behold
After Albus had said good night to Minerva and gone back upstairs to his suite, he poured himself another small glass of cognac. As he sipped it, sitting where he had when he held Minerva, he felt a warmth flow through him that had nothing to do with the fine brandy.
Albus was relieved and grateful that the evening had gone so well. He had been slightly concerned that she would be upset with him for having engineered the evening as he had done, but he now felt it had been worth the risk. Minerva probably only would have been upset with him about it if she were unable to accept his apology; given how distressed she had appeared beneath her Glamour at lunch, Albus was glad that he had taken the opportunity to clarify to her that it was not she, but he, who was at fault. He was glad, of course, that she had apologised for her words, but only because it reassured him that she did hold him in some positive regard.
Albus glanced at the table. He had forgotten to give her the flowers he had chosen especially from the Hogwarts gardens and greenhouses that day. Perhaps he could bring them with him in the morning. Would that seem strange to her, he wondered? The little freshness charm he had put on them earlier that afternoon wouldn’t preserve them indefinitely, but the bouquet would remain nice for at least a few weeks. He would decide in the morning. Albus certainly didn’t want to go over-the-top, after all. Minerva might feel uncomfortable with too much attention.
Taking another sip from his snifter, Albus thought how lovely it had been to sit with Minerva on the sofa and hold her and how fetching she had looked in her frock. It was nice to see her wear something other than the severe teaching robes that she donned during the school year. Although she always looked lovely to him, of course. Still, this robe did not possess the high collar and neckline that most of her school robes had. With her hair up and just a few tendrils falling loosely, Albus could see the nape of her neck. Such a lovely sight to behold. . . . He remembered the first time he had noticed the nape of her neck, and the memory of it was simultaneously pleasurable and uncomfortable. Albus sighed and set his empty snifter on the side table.
He remembered the occasion as clearly as if it had been yesterday. He had never visited the memory in his Pensieve, nor had he deliberately called it to mind over the years to refresh his recollection of it. Yet it was there, crystal clear.
He had gone to Edinburgh on various errands, both his own and Hogwarts’, and was walking down McTavish Street, enjoying the bustle of the Saturday shoppers. Albus had almost finished the tasks he had set himself that hot July day, and after the stresses of the previous few months, he was allowing himself the leisure of some window shopping. He was even contemplating sitting at an outdoor café, drinking a cup of tea, and watching life go by for a little while. There was a nice café just a bit further on, he remembered, just past the little children’s park and only a few doors down from his final stop for the day.
Albus began crossing the street diagonally in front of the children’s park when he saw the most enchanting sight. A young witch, wearing one of the mid-calf length robes that had become popular amongst young witches in the past few years, had just set a little girl down on a bench outside the park and was bending to look at the girl’s knees. The witch was lovely: her black hair was up, and a few tendrils curled down the nape of her neck, which was lightly beaded with moisture from the warmth of the afternoon. As the young woman bent, Albus admired her pretty neck and the lovely line of her jaw, but he could not see her face. The pale blue, lightweight summer robe outlined a lithe young figure, and the short hem afforded him a glimpse of a well-toned calf and a prettily-turned ankle. His observations were those of a moment only, but he felt a warmth and a slight frisson of pleasure pass through him. Albus chuckled to himself; he may be almost 102, but he could still appreciate a pretty young witch. His pleasure was cut short, however, when as the witch stood, she turned slightly.
Albus felt physically ill. He could see her face: it was his student, Minerva McGonagall. How could he not have recognised her? He had been giving her Animagus lessons for almost a year, not to mention that he had come to know her very well during the preceding four.
Albus had always looked upon his students as children, even those who were of-age – after all, at his age, anyone under about fifty still seemed like a youngster. Albus had certainly never found one of his students attractive before; they were simply not in the category of potentially-attractive-witches, and it never would have occurred to him that they would ever enter that category for him. Certainly, he had eyes, and he could see that some of the students were blessed with better looks than others. Albus could even see a coquettish first-year witch and think that her male classmates had better watch out in a few years or, alternatively, look at an innocent eleven year-old wizard with big puppy-dog eyes, and think with a twinkle, ah, now that one will be a lady-killer when he’s a bit older! But any of these speculations were done with the same level of interest as those that he might make about their sense of humour, or their potential in Transfiguration, or whether their build might suit them for a particular position on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. They were children to be nurtured, guided, and protected.
Later that evening, after he had returned to Hogwarts, Albus wondered if he were becoming a “dirty old man,” but decided that if he were worried about such a thing, then it probably wasn’t the case. And he was somewhat relieved that he had felt sick as soon as he had realised who the young witch was. Not that Minerva wasn’t lovely, of course, but she was his student – and still a child, even if she were of-age. Even if she weren’t his student, Albus reminded himself sternly, there was no chance that such a young and pretty witch would have wanted anything to do with such an ancient creature as he, anyway – if she weren’t his student, it would only have allowed him to appreciate her femininity from a distance with impunity, something which, as her teacher, Albus would not allow himself to do. The mere thought of such a thing disgusted him. Albus could not permit it; they would be working closely together on the wards over the next several months. He would simply put it out of his mind, Albus decided. She was, after all, Minerva McGonagall, his protege. They had an established relationship. No need to change anything at all in his dealings with her.
When Minerva had turned her face and Albus recognised her, he began, in his shock, to turn back to the side of the street whence he had just come. She saw him, however, as did the little girl whom he now recognised was her niece. When Minerva called a greeting and Melina hopped off the bench to run over to him, Albus could do nothing other than stop and speak with them.
“Professor Dumbledore! I was looking forward to seeing you again soon, but I hadn’t expected to see you today! Melina, stop pulling on the Professor’s arm! I’m sorry, Professor, but Melina has been lecturing me on my wand technique. Apparently my healing charms are not up-to-snuff.” Minerva laughed lightly, and Albus wished he hadn’t just found her attractive, as her laughter was as lovely as the rest of her.
“So, Melina,” Albus had replied, trying to overcome the sense of nausea that still lingered whilst remaining polite, “are you teaching your Aunt Minerva how to use her wand? Perhaps I should have you come to Hogwarts and teach wand technique, if we haven’t been instructing her properly, hmm?”
Melina giggled. “She’s okay, Professor! She just doesn’t do healing charms very well. I keep telling her she has to twist the tip of her wand just so,” Melina demonstrated with an imaginary wand, “at the very end of her flick if she wants the charm to really work right.” Melina had become quite fond of Professor Dumbledore as she had come to know him from his visits to the Apothecary.
“Mother has been bringing Melina with her when she goes on her rounds. I hated it when I was Melina’s age, but it seems she has a more willing companion in Melina,” Minerva explained. “Now, however, Melina has become insufferable, always talking about healing charms and medicinal potions.” Minerva ruffled the “insufferable” little witch’s dark, curly hair affectionately.
“Professor Dumbledore,” Melina said carefully (she had only learned to pronounce his name correctly in the last year and had to make sure that she didn’t revert to calling him “Dumblydore,” which always caused all the adults to laugh), “could you look at my knee? I want to make sure that Minerva did her charm right. She won’t let me use her wand to do a simple diagnostic!” Melina complained dramatically.
“Believe me, Professor; we don’t let Melina use our wands – not even your grandmother does, so don’t give me that look, Melina!”
Dumbledore chuckled. “I was actually about to get myself a cup of tea, and it’s a bit warm standing in the middle of the street like this. We could go over to the café and I could take a look at Melina’s knee and make sure that your healing spell was performed up to Hogwarts’ standards; how would that be, Melina?”
The little witch agreed happily and took Dumbledore’s right hand in her left, then caught up Minerva’s left hand with her right. “This will be fun!” she said, swinging their arms. Melina did like attention, both giving and receiving it.
As they approached the café, Melina brought Albus and Minerva’s hands together, then let them go and ran ahead to find the “perfect table.” Both Albus and Minerva quickly dropped their hands to their sides.
“Are you all right, Professor? You look a little pale. I didn’t want to speak in front of Melina – she repeats everything she hears; you can’t stop her.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Dumbledore answered, somewhat more stiffly than was his wont, but not knowing what to say when the honest reply would have been, Oh, I’m fine, other than the fact that I just found myself lusting after a student more than eight decades my junior, and, by the way, that student was you, Miss McGonagall. And what a pity we can’t hold hands as innocently as Melina does. “It’s just rather warm, as I said.”
Minerva took his arm, a concerned look on her face. “Then you should be sitting down. You could get heat stroke. Have you a Cooling Charm on your robes?”
“No, no, I’m fine, really.”
“I think we should go back to Murdoch’s flat and not stop at the café if you are unwell, Professor. I know these last months, well, they have been difficult ones. You should probably sit in his nice cool sitting room and have your tea there.”
“I am fine, Minerva,” he repeated, somewhat sharply. “I am not in my dotage yet.” Albus almost bit his tongue after he uttered those last words.
Minerva was silent for a moment as they walked toward the table that Melina had apparently decided was perfect. Quietly, she said, “I never would suggest that you are, Professor. I am sorry. I was merely trying . . . .”
“No, I am sorry, my dear. You were very kind to offer. The heat has made me irritable, I’m afraid.”
Minerva smiled slightly at him as she took her seat. “No worries, Professor. It’s just me.”
“Ah, ‘just’ Mother McGonagall; I see.” Albus smiled at his protege. Melina was bouncing up and down in her seat, trying to get their attention, which she finally did. Albus declared her knee quite nicely Healed and then was regaled by the tale of how she had been injured when she had jumped from a rope at the top of something she called a “jumblejim” and tried to land on the charmed swing several feet away from – and below – her. She blamed the accident on a faulty charm on the swing, of course.
Eventually, Melina was busy eating her fresh strawberry ice cream while Albus and Minerva drank their tea. Albus was afraid that there would be an awkward silence since he didn’t know what to say. Minerva didn’t sense any awkwardness, though, and asked him what had brought him to Edinburgh. After telling her that he’d had errands, both business and personal, he added, “I might have seen you today, anyway, if we hadn’t met earlier. My last stop was to be at the Egidius Apothecary. I was unaware that you were in Edinburgh, however.”
“Yes, I came to visit for a few days before I have to return to . . . you know. Murdoch is quite happy to have a new person to amuse Melina for a while, and with Uncle Perrin spending less and less time at the Apothecary, Murdoch has become quite busy. I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, but I’m sure you’ll understand; he’s been letting the household matters slide a bit, and although mother and father sent him Quimpy to help out, I’m afraid that Quimpy doesn’t do well without any direction. Fwisky always told him exactly what to do and how to do it. Murdoch should have taken some time to train him. He’s a good little fellow; he just lacks initiative.”
“I assume we are speaking of a house-elf?” Albus asked with a quirked eyebrow. At her nod, he smiled. “I have known very few house-elves who actually possessed initiative – and most of those who did were rather disagreeable. Of course, the house-elf Matron must possess at least a modicum of initiative, but even she requires the ability to plan more than anything else.”
“Hmm. In any case, I’m trying, in the little time I have here, to give Quimpy a schedule and to organise Murdoch’s life a bit better. I don’t think that he’s kept the household account books up-to-date since . . . well, for the last two or three years, although he’s a stickler for it at the Apothecary.”
Melina seemed to have been listening more intently to the adults’ conversation than it had appeared. “It’s okay, Auntie Min. You can talk about Mum. I don’t remember her very well because nobody ever talks about her in front of me. I wish people would.” Melina looked at her aunt with a serious, preternaturally mature expression.
“I know we should. It’s a bad habit. We started avoiding talking about her so as not to cause any greater hurt to you or your daddy, and now we just forget that we can, and should, talk about her again.”
The three went on to discuss Melina’s mother and some of the amusing things that Minerva remembered about her. When they got up from the table, Albus insisted that he pay the tab since it had been much more enjoyable to have tea in their company than on his own. They walked the few yards further to the Egidius Apothecary, where Murdoch was assisting a rather peculiar looking customer wearing a navy blue cowl and hood. On a hot day in July, such attire was an odd choice, even if one were particularly adept at cooling charms. When Murdoch was finished, he came over to find that his only child was seriously explaining to the foremost Alchemist in Britain the relative merits of dried versus fresh hellebore leaves.
“I’m sorry, Professor Dumbledore, but it’s only me today, and that other customer had very particular needs. I hope Melina hasn’t been a bother to you,” said Murdoch politely.
“No, no, not at all. I am beginning to think, though, Minerva, that you might want to take Melina’s advice about your wand technique!” Albus chuckled gently. “Melina, my dear, that was an exposition most clear and concise. If you were one of my OWL-level students, I would give you an ‘Outstanding’ on it!”
Melina beamed and bounced on the balls of her feet.
“My father thinks that, between my mother and me, we are providing her with a far too narrow education. He jokes that when she gets to Hogwarts, she’ll be able to cure dragonpox but won’t know what a Lumos is!” Murdoch said, a broad grin on his face.
They all laughed at that, even Melina. Murdoch closed up the shop before assisting Dumbledore select the supplies he had come for. He invited Dumbledore to stay for dinner with them, and Albus was about to decline, but was persuaded by Melina, who begged him quite prettily. Minerva, too, looked pleased that he was joining them – something that he might not have expected from her five or six months ago. Albus still didn’t understand precisely what had caused Minerva’s suddenly distant behaviour the previous December and January, although he was sure it had something to do with her accident in the Transfiguration classroom. Fortunately, the phase had passed, and Minerva had returned to her Animagus studies and to their easy collegiality, never mentioning that anything might have been amiss. Any efforts Albus had made to broach the subject with her had been rebuffed, politely but thoroughly, and he finally decided perhaps it was simply something that teenage girls go through.
In his Headmaster’s sitting room fifteen years later, Albus rose from the settee and thought of how, despite the passing of years and all the myriad events that had occurred since that chance meeting in McTavish Street, he still found Minerva McGonagall a lovely young witch. Although perhaps he might now permit himself to admire her since she was no longer a child, Albus would not allow himself to appreciate her too much. He could not allow his wholly irrational and highly annoying feelings for her to damage their friendship. If he were to begin to behave too differently toward her, if Minerva were to guess the extent of his feelings . . . she would likely find him revolting and pathetic, just as he found himself revolting and pathetic on those rare occasions that he acknowledged the direction in which his feelings would lead him, if permitted.
As he passed by the table on his way to his bedroom, Albus paused to smell the bouquet he had gathered for her. Every witch likes flowers, right? Perhaps it wouldn’t be too much if he were to bring them with him in the morning, after all.