Resolving a Misunderstanding

Minerva sat at her dressing table. Her hair wasn’t the complete disaster she had thought it was. The braid had helped. Using her wand, she took her hair down completely, then brushed it out. Thinking of her unceremonious return to her ordinary form, she smiled and shook her head slightly. At least Albus had a sense of humour about that. But then Poppy had to show up before she had gathered herself together. Of course, it wasn’t just Minerva’s slightly frowsy appearance that had Poppy adding two plus two and coming up with five. She could have concluded the same thing after seeing the breakfast dishes. Minerva shouldn’t have said anything about having spent the evening with Albus.

As Minerva picked up her wand to style her hair, she felt miffed at Poppy. Really, that wink! Any normal witch would never have thought that his mere presence in Minerva’s rooms that morning after they’d spent the evening together meant that they hadn’t parted in the meantime. He was the Headmaster! And more than three times her age. Just because Minerva’s own feelings didn’t seem to take those little factors into account didn’t mean that Poppy shouldn’t have kept them in mind. She probably thought that Minerva was desperate for male company and had taken advantage of the Headmaster. How insulting to Albus! As though Minerva would use him that way – or as though he would allow such a thing! Minerva would have to have a talk with Poppy this afternoon. Straighten out her thinking on a few things.

Albus was not the type for a casual fling. At least not in the years Minerva had known him. Perhaps when he was a young man. She realised that she knew very little about what Albus had done and what he had been like before she had met him. Minerva thought of the book on Animagus Transfiguration he had given her at the end of her fifth year. He had told her he was young when he wrote it, but she realised at some point that year, after learning he had been at school with her Great-uncle Perseus, that he must have been in his fifties at the time – hardly “young” by most people’s standards. What had he done before he came to Hogwarts, and what had he given up in order to do so? Minerva remembered that Albus had said he originally thought he would be at the school for only six or seven years. It had now been twenty, and he was Headmaster. It was unlikely that he would be leaving the school anytime soon. Many Headmasters and Headmistresses died in the post. Poor Headmaster Dippet had died just months before he had planned to retire. Thinking of Headmasters dying in their posts created a constriction in Minerva’s chest. Albus was old. He could die at any time. The normal lifespan of a healthy wizard could range anywhere from one hundred to one hundred sixty years old. She could lose him any day.

Minerva swallowed hard. She must not think gloomy thoughts; she had to rejoin Albus in just a minute. She would make sure he took good care of himself; she could do that. Poppy always said that he drove himself too hard and took on too much. Minerva felt a pang of conscience. She had complained bitterly about how he had always been late for their meetings, but she hadn’t drawn the obvious conclusion that he was over-worked and was trying to fit too much into his day. And he had a hard time saying “no” when he was asked for his help, Minerva was sure. Albus was a strong enough – and brilliant enough – wizard to be able to take on the work of several ordinary wizards, and people just took him for granted. It was part of his image as the unassailable icon of the wizarding world – he had defeated Grindelwald and then returned to Hogwarts the next week, after all! Dumbledore could do anything, some people thought.

These thoughts increased Minerva’s irritation with Poppy – and with herself. Albus was not only not the type to have flings, it wouldn’t be good for him at his age! He was probably not even interested in that sort of thing anymore. Of course, Albus was a man, he might still feel the occasional . . . “urge” now and then. It was biology, after all. Not that Minerva would want a fling with him. That would be dreadful. How would she ever get over it once it ended? She no longer had any illusions that her feelings for Albus would just go away on their own. A brief, meaningless affair would only make things far worse, not to mention that it would make their current friendship awkward, if not impossible.

Minerva made a quick trip to the loo before returning to the sitting room. She had been gone for less than ten minutes, but Albus had fallen asleep on her couch. Minerva didn’t think he looked particularly comfortable partially reclined against the arm of the settee. The fresh tea was sitting on the coffee table. Albus hadn’t drunk any of it yet. Perhaps he had fallen asleep before it had arrived, or else he had been waiting for her to return. Minerva hesitated. Albus might need his sleep, but she doubted he would be very happy to wake up and discover that he had lost part of his day. It sounded as though he had a lot of work to do that afternoon.

Although she had decided she should wake Albus, Minerva took advantage of the moment just to look at him. Over the years that she had known him, his hair had turned from auburn and grey to just grey, and now it was becoming grey with a good deal of white. She loved his hair, and the older he became, the more beautiful it was. His glasses were resting on the coffee table. He had been wearing them when she had left the room. Albus had probably decided to rest his eyes for a moment and then fell asleep, she thought. The crook in his nose was more evident when he removed his glasses, and Minerva had always thought that it gave his sharp nose character. The furrows in Albus’s brow were deeper than they had been when she was a student, but there were no more than there had been then, and his skin still looked supple and healthy, his cheeks lightly pink. His lips . . . for some reason, Minerva loved Albus’s lips. She supposed that objectively, they were nothing special, but somehow their shape and the proportion of his lower lip to his upper were perfection. And his beard . . .

Albus had a magnificent beard. Full and soft-looking, it reached his belt and was nicely shaped at the end. It was a bit rougher than it appeared to be, but not by very much. Minerva had loved the way it felt against her cheek last night as he held her. Albus’s over-robe had fallen open as he reclined on the couch, and with appreciation, Minerva could see his broad shoulders and powerful torso tapering down to slim hips, the cummerbund emphasizing the contrast between his solid, well-built chest and his narrower waist.

Warmth crept through Minerva. She shouldn’t be looking at him like this. It wasn’t right. But she didn’t simply desire him; she loved him. Heart and soul, body and mind, with the full depth and breadth of her being. Minerva could acknowledge that now. She had to. With that acknowledgment, she could gain some measure of control over her reactions to him and some control over her life. Taking herself in hand now, she approached the couch and bent over him.

“Albus! Albus, dear,” Minerva called, placing a chaste hand on his shoulder.

He opened his eyes and smiled at her.

“I’m sorry to awaken you, but I didn’t think you would want to sleep,” she explained.

“Thank you, Minerva. I had just wanted to rest my eyes for a moment.”

“You should try to have an early night, Albus. You need to take care of yourself.”

Albus straightened and sat up. “We shall see. I do have a lot of work that won’t do itself.”

“You know, Albus, you don’t need to take on everything that everyone asks of you,” Minerva said, sitting beside him.

“That would be an impossibility, my dear. I already must disappoint a great many people, I am afraid. However, I do agree that perhaps I should pay more attention to my priorities in the future. You among them,” he added with a smile.

“You needn’t worry about me, Albus. I’m a grown witch. My behaviour yesterday was disgraceful, and I have been very self-centred. You really must not overextend yourself. You will be no good to anyone if you make yourself ill.”

“Yes, Mother McGonagall! I shall remember that. In the meantime, perhaps we could proceed with the purpose of our meeting?”

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

“I realised after you left the room that the materials you brought with you last night are still in my office. I don’t believe that a discussion of the seventh-year curriculum is urgent, so we don’t need to do it this very moment, although I don’t want to delay too much, either. I know that tomorrow is Saturday, and you probably have plans for your week-end, but if you decide to accept Gertie’s invitation, you will be gone next week. Would you have any objections to meeting tomorrow to go over the curriculum, and this morning we could just discuss the other issues I wanted your thoughts about?”

“No, that sounds fine, Albus. I had nothing specific planned for tomorrow, anyway. Shall I pour us some tea?”

After they had settled with their tea, Albus turned to her with a serious expression.

“You know, of course, that this was Professor Dustern’s last year and that we have been looking for a new Charms teacher. Whilst her resignation did not come as a surprise – in fact, I thought she would have left at the end of last year and actually had a replacement in mind before she told me that she was leaving – her departure leaves us with no Head of House for Hufflepuff. The Charms master I have offered the position to was a Ravenclaw as a student, and Hogwarts requires that the Head of House be a member of that House. In addition, Professor Grubbly-Plank informed me a few days ago that she has been offered a position at the Welsh Green Sanctuary. Although her contract takes her through the end of the next school year, I am inclined to release her early. Such opportunities are not to be had every day, and I do not want to stand in the way of her career. Still, she must give them an answer in a fortnight, and she must be able to take up the position no later than December thirty-first or the offer is void. This unexpected development means that we need to find a teacher for Care of Magical Creatures and a Head of House for Gryffindor.” Albus paused to sip his tea.

“I didn’t realise that you were so well-prepared for Professor Dustern’s resignation, Albus. I was surprised to learn that she was leaving.”

“Professor Dustern and I have always had a civil relationship. When I was Deputy Headmaster, we had a few . . . differences of opinion occasionally, but we worked them out professionally. Despite that, I have always been aware that if I became Headmaster, she would likely leave at the first opportunity. I was more surprised by the fact that she finished her contract term and did not ask to be allowed to resign earlier. Perhaps it was loyalty to the school, or to her House, or perhaps she wanted to see if she could bear working here with me as Headmaster.” Albus was amused by the shocked expression on Minerva’s face.

“You mean she doesn’t like you?”

“Not everyone does, you know, Minerva,” Albus said with a grin.

“Yes, but, well, I thought anyone who didn’t like you either had to be a complete fool or allied with the Dark. And I never saw anything to indicate that she didn’t like you.”

“Mmm. We got along well enough for a while. But she had difficulties with some decisions I took during my first few years here, and that set the tone for our other interactions. But Professor Dustern is a professional, Minerva. She never would have broadcast her feelings on the subject, especially not to a student. I am sure she has had a few choice words to say about me in private on occasion, though,” he chuckled.

Minerva flushed, thinking of her own unprofessional and indiscreet behaviour the previous morning. Of course, Poppy had been right. She had only allowed herself to go on like that because she didn’t believe that there was anyone to overhear.

“I’m not sure I understand why her leaving is a problem for Hufflepuff House, though. You say that the Head has to be a member of the House, but Professor Birnbaum didn’t even attend Hogwarts,” Minerva said, puzzled.

“That turns out to have been the result of a fortuitous joke. Well, not a joke, precisely. But one night after a few drinks with Armando, some of us thought it would be fun to have a private Sorting Ceremony for Johannes. We all trooped up to the Headmaster’s Office, set the Sorting Hat on Johannes’s head, and with nary a hesitation, the Hat shouted out, ‘Ravenclaw!’ When we needed a Head of House for Ravenclaw a few years later, he seemed the natural choice. A few members of the Board of Governors were unhappy – they didn’t think he could be a ‘true Ravenclaw’ if he hadn’t been a student in their House – but the House Roll listed him as its Head, which it wouldn’t have done if he were unacceptable, and he has done well there ever since. However, that brings me to the next staff change. Professor Birnbaum has told me, informally, that at the end of the next school year, he will not be returning. He thinks it is time for him to return to Germany and put together a new life there. He has stayed far longer than he had intended to when he came here in 1943. I understand that. But that means we have to conduct a search for a new Herbology teacher, as well.”

“But at least we have more time with that position. And if the new Charms teacher is a Ravenclaw, perhaps he would be interested in being their Head of House. He’ll have a year of teaching and know the students by then. Who is it, by the way? Do I know him?”

“Filius Flitwick. Good-hearted, down-to-earth, and he has a lot of experience, as well.”

“I think I’ve heard the name . . . didn’t he work at the Ministry in Experimental Charms for a while?” Minerva asked.

“Yes, although he was in another area by the time you started.”

Minerva recognised the euphemism “in another area”; it was what people at the Ministry said when someone had been moved into the Department of Mysteries. Someone’s employment in that Department was not necessarily a secret, but people didn’t talk about it casually, either.

“He must be good, then. I look forward to meeting him.”

“But you do see the quandary we are in, don’t you? We have a surfeit of Slytherins, a few Ravenclaws, and very few Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors.”

Minerva ran through the list in her head:
-Potions, Slughorn, Slytherin (obviously);
-Arithmancy, Gertrude Gamp, Slytherin;
-Herbology, Birnbaum, Ravenclaw;
-Magical Creatures, Grubbly-Plank, Gryffindor;
-Charms, Flitwick, Ravenclaw;
-History, Binns – well, she didn’t know what House Binns had been in, but as he was now a ghost, he would hardly be an appropriate Head of House;
-Astronomy, Herder, Ravenclaw;
-Divination, MacAirt, Hufflepuff, possibly, though she wasn’t sure;
-Defence, Pretnick, Gryffindor – there was a possibility to take over for Wilhelmina, she supposed, although he was a bit peculiar;
-Ancient Runes, Evandras, Ravenclaw; and
-Muggle Studies, James – she didn’t know what House he had been in.

“Isn’t Pretnick Gryffindor?” she asked.

“Yes, he is, and I am very fond of Robert, but try to picture him as a Head of House. I don’t think that he possesses the correct disposition. Not that there is any one way to be a Head, of course. But . . .”

Albus did not want to speak ill of one of his staff, Minerva could see.

“He’s an odd duck, is what you’re saying, Albus. And rather quieter than most Gryffindors, but he may be our only option at the moment.”

“Our only option, Minerva?”

“Well, I don’t know what House James was in. He’s nice enough. Was he Gryffindor?” Many Muggle-borns were sorted into Gryffindor, for some reason, and Minerva had the impression that he was Muggle-born or, at least, that he had one Muggle parent. He wasn’t as much of an idiot as her own Muggle Studies teacher had been – Minerva had doubted the veracity of one half of what he’d taught and the accuracy of the other!

“Norman James was in Hufflepuff, actually. But he made it quite clear some time ago that he does not want to be Head of House. I will mention it to him, of course. Perhaps he has changed his mind or wouldn’t mind stepping in for a year or so, just temporarily.”

“Well, it seems that once we know who you’re hiring to take Wilhelmina’s place, we’ll know what the options are for Gryffindor. And I suppose you’ll just have to talk to James – appeal to his House loyalty. What about MacAirt, though? She must have been a Hufflepuff.”

Albus laughed. “I do see that I will have to work on your preconceptions, Minerva. Hafrena MacAirt is a Slytherin.”

“Oh. There are a lot of them on the staff, aren’t there?” Minerva thought a moment. “What does Gertrude think?” As Deputy, surely she had a role to play in finding suitable candidates for staff positions.

“I told her she needn’t worry about it whilst on holiday, but she did say that she would think about it and send me her recommendations by owl.”

That must have been what they had been discussing at lunch, then. But she had said something about not changing her mind. She must have been speaking of something else at that point. Emboldened by the fact that Albus was consulting her, Minerva decided to ask about it.

“Before Gertrude left yesterday, she said something about not changing her mind. What did she mean?”

Albus hesitated, drinking the last of his tea. “It was another matter. Until she comes to a final decision, I think I’d rather not go into it, if you don’t mind, Minerva.” He smiled at her. “We do have enough to discuss already, don’t we?”

“All right. I was just a little curious. Back to the matter at hand, then.” Minerva was surprised that Albus was reluctant to tell her what Gertrude had been talking about. But if he didn’t want to discuss it, she had told herself more than once that their business was their own, and she wasn’t going to press him about it. “Do you have any ideas for recruiting to fill the Magical Creatures position? I agree with you that it seems unfair to deprive Wilhelmina of this opportunity. Do you have someone in mind?” Perhaps Albus knew someone he thought would suit the position, as he had in the case of the Charms post.

“No. I have given it a great deal of thought, of course, and while a few names have come to mind, none are exceptional enough to justify a closed recruitment. I think we should advertise in the professional journals and see what kind of applicants respond. I have a list of journals in my office that I thought would be likely to reach the sort of person we might want. Could you come by my office later today and look at it? There may be one or two that I have missed, and I'd like to submit the advertisements on Monday.”

Minerva doubted very much that she could contribute anything, but didn’t say so, and agreed to stop by his office that afternoon.

“Good. I will leave it out for you, in case I am not there when you arrive. You could retrieve your curriculum materials, as well, while you are there. In the meantime, I’d like you to think about the current staffing situation and tomorrow when we meet, you can let me know if you have any ideas.” Albus smiled at her. He was surprised that she hadn’t offered to take Gryffindor House herself. He might have to come right out and suggest it to her. It didn’t seem as though the idea had even occurred to her. Rather endearing, actually. He felt slightly bad about not answering her question about Gertrude’s remark at lunch, but thought it for the best at the moment. After all, if nothing changed in their situation, there would be nothing to inform Minerva of.

“That’s fine, Albus. I’d be happy to contribute whatever I can, you know that.”

“Would you mind going through the applications when they begin to arrive, then? A first sort-through to eliminate any obviously unsuitable candidates?”

“No, not at all, Albus. But isn’t that the sort of thing that Gertrude usually does for you?”

“As you know, I handled your recruitment personally. And although Gertie took over the correspondence once Filius agreed to take the Charms position, I had my own ‘short list’ of preferred candidates. Since Filius was my top choice, there was no need to do anything else once I offered him the job and he accepted it. So I suppose that we haven’t got a system for dealing with filling vacant positions.”

Minerva thought that was not very organised of them, but didn’t say so. She also thought that if Gertie was the great friend that Albus claimed she was, she would have volunteered to do more to help him. But of course, if she had, then Albus wouldn’t have asked Minerva to help, and Minerva certainly did not want to discourage him.

“Well, as I said, Albus, I will be happy to help in whatever way I can.”

“Thank you, my dear. Now I must be going, I’m afraid. I might be able to get through some of my other work before lunch if I am diligent about it,” he said with a smile.

“It was nice having breakfast with you. I’m sorry we still haven’t discussed the seventh-year classes, but it was good that we got a chance to talk, I think,” said Minerva.

“Yes, it was. And perhaps we can do this again. Breakfast, I mean, before the day has begun making its usual demands on us.”

“I would like that very much, Albus.” Minerva smiled with pleasure as she showed Albus to the door. “I will stop by your office later this afternoon, then, to look at that list. Will I see you at lunch?”

“Possibly. I am not sure. I may need to leave at some point, or I may just have a bite in my office. But I will see you tomorrow – just drop by. I should be in my office or my rooms most of the day. If I step out, I’ll leave a message for you with the portraits letting you know where you can find me. How would that be?”

“That sounds fine.”

Minerva was holding the open door for him. Albus hesitated. Simply saying good-bye seemed so inadequate, not to mention that, although his work called to him, he really did not want to leave.

“This was truly lovely, Minerva. Thank you for all the trouble you went to.”

“It was no trouble at all, Albus. I hardly cooked the breakfast myself, after all.” She smiled, glad he had enjoyed himself.

“Perhaps not, but for your company . . . thank you, my dear.” As he had the evening before, Albus took her right hand in his and raised it to his lips. This time, though, he did not release her hand as he straightened. His voice low, he said, “I am glad I overheard your complaints to Poppy yesterday, however you might feel about it, Minerva. Whatever else I may have been doing, I had been depriving myself of your company, and that was a great deprivation, indeed.” Albus squeezed her hand slightly and released it, overcoming the urge to step closer to her, to kiss her forehead or her cheek. Instead, he stepped backward through the open door, then turned and walked quickly away.

Minerva stood and looked after him for a moment as he walked down the narrow hallway that led to the broader main corridor. She closed the door, turned, and leaned back against it. He truly took her breath away. If only she were fifty years or so older, she thought, and had met him when he was younger. They might have been suited to each other, then. Minerva thought that perhaps she might have been able to nurture the friendly affection he had for her until it became something stronger. But she hadn’t been born fifty years earlier. That would have made her about the same age as her mother. Perhaps even then, she would have been born too late. Albus had reached his mid-thirties by the time her mother was born.

Minerva shook her head and stepped away from the door. There was no point in any of this. What was, was, and what is, is. She had to accept it – it was the world she lived in, and she had no choice but to accept it. Minerva sighed, banished the tea set, and began to restore her sitting room to its usual state.

Minerva wondered whether this had ever happened to anyone before – a young witch who fell hopelessly for a wizard who was so many years older than she. She’d not heard of such a thing, but then, it wasn’t something one would advertise. She had certainly never confided in anyone. After Carson’s death, she wished that she had confided in him. Minerva believed he might have understood. He would have been sympathetic to her, at least, especially after they had become closer during those months in London. She might have confided in him after he had told her his belief that she was meant for someone else. But she never had.

And now . . . there was no one in whom she could confide. Poppy was her closest friend, but despite the wink Poppy had given her this morning, Minerva didn’t think that she could really understand. She might think it acceptable for Minerva to have some kind of an affair, a fling, with the Headmaster, but Minerva doubted that Poppy could understand her feelings about him, nor her hopelessness. Poppy would probably advise her to seduce him or something. Minerva couldn’t imagine that; Albus would find such behaviour repellant and loathsome, she was sure. Minerva could not confide in Poppy. She wouldn’t understand.

Melina would be an even worse confidant. At least Poppy might be able to see Albus as a man; Melina still saw him as her sweet, slightly dotty, old Transfiguration teacher. To say that Melina would be stunned would be an understatement No, Melina was not a candidate for such confidences.

Minerva, to her surprise, had actually become fairly good friends with Wilhelmina after that February evening when she had stopped by to see if she could lend a hand with the Gryffindors. She had come to like the no-nonsense witch. In her forties, Wilhelmina was closer to her own age than many of the other teachers, which made for a more casual relationship. She had also never taught Minerva herself, which also made Minerva feel more comfortable right from the start. But the two were not yet close enough to discuss truly personal matters – Minerva didn’t think she would confide in Wilhelmina even if she were attracted to someone more typical; she certainly couldn’t talk to her about Albus.

Her friends in London were from another life, another reality, and Minerva had never felt as close to them as she always felt she ought. So none of them were within the realm of possibility. Casting about in her mind for anyone else she could talk to, Minerva immediately dismissed her parents. They were wonderful, and she really could talk to them about almost anything. But not this. Not even now, at her age. They might be worried that Albus had done something improper when she studied with him, for one thing. Even if that never entered their minds, Minerva knew that her father would have no clue what to say to such a revelation, and her mother would use it as one more reason that Minerva should leave Hogwarts and go somewhere that she might meet suitable men. As though a “suitable man” would cure her. They couldn’t imagine the strength of her feelings for Albus – and if they could, it would simply alarm them.

No, she couldn’t talk to her parents. And as much as she liked Malcolm and Morgan, Minerva felt she barely knew them. Murdoch . . . of all her relatives, he was the only one who might possibly listen to her and at least sympathise. But he would probably urge her to start seeing other men. And perhaps she should, she thought. It would be the sensible thing to do. And Minerva prized being sensible. That was one of the most irksome aspects of this situation, to her mind. It was entirely irrational from beginning to end, and Minerva could think of no sensible, logical solution to it – she couldn’t even come up with a logical reason for her feelings to exist, in the first place! Minerva was surprised she was still sane after all this time.

She would work it out on her own. She could do that. She would have to find a way to maintain her friendship with Albus, enjoy his company, and do whatever she could to take care of him and make his life better. Somehow, she would also have to maintain her professionalism, as well. Minerva didn’t think that her behaviour the last two days had been particularly professional. Albus may be her friend, but he was also the Headmaster. The embraces they had shared would have to remain exceptions to their normal behaviour. And they were. He had embraced her briefly when she had first arrived at Hogwarts, before he took charge of her bags and showed her to her rooms. And he had leaned forward and kissed her cheek when he had given her her house-warming present. But that was the last affectionate touch she had received from him until yesterday. Minerva was sure that was as it should be. She doubted that Albus normally sat embracing his female staff members as he had her. She hoped he didn’t, at any rate. . . Of course, if one of them was upset and crying, he might. But now she knew that Albus cared for her and considered her a friend, that made a difference, surely.

Minerva thought of the way he had stumbled as he had tried to describe his feelings yesterday morning, and his whispered, “I thought you might even . . . hate me.” His hesitant confession had been endearing. That fear had obviously disturbed Albus greatly, even as he protested that it was ridiculous. She did not think that thought would have upset him so if he did not care for her. It was reasonable to believe, then, that Albus behaved differently when comforting her than he might have with someone else. Unless the other person was also a friend. Minerva thought of Gertrude Gamp. Over the years, Albus had often expressed to her what a good and valued friend the Arithmancy teacher was. Somehow, Minerva could not imagine Gertrude dissolving in tears the way she had, though. And Gertrude would likely never have any cause to do so, not on Albus’s account, anyway – she surely must feel secure in her relationship with him and not racked with the insecurities that had plagued Minerva. It certainly seemed she should, at any rate.

Minerva sighed and looked over at Gertrude’s invitation, which she had moved to her mantlepiece when she rearranged the furniture. She supposed she should reply. Part of her wanted to decline the invitation. But Minerva was very curious and knew that the only way to assuage her curiosity would be to accept it.

Retrieving her glasses from where she’d left them beside the letter, Minerva then went to her work table, drew a sheet of parchment from its single drawer and chose her favourite quill and a deep blue-black ink. Rather than use the work table, Minerva sat at the little table by the window. Smoothing the parchment, Minerva contemplated the blank page in front of her. She Summoned her wand from where she’d left it across the room. Pursing her lips in concentration, Minerva placed the tip of the wand just above the surface of the parchment. “Sigillum Egidius!” she pronounced. The Egidius family seal appeared at the top of the page. The centre of the emblem contained a Rod of Aesclepius superimposed over a diamond with quadrants of blue, white, gold, and green; ivy surrounded the diamond and the motto Consolari Sat Gignere Medella (“to comfort enough to bring forth healing”) appeared above it. On her mother’s crest, between two sprigs of thistle, a red deer rested demurely beneath the diamond, but Minerva had replaced it with a grey tabby poised to pounce.

How to respond to Gertrude’s invitation, then? Well, Minerva was not going to play games with her reply. Simple and straightforward would be best.

“Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
“5 July 1957

“Dear Gertrude,

“Thank you for your kind invitation. A few days in Cornwall sounds quite agreeable, and you may expect me via your Portkey on Monday morning.

“As there will be other guests, may I ask whether there is any particular attire that I should bring with me or any occasion for which I should be prepared?

“Thank you again,
“Sincerely yours,

“Minerva M. McGonagall”

Minerva read her letter through. Perhaps her inquiry about clothing was a bit blunt and inelegant, but she didn’t want to embarrass herself and her hostess by committing a social gaffe. And, after all, Gertie had given her a veiled warning about her relatives. She should arrived prepared for these people, she supposed.

Minerva brought the letter over to her work table and got out her sealing wax. A quick charm sealed her letter, and a wave of her wand impressed her modified Egidius coat-of-arms into the emerald green wax. If she were to expect a reply, it would be courteous to post it immediately, but Minerva was reluctant to send it out just yet. Once her acceptance was posted, she would be unable to change her mind. She slipped the sealed parchment into one of the pockets hidden in the seams of her skirt. She would wait just a little while before sending it. In the meantime, she owed Melina a letter.

Settling at her little table by the window again, Minerva composed her letter to her niece.

“Dear Melina,

“I am sorry I have neglected writing to you. The end of term was busy, as you might imagine, although that is no excuse. As I said in my last letter, I am also sorry that I was unable to come help you celebrate your new status, but you know that you have my heartiest congratulations. Mother said that she and Dad had a good time. It would have been nice to have seen everyone – I don’t remember the last time I saw Great-uncle Perseus and Aunt Helen.

“I know you’re waiting for me to get to the point and answer the questions you asked in your last letter. I have confirmed my earlier research that I had told you about, and I think I may have found a solution to your quandary. I don’t want to go into details yet, as I still must consult one other person before I am certain. I am sorry to leave you hanging for a bit longer, Melina, but please be patient. I know it has been becoming more difficult for you to explain your absences and your comings-and-goings to Brennan, but since you will be taking a few weeks off now and will be able to spend more time with him, I think you will be able to hold on until I have worked out the details for you.

“I want you to be happy, Melina, and when I met Brennan and saw you two together, I understood why you like him. It didn’t even seem obvious that he was a Muggle – or that you were a witch, for that matter. I don’t mean that in any insulting way – I hope you realise that. What I mean to say is that you were simply Brennan and Melina, and magic didn’t matter. (I never thought I’d say that!) I hope that Brennan’s suspicions don’t get out of hand. Tend to him carefully while you have this free time – although I doubt very much you need to be told that! – and hopefully you will be able to reassure him of his place in your life.

“I believe I will be visiting a colleague in Cornwall next week, but know that I have not forgotten your predicament. Before I leave, I will try to consult with the other person, as I mentioned, but if I am unable to, I will do so immediately upon my return.

“Give my love to your father,
“Love,

“Minerva
“Friday, 5 July 1957”

Minerva folded the letter, addressed it to Melina, and sealed it as she had the one to Gertrude, but this time she impressed three intertwined M’s into the wax, rather than the coat-of-arms, which Minerva felt would be pretentious. She put the letter in her pocket with the first one. Glancing at the mantle clock, she saw that it was almost noon. She would have lunch, have her talk with Poppy, and then decide whether to send off her acceptance or not.

When she reached the Great Hall, only Hagrid was there. If Minerva didn’t know better, she would have thought that he looked unhappy. But Hagrid was almost relentlessly cheerful. Even when he was a boy and had been dismissed from Hogwarts and had his wand broken, he had maintained a Stoic bearing that was admirable in such a young wizard; within weeks, once he had been installed as the Groundskeeper-trainee, he had regained his positive outlook on life, and Minerva had been surprised to find him whistling as he worked in the gardens or cheerfully doing rounds to check the physical locks on the gates and doors. Perhaps he had overdone it at the Three Broomsticks last night and was still recovering.

Minerva sat beside him. One more person would have to arrive before the lunch would appear on the table. “I had some of your strawberries for breakfast this morning, Hagrid. They really are wonderful. I don’t think I’ve tasted strawberries that have been so . . . strawberry before,” Minerva said with a bright smile.

“Ta, Minerva.” Hagrid sighed. “Glad yeh like’em,” he said dolorously.

Hmm, this was not the Hagrid she knew and loved.

“You seem a little under the weather today, Hagrid. Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yeah. Everythin’s fine.” He sighed again.

There was definitely something wrong. Just then the door opened and Professor Birnbaum entered with Professor MacAirt. They were speaking together, obviously continuing an on-going conversation. Minerva could not very well press Hagrid about what was bothering him now that other faculty were arriving. He looked like he needed a friendly ear, though. Perhaps later in the day, or over the week-end, she could seek him out and see if he wanted to talk about whatever was bothering him. Of course, by then, he might be over whatever it was. Still, she had benefited from the kindness of her friends; she should at least give him the opportunity to talk to her if he wanted to.

Feeling a rush of affection for the half-giant, Minerva patted one of his large hands. “Perhaps we can talk later, if you want, hmm?” She smiled at him.

Hagrid returned her smile with a small one of his own. “Eh, it’s nothin’. But it would be nice t’ see yeh, M’nerva.”

He was remembering to drop the “Miss” before her name, Minerva noticed gratefully. When he had started as trainee Groundskeeper, a position that Albus had got for him, Headmaster Dippet had instructed him that he now must address all of the students with respect, and call them “Miss” or “Mister.” After she learned that, Minerva had insisted that he must not call her “Miss McGonagall”; so that he wouldn’t get into trouble if someone overheard, she had agreed he could call her “Miss Minerva.” Old habits die hard, and Hagrid had some trouble adjusting when Minerva had returned as a teacher, alternating between addressing her as “Miss Minerva” and “Professor McGonagall.” While Minerva thought it was perfectly proper for him to use the latter form of address in front of students or strangers, she could not have him calling her “Miss Minerva” under any circumstances. She had insisted that Hagrid call her by her first name when they were in an informal setting, or at least stick with “Professor McGonagall,” if he felt he must.

Lunch appeared on the round table, and soon other staff members joined them. Albus didn’t arrive, and remembering what he had said, Minerva didn’t linger after she had eaten in hopes he might be coming late. She did stop by Poppy’s chair before she left and told her that she would meet her in the infirmary after Poppy had finished eating.

Returning to her rooms, Minerva brushed her teeth and used the loo. On her way back out the door, she paused to smell the flowers that Albus had given her. She smiled again, remembering that he had picked them and arranged them himself. She wished she had seen that – it was bound to have been a sweet sight. The world’s foremost Alchemist and victor over Grindelwald, arranging flowers. And the way he had presented them, vase and all . . . That was probably because he had intended to give them to her yesterday and forgot. What was it he had said? Something about having been distracted by the fair blossom in his presence . . . Minerva’s cheeks grew pink. She wondered what made him say that – being gallant, as Melina would say, no doubt. That was all. She shouldn’t make too much of it. But he had noticed her appearance that morning. Minerva was glad she had made some efforts to look presentable. Perhaps he did appreciate it more than she had thought he would, and after all, Albus might not place a great deal of importance on a person’s appearance, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t have an aesthetic appreciation of it if someone were to take pains with their grooming.

With those pleasant thoughts, Minerva set off for the hospital wing. She would need to make sure that Poppy hadn’t got the wrong idea that morning – or, if it was too late for that, correct any misapprehensions she might have. Minerva was grateful for the advice that Poppy had given her yesterday – and for her concern, as well – so she couldn’t be too upset with her. And Minerva did want to share the good news with her friend that she and Albus had cleared up their misunderstandings and that all was well between them again. Although that much must have been evident from the fact that they were eating breakfast together. Minerva rolled her eyes, thinking of Poppy’s inopportune visit that morning. Yes, clearing up any misconceptions Poppy had was her first order of business.

Albus hurried down the hallway to the main corridor. As much as he had enjoyed having breakfast with Minerva, he didn’t know what had possessed him to say some of the things he had said that morning. Even while vowing he would be careful around her, he came out with statements that immediately raised questions about his ability to do so. It was one thing to have complimented her the way he had when he had arrived – he recognised that as a witch, Minerva probably enjoyed compliments about her appearance, even though she was by no means vain – but some of the other remarks that had come from his mouth were enough to make a grown wizard cringe. His last comment, for example. That had been entirely unnecessary. He had already apologised, and they had established that they enjoyed spending time together. There was no need to have gone on the way he had about the mistake it had been to have deprived himself of her company – let alone that he had, once again, with all the sensitivity of a marauding Hippogriff, mentioned the incident of the morning before.

It wasn’t simply that he seemed unable to keep the conversation to appropriate topics, either. He would have appeared utterly insensitive had he not allowed Minerva to make her apology. It would have been wrong of him to have denied her that opportunity. But why did he have to say what he had? To have told her, like some first-year Hufflepuff with a bad crush on the Head Girl, that he was afraid that she hated him. Minerva had taken it well, Albus admitted. And they had been able to go on and discuss school business, as planned. She had treated him normally, and Albus had joked with her in his usual way, but that did nothing to erase the memory of that embarrassing revelation.

As he reached the gargoyle, for the first time in many, many decades, Albus felt weary and wished he could flee his life. This was worse than the embarrassing debacle a few years ago. Over the course of a long life, that incident had been nothing, really. It certainly didn’t affect him any more. But Albus had no idea how to deal with this on-going situation. He had known when he had hired Minerva that his feelings might be . . . susceptible to her presence in the castle. He hadn’t believed it would prove to be such a difficulty, however. Indeed, it hadn’t been difficult, not until he had heard those words come out of her mouth yesterday morning and realised he was in danger of losing her friendship.

Albus sat at his desk and looked at all of the parchments that he had to read through. Not now, he thought, and pushed himself away from the desk. He went up to his suite, changed into his dressing gown, and prepared the nasty potion that he had promised Aberforth he would apply to his beard weekly. He was more than a day late with it, but there was no helping that.

Albus sat on the little bench in his bathroom, beard bucket floating in front of him. At least this was an undisturbed half-hour to himself. Perhaps that was one reason he had agreed to participate in his brother’s daft experiment.

He sighed. Albus now saw that he had been able to maintain his equilibrium despite Minerva’s presence in the castle because he had simply not seen very much of her once term began. He had even brought her dinner in her office a few times when she had been working late, but had always declined her invitation to stay and keep her company.

He had been balanced on a pinpoint, trying to maintain an illusion of friendship with Minerva and stay in her good graces whilst at the same time behaving as though it didn’t matter whether she was in the castle or in London. That was foolish of him. As he had told her when he left her rooms that morning, he had been depriving himself of her company. But now it was as though he were going to the other extreme. And it would have to stop. Surely he could find a happy medium between ignoring her – which would hurt her feelings – and behaving in the maudlin way he had this morning.

Albus shook his head, sloshing the potion and releasing more of its foul odour, despite the charm that was supposed to contain the stench. His eyes watered, and he was happy to blame the potion’s stinging fumes. Why had he said what he had about his irrational fears? He had known they were irrational even yesterday morning; he certainly knew today that there was no truth to them. Was his mawkish sentimentality a way of finding out what Minerva would say about his fear? Or a way to inveigle sympathy from her?

What really bothered him, though, was not the “foot-in-mouth disease” he seemed to have developed that morning – and knowing Minerva’s generous nature as he did, Albus couldn’t believe that his confessed fear would lower her esteem for him – no, what bothered him was how easily he had made the confession. Perhaps not easily, but willingly. It would have been sufficient to have told Minerva that hearing her words had hurt him in the moment and made him doubt their friendship. Instead, he had been so moved by her apology that he had revealed more than necessary. The foolishness of an old man, a greater foolishness than that of youth . . . And then to have allowed himself the indulgence of holding her the way he did and actually telling her he liked it . . . Minerva hadn’t minded only because she hadn’t understood what he had meant.

Over the last dozen years or so, they had seen each other a few times a year, sometimes more frequently, sometimes less. Usually they had met casually, when he happened to be in London and she had time to join him for lunch or dinner. Occasionally, they had made special plans to meet, as when Minerva was looking for a Transfiguration master and wanted his advice. He had also been present to lend his support when Minerva had carried out her Challenge to Madame Feuilly. Albus smiled at the memory. Although due to his own stubbornness, the incident in France during the war had strained their relationship for a while, the two had maintained an easy, congenial friendship after she had left school.

During all that time, Albus had no difficulty maintaining his view of Minerva as a friend and former student. True, he would occasionally find himself noticing that she was an attractive woman, but he had been able to admire her in the abstract. And there was nothing wrong with caring for Minerva with the deep affection of a friend and mentor. Affection, love, was a good thing, when it was not twisted by possessiveness or any of the other human flaws that can taint relationships. The trouble was, Albus knew that what he felt was different from the affection of a friend or a mentor – and that it had been for a long time, despite his denial and self-control. It was not even as simple as being attracted to her in addition to being fond of her. Albus had occasion to meet many very attractive witches in his long life, some of whom he had liked quite a bit. But Minerva was not one of those witches.

Albus banished the beard bucket and charmed off the potion. He shed his dressing gown and stepped into the shower to rid himself of the last vestiges of the noxious concoction, although it was not strictly necessary. Would that a charm and a shower could cleanse him of all his troubles.

Albus stood with warm water pouring over him and jetting on his body from all sides. He stretched his arms in front of him, braced himself against the shower wall, and closed his eyes. This was not merely a question of being inconveniently attracted to a very young, pleasant witch whom he had taught several years ago and with whom he now worked. With water streaming over his face and running down his hair and beard, Albus finally articulated to himself what he had known, or should have known, for a long time: he loved Minerva McGonagall. He loved her completely. Being with her made him feel more himself. And the way he loved her . . . he desired her physically, but with more than just simple physical desire.

Albus didn’t even know when he had begun to love Minerva as something more than a precocious student. It wasn’t as simple as pointing to the day in McTavish Street when he had realised that Minerva was an attractive young witch. She had been very dear to him before that day. Although Albus had always been scrupulously fair in class, he could admit to himself that Minerva had meant more to him than just a sweet child and exemplary student for quite some time before the warm summer’s day when he had first perceived her as a desirable woman.

Albus now wondered about the truth of what he had seen that afternoon in Edinburgh. There was absolutely no doubt that he had been appalled and sickened when he realised he was becoming aroused by the sight of Minerva McGonagall. Even at the time, he hadn’t understood how he could have failed to recognise her. To be sure, Minerva was not wearing school robes, but he had seen her in different clothing before, and although she usually wore her hair down at school, he had seen her when she had it pinned up, as well. There must have been some part of him that had known that he was looking at Minerva. It had not simply been a random witch on the street whom he had found enticing and who later turned out to be Minerva; it had been Minerva herself who had attracted him. Yet Albus had gone on to work with her that summer, then to teach her for another year, and had easily ignored any stray thought that might have led him to appreciate Minerva in a way unbecoming a teacher charged with her care. It truly hadn’t been difficult for him, either; Albus had successfully fallen back into their established relationship – which was closer and more like a friendship than the typical teacher-student relationship, but not inappropriate, either.

In that moment, standing motionless in the steaming shower, a very small part of Albus selfishly wished that Minerva had disappeared from his life after she left school, that she had married and had babies and sent him photographs of her cute little offspring, then sent those offspring to Hogwarts for him to teach. He could have just remembered her as a particularly talented student whose husband was a very lucky man. He could have been a proper elderly wizard chuckling at his memories, and not this pitiable old man who longed for a young witch who seemed so close but who was completely out of reach.

The greater part of him, though, was grateful for Minerva’s on-going presence in his life and glad for her friendship. Albus resolved that he would express his love as one friend to another, as a mentor for his protege. He would not fall into the pathetic role of a wizard in his dotage, making a fool of himself over a young witch. Albus most certainly didn’t need friends and colleagues clucking over what they would see as a pitiful infatuation and discussing whether this was a sign that he had entered his final decline.

If Gertie agreed to his request, Albus thought as he turned off the shower, it would make the situation a little easier for him – for a while, anyway. Although there were other options available, as she had pointed out more than once, they were less acceptable to him. Still, he could not ask more of Gertie than she was willing to give. She had already been more generous than he had a right to expect.

Albus dried himself, feeling slightly better for having finally articulated what had afflicted his judgment and his behaviour, but he was still subdued. He really shouldn’t feel sorry for himself; he should embrace his friendship with Minerva and be glad of it. As he padded into his bedroom to don fresh robes, there was a burst of flames in the centre of the room. Fawkes was back.

The phoenix settled at the top of the bed and cocked his head as he watched Albus dress in garnet-coloured cotton robes with a chevron pattern woven through them. As Albus sat to pull on his socks, Fawkes let out a brief trill, and Albus looked up at him and smiled.

“Where have you been, old friend? I’ve missed you the last day or two. I think I either need a holiday or a phoenix’s song, and I haven’t time for a holiday,” Albus said, as the large bird fluttered closer to settle on his shoulder. “How am I supposed to put on my shoes with you sitting there, hmm?” At the look Fawkes gave him, Albus laughed. “You’re right – I am a wizard, aren’t I?”

Albus charmed his shoes onto his feet, and Fawkes began to sing. Albus felt as though a great weight was being lifted from him, or as though he had just woken from a most refreshing sleep after a long and tiring day. He smiled. Yes, he would enjoy Minerva’s presence in the castle. He would cherish her friendship and all of the time they were able to spend together. It was a blessing that she was here with him; even those emotions that he could not express to her were a blessing, and he could appreciate them and hold her dear in his heart, keeping his feelings close and hidden.

Much happier, Albus stood, Fawkes on his shoulder. Stroking the bird’s red and gold plumage, he said, “To the office, then?”

Fawkes trilled brightly in response and, with a flash, transported them both to Albus’s office – a favour rarely bestowed under such mundane circumstances. After feeding Fawkes a few treats, Albus sat down in good humour and set to work through his pile of parchments, looking forward to the next time he would see Minerva.