Not to be Tolerated
Albus closed the door and sighed. He had done so well up until that last moment, behaved punctiliously like a Headmaster interacting with a member of his staff – a member of his staff who was also a long-time friend, but nonetheless, he had been pleased at his self-control. Showing Minerva the affection and respect she deserved but without crossing the boundaries he had placed for himself. Still, it had only been a quick kiss, a few words, nothing too revealing. But the emotion he had felt in that moment, that was something he would have to rein in, for his own sake, if nothing else.
He started back across the room to his desk when the voice of Eliphelet Longbottom stopped him in his tracks.
“Why don’t you just kiss her properly? That’s what I would have done,” he called out heartily.
“Hush, now, leave him be, Eliphelet!” Dilys answered. “You never have any good advice for him about the school, so don’t decide to speak up now!”
“Disgusting!” came Phineas’s irritable response. “Not to be tolerated!”
Albus turned around slowly and surveyed the portraits. “Don’t you all have other things to do today?”
“My great-great-grandson’s house is a bore. They have me stuck in a room they never use. The library,” Eliphelet answered with a grumble, but he slouched out of the portrait.
Albus looked at Phineas and Dilys, but Phineas was “sleeping,” and Dilys had returned to her tatting. He sat heavily at his desk. If the portraits were beginning to see things – and they, only a bit of charmed canvas – how long would it be before others around him began to observe his behaviour and see him for the old, love-struck fool that he was? Albus removed his glasses and put his head in his hands.
“Don’t worry about Eliphelet, dear. You know what his reputation was – or perhaps you don’t. Terrible womanizer, that one – isn’t that what they’re calling it now? One hears the most interesting conversations at St. Mungo’s.”
Albus wanted to ask Dilys why she was sitting in his office tatting, then, if it was so interesting at St. Mungo’s, but that seemed gratuitously sarcastic, and he was not generally given to sarcasm, at least not blatantly, so he simply said nothing and pretended not to pay her any attention.
“He would be having that bony Dustern witch on the settee, if he were you,” she said brightly, “then follow it up by lifting plump Perlecta’s skirts and taking her against the door. You should have seen what he got up to, or tried to. I don’t think there have ever been so many witches casting Stinging Hexes in one room anywhere in the wizarding world as when he was Headmaster here. I saw the cut of his character – and far more than that, believe me, dear. He wouldn’t understand the finer feelings a wizard such as yourself might have. No, if a witch showed him the slightest bit of interest, he would be on her in a flash. Never knew a wizard with such stamina myself. And if one had a crush on him – though that always mystified me when it came to Eliphelet, I must say, dear – well, he would not have hesitated to take advantage of the girl’s feelings. He’d do more than just kiss her.” She snipped her thread, tying it off, then continued. “Of course, I don’t think there has been a Headmaster or Headmistress since I’ve been hanging here who hasn’t had a bit of fun in this room, at least a time or two. Usually within the first weeks of taking this office. With the exception of you, of course. But don’t you worry about Eliphelet, dear. We’ll take care of him. We have our ways, you know. You won’t hear another peep from him. And do you know why he was moved into the library? He made highly inappropriate remarks to visiting witches. Can’t have that in a respectable household. Most embarrassing. But I assure you, you won’t have to resort to covering his portrait with a curtain.”
Albus listened to Dilys prattle on. Perhaps it was as she said: Eliphelet was simply making a suggestion based on his own character when he was alive. And he was only a portrait, as animated as he might appear, and a two-dimensional representation of the wizard he had once been. But what Dilys said about “finer feelings” and witches with “crushes,” that disturbed him almost as much as Eliphelet’s original suggestion. He shuddered internally at the thought of Dustern on the couch and Perlecta against the door. At least Perlecta was good-natured, and comely in a soft, rounded, feminine sort of way, but not the type of witch he would have been interested in that way even when he had been a bit . . . freer with his attentions. Well, something more than “free.” He shook his head. That had not been one of the better times in his life, he thought with a sigh, although at least it had led him, finally, back to his correct path. Perhaps it had even been necessary, which was what Nyima had said every time he had expressed regret, that it was all his path, every step of it and every misstep, too.
As much as he wanted to know what Dilys had meant when she mentioned “finer feelings,” Albus didn’t want to draw any more attention to his own behaviour, though, not even just the attention of a portrait. Instead, he settled back into his work, concentrating, avoiding the stray thoughts that occasionally tried to invade his consciousness. When the vision of himself pressing Minerva against the door and raising her skirts flashed through his mind, his quill tip skidded across the page, ending in a dark blot. He gingerly laid the quill to one side, flicked a finger to charm the scratches and blots away, then took off his glasses and set them down in front of him.
Albus rubbed his eyes. He was tired. If he were better rested, he would not be having such thoughts. He had done a lot of work the night before. A bit of a kip wouldn’t hurt him. He picked up his glasses and put them in his pocket, then stood. After the portraits’ comments that morning, he really didn’t want to have lunch with Minerva there beneath their gazes. His sitting room would do just as well. He would have to watch himself whether they ate here or there, anyway, and they would be busy discussing school business.
“Wilspy!”
“Yes, Professor Dumbledore, may I serve?” the house-elf asked when she popped in barely a moment later.
“Yes, my dear. I believe we should take lunch in the sitting room this afternoon, rather than down here.”
“Very good, Professor! Professor’s Professor Minerva be’s more comfy in the sitting room,” Wilspy said with approval.
“Mmm. And I am going to lie down and rest for a short time. Could you see to it that I am awake by eleven-thirty, please,” he requested. It wasn’t even nine-thirty yet.
“Of course!” She patted his wrist. “You go sleep, dream nice dreams, and I wake Master Albus at eleven-thirty.”
Albus smiled. “Thank you, Wilspy.”
He went up to his suite, washed his face and hands, then changed into a striped nightshirt. He wasn’t sure he would be able to sleep, but he thought he would rest better if he changed out of his robes. As he lay in bed between the pale gold sheets, Albus recalled Minerva’s smile when she entered his office that morning. She had been pleased with the flowers.
He relaxed with a sigh and closed his eyes and began to drift asleep. In that state between waking and sleeping, he could almost feel Minerva’s kiss on his cheek again, the warmth of her hand on his arm. So sweet, so dear . . . if he had kissed her then, returned hers, perhaps he wouldn’t have felt moved to kiss her before she left, there at the door. He drifted more deeply asleep and his sleepy brain conjured a dreamy memory of her face, looking up at him, her eyes bright, and the way she closed them for a moment. . . . Albus bent forward and kissed her closed lids, taking her face in his hands, then he kissed her cheeks, and then her lips, and she moved toward him, putting her arms around his waist, one hand caressing downward, then beginning to knead him as he pressed her against the door and moved one hand to her breast then further down to wandlessly raise her skirts and find her warmth . . . the sleeping Albus breathed more quickly, his cheeks rosy and his lips parted as his lids fluttered slightly as he dreamed. A part of him knew he was dreaming, and he told himself he should change the dream or wake himself, but he did not. He dreamed on, feeling her, soft, warm, and moist, beneath his moving hand, his lips moving against hers, his tongue teasing her mouth, his other hand finding her breast, baring it, caressing it, and she, pulling him more tightly against her until his hand finally freed himself from his robes, and he raised her up, and then they could be no closer and he felt her hand grip his buttocks as he filled her. Albus woke moments later with a slight cry.
He looked down at the sheets and his hand, then fell back against his pillow again. Merlin, he hadn’t had such lack of control in decades, let alone . . . these results. Albus swallowed and tightened his jaw. No point in excoriating himself about it. He would simply need to do better in the future. And perhaps this might have relieved some of his tension; perhaps he might find it easier to avoid such thoughts about her now that his sleeping mind had allowed him in a dream what his waking mind never would, neither in fantasy nor in reality. Albus calmed himself and freshened the sheets and his nightshirt, but he was uncomfortable, and he swung out of bed.
On the way to the bathroom, he tossed his nightshirt toward the Charmed basket and it disappeared. He ran a cool shower and stepped into it, quickly sluicing the sweat from his body, and just as quickly stepping out and towelling himself off. Albus glanced at Big Ben. Only a little after ten o’clock. He retrieved a fresh nightshirt from a drawer and returned to bed, hoping to have some rest, undisturbed by dreams or nightmares, before Wilspy came to wake him.
Lunch had been nice, Minerva thought, although they had discussed Hogwarts business almost exclusively. She had been somewhat surprised to arrive at the Headmaster’s office to find it empty, but then Dilys had called down to her telling her that the Headmaster had left her a message to say that lunch had been relocated to his sitting room. Minerva had been pleased to climb the brass stairs to Albus’s suite to find a lovely lunch for two set out on his round table, a tall, narrow vase with just a few flowers decorating it, and the wizard himself waiting for her, sitting in an armchair, reading some parchment. Albus had greeted her with a smile and held her chair for her as she sat, but then he had immediately begun to discuss her installation as the new Head of Gryffindor. It all sounded rather mechanical to her, and it was good to know what would be expected of her, but she wished that Albus had shown a little more enthusiasm about it. She supposed it was all very routine to him, but it wasn’t to her.
After discussing her new position, he introduced the subject of procuring a new Defence teacher. Minerva had very few ideas about that, though she thought it might not be a bad idea to perhaps find a retired Auror who might find the idea of teaching Defence congenial. The most remarkable aspect to their meal, Minerva thought, aside from the fact that they discussed absolutely nothing personal, was that Albus was now wearing the plain burgundy robes of cotton that he had on the day she had left on holiday, rather than the plain navy ones he had worn that morning. When she remarked on them, he simply told her that he had taken her advice about taking care of himself and had a brief nap, so he changed his robes.
“Shall we now go and look at your new quarters, my dear? Determine what changes you would like?” Albus asked as they finished their berry tarts.
“That would be fine, but I have something for you.” Minerva reached down for the bag she had set beside her chair. “These are for you,” she said, handing him the tan cloth bag. She had been going to wait until his birthday dinner, but if Albus wasn’t taking care of himself, she thought it best to give them to him early.
Albus looked slightly puzzled as he took the bag, but then when he looked into it, he smiled. “Vitamin Potion?” He looked up at her. “The Hogwarts infirmary can keep me supplied, you know, but I do appreciate it. I actually took my last dose a few days ago.”
“Well, Poppy probably won’t be restocking the infirmary any time soon, and she only keeps two flavours, she said. I thought you might like a little variety. I got them directly from my brother. There’s the lemon-lime, grape, and cherry, and a new formula that is vanilla-flavoured. It is meant for wizards and witches under stress. The other three are fairly identical, except for the flavouring. Poppy said it would be all right for you to take the vanilla formula, though, particularly if you aren’t getting sufficient sleep.”
“She did? You talked to her about it?” Albus wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about Minerva discussing his health with the school mediwitch. It was peculiar enough to have a former student treating him without thinking that she and Minerva were discussing his general decrepitude.
“Yes. She was with me at the time, so I just asked her if it would be all right. Murdoch says it’s perfectly safe for anyone to take, but I thought that since Poppy was there, I would just make sure. I wouldn’t want to give you anything that she wouldn’t want you to be taking.”
“Oh, I see.” Albus smiled. “Well, thank you, my dear. It will be nice to have some variety.”
“Yes, um, about that.” Minerva hesitated. “Do you remember the little side-effect I mentioned before? Well, for some reason, if you switch flavours, it returns. Oh, and the vanilla one, it doesn’t go purple, but very bright blue.”
Albus chuckled. “Well, that could actually be rather amusing. Thank you for thinking of me.”
“Always, Albus,” Minerva said. She averted her eyes and fought her blush. “Let’s go, then. I do agree, by the way, that the bathroom I have currently is much nicer than the one in Gryffindor Tower.”
They both stood and Albus said, “I thought you would prefer yours. Shall we take the backstairs? It would be much faster.”
Minerva nodded. She tried not to think about the daydream she had had the previous day. Sometimes she felt that her thoughts and emotions were so strong, it was a wonder they didn’t scream out loud at Albus. But they made it down the stairs without incident, Minerva placing one hand only lightly on his shoulder, and they walked quickly across the castle toward Gryffindor Tower and the rooms designated for Gryffindor Head of House.
Minerva spent the next hour with Albus, discussing changes, with him suggesting more than she would have considered asking for. Her study would be enlarged, the small kitchen reoriented so that it would have a window, and her bedroom would also have several square feet added to it, and on learning that she liked to sleep with the windows open, he suggested adding another, larger window to it. They looked around at the furniture. Minerva thought it was just fine, what could be expected of the rooms belonging to the Gryffindor Head, but Albus was displeased. He said that they had not been changed in more than fifty years, and he thought they could use improvement. Minerva told him that she trusted his judgment, and to do what he thought best.
When they looked at the bathroom, which combined both the bath and the loo, Albus glanced around and said, “Would you like me to simply replicate what you have now?”
“If you can, that would be nice, Albus. It seems you are already making so many changes . . .”
Albus shrugged. “Hogwarts does most of the work. I just direct it. Then the house-elves do the rest.” He hesitated. “Did you like the tiles in your bathroom?”
“Very much! I have fun looking at them and trying to figure out what they depict,” she said. “I really enjoy them.”
Albus smiled. “I’m glad you like them, my dear. Would you mind terribly if they were just transferred from there to here? It could be the last thing we do, tomorrow morning. You won’t even notice. It’s just that they took a bit of doing the first time – I could replicate them, of course, simply duplicating them, but they are . . . unique.”
“That would be fine, particularly if no one is going to be using my old rooms. They would just go to waste. Where did you get them, Albus?” Minerva asked, thinking that he had either moved them from some other location in the castle, or perhaps had ordered them from a wizarding shop.
“The tiles are just ordinary tiles that were there after the bathroom had been reconfigured for your use, but in the days leading up to your return to Hogwarts, I spent some time decorating them,” Albus explained. “I found pictures that I thought would be suitable to adapt, and I Transfigured the tiles so that each one had a different picture. I’m glad you found them stimulating to your imagination, my dear.”
“Oh, thank you! I honestly think they are my favourite thing in those rooms,” Minerva said. She was touched that he had gone to such efforts for her even before she had arrived. It certainly added to the puzzle of why he had seemed to avoid her all those months.
Albus turned and smiled at her. “I know how nice it can be to have a relaxing soak after a long day, and it’s easier to do that in a congenial atmosphere.”
“It has been very welcome,” Minerva agreed. She raised her hand and squeezed his arm. “You have always been so good to me, Albus. I don’t know how I can ever adequately express my appreciation for all you have done.”
Albus shook his head. “You bring a lot to my life, Minerva. And never forget, you saved my life, and were willing to risk yours to do that. I would say that was more than adequate, if I were looking for some . . . recompense. But . . . that’s . . . not why . . .” Albus trailed off, seemingly at a loss for words.
“I know,” Minerva said softly. “That’s not what our relationship is about. We are friends, as you have said, friends above all else.”
Albus smiled slightly and nodded.
“But, I am still grateful, Albus,” she said.
“As am I,” Albus responded softly, then added more energetically, “And now, my dear, you may get on with your day. Hogwarts, the house-elves, and I will carry on from here.”
“All right . . . will you be at dinner?” Minerva didn’t know why she asked that. She was beginning to sound needy. As though she couldn’t go more than a few hours without seeing him. “I was just wondering . . . you should be sure to eat.” Wonderful, now she sounded like a mother hen, just what Albus seemed to dislike.
Albus raised an eyebrow, but smiled. “I will be sure to eat, but I plan to be at dinner. You really needn’t worry, Minerva.”
“I know, and I don’t mean to fuss, but I am glad you had a nap this morning. You look rested and more relaxed,” she observed. Minerva thought that Albus looked uncomfortable at her words, and he seemed to flush. Worried that he was becoming irritated with her, she hastily added, “But I know you can take care of yourself. I’m sorry . . . I just want – ” to take care of you, she thought. “I just want the best for you, and there seems so little I can do.”
“That’s all right, my dear. I understand. You have always been Mother McGonagall, and I have been grateful.” Albus felt guilty, knowing why he seemed so rested and relaxed. He had violated her, her privacy, her modesty; that he had been asleep at the time was no excuse. He had been aware he was dreaming. He could have woken himself. He didn’t know why he didn’t. And now she was apologising to him. He smiled at her, trying to reassure her. “Now you go enjoy your afternoon. I am sorry I have taken so much of your time today.”
Minerva laughed lightly at that. “It is for my benefit, after all, Albus. And now you are about to spend more time on it.”
“Oh, I’ll also be expanding one of the greenhouses this afternoon, too, and making a few other changes to the castle. It will be all ready for the warding on Friday, and I will be done with all of the reconfigurations by tomorrow afternoon so that we can spend a nice evening together. And Gertie is returning sometime tomorrow, and she will be able to help with some of it.”
“That’s good – but I thought she was returning today,” Minerva said questioningly.
“I received an owl from her just before lunch. She decided to take an extra day,” Albus replied.
“I see. Well, thank you for lunch, and for all your work. I wish I could do something to help.” Inspiration hit her. “Your correspondence – I could help with that. If nothing else, I could sort it for you – ”
“You don’t need to, Minerva, but if you are looking for something to do . . . don’t feel obligated, but that would be helpful. I received a number of letters from parents yesterday and today. Perhaps you could draft responses for me? If you like – ”
“Good. I won’t feel guilty that you are here working on my rooms while I am just relaxing,” Minerva said enthusiastically.
Albus smiled. “I will actually be returning to my office shortly, myself, but I won’t be needing the desk, so feel free to make use of it.”
“I will see you later, then.”
Minerva wanted to linger, to watch Albus work, but she left, taking the stairs down to the second floor, then the moving spiral staircase back up to the Headmaster’s office. She truly didn’t understand his behaviour; he seemed far more mercurial than she had ever known him to be. Minerva hoped it didn’t mean that the stress he was under was affecting his health. But surely he had been under more stress than this on other occasions. Quin’s words came back to her in his lilting Irish voice. “If he’s unsure of his own feelin’s, that could go far in explainin’ his contradictory behaviour. Could be he’s seein’ his Transfiguration mistress in a new light and don’t know how to act.” Perhaps tomorrow, his birthday, she could . . . explore this theory of Quin’s.
When Minerva had gone, Albus sat down heavily in an old wooden armchair and sighed. Phineas had spoken the truth that morning. It was not to be tolerated. Disgusting, in fact. He had to get control of himself. He had to treat Minerva with the respect to which she was entitled, at all times . . . at all times.