Gifts
Minerva lay in bed, tossing and turning, her head still spinning from all that she had so suddenly learned about Albus. The mysterious and painful disappearance of his father, his youthful association with Grindelwald, his mother’s death, his . . . wanderings . . . . Minerva didn’t know what surprised her more. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised he had known Grindelwald when they were young. They were the same generation, after all; it made sense. But that he had been friends with the wizard, even for a brief time . . . still, Grindelwald must have been charismatic to have accumulated the followers he did. And Albus had had the nerve – the Gryffindor courage – to argue with him, even as he had wanted the older wizard’s approval. He had said that waking up in the mud, having been beaten by Grindelwald, had actually been a relief.
What surprised Minerva most, though, had been Albus’s reaction to his mother’s death. Not his guilt and sorrow, that seemed typical Albus. But the intensity of his guilt and how it had driven him to despair . . . she never could have imagined Albus wandering through Europe, drinking, carousing, and generally leading a dissipated life, as he had phrased it. And yet when Albus had told his story, Minerva could easily see how he had come to that point and her heart had ached for him. Someone should have helped him, someone should have comforted him and saved him from himself and his guilt, intervened before he had woken up in that room, so disgusted with himself. Hot tears rose in her eyes as she thought of young Albus, so alone and in such emotional pain, surrounding himself with people, but still alone and in such pain that eventually he no longer felt anything at all. Thank whatever good fortune that had brought those Gypsies along at just that moment. What would have happened to him if he had not seen that little girl and wanted to help her and save the pony? Would he have died? Or would he have eventually gone home to Wales and his brother, still feeling guilt, his sense of self-worth even more damaged after his dissolute wanderings, and then led an undistinguished life, perhaps working in the pub alongside his brother? Never to do his research, never to write his books, never to come to Hogwarts to teach . . . never to meet her? And her own wand – what wand would have found her, if not the mate to his?
Minerva had felt nothing but relief when Albus told her of how he had travelled with the Roma, and was even relieved to hear that he had found some comfort and love with Maria. Now, though, lying there in bed, Minerva imagined young Albus, hair still deep auburn, youthful and beautiful, his need great, his bright blue eyes shadowed with pain, making love to a dark-haired, dark-eyed young Gypsy woman. These visions simultaneously created a flow of heavy, throbbing, warmth in her, and a gripping jealousy around her heart.
Minerva reached out in the pale light and took the evil eye from its place on her bedside table. She looked at it, wondering if Maria had worn something similar, and Minerva slipped the cord around her own neck and held onto the talisman with one hand. She closed her eyes and imagined young Albus, surprised the first time that Maria came to him in the dark, and imagined the young woman, a lithe and sensuous shadow, undressing and joining him beneath his blankets. Minerva saw Albus kiss her and draw his hand down over the young woman’s breast, kneading and fondling, before seeking her core. Then she saw Albus taking hold of the young woman’s shoulders, rolling her onto her back, and rising up, naked, his erection large, parting her legs with his own, reaching down and guiding his penis to her entrance. Minerva’s breathing quickened and her own hand began to rub herself through her nightgown, where she imagined Albus’s erection to be poised above Maria. Albus would enter her quickly, and the young woman would cry out softly at his sudden presence inside her, digging her fingernails into his back. She would be young and tight around him. Minerva’s hand increased its pressure as she imagined Albus pumping in and out, and now she was the woman, Albus was making love to her, his body warm and damp with sweat as he shifted to move within her, changing his angle to bring her even more pleasure. Minerva moved aside her nightgown and moaned as she continued to touch herself, imagining she was with young Albus, bringing him comfort, pleasure, and love after his long, arduous journey through darkness and back to the light, kissing him, holding him, moving beneath him, watching him as he came within her. And her throbbing grew and released, Minerva turning her face into the pillow, biting down, crying out.
She gasped and sighed, catching her breath. There were tears on her cheeks, and Minerva felt a mixture of relief and regret. She should not allow herself such fantasies. It would only make things worse for her. But now she relaxed and let out a long breath. She was glad that Albus had found the Gypsies and that Maria had loved him for a while. He had needed that love, she was sure of it, needed to feel lovable again, and, perhaps even more important, he needed to give love.
As for the rest of Albus’s story . . . she could understand why no one spoke of the events leading to his victory over Grindelwald. They could easily be distorted, and even if they weren’t, they had been painful for Albus and for the Aurors. But now Minerva’s mind was growing foggy, and as her mind drifted, she had the thought that if Albus and Gertrude ever had been involved romantically, they both certainly had experienced enough pain, and enough shared pain, that she could no longer resent it. They both deserved love, and it was clear to Minerva now why Gertrude was so devoted to Albus. She had known him, after all, since she was little more than a girl; they had celebrated holidays together as a family. And when Reginald lay dying, Albus did what he could, no matter how little he claimed it to be, to relieve the other wizard’s pain and to take it on himself. Gertrude had good reason to love this very lovable wizard in a special way. And although Minerva no longer believed them to be currently involved – surely Gertrude would have brought his birthday present to his bedroom and waited for him there, if they were, and Gertrude would have done something more special for him and certainly would not have let him have his birthday dinner with another witch if she were in the castle that evening, as she was – Minerva thought that if they ever had been lovers, it could only have been good for them both. And whatever their previous relationship, the two were still friends . . . and Minerva felt gratitude that Albus had had at least one good friend close by who could give him the support and love he needed during the hard years of the war, and after, too.
Minerva sighed and rolled over, a slight smile on her face. She loosed her grip on the evil eye, which she had held onto with one hand since putting it over her head, and she fell asleep as the sun rose above the mountains in the east.
Albus readied himself for bed. It had been a long and tiring night. He had known it might be difficult to tell Minerva about some of those events, some of what he had done, but he hadn’t realised quite how emotionally exhausting it would be. Perhaps he should have told her only a little at a time. If he had, it wouldn’t have had the cumulative impact on him, reliving so much of those difficult days. There had been so many happy days, too, at school, at the Flamels, with Master Nyima and with Mother Dragon. And then there had been those decades of peace after he had returned to Britain, reading, researching, experimenting, writing, developing friendships, travelling occasionally, trying to live up to the responsibilities that his great gifts had placed upon him, but that was only a small part of his story, and the less interesting part.
It was best told as a whole, though, which is why he had chosen to do so. And Minerva’s reaction . . . it hadn’t precisely surprised him. He had not believed he would lose her friendship. But that she had been so accepting of it all, even of his disgusting behaviour after his mother’s death, that was somewhat unexpected. Albus was certain that although he had not gone into detail, he had told her enough that she had a very good idea of how he had spent his days and nights, and how very far he had fallen from that promising young wizard who had the highest cumulative NEWTs scores in the history of Hogwarts, and the most NEWTs, possible, as well, having taken twelve, sitting the exams in the History of Magic, Divination, and Muggle Studies despite not having taken the classes since his fifth year. And then, just seven short years later, he was a widower, his mother had died while in his care, and he had fallen into a pit of despair and self-loathing that he had dug for himself and simply enlarged through his own behaviour.
It was a miracle that on the very day that he had hit his nadir, he had crossed paths with the Roma, had felt the need of that little girl, and had managed to bestir himself to help her. And then the Roma’s silent acceptance of him, Albus thought as he climbed between the sheets, that had been his salvation, or the beginning of it, anyway. He had seen their need, and they had seen his, and, surprisingly, had not rejected him, leaving him for his own people to sort out. No, they had taken him in for a meal and then accepted his company as they travelled. And Maria. Beautiful, dark, loving Maria . . . she had come to him freely, even knowing, as she must have, that he would leave them, and her. So many gifts, so much generosity, if one only opened one’s eyes to it, and if one opened oneself and gave, as well.
Minerva was a gift. Albus closed his eyes and relaxed completely, letting out a long, slow breath. Such a gift . . . from the time her bright little mind had entered his classroom to her sweet, childish care of him when he returned, exhausted from a painfully unsuccessful mission, to her loving support of Hagrid as he made the transition from student to assistant groundskeeper, to the young, supremely competent witch who had saved him in France, and to the dear friend who kissed his cheek and accepted him and his past, faults and all, Minerva was a miracle in herself. Of all the people whom he had been graced to know and whom he had come to love, even of the witches whom he had loved, from his mother and Perenelle to Dervilia, to Maria, and even to Gertrude . . . of them all, Minerva was special to him in a way that none other was. It mystified him slightly, but he accepted his feelings for her. Somehow, Minerva being Minerva, he could not help but love her, and to love her above all others. If only he could separate his love for her from his passion for her, but they were one and inseparable. But his love for her, at least, was a good thing; miraculously, Minerva loved him, too, and she still did, even after all he had told her.
As the morning light blossomed over the mountains, Albus fell asleep, thinking of the wonder that was Minerva, and his heart was at ease.
Minerva woke to a flurry of feathers in her face. For pity’s sake, it was Bootsie, with a parchment larger than he attached to one leg. When she had finally freed the parchment from the obnoxious bird’s leg and herself from its annoying attention, she noticed another owl, much more sedate and well-mannered, sitting on the footboard of her bed. She took the letter from that owl, too. She had barely done that when a third bird arrived. Minerva recognised it as Hengist, her mother’s owl. Because she had no treats for any of the birds, Minerva told them to find the Owlery. It only had regular owl food, no special treats, but it was the best she could do.
Minerva cast a Tempus. Almost ten o’clock. Late, but not terribly, considering how very late she had gone to bed. Minerva took a quick look at the letter from Melina. As she expected, it was a wedding invitation, but there was a small note, as well, congratulating Minerva on her appointment as Head of Gryffindor and asking whether she had seen the announcement in the Daily Prophet the day before. She hadn’t. She hadn’t even looked at the Prophet in a few days. The next letter was from her mother, of course, also offering congratulations, enclosing a clipping from the Prophet, and with a post script from her father. They were both looking forward to seeing her again as soon as her duties at Hogwarts permitted.
Minerva sagged. She did want to see her parents, of course, but she had completely forgotten that she had promised them that she would take the rest of her holiday and spend at least a few more days at the house. Well, she would think about that later. Minerva turned her attention to the clipping.
New Head of Gryffindor Installed
Professor McGonagall is best known for her innovative work and leadership in the Ministry’s Special Committee for Experimental Transfiguration, which she joined after attaining her Mastery in 1949. After her first apprenticeship with Transfiguration mistress Madame Feuilly, formerly of Beauxbatons, proved unsatisfactory, McGonagall, a former student of Headmaster Dumbledore’s, in a typical show of Gryffindor bravado, challenged Madame Feuilly in an age-old ritual combat. This Gryffindor daughter of Hogwarts prevailed in a public duel still remembered to this day by those who were present.
Good lord, Minerva thought, they made it sound as though she had engaged in a fight to the death or some such nonsense. And it hadn’t been very long ago, either. She hoped that people’s memories weren’t that short!
Although some anonymous former colleagues of Professor McGonagall question the wisdom of her installation as the youngest Head of Gryffindor in more than five hundred years, others are full of praise for the Transfiguration mistress. Indeed, the most recent Head of Gryffindor, Professor Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, praised her successor, saying that McGonagall would care for her House “as a mother lion would care for her cubs.”
Current Deputy Headmistress Gertrude Gamp, a Slytherin herself, made the following statement: “Professor McGonagall has always shown herself to be brave, resilient, and steadfast. She is an excellent teacher, a very talented mistress of Transfiguration, and a role-model for all students at Hogwarts. I taught Professor McGonagall myself, and I can say that my regard for her, always high, has only grown over the years. I am pleased to be able to call her a colleague, and I have no doubt but that the House of Gryffindor will benefit from her leadership and her care for many years to come. I offer her my congratulations on her achievement.” High praise indeed from a Slytherin.
Her fellow Heads of House, Johannes Birnbaum of Ravenclaw, whose own installation created a storm of controversy, and Horace Slughorn, long-time Head of Slytherin, were also welcoming and unstinting in their praise of the young Transfiguration mistress. There is currently no sitting Head of Hufflepuff, and the incoming Head, Professor Norman James, was unavailable for comment.
Headmaster Dumbledore, reached for comment the afternoon of McGonagall’s installation, had this to say: “Professor McGonagall was not only the most talented student of Transfiguration whom I had the good fortune to teach during my years here at Hogwarts, but one of the most talented of any master or mistress of Transfiguration whom I have known throughout my career. But she will be Head of Gryffindor not because of her talents in Transfiguration, considerable though they are, but because she embodies the ideals of Gryffindor. She is brave, yet not fearless, and her courage always defeats her fear. She acts selflessly to do what she believes to be right. Professor McGonagall will be an excellent guardian of both Gryffindor ideals and Gryffindor students.”
The staff of the Daily Prophet offers its own congratulations to Professor McGonagall and its best wishes for many successful years nurturing generations of Gryffindors.
The article was quite a bit longer than it needed to be, but then, Minerva supposed that being the youngest head of Gryffindor in so many years did make it a little more controversial. She was relieved that they hadn’t mentioned that she was currently the only Gryffindor on staff, nor had they offered a quote from the “anonymous former colleagues.” She imagined that one of those colleagues was Dustern, but wondered who the others might be. It could have been editorial license, she supposed, and there had only been the one “former colleague.” Minerva shrugged. No point in dwelling on that. Her current colleagues had been accepting of her, and Gertrude’s words had been quite warm. She was no doubt quoted at length partly because she was the Deputy, but also because it must have seemed somewhat peculiar for a Slytherin to be so full of praise for a Gryffindor Head of House. Albus’s statement had been nice . . . she wondered whether he had offered his congratulations but they had cut it when they quoted him.
Minerva sighed. Why on earth was she fixated on the fact that Albus had never congratulated her? He had joined the toast – made with the centaur mead he had brought out for the special occasion. He had been pleased that she accepted the position; he had told her that. And he had spent hours last night sharing details of his life with her that he had shared with very few others – some of them very embarrassing, private details. But somehow, no one else’s words of congratulations meant as much to her as hearing Albus’s, and she hadn’t heard him voice them. It was foolish of her. Perhaps she would say something to him . . . just something light. No point in simply dwelling on it and not saying anything at all. Just because she had noticed he hadn’t said those particular words didn’t mean that it had any significance, after all.
The third owl was from Quin, thanking her for the tour the previous day. The tour. It seemed a very long time ago, now, after having spent so many hours listening to Albus tell the story of his youth. Quin said that he’d had a nice visit with Hagrid and his Jarvey and made it home to Ireland in time to have dinner with his “wee beasties.” He had cleared his schedule to spend a few days with them before he returned to London later in the week, and the children were thrilled.
Minerva set the letters aside and called Blampa, who arrived accompanied by a tea tray. After thanking the house-elf for the tea and asking for a crusty roll and some cheese for her late breakfast, Minerva took a quick shower and dressed in her favourite summer robes of deep yellow and raspberry, then took time to put her hair in a chignon. There was no particular occasion to dress for, but she felt like taking the time. The morning was half gone, anyway.
As she dressed and did her hair, pausing every now and then to take a bite of bread and cheese or a sip of tea, Minerva thought about all of Albus’s revelations the night before. It had taken him some courage, she was sure, to tell her all of that, especially about his period as – how had he put it? – as a debauched wreck of a wizard. He hadn’t gone into detail, but Minerva had developed quite a clear picture of the life he must have led at that time. She doubted he had fallen as far as he could have, but it was clear that he had despaired and become enmired in his own sense of guilt and unworthiness. It must have been very difficult for Albus to have admitted so much to her. He had said that she deserved to know just what sort of friend she had, and that he was different than she had believed. He had said it as though what she didn’t know of him was more important than what she had known, and as though her regard for him would be diminished now that he had given her a more complete picture of what his life had been before they had met. It had been hard to hear much of it, but it had been much harder for him to tell, and certainly far more painful to have lived. She had never experienced what Albus had, and she hadn’t the innate power he had and whatever drives went along with that power, and she certainly couldn’t imagine how she would react if someone she had believed a friend, even if not a particularly good friend, had killed her mother. And if she felt responsible for it . . . perhaps her reaction would not be what Albus’s had been, but he was a wizard, for one, not a witch, and he lived in a different era, had a different family, different friends, greater talents. Yet she could imagine feeling terrible loss and guilt if it had been her mother. And Albus clearly had felt completely alone. It wasn’t as though he had started his . . . meanderings just for the fun of it. She certainly couldn’t look down on him for the way in which he reacted to his grief or guilt, or his ensuing despair. Thank goodness he had retained enough of his sense of self to be appalled when he woke up in bed with those strangers. Minerva gave a shudder of sympathy. That certainly must have been an awful experience for Albus. It was probably a blessing he could not remember how he got there or what he had done. No, she could only be grateful that Albus had been able to escape his despair and that he had survived it.
Albus had even seemed to think that she might be disappointed in him because of what he had done in order to defeat Grindelwald, as though there had been some shame in it. It had been the only thing to do; if Albus hadn’t done what he had, he likely would have been killed, probably in one of the bizarre ways that Grindelwald liked to devise for his enemies, and the war would have dragged on. It is doubtful there would have been any single wizard powerful enough to defeat him; it was even conceivable that Grindelwald could have won, and not only conquered the wizarding world, but perhaps even attained supremacy in the Muggle one, as well.
Albus may have had to trick Grindelwald in a rather unpleasant way, and even had to have done some rather unpleasant things himself, but he had rid the world of Grindelwald. Cursing Rufus Scrimgeour must have been dreadful for him, but at least Scrimgeour had known of the plan. Although he could have doubted Albus, wondered if the “fallback plan” wasn’t truly a plan to defeat Grindelwald, but a plan to join him, or even to supplant him. It must have been a relief to see their wands flying toward them. And poor Alastor! The wizard who had taught him, who had been his Head of House, who had sacrificed his Portkey for him, who had risked so much to save him, suddenly betraying him, even scorning him and the injury he had obtained in Albus’s own company. It must have seemed unbelievable at first, and then when the first curse fell on Rufus, what must poor Alastor have thought then? And Albus . . . no wonder he had looked so bleak for so long after he had defeated Grindelwald. It had been like filling himself up with the most vile sewage, he said, all that he had thought and forced himself to feel in order to fool Grindelwald. To hide from his interrogator all whom he loved . . . he had named her among them, her, Gertrude, the Flamels, his mother.
Albus had said it. He loved her. He said it as though it were a simple fact, one that he didn’t have to reflect upon. He loved her. She was one of the people whom Albus loved. Albus loved her. Minerva sat on the edge of the bed. Why had Albus said it then, and not when she told him that she loved him just two nights before? Because it was a part of his story and he didn’t have to think about it last night? She had said it to him, and he had frozen . . . because he was surprised? Because he . . . didn’t know how to respond? Because . . . because . . . because . . .
Minerva sighed. She didn’t know. Even after last night and all he had revealed to her of himself, there was some part of him that she didn’t understand. Perhaps even a part of himself that he didn’t understand. Perhaps that was the part of him that loved her. But he had named her with Gertrude, the Flamels, and his mother; it wasn’t as though he had said he was in love with her. At least he did love her, and he had then, more than a dozen years ago. Just as her mother had said he had when he staunched her magical drain when she was seventeen. Even in the midst of his ordeal with Grindelwald, Albus counted her amongst those whom he loved. He had been in such pain then; even telling her about it had been difficult for him. And Minerva would never forget the bleak look that crossed his face when, during her visit to him at St. Mungo’s, she had asked him how he had defeated him. He had said that it hadn’t been without great loss, and she didn’t think he had been speaking only of the loss of the fifteen Aurors, as dreadful as that must have been, but also of some part of himself that he had sacrificed in fooling Grindelwald, and of the dismay he had seen in young Alastor’s eyes, the curses he had cast, the pain he had attempted to absorb from Reginald Crouch, and the loss of his mother all those decades before. Each time she had seen him in those months after Grindelwald’s defeat, there had been a shadow of pain in his eyes, even under his smile.
Minerva pulled the small picture of Albus from her drawer and gazed at it. Yes, even in this photograph, she thought she could detect that look in his eye. She had worried about him, but after her attempts at comfort had been rebuffed after Carson’s death, she hadn’t reached out to him at all then. Perhaps she should have. Even if he hadn’t accepted her comforting, he would have at least known that she cared, that she had noticed. She should have. But there was nothing she could do to change that now. And now, she better understood the guilt he had felt at Carson’s death. After learning of his earlier experiences, it seemed a much more natural reaction, even if it still weren’t reasonable.
Minerva sighed and put the small photo down on her bedside table, next to the evil eye that she had removed from around her neck that morning. An odd impulse that had been, putting it on as she had. She reached into the drawer and took out the two white stones and arranged them in front of the picture on either side of the Muggle talisman. She sat for a long time, gazing at Albus, the stones, the rose . . . her love.
Albus rose, drank his morning tea, and showered, wondering if Minerva was still asleep, and whether she had slept well after their long night and all of the nightmarish memories he had shared with her. She had been so accepting of him, so loving, so Minerva. And although he was uncomfortable with what she might think of when she saw him now, knowing of his youth and his mistakes, he had no fear that her feelings for him had changed.
He washed using his favourite Muggle sandalwood soap, using the handheld showerhead to rinse his chest and back and between his legs. Albus considered indulging in . . . some physical release, but given the direction of his thoughts lately, it was unlikely that he could keep it to the merely physical. His mind would surely wander, and he knew precisely where it would wander. He would not offend her modesty and her privacy by thinking of Minerva in that way. With a wave of his hand, Albus turned off the water. He had always thought it unseemly to think that way about a woman whom one knew, unless one was already in that sort of relationship with her. Appreciation was one thing, fantasy an entirely different matter. He would likely be considered quite hopelessly old-fashioned in that, if anyone knew, but if he were, that was fine with him. There were times when being old-fashioned was perfectly all right.
Albus towelled himself off and smiled slightly remembering Maria . . . she had been a sweet one, one who had often occupied his dreams in the years afterward, and one of the few women whom he counted among his actual lovers. Any others had been . . . something quite different. He had hardly been himself during those months, and he certainly hadn’t had any kind of relationship with any of them. He couldn’t even remember them, really, or what they looked like, let alone what their names had been. They all seemed to merge together. Remembering those months was almost like remembering something from someone else’s life, a story told to him rather than one he had lived, but live it he had.
Towel around his shoulders, Albus padded naked into the bedroom. It was nine-thirty. He really didn’t have anything planned for the day, except the usual. With the Hogwarts letters out, there were bound to be more letters from parents to be answered. Albus sat down on the edge of his bed. He truly wished that he had asked Gertrude to stay just a couple more days and deal with some of the correspondence. It wasn’t difficult, but with everything else . . . . Still, Gertrude was always diligent, and she certainly deserved her holiday.
Perhaps he could go back to bed for a little while. He could just lie down for a half hour, then have Wilspy bring him a bite to eat to hold him until lunchtime. Without really making a conscious decision, Albus tossed his damp towel toward the Charmed laundry basket, which drew the towel into itself, and then he lay down, pulling up just his sheet. Wonderfully soft Egyptian cotton, nothing like what he’d slept on during his travels, and certainly not when he had been with Maria. The woolen blankets had been quite rough, but he had hardly noticed. They had even seemed to add to the experience . . . odd that he hadn’t thought of Maria in so long, and now, after talking about her the night before, his memory of her was so vivid. She had had a beautiful mouth, her lips dark and full, and her eyelashes had been so long and thick, and her breasts . . . . Albus closed his eyes and drove the memory away, but not before his body, already sensitive, reacted. He rolled over and quieted his mind, but then another face invaded his thoughts, the dearest face in the world, and Albus wondered what it would be like to kiss those lips . . . and what her breasts would feel like under his hand and whether they would react to his kisses. Albus threw his covers back and went over to the wardrobe and selected a robe for the day. He would simply go to bed early that night, or nap in the afternoon. A nap that early in the morning was an absurd notion, anyway. It was time for work and for living up to his obligations.