Resolving a Misunderstanding

Albus sat slumped and sick, unthinking. He couldn’t get Minerva’s face from his mind, the tears in her eyes, tears that he had caused. This was precisely what he had been trying to avoid – not precisely, since he had always believed he would simply say something inappropriate, or perhaps hold her a bit too long for a friendly embrace, or that someday he wouldn’t restrain himself sufficiently and she might feel the evidence of his desire. He never dreamed he would actually kiss her as he had, let alone touch her inappropriately. He had very nearly molested her. Albus felt quite ill. He had always respected witches, their modesty, and their privacy, and he certainly wouldn’t dream of ever touching one against her will. He had felt so relieved that she hadn’t rejected his owl the previous day, nor had she instructed the Silent Knight to refuse him entry, that he simply hadn’t kept himself in check as he should have. And when she had kissed him so sweetly and he had returned her kiss, and then her lips were there, so tantalisingly close, he simply hadn’t restrained himself from kissing her. She hadn’t objected . . . she had felt so pleased that he had apologised that she had accepted his kisses. That alone would not have been so bad, if he had only stopped with that, but he hadn’t and his feelings had overwhelmed him in a most unbecoming way. He hoped that he would have stopped when he had regardless of his state of mind, but it was Minerva’s protest that had brought him back to himself.

In his haste and his blind horror at his behaviour, his feet had carried him, by dint of years’ habit, to his former rooms in Gryffindor Tower, and that was where he sat now, in the dusty, near-empty rooms. He had to gather himself together. He had a school to run, he reminded himself, but he did not stir a muscle. Finally, he shook himself and blinked. An apology. Yet another apology, and to the one whom he loved beyond all others. He would not be surprised if Minerva did not forgive him this time. By virtue of their long acquaintance and her professionalism and commitment to the school, Albus did not doubt that Minerva would continue to serve Hogwarts – and him as Headmaster, as well – but they would never have the same degree of comfort between them.

Albus rummaged around the rooms until he found some parchment, an old quill, and some black ink in an unopened bottle. He wrote the best apology he could manage, considering that he was scarcely able to think, then he gathered himself together and went to the Owlery, hoping that he would not meet Minerva on the way. There was little likelihood of seeing anyone else, since the only other member of staff still at the school was Hagrid, and he never seemed to write any letters.

After sending off the letter, Albus stood for a while, looking out over the grounds, much as he had the morning before when he had seen Minerva returning to school. He wished he hadn’t seen her, or that he had simply been sensible and returned to his office until he had regained his senses. He never should have said what he had, and if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have committed this final offense. Minerva probably thought that he saw her as he had the women he had “entertained” as a young man, but nothing could be further from the truth. Albus turned and slowly headed back down out of the Owlery, then to his backstairs and to his suite. He didn’t leave his bedroom, but pushed off his shoes and lay down on top of his bed.

Albus didn’t know how long he lay there when Wilspy popped in.

“Afternoon nap, Professor?” Wilspy asked. “Nice holiday? No, not a nice holiday,” she said. A worried look crossed over the wizened elf’s face. “What is wrong, Master Albus?” she asked, patting his hand.

Albus shook his head. “Nothing that you can do anything about, my dear.” He looked at Wilspy, his companion of years, nurse of his childhood, and his eyes filled with tears. “Nothing anyone can do anything about.”

Wilspy brought him his post regularly, and Albus sifted through it, always glad there was nothing requiring his immediate attention. He didn’t leave his suite, and barely left his room. On those few occasions when he did leave his bedroom, it was to go into his study and sit, quill in hand, and try to think of something to write to Minerva, but he could think of nothing to say, other than to beg her forgiveness again. But she had not responded to his first letter, and according to Wilspy, Blampa had reported that her mistress was not in the castle, having left unexpectedly on Wednesday afternoon.

She had left, evidently unable to bear the thought of being alone in the castle with him, she, who had once trusted him so. And Albus could not blame her.

And so Wednesday afternoon passed, and Thursday, as well. Phineas Nigellus came into his sitting room painting late Thursday afternoon to say that he had a Floo-call from the Ministry. Albus had shuffled down and spoken briefly with Philomena Yaxley, returned from her holiday, and learned that she would be continuing as Department Head. After she had pulled her head from his Floo, he had grumbled about people who didn’t know how to pick up a quill and owl someone any longer, and went back upstairs, where he closed himself into his study to gaze at the photographs of Minerva and wonder how she would greet him the next time they saw one another. She would likely not wish to see him alone any longer.

Wilspy brought him all of his favourite foods, and when they did not entice him, she finally insisted that he at least eat some chicken soup, and, as she stood over him, watching, he ate half a bowl of soup before protesting that he could eat no more. Friday morning, she woke him at his usual hour, though he had scarcely slept, his cup of tea floating at her elbow. He drank his tea, then rolled back over and tried to pretend he was asleep, but a half hour later, the persistent little elf was there with a tray holding a small pot of tea and a bowl of creamy porridge, and she stood on his bedside table watching until he had finished it all.

“Now you shower, Master Albus. You shower, or Wilspy gives you a bath!” she threatened sternly.

And so he dragged himself from his bed and showered. He dried himself somewhat carelessly, then went back into his bedroom. He looked longingly at his bed, but he knew that returning to bed would just prolong his misery, so he opened his wardrobe to find something to wear for the day. Wilspy had apparently decided on what he should wear, however, and there was only one set of robes in his wardrobe, the robes that Minerva had given him. His bed looked even more enticing, but, feeling numb, he dressed in the starry robes and tried without success not to think of the lovely evening he had spent with Minerva, and how she had brought out a birthday cake for him, a cake with candles, and how he had wished for her love . . . tears came to his eyes and he blinked them away.

When Wilspy brought him his lunch, he asked her why she had taken all of his clothes, and she just looked at him and said that he had to wear happy robes and look nice for visitors. Albus didn’t bother protesting that he was having no visitors that day, and that the robes were no longer happy ones. He did, however, eat his entire lunch, much to Wilspy’s satisfaction.

“I’s very happy with you, Master Albus,” she said, nodding with approval at the empty plate and bowl. “Very good to eat all your lunch! Now time for work! Workie workie, no more holiday! Master Albus, you make yourself sick sitting here. I put your letters on your desk – in your office today, not in your study. Now go work, Professor!” With that, she Disapparated.

Albus sighed, but he agreed that he was doing no one any good at all hiding in his rooms, least of all, himself. He was pleased, though, that Fawkes was back, sleeping on his perch in the office. His afternoon was not as productive as usual, but there was something satisfying about trying to get himself organised again. And it was just as well, since at five-thirty, Gertrude and Malcolm arrived, Malcolm looking sunburned, but Gertrude simply glowing.

“I’ve decided to take you up on your offer, Dumbledore,” Malcolm said with a grin. “But only if I can just do a one-year contract. I don’t think I can manage a longer commitment at this point. At least not for a job,” he added, casting a glance at Gertrude.

Albus agreed, and said it was perhaps most sensible to do a one-year contract, but that he needed a letter of application from him before they could finalise anything. Malcolm looked over at Gertrude, and when she nodded at him, he said he would have one ready for him on Monday.

As Malcolm rose and shook his hand, he said, “Nice robes.” He looked him over. “Special occasion today?”

Albus shook his head. “House-elf.”

Malcolm looked at him, then looked down at Gertrude, then back at Albus. “Right. House-elf.” Turning back to Gertrude, he said, “Coming, Tru-love?”

Gertrude blushed and shook her head. “I have just a little business to discuss with Albus. I’ll be along shortly. I’ll meet you in the staff room.”

As soon as he was through the door, Gertrude looked at Albus and said, “What’s wrong, Albus?”

“Nothing. I’m pleased to see that you and Malcolm – ”

“What is wrong?” Gertrude asked insistently.

“Nothing.”

“Is it to do with Minerva?”

“Why would it have anything to do with Minerva?”

“It does, then . . . what did you do? Or what did she do?”

“She didn’t do anything.”

“So what did you do?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “I’ll just talk to her, in that case. Is she here?”

Albus shook his head.

“Then you tell me what has happened, Albus. You look like hell. Have you even been eating? Or sleeping?”

“Thank you very much, Gertrude. You certainly do have a flattering way about you. No wonder young McGonagall is taken with you,” Albus said. Immediately, he grimaced, and said, “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. But, no, I have not been sleeping well.”

“So what happened?” Gertrude asked again.

“Why do you presume it has anything to do with Minerva?”

“And who else? Hagrid? Johannes? Who else would affect you so?”

Albus looked away. “I just did something very foolish. She has left the castle . . . so as not to be alone here with me,” he said softly.

Gertrude looked perplexed. “She left . . . so she wouldn’t have to be here alone with you? That doesn’t sound like Minerva. I would have thought . . . well, the opposite, actually.”

Albus shook his head. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Albus, we’ve been friends for many years. We have shared so much, you can tell me about this, too.”

“Not now . . . I just did something of such monumental stupidity, I cannot even describe . . . but I can’t talk about it yet.”

Gertrude sighed. “All right. Then let’s just go down to dinner, shall we?”

Albus shook his head. “No, I’d rather not. The house-elves have been bringing Hagrid his meals, since I’ve been taking mine in my rooms. You might want to fetch him this evening. He’d appreciate the company, I’m sure.”

“Albus – ”

“I have work to do.” He stood to open the door for her. “I will see you tomorrow – if you are here? Then tomorrow at lunch.”

Gertrude gave up and left, telling him that if he didn’t come to lunch on Saturday, she would send Hagrid after him.

Albus sighed and sat back down. Within minutes, Wilspy arrived with a plate of cold sliced chicken, carrot salad, and mashed potatoes with extra butter.

“You needn’t watch me eat, Wilspy,” Albus said as the house-elf took up a spot on the corner of his desk. “Unless you wish to join me.”

Wilspy nodded and snapped her fingers. A plate containing the same array of foods appeared, floating in front of her, although her potatoes had considerably less butter on them. She sat cross-legged on the corner of the desk and the two ate in companionable silence.

“Your Professor Minerva will be home soon, Professor,” Wilspy remarked as she finished her carrot salad.

Albus’s knife skidded along the plate, and a gesture from Wilspy stopped his food from flying off it.

“Professor McGonagall is gone indefinitely, Wilspy,” Albus said.

Wilspy didn’t respond, but continued eating her chicken before snapping her fingers and producing three bowls of fruit compote, a large one for Albus and two smaller ones for herself and Fawkes, who flew down from his perch to join them. Albus sighed. He was rarely not in the mood for dessert, but he didn’t think he could manage it that evening. Just as he was contemplating the fruit compote, a sturdy Post Owl flew in threw the window and, with a flourish, landed on the back of Albus’s chair and stuck out his leg.

A letter addressed directly to him, he saw immediately, in an envelope. Minerva’s hand-writing. He paid no attention as Wilspy Summoned owl treats and gave them to the bird. Minerva sending him a letter in an envelope, using a Muggle pen. She wasn’t at her parents’, then. He stared at the envelope, dreading its contents. If it held her resignation, what would he do?

“Letter from Professor’s Professor Minerva?” Wilspy asked.

“Yes.”

“You reads it through the envelope now?” the house-elf asked.

“Hmm? No, of course not.”

Albus made a slight gesture, slitting the envelope open cleanly. He withdrew the paper. Nice paper, linen perhaps, but no indication of where she wrote it, no hotel mark, and she hadn’t given a return address of any sort. The letter was brief and to the point. She did not make mention of his own note, nor of the events between them. At least Minerva had still addressed him by his given name rather than more formally, and had signed it that way, as well. That was something. She would return to Hogwarts at the same time as the rest of the faculty unless called back earlier.

Albus wished he could find a legitimate excuse to call her back earlier. He pushed his compote over to Fawkes, who trilled questioningly, but when no response was forthcoming, he happily started on his second bowl of the evening.

“From Professor’s Professor?” Wilspy asked.

“Yes. She will be gone from the school for a while.”

“Write to her. Tell her you is sad without her here. Professor’s Professor Minerva comes back home if you tell her you miss her.”

Albus shook his head. “No, she won’t. And she is not my Professor Minerva.”

“You is a silly, silly wizard,” Wilspy said, banishing the remains of their supper. “But we all loves you, don’t we, Fawkes?” she said, patting the large bird’s head before he tucked it beneath his wing and fell asleep, his stomach overwhelmed by the fruit feast. “Professor Minerva, too. You tell her to come back. She comes back, like that!” Wilspy snapped her fingers.

“I can’t, Wilspy.” He looked at her fondly. “But thank you, my dear.”

“You can, Master Albus. You be’s stubborn. You be’s always so stubborn.” Wilspy shook her head, sighed, and snapped her fingers again, this time, Disapparating.

Quin watched as the green glow faded from his fireplace. He wished he had been able to do more for Minerva. He had done all he could, perhaps even more than he should have, but that was water under the bridge. Still, there had to be something more. He went to his study and sat, staring at rows and columns of figures, but not seeing them. How could Albus have hurt her so? The wizard might be thoroughly Victorian, and perhaps it was gentlemanly on his part to take responsibility for what had happened, for what he had himself done, but to run away as he had and to allow Minerva to feel as though she had thrown herself at him like a – what was the word she had used? a harlot? – that was the worst thing he could have done. To make her feel as though her attentions were so unwanted that they were appalling, disgusting, common . . . it was hard for Quin to fathom that, and impossible to reconcile it with the image he had of Albus Dumbledore. He had always seemed courtly, and certainly kind, and most assuredly fond of Minerva.

Dumbledore could have no notion of how he had affected Minerva. If he had been so horrified by his own behaviour, he likely was simply clueless about Minerva’s feelings, or had the wrong idea, somehow. If he knew how upset Minerva was, he would want to apologise differently, Quin was sure of it. Dumbledore couldn’t know how she had reacted, how she had run into the Forbidden Forest, endangering herself, and even causing herself injury. Quin had seen how Minerva had begun to look up whenever the post arrived, and he knew she hoped for a letter from Dumbledore, until she finally wrote one of her own. He hadn’t asked her what she had written, but he had seen that it was very short, and he doubted that it contained a word about anything that she felt at all.

Quin shook his head. Minerva might not speak to him again, but he had to do something. It was intolerable to know that she suffered still, and Dumbledore was sitting there in his Headmaster’s Tower, doin’ whatever headmasters do, with nary a thought to Minerva’s broken heart nor to her belief that their friendship had ended because of her own behaviour. He stood, determined. He would do something about, that he would.

Quin went back downstairs, grabbing his short black cape along the way, took up a pinch of Floo-powder, tossed it in his fireplace, then stepped inside, pronouncing, “The Three Broomsticks.”

Her parents looked up as Minerva stepped out of the Floo and into the library.

“Minerva, sweetness! What a surprise,” her mother said.

“What brings you home, Min?” Merwyn asked.

Minerva shook her head slightly. “I simply decided to spend what is left of my holiday at home.”

Her mother looked at her closely. “Are you feeling well, Minerva?”

She nodded. “I am fine.”

“You don’t look well, sweetheart . . . have you been ill?” Egeria asked, persisting in her concern.

“I said I am fine, Mother.”

“Have you had your dinner yet, Minerva? I am sure Fwisky could find something nice for you,” her father said.

“Yes. I had dinner, thanks. I think I’ll just go up to bed.”

“Already?” her mother asked. “It’s still early.”

“I am tired, that’s all. I’ll read in bed.”

“You go on up, sweetness. I’ll be up in a little while.” Egeria squinted at her. “I know you say you are perfectly well, but indulge your old mother. I would like to just make sure of that.”

Minerva sighed, resigned. “Fine, Mother.”

Twenty minutes later, Minerva was washed, had brushed out her hair, and had changed into her nightgown. She had been annoyed to see that the bruise on her left side, though faded and no longer nearly as sore as it had been, was still visible. Her mother would likely see that, even if she only did a diagnostic and didn’t make her undress. Who knew what else she might notice, Minerva thought with a sigh.

She put her dirty robes in the laundry, thinking that it would be nice to have her own clothes to wear, although she didn’t have very much there, and all of it was old. She would have to go shopping to find something to wear to Melina’s wedding. She had thought to wear her saffron and raspberry robes, but they were at the school.

Her mother knocked on the door. Reluctantly, Minerva called for her to enter. Egeria had her daughter sit on the edge of the bed, and she cast several diagnostic spells. When she was through, she sat down next to her and took her hand.

“Oh, sweetness, what happened to you?”

Minerva shook her head and said nothing.

“Did someone do something to you? I can see that you must have been a mass of bruises, and you even have a cracked rib that’s begun to heal on its own. Someone has been taking care of you, but whoever it was wasn’t a Healer.”

“I went to a friend. He helped me,” Minerva answered.

“To Albus?” Egeria asked.

Minerva shook her head and turned from her mother, willing her tears to stay away.

“Here, let me take care of that rib for you, sweetheart. There just move your arm aside.”

Minerva felt a tingling as her mother’s spell cast healing over her ribs. She took a deep breath, then sighed. “I hadn’t realised. It seemed better before.”

“Mmm. Now that hand.”

Minerva held out her hand. Her mother looked at it.

“I think it will do fine as it is. But what on earth did you do to it, sweetness? You had a deep cut, a puncture, well into the muscle. You are fortunate it wasn’t worse.”

“I was in my Animagus form. I . . . had a bit of an accident, and I got a thorn in my paw,” Minerva said.

“I see. And there is nothing else?” When Minerva shook her head, her mother persisted. “You are not at all yourself, Minerva. Your magic is wavering in a way I have never seen before, and you are also clearly quite melancholy.”

“I will be fine.”

“No doubt you will be, my sweetest girl, but you aren’t now.” Egeria sighed. “It is something to do with Albus, isn’t it?”

Minerva shrugged, and this time she couldn’t keep her tears back. When her mother put her arms around her, she began to sob, turning into her mother’s comforting embrace. Egeria just stroked her hair and her back and made soft, soothing sounds.

Finally, Minerva said, choking, “I’ve been a dreadful fool, Mother.”

Egeria kissed her hair. “If it’s love, then you haven’t been a fool. No one who loves is a fool. Or we all are. And it’s what makes us human, this foolishness.”

Minerva shook her head. “What could you know . . .”

“It’s all right to love him, Minerva,” her mother said softly.

Those words brought another bout of sobbing from Minerva, who had thought she hadn’t another tear left in her.

“Did you tell him? Is that it?” Egeria questioned gently.

“No . . . no, I didn’t even, I didn’t even – ” Minerva couldn’t continue.

Egeria lay back on the pillows, holding her youngest child in her arms, and tears came to her own eyes.

Finally, Minerva calmed down again, and she said, “I never even was able to tell him how I felt. I did try. I told him, on his birthday.” Minerva sniffed, and her mother gave her a handkerchief she’d had in readiness. “I should have learned from that. He said he was ‘fond’ of me, Mother. But no, I had to persist, reading every small gesture as though it had some great import.”

“His birthday was more than two weeks ago. What happened this week?”

Minerva shook her head. “It became very clear that he cares about me, but like a . . . a granddaughter. I thought it was more, but it wasn’t.”

“Oh, sweetness! He may not be able to tell you how he feels – ”

“He did,” Minerva interrupted. “He said that he never intended, well, that he didn’t – it is just too awful, Mother.”

Minerva rested in her mother’s arms, weeping softly.

“You know, Minerva,” Egeria said softly as she stroked her daughter’s hair, “Albus is from a different era than you are, different even from my own, and he was raised differently, and I can’t say that I know precisely what he feels for you, but I do know that he loves you. In many ways, he is a complicated and powerful wizard, and he has seen and done much, but at the end of the day, he is a simple wizard at heart, one who was raised with certain values and taboos. Perhaps you should simply accept that about him and remain his loyal friend, and, in time, he might come around. I believe that Albus does have very deep feelings for you, sweetness, but, out of decency and honour, he has suppressed them, and now he is having difficulty dealing with having you so close to him. Give him time, give yourself time.”

“I don’t know, Mother,” Minerva said dully. “I just can’t have any hope any longer.”

Egeria sighed and rocked Minerva in her arms, wishing she could have saved her from this pain and broken heart, that she could take it on herself and spare her daughter.

Not many miles from the McGonagall cliffs, a tall, dark-haired wizard stepped through the doors of the Three Broomsticks, looked up toward the Hogwarts castle, closed his eyes, and Disapparated. On arriving at the gates, he rang the Charmed bell. He didn’t have to wait long before Hagrid appeared.

“Hullo, there, Mr MacAirt,” Hagrid greeted him.

“‘Quin,’ ’tis ‘Quin’ t’ me friends. I’m here t’ see your Headmaster, Hagrid. ’Tis a matter of great importance.”

“I don’t rightly know if yeh can see ’im or not,” Hagrid answered as they walked up toward the castle.

“He’s not here?” Quin asked.

“I reckon ’e is, but I ain’t seen ’im today. ’Ere’s P’rfesser Gamp comin’ now. She’s talked to ’im.”

“Ta, Hagrid,” Quin said, then he loped off toward Gertie and Malcolm, who were just coming around from the other side of the castle.

“Malcolm,” Quin greeted the older wizard with a nod before turning to Gertrude. “Gertie, I need t’ speak t’ Dumbledore.”

“Do you? And on what matter at this time of day?” Gertie asked, eyebrow raised.

Quin looked over at Malcolm, then back at Gertrude. “’Tis a confidential one.”

Gertrude looked at him a moment then nodded briefly. She turned to Malcolm. “This shouldn’t take long. I’ll just show him in.”

Malcolm nodded, and the three went into the castle and up the stairs to the second floor.

Gertrude looked up at Malcolm and smiled. “Wait for me?”

“Always,” Malcolm said softly, caressing Gertrude’s face with his gaze before turning and heading off to her rooms.

The other two walked in the other direction, toward the gargoyle. When they reached it, Gertrude turned and looked up at Quin, who seemed grim.

“Is this about Minerva?” Gertrude asked softly.

“And what do you know of it?” Quin asked.

Gertrude shook her head slightly. “He wouldn’t tell me what happened. I only know that she left the castle.”

“Mmm. I need to speak to him.”

Gertrude hesitated only a moment, then she gave the password, “Pixie sticks.” The gargoyle moved aside and the stairway opened before them. “Is she all right, Quin?”

“Could be better. She’s at home now, with her parents,” he answered.

Gertrude nodded, Quin stepped onto the moving spiral stair, and she watched him as he began to disappear, the staircase corkscrewing upward, before the gargoyle again closed it off from her view. She hoped that Quin knew what he was doing. But Malcolm was waiting, and she turned and headed at a rapid pace toward her Gryffindor wizard.

As Quin rode the stairs up to the Headmaster’s office, he wondered what he could say to Dumbledore that would persuade him to contact Minerva and reassure her of their friendship. He still didn’t have a clear idea of what had happened between them, although Minerva was convinced that Albus must believe she had thrown herself at him and was disgusted with her as much as he was with himself. Quin couldn’t imagine that; Dumbledore might be old-fashioned and of a different era, but surely any wizard would be flattered to have Minerva express her attraction for him, even if he didn’t return the feelings, or was only reacting physically to her “propinquity.” What a word . . . Quin thought that had bothered her more than anything else Dumbledore had said, other than the suggestion that he considered her to be like a granddaughter.

Finally at the top of the stairs, he reached for the knocker, but before he could grasp it, the door opened to him. Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, dressed in the robes that he had helped Minerva pick out. Quin found that surprising, almost disturbing. Here was a wizard who had caused Minerva great grief, and he was sitting there happily in his tower, wearing the luxurious robes that Minerva had given him, as though nothing at all had changed. Quin felt his anger rising, but he fought it off. Dumbledore looked surprised.

“Quin! I hope you don’t mind if I say that I am surprised to see you,” Albus said. “Did you have a concern about the school?”

“No, not about the school. About a friend, a mutual friend,” Quin responded. He waited for Albus to respond, but the older wizard only gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. Quin came around and stood in front of the desk, but he did not sit. “I’m here about Minerva, Dumbledore.”

“She is not here,” Albus answered. “Gertrude is, however, if you would care to see her before you leave.”

Quin laughed shortly. “Gettin’ rid o’ me? That’s your thought, is it? I’m not goin’ until we have talked.” He stepped closer to the desk.

“Have a seat,” Albus said.

He ignored the invitation and looked over the other wizard. “Nice robes. Special occasion? Or just a sentimental choice?” Quin said evenly.

“My choice of attire is a peculiar, and inappropriate, topic of conversation,” Albus answered.

“I think it entirely appropriate, given the source of your attire.” At Albus’s raised eyebrows, Quin said, “Gift from Minerva, weren’t they? For your birthday?”

“What has this to do with anything?” Albus asked, rising and stepping around the desk. He wasn’t as tall as Quin, but he could draw upon his magic, and he appeared to loom over the man.

Quin wasn’t flustered, though, and said, “Minerva, Dumbledore. Me visit is about Minerva, that fine witch.” He could feel Dumbledore’s magic rippling against him. The wizard was growing angry, or irritated, at least, and given the control that Quin believed the wizard had over his power and his emotions, this encouraged him rather than frightened him. “Minerva came to see me a few days ago.”

“Did she,” Albus said coolly, his voice not betraying any interest or even vague curiosity, let alone any concern at all.

“Would it interest you in the slightest to learn that she was in quite a state when she appeared on me doorstep?” Quin asked. “Or,” he continued as Albus stepped away from him and turned toward the window, “that she was greatly distressed? No . . . I see that it doesn’t interest you at all. And I imagine, then, that you would not be at all concerned to learn that your Transfiguration mistress, your friend of many years, was not merely distressed, but that she was injured?” At that, Albus’s head turned slightly, betraying his surprise.

“Injured?” Albus asked softly.

“I thought she’d been beat up, t’ be honest. And I wasn’t sure that ’twasn’t someone she knew who done it, if you take me meanin’,” Quin said. “Bruised all over, she was, and bloody. A right mess.”

“Is she all right?” Albus asked, worry finally evident in his tone.

“She will be, and she is better. But she came t’ me, Professor,” Quin said, following the Headmaster to the window. “She came t’ me because she felt she had nowhere else.”

Albus said nothing at first, then he asked, looking out the window and not at Quin, “What is it you want to say to me? That she left the castle on my account? I know that. And I regret it.”

“You ‘regret it’?” Quin asked angrily. “Do you know what she believes? What she said t’ me? She said that you must think her a common harlot. And that wasn’t the least o’ the things she said. You may think that whatever apology you extended to her was sufficient, but it was not. It simply increased her distress, it did.”

When Albus simply bent his head and didn’t respond, Quin took his arm and began to turn him, saying, “Are you listenin’ man? Wait! The devil!” Quin’s eyes grew round. “Dumbledore – you . . . you, oh, gods!” Quin gripped the Headmaster’s arm more tightly, staring at him. “Ya lyin’ son of a – ya didn’t mean any of it! Ya bleedin’ eejit! D’ya know what ya done t’ that poor girl? She t’inks she’s no better than a Knockturn Alley floozy in your eyes! She damn near killt herself t’rowin’ herself t’rough that Forest, and ’twas all a pack o’ lies! If I had me cup here, ’twouldn’t be split, ’twould be shattered! Ya love her, yer feckin’ in love wit’ her, and ya made her believe ya were just reactin’ t’ her ‘propinquity’! Propinquity! Could ya come up wit’ any other worse word fer sayin’ she meant nothin’ to ya?”

Quin let go of Albus with a shove. He was shaking, but trying to regain control of himself. “You have no idea, none . . . what you’ve done . . . what you drove her to,” Quin said, anger still in his voice.

“It’s none of your affair,” Albus said hoarsely.

“None o’ me affair, is it? None o’ me affair? You most certainly are mistaken,” Quin said, softly, but fiercely, his anger rising again, “She is me friend, and she came t’ me, hurtin’. I t’ought . . . I t’ought ya just couldn’t understand, but now I see ya here, dressed in robes she gave ya, pretty as ya please, and I find ’tisn’t ya didn’t understand, but yer so caught up in yer own miserable feelin’s ya cannot see beyond yer own nose, ya daft man! And that is whole-makin’ truth!”

Quin stepped away from Albus, looking at him as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but gathering himself together and regaining his composure.

“I was always told that ‘Gryffindor’ meant ‘brave,’ an’ don’t tell me I’m wrong.” Quin shook his head and turned, going toward the door. He turned back. “I will tell you this, Dumbledore: you tell Minerva how you feel – and I mean all of it – or I will. And you can set your imagination to how that might sound. I give you one day. Twenty-four hours. Count ’em, Dumbledore.” Quin walked to the door, put his hand to the handle, then paused. “You are a great wizard and a greater man, Dumbledore. I ain’t denyin’ that. But you are a great fool, as well. Tell her. Or I do, an’ the devil take ya.”

Quin opened the door and left, closing it behind him with a gentle click. Albus sank into the nearest chair. He should have controlled himself more, taken his emotions in hand. The boy was a MacAirt, after all. Cormac Quinlivan MacAirt. His emotions were so close to the surface, as soon as Quin touched him, they must have started screaming at him.

Albus sat. He had believed he felt miserable enough before, now he was in shock. He would have to tell her. Why would Minerva think that she was . . . what Quin had said? Whatever it was that Minerva felt or thought, though, Albus had no doubt that Quin would follow through and tell Minerva exactly what he had felt coming from him. And it would do no good to him to tell her himself after that event, and it would be worse to deny it. He couldn’t deny it. Denying it was what had brought him to such a pass, after all.

In the midst of his shock and his embarrassment, though, Albus felt a peculiar sense of relief. It would soon be over, this terrible state he was in. Minerva would know. Whether it would make her feel better about their relationship or worse, Albus had no idea. But at least she would no longer think of herself as a Knockturn Alley floozy. That was awful. And Quin had said she had injured herself. He wished he knew that she really was well. But Quin wouldn’t have left her if she weren’t. Or she was no longer with Quin.

Albus stood and made his way slowly up to his suite and into his study. He removed the photographs of Minerva from their drawer, then he pulled out the parchments that he had put in the drawer with them. Albus sat at the desk and began to write. The truth. The truth to mend the lies. Whatever else the letter might do, that much he had to accomplish. When he was through, he took one of the parchments he had taken from the drawer, wrote a note at the bottom of it, and rolled up his letter with that parchment. He sealed it with purple wax, then he called Wilspy.

“Yes, Professor?” Wilspy said, popping in.

“I have a letter here. It needs to be owled immediately.”

“To Professor’s Professor Minerva?”

Albus cringed at the appellation, but nodded.

“Then no owl,” Wilspy said with some determination, and the house-elf called for Fawkes. “We send your letter with Fawkes-the-phoenix. Professor’s Minerva gets it quick quick!”

“I – ” But Albus didn’t get any protest out of his mouth before Wilspy had told the phoenix to bring Professor’s letter to Professor’s Minerva, and Fawkes was off in a bright flash of flame.