They had a lot in common: both thought of Hogwarts as home, both would die before they'd let anything happen to Harry, both were in far too deep to back out now. They shared a love of lemon drizzle cake as well, of course. What if, against all the odds, Dumbledore and McGonagall fell in love?
Lemon Drizzle
Dumbledore had a hard time getting any sense out of McGonagall at all.
She sat opposite him at his desk now, snivelling into her tea, the occasional tear escaping her thick eyelashes and splashing down onto her gown. It felt strange, seeing someone he'd always associated with being so strong break down in front of him.
He'd tried to distract himself by catching up on his mail whilst he waited for her to regain control, but her soft snuffles made it impossible for him to focus. Eventually he stood up and manoeuvred himself around the desk so that he stood beside her.
"I'm sorry," she said.
He crouched down, and as he did so it occurred to him that his knees were stiff and his back aching. "We're getting older, Minerva."
He meant it as a throwaway remark, but her tears seemed to fall harder, "All of this experience and I still– I still didn't manage to– so stupid of me."
"I don't quite understand what happened."
Strands of her smoky hair fell down over her face, shadowing her eyes. She looked so forlorn that he reached up and took her hand in his; her fingers were surprisingly small, they felt as though they might snap if she clenched them too tightly.
"This isn't like you," he murmured.
He'd been enjoying a large helping of lemon drizzle cake when she'd stumbled into his office; he'd hidden the cake away in a desk drawer, afraid she'd give him a lecture on his diet, but instead she'd sunk down into the seat he offered to her, and begun to cry as soon as she tried to speak. He wondered if he could retrieve the cake now, or if that would seem rude.
"Potter– he's in the hospital wing."
"Harry?" Dumbledore was on his feet again instantaneously, pulling his gown more tightly around him, preparing to leave the office, "Is it serious?"
"His arm was crushed."
Dumbledore resisted the urge to smile. "But Madame Pomfrey will have that fixed in a few minutes, surely?"
"Ron says he's still–" she shook her head, "Still a bit sore."
"Minerva. What's wrong?"
She ran the hand he hadn't held through her hair and streaked it with dried blood, then lowered it and stared like she hadn't seen blood before. "It's from– from Potter's arm. You're right, Albus, we're getting old. We're getting destructible."
The door rattled as someone knocked. Dumbledore thought he could really do without this now; he needed to get to the bottom of whatever was wrong with McGonagall. If it had been Sybil Trelawney who'd turned up at his office sobbing, he wouldn't have been too surprised, but seeing McGonagall emotional was almost as unsettling as seeing Snape smile.
They knocked again. Dumbledore leant heavily back against his desk beside McGonagall. "Come in."
"Sorry, Professor, we were just–" Harry began, faltering as he opened the door wider and noticed McGonagall, "Professor?"
"Hello, Harry," Dumbledore gestured to the seats lined up around the outside of the office, and Harry sat down, closely followed by his two closest partners in crime. "Professor McGonagall was just telling me about your latest exploits, although we haven't got to the details yet. Perhaps you would fill me in."
Hermione and Ron exchanged a glance, about as shocked at the tears on McGonagall's face as Dumbledore had been.
"Just a spell. It went a bit wrong."
"It was my fault, Professor," Hermione told him shamefacedly, "Something Professor Snape told us about, although he probably didn't mean to tell us; there was a bit of a complication when I tried it out on Harry, his arm–"
Ron coughed, "But it's all sorted now."
"I haven't finished explaining, Ron."
Dumbledore smiled at the familiarity between the three of them, the way Ron was always exasperated at Hermione's long-winded explanations, the way they all stuck up for each other.
"And, if you don't mind my asking, how exactly did Professor McGonagall come to be involved in this?"
"She found us in the corridor," Hermione explained, "When we were taking Harry up to the hospital wing."
"I'm sorry if I'm being slow–"
Harry smirked, "Oh, you're never slow, Professor."
"Thank you, Harry. I still don't understand why you're upset, Minerva."
She'd stopped crying, perhaps because she was ashamed to have let down her guard in front of students – although McGonagall had always had a soft spot for Harry Potter and his friends behind the gruffness – or perhaps because she was soothed by Hermione and Ron bickering.
"Professor McGonagall tried to, um," Hermione mumbled, like she was confessing to another wrongdoing, "She tried to help Harry, but the spell didn't work."
"Anyway," Harry said, standing up quickly, "I just came to tell you lemon drizzle cake was on the menu for tonight, so we'll see you later."
As the trio left the office and pulled the door shut behind them, Dumbledore clearly heard Ron muttering 'That was not what we went to tell him'. Even McGonagall managed a smile at that.
"No harm done, was there?"
She shook her head. "This must seem like such a gross overreaction to you, Albus, but I just feel so old."
"As do I, but one must learn to smile about such things."
He squeezed her shoulder, and she leant slightly into him, her soft hair brushing his knuckles. It was so unlike McGonagall that he smiled again, wondering if Snape had concocted a love potion and put it in her tea to amuse himself. Although comforting a friend hardly counted as love, did it? It was just a long, long time since he'd felt a woman's hand in his.
"I shouldn't have made that mistake."
"How would we learn if we didn't make mistakes?" he asked her softly, "Sometimes it happens, Minerva."
"How can I be trusted to protect the boy when I can't even perform the simplest of spells? Is it fair to him, to risk that?"
"If you can't protect Harry, nobody can."
"I appreciate your confidence."
It was funny, how it happened. This morning, McGonagall had been nothing more than a friend, and now Dumbledore wanted nothing more than to take her bloodied hand and wipe it clean, and then to wipe away her tears too, and to hold her in his arms until she knew that growing older didn't need to be something they feared.
"Kind of Potter and co. to inform us of the menu, wasn't it?" McGonagall murmured, her head still against his hand, "I've always been partial to a slice of lemon drizzle cake."
"Well, that is a happy coincidence."
He reached down and took the plate from his desk drawer. There was only one fork, and he didn't want the cake contaminated with Potter's blood, however precious it may be, so he dragged a chair up beside her and fed her mouthfuls in between his own, and she seemed perfectly content with that.
XxXxX
This is my first Harry Potter fanfiction, so please review and tell me what you thought. There'll probably be more chapters if anyone is interested! I know McGonagall is OOC but since that's kind of the point of the story, I hope nobody minds too much x