Just a little oneshot that has been floating around my head. I've always been curious as to what went on behind closed doors between Dumbledore's death and the next school year. This starts up during HBP when Scrimgeour arrives at the school and then jumps to a few days before term recommences. Hope you like it, let me know your thoughts.
The Eye of the Storm
Minerva McGonagall had never had any real quarrel with Rufus Scrimgeour. In truth, she barely knew him at all. However, sitting across from him now, she found that she loathed the Minister for Magic with as much as vehemence as Elphinstone and Dumbledore had ever suggested that she had cause to. A sour taste had developed in her mouth as she listened, only vaguely, to Scrimgeour's polished and silky words and the view of the sun creeping higher over the lake through Dumbledore's window was proving increasingly distracting. She was desperate to escape this suffocating room. This museum to the memories of most of her life.
The graze on her face was starting to sting now but she was thankful for it. It helped keep her grounded, keep her present. She watched as Scrimgeour's mouth continued to work and seemed not to produce any sound, like someone had disconnected her brain from her hearing. Minerva was seized by the sudden, violent impulse to shove the entire bowl of sherbet lemons still sitting on Dumbledore's desk down his throat just to make him stop.
Didn't he understand?
Dumbledore was dead.
"-Minerva, you and I have no quarrel. Whatever bad blood there was between Albus and myself was egregiously misunderstood and I believe most strongly that your late husband would have wanted you to place your loyalty with the ministry at this trying time."
This snapped her out of her reverie immediately and the world tuned back into focus in an instant.
"You do, do you?" her dark brows had risen so high that they threatened to become part of her hairline, "Even after last year's absolute fiasco? Your deplorable tug-of-war over Harry Potter? After every miscarriage of justice the Ministry has rained down on Britain, not to mention this school? You cannot have known him very well then." Her mouth had gone very thin, her face pale and drawn with fatigue but defiant in her anger. Scrimgeour was fool indeed if he had not realised that he had finally overstepped a very worn line. He stiffened in his seat watching her warily.
"My loyalty, Rufus, will remain where it always has, here, with this school and its headmaster." She did not raise her voice but there was no room for confusion in her tone. Her fingers were white, splayed across the desktop.
Scrimgeour shifted his cane slightly, as if readying it to defend himself.
"You may not have a school for much longer, Minerva." He was warning her now, she was sure but she could not be further from caring.
"That decision lies neither with you or I but with the governors." She snapped, sharply and Rufus Scrimgeour leapt to his feet so hurriedly that he tipped his chair backwards.
"Dumbledore is dead!" he spat, coldly, his face inches from her now as he leant across the table. Minerva did not flinch at this frantic, vicious attempt to force her into submission. If he wanted to fight with emotional weaponry he should have brought a woman.
"Dumbledore is dead." She repeated, calmly. "He's not coming to save me…" and Minerva fixed him with a penetrating glare that she had spent decades perfecting on her students, "but he's not coming to save you either, Rufus, and I would think that that is a great deal more frightening to you… now if you will excuse me; get out of my office, Minister, I've had rather a bad day." She said coolly and with a decided note of finality that left no room for discussion.
Scrimgeour straightened up with as much dignity as he could muster, gave Minerva once last calculating sweep and stalked out.
Minerva righted his chair as the door closed behind him. The moment she heard the lock click she let herself collapse into it.
The portrait of a silver haired witch peered out of her frame, "I would recommend a strong cup of tea and a shot of firewhiskey." Dilys Derwent said sympathetically, "and quite a long sleep." She added after brief consideration.
"Thank you Dilys," Minerva acknowledged dryly, her hand over her eyes, "but I'm not sure I have the luxury at present." And she heaved herself up, glancing wistfully at Dumbledore's portrait. But he stayed silent, dozing, the ends of his moustache fluttering gently with every breath.
She had not expected to stay Headmistress for very long.
She had not been entirely convinced that the school would remain open at all and, now that it had, she regretted the fight that she had put up for it.
Hogwarts was no longer the sanctuary of her youth. Corrupted as it was with the sanctioned appointment of the Carrows, desecrated by Snape's return, every happy memory had turned to ash in her mouth. The walls were dead and hollow, seeping with a cold as draining as a dementor's rattling breath.
She did not know if it was the depression of the empty halls, the gnawing fear, or the constant despair that lingered in the corners of her mind that finally made her temper flare. Perhaps it had been the blatant cruelty and disrespect of the Amycus Carrow but she had been mere millimetres from her wand when Snape, sensing danger, almost dragged her bodily from the hall while the Carrows slinked away, smirking.
"Don't touch me!" she snarled, throwing off his grip from around her arm.
"Do not risk the wrath of the Dark Lord, Minerva." Snape hissed quietly, dangerously and moved swiftly for the dungeons.
"They are an abomination to the very foundations of this school! Dumbledore may have treated his own life casually but he was NEVER careless with the lives others!" she shouted across the entrance hall at his retreating back. Snape swivelled on his heel, his hollow face waxy and pocketed with shadows.
"You believe that do you?" he asked savagely, the vein in his forehead pulsing and his eyes bulged in their sockets.
"I do!" with her hands balled into tight fists she reached him in several long strides, their voices still echoing in the cavernous space.
"The fact that Albus Dumbledore saw fit to treat your life with a kind of personal reverence does not mean that the same luxury was extended to the rest of us." He hissed, his voice dangerously low. Something flashed behind her hard, green eyes and the side of his face suddenly burst open with a stinging pain.
Angry, red blotches had coloured her pale face, her dark eyes thunderous. She had slapped him, he realised.
"He trusted you. He fought for you. And you killed him." She spat out the words with disgust, she had never looked at him with such abhorrence, such loathing… had never looked down on him as she was now. And he hated her. It burned painfully in his chest.
"Did you love him, Minerva?" he asked, his head cocked to one side, his voice mocking, "Did you think he loved you? Cared for anyone but himself?" He was livid. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind he knew that his anger was not for her but he did not care. He wanted to hurt her, torment her, and it filled him with savage pleasure to watch the colour drain away from her face with everything that she had held certain in life. He felt powerful, watching her shrink.
"And will you tell Minerva, Dumbledore?"
"No!" he said quickly. "No… she cannot know."
Snape was taken aback. Albus Dumbledore might have been the Secret Keeper of the Order of the Phoenix but Minerva McGonagall was the secret keeper of Albus Dumbledore. The idea of keeping this information from her did not sit comfortably. None of this sat comfortably.
"After everything… you won't tell her this?"
"No… I need to keep her safe."
"She will not forgive you this, Albus."
"I don't need her to… not if she lives."
Snape felt his face fall slightly as his hatred lessened.
He could taste blood.
"I suggest that you return to Gryffindor Tower, Minerva." He sneered, "And stay there. I shall know if you don't." and he stormed up the marble steps in a great billowing cloud.
"You have no right to that office! No place in that chair!" She shouted, running after him, angry tears pricking her eyes.
Snape slammed the door to the headmaster's office behind him and sealed it. He let out a long string of choice curses under his breath, several portraits tutted their disapproval, and poured half a goblet of water onto the desk. Froze it in an instant and smashed the glassy sheet with the heel of his hand before sweeping the pieces into a handkerchief and pressing it gingerly to his flaming cheek. He closed his eyes briefly and breathed a long steadying breath through his nose.
"I have quite a significant list of questionable lifetime achievements already, Albus," he snarled at the portrait behind him, "I had no desire to add this to it." The metallic tang grew stronger on his tongue.
"Hand like a board, that one." The portrait of Dumbledore agreed, soberly, "Thank you, Severus." It added, "For protecting her."
"She doesn't need protecting." Snape touched at his face warily, examining the blossoming bruise in the window.
"She will want to fight back." The portrait warned.
"They all will."