A/N: I know, I should be finishing my multi-chapter stories rather than posting pointless one-shots, but my brain won't let me continue until it sheds them!
Albus Dumbledore was miffed. Generally, he would not associate himself with longing for material possessions; however one is usually forced to think of such things upon one's birthday. And he had had enough of those to know.
Feet carrying him automatically back towards his office, he sighed deeply. His entire body seemed to have become inexplicably magnetised to his bed after his long – and frankly rather disappointing – day. Another birthday had gone just as expected.
He had woken up with the burden of the knowledge that he was welcoming another birthday, another wrinkle, another grey hair. He was getting older and it seemed to be happening at a worryingly accelerated pace since he had taken up the Headmaster's post a few months previously. What was even more depressing was that he had taken it upon himself to fill his vacant position with someone much, much younger than him. She had remarkable ability, yes, and an exemplary track record within the Ministry but she was young.
Not one to be accused of ageism, Albus would always deny that he had a problem with the age gap between himself and his successor. He did not have a problem with it, in truth. It was only on days like these, where he was cruelly forced to feel twice his age and more, when he resented any fresh-faced young being in existence… which was unfortunate since he worked at a school for young witches and wizards.
The moment he crossed the threshold of his bedroom, Headmaster Dumbledore dove onto the soft surface of his silk-covered mattress. In a single moment, his limbs were relaxing, every cell of his body melting into a wonderful comfort. But, as is often the case in a school, t'was not to last.
Knock, knock.
The tentative rapping on his office door caused Albus to peel himself from the warmth of his bed and reluctantly stumble towards its source. Another well-wisher, he thought in an uncharacteristically uncharitable tone.
With the opening of the heavy wooden door, Albus was greeted by the sharply defined yet somehow softly posed face of Hogwarts's most recent addition to the staff. Minerva McGonagall's smile – though he despised her sheer happiness on such a terrible day – was enough to raise one upon his own features.
"Professor McGonagall. To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked in what he assured himself was a standard, polite tone.
"Headmaster, I just wanted to stop by to give you this." She held out a pristinely-wrapped rectangular parcel in his old Gryffindor colours. Her Gryffindor colours, he reminded himself slightly bitterly.
Every single present he had received today – and for almost every other birthday that he could coherently remember – had been some form of book. From Hippogriffs on the Moor to Oddby's Advanced Charm Theories: Assorted and Unabridged, he had been given them all. It seemed that Professor McGonagall had asked for gift advice from her colleagues. All he wanted was a nice fluffy pair of socks, but nobody seemed to notice.
Sigh.
"Thank you so much, Professor. I assure you that it was not necessary to buy me a gift," Dumbledore said the latter much more truthfully than he thanked her.
"Oh, but it was! You have been so kind to me since I arrived here that I felt I needed to thank you. This is the least I could do." Her glossy emerald eyes were searching his blue ones, which were currently devoid of their natural cheerful twinkle.
"Would you like to come in for a game of chess, Professor?" He was not sure what compelled him to invite the young witch in, but invite her he did.
"Minerva, please," she smiled charmingly. "I would like that very much, Professor Dumbledore."
"Albus." He motioned her into the room and waved his wand callously, causing the wizard chess set to assemble itself on the small coffee table in the corner of the room.
They settled into the game easily, each lost in their own logical strategies, each battling against the equal ability of the other. After several empty teacups and biscuit trays, a reluctant stalemate was reached and the pair settled back into their chairs.
"Aren't you going to open it, then?" Minerva inclined her head towards the package she had handed to him earlier.
"Ah, of course," said Albus, suddenly glum once more.
He carefully pulled back the ribbon and paper covers of the present to reveal a leather-bound tome bearing the golden inscription Transfiguration Theories of the Twentieth Century. The third copy he had received in the past decade. He just managed to let out a small "thank you" before pushing the book across the table.
"Wait." Her sudden boldness intrigued him. "Open it."
He obeyed and found, not the stuffy theories of half-witted novelists, but a hollow where the text should have been. He reached his hand inside and pulled out another small parcel and a note.
Dear Headmaster,
I had a feeling that you would be sick to the back teeth of receiving books as a gift by now, so I thought these might be more appealing to you after a long day in the cold Scottish countryside.
Minerva McGonagall.
Quirking a brow, he tore open the parcel and could not help but smile.
She had given him socks.
As he pulled the woolly purple socks, embellished with roaming yellow Snitches, over his feet, Albus could not contain his joy.
Finally!