This was written as a pinch hit for the 2012/2013 edition of Hoggywartyxmas at Livejournal. My recipient had wished for a light-ish how-they-became, and I've wanted to try my hand at her OTP for a while. Even though I am and remain an old-lady/old-lady shipper, I do believe that MM/HG can work under certain circumstances, and I had fun coming up with a scenario with the added challenge of having ten days to write this, including beta process. Well, that, and sending Minerva a-travelling, though after this, I doubt that she'd want to be seen dead in a street with me. I thank my intrepid beta, The Real Snape, for managing to cut a path through the word jungle with which I had confronted her. So should you. There will be three more chapters, posted every Thursday.
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The Thing About Travelling
by Tetley
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Time: September 2020
Place: Somewhere Between the Equator and the Tropic of Capricorn
Temperature: Decidedly Too High
If there was one thing in the world that Minerva McGonagall couldn't abide, it was heat.
"Fool," she muttered under her breath as she walked across a narrow, wooden plank that answered each impact of her sensibly-booted heels with a most untrustworthy bob. "Utter, insensate, pathologically foolish fool."
Come to think of it, she didn't like boats much, either.
And trust her to hit the one single wet patch on an otherwise reasonably spotless deck when she set foot on a vessel that had clearly seen better days.
She could practically hear the chuckle in the deck-hand's voice as she grasped for the railing to regain her balance. "Let me help me with your bag, Madame." He reached for her tartan holdall and then offered her his arm, but she wasn't thathelpless, thank you kindly. She might be pushing ninety-five and never have set foot on a West African river carrier, but a Scotswitch and pastor's daughter did not let such trivialities turn her into a damsel in tropical distress.
"Thank you," Minerva snapped, and, on second thought, followed the remark up with a mitigating twitch of her lips.
"No problem, Madame!"
The deck-hand disappeared into the luggage room, and Minerva looked around to find a passably comfortable place for the journey. There weren't many opportunities to sit, given that this was mostly a cargo vessel (the passenger boat had been delayed on account of a hippo situation), and it seemed that she was the only human freight.
She wiped a strand of hair from her forehead. It felt damp, but that was no comparison to the state of her linens.
What hadridden her to come here?
Here, of all places? When the weather in Lapland was positively lovely this time of year? When the foliage in Canada was currently at its best? When the conference season was about to begin at the International Magical Research Station at the South Pole?
No, she'd had to follow Poppy's advice to go to the tropics.
The West Africantropics. Where it was hot. Where transport schedules and Heaven knew what could be overthrown by pachyderm. And where they apparently had insects that looked like a lobster's and a gyrocopter's love children. Or so she had interpreted Wilhelmina's shifty answer that, well, yes, insects down there could, on occasion, be "summat a little bigger" than at home.
Well, she thought with a fatalistic sigh, there was nothing to be done about it now. If she was going to spend the next four weeks as the self-bedewing smorgasbord of flying crustaceans, she might as well begin that career with a panoramic view, and so she made her way to the top deck of the Libertéto watch the cargo loading.
Below her, scores of boxes, bales, and sturdy, white sacks with blue print were being carried off board and on board, accompanied by much shouting and gesturing. Some small trade was happening by the pier, and a large, stately woman was settling a disagreement with the captain. It took quite some time until everything was stowed and the woman pacified (it filled Minerva with considerable glee that it appeared that she won), but at last, the captain jumped aboard, and a few minutes later, the Libertébegan her journey upstream.
Minerva moved to the front of the ship and looked out on the water. It was surprisingly pleasant there. The breeze on deck mitigated the humidity somewhat, and not a single gyrolobster was yet in sight.
She took a deep breath, but a whiff of diesel made her decide that once was enough for the gesture.
Well.
Had anyone told her three months ago that she'd be taking a four-week retreat in some tropical forest, she'd have declared them barmy. She, Minerva McGonagall, going to a distant land with foreign food, unreliable public transport, and strange religions around every corner, like Sybill, who had heeded the call of her inner goddess or the spirits of the giant trees or whatever, over there in California? Not bloody likely.
She retrieved a fan from one of the various magically-enhanced pockets of her khaki skirt and let her gaze trail along the river banks. They weren't very varied - overgrown for the most part, lined with shrubs and woods and bushes, and sometimes with trees that grew almost horizontally across the water, as if to see how far they could stretch before having to dip in an aerial root. There were canoes, motor boats, and here or there a pier or an assembly of houses or factories or trading posts. Once, she saw a Muggle aeroplane.
"I am notgoing to set foot into any means of Muggle air transport," had been her last word of protest after Poppy had vanquished her resistance.
"There'll be no need," Poppy had answered. "Wilhelmina has it all worked out. You'll take a Portkey to the International Keyport at Libreville; from there it's a small series of Apparitions to official tourist coordinates, and then you'll take a boat. Fear not, you shall be arriving in style."
Minerva had heaved one last sigh, but, truth be told (and Poppy had known it), the idea had taken hold. Heat and transport schedules here or there, there was something to be said for a month all for herself and a few new winds around her nose. And the lobstercopters might have spines, but shehad a wand.
The diesel engines drummed a steady rhythm as the Libertéslowly trudged ahead, up the river and further and further into the forests. They passed canoes and collapsed trees, villages, and even a small rapid that the captain avoided with ease. Behind them, the sun was beginning to sink, and Minerva watched the flimmering of the mid-day heat give way to a dusty afternoon glow.
She didn't know how long she had stood there, but when they turned around a river bend, she realised that it had to have been at least two hours. Shielding her gaze with her hand, she strained her eyes. Yes, straight ahead - this had to be it. A clearing with a pier, a few boats, a mast for some Muggle electrical or digital whatnot, and a small assembly of houses. Just like the pictures Poppy had shown her.
The Libertéslowed down and approached the pier. A few children appeared, followed by a woman with short, brownish hair, in a free-flowing tunic and trousers, pink flip-flops on her feet and sunglasses perching atop her head. She, too, shielded her eyes, and when she saw Minerva, she waved.
Still at a safe distance, Minerva allowed herself a small smile.
Hermione Granger, Practical Operations Officer of Wizards for Technical Cooperation. An ambitious name for a small, local operation, but if, at this first sight, someone had asked Minerva to bet money on whether it would live up to its name, she would have been prepared to stake a small sum.
They had arrived by the pier. Ropes flew around posts, deck-hands began pulling and gesturing and shouting, and the loading and unloading began anew. Minerva fetched her tartan bag and waited for the plank to be slid across.
Before she could set foot on it, Hermione had jumped aboard and taken the bag.
"Welcome to Doualéné, Professor McGonagall! I hope you had a reasonably tolerable journey?"
"Reasonably," Minerva said.
"You must tell me all about it. Oh, it's wonderful to see you." Hermione's hand squeezed Minerva's, with a firm grip that rather surprised Minerva. Seemed the girl had put on a few muscles. A few stones, too, which suited her well.
"You must be so hot and tired," she rattled on. "Come along, I'll show you your quarters. Water times are six till eight every morning and evening, but I've filled your tank, so you can freshen up to your heart's desiring. Did they let you bring your wand?"
Minerva nodded.
"Fantastic! We've had some trouble with Immigration on that score of late. Understandable, given that wehave these terribly Eurocentric restrictions on the import of magical artefacts as well, but there's been some progress on both sides. Anyway, if you have your wand, you can make yourself hot water in no time. There is a hot water faucet, but it's more for decorative purposes."
They walked past various houses, some of which Hermione indicated as "dispensary" - "dinner hall" - "store, don't look at me, it's what it's called here" - "my house, but I'll give you the full tour once you've settled in." At last, they arrived at a long single-floor timber building with a thatched roof and five separate entrances, each with its own terrace shielded by bushes with flowers the size of Minerva's hand.
"Voilà - our guest quarters." Hermione set down the bag and fished a key from her pocket.
It was dim inside, and, as Minerva gladly noticed, tolerably cool. There were no panes in front of the windows, only mosquito mesh and wooden shutters with gaps just big enough to let in some light. On one side of the room stood a dark wooden day bed with a colourful mattress, an armchair, and a coffee table, while the other side was taken up by a sizeable desk and a bookshelf half-filled with books in English and French. It appeared that the Practical Operations Officer was also in charge of the décor.
"There's a bathroom over here. The shower only works during water hours; at all other times it's bucket-bathing. This faucet here gets its water from a tank on the roof, so make sure you refill it regularly. This handle does it. Open it during water times, then wait until you hear the overflow - you'll recognise the sound when you hear it - and close it again. Oh, and here's a pantry." Hermione opened a cabinet in a corner. "No refrigerator and just one gas burner, I'm afraid, but it'll do for tea and small things. Here are some basics like tea and salt and oil and Ginger Newts."
"Why, I appreciate your sense of priorities," Minerva said. "Thank you."
"Well, I'll leave you to yourself now, Professor." Hermione placed the key on the table. "You'll probably want to unpack and rest a bit."
"Yes, to be honest, that would not be unwelcome." Minerva had to admit that the sight of the water faucet and the day bed had filled her with an unspeakable wish to strip out of her damp clothes, wash off the grime, and rest her feet. "Oh, and Hermione?"
"Yes?"
"Do use my first name, please, lest you want to be addressed as Officer Granger."
"Very well." Hermione smiled. "Well, if you need anything, just page me with this." She held out a silver coin. "Any time; I mean it. I'm saving you a seat next to mine at dinner; I'll be there at eight. And if you're not too tired, I'd be delighted to show you my roof terrace afterwards. I have gillywater from the Lake District."
"Really? How did that get there?"
Hermione laughed. "Don't tell anybody. My own private extravagance, shipped via Muggle post by my loving daughter. Totallynot the done thing, depleting the last oil reserves to get bubbly water from halfway across the planet, but some things are worth being a hypocrite for, and gillywater with a dash of lemon is one of them." Tipping her temple by way of a salute, she left.
When the door had closed behind Hermione, Minerva retrieved her wand from the seam of her skirt. Immigration hadn't really been that kind, but Hermione didn't have to know that Minerva's concealment charms were not merely theoretically superior to any keyport detector. She reinforced the shutters with a non-see-through charm, and then at last, off came the boots (Mount Kilimanjaro's "Old-School Lady Tramp"), the khaki shirtwaist and skirt, and the chemise (sweet Morgana, how had it acquired thatcolour in there?) Considerably lighter, she headed for the bath.
Ah!
How good it felt to wash off the grime of ten hours and two continents and then let oneself dry au naturel. She rummaged around in her bag for a clean chemise, unpacked in a whiff (she never felt she'd fully arrived in a place if she still had her bags packed), and lay down on the bed.
Comfortably stretched out on the mattress, Minerva listened for the sounds of her new abode. The fan made soft, swooshing noises as it revolved lazily around a lamp, and the bed creaked gently when she moved. From outside came the sounds of the nearby forest, and those of children playing and someone hammering. So this would be home for the next month, Minerva thought. Well, one could do worse indeed.
Very much worse indeed.
She took in the scent of the cotton mattress and the wood, and something sweet and flowery that was wafting in from the forest side. Dust danced in the sunrays that came in through the gaps in the shutters.
Little by little, Minerva felt her feet growing lighter and her body pleasantly heavy.
In short, she was arriving.
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...to be continued.