Minerva's head was spinning by the time the world around her stilled to a normal pace. The door in front of her clicked and she knew Armando was headed for bed. He was younger, but not exceptionally so. His beard was still white, and his face still frightfully pale.
When she came to her senses, the first thing she did was clench both hands into fists, not even daring to look down. Her heart dropped when the familiar sensation of a time-turner was no longer in either of her hands. The Sorting Hat did not leave her with a choice.
In a flash, she had transformed into a tabby cat and jumped out the window. She landed on the rooftop where she could view the entirety of Hogwarts. In facing the tall towers, the curtain-clad windows, the undisturbed spans of the Great Lake and the starry night sky, her racing heart eventually stilled and her paws unclenched.
Whenever she was, nothing had changed.
Her Animagus form dulled her senses, but it also slowed her thinking. Transforming back into a human, she sat down on the roof and wrapped her arms around her knees. Something shifted behind her, but she was too preoccupied to notice.
Her mind whirled quickly, calculating the years she had fled through in her mind, until she sighed in exasperation. She could hardly judge anything from Armando's age - the man lived three hundred years! She needed more evidence, but could not risk being seen. From afar, she could see the lights dimming and rooms darkening around the campus. It was past midnight. Surely she could look around without getting caught. After all, she was Albus's best spy during Grindelwald's era.
Silently she sneaked back into Armando's office. The portraits were asleep, as was the Headmaster. She unlocked the door and slipped out. The stone gargoyle made no move to stop her. Once she was in the corridors, she quickly transformed into her feline form and dashed through the corridors. Her first destination would be the library.
Experience had taught Minerva which routes to take at any particular time in Hogwarts to avoid bumping into people - dead or alive, for that matter. She took extra care not to use the corridors Peeves frequented, knowing a slippery surface is customary where the poltergeist was concerned. In half a minute, she was well on her way to the library. Only one thing stopped her. A lamp, floating on its own, disappeared behind the shelves just as she approached.
She knew a disillusionment charm when she saw one. Though vaguely, she could feel the air ripple and dim shards of light bouncing off the minimally reflective entity as it crossed the space. The lamp was not floating - it was held in the hand of someone sneaking into the library. She followed the lamp soundlessly, almost cursing under her breath when the lamp stilled momentarily and the footsteps paused. Then the owner of the lamp seemed to have cured his or her suspicions and proceeded to the more popular area for midnight intruders. She watched as the lamp led the way into the restricted section.
Following the light, she propped herself on a window sill from afar and watched the invisible wizard or witch pull a book out from the shelf, placing it on a desk and presumably reading it as time passed. For a while, all she could hear was pages flipping occasionally, until it slowed to a stop and the person before it had not moved for a considerable amount of time. She inched forward to catch a glimpse of the page's contents, but immediately retreated when she saw a wand materialize and its still invisible owner waving it with a hint of panic at the surroundings.
She stayed unmoving, her breath hitched, until the wand ceased moving and the wizard or witch concealed it once again. Hastily, he or she picked up the lamp and walked back to the entrance of the restricted section, shutting the door in haste. When Minerva was certain that she was alone, she emerged from the darkness and walked to the table. The book was shut, but it still laid in plain sight, and she recognized it instantly, having seen it in Albus's office.
"Secrets of the Darkest Arts, by Owle Bullock," it read.
Momentarily stunned, Minerva did not hear the light footsteps resounding behind the glass wall, neighboring where she stood, or the piercing blue eyes studying her from afar.
Minerva quickly placed the book back onto the shelves and headed out of the restricted section. She turned at the end of the corridor and at last found her way into the newspaper collection. Recognizing the front rack where the most recent ones were placed, she hurried to pick up the Daily Prophet, scrutinizing it under dim light. With a shaky finger, she traced the date disbelievingly. She felt the knot in her stomach tighten.
"Tuesday August 30, 1898," she uttered softly. 1898. The numbers reverberated in her ears loudly and clearly. Processing the new piece of information made her head hurt.
But why? Why did the Sorting Hat send her back to this time? More importantly, why did Albus send her back to this time? Surely he had arranged the time travel to some degree. He must have had some specific reason to-
She caught herself. Albus. Where was he? How was he? How old was he? She quickly did some mental calculations and groaned when she arrived at her answer. "Seventeen," she repeated aloud, gripping the newspaper tight in her shaking hands. "He would be in school, at Hogwarts."
Her eyes fluttered close as she willed the image of a young Albus away. Had she ever even seen a picture of a young Albus? If she did, she could not remember. Her impression of him had always been him in his late fifties, with a trimmed beard and shoulder-length auburn hair, when he first walked into her classroom as her brilliant, eccentric Transfiguration professor.
Then with a calmer breath, she flipped through the Daily Prophet. It was all old news, history being reported with few names she recognized. She was relieved seeing Griselda Marchbanks and Nicolas Flamel's names appearing on the paper, each commenting on their area of expertise, then distressed seeing how young they looked in the moving picture.
Flipping the page, an image of herself forced fluid down her windpipe and she immediately fell into a violent coughing fit. She flattened the newspaper on the table and gingerly wiped the wetness off her eyes, while staring at the picture. No, it was not her, she realized. The name 'Minerva Murray' was printed in big, block letters above the image. It was her great-grandmother, the powerful witch whose name she had inherited. She had never had the fortune to meet her great-grandmother since her mother married a Muggle man and left the magical community. But there she was, in a moving picture, as formidable in appearance as Minerva herself. She almost wanted to steal the paper and read it in her own time, but eventually thought the better of it, knowing its absence would not go unnoticed.
She was on the last page when her eyes darted to a half-page advertisement. Her eyes widened with disbelief at the opportunity.
"Urgent Hiring at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," it read, "Job Opening: Transfiguration Teacher."
She skimmed through the requirements, then settled again on the words 'Transfiguration'. Transfiguration Professor at Hogwarts. How could it be?
"Good afternoon, Miss Marie. I'm delighted you can come at such short notice." Armando led the younger woman into the meeting room. It was not as grand as his office but it was about as professional in atmosphere as Hogwarts offices could be. He snapped his fingers and two steaming cups of black tea appeared on the table.
"Thank you, Headmaster," Minerva nodded her head appreciatively.
"Please call me Armando," he smiled, and she thought with odd timing that he did not have many wrinkles, in fact, he did not have any despite his age. His last century must have weighed heavy on him. In his hands were two parchments, one her application letter and the other her curriculum vitae. "I apologize for the abruptness of this meeting. As you know, the term begins on September first, and I am inclined to find a substitute for the late Professor Roche before its commencement. Coincidentally, Professor Roche also graduated from Beauxbatons, as I'm sure you've already known."
"Yes, unfortunately our years did not overlap, and our fields of research were quite different even in the subject of Transfiguration," Minerva lied, adding a disapproving shake of head for dramatic effect. She hoped Armando would drop the subject under the impression that she did not quite like the man, but was only feigning politeness. "However, I've always heard that he was a very accomplished individual and an expert in his field of choice. It was a shame - what happened to him, that is." She read a reasonable amount about the current Hogwarts staff and her predecessor after a quick research in the newspaper collection. Professor Roche was apparently practicing duelling at his home when a stunner spell backfired and his aged body could not sustain the injury. The man was a little daft in Minerva's opinion, but she knew better than to voice as much.
"Ah yes, hence the rather abrupt notice," Armando nodded while sipping his tea. His expression had shown her that he too thought the man was rather dimwitted, and from that logic he was probably not the best teacher available. Why he had taught at the most established wizarding academy in Great Britain for several decades was beyond her. "With all due respect, I was rather surprised that I have not yet heard of your name in academia. Your accomplishments are extraordinary and you are, frankly, the most qualified individual I have on my list thus far."
"You flatter me, Sir. My publications were mostly featured in a local Transfiguration magazine in Toulouse, my hometown, and I taught the subject Defence Against the Dark Arts mostly at Beauxbatons's branch campus in Lisbon. Nevertheless, it has been my wish for a decade to teach the subject where my true passion lies, and that is Transfiguration."
"Well then, I suppose it is my honor to fulfill that wish," Armando smiled and extended his hand, "I intend to search no more, Miss Marie. I have not yet encountered an individual as qualified as you are for this position, and this search has not been an easy matter." He paused thoughtfully, before starting with a strain of hesitation in his voice, "There is another matter that I would like to discuss, should it interest you. Professor Roche also served as Head of Gryffindor and Deputy Headmaster at this school. While I was prepared to appoint Professor Kettleburn as my next Deputy, he is a rather… reckless individual, for lack of a better word. In truth, Hogwarts has a shortage of teachers that are, simultaneously, apt at administrative matters. Miss Marie, you have been-" He took a small glance at her resume to remind himself of her title, "acting Headmistress at Beauxbatons's Lisbon branch campus for three years. Would you consider the additional positions of Head of Gryffindor and Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts?"
Minerva could not believe her luck. It was as if she was resuming all her positions at once, during her time under Albus when he was Headmaster. How she revelled in being Head of House, tending to her brave lion cubs. Beaming, she shook his hand firmly, "Yes, I would be very honored, Armando."
"And I extremely delighted." He stood upon releasing her hand. Then he walked towards the door, his long robes swishing behind him. He stood tall and proud, most unlike the Headmaster in her memory. "It is August thirty-first, and I understand you may want to return home for preparation. But I'm just making it clear that, should you wish, you are welcome to stay the night at your new chambers."
"Thank you for the offer, Sir. In fact, that has been my intention." He eyed her robes and lack of luggage with interest, so she responded with a tight smile. "Long years of travel have taught me that traveling light has its advantages. Anything can be bought, after all."
"Quite true, Professor. I am free in the afternoon, should you wish for me to accompany you to Hogsmeade-" He seemed to have caught something at the corner of his eye while standing in the doorway with the door open, for he smiled apologetically and excused himself for a moment, and then dashed out into the corridor. Dumbfounded, Minerva stood and watched the doorway as she heard whispers from behind the wall, the voices growing louder as the people closed into the space.
At long last, she saw Armando's head popping out from behind the door jamb, followed by an auburn-haired teenager. She thought she heard her heart skip a beat when the crystal blue eyes caught hers. His hair was shoulder-length, his nose less crooked, and there was not a single line marking his face, but the resemblance was uncanny.
"Glad I caught onto this lad wandering in the corridors," Armando patted the teen encouragingly on his shoulder. It looked somewhat strained, seeing that the younger man stood taller than the Headmaster by several inches.
"Professor Marie, allow me to introduce Mr. Albus Dumbledore, our distinguished Head Boy and arguably the best of Hogwarts by far. You will certainly hear a fair bit about this boy during your time here." The boy bowed slightly with a toothy smile, as Minerva visibly gulped and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "I'm sure."
Armando had evidently not heard or seen her reaction, for he cheerily gestured to Minerva. "Mr. Dumbledore, this is Professor Minette Marie, our new Transfiguration Professor, Head of Gryffindor, and Deputy Headmistress."
"Pleased to meet you, Professor." He stepped forward, close enough for her to discern all his characteristic features, and in that moment she wanted to burst into tears. She wanted to touch his face, to know that he was real, to feel his being and remind herself that it was not a dream - time travel, yes - but not a dream.
She maintained her composure with every ounce of self-control she could muster, and squeaked, "Enchanté." She looked away then, hoping for Armando to guide the conversation.
"Well then, Mr. Dumbledore, would you be so kind as to lead Professor Marie to her chambers?" Armando must have missed the spark of panic in Minerva's eyes, for he happily gestured for the two to leave the meeting room. Once they were in the corridor, he bowed and excused himself, "I will have to attend to school matters now. Again, I hope you enjoy your time at Hogwarts, Professor. Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon, Headmaster." She watched him leave with more interest than she intended, until his silhouette disappeared behind a corner.
Dreading the moment, she turned to Albus, who still smiled innocently at her while offering his arm, his elbow bent, his gentleman's etiquette all painfully reminiscent of his older self. "Shall we?" She took his arm, trying not to remind herself of the thousands of times she had done it before, and allowed him to guide her on a path she knew by heart.
Albus felt at ease guiding the new professor around the castle. As Hogwarts's poster boy, he had led guests as touchy as the Minister along these corridors all too frequently, sometimes having to introduce them to subjects and teachers as they passed various classrooms. Professor Marie made no attempt at starting a conversation, so he naturally assumed that she was either not accustomed to talking, or she did not want to. It was not uncommon that professors were not sociable, given the many examples he had encountered at Hogwarts. She also had an air of authority and sternness that told him she was not one to be crossed.
He thought her middle-aged, seeing that her hair was still a dark mass twisted into a tight bun. Greying strands here and there did nothing to diminish her beauty; they spoke of wisdom and experience, things he admired and respected. Her most entrancing features were those emerald eyes that captured him at first glance, and though he could not tell what they conveyed, those bottomless wells of green seemed to hold a million different emotions the moment their eyes met each other's. Beautiful was the one word that suited her best. With her taut, porcelain skin and - for some obscure reason - her rosy cheeks, she looked every bit like the Roman goddesses he read about in old library books.
He wondered briefly what she would look like if she had smiled. The small smile she gave during their introduction did not quite reach her eyes. If he were to be honest, she looked more horrified than enchanted - as she had put it - to meet him. He wondered why.
Minerva felt her heart thumping loudly in her chest as she walked. She struggled to keep her hand from shaking, even though her subconscious mind kept reminding her that she was holding a ghost's arm. Or a dead man's arm, however she phrased it. She could not help thinking that it was also her beloved's arm. He was young, brilliant, full of life and vigor, yet it all seemed vague and fragile. Her hand wrapped even tighter on his arm and he smiled in response, stealing a concerned glance at the new professor.
Maybe she was nervous, Albus reasoned to himself. Without conscious thought, he wrapped his other hand around the slender one that gripped his arm. Immediately he regretted his actions when she withdrew like a startled cat, her eyes wide with shock and her mouth slightly agape. He stopped dead in his tracks, momentarily stunned by her reaction. At last, he whispered, as if caring for a frightened animal, "Sorry, Professor. I didn't think- I was merely concerned. You did not look so well."
"I apologize," Minerva responded quickly, masking her discomfort. "I was lost in thought. You see, I've apparated my way here with several stops here and there... the long trip must have finally gotten the better of me."
"I understand, Professor," he gave a genuine smile, his eyes twinkling with a friendly spark, which made her thought for a fleeting moment that perhaps he did understand. But of course he did not, she berated herself for her foolishness. He studied her attire for a second, then he asked, "Where did you come from?"
"Caith- Toulouse," Minerva corrected herself in time, but almost wanted to palm her face in desperation. She could have followed through with Caithness and Albus wouldn't have noticed the lie, but her numbed, idiotic self had to correct it, and not so subtly. "It's in southwestern France," she added hastily, trying to steer his attention away.
If Albus had noticed her lie, he made no attempt to press her mistake. Instead, he inquired curiously, "Forgive me if I'm wrong, have you taught at Beauxbatons?"
"At their branch campus in Lisbon, yes." She hoped he would not ask further. Her research on Beauxbatons, and particularly their branch campuses, was painfully insufficient.
Alas, he was mind-reader Albus Dumbledore, she reminded herself. Without missing a beat, he caught on, "Ah, how was it? Would you say it's different from Hogwarts?"
"Very," Minerva drawled. She could almost see "How so?" steaming out of Albus's ears when he turned to face her, his expression expectant with a hint of challenge. "The students are less inquisitive." She saw his face redden, and it was for the first time since coming to this time that she felt satisfied. "Their lack of curiosity and interaction make for a rather bookish learning environment, with more theory and less practice. The curriculum itself is not particularly helpful."
"I see," his confident voice faltered a bit.
As luck would have it, their route took them pass a trophy stand, and Minerva felt it necessary to steer the conversation a different course. "Do you play Quidditch?" Her eyes darted across the lines of trophies standing along the corridor.
"Yes, I am the Gryffindor Chaser," he said proudly. When he registered her surprise, then promptly replaced by amusement, he chuckled, "Is it that much of a surprise?"
"Quite," Minerva eyed his full length deliberately, trying to convey that she was judging him by his physical appearance, when in her mind's eye she saw her Professor Dumbledore hurling a Quaffle animatedly at a goal post on the Quidditch pitch. She wouldn't say the vision was impossible, she thought, just highly, highly improbable. Yet now, as she soundlessly trailed after the young man whose arm she held, looking every bit strong and independent, she doubted her knowledge of the man from the basics. At least, he never told her he was a Chaser.
"What about you?" He asked casually.
"Much like you, a hotheaded Gryffindor seeker," she said without much forethought, her painstakingly maintained shield crumbling in his relaxing presence.
Albus almost couldn't contain his laughter when her expression froze and she explained hastily, "I was here as an exchange student for a year, and the Sorting Hat placed me in Gryffindor-"
"Professor Marie," he paused and - to her surprise and somewhat to his too - placed his hands on her shoulders reassuringly, "You don't have to tell me anything if you're uncomfortable doing so." He removed his hands as soon as he was finished, and allowed her hand to curl around his elbow again. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "You could have taught at Beauxbatons and attended Hogwarts, you know."
He felt her hand tighten nervously, her feet not quite keeping up. He slowed himself as she spoke, almost timidly, "It didn't quite add up, did it?"
He smiled, shaking his head. "No, Professor. Exchange students don't attend the sorting ceremony."
With amusement, he heard her groan and curse under her breath, muttering, "How could I have forgotten that, of all things?"
"A few more rehearsals would have been wise," he teased as they rounded the last corner to her chambers.
Then she said, much to her regret, when exhaustion and an aching sense of loneliness coupled with déja vu rendered her mind useless, "I was speaking fine until I met you, Albus!"
He froze mid-step and she froze altogether, from head to toe, her face blanching to a whiter shade of pale with each passing second. It was not her use of his name - though surprising - that made her outburst odd, it was the emotion encompassed in one name, that held as much affection as it did grief, that struck him completely. She sounded as if she had known him all her life - this mysterious woman he had barely met, who shared with him sentences so few that he could count and list without revisiting a memory - he felt more certain that she loved him more than she knew him.
Yet she recovered, her face devoid of emotion and her voice colder than ice when she removed her hand from his arm again, and quickly shifted away from him as if he was a demon reincarnated. He registered more fear in her eyes than anger, and even if there was anger, he was certain it was directed at herself. She almost tumbled in her steps when he made a move towards her. After that he stayed still, stunned, and allowed her to back away to the safety of her chambers.
She looked back at the general direction of his being when she reached the door, her hand shaking violently against the door knob. She was glad the password had not yet been activated, seeing that with her state of mind she would likely not remember the phrase if she needed it. Keeping her voice flat and professional, she stated, "Thank you for escorting me to my chambers, Mr. Dumbledore. You may return to your dormitories now."
"Pro-" his call was cut short by her slamming the door against the frame so hard, dust from above the door head rained onto the ground. "'Twas my pleasure, Professor," he whispered at the closed door. Soon he retraced his steps across the castle, not knowing why or when a strange, empty feeling had creeped onto him as he replayed the conversation over and over again in his mind.