.

Chapter Three

It was with some relief that Minerva waved goodbye to the last carriage full of Hogwarts students on their way home for Christmas. This year she had six students staying behind, four of them fifth years (all best friends) and two twins in their second year whose parents were diplomats for the British Government and were spending this Christmas in India.

Minerva felt exhausted. She had spent the entire morning herding her Gryffindors, chivvying, scolding and generally running around after them like a mother hen whose chicks were off to the yard for the first time. She had collected somewhere in the region of four hundred Christmas cards that were pinned up around her class room so that there was no room for decorations, except for the odd bit of holly or mistletoe. She had confiscated about fifty water balloons, what felt like three hundred 'Stinkers', twenty bags of flour, and a couple of Nifflers which people had been trying to set amongst the presents. She was ready to drop where she stood, collapse onto the hard stone floor like it was the fluffiest, softest bed ever created and sleep for - oh, about a century ought to do it.

'Sherbet lemon?' came a voice from just behind her.

'A tumbler of Firewhisky, more like,' said Minerva.

'I knew my mother was wrong when she told me 'the way to a girl's heart is through a box of chocolates' - it was Firewhisky all the time. My companions certainly always had more success than I,' reminisced Albus Dumbledore, moving to stand beside her, looking out into the misty afternoon.

'I don't think Firewhisky is the way to a girl's heart,' Minerva replied dryly.

'Hmm ho,' said Albus, vaguely; but when she looked at him, she couldn't help smiling.

'What do you want for Christmas, Albus? I've bought you something, well, silly, but I wanted to buy you something you wanted.'

'You're buying me a present?' He sounded surprised.

'Well, of course!'

'It's not a book, is it?' asked Dumbledore, sounding a touch desperate. Minerva looked at him strangely.

'No, it's not, but if you want one, I can get you-'

'No! No,' he interrupted her. 'Please, Minerva - ever since people started thinking of me as an academic all I get are books for Christmas presents, boring books - and it's become worse since I defeated Grindelwald! Have you any idea how tedious it is to unwrap book after book after book? There's no mystery, no excitement! Anyone can tell what a wrapped book is! I don't know how many copies I have of my own books. What makes people think I'd want to have a copy of my own book ? Either way, they all go into the school library. I have piles of wrapped books upstairs, awaiting Christmas morning, sent to me by well meaning ex-students, parents, academics, ministry officials, foreign ministers, ambassadors, students, teachers, friends-'

'Albus,' said Minerva, feeling sorry for him, and secretly amused. 'I haven't bought you a book.'

'You haven't?'

'I most certainly haven't.'

'I could kiss you!' exuberantly claimed Albus, flinging arms wide ecstatically.

There was a cough from behind them.

'I do so hate to interrupt such a romantic interlude,' drawled Professor Sendar, 'but the Headmaster is required in his study.'

'I'll be right along,' said Albus, smiling, eyes laughing with Minerva as she returned the smile.

'It's a matter of some urgency,' said Sendar, pressingly.

'Indeed,' said Albus, his voice suddenly a somewhat distant monotone. He bowed his head to Minerva, with the shadow of wink, and turned to make his way up the marble staircase.

'And what plans does our Head of Gryffindor have for this afternoon?' queried Professor Sendar, sidling closer. Minerva ignored him, turning to look after the departing Albus.

'Professor Dumbledore!' she called. He paused in mid stride up the stairs and swivelled gracefully to look down upon her with a twitching smile.

'Yes, Professor McGonagall?' he asked, hardly needing to raise his voice - its depth echoed well.

'You did not answer my question,' she reminded him.

'Whatever I receive will no doubt be exactly what I most wanted!' said Albus and winked then.

'That doesn't help at all, Albus,' muttered Minerva under her breath. She clapped her hands sharply and called out. 'Asp!'

With a sharp crack, Asp the House Elf appeared, a ready smile and a tea cloth over one arm. 'Is the Professor wanting tea and cake?'

'No thank you, Asp. Would you mind bringing my winter cloak, gloves and my purse down from my office? It would save me the bother of climbing all those stairs.'

'Of course, Professor! Nothing would give Asp greater pleasure. May Asp also give Professor McGonagall her Christmas card?'

A slightly bemused Professor McGonagall took a homemade Christmas card, (made out of pasta, holly, something green (possibly spinach?), and charmed to sing loudly when opened by the unwary giftee) and thanked the elf with a fond smile. Asp, delighted by her thanks, disappeared up the stairs to collect her things for her.

Professor Sendar lingered still, but Minerva did her best to ignore his presence as she silenced the card with a cursory silencio.

'Would you care for some company, Minerva?' asked Sendar, suddenly.

'No thank you, Michaelmas. I thought I made it perfectly clear that the only time your company is preferable is when it's absent,' replied Minerva, perfunctorily.

'Well, that was clear enough,' muttered Sendar under his breath.

'Good,' said Minerva coolly. 'I strive to be clear and straightforward in my teaching approach.'

'Then your teaching methods have certainly improved,' Sendar congratulated her acidly. Minerva remained silent and objected her unusual Christmas card to close scrutiny. 'I think I shall be taking your advice, Minerva.'

'What advice, Sendar? Seeking psychiatric help for your problems?'

'Five minutes in our esteemed Headmaster's company would render five years of expensive therapy useless,' jibed Sendar. 'I'm thinking about quitting.'

'Bravo,' flatly replied Minerva, putting on a bored expression.

'Quitting teaching, traveling the world, seeing the sights, discovering beautiful women...'

'Good for you,' said Minerva, ostentatiously stifling a yawn. 'Leaving soon?'

'Good to see I've built such lasting relationships here,' snarled Sendar, obviously feeling sadly unloved.

Minerva, however, had no sympathy. 'You didn't exactly work overly hard on this one, Sendar,' she commented, pursing her lips distastefully.

'You obviously haven't had much experience, or you would know what a mistake you're making,' said Sendar, patronisingly, confidently assured of his worth.

'I'm not sure I can believe you just said that!' Minerva almost laughed. 'You've confirmed that I am most certainly not making a mistake. You only ever wanted to get into my bed, Sendar. Seeing you now, listening to you, I'm not sure you even know what it is to have a platonic relationship with a woman!'

'What? What on earth do you think I have with Elise?'

'I think you have an acquaintanceship.'

'And I think you're scared to fall in love,' he bit back.

'Scared? You're hysterical! There was never a chance that I would fall in love with such a miserable creature as you, Sendar.'

'You don't think?'

'I happen to know myself better than anyone else.'

'I don't think I've ever met such a cold, frigid cow!' Sendar suddenly attacked, aggressively jabbing a finger towardher. He stood taller and wider than her, a muscular figure tense with restrained anger.

'I think that's enough, Sendar,' said David Hawthorne, suddenly appearing from behind them. It appeared that he had been listening from behind the statue of one of the huge bronze Hogs that stood in the foyer. 'I've heard enough. Get out, before I throw you out.'

'You can't order me around, Hawthorne. You just watch yourself, I've had one too many slights from you-'

'And so what?' interrupted David, scowling, his dark brows drawn together ominously. 'Do you think that somehow I'd be scared by some pretty boy who thinks he's God's gift to women?'

'Have some common sense, Hawthorne. Keep out of this and keep your nose clean.'

'Don't threaten me, Sendar.' Angry sparks lit in David's black eyes.

'Or else what? You'll throw a pot plant at me?'

'I think it's time you took your own advice and left Hogwarts,' growled David.

'So do I! It's clearly full of inferior -'

'Manners?' suggested Professor Horner, hands clasped in front of her and an expression that was truly glacial. 'I was never sure you really were a mistake until now.'

'I'm sorry?' asked Sendar, confused. He hadn't heard Horner approach.

'Appointing such a young, inexperienced, and volatile man as deputy head of Hogwarts was surely a mistake, but I was confident that before long you would reveal your worth. Apparently I was mistaken,' said the Head of Ravenclaw, shrugging slightly and catching Minerva's eye with the tiniest hint of sympathy.

'I suppose you thought you would make a better job of it? Face it, Elise, you're far too old to be much use in the system nowadays.'

'That's it,' said Minerva as she drew her wand. 'Apologise to Professor Horner for disrespect, and then leave. You need to cool off and think about what you are saying.'

'If you dare-' began Sendar, practically spitting fury.

'Oh, I dare all right!' said Minerva, a cool smile upon her lips, a challenging glint in her intelligent eyes. 'I think you forget what I did before I became a professor, Michaelmas. I fought as an Auror in the war. You know, that war which you had no part in…?'

Her taunts paid off. She had clearly hit home as his face flushed pale. He beganstammering excuses about responsibilities and being needed at home, but Minerva had seen too many eager lads lie about their age to fight - and then die - to have any sympathy for a coward.

'How many white feathers do you have hidden away, Sendar? How many coward's rosettes do you harbour? Albus Dumbledore was deputy headmaster, yet he found time to brave the frontier; to fight and to ultimately win against the greatest evil this world has ever known. For all your bluster, you're really just a spineless fearful bastard, relying on your good looks and slick talk to weasel your way into places you don't have the worth to belong to!'

'You- you!' spat Sendar incoherently as his eyes flicked wildly from person to person. Sweat glistened on his handsome face, and in his fear he looked surprisingly pathetic. With a final hiss he turned on his tailored heel and fled down towards his dungeons, there presumably to lick his wounds in peace.

Minerva lowered her wand, and felt a vague sense of shame at being so relentlessly cruel to the man.

'Don't,' said Elise Horner, placing a hand on Minerva's arm. 'If you hadn't, someone else would have; it was well deserved.'

'Thanks,' laughed Minerva, smiling at David, who stood against the ornate oak banister one arm lazily entwined the post. 'Seriously, thanks.'

'Hurrumph,' said David, now back to his normal reticent self.

'Never mind,' said Elise, and Minerva wasn't quite sure whom she was speaking to - after all, David and Elise had been colleagues far longer than Minerva had held her position here. 'If you want to go shopping today, Minerva, you probably need to leave fairly soon; it's getting on.'

'Right,' she agreed; and, collecting her cloak and purse from a frightened House elf, left.

.

Professor Minerva McGonagall stood, almost posed for action, at the head of the great marble staircase that led up to the Great Hall, one long slender hand resting caressingly upon the heavy oak banister that carved its way gracefully down to the foyer below. Her gaze was focused yet hazy, her grey eyes staring ahead, fixed upon a point in memory, ignorant of reality, her posture tall, strict and unbending as she thought…

Her fingers, resting flat upon the polished oak, twitched. Her lips quirked and her brow furrowed; it looked as though something deep, something of disturbing importance was discovered, revealed in cognitive shadows.

Her introspection, her moment of clarity was interrupted by the arrival of a fellow professor.

'I've been watching you for the last thirty minutes, Minerva, and I'm intrigued,' said Professor Horner, the Ravenclaw Head of House and Potions Mistress.

'Intrigued by what?' asked Minerva, coming to herself with a little shake.

'By what depth of troubled thought thatmust plague you to contain you to this chilly hall for so long!'

'Troubled? No, I just became distracted,' replied Minerva, her hand sliding along the banister and then lifting up as she gave a slight sigh.

'Well, come and have a sherry. I have a very good year; my son procured it for me.' Elise Horner took Minerva's arm to nudge her along, away from the draught that swept up from the great front doors of Hogwarts to chill the corridors of the ancient school.

'Your son? I didn't know you had a son!' said Minerva, genuinely surprised, and a little distressed to discover she knew so little about her female colleague.

'Oh yes, thirty eight years old, married to a shy little thing who's an expert on magical birds. They have a little girl, seven she is, Evelyn's her name. Wonderful little thing, ever so timid though, but very intelligent… I have high hopes for her!' smiled Elise, looking extremely proud. 'My son works in foreign magical imports, lots of paperwork, he thrives on technicalities. I'm afraid he can be terribly boring sometimes, occupational hazard I fear.'

'Oh, yes,' said Minerva, marvelling at this chatty side of the normally staid and extremely reserved older lady.

'Of course, his job does have its perks,' smiled Elise, welcoming Minerva into her study. Opening a classy drinks cabinet, she poured a generous splash of rich sherry into two crystal tumblers. Her office was dark, but the big fire in the hearth offset it and made the room cosy instead of gloomy. Heavy drapes hung at the window and old paintings of even older battles lined the walls – it was an office of age and experience, with a distinctive taste. Minerva's own was still somewhat bare and basic.

'How are you enjoying your time here at Hogwarts, Minerva?'

'Very much,' smiled Minerva, taking a cautious sip. She was not really a drinker.

Elise Horner sat down and, making sure Minerva was comfortably seated upon the (not matching) armchair, proceeded to give Minerva her characteristic piercing look. It was not quite a match to Albus Dumbledore's but she could certainlyhold her own.

'Sendar has made things a little awkward on occasion,' admitted Minerva, responding to the pointed unspoken hint, 'and Albus and I…' she trailed off.

'Albus and you… what?' queried Elise, with a curious persistence.

'It's nothing,' said Minerva, feeling suddenly uncomfortable.

'I didn't mean to pry, Minerva,' said Elise, hastening to reassure her. 'I was simply … well I think you might have a career here, if you wish to pursue it. I was just feeling you out. Forgive me my slight deception. I am also rather fond of you - you remind me of a young woman I once knew.'

'Who?' asked Minerva, genuinely touched by this admission.

'Myself,' admitted Elise, giving a short bark of a laugh. 'Let's just say I wasn't always so… reserved.'

'I would not mind aspiring to be … alike,' blushed Minerva, returning the compliment and speaking truth, for she did wish to be much more the strict professional that Elise Horner was.

'Oh, thank you my dear, but I must say, I hope you do not,' smiled Elise, strictness seeming very far away from her right now.

'It is not so bad, surely?' laughed Minerva, slightly unnerved by the knowing look that lingered in the older lady's wise glance.

'I think, Minerva, that you have yet to live. You are afraid.'

'Afraid? I was an Auror! I fought for my life and those in my company! Afraid!' protested Minerva, afire with defensive anger. A churning fear was pulling and shrivelling her insides; why was everyone saying she was afraid?

'Not that kind of afraid, Minerva,' said Elise, quietly drinking her sherry. 'Afraid to let yourself go, perhaps; afraid to let your emotions have control -'

'I don't know what you're talking about!' snapped Minerva, eyes flashing.

'No, I don't suppose you want to hear 'about' it.'

'Professor Horner-'

'Enough, Minerva. I shall say no more, but,' she added softly, 'it was my concern which made me speak'.

Minerva did not reply but instead lowered her gaze. Something was slipping away from beneath her - like standing upon a muddy slope and suddenly your shoes no longer grip and you're sliding like an unwary ice skater, arms wind-milling; trying to find your footing, to stay upright and not fall down that slope, that dangerous scary unknown slope where lies dark depths of thoughts even you hide from…

'Minerva.' Elise quietly interrupted the silence that had grown large and uncomfortable. 'Forgive an old lady her blunt tongue?'

'Of course,' said Minerva stiffly. Then, glancing at that creased and rigid face, looking so strangely disturbed and upset, she relented, and gave a slightly forced smile. 'Old indeed!'

'Well I am! You by comparison, are the springiest spring chicken of all!'

'It's winter,' grinned Minerva, 'you can't use metaphors that are out of season!'

'Now you're teasing, or the sherry's going to your head.'

'I've only had a single glass!' objected Minerva, laughing.

'Then we'll settle for teasing, and I'll take ten points from Gryffindor,' declared Elise firmly, much to Minerva's horror.

'You can't do that, Professor!' she cried, very much in her thirteen year old's voice.

Elise Horner, seventy eight years of age, unbending schoolmarm, strict professional, and always one to follow rules to the letter, snorted into her sherry glass in a totally undignified manner.

'Did you just-' said Minerva, disbelievingly.

'Absolutely not!' said Horner, trying to control the giggles trying to erupt from her mouth.

They caught each other's eye and all of a sudden burst into hysterical laughter. They clutched their stomachs, rolled from side to side, wheezed unintelligible words through a curtain of unstoppable laughter, as they shared in that comfortable yet completely uncontrollable thing - hilarity between friends.

A noise from the door way disturbed their shamelessly raucous laughter. Looking up they saw - much to their horror - Professor Albus Dumbledore, who was watching with undisguised glee.

'Ah,' said Professor Elise Horner succinctly, turning an aristocratic puce (that is, she turned purple but refused to acknowledge it).

'Professor Dumbledore,' said Minerva weakly. Her stomach hurt.

'Good evening, Professors Horner and McGonagall.' Then Dumbledore smiled. 'Is anything in particular the cause of all this mirth?'

'No, no,' said Elise, trying to discreetly hide the bottle of sherry and two drained glasses so that the headmaster didn't think they were a couple of drunks. Minerva moved to shield her from sight.

'A letter arrived for you Minerva, stamped urgent and with your family crest. I thought you might wish to open it immediately,' said Dumbledore, eyes sparkling merrily, perfectly aware that Elise was currently stuffing the bottle of sherry down the back of her sofa.

Damn the man thought Minerva, as she took the sealed letter from him and frowned; puzzled, but not alarmed.

'I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow Minerva,' said Elise, now with a straight face, 'but I won't be here for Christmas day, I'm spending it with my son. Speaking of that - would you mind looking after my Ravenclaws? I've two sixth years and a seventh year who won't be any bother, she's here to do research for her potions project. Would you?'

'Of course,' agreed Minerva, slightly distracted by the letter she held.

'Thank you, I believe I 'owe you one',' said Horner gratefully, as she ushered them courteously out, returning to her office at once, and leaving Albus and Minerva standing on the balcony above the foyer.

'Should I depart?' politely inquired Albus, watching Minerva frown at the letter.

'What? Oh, no, please don't,' said Minerva, as she turned the letter over and pressed her thumb to the seal. The parchment unrolled at once and she began to read,

Dearest Minerva…

The Ministry letter has finally arrived. For one brief moment I thought it might herald good tidings… but no. I never saw a letter so black, Minerva. They have found his body.

Winston has become strangely distanced, and I am… I am undone. Yes, I who used to be so strong, who could make even you do what you were told, I who took our parents deaths so stoically, and our brother's so bravely. Should now be so weak, so incapable of anything but knowing and feeling my loss.

I have lost my son to War. Why my son?! I would have given my life, if only the gods had asked, I would have done anything, anything to save him! Descartes Edward McGonagall-Murray is dead. My son is dead!

Forgive me.

Your Loving sister,

Cecelia

Minerva finished reading and let her hands fall. The letter fell from her loosened fingers and floated, seesawing towards the ground. She watched it go with a strange fuzz before her eyes, an eerie effect as the parchment seemed to slow in the air and every drop took an age.

'She always was overly dramatic,' said Minerva, and heard her voice from a great distance away. 'Des, now, he always laughed at her when she got so emotional; he would give her a hug and tell her not to be so silly. Like his father that way. Winston's full of common sense, a very practical man; good with his hands, carves furniture in his free time. Des took it up too; he carved me a little wooden cat each year since he was nine. I couldn't tell what the first one was, but he got better. I lost four, on my travels, lost them… How could I be so STUPID!'

'Whoa,' said Albus, taken aback by her sudden yelling. 'Minerva, my dear, what was in the letter?'

'I taught him how to fly; we would creep away into the back paddock where the grass was green and soft and we would fly… He was good, very good, I was so proud when he first took off on his own, so proud when he flew for the Ravenclaw team!'

'Minerva,' said Albus, a sad suspicion forming in his head. He reached for the letter, though the truth of the matter shone out from her like a thousand razors ripping her heart.

'I was 'Aunt Minerva', but when I stayed around for a while he would lose that shyness and call me Aunt Tabbycat; and if he wanted to be chased around the house, Aunt Kitty.'

'Sweetheart,' murmured Albus, tears sparkling in his ever bright eyes as he held out his arms to her. She looked at him like he was alien, foreign to her as a postage stamp.

'I made special trips to oversee some of his Auror training sessions. He'd say to his mates; 'Here's my Aunt Animagus, she's ripping, wait till you see her wand work!', and they would crowd around… I was always so surprised, and they would ask me all those naïve questions about being out in the field, about battle, and dark wizards. Des would stand, grinning cheekily at me, right beside me, taller by a hand span, with that shaggy head of hair he called stylish and his mother called a mop head.'

'Minerva, my beloved, please,' whispered Albus, desperate for her to stop this torture. The endearments slipped out, unnoticed by either.

'I told him, I told him what he was doing was right! I encouraged him to be an Auror! It's all my fault!' wailed Minerva. As she groped forward blindly her outstretched hands found Albus' chest.

'And now he's dead!' cried Minerva, eyes staring wildly, unseeing, up at Albus' own. 'He's dead! DEAD!'

'It is not your fault.' Albus held her close.

'He was seventeen Albus, seventeen! Oh Merlin, he was only a child, and now, never an adult.' Minerva's hands fisted his robes beneath her clenched palms and she began to calm, yet no tears drenched her pale cheeks nor crystallised in her eyes.

'I'm going to bed,' she said, abruptlymoving away. 'I need to be alone.'

'I think not,' said Albus.

'Excuse me?' asked Minerva, narrowing her steely grey eyes.

'I will not have you sitting alone in your quarters, going over and over how you are to blame for the death of your sister's son.'

'And just how do you intend to reinforce that?' spat Minerva.

'Any way that I have to,' said Albus, steadfastly. 'If I have to pick you up and sling you over my shoulder, so be it.'

'You-what?' gasped Minerva, temporarily shocked out of her reaction to her nephew's death.

'You will sleep with me tonight.' added Albus.

'What?' thundered Minerva, outraged.

'So that I may keep an eye on you, we shall sleep in my rooms. I have a spare bedroom that is adequately furnished.'

'My nephew-' began Minerva, flushed and indignant.

'Is dead. I am sorry, Minerva, but I will not leave you alone to grieve. I cannot,' said Albus, with no small amount of compassion.

'Why not?'

'Because I care for you,' admitted Albus quietly.

And there was no answer to that in Minerva's mind.

'Come,' insisted Albus gently. He tucked her arm through his and guided her forward. Behind them the letter lifted as an invisible hand pulled it into Albus' pocket for safe keeping, and distantly the voices of students heralded the coming of Christmas morn in cheering verse.

.

Later that same night, Minerva was curled up on Albus' comfortable settee, grasping a forgotten mug of tea and staring unseeingly into the fire that spat glowing embers at the magical fire guard. Albus was seated behind his desk, working on papers. Periodically he would glance up to look at her still form, and a look of deep regret would crease his face.

Finally the silence grew too much for him, and he stood from his straight backed chair (he found it helped him concentrate on his work) and made his way over to her.

'Minerva.' He sat beside her and disengaged her hand from the cold mug of tea.

'I wonder when they'll schedule the funeral. Christmas day?' wondered Minerva.

'I doubt it,' replied Albus, thinking I hope not.

'I hate funerals.' Minerva continued as if he had not spoken.

'Yes,' said Albus.

'I suppose I had better write a letter back?' said Minerva almost cheerfully.

Albus glanced warily at her.

'To Cecilia, ask when the funeral is, etc. I suppose I'll have to ask the Headmaster for the day off. What flowers should I order?'

'The Headmaster is right here, Minerva,' Albus pointed out quietly. He didn't like this new Minerva, this distanced inhuman creature whose eyes no longer spoke to him.

'I wonder where they'll hold it. I wonder … I wonder whether his body is even recognisable - what if they've got the wrong body? It might not be Des at all!' Excited, Minerva stood and paced before the fire. 'It's a mistake, a dreadful mistake, he's still alive really, oh he is, Albus!' Finally she directly addressed him, but her manic expression did nothing to reassure him. He stood and rested a hand upon her slim, almost bony shoulder; was she eating enough?

'The ministry spells are accurate, Minerva; they would not send out the letter unless they were sure. Des is dead, and he won't be coming back. You must face it like the brave woman I know you are.'

And finally, finally she faced him, truly looked at him. 'I'm so tired of death, Albus. Must this war haunt us for the rest of our lives? Will the list of dead never stop growing? Can we never be free from ghosts, from nightmares and grief?'

Albus hadn't known she suffered from nightmares; he filed it away for future thought. 'It will not go on for ever, Minerva, I promise you.'

'Should we then forget all those who died in the war, ignore their sacrifices and their pain?'

'No, never, Minerva, never; but we cannot live our life in the past, cannot give our every waking and sleeping thought to those lost, because it will serve no purpose except to create more grief and pain for those left behind. That is not what the war was about, Minerva - it was about creating a future free from the trials of prejudice and sorrow,' Albus spoke passionately, but did not raise his voice. 'A few weeks ago, you yourself convinced me of this. Blundell's death was not my fault, and neither is Des' yours.'

For a long moment she looked at him - no, through him, at something intangible, before she lifted her head and took a deep breath, and smiled somewhat querulously at him.

'Parchment, Albus, do you have some parchment I might use?' And her voice was back to normal and her eyes spoke to him again; never mind that sorrow tinged her voice or shadowed her eyes.

'Of course,' he murmured, and before long she was seated at his desk, his extravagant peacocks' quill in hand (she hadn't even commented) and struggling to express her sorrows and sympathy to her sister. Albus made cups of tea, and left a sugar bowl of Lemon Drops, his favourite sweet, within her easy reach. Occasionally he would touch her shoulder or make an idle comment about the tea, reassuring her that she was not alone.

When at last she finished the letter and dispatched it by owl, she sat, tense and pensive in the same chair, till Albus persuaded her to sit with him before the fire and made inane chat whilst she sat mute, but appreciative.

When she started to yawn, Albus suggested going to bed, resting till the morning, but she disagreed so violently that he acquiesced and instead fetched a blanket to drape around her, insisting when she protested.

He sat beside her till one o'clock in the morning, when her head finally began to droop, and boldly he coaxed her forward so that her head lay upon his shoulder. When her breathing evened out and her hands were loose upon her blanket, when in her sleep she reached out to him and curled close to his warmth he relaxed, and allowed himself to stroke her hair and murmur his own condolences.

The Grandfather clock struck the half hour, past one. Albus reluctantly stretched out his hand to his wand; he would have to move her to the spare bed, where she would sleep far more comfortably. Half way there his hand paused, and glancing down at her sleeping form he made a decision that he justified to himself as not wanting to wake her. Strong capable hands pulled her close and he lifted her himself, with only his strength and companionable love to hold her safe. An arm around her shoulders and beneath her knees, she was lighter in his arms than he would have thought and still as beautiful.

As beautiful… carefully he suppressed the unbidden thought.

When he laid her down upon the white sheets, he thought to undo her hair from its tight pins and was surprised at its length and weight. He also unlaced her boots and slid them off, and with her comfort in mind, he carefully unclasped her cloak and removed it. Beneath she wore a sensible black long skirt and a white shirt with holly detailed on the cuffs. He covered her with the sheets and a blanket (murmuring a warming charm that would linger, for the nights were chilly) and then departed to his own bed, remembering to leave a candle glowing in her room, just in case she should wake.

Minerva woke, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. It seemed she had fallen asleep in her clothes. The bedroom she was in was unfamiliar to her, but not unpleasant; it had the look of a room rarely used and was full of Albus' clutter and the debris of old gifts and trinkets. Yet it was clean and airy, if somewhat over full and Minerva felt inexplicably comfortable in it, knowing as she did that it was Albus' spare room, and full of his belongings.

Fawkes flew silently into her room, and came almost nervously to greet her. She welcomed him; and then the sudden weight of her nephew's death crashed down upon her and she lost those few seconds of peace she had had just after waking. With a start she felt something cool touch her cheek and looked up to see Fawkes' great obsidian eyes weep pearly tears to drop upon her face and soothe her pain.

Des had been a cheerful boy, full of laughter and a belief that the world was a better place than it actually was. Minerva knew that he would not have wanted her to spend her days in grief or denial. With a new energy that came from the very core of her being, she swung her legs out of bed; and noticed, for the first time, that she lacked a cloak, that her shoes were lined neatly beside her bed and that her hair was a tangled loose mess, hanging dishevelled from her head.

It appeared that Albus had put her to bed and tried to make her comfortable; it was a strange thought, Albus undressing her. Minerva shook her head. There had to be a bathroom somewhere around here - she needed a wash and a change of clothes. Briskly she pushed open the door of her room and found herself presented with the choice of four doors in the revealed hallway. Decisions, decisions…

Of course, the fates decreed the first door she opened led her straight into Albus' own bedchamber, where he lay still asleep upon a huge four poster bed. Minerva stood in the doorway and noticed how his long auburn hair looked tangled, streaked unattractively across the pillows behind his head, and how his snarled beard looked as if it were caught beneath him; she could imagine him wincing as he woke and sat up.

There was something though, about seeing him there, something special; as if she was seeing him for the first time as a man, just a man, asleep on his beard. Not as the infallible Sir Albus Dumbledore, Light Wizard, Defeater of the Dark, Chief Warlock, academic extraordinaire and so on and so on, (for one really could go on for some time with all the titles that had been bestowed upon him over the years), but simply as a man. There was something endearingly vulnerable about him as he lay there asleep, his breathing ruffling his dark moustache, and his long form stretched out beneath the covers, illuminated by a bar of light that slipped in through a crack in the curtains.

With that she realised that he was awake and that his bright blue eyes were regarding her from beneath dark arched brows and a pleasant smile graced his lips as he watched her, watching him.

'You should really plait that at night,' she said. Albus blinked. 'Your hair,' she explained, 'it's a mess.'

'Thank you,' wryly replied Albus. His voice had a roughness she had never heard before, and presumed it came from only just waking. She saw he was about to sit up, and leapt to his side in time to deftly slide his beard out from beneath him as he did so.

'I noticed, as you slept…' Minerva trailed off, she was perched on the edge of his bed. To stave off the awkward moment she spoke again. 'Albus, thank you for last night - thank you for everything you did.'

'It was nothing, Minerva, just returning the favour, you remember…?'

'Yes. Yes I do.'

There was a pause. Minerva clasped and then unclasped her hands. She was shoulder to shoulder with Albus, but she had never felt more unattractive, messy and sleepy eyed as she was.

'Well,' she said, feeling a great need to escape, as Albus shifted beside her to rest a hand briefly on her own. 'If you have a bathroom I could use?'

'Of course, turn to your left and it's the second door on the right.'

'Thank you,' said Minerva, and made good her escape.

.

Christmas Eve for Minerva that year was a very unhappy one. Much of her time was spent in doing last minutes details for the school, checking on her students, avoiding snowballs and an emotional twenty minutes spent speaking to her sister through the Floo network. The funeral was scheduled for Boxing Day, three days after they had received confirmation of Des' death; it was to be held at the Murray Hall, an elegant Elizabethan building, in view of the Scottish mountains he had so loved as a child. A small ceremony, with family members and respective partners, and in accordance to his wishes (all Aurors were rather morbidly required to make wills before going out onto active duty). His ashes were to be scattered by his Aunt Tabby from their favourite hideout, which she had revealed to Des when he was seven years old.

Albus kept popping around her office and quarters, for usually completely absurd reasons, just to check on her. She had to suppress the urge to fall into his arms, like some lily-livered damsel in distress, and cry into his scratchy auburn beard that she didn't want to do this alone.

She was plagued by thoughts and doubts in herself; she should have done more with him, should have stopped around more often, should have played more and worked less. So much she wished she had said and done with Des, so much she hadn't thought of, and so now she spent her every waking moment, pale but upright, busying herself to avoid thoughts - and dreaded the nights, where voices of the dead came alive again to blame her and fill her with guilt.

Elise Horner was sympathetic and agreed to keep an eye out for Minerva's Gryffindors on Boxing Day when she would be at the funeral. 'I'm terribly sorry, Minerva, is there anything I can do?' she had asked, to which Minerva had shaken her head but gratefully.

Gill Aldridge had been tearfully upset for Minerva who had accepted the emotional and sincere hug from the school nurse.

'Are you sure you want me to spend Christmas with you, Albus?' asked Minerva that Christmas Eve, as they drank hot chocolate and sampled some of the splendid mince pies baked by the House elves.

'Of course!' insisted Albus, around a mouth full of pastry and filling.

'I won't exactly be full of good cheer,' pointed out Minerva. Albus looked at her silently for a moment, as he finished off his mouthful, then he stood and crossed to her.

'What?' she asked him suspiciously, looking up, and up a bit more.

Albus Dumbledore did his best to look solemn, then before she could complain or make a sound his hands gripped her beneath the shoulders and lifted her up. For a moment his strength held her feet dangling above the floor. Minerva would have been sure magic was involved if she hadn't been able to see the muscles straining against the fabric of his robe sleeves. Then he wrapped his arms around her and encompassed her in a huge bear hug. He began to speak, his cheek against her hair.

'I know that your grief will make you sombre but I also know that Descartes Edward Murray-McGonagall would not have wanted you to forget how to smile, how to laugh on Christmas day. It's a day of love and joy, a day of giving. Minerva, if you let your sorrow colour tomorrow, then there is a chance that the memory of it will colour every Christmas day that you have yet to experience. Don't let that happen, please? It will not make your grief any less to remember the happier times that you and he spent together.'

'I know,' said Minerva, her voice slightly muffled by his robes. 'It's just so hard!'

'Then know that I will lend you my strength tomorrow, Minerva. When tears threaten, feel free to demand tissues and a willing shoulder; when despair looms seek the antidote in my arms, and if you just want to be held, or to be sat with, do not fear to ask me,' said Albus, emotion making his voice gruff.

'Oh, Albus,' weakly murmured Minerva, tears glistening in her eyes. 'That is the loveliest thing a man has ever said to me… I don't understand why you are doing this?'

'I've known you since you were a school girl, Minerva, and as an academic and a fellow Auror; but now that I have known you as a friend, I find myself more than unwilling to give you up. Will you accept my love?' he asked, the strength in his voice reverberating through his chest next to Minerva's ear.

'Your love…' repeated Minerva in shock. She lifted her head to look at him, and found herself unable to fully understand the depth of emotion that blazed with such conviction in his bright blue eyes.

'Not all men are bastards,' he whispered. Slowly he brought his hand up. Long scholarly fingers hesitantly stroked her cheek. Her eyes widened. 'I promise to always be your loyal friend.'

Minerva had never received so many mixed signals in five minutes. Her head and heart were spinning so fast she couldn't begin to make sense of them, and on top of her grief the result was confusion. What she did know was that she had never felt so warm and so very, very comfortable in a man's arms before now; she also knew that every touch from him sent shivers along her spine, turned her legs to jelly and rid her thought of all reason.

However she also thought she knew, or had known, that Albus had no interest in her 'that way'… at least, so she'd thought, and that he thought of her as little more than a colleague whom he'd had the pleasure of watching grow up.

'Albus, I don't... I…' She fought with the uncooperative linguistic faculty of her brain.

'I'm sorry Minerva; not really the appropriate time to throw that in, perhaps, but I thought if you knew that you had the love of a friend, it would help you in your grieving process.' Albus had withdrawn his hand from her cheek, its lack now seemed less without it.

'Platonic, of course,' he added, smiling benevolently.

You Bastard thought Minerva, suddenly; much to her own shock. It was without reason - her own mind was playing tricks on her; she was projecting her own desires and… no she wasn't going to go down that road. Some women did, blamed every disappointment and failure on themselves projecting unfair and unrealistic expectations on a man. Minerva was quite determined never to be so convenientfor any man.

'Of course,' she echoed, hollowly and withdrew herself from his embrace. 'You must know that you also have my love, for a friend you have been to me down the years. I really appreciate what you have done for me, Albus. Now I must go to bed - I shall see you in the morning. Good night!' She took a strict hold upon herself and kissed his cheek before departing with his good night and return kiss on the side. There was nothing like a woman scorned for bringing the blood back up to boil; all that sluggish dread that lazy grief had gone. The sharp pain she had, the headache, and the unsuppressed anger at the world were far healthier.

For an hour or so she thoroughly destroyed her quarters. It was a jolly good work out and a brilliant stress buster. Minerva felt much of her tension had gone with the screaming and smashing.

She had of course, removed things of value to her and cast many silencing charms, since right now she didn't need a trip to the more high security area of St Mungo's.

Back in his own rooms, Albus Dumbledore paced the floor, muttering to himself darkly. Every so often he would, unusually for him, curse violently before shaking his head regretfully and continuing to wear thin his carpet.

I should never, never have been so forward! What must she think of me? How crass, to be so… suggestive in this traumatic time for her! What was I thinking? Surely some madness must have taken me, to be so foolish, to be so… truthful?

No, I am not a bastard! I am her friend, her loyal companion, her… would I want to be… do I secretly lust after my own employee? By Merlin, I would know if I felt so! I love her, yes, but as I love Elise or Aberforth… don't I? How she must hate me now, how she must curse my name, how she must curse me… bastard! Does she think of me so, now, now that I have ruined… ruined what?

It was Fawkes, the loyal everlasting companion of Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore who at last bought peace to the troubled man. As he had often done before he provided that relief, that soothing song to ease the frantic thoughts of a man questioning the desires of his heart.

.

'...May the soul of Descartes Edward Murray-McGonagall rest in eternal peace...' the elderly man intoned, with a voice surprisingly deep and vibrant for such a frail body, Minerva tuned him out and let her eyes rest upon the magical picture of Des, perched against the flowers and the coffin being lowered, slowly, into the fire that would burn all his remains to grey featureless ashes, to be scattered in the wind at Old Oats. By her.

Her new black robes were uncomfortable, stiff and formal; the collar itched and the brocaded hems were heavy, her black witch's hat had a black feather in it; beneath her eyes lay black shadows and her pupils had filled her eyes to turn them seemingly black in the sombre shadows of Murray Hall.

As the coffin was swallowed by the hungry cavern of fire, heat burst inside Minerva, every inch of her skin flashed into fire, sweat sprung silver on her brow and a thousand matches ignited along a thousand different nerve endings; it was agony. Agony for her, yet her sister sat like an ice carved statue right beside her, eyes fixed on the wise man speaking, blinking at regular intervals, like a robot; was she feeling the same as Minerva?

No, of course not. Des had been her son, her child, and she was watching him being burned, burned; it would not have surprised Minerva if Cecelia had jumped up and attempted to rescue her son from the fire, because the urge existed inside herself. The fire within her coiled - then leapt; she was being scorched, burned, and she thought that she would have to break the silence of the sixty-two people inside the building, break it to scream out a wordless cry of pain, an inhuman shriek.

Then a hand was laid gently over her left hand, curled as it was around the edge of the wooden pier, cool and soothing. Minerva felt the fierce heat reside and turned her hand palm up. It was enfolded comfortingly by the larger hand of Albus Dumbledore.

Resting cool on her chest a phoenix pendant spread a delightful cool throughout her body - Albus' Christmas present, made of magesilver by his own hand. A queenly gift indeed, with the mysterious words, 'Order of the Phoenix' carved on the box it had been placed within. When she moved from exclaiming over its exquisite detail to asking about the meaning of the name she had been met with enigmatic answers and teasing replies; but she was so pleased with the thought that had obviously gone into his gift that she had let it pass.

The moment which she had been dreading came all too soon, and Winston Murray passed her the black urn which contained his son's earthly remains and asked her quietly to respect Descartes' wishes and scatter the ashes from Old Oats, a derelict old mill that had once been used to grind oats and had been party to many centuries of McGonagall children's' playing. The children had always thought it an ever so secret a place to hide from their authorial superiors, its remote location high up in the mountains had allowed imaginations to run wild and gloriously free from adult intervention. Needless to say, parents had always kept an eye on their offspring by way of a vigilans charm.

Looking after her sister, Minerva felt that perhaps she had the better side of the bargain. Cecelia and Winston would have to thank and accept the condolences of some sixty people; miserable in their own grief, they would have to make a conscious effort to be social and pleased to see people come to their son's funeral.

Albus walked beside her right shoulder as she walked down between the aisles of wooden benches holding next to her chest the black urn, she drew glances, tall and slim unaware of her ebony beauty, somehow defined by her grief, so much black against the white of her skin. She passed her sister at the door, who gave her a wan smile and they held each other close for a moment; a moment too brief, Minerva felt, to provide any comfort to her sister – if any possible comfort could be provided right now.

'Thank you for coming, Sir,' Cecelia said, turning to Albus. 'We appreciate the honour it brings to our Des' memory to have you here.'

'No greater honour than that which already existed with your boy. I met him once; he made me laugh,' said Albus, smiling that especially gentle smile he gave when the object of the smile was feeling fragile, emotionally unstable - yet managing to escape patronism because of his absolute sincerity.

'Will you be coming back to the house? We'll be having some finger foods and nibbles given out by the house elves,' Cecelia asked of Minerva, who was staring at Albus. He hadn't mentioned to her that he had met Des.

'Oh, of course, ah, Albus?'

'Yes, of course,' agreed Albus, helping an elderly lady down the front steps.

'Minerva, shall we go?'

'I should do it alone,' she said firmly, though her voice trembled.

'Perhaps if I stood a short distance away?'

Minerva looked at him, then nodded. She was thankful in truth for his company, - she was not relishing this duty that Des had imposed upon her.

The Scottish highlands are always windy. It took only moments for those grey ashes, mere shadows of the young man who had once lived here, breathed this air, to lift up, to be pulled away, thrust up high, twisted and spread wide. A sudden gust and those dark scraps were swept far away, indistinguishable from the breath-taking landscape lying out before her like a tablecloth laid out for show. And though she tried she could no longer see what had remained of him - he was gone, truly gone this time, never coming back home.

And so, finally, she wept. Standing alone by Old Oats, the wind whipping her robes around, clutching the cold cruel urn that spelt death, she cried; salty tears falling freely, dripping from her chin to be hurled carelessly forth by the wind.

Only she wasn't alone, not quite, for some distance away a man whose long auburn beard and hair showed quite clearly the direction of the wind was watching, and when she turned around and the urn dropped from suddenly loose fingers, he apparated to her side. Lifting her chin and seeing the tears still sliding down. And there were no words to make false comfort, just his own tears to shed with hers and his arms to make the pain seem somehow less.

.

It was when they were setting out the flowers and many cards of condolences that her sister asked her frankly, but with an air of definite interest: 'So... Since when have you and Albus Dumbledore been a couple?'

Minerva could almost believe things were back to normal; her sister had always been an incurable gossip and a busy body.

'Never!' she replied, laughing.

'Minerva,' said Cecelia, actually smiling. 'The man can't take his eyes off you, every move he makes is carefully designed to be near you, to benefit you, to help you. I've never seen a man more smitten, nor a woman.'

'Cecelia!' protested Minerva, now genuinely shocked. 'We're just friends! He's here to support me, it's very ki... what do you mean 'nor a woman'?'

Her sister gave her a very definite 'look' and smirked, not unlike how she used to when they were kids and she knew something that Minerva didn't.

'He's much older than me, Ceci,' pointed out Minerva quietly, not looking at her sister but pushing a fern into a vase already full to bursting.

'He's a powerful man, I can't see age affecting him the same as normal wizards, Min.'

'I-' began Minerva.

'If you love him – oh! Hello, Professor Dumbledore.' Cecelia coughed awkwardly.

'Hello. Did I hear some sisterly advice then?'

'You did,' confirmed Cecelia looking uneasily at a panicky-looking Minerva who was shoving another fern into the same vase.

'Ah, so you've heard about Sendar,' said Albus, wincing.

'Who?' asked Cecelia blankly.

'Oh I assumed... wrong apparently,' said Albus, surprised.

'Who is Sendar?' demanded Cecelia of her sister. 'I don't believe you, Minerva! You're in love with one man and seeing another!'

'Ceci!' Minerva groaned. 'Never mind her, Albus, she jumps to conclusions all the time.'

'Do I heck!' said Cecelia indignantly.

'Cecelia,' Minerva began - then couldn't think of anything to say. Her sister looked at her shrewdly. Her son's death had opened her eyes and made her older, wiser and sadder; she saw much more now.

'Make the most of the time you have,' said Cecelia sombrely.

'I'm hardly about to d-d...' Minerva stopped, realising what she had just been about to say.

'No,' said Cecelia, tranquilly. 'But then, I wasn't talking to you.'

.

That January of the New Year was a frosty month. Every morning the students and professors (as well as associated Ghosts, Elves, Poltergeists, Owls etc.) awoke to ice encrusted windows and crisp grass with spider webs stretched out everywhere looking as if they'd been showered in icing sugar. Scarves and hats were worn almost continually, but some people were still seen smoking (literally) from their ears, having been doused by Madame Aldridge, the school nurse, with Pepper-Up potion. The ghosts were to be heard to complain that it was so cold that if they didn't keep moving they froze solid, whilst the students used cold fingers as an excuse for no homework and Peeves had a little discussion with the Headmaster after throwing a solidified bucket of water over Professor Sendar and knocking the man out for several hours.

Minerva got caught standing one Sunday evening in early January, staring into space with one hand resting upon the heavy oak banister that carved down the marble steps into the foyer from the Great Hall, by Albus Dumbledore. When he too, had asked what Minerva was thinking about she had rather sheepishly admitted that there was nothing more deep or insightful going on in her head than a secret desire to slide down the banister, something she had never managed to do during her time here as a student. So, with much suppressed laughter and with Albus keeping an eye out for unwary professors or wondering students they had fulfilled her wish. She had hitched up her skirt, slid backwards down the banister, and been safely caught by Albus. Something for the two to share a smile about, and a memory to keep Minerva warm on the chilliest of days; for the unmerciful freeze continued on.

The severe temperatures existed both outside and inside the castle. It was extremely hard to heat such a large and rambling castle as Hogwarts, especially since some places didn't always exist, moved or altered shape. The Groundskeeper, Ogg and Hagrid, his apprentice, were run ragged, so at least they were warm.

Despite it all, Minerva was happy, really so; teaching had become a rewarding (occasionally frustrating) pastime and she was truly in her element when she lectured on transfiguration. She loved her home at Hogwarts and had made many dearly loved friends amongst the staff, most notably Albus, Gill Aldridge, Elise Horner and David Hawthorne. Her duties as Head of Gryffindor were not at all odious; there was a lot of paperwork, but as Minerva approved of paperwork as she approved of covering all the details and organising things properly this was not a dreaded task for her - unlike David, whose paperwork inevitably ended up being used to repot plants on or recycled in the compost. Which was all very well, as Dumbledore had commented at one staff meeting, to support the environment and help his venomous tarantaculas to grow big and strong; however it would, on occasion, be nice to have just some paperwork in from their Herbology professor.

Yes, on the whole, and even on the little bittie quarters and sixteenths, Minerva was happy. It seemed she had finally found her niche in society, the place where she belonged, and she was perfectly content to stay here for the rest of her working life - as she assured Albus one night over walnut cake and tea, and the timetable they were supposed to be working on.

They had already lined up a new Charms teacher; Filius Flitwick, a tiny man, whom Sendar had raised a question about his being able to control the students due to his tiny stature. However as Mr Flitwick had a 1.1 from Stonehenge, had worked in several countries, spent years in extensive research, was a jolly fellow and had been a Ravenclaw (Elise remembered him, and approved) it was decided to appoint him to the position that September. Dumbledore had also found a middle aged man to be the Magical Creatures Professor, not too different from the current irascible, bad tempered man which of course everyone was terribly happy about.

This particular evening, as Minerva munched on her walnut cake, a thought occurred and she spoke it aloud to Albus.

'How is it that you always know what's going on, who's done what and why?'

'I'm a Legilimens, Minerva. I should have thought you would already have guessed so.'

Minerva stared at him, blank horror expressed on her face. For a moment her mind dropped off a cliff and hurtled towards certain death.

'You didn't know.' Albus was astonished.

'Bloody hell,' said Minerva. Albus raised an eyebrow; generally he didn't approve of profanity but it was always amusing to see his usually proper Transfiguration professor swear. Even more amusing was to hear Elise, so very prim, swear when she did something she considered herself to be particularly dim-witted, or stub her toe.

'No, I... didn't.'

'I don't go around rifling through people's minds, Minerva,' Albus assured her, giving a crumb to Fawkes, who was perched on the arm of Minerva's chair.

'No, only when you want to know something,' said Minerva.

'Well, yes,' agreed Albus, chuckling lightly.

'You don't see that as an invasion of privacy?' asked Minerva, casually; but Albus Dumbledore wasn't known as brilliant for no reason, and yet he completely failed to notice anything wrong and answered honestly.

'Well no, I don't do it on a casual whim - well, not much, and they are none the wiser, even if they themselves are a legilimens. An advantage of being a great sorcerer, I suppose!'

For a moment Minerva sat still and took in what he had just said. When she felt that enough time had been left for him to add to it, or for her to find the hidden meaning, she left.

.

Five days later Albus Dumbledore caught up with Minerva in her classroom as she finished her teaching day by cleaning the black board, her room, normally full of seventh year Gryffindors, vacant at last.

'Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall,' he greeted her, shutting the door behind him as he entered.

'Good evening Headmaster,' said Minerva, continuing to clean her black board whilst industriously thinking think nothing at all, nothing nothing nothing is on my mind, absolutely nothing.

'I get the feeling you're avoiding me Minerva,' said Albus, coming to stand right behind her. She immediately whisked away and began closing windows, accidently dropping the black board cleaner out of one.

'Can I help you, Headmaster?' she asked, distinctly coolly, summoning back the cleaner with such vehemence that it shattered against her window sill. Her aim was terrible, but she was slightly distracted, think nothing, nothing, empty, white wall, blank.

'Minerva!' tut-tutted Albus. 'What is wrong?'

'Absolutely nothing!' snapped Minerva, her eyes prickling, much to her horror; where was that righteous anger that had filled her a moment ago... was he messing with her head again?

'Minerva, for the last five days I've been lucky to catch you at the dinner table. You sit so far away from me at staff meetings that you might as well not be there. And if I bump into you in the corridor you suddenly have an urgent reason to be elsewhere. Why are you avoiding me?' he demanded.

Minerva looked at him. He didn't know. How could he if she hadn't told him? But she didn't want to tell him; to tell him that the idea of him peering into her mind unnerved her. That there were things in her mind that he might have seen that mortified her to think he may have seen them, have known them. It was not just the possible invasion of privacy, it was the terror, the shame and the fear that he might have seen how she... how she... And that he might have laughed at it, or ridiculed her, or even worse, been flattered, as if she was a little girl with a crush.

'I'm not a little girl,' she said aloud.

'That much I am aware of,' said Albus. He attempted to perch on her desk, but his legs were so long it was really more of a leaning job.

'I'm sorry?' asked Minerva vaguely, not really aware that she had spoken aloud.

'I'm aware, Minerva, that you are a woman.' It was funny really; that by actually saying it, he believed it; it came into being as truth. And this time when he looked at her, he saw her; the curves not quite hidden by those voluminous robes, the shine of her soft hair pulled back into a tight bun. The pointed chin and thin nose, those bright eyes and high brow. That slender graceful neck, elegant pose and her inner poise. All of it making one remarkable woman.

It had only been five days of being ignored, but already he had missed her. Had needed her, had wanted her. He questioned his reasons for being here, now; for standing before her, and not telling her how beautiful she was. How breath-taking, how stunning. How in all your ninety two years you have never been in the presence of something so awing that your very heart leapt into your mouth, your blood ceased to pump around your body, your soul froze in an agony of ecstasy, and that every moment with her was to be seized, like light to the dying, a cure to the old, like love to any one, everyone, but most especially to him.

'I believe I might have noted it down on my application form,' said Minerva dryly.

'That is not quite how I meant it,' said Albus, his eyes fixed on hers. He pushed away from the desk and toward her.

'Then-' said Minerva, her brow creased. Albus stepped up to her; his blue gaze had not once wavered, he had not blinked yet.

She stepped back suddenly, remembering the reason she wasn't happy with him. 'Albus, I hate the idea that you read people's minds whenever you please. I hate the idea that you might be reading mine!' Minerva admitted, desperate to make that intense gaze waver just a little, so that she might remember how to breathe again.

'Minerva, I'm sorry. I do not go around reading people's minds willy-nilly, and I must apologise for giving you that impression. Indeed, I have only ever had impressions from your mind. I get the feeling it would be too tough a nut for me to crack!' He smiled, but his eyes asked for her forgiveness, searchingly gazing into her own.

Then something seemed to occur to him, and he paused. 'Why would you think I'm reading yours now?' he asked, both eyebrows raised creating lines upon lines on his forehead. 'What is in your mind, Minerva that would make you think that what I'm doing and saying now is what you want?'

'What I'm thinking, not what I want,' said Minerva sharply. Then as she caught some tiny nuance in his movement she added, faintly, 'Necessarily.'

'Then,' said Albus. 'Might I be allowed to make some assumptions?'

'Based on what?' asked Minerva.

'That I've been right so far.'

'So far in what?' she asked. Then hushed dramatically as he stepped so close as to be mere inches apart, and she found she really couldn't breathe.

'How do you feel, Minerva?' he asked, and she had to tilt her head just a little bit, to look at him and reply. Her chin brushed his beard, wiry but wonderfully soft; she could smell the soap he used and that smell, that wonderful smell that all men have, only in this case it was the best she had ever smelt.

'I feel... breathless,' she said, truthfully and gave a shaky laugh.

'Do you need some air?' he asked.

'I'd rather have this,' she said, and his eyes burned into her with an intensity that set off fireworks in her stomach and sizzled in her eyes for him to see.

'I rather admire muggles,' said Albus, rather bizarrely. Minerva couldn't help a small ironic shake of her head. 'They have practices for such situations, safe, standard, lifesaving procedures.'

'Such situations... this situation?'

'Yes.'

'Oh, right... Really?'

'Yes,' murmured Albus. 'It's called the Kiss of Life.'

Had he just said what Minerva thought he had said?

'That doesn't sound very technical,' she pointed out.

'Oh it exists, trust me,' beamed Albus.

'I do,' said Minerva and the soft smile she gave him went straight to his heart and melted down those old cynical walls.

'It ah, it...,' Albus swallowed. He was standing so close to this woman, but not touching her, and his whole being was yearning towards her. 'Why would I make up something like that, eh?'

'You tell me,' returned Minerva, a slightly teasing smile curving those soft lips.

'Minerva,' whispered Albus, seriously, almost sadly. 'I think... I've fallen -'

'Professor McGonagall! Peeves is throwing dungbombs in the common room!' The shout came from outside the room. 'Professor!'

'Duty calls,' said Minerva.

'Yes,' agreed Albus, stepping away from her, his face closing up again into that mask of ambivalence that was so pleasant, yet never so dear to Minerva as what she had just glimpsed.

'Wait,' she stopped him. 'What were you going to say?'

'Hmm? Oh nothing, my dear, nothing,' he assured her. They stood for a moment, in that classroom, still; then when no words spilt out from either of them and the pupil's voice became louder they flowed into movement - movement to get away, to get out.

Later, in a stink free common room, ensuring her charges were asleep and all present and accounted for, Minerva had this strange inexplicable sense of loss; as if the dice had rolled, chance had played and fate had destroyed, something, something that she might have had... yet hadn't quite managed...

Not yet...
.