The next chapter, delivered as promised! Read and enjoy!

Inspection

'Knock knock?' Albus Dumbledore poked his head inside the modest tent he knew to be Professor McGonagall's. He'd come to find her after Madame Lebeau had stolen him away, supplying him with information about ministry involvement forms, the International Magical Cooperation Office, salaries for the workers, etc.: all things that Albus filed away in his head until such a time that he actually cared. The only detail he had paid attention to was the sheaf of parchment he came across entitled Report of an Injury or Dangerous Occurrence. He'd scanned it quickly and made a mental note to ask Minerva later if she'd filled one out. He cast a quick Geminio on it and tucked the copy into his robes, just in case.

'Here, Albus,' Minerva said, walking briskly towards him. She was holding herself slightly differently, he noted, not in such a way that anyone would notice, but enough that he could tell she was in pain. She paused at a table to look at something, so Albus took the opportunity to scan the room for her prescription. He found it on a low sofa to his right, and took a few casual steps in that direction to read it.

'Minerva?' he asked, as though he'd been standing there immobile, waiting for her the whole time. She glanced up from the paper she'd been reading with an apologetic look.

'Oh, I'm sorry, Albus, forgive me. These forms are a nuisance.' Dumbledore strode to her side to find, not the required injury forms he'd hoped for, but Hogwarts' papers for payment during a leave of absence. He'd been forced to fill them out himself, but that wasn't what he'd hoped Minerva would be doing.

'They can wait, my dear. We have a few things to take care of first,' Dumbledore said gently. Minerva raised her eyebrows as Dumbledore reached within his robes. 'Have you filled these out yet?' he asked, offering her the injury reports he'd copied earlier. Minerva frowned as she took them.

'No,' she muttered. 'I completely forgot about them.' Forgetfulness was not something Minerva was usually in the habit of readily admitting to, but Dumbledore thought it understandable, given the circumstances. One of his greatest gifts (in his not-so-humble opinion) was his empathy, his compassion, and, acutely aware of what Minerva must be feeling, he ached for her. She had not imparted any details of her injury to him other than that it had been a landslide, down the side of a mountain, but he could see clearly enough that it had been terrifying.

'Well then,' Albus said with a smile, 'why don't you fill those out while I tend to your back? You look as though you could use a bit of pain relief.' Minerva frowned again, not looking at all enthusiastic.

'It's to heal my back, Albus, not to alleviate discomfort, which I should be able to handle anyway,' she informed him, moving away from him to search for a quill. He smiled and followed her.

'Ah, but there's a numbing potion mixed in with the healing one that will help, I do believe,' he told her cheerfully. Minerva found a quill and began to hunt for a bottle of ink. It was a sign of how little she wanted to fill out the forms that she did not simply summon one and save herself the trouble.

'I'm not going to ask how you knew that,' she said huffily, finally locating a small bottle of black ink and holding it as though she expected it to explode at any moment. Dumbledore smiled mysteriously and patted her shoulder, saying nothing. Minerva shot him a look and sighed, long-suffering.

'Come, have a seat,' Dumbledore said cheerfully, leading Minerva over to a chair. He positioned the chair so that it was sideways against the table, the better to access her back, and settled his deputy into it. He lay the forms, quill, and ink on the table in front of her, summoned the bottle of lotion, and paused.

'Go on, then,' Minerva said curtly, reaching a hand to the back of her neck to ensure her hair was out of the way. She seemed stiff; uncomfortable; wooden; and Albus knew that he couldn't treat her this way. He wanted this to be special, as much as was possible.

Gently placing the bottle on the table, Dumbledore took Minerva's hand where it still played with loose strands of hair at the nape of her neck, bent, and kissed it softly, once on the back, once on the palm, and once, very lightly, on the inside of her wrist. He released her hand delicately, where fell down to rest in her lap, then bent again and kissed the nape of her neck.

Minerva, who had been silent the whole time, gasped at the gentle touch. Dumbledore kissed the nape of her neck again, then moved his lips to place where her neck met her shoulder, his hands gently massaging her shoulders. He leaned forward and kissed Minerva's cheek as he drew his wand, and used a quick, quiet spell to create a slit in the back of her robes, and then replaced his wand. He slowly slid his hands under the slit he'd made, pushing her robes towards her front, but leaving her arms in them so she could cover her chest. When her back had been exposed, Dumbledore picked up the bottle of lotion, slowly pouring some into his hand, giving Minerva time to tell him to stop if she wanted to. However, she was silent but for her steady breathing, so he smoothed the potion between his two hands and began to rub it into her back.

Albus saw from the lift of her cheek that she was smiling, and smiled in response as he continued to touch her back. It felt very, very good. Minerva had a lovely back: slender, but kept fit and strong by her Animagus form, marked here and there by small scars she'd earned from past duels, and one long, thin white one that marred the outside of her right shoulder blade. And, of course, the dark discolouration of the bruising that began at the left of her waist and climbed its way up to her opposite shoulder. Finnegan O'Reagan had mentioned something about a tree that had fallen during the landslide, but he'd been so horrified at the time that Albus had had difficultly getting details. It didn't matter, he thought, how it had happened, as long as Minerva was safe now.

He thought she might have fallen asleep when, half an hour later, she did not stir as he straightened, put the stopper in the bottle, and cleaned his hands. But when he drew his wand and repaired the slit he'd made in her robes, she straightened and stretched, standing and turning to Albus almost shyly.

'Thank you,' she said. 'I do appreciate it.' She cleared her throat, straightened, and looked around. 'I never got those forms filled out, though.' Albus beamed and pecked her cheek, replacing the chair in its original position.

'Not at all, Minerva,' he said gallantly. 'Shall I stop by tomorrow, as well?' He truly did mean it as a question, to give her the opportunity to decline if she wished. But she smiled, and nodded, and he left feeling satisfied.

It was only as he prepared for bed that Albus thought to wonder at their relationship. He'd never had anything quite like it, nothing like this casual-yet-serious liaison between them. It was confusing, of course, in that he didn't want to change a thing between them, but that he also wanted everything to change. He'd been content with what they had thus far, but he supposed that most women wanted something solid eventually, something to label and point and say 'This is mine, this is what we are', but with Minerva it was hard to tell.

And Minerva was hardly a young woman: she looked marvellous for her seventy-odd years, even given the fact that most witches could live well into their hundreds, but she wasn't a twenty-five year old witch, either. If she'd wanted marriage and children, she would have had them already, wouldn't she?

He'd asked her about it, once, just a gentle inquiry as to why she hadn't married. She'd pinned him to his seat with a look and answered, in her usual wry fashion, that not all witches wanted marriage. She had children, hundreds of them, and they were hers for ten months a year, for seven years. It wasn't the same as having your own children, of course, but she'd never given any indication that she wanted them.

So what did Minerva want? That, Albus thought, was what it came right down to. Not glory, certainly not, she was far too selfless and reserved for that. Not power, nor fame, and apparently he'd ruled out anything that went with domestic life. Was she really fulfilled with teaching and research? Would it be rude to ask what she wanted? Did it bother her that they couldn't categorize their relationship?

But it bothered him that he couldn'tput a name to what they were. More than friends, given the subtle physical side of things, but they weren't lovers, not in the technical sense. He'd never given a thought to developing an intimate relationship with someone after that horrific incident with Gellert during his youth, though his faith in love had grown, if possible, even stronger. He'd been attracted to the occasional man or woman over the years, but never had he spared even a thought for pursuing any of those feelings, which were always fleeting at best.

It wasn't who you were attracted to, Albus thought. When it came right down to it, it was who you fell in love with.

It was the middle of the night when Minerva awoke, heart racing and eyes darting. Bed, table, chair. She needed to sleep.

Pain.

She needed to SLEEP. Blanket, slippers, pillow. She was so tired.

Running.

Earth shaking.

No, sleep, fall asleep, she was tired, she had to sleep. Roll over. Tent, lamp, shoes.

Feet slipping.

Trees falling.

Rocks –

No! Sleep, sleep, blanket bed pillow table –

Running falling slipping –

BLANKETBEDPILLOWTABLE!

ROCKS CRASHING –

Minerva was out of bed and on her feet within two seconds; another three and she was in her small kitchen, complete with dressing gown and slippers. She paced back and forth, trying to calm her heart, because that was all she could hear, the blood pounding in her ears. She lit a lamp and sat at the table, taking a deep breath and releasing it in a sigh.

They all had nightmares. Every once in a while the faces of the dead came back to haunt you, even after the reason for their deaths was dead. Even after their killer had been killed, their white, bloodied faces floated in everyone's dreams. Maybe it was a legacy of living through three wars; maybe there was something about her that called their bodies to the forefront of her mind, but whatever it was she'd accepted it and learned to deal with it long ago. A mug of tea, strong and bitter, a warm fire, sometimes a ready ear – fine, she could handle it.

And she'd dreamt of her death – hadn't everyone? Dying in the face of Grindelwald, of Voldemort, sometimes of her late mother-in-law, but always with dignity and courage. But this dream had been more – real. Flashes of the landslide, of massive stones smashing their way towards her with impossible speed, of roaring giants and falling trees – God, what was wrong with her?

Get over it, Minerva, she told herself firmly. You're absolutely fine, barely even injured. And, she added in her thoughts with a suppressed smile, you've got an attractive wizard tending to you. Yes.

Resigned to getting no more sleep that night, Minerva brightened the light in the room and summoned the injury report papers, along with a quill and bottle of ink. May as well get something useful done while she was awake.

TBC

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