A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay! I've never had a harder chapter to write. I meant to have this done in time for Christmas, but hated what I'd done so much that I rewrote. It is somewhat startling to realise, three quarters of the way through a romance-angst story, that one cannot write romance. I had a very strange idea and ran with it (on which any thoughts would be appreciated), but the whole chapter really took a direction which surprised me. Apologies in advance!
The fog descended on Thursday, swathing the grounds from view, so that Hogwarts seemed to hang in a white vacuum. The dawn came late, and when it did, both the North Tower and the head teacher's tower were lost in a strange, thin brightness, and sounds were oddly smothered. A descendant of Fang barked, and then whined as the noise failed to penetrate the gamekeeper's hut.
Rolanda knew about the fog before she looked out and saw it; the increased chill bit to the bone and woke her early. The air was damp, and her first thought was that the broomsticks in the shed would be sodden. Another time, she would have hurried down, servicing kit in hand, but her limbs felt numbed. Mechanically, she forced herself up across the room to the window, and placed her hand against the sopping glass. The fog swirled like the contents of a Pensieve.
Minerva.
Smiling, laughing, talking, joking. Eyes dancing. Immune to the sleet, or the frosty atmosphere in the staff room… Slughorn and Pomona snapping at each other. Sybil predicting doom so vehemently that even Filius began to get irritated. Professor Brady talking morbidly of resigning. Poppy and her 'seasonal affective disorder.' And there was hardly a glimpse to be had of Martha Read, these days. But Minerva was cheerful, light-hearted - everything she had wanted her to be, for so long…
The bones creaked in her freezing hand, and she withdrew it from the window. She stayed there, though, Rolanda Hooch, Minerva McGonagall's best friend…
The temperature was appalling, yet Minerva did not seem to feel it. She wondered if Aberforth felt it - whether he was lying beneath a ragged blanket, still without a wand, unable to warm himself. Had he burnt the dress robes, in the end? Thinking of robes made her remember his undershirt, reddening with blood - and his white face looking back at her, despairing-
Minerva.
Why?
The fog was inscrutable.
She summoned a house-elf for breakfast, and got dressed hurriedly, trying not to expose herself to the cold for longer than was strictly necessary. She started towards the door, but stopped, feeling ill at the idea of breakfast in the Great Hall. Minerva would be beaming, acting as the carrier of every conversation… And Pomona would be watching her narrowly, and Slughorn would have a mask instead of a face, an artificial geniality-
Rolanda Hooch, cheerful, brimming with enthusiasm, and Minerva McGonagall's best friend…Perhaps there was something to be said for Poppy's 'seasonal affective disorder.'
The sound of a knock at her office door flooded her with relief.
"Come in!"
Poppy burst in like a tornado, eyes blazing, waving an open magazine in the air. A vessel throbbed in her temple and her face was blotched with anger. Rolanda opened her mouth in welcome, and closed it again. The Healer thrust the magazine at her.
"Read it."
The headline was a wanton scarlet that left everything else in the room bleached of colour. It hit her like a slap in the face.
Scandal Scoop: Head of Heartbreak.
The photo, lurid and obscene, had her sinking into the nearest chair. A weeping Minerva shuddered and choked as Aberforth stumbled backwards, eyes large and hurt, seeming to personally accuse her. Underneath, a pink caption read: September this year: The Headmistress breaks a heart. Two other photos transfixed her, cruelly juxtaposed - Minerva, smiling at the Halloween Feast, (One month later: Without a care) and below, a red-eyed Aberforth, slumped on the ground and putting a Firewhisky to his drooping mouth (Despairing: the jilted lover). A lump clogged her throat. For a moment, she forgot the article, and felt the weary, haggard face being branded into her. A bolt of fury shot through her; who had dared stand and take a picture…?
Poppy's pacing was like an itch. She struggled to focus.
Witch Weekly's Scandal Scoop: Head of Heartbreak
September saw apparent heartbreak for Hogwarts Headmistress, the aging Minerva McGonagall. Yet only a month later, smiles can be seen. Love not lost? Witch Weekly investigates…
Subscribers may remember the drama of this September, when Minerva McGonagall treated staff, students and outsiders alike to a spectacular ball, which ended with the public refusal of a proposal from a lover. Aberforth Dumbledore, aged 170, was humiliatingly rejected in front of the entire school, sparking criticism that the line between professional and private life was shockingly blurred. Students and faculty expressed both horror and sympathy.
"It was really horrible," said Third Year Emily Smith. "I felt really awful for her."
Yet did Professor McGonagall deserve such understanding? Over the last fortnight, there has been a marked contrast to the events of September. A source who did not wish to be named commented:
"She has been laughing and smiling as if it had never happened. Her lover's roses were ignominiously discarded. I know for a fact that Aberforth is still suffering, but she couldn't seem to care less."
Whilst observers at the school spoke movingly of the Headmistress's apparent reaction to the unsuccessful proposal, and how she failed to attend meals, questions remain. In the words of one bewildered Fifth Year:
"If she was going to refuse him, why make the ball so public?"
Another unnamed source identified War veteran Alastor Moody as being displeased over Mr Dumbledore's condition and treatment. Whilst Witch Weekly was unable to arrange an interview with the respected Ex-Auror, regulars to the Hog's Head were to be heard complaining that the pub has been closed since that fateful night. Rumours that Mr Dumbledore attempted suicide following his rejection have been abound, but are as yet unconfirmed. Groundskeeper Rubeus Hagrid spoke to Witch Weekly:
"Err well he's gone downhill. Been drinking a lot. He wouldn't see me when I called."
Yet can the Headmistress really be so cold-hearted as to leave her lover in despair? Eleanor Reeves, close friend and confidante of Professor McGonagall, was defensive:
"I would ask outsiders not to be judgemental when the matter is more complicated than it seems. Minerva is entitled to her privacy, and no one is entitled to comment on her personal life unless she asks for it. I have nothing else to say, other than that both Minerva and Aberforth were deeply in love, and that what happened was a tragedy for both parties."
However, Divination Professor Sybil Trelawney, descendant of the legendary Seer Cassandra, granted Witch Weekly an hour long interview which appears to suggest a degree of disrespect and carelessness unexpected in so public a figure as the Hogwarts Headmistress. Professor Trelawney, 'single and looking,' described Professor McGonagall's long-term abusive behaviour towards colleagues.
"For years, she would not deign to speak to one of us properly. She shut herself up and once she would not attend a birthday party organised for her by staff. I recall that Flying lessons were delayed one year because she would not stoop to renew the lease on the brooms. When on urgent school business, I was blatantly shunted aside in preference of her lover, whom she encouraged to insult us."
As for Aberforth?
"He was obviously sincerely in love with her - of course, I can't understand it. She has never been very attractive. She has been quite callous over the whole affair. There was never any explanation given. What's more, she has obviously set her sights on new horizons; only a month after she discarded Aberforth she has been receiving mysterious gifts of forget-me-nots."
Cold and rude to staff, forgetful of her students - but can Minerva McGonagall's cruelty extend to romance? Witch Weekly leaves the readers to decide.
"Sybil! Sybil Trelawney!" shouted Poppy, seemingly unable to restrain herself. "'Single and looking!' By Merlin, I'm hoping this is a firing offence!"
Rolanda said nothing. Photographic blue eyes stared painfully.
"'Sparking criticism…' This is the first I've heard of it! 'Professor McGonagall's long-term abusive behaviour towards colleagues…' What rubbish!"
The pictured Minerva beamed. There was never any explanation given…
"And you know what I heard Sybil say at breakfast? That Minerva's behaviour was 'obscene!'"
Rolanda Hooch…
"You've heard the rest of them as well, over the last few days! Slughorn and his grave little speeches - 'the need for modesty in one's affairs.' And Pomona and her blasted subscription! When they saw this, they all scuttled round!"
…Minerva McGonagall's…
"Honestly, Rolanda! You would have thought that Minerva didn't deserve to be happy at all! They all spend years and years complaining about how depressed she is, and then the moment she perks up, then goodness, isn't it 'obscene!'"
…Best friend…
She heard Poppy's pacing stop, heard her own silence.
"Rolanda?"
The fog had taken her over, and she felt was beginning to sense something behind it - something bitter, which needed to be hid-
"Don't tell me you agree with anything said in that article."
The Healer's voice cracked like a whip. Silence, yet it was as if something had been said. She didn't look up, even when she heard the other witch sit down suddenly.
"Minerva would never… Surely you don't believe Sybil over Minerva?"
"No. Of course not." Her own voice sounded curt. One finger traced Aberforth's face, and the words poured out of her, even as another fogless Rolanda clapped invisible hands over her mouth. "Forget-me-nots. I've noticed that… and it's true - so strange… how happy she suddenly seems-"
"Rolanda-"
An imaginary wizard desperately downed an absinthe. "What will Aberforth think when he reads this?"
"Minerva-"
"What do I think?"
She heard a sharp intake of breath. The room fizzed with anger.
"I don't know," said Poppy shortly. "I no longer know what you think. I thought we were both Minerva's friends, and I thought that as we both have more than half a brain, we would know that nothing the Witch Weekly prints-"
Rolanda's cheeks burned. She flung the magazine aside and looked into Poppy's furious face, just as the sickness inside her reached a crescendo-
"It's nothing to do with the article! I'm not blind! I see what I see! I know what I know! I see Aberforth… like he is, and realise that I don't know why! I see Minerva acting as though it's her birthday every day, and see those forget-me-nots, and think that what she told us about it all being about Albus is a lie!"
Her jaw clamped shut. The words seemed to freeze in mid-air. Poppy's wide eyes flung a memory at her, of three girls swearing a solemn vow of friendship - three girls washed away as the brown depths flooded-
"You don't believe that."
"I wish I didn't. Aberforth-"
"Has he been saying things about her?"
Another flash of anger. "No. He would never-"
"If Aberforth is suffering, it's not Minerva's fault! Who can find fault with someone else's emotions?"
She felt at a loss for words. She wanted to stand up and thrust the photo of Aberforth in Poppy's face, and say something about how no one cared about Aberforth, about how Minerva's explanation was no explanation, about how the pictures only spelt out what was undeniable; that Minerva was blooming with life whilst the old wizard dragged himself to death…
His cheek had felt rough and cold. Wild was the word - like the heath where the goats wandered. She didn't know why she'd kissed him, really. But she'd loved the heath.
Poppy was crimson with anger, and she felt the guilt bite. Poppy was everything a friend should be, blindly defensive - and in spite of Mad-Eye's views-
"I don't believe you."
She flinched. "You've got to admit-"
"No! I don't! And neither should you! Have you forgotten the last twenty years? Have you forgotten everything?"
Rolanda grit her teeth. "I just don't understand why she's suddenly different. And neither do you," she shot at Poppy. "She hasn't told you either. And those forget-me-nots - you've seen that crystal one on her desk - it really does seem as if September never happened, and someone else is now-"
She cut herself off. Poppy's face was ashen.
"I'm sure Mad-Eye agrees with me."
"Don't drag him into it!"
There was a pause. The Healer rose abruptly, and snatched up the magazine.
"Madam Hooch."
The air crystallised.
"Good day."
She wanted to shout something at Poppy's retreating back, but her throat was blocked. Madam Hooch watched, incapable of moving, as Rolanda, Minerva McGonagall's best friend, climbed out of the window and leapt, away into the fog.
After the funeral, Aberforth found him sitting on one of their old swings, cradling Fawkes in his lap, something inside him throbbing like an old wound. The drizzle was hitting his glasses, blocking out the ground with spots. He sensed Aberforth halt, and remain standing. The swing creaked, and the seat beside him gaped. Their father's blue eyes stared at him.
He expected Aberforth to say something, but the silence stretched. The muted sound of a child laughing came between them, and stretched it further. Had his brother ever laughed like that?
"The manor," he said flatly, looking up.
The younger version of Ulfin Dumbledore glared at him. The same lank brown hair framed the same angular face. The same furious blue eyes he possessed disdained him in the same way. You died still disappointed in me.
"Yes."
It was as if Aberforth was answering the thought, and not what he had said. He sat up.
"It's yours. Aurors have no need of a permanent home."
The last sentence was superfluous; Dumbledore Manor had always been Aberforth's right from the start. Its heavy Victorian face was made to fit him - or was it the other way around? His brother was a Victorian, or everything a Victorian wizard should be, and he had never been a Victorian. No, he had been a round peg his parents and teachers had endlessly forced into a square hole. Indeed, they would not have thought of themselves as Victorian; the idea of them recognising a Muggle royalty was absurd. Hogwarts had been a long succession of scowling, disapproving faces, all lambasting him for doing something as miniscule as wearing a Muggle top hat. Somewhere, in the old records, even four years after Hogwarts, there would be neat handwriting recording his misdemeanours:
Albus Dumbledore, 13; 2 hours; improper behaviour.
Albus Dumbledore, 15; 3 hours; pertness and disobedience.
Albus Dumbledore, 16; 3 ½ hours; lack of seemly decorum.
He could definitely recall that one. Even at the time, the question had to be asked:
"'Lack of seemly decorum?' Does that even have a meaning?"
A smile ghosted his face. Aberforth twitched; he felt his fury fly through the air.
"You have it."
"But it is yours."
"Will you not stand up and speak properly? Stop crouching on that swing like a child."
He had the bizarre urge to say that he was a child, a child who had just lost a father who had never loved him. Instead, he stood, transferring Fawkes to his shoulder. Weariness kept his head bowed. In spite of what Aberforth had said, there was no speech.
"You have the manor."
Submissively, he nodded, the argument drained out of him. He watched as his brother, the younger Ulfin, summoned a thestral coach and sped away. He watched without understanding; Dumbledore Manor was Ulfin, the proud pureblood aristocracy, and all that Aberforth had aspired to… But the lank brown hair was gone for five years, and his father was of a dying breed.
Later on, sitting in the cavernous living room, he understood the cruelty.
Walking up the drive, avoiding the ancient ruts left by the carriages, and looking at and not seeing the ruined statues, but rather their remembered images, he again felt that sense of trespass, of wrongful invasion. Aberforth had inherited the manor after his death, and the notion that he was adding insult to injury by using his brother's house as a wooing venue would not leave him alone. That, and the memories, were the greatest challenges.
Transport, armed with Fawkes, was simple enough, and it had been a matter of ease to walk straight past the Herbology greenhouses and leave Eric confusedly looking for Brian in the Charms classrooms. The idea of Dumbledore Manor had come to him in Potions, blocking out Slughorn's babble. At the time, it had seemed a supreme stroke of inspiration, even when considering how dilapidated it was, and it had spelt an end to the sleepless nights spent struggling to think of a location. The mere fact of identity made a simple outing impossible; dead wizards did not gallivant around London any more than they strolled down to Hogsmeade. Aberforth had taken Minerva to Paris, but posthumous fame prevented any such thing. Dumbledore Manor, as ill-suited as it was to his peace of mind, being isolated and forgotten, was a splendid solution.
He reached the main doors, and eased them open. The hall was vast and cold, hung with decaying tapestries and cobwebs. A wave of a wand restored everything to its former brilliance, and he stopped, pondering as to his choice of rooms. Not any of Father's. Like the boy his mind inhabited, he followed the scent of his mother.
Memory guided him first to the room which had been specifically Maria's, not Ulfin's - the library, now bereft of bookcases or furniture. The chill made him draw his cloak more tightly around himself. He cast a heating spell, and then lit the candles leading from the main doors to the chosen room. After transfiguring the moth-eaten rug into a mirror, he glanced at Brian's watch.
Four o'clock, and five o'clock was the time. He dropped to his knees, held his wand like a pen, and let his mind wander.
Minerva.
His lips burned with the memory. Brian's bent body tingled with remembered movement. He tried to focus on the sigils and circles, but nerves made him careless. He was a child again, in a Victorian house.
Albus looked up into the mirror and blushed faintly.
However ridiculous it was, the age had not left him unmarked. Archaic traditions still held sway. In those days, one could only officially express interest if a lady deliberately dropped her handkerchief in one's path, and even then, holding hands in public was enough to raise eyebrows. Romance was a deeply hesitant, awkward affair. One had to behave with propriety. One had to conduct oneself with due modesty. One most certainly never went so far as to straddle a lady in the first days of courtship.
Straddle was not a Victorian word. Straddling was something working rural folk did with horses.
Such pompous perceptions could certainly be dispensed with, but there remained the worrying idea that Minerva thought him forward, or even rude. Of course, she had not seemed to object. Frowning, he withdrew a vial from his pocket, and then eyed the reflected blush thoughtfully. Fawkes crooned the answer in the background.
"Yes, that's the problem…"
He ran a finger along the proud crest. Had he spent so long pretending the introvert that he had forgotten that he was one? Did the urge to slow down arise from the age he had grown up in, a loving desire to spin out the ecstasy, or from simple shyness?
The Headmaster of another lifetime had been desperately lonely. He had been enclosed in a tower, metaphorically as well as physically; immured in stone which melted whenever a hand dared warm it-
"He accused me of being 'Dumbledore's man through and through.'"
"How very rude of him."
"I told him I was."
Poor Harry! What boy expected their professor to come close to tears at such a statement? He could still remember the tousled black head bent embarrassedly towards a pair of knobbly knees.
"I am very touched, Harry."
He could not imagine anything clumsier, or more insincere-sounding. He had never known what to do or say whenever trust was expressed towards him. There had never been any greater enigma than Hagrid's adoring face, or Harry's steady emerald eyes, or the way Severus had prostrated-
His stomach clenched. Severus, please. The thought was shoved away; now was not the time to be unhappy, for what was trust next to love?
"I love you."
A delicious shiver swept down him. Intensity made the boy in the mirror stiffen, first with emotion, and then with doubt. The room around seemed laughable in its emptiness, and the ability to fill it with his love felt beyond reach. The blank walls and bare floorboards were inscrutable - and they were not worth Minerva - nor was the entire manor; not even the grandest house was fit-
Swallowing, he tapped the mirror and drew his wand in a circle. The mirror followed, expanding to fill the walls, so that the reflection of Brian multiplied itself. Lost in my image. Anticipation scorched him; he flung off his robes gleefully and drained the vial in one gulp.
Come into the crystal cave.
Five o'clock.
On the reverse side of the parchment there was a small ink drawing of what looked like Merlin, asleep in a cave, with the Lady Vivien standing over him.
Minerva McGonagall set the note down and finished weaving gold thread into her hair, shaking her head at the enigma that was Albus Dumbledore. He was like a child, she thought. So secretive, and apparently wanting to turn even their first official date into a riddle! She pulled a face of mock-severity, and then let her lips curve upwards. The lightness of self she felt was such that there was no longer any need for a stick. A different woman looked out at her from the mirror, eyes half-lidded and sparkling, and lines so relaxed as to be non-existent. The sight made her chuckle; Merlin knew what the staff thought about the change! Perhaps some of them disapproved.
She had given in to the desire to wear red. Red, after all, was the colour of passion. Walking around the castle in it gave her the pleasant notion that she was giving out a visual message decipherable only by one person. Several times she had been unable to resist aiming a wink over at the Gryffindor table, and there had been one dangerous moment when Brian Potter and the Headmistress happened to be going down the same corridor in opposite directions. The delight of it all had seemingly transferred itself to Poppy, who had stunned all present in the Hospital Wing by declaring that Minerva McGonagall was in perfect health.
Another desire was also suddenly unsuppressed. She had walked into the Great Hall minus the usual bun, making even the effusive Slughorn speechless, and spurring Poppy to greater heights of amazement:
"I never thought I'd see the day when I wouldn't have to tell you to let your hair down!"
"Neither did I," she confided to the mirror.
When the phoenix appeared, she grabbed his tail, and imagined the feathers to be a beard.
The first thing she saw was a pair of vast wooden doors, stern and imposing, and completely unlike Albus. The second thing was a line of narrow, watchful windows, set into a manor, the heights of which were shrouded in darkness. The gable was heavy, old-fashioned. The evening air around her was crisp, but she caught a musty smell, as if the manor before her was of another time. Fawkes flew in front of her, lighting the way like a brazier, and she followed him in confusion. Was this Albus's house?
Only when she reached the doors did she spot the mark spreading across them, tarred on in what looked like blood. One line sloped down to the left, and, at its end, another sloped down to the right, making up a corner, or part of a cross. Her memory twitched, but nothing came to her except nervousness. The doors fell open.
The ceiling was aglow with stars, and hung with shafts of light, white veils like spangled gossamer. The candlelit walls danced with vibrancy in one vast moving tapestry, rich with mythical figures and mottos, so real that she could scarcely tell where reality ended and the walls began. An auburn-haired Leander swam for Hero, and a green-eyed Eve offered up an apple to a bearded mouth. A phoenix cupped a pair of lovers in its wings. Words streamed over them, wreathing their painted faces; she caught "she walks in beauty, like the night" and "lovely eyes which have so wounded me." The candles leapt and flamed, and she noticed shining arrows beneath her feet, enticing her down a corridor.
The veils caressed and enveloped her as she passed through them; wispy, delicate fingers stroked her cheek and made her halt, for the touch was Albus's, as was the breath on the back of her neck-
Was he there, invisible in the curtained opulence? The arrows sped her on, to the threshold of a room crowned with flowers - plants which Pomona would have died for, emitting a heady scent that triggered the imagination; a blue-eyed Orpheus sang sorrowfully of Eurydice, and she noticed the delicate strumming of music in the distance… Her disbelieving hand brushed sopping petals. The door magnetised her; she pushed it open-
-The flowers bowed down, and wove themselves into carpet. A young man was painting, but the vision was the painting. A woman sat nearby, fingers darting over the strings of a harp, and the sound was a physical embrace. The painter looked barely old enough to be out of Hogwarts, but there was a mature familiarity in his long nose and raven hair. On second glance, the woman seemed a girl, and her face was like the man's, but her locks were russet and her eyes a piercing green - and Minerva froze, for the eyes were her eyes, but the hair was his-
A shadow seemed to propel her outwards, back into the corridor. Invisible lips brushed hers. The smell of sherbet lemons hung in the air, leading her onwards, as if in a dream…
The next door was an ominous black. She opened it breathlessly, filled with longing-
Herself. At one and the same time she was a few feet away, separate, a girl with a deathly pallor and her hair a sable floor over the ground, and actually lying down, eighteen again, and covered in blood… Memory and present time crashed together with frightening immediacy; she had discovered Grindelwald's secret, and the Horcrux, a cast-iron swastika, was clutched in her arms even as her life leaked away… Albus was descending towards her in horror, and the air was blackening with his despair-
"Never again," a voice - his voice - whispered in her ear.
The vision changed, and now she was looking at a grown, aging woman in a hospital bed, curled around her chest in pain. Albus's beard was silver now, but he was bent over her, worry lines cutting deeply-
"Never again."
Her recent self languished in another hospital bed. This was after the Dark attack in the Forbidden Forest, she realised. The pain, both internal and external, reached a crescendo as a boy, Brian Potter, white and thin, trembled outside on a chair-
"NEVER AGAIN."
She surfaced from the room as if from water, gasping. The Orpheus vision swept her up, and she ran to the sound of the shout of Eurydice - but the word woven around it was Minerva-
"Albus!"
The horror of losing her was all around her, and she felt as if the manor was neither a manor nor a crystal cave, but a beating heart-
The third door confronted her and forced her inside. At first, nothing was visible except for a blinding light which made her screw up her eyes. Gradually, Brian appeared, standing listless and still, a grotesque forced smile on his face even as the blue eyes spilled over. An older hand materialised, resting on his shoulder. Albus - the old Albus - stood behind him, weighted with care, shadowed eyes dull. Both pairs were turned in the same direction, and all at once a bridal procession was approaching. Poppy and Rolanda emerged from the light, dressed as bridesmaids and grinning, and afterwards came herself and Aberforth, laughing, hands linked and raised to show the glinting rings-
"No," she whispered.
Albus had let go of Brian, and was twisting his fingers in mid-air, as though he was a puppeteer. Brian's limbs jerked, and he skipped merrily over to Aberforth, hand extended and ready to shake-
She needed no propulsion; she turned and fled, breath hitching in her throat. Behind her, Rolanda squealed as the bouquet was thrown-
Out in the corridor, the lips caught her again, soothing her. Invisible hands teased at her hair. The phoenix closed his wings around the lovers more firmly, and the feathers of the vision brushed her skin. The arrows nudged her on, and Fawkes was singing…
The fourth door was identical to that of her office, complete with a griffin knocker. Minerva paused, pressure building in her chest. Having no idea what to expect, she hesitated.
"Enter," Albus's voice commanded.
She burst in. The office was warm, and sunlight was shining through the tall windows. Outside, she could see the castle grounds and the lake, peaceful and undisturbed. The office was a little more disorganised than in her own day, and the forget-me-nots were absent. Albus was sitting at the desk, silver beard draped over the document he was signing. The phoenix medallion was absent from his neck, and the lines of his face were less deeply gouged. This was before the War, she realised.
He looked up. "Ah, Minerva."
Confused, she started forward, but a younger version of herself walked through her as though she was a ghost. The younger Minerva was vigorous and spry, seeming to glow with an energy that she no longer had.
"Albus, you wished to see me?"
The Headmaster surveyed her other self over interlocked fingers. "Indeed."
"If this is about the incident with young Mr Black-"
"Alas, if there had been but only one 'incident with young Mr Black.' But no, that is not why I asked to speak to you. Have a seat."
The younger Minerva sat and shifted in expectation, but Albus merely lowered his fingers and gazed at her.
"Albus?"
"I do enjoy our talks on Transfiguration. You are a most engaging opponent in an argument, my dear."
"Oh?"
"Yes. It is a shame that there are not enough hours in the day to debate with you."
The witch looked at her superior with an expression of bewilderment. The reason for her puzzlement was obvious; Albus never summoned her without a point in mind, and there had been a very slight inflection on the word 'debate' that contradicted her employer's placid expression.
"There are few things more pleasant than an intellectual conversation over good food."
"Oh?"
"Should you be free this Saturday, I would appreciate such an opportunity." The blue eyes twinkled. "That is, if you would care to join me."
The younger Minerva stiffened. "Dinner?"
The Headmaster rose, and drifted around the desk. "Yes, my dear. After all, even a fine meal is a little dull without good conversation to go with it."
Something passed over his face - only a flash, but it was enough to know it for what it was - something powerful that filled his eyes as they fixed on her lips-
His hand brushed the witch's cheek almost casually, and the watching Headmistress felt the touch on her own-
"I'll think about it," her other self said briskly, standing up. She knew by the tightening of the red lips that the other Minerva was startled and more than a little panicked. "I must return to my marking, in the meantime. Thank you very much for the invitation. I will consider it. Good day."
Albus dropped back into his chair and stared at the closing door with a distant expression. She knew, without questioning how, that she would return, and that they would have dinner. The serenity of it all allowed a brief spark of logic to permeate her; she was calm enough to appreciate the realism of the illusion. The younger Minerva McGonagall would have been flustered and stunned at such attentions, and would have been alarmed, to boot. She exited the room quietly, determined to find the man at the centre of it all.
The fifth door was ebony, with a hermaphrodite inscribed in silver. White roses dazed her with scent, and the harp from the first room could be heard again, each note an endearment. There was a twinge in her chest - the harpist's fingers were playing other strings… A mouth that tasted of chocolate and sherbet lemons held hers, and then nibbled on her ear… The door crashed open-
The tomb reared before her, crystalline white and deathly. Her old grief halted her; his funeral filled her skull. The music and scent scorned her - and he was gone again, lost just as she began to express her feelings… She fell against the tomb, and it seemed larger than she remembered, and her hands reached for the lid without any conscious intervention from her brain-
The stone ground aside, and seemed to dissolve as she moved it. The sepulchre had become a bed with satin sheets, in which two naked bodies tumbled and embraced…
Blood rushed to her face, but she allowed herself to stare, savouring the intimacy. The beauty of it was primal, sweat-soaked, panting; heat emanating outwards and filling her. The tomb was a bed, and his death was living, and was life. When at last the couple collapsed into sleep, she lingered over the scene, excited. The warmth of her cheeks had become a glow, and the sleeping Albus's contented smile was mesmerising. Only when the lid of the tomb rebuilt itself did she remember the corridor, and the real Albus…
The corridor was reaching its conclusion, for there was only one door left, right at the end. She ran, and the animated beasts and figures ran with her. The veils grabbed and brushed her, but she thrust them aside, every muscle infused with fire. The door was a clear portal, like water, and she could see herself running towards herself-
Six Albus Dumbledores reclined on a scarlet couch, dressed in robes that seemed the essence of lightning. The sapphire both pierced and drew, and the whites smouldered, and everywhere, there was a whirlwind of magic, the crackling purple of the core chamber, dancing and leaping in a fantastic maelstrom. Circles and sigils sizzled beneath her feet, and his hands were pulling in the violet tendrils, as though hooking a fish. The stars above had blurred to become a kaleidoscope, brilliant enough to blind…
The sight paralysed her; for a moment reality and illusion were one and the same thing, and he was not her Albus but something else, something descended from the storm-
Magic sputtered and sparked, and the violet began to fade, leaving the transparency of a mirror. The real Albus at the centre eyed her somewhat nervously, and heat rose up in her face. Her stomach curdled with embarrassment. There was no stopping the memory of the tomb that was a bed. There was no stopping her feet, either, which recovered themselves and began to march their owner over to their destination. The man on the couch sat up, beard still fizzing, blue eyes wide with anxiety, and gestured next to him. His closeness elicited a shiver of weakness. She sat.
"Albus," she said hoarsely.
His expression was worried. "I hope I did not overdo it."
She gaped at him. "You hope you did not overdo it? I - I…" Words failed her.
"I meant to surprise you."
The Headmistress dragged her eyes away. "I've never seen anything like it."
"Minerva?"
"Yes?" Blood continued to burn; she took a few deep, calming breaths.
"Did I succeed in my aim?"
"Well that depends on what your aim was."
The crooked nose invaded her sight. He was craning round, biting his lip. Power and vulnerability sat together, waiting for her response. She laid a hand on the side of his face.
"Well? What was your aim, Albus Dumbledore?"
He gripped her hand. "I am no longer entirely sure."
"The sign on the front doors," she prompted. "What was it?"
"Kenaz. The rune of passion, among other things."
"Did you have to draw it in blood?"
"Yes." The blue eyes flamed, and she swallowed.
"The third room. What did you mean by that?"
"That was to show you how I feel, my dear."
"Forgive me, but I'm not seeing a connection between your emotions and an impossible wedding between your brother and me."
He kissed the tip of one finger. "Ah, but it was possible. I think perhaps I was a little obscure in conveying what I meant. I meant that I would have been happy if you were happy, and that love is selfless-"
Her voice came out thick. "You talk far too much philosophy. And it was horrible. You could have been a little less realistic with that illusion."
He laid back, and eased her down with him. Real teeth nibbled where magical ones had done so previously. The tension fled out of her.
"Do all the rooms have equally complicated explanations?"
"I think not. Though I do hope they resonated."
She hid her blush in his beard.
"The first room was an impossible dream. The second was my fears. The fourth was what should have been."
"That was very realistic."
There was a pause, and she dared look upwards. The spectacles had become misty.
"The fifth room was also a dream… only a different kind of dream."
The words burst out. "A possible dream."
He stiffened. "That was… wrong of me."
"Why?"
Craftily, she moved the beard aside and kissed his neck. He said nothing, but a spasm passed down his body.
"So, a date with Albus Dumbledore requires knowledge of Fourth Year Ancient Runes, Muggle theology, and alchemy! Knowing your liking for symbolism, I'm surprised there are not seven rooms."
"I intended us to enter the seventh room together."
Her stomach bunched. Shocked, she looked into the evasive blue eyes, and felt the fear paralyse her. The image of the sleeping Albus returned in force, and she went limp. Of course. Of course. She had been totally wrong in thinking he would be tentative. She had not been expecting it, but Rolanda had always called her a prude - and who could expect anything of Albus? Her chest fluttered. Yes. Yes, that was the answer. The excitement balled and exploded. She leapt off the couch.
"Then let us do so."
"If you are tired-"
"No!"
His eyes twinkled. "The seventh room does not require us to move."
Baffled, she stared at him. He pulled her back onto the couch, and one hand tilted her chin upwards. There was nothing but sapphire, and a pair of spectacles.
"Do you trust me?"
She blinked. "Of course."
The pupils expanded, and drew her in.
A/N: So what does everyone think? To me, there has been a noticeable drop in quality (such as there was) over the last few chapters. Hopefully things will get back on track soon.
What's coming up next? Well, remember the last Discovery Arc? We're starting another.