Games
Sunday, 6 September 1942
"Make that shot quicker when Amelia passes the Quaffle to you, Hank!" Minerva called from above the goalposts on the Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch. The Gryffindor Quidditch team had awoken early that morning to have their first practice of term. As she'd told them on the train, she wanted to hold a practice with the returning players before tryouts to help her make the best possible decision for the dynamic they already had. As such, she was paying special attention to her Chasers, Amelia Livingston and Hank Cunningham, who would be working closest to the new teammate. Overall, she was proud of all her players; she could tell they'd practiced over the summer.
As Seeker, she played the least in coordination with her teammates. This had pros and cons as team captain. It allowed her to observe and direct them during practice, since they would be the ones performing the plays she organized, but conversely, she ended up spending significantly less time practicing her Seeking since she spent so much time focused on the team. It just gave her great pride to watch them from above, and she hated taking practice time from them to focus on herself. This season she would make an effort to practice more with the team.
Minerva's eyes shifted to the Beaters. While Prewett and Oliver weren't close friends, they somehow worked well together. On their best days, they anticipated each other's moves and seemed to be able to sense the other's presence. They had a quiet camaraderie. Today, they'd only released one Bludger for practice so far. As she watched them, she could see they were a little out of practice; evidently, they mostly practiced apart over the summer. Still, they were performing well, and were at least in great shape. Both wizards swung their bats true and hit the Bludger hard. Now that her attraction to Oliver was out in the open – unlike the previous season – she felt less uncomfortable with how much she enjoyed watching him send Bludgers flying across the pitch. Minerva liked to think of herself as a modern witch who didn't need a traditionally strong man, but even she couldn't deny the way his clear show of strength made her feel.
Shaking herself out of her drifting train of thought, Minerva put her whistle to her lips and blew. Her team stopped what they were doing and looked over at her. Prewett whacked the Bludger far away as he turned towards her. Minerva drew her wand from her arm holster and put the tip to her neck to amplify her voice with Sonorus, "I'm going to release the Snitch. I want you all to continue to play with me flying between you! Beaters: I want you to work together to stop me and the Chasers." Once she received a mixture of nods and thumbs up in understanding, Minerva cast Quietus and flew down to the box on the ground that usually held the balls, but now only held the Snitch. She hovered over it as she released the Snitch, and then she watched from below for a few minutes while she let the Snitch get away from her. The Chasers practiced by starting each play at the opposite end of the pitch from where Donnie hovered, guarding his goalposts. The Beaters tried to disrupt them by hitting Bludgers their way and flying through their formations.
Eventually, Minerva flew back up into the air to observe the game from above, now searching for the Snitch. Hank and Amelia now had to coordinate their passes while dodging the Bludger that Oliver and Prewett kept hitting their way. She watched as they flew towards the goalposts to set up another shot, and then searched for the Bludger. Prewett was in position to smack it their way as it hurtled towards him; the timing could very well prevent them from making the goal. Minerva dove. Seconds later, she heard the distinct crack of a Beater's bat hitting a Bludger, and glanced over her shoulder. She grinned. Her move had worked; she had given Prewett too little time to determine if she was feinting, and so he had taken the risk to stop her from potentially catching the Snitch by directing the Bludger her way instead of at the Chasers. Hank scored, and Minerva pulled up gently, out of the path of the Bludger.
Minerva carried on this way, alternating between circling the pitch and attempting to distract the Beaters and Keeper, all the while looking for the Snitch. Finally, she spotted it during one of her feints. She had looked up to see how successful she'd been – quite, as there was now a Bludger on her tail, courtesy of Oliver – and saw the familiar glint of gold flying just beneath the Chasers. Minerva grimaced and urged her Cleansweep Three back up as sharply as she could, shooting skyward. She watched Amelia and Hank move around each other, tossing the ball back and forth quickly to confuse the Beaters and Donnie. The Snitch was following their movement. Minerva needed to determine how to catch it without disrupting their play. The Beaters were on to her now, and were flying into position again to knock the Bludger back towards her. Minerva, still aware of the position of the Snitch, watched the Quaffle and waited until the precise second that it fell back into Amelia's hands securely to shout, "Amelia! Dodge!"
Amelia glanced down at her captain as Minerva hurtled towards her, tucked the Quaffle under her arm, and altered her course. Hank followed her adjustment, continuing to move in sync with her. Donnie paid Minerva no heed, refusing to be distracted by her whether she really saw the Snitch or not; it was not his job to stop her. Somewhere behind her, Minerva heard that distinct crack again, and flattened herself against her broom further, urging it faster. Not wanting to lose sight of the Snitch, she did not look behind her. It was mere feet ahead of her. She heard a second crack – Oliver and Prewett must have coordinated to get the best angle – and she smiled. She knew the sound of the second crack was distant enough to indicate that she was closer to the Snitch than the Bludger was to her. The Snitch continued to move, though, and darted upwards, increasing the distance. Minerva pressed on, climbing higher, her body vertical to the ground. Vaguely, she heard Hank curse loudly, and Donnie laugh, but was too focused on her mission to fully comprehend what those sounds meant. She now heard the Bludger whistling towards her, and she knew that her Beaters were good enough to send it where they anticipated she would be, rather than where she had been when they hit it her way. Her mouth opened and she released a low sound of strain that she wasn't fully conscious of as she reached her arm forward as far as she was able. The distance couldn't be more than a foot, now. The Snitch darted, and her green eyes did too, locked on the tiny ball. She adjusted her reach, and her open mouth curled into a smile. Although the Snitch had darted to the right and off her direct course, it was actually slightly easier to reach. Her fist clasped around the delicate wings, and her fingers pushed the golden metal ball into her palm. Whooping, she straightened out and zoomed out of the way of the Bludger. She heard Oliver laughing in the distance, sharing in her glee.
The team ran a few more drills before Minerva called them all down to the ground. She smiled at the five exhilarated faces, red and windswept, that looked at her as they formed a semicircle around her on the grassy field. "Great practice, everyone! I'm feeling confident about our chances for the Cup this year. We still have ten more minutes left in the timeslot I booked for us, so I was thinking we'd head to the changing rooms and discuss tryouts, alright?" The team mumbled their assent and the six of them walked together to the changing rooms, laughing and talking excitedly about the moves they each had made during practice. More than once, Donnie had blocked the Quaffle with the tail of his broomstick, which was always a crowd pleaser. Minerva complimented Amelia and Hank, as well as Prewett and Oliver, for how well they coordinated their plays. Amelia and Hank had seemed to move as one, while Prewett and Oliver were good at anticipating where the other needed them to be. Amelia brought up how surprising it had been to find Minerva about to careen into her, and they all laughed at the way Amelia told the story.
The team gathered in the boys' changing room. Minerva chose to take a seat with them instead of standing in front of them all. "So, for tryouts, I'm going to start by just seeing how well each person flies. That way, we can determine which ones to pay more attention to than others. I'm then going to have them fly down the pitch with the Quaffle under their arm and have them try to get it in one of the hoops. I'll be paying attention to how securely they travel with the Quaffle, and of course, how accurate their aim is. I may have you hovering in front of the hoops, Donnie, but if I do, I want you to go easy on them. Maybe I'll just have you there to intimidate them," she grinned at her Keeper, and he laughed. "If it isn't abundantly clear who the right choice is after these drills, I'll have the best players run a few plays with you, Hank and Amelia, and see who works best as a team with you two. I'm going to want you both contributing to this decision and giving me your thoughts throughout tryouts. You two work so well together, and I want to add someone to the team who fits well with you. I don't want to detract from that." The two Chasers nodded.
Minerva took a breath. "Now. You may have noticed that the flyer I posted advertised an open tryout, for players of any position. First and foremost: I am not replacing anyone here. Your positions are yours, and, like I said, I am excited for our potential this year. I just didn't have the opportunity to talk to you all together before I posted the flyer, but now I do. I want to discuss potentially bringing on alternates." Several players raised their eyebrows and straightened their backs. Prewett, though, continued to watch her with the same intense expression on his face that he had given her since he'd sat down.
"Prewett, you're leaving us at the end of this year, and then just a year later, Donnie, Oliver, and I are leaving as well. That's over half of this team. I'm so proud to be on this team, and I care about its long-term success. I think if we take the opportunity to train our successors, we can build a better team for the future of Gryffindor. If a future player could learn first-hand what makes this team so cohesive, we may be able to replicate it. What do you all think?"
There was a pause. Some players looked around at each other, while others looked more inwardly thoughtful. Finally, Prewett nodded, "I agree."
Minerva smiled, feeling relieved, "You do?"
He continued to nod, "Yeah. I mean, Oliver and I," he glanced over his fellow Beater, "it took us some time to build the rhythm we have. We joined this team different years. Regardless, you'll have him next season to train up someone else, but if I can contribute…that would be much better for a new player, I think." Oliver nodded in agreement.
"Yeah, why not just bring on two new Beaters now? We can train them up to work well together, and whoever works best with me can start next season," Oliver added.
"I think, for the Beaters, this makes sense, but I don't feel like with our positions," Donnie gestured between himself and Minerva, "it's so urgent. Two years on the reserves is a long time, and what if someone who's currently a first year has more potential than some of the older students? We'd miss them. Especially for Seekers, second years are good to bring on because they're small and quick, and the constant practice can help them as they…become not-so-small."
"That's a good point," Minerva agreed.
"I think it's a good idea for next season, though! We should definitely hold tryouts again, even though we should already have a replacement Beater, just to find some alternates for when the three of us graduate at the end of the year," Donnie amended. "Keeper and Seeker are just positions that require more individual skill than team cohesion. That's all I mean by it not being urgent."
"I agree with you," Minerva assured him. "What about you, Amelia, Hank?"
They looked at each other. Amelia answered, "Even though it's important that Chasers can work together as a unit, I don't think we necessarily need to find reserves now, either. Hank and I both have three seasons left, and often what Donnie just mentioned about Seekers applies to Chasers as well."
Hank nodded, "We also don't know what year the person we find today is going to be in. I think it's better when players are in different years so everyone doesn't leave at once, and waiting another year or two, or even three, to find more Chasers opens us up to finding younger players who would be on the team for longer."
Minerva nodded as well, "These are all great points. I'm glad I brought this up with you. So, to clarify, this afternoon we're looking for a starting Chaser and two reserve Beaters?" The team responded with a chorus of agreement and nodding heads. "Well then, you're free to go. I'll see you lot at six!"
They all stood, exchanging goodbyes. The boys started walking towards the lockers, while Amelia and Minerva started towards the door to the girls' changing room. Minerva was stopped by a gentle hand on her upper arm; she turned to see Oliver smiling at her. She returned the smile and looked at him with a questioning look in her eyes. "Could you stay after a little? Meet me on the pitch?"
"You know that Rolanda booked the pitch thirty minutes after I did, right?" she asked in response, but the corners of her lips twitched in spite of herself.
"Well, you ended practice ten minutes early, so Slytherin aren't supposed to start for another forty minutes, then," Oliver returned, giving her a roguish half-smile that made her weak in the knees.
"Alright, then," she murmured, her eyes sparkling.
Minerva walked back out onto the Quidditch pitch in her day robes to find Oliver laying in the grass in the middle of the pitch. She smiled and shook her head as she approached him. He grinned once she came into view, "Minerva! Come lay in the grass with me!"
She laughed, "These are my clean clothes, Oliver. We could've done this in our Quidditch robes."
"What, you have no other clean clothes? Come on!"
Sighing, Minerva knelt next to him. He pouted at her dramatically, making her laugh again. Rolling her eyes, she adjusted herself so that she was lying next to him, her head level with his and their arms touching. She turned her head to face him and found him grinning at her. "See, isn't this nice?"
Minerva hummed in response, and turned to look up at the sky. It was a beautiful September day, with very few clouds in the sky. She took a deep breath of the crisp Highland air, inhaling a mixture of scents coming from the nearby Forbidden Forest carried to the pitch by the summer breeze. Lying there on her back with Oliver next to her was relaxing, she had to admit. Minerva laced her fingers through his and murmured, "Thank you."
She heard the grass rustle next to her as he turned his head back to face her; she turned to look at him as well. He was smiling at her, and Minerva found herself struck by how happy he seemed to just be with her. The thought warmed her heart and brought a smile to her own face. She wanted to kiss him. He must have felt it too, because he rolled onto his side at that moment. Minerva craned her neck to meet him, and he placed his hand on the nape of her neck as he leaned down to kiss her. Minerva gently gripped his upper arm to steady herself as she opened her mouth to him, deepening their kiss.
They both sighed as they parted, and Oliver placed his forehead against hers, smiling lightly. Minerva watched his peaceful expression as he rested his head against hers with his eyes closed. She noticed for the first time that he had freckles even on his eyelids. Eventually, he opened his eyes again and smiled more fully at her as he rolled back into place, returning his gaze to the sky. "We should come here at night and see the stars," he suggested.
Minerva quirked an eyebrow at him, although he didn't see, "We're not allowed on the Quidditch pitch after sunset without supervision."
He turned his head sharply to face her, looking mock-scandalized, "Not allowed? Why, Minerva! Where's your sense of adventure?"
Raising her head onto an elbow for support, she laughed and shook her head, "I'm a Prefect, in case you've forgotten."
Oliver sat up, still grinning, "Oh, well, then our dates must be completely by the book." Minerva pursed her lips and squinted her eyes at him in mock-seriousness, sitting up herself. He straightened his back like a rail, placed his hands on his hips, and stuck his chin in the air as he said with a playful formality, "Minerva McGonagall, would you honor me by joining me for the first Hogsmeade weekend?" He bowed his head and brought one of her hands to his lips, with his eyes directed upward to watch her reaction.
"I would be delighted to join you for that school-sanctioned activity," she replied, mirroring his formal posture, although a smile twisted at her pursed lips and her eyes sparkled with amusement. As he grinned and straightened, Minerva pulled the hand that still grasped hers toward her, pulling him with it, and leaned forward to kiss him again.
They laid together in the grass for a few minutes more undisturbed. Minerva felt at peace snuggled up against him, with his arm wrapped around her. They knew that, eventually, the Slytherins would come to the pitch for their practice and they would need to leave, but it was nice to pretend for a moment that this was all there was, and that there was nothing to worry about in the world at all.
Rolanda was the first Slytherin to arrive at the pitch. She came out with her Quidditch robes already on, and her Comet 180 already in-hand to inspect the pitch. She entered too far from the Gryffindor couple to identify them, but she suspected they hadn't seen her yet at their lack of reaction at being intruded upon. Rolanda decided to mount her broom and glide over to them as close as she dared to identify them without disturbing them. When she finally recognized Minerva, she grinned and flew towards them, unabashed. They lifted their heads when they noticed her approach. Minerva sat up fully, and Oliver followed suit.
Minerva greeted her friend with a little more color in her cheeks than normal, "Good morning, Rolanda."
Rolanda grinned mischievously at her, "Good morning, Minerva. Did you forget about Slytherin?"
Self-consciously running a hand through her hair to shake out any dirt or grass stuck in it, Minerva replied, "No, no. We intended to leave before ten. You're early."
"I wanted to make sure the Gryffindors weren't taking more than their fair share of the practice time," Rolanda explained, winking playfully.
"I would never," Minerva retorted in mock-offense. Rolanda didn't say anything, but raised her eyebrows significantly as she watched Oliver pick grass off Minerva's back. The abnormal pink color in the Gryffindor witch's cheeks reddened, and she averted her gaze from Rolanda's playfully teasing look.
Rolanda turned on Oliver instead and said, her amusement plain in her tone, "Hello, Oliver."
"Hello, Rolanda," Oliver replied with a smile, unabashed. "I hope you can get Nott and MacNair to create more of a challenge for me this year."
Rolanda smirked, "I'll be sure to tell them to work especially hard to keep the Bludgers away from you."
Oliver laughed, and Minerva did too. Through her laughter, Minerva moaned, "Oh no! Don't taunt her!"
"Oh, don't worry too much," Rolanda laughed. "As long as you get off my pitch!"
Minerva pursed her lips playfully and stood, brushing her robes down. She started walking away, with her head dramatically thrown over her shoulder, "Come, Oliver. She doesn't want to talk to us."
Shaking her head, Rolanda laughed. Oliver grinned and followed suit, "See you around, Rolanda."
"Minerva, actually, could I talk to you for a minute?" Rolanda called out to them.
Minerva stopped and turned to Oliver, who reached out to squeeze her hand and said, "I'll see you later." Minerva smiled and stood on her tip-toes to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. He grinned, and then waved goodbye to Rolanda. The Slytherin Quidditch Captain returned the gesture as Minerva walked back towards her.
Rolanda's demeanor changed now that they were alone. Her eyes sparkled, and the way her face was stretching made it look like she was fighting back a ridiculous grin. Her joy was infectious; Minerva couldn't help but smile even though Rolanda had said nothing. Quirking a brow, Minerva asked, "You did it, didn't you?"
She'd opened the floodgates with her question. Rolanda nodded vigorously and beamed; Minerva laughed at her effusiveness. "Oh, Minerva! I love him, I love him so much."
Minerva reached out and hugged her best friend briefly. Once she pulled away, she held Rolanda at arm's length. "So, it was good, then?"
"Well," Rolanda now looked quite introspective, "it wasn't everything I expected, but he…" she ducked her head, smiling, and her hand came to her face to hold her hair behind her ear, "he was…thoughtful."
"Thoughtful," Minerva repeated, feeling suddenly unexperienced and naïve at the fact that she wasn't entirely sure what her friend meant by this.
"Yes, thoughtful," Rolanda repeated unhelpfully, an unfocused look in her blue eyes. Shaking herself out of her trance, she met Minerva's eyes again with that joyful look again, "I was going to wait until we were all together to talk about it, but seeing you, I couldn't wait. I'm so happy."
That, Minerva could understand. She smiled at her friend and rubbed her upper arm affectionately, "I'm happy for you."
"Minerva McGonagall?" a young girl's voice behind the Gryffindor sixth-year made her turn. It was lunchtime, now, in the Great Hall. Minerva was sitting with the Quidditch team again, except for Prewett, who hadn't arrived yet. His best friend Nicholas Pomfrey was there, though, seated on the other side of Oliver and joking with him and Donnie. Augusta and Minerva had just been exchanging amused eyerolls over their significant others when Minerva had been approached from behind.
The girl who had said Minerva's name was a second-year Ravenclaw with dark brown hair and nervous, hazel eyes. Minerva smiled at her reassuringly, "Hello. Mavis, isn't it?"
The Ravenclaw nodded vigorously, "I was talking to Professor Dumbledore Friday, and he told me I should talk to you, but I didn't know what you looked like, so I had to ask a Prefect in Ravenclaw, and that's why it took me until Sunday to talk to you, I don't know if he told you I talked to him." Minerva listened patiently, doing her best to follow this story. Mavis shook her head, her face coloring. She bowed her head and pressed one hand hard against the back of her neck, while the other grasped her opposite elbow tightly, "Sorry. I need help with Transfiguration. Professor Dumbledore told me you could help."
Minerva blinked and glanced up at the staff table. Dumbledore was seated directly to the right of Headmaster Dippet, as Deputy Headmaster, but he was engaged in a deep discussion with Professor Merrythought on his right, facing away from the Gryffindor table. Inwardly, her chest swelled with pride that her favorite professor had recommended her; a nagging voice in the back of her head, though, worried at how busy he must be to delegate individual interaction with a student to her. She knew how much he valued engaging with students one-on-one, helping them make breakthroughs in their understanding of his favorite subject. Minerva returned her gaze back to the nervous second-year and smiled again, "Of course I can help. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?"
Once they had arranged a time and place to meet, Mavis looked a little less nervous, and walked away with something of a relieved smile on her face. Minerva turned back to face the table with a light, proud smile on her face, and found all her friends staring at her. She blinked, "What?"
To her right, Oliver grinned proudly at her, "Dumbledore recommended you." Minerva blushed, but smiled a little wider.
"Well, during my career meeting last year, I wasn't shy about telling him that I wanted his job," Minerva informed them. The members of the Quidditch team around her, plus Augusta, burst out laughing. "It feels nice to see that he's taking that seriously, rather than feeling uncomfortable and directing my pursuits elsewhere."
"Only you, Minerva," Augusta laughed. "I admire how persistently you pursue what you want."
The Gryffindors didn't tease her for much longer, but the feeling of pride in her chest did not abate. It was validating, being recommended by the professor of her favorite subject. She was passionate about Transfiguration in ways she couldn't properly explain to her friends; their eyes always went glassy when she tried. Whatever she ended up doing after she graduated from Hogwarts, she knew that she wanted it to be something to do with Transfiguration. It was unlikely, she knew, that she would become Hogwarts' Transfiguration Professor immediately after achieving her mastery in the subject, but she thought that she might work for Transfiguration Today or apply for a grant to do research in the meantime.
After lunch, she and Oliver went on a walk around the grounds of the castle. Minerva was still walking on cloud nine, and so she didn't notice just how pensive Oliver looked until he said, with a slight tightness in his voice, "So, I didn't know you wanted to teach at Hogwarts."
Minerva glanced over at him, smiling; her smile wavered when she caught sight of the look on his face. Were they really going to do this day two into their relationship? Her tone matched his as she replied, "I do. Last year before the career meetings, when they asked us to think about what we wanted to do, it just struck me when I was patrolling one day that I'd love to work at Hogwarts. I love Transfiguration, and explaining Transfiguration to people, so…in that moment, everything made sense."
Oliver nodded, "Okay." Minerva side-eyed him apprehensively. "I wonder if any of our professors have families. I thought they all lived here."
To his left, the slight shaking of Minerva's head caught his eye and he turned to look at her, asking, "What?"
Minerva opened and closed her mouth, slightly baffled. Finally, she stopped walking and turned her whole body to face him. He did the same. "Can we just…not worry about this right now? I'd like to just find out where our relationship is going before we worry about the logistics of making our dreams work together."
Oliver opened his mouth to reply, but then shut it and bowed his head, rubbing the back of it with his hand. Finally, he responded, "I'm sorry. I was just surprised."
Minerva nodded and took his hand again, "It's okay." They continued to walk along the lake, with a little more awkwardness than before, until Oliver broke the tension by tickling her. Minerva laughed, and started jogging away from him. Oliver chased after her, grinning.
After Rolanda had the chance to eat lunch in the Great Hall following the Slytherin team's Quidditch practice, she, Minerva, Poppy, and Pomona met in their seventh-floor magical room. They'd all finished the little schoolwork they'd been assigned the first week of school, and now had the opportunity to just relax together. Minerva was eager to tell them about the second-year Ravenclaw who'd asked her for help, but she knew she had to defer to Rolanda this time. Pomona and Poppy listened to Rolanda recount her experience having sex with Richard for the first time last night with wide eyes and pink faces. Minerva, happy for her friend, finally learned what Rolanda meant by "thoughtful:" Richard had been attentive, conscientious, generous. She had not realized that getting pleasure out of sex was not simple; this was the first time anyone had talked to her so openly (and graphically) about what sex entailed. Of course, she'd learned the basics, but nothing this thorough. Pomona looked as if she wanted to tell Rolanda to share less details, but she probably didn't have the heart to speak up. Rolanda was practically glowing.
Eventually, Rolanda sighed, "I know I'm talking a lot, I'm just so happy."
"We're happy for you," Poppy assured her, smiling.
Rolanda finally seemed to notice the look of slight discomfort on Pomona's face. She gave the Hufflepuff an apologetic smile, "I probably got a little carried away, didn't I?"
Pomona rushed to assure her otherwise, "No, no! You're fine, I just," her face turned bright red, "I knew nothing about anything you just said."
Minerva quirked an eyebrow, "Nothing…at all?"
The Hufflepuff bowed her red face to hide it in embarrassment, "My parents are very conservative, so I was raised to…stay away from all that. I never even asked you," she gestured to Poppy, "about what you knew because of them."
Rolanda looked contrite, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize –"
"No! It's okay, really. I'm glad I know, now," Pomona insisted, although she was still pink in the face.
Poppy looked amazed that she hadn't known this about her best friend, "You and Gene didn't…talk about it, ever?"
Pomona's face, which had been slowly returning to its normal complexion, reddened again at the mention of Gene Wood, the boy she'd dated during their fifth year until this July, "I avoided talking about it. He was shy enough to not press the matter."
"Okay, leave her alone," Minerva admonished as Rolanda and Poppy both opened their mouths to discuss Pomona's naïveté and former relationship.
Both Rolanda and Poppy apologized to Pomona, who repeated that it was okay while looking into her lap. Poppy turned to Minerva to change the subject, "Did Mavis McMahon talk to you today? I heard from Millicent – you know, one of the new Prefects in Ravenclaw – that she asked what you looked like."
Minerva's whole demeanor brightened as she finally was given the opportunity to talk about the best part of her day, "Yes! Evidently, she asked Dumbledore for help in Transfiguration, and he directed her my way."
Pomona's head shot up from her lap, Rolanda's eyes widened, and Poppy grinned, "Really? That's amazing, Min!"
"Truly," Rolanda agreed, nodding. "He seems to have taken your desire to be Transfiguration Professor to heart! There's really no one better to guide you towards that position. That's fantastic, Minerva!"
Minerva's chest swelled with pride for the second time that day as she beamed at her friends, "I'm meeting with her just before dinner tomorrow. She said that she wants to focus on a review of the first-year material, which of course provides a very important foundation for the spells taught in the second year. If you can't turn a mouse into a snuffbox, there's no way you'll be able to Transfigure a larger animal, such as a rabbit into slippers. That's a quite interesting example, actually, because most people assume that the rabbit-to-slipper Transfiguration must be simpler than the mouse-to-snuffbox one, because the rabbit and the slipper are more similar in nature, but this actually calls for more delicacy and precision to prevent any of the rabbit's features from remaining…" The Gryffindor trailed off as she noticed the more forced nature of her friends' smiles. They blinked, as if coming out of a stupor, when she stopped, and she smiled sheepishly, "Sorry. Too much detail?"
"You know your subject," Poppy replied diplomatically. Pomona and Rolanda laughed.
"Didn't you tutor Gryffindors last year?" Rolanda asked.
"Yes, but Dumbledore didn't know about that. Helen came to me as her Prefect, and I was just able to help her."
Rolanda looked thoughtful, "I bet there are more people who'd like some help with Transfiguration, you know. Maybe you could start a club."
"A club? For what, exactly?" Minerva asked. Poppy and Pomona looked curiously at Rolanda.
"For Transfiguration help, of course! What else? You could set up open tutoring hours in an unused classroom somewhere, help struggling students, and give Dumbledore less to worry about. It could also help you hone your teaching skills. You would learn how to better explain things to people who don't just get Transfiguration, like you, and you'd learn more certainly that you do actually want to teach the subject instead of research it," Rolanda explained. Minerva sat back in her plush, red armchair, thoughtful.
"I think that's a brilliant idea," Poppy seconded.
Pomona nodded, "Yeah, and Dumbledore could be the club sponsor!"
"Perfect! Oh, doesn't he have office hours on Sundays?" Rolanda asked.
"Yes, from three to five," Minerva replied, her voice distant as her mind explored the possibilities of Rolanda's proposal.
"You should go after Chess Club!" Poppy suggested excitedly. In about an hour, she and Minerva would be joining the other members of the Chess Club for the first meeting of term.
Minerva nodded slowly, "I might."
Albus Dumbledore was tired. He did his best to disguise just how tired he was, not only for the sake of his students, but for the benefit of Armando Dippet and Nicolas Flamel. He was being pulled in several different directions at the moment, between his responsibilities at Hogwarts – as Deputy, as Head of Gryffindor, and as Transfiguration Professor – his contributions to Transfiguration Today, and his role with the Resistance against Grindelwald. Dippet and Flamel were watching him closely, he knew, for signs of strain. Both had gently suggested, on separate occasions, that he take on an apprentice who could lighten his burdens, at least at Hogwarts. Albus, though, still stubbornly insisted that he had it all in hand. There was, too, the small fact that the person he felt was most qualified, most deserving, and most suited to the role still had two years of schooling left to complete. He could not tell them that, though, because they would likely say this was a ridiculous excuse and insist that he choose someone else. Although he had made no promises to Minerva McGonagall regarding an apprenticeship, he still felt as though it would be a betrayal to take someone else on, whose apprenticeship would overlap with the time that she should be starting her own. He was the best person to take her on, if she was serious – as he was sure she was – about being his successor as Transfiguration Professor of Hogwarts. He may be tired, but what was best for his students still came first.
Currently, he was headed towards the staffroom on the ground floor for the first staff meeting since the start of term. They always, of course, had a long meeting before term started in preparation for the students, but they also held one about a week – they tried to set it for a weekend – after the students arrived. This meeting would cover any problems that had arisen during the first week, the Prefects' schedule, and other final housekeeping; they would not meet again in an official manner until October.
Albus entered the staffroom after giving the password to the two stone gargoyles that guarded the door, to find most of the staff already present. These days, that was just how he liked to find it. He preferred to arrive at meetings just as they were starting, and attempt to escape them as soon as they were finished to avoid the nosy questions from his well-meaning colleagues regarding the war effort and his wellbeing. Perhaps this was not good Deputy behavior, but it was a small way he could maintain some semblance of control over his life and sanity.
Nevertheless, everyone glanced over as he entered. Most staff members were standing around chatting instead of sitting at the long meeting table, and – unfortunately for Albus – the school mediwitch, Mary Jenison, stood in the group nearest the door. Mary not only worked at Hogwarts, but she also lent her Healing skills to the Resistance as a lead Healer. Of course, this meant that she was uniquely poised to pester him about his stress levels. When she spotted him, her lips twisted into a knowing smile and she walked towards him. Albus straightened his back and affixed a pleasant smile to his face, "Good afternoon, Mary."
"Hello, Albus," she returned, her eyes still sparkling with a knowing glint. "Did your first week of classes go well?"
"They did, thank you," he replied, his smile turning more genuine. There was a twinkle in his eye as he added, "It's honestly a relief to return to teaching after this summer."
Mary smiled sympathetically, "I'm sure. If only you could have the joy of teaching without the stress of assignments to mark."
He gave no physical indication that he understood that she was suggesting he find someone to help lighten his burdens; he simply smiled, and responded, "If only." With that, he walked past her towards the head of the meeting table to take his seat on the right-hand side of the head seat. The other staff members slowly followed suit, their conversations becoming more murmured as they took their seats. A short, lithe witch with grey hair took the seat next to him, and said as greeting, "I see you're still avoiding Mary, Albus."
Albus smiled wryly at his former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, "Avoiding? I'm not avoiding her. I was telling her how much of a relief it is to return to teaching."
Galatea Merrythought huffed in amusement, shaking her head, and retorted, "Is that what you said as you brushed past her just now?" Albus grinned. He enjoyed the friendship that he had developed with the Head of Ravenclaw since he'd joined the Hogwarts staff. As a student, he had been slightly intimidated by her, despite her small frame; even now that he had sixty-one years of life experience under his belt, she was still one of the best duelists he'd ever met. As a colleague, it had taken a few years for him to discover the wickedly sharp wit under the intimidating façade she developed to compensate for her size, but once he had successfully broken through, their friendship flourished. There wasn't a single person on the staff to whom he was closer than Galatea.
The Defense professor turned her attention to the witch who had taken the seat directly across from her. The seat across from Albus was still vacant, as was the Headmaster's chair. "How was the third-year turnout this year, Greta?"
The Muggle Studies professor and Head of Hufflepuff replied with a weary smile, "Quite good. Of course, it's as I expected. They all want to know about the bombs."
Galatea frowned lightly and made eye contact with Albus, whose own weariness slipped onto his face at this. There hadn't been an air raid in Britain in over a year now, and intelligence indicated there likely would not be another one, but people were still afraid. Students, depending on what part of the United Kingdom they were from, tended to be either scarred beyond their years or morbidly curious. Galatea sighed, "Well, hopefully you can harness that curiosity and direct it towards something more positive." Greta Gibson grimaced.
Albus checked his pocket watch: it was two minutes past the hour. He sighed. Of course Dippet was late, and judging from the fact that Slughorn was also absent, the pair probably lost track of time chatting again. As if to prove his point, from the hall the booming voice of Horace Slughorn could be heard from the staffroom drawing nearer, "…and I truly believe that having the chance to meet Waffling will have a positive impact on my students."
"They are fortunate to have your guidance, Horace." Headmaster Dippet's voice sounded as if he was nearly at the door.
"Thank you, Armando, I do what I can," Slughorn replied with what Albus imagined was contrived humility.
Just as they had when Albus entered, all eyes in the staffroom turned to the two latecomers as they entered the room. Dippet smiled broadly at his staff, "Good afternoon, everyone!" As he and Slughorn walked towards their seats at the head of the table – Dippet directly at the head, Slughorn at his left-hand side, across from Albus – he continued merrily, "I trust you all had a magical first week of classes?" He was rewarded with weak smiles for his bad joke and boisterous entrance. The Headmaster clapped his hands and rubbed them together, "Now, let's get started, shall we? First things first, I'll pass around the finalized Prefect schedule…" With that, the staff meeting finally began. The staff's updates primarily consisted of concerns about specific students. Many Muggle-born first-years were having a hard time adjusting to the new level of the war they just discovered, like every year. There was no apparent evident change in the hard division of Slytherin house, not even with the "superb mediation skills" of newly-minted Prefect Tom Riddle. All the other professors were sure Riddle just needed more time to flourish and effect change; Albus remained silent on this issue, as the only professor who found Riddle unsettling rather than inspiring. Each House Quidditch team had practices scheduled and were on track to fill their vacancies before the season began, Roderick Plumpton reported. No fights had yet broken out, as far as the staff was aware.
The general housekeeping notes on the status of the students continued in this manner for about forty minutes. Albus did his best to focus on the conversations at hand; he did care. With all the turmoil and stress in his life because of the war, Hogwarts was the only thing that brought him genuine joy these days. He was just tired. He felt guilty spending too much time on anything for himself, when he could be helping strategize for the Resistance, or practicing dueling, or editing for Transfiguration Today, so his mind tended to wander to those subjects when he felt too at ease.
When the meeting finally ended, Albus did his best to escape as quickly as he could without seeming rude. He made small talk with Galatea, said farewell to Greta, and nodded curtly to Slughorn before attempting an exit. There was a chance Dippet would stop him on his way out, but considering they had just gone over the budget for the year, had given a statement to the Prophet about Hogwarts' safety during the war, and had approved the lesson plans for the term, there was not much left for them to discuss this early in the school year. With a smile on his face, Albus held his breath as he neared the door. Two steps…one step…doorknob…twist…two steps…one step…
Albus exhaled in relief as the door closed behind him. Feeling a little lighter without all the curious eyes of his colleagues ogling him, he walked purposefully towards his office on the first floor. He would be holding his first office hours of the new term soon, which had the potential to either be quite dead or extremely busy. He had already heard after class one day from one student, Mavis McMahon, who was having trouble with Transfiguration, but no others. While this could mean he was just a fabulous teacher and his students were thriving under his masterful tutelage – he snorted quietly to himself at the thought – he doubted it. It was more likely that students just didn't like admitting they needed help. He would find out in the next two hours, at least, if there were any brave souls willing to admit their gaps in understanding to their teacher this early in the term. Albus lips curled slightly in private amusement at that as he opened his office door: Doubtful.
Leaving the door open, he had learned in his thirty-four years of teaching, was a good way to impress upon students that yes, they could in fact bother him during his office hours. The jar of candy on his desk was not for his own pleasure – at least, that's what he told Mary – but rather to calm the nerves of students who came to see him. He was currently partial to Fudge Flies, and so – although, again, they were not for him, strictly speaking – his jar was currently filled with them. After eyeing the open door for a few moments and, hearing no one approaching, he reached into the jar and took two Fudge Flies for himself.
His first order of business was to retrieve the little scraps of parchment he'd stuffed in his pockets today. There were three today, and now that he had a moment to sit down and do nothing else, he could devote attention to what he'd quickly scribbled on them earlier in the day. Nicolas Flamel had encouraged him to develop this habit to capture any stray ideas that he might lose if he did not address them immediately. As a young man, he'd originally disdained this practice, thinking it a habit of older, more forgetful, less brilliant men, but throughout his early research he'd realized that sometimes inspiration struck at the most inconvenient of times, and it was foolish to count on his mind to hold onto his ideas until he needed them when he had so much else to think about. So now, he often had a few scraps of parchment stuffed in the pockets of his robes, along with a Muggle pen and a thin roll of parchment that was the source of all of his little pieces.
Today's notes were as unintelligible to anyone other than himself as they usually were: "Mermish – gills?", "Potter change final," and "Blood pops." The last one was simply a reminder to himself to try the treat, because he'd recently learned that they weren't made of real blood and so he was now intrigued by them. The first note was meant to trigger an idea he'd had that morning about studying the Mermish language; since Merpeople were known to be understood under water, he wondered if Mermish required gills to be spoken properly. He knew precisely the language expert to bring this question to, and hoped he'd remember to ask her when he saw her later that day. He stuffed that scrap of parchment back into his pocket. Finally, the note he'd written about Potter was referring to the article he was editing for Euphemia Potter that she'd submitted to Transfiguration Today. In the middle of one of his classes, he'd decided that her final sentence wasn't strong enough, but couldn't do anything about it at that moment. Now, though, he did have time, and so he retrieved her article and reviewed the final paragraph, marking his new suggestions.
That didn't take him long, though, and soon his stray notes were organized, leaving him to hope a student would appear for his office hours. After a few minutes of sitting at his desk in silence with his hands folded, Albus's mind wandered as he wondered what he should do to keep himself occupied. He had no essays to mark, as he had finished the last of the summer assignments yesterday; he had only assigned six inches of parchment for each of his years because he didn't want to unnecessarily add onto his students' load during an already stressful time. He couldn't spread out Resistance plans on his desk, as this was neither the time nor the place for that. He had also learned from previous experience that if he tried reading during office hours, younger students would get discouraged about disturbing him and leave without a word; if he was too engrossed in his book he may not realize unless they told him about it later. Albus sighed and looked around his office, tapping his desk to the tune of a song he couldn't name. Perhaps he could play chess against his pieces. That way, he could exercise the strategic part of his brain without actually pulling out Resistance plans, while keeping the doorframe in his peripheral vision.
Satisfied, Albus pulled out his chess set from the bottom drawer of his desk to set it up. As he played against his black pieces, he amused himself by goading them; they were not quite as smart as they seemed to think they were. "Oh, come now, my dear knight, why would you do such a thing when you know I can so easily destroy you?" As he chuckled to himself, a small voice in the back of his mind that sounded something like Perenelle Flamel said, What a sad life you must live to resort to laughing at your chess pieces. When was the last time you played with another person? He brushed the voice away.
For the next hour and a half, Albus carried on like this, for the most part. At some point during his office hours, he did have to pause one of his many games of chess when a fifth-year Hufflepuff came in to ask him to review the essay he'd set for next week. As she had been his only visitor, he was more than happy to oblige. When she left, she was more confident about her assignment, and he was three Fudge Flies poorer.
As his chess pieces mended themselves after he won yet another game, he checked his pocket watch: 4:37. He sighed. One visitor. Hopefully they wouldn't all come in a rush in the last twenty minutes; he had to be at headquarters at half-past. Truthfully, he ought to be there earlier than that because Nicolas liked to brief him before meetings. It was unlikely that anyone else would come, though, so he doubted he had anything to worry about. Albus surveyed the chessboard in front of him as the pieces moved back to their starting positions and considered whether he should play another game. He wasn't sure what else he'd do to fill the last twenty minutes of his office hours, but playing against his pieces was becoming boring. It wasn't the same as playing against a real human being, who typically tended to be less predictable than enchanted chess pieces.
Movement in his doorway attracted his attention, and he smiled to see Minerva McGonagall standing there, her fist poised to knock on the open door. "Miss McGonagall, to what do I owe this pleasure?"
Her eyes darted to the chessboard on his desk, "Your office hours are until five, correct?"
"Yes, yes. I was simply playing to pass the time. I've had only one other visitor today." He gestured towards the old, cushy chair in front of his desk, "Please, sit." As she did so, he offered her his jar of sweets, which she declined. He sat back in his chair with his elbows resting on its arms, his fingers tented, and observed that she seemed more nervous than he'd seen her since she was a first year. He patiently, but curiously, waited for her to explain why she'd come.
"I'm sorry for coming so close to the end, but I was at Chess Club and we just finished," she began.
Albus noticed that she seemed to hesitate. Most students responded to the sweets as an icebreaker, but that evidently was not going to work with her this afternoon. His eyes slid down to his chessboard, and back up to her; she was staring at it too. He gave her a friendly smile and asked, "Chess Club? Perhaps you'd make a worthier opponent than my chess pieces. Would you like to play?"
McGonagall blinked, glanced again at her watch, and replied, "We might go over your office hours. I wouldn't want to keep you."
"Nonsense," Albus shook his head as he pushed his black pieces into their box. "I planned my office hours with the possibility of a student keeping me over in mind. Do you mind playing black?"
After staring at him in surprise for a few seconds – Albus pretended not to notice – she shook her head and pulled the box that presumably held her chess pieces from her bag. They sat in silence while her black pieces moved into position. McGonagall scooted her chair closer to his desk, and Albus began by commanding a pawn to move. As McGonagall took her turn, he asked, "Now, what, may I ask, is on your mind, Miss McGonagall?"
She glanced up at him briefly and announced her first move. As the commanded pawn moved, she straightened her back and responded, "Mavis McMahon approached me this morning and asked for help with Transfiguration."
He gave another direction to his white pieces and then smiled at her, "Ah, wonderful. I'm glad she chose to reach out to you."
"I'm very flattered and grateful for your recommendation."
"Of course! I assume you're serious about wanting to teach, so I thought, what better way to help you learn what that means than sending you students who don't understand Transfiguration the way you do?"
"Thank you, truly," she paused again, under the pretense of making another move, but Albus noticed her stiffen again with discomfort. He frowned almost imperceptibly, worried he'd miscalculated by sending a student to her. Was she too busy, and she was nervous about asking him to stop? Finally, she continued, "You must be busy if you're sending students to me. I know how much you love helping students understand Transfiguration."
He smiled softly at her, "If your parents aren't telling you about the war, it's not my place –"
McGonagall's eyes widened and she cut him off, "Oh, no! I'm not fishing, Professor, I promise. I'm sorry." She shook her head, "I just…my friends and I were discussing me tutoring in Transfiguration, and, well, we thought that…I could start something of a…Transfiguration help club, with you sponsoring, where I could help students who are struggling with the subject. I could…help you be less busy. If you're busy."
Albus blinked in surprise and sat back in his chair, neglecting his next turn as he contemplated this suggestion. He wondered how successful such a club would be. Would students participate? How much more likely were they to do so than come to him? His mind whirred with the possibilities, jumping to potentially cutting back his own office hours in order to devote time to other things, and to what the experience could mean for her, should the club be successful. "I think it's worth trying, to see how many students would participate."
Some of the nervousness in McGonagall's demeanor melted away as she smiled a genuine, excited smile at him, "Really?"
He nodded, "I don't know if it necessarily needs to be a club, but if you could offer tutoring sponsored by me, with walk-in hours advertised throughout the school, that may be successful. How do you envision managing students of multiple levels?"
"I thought I could reserve a classroom, and perhaps at least two of those rolling blackboards, and have them working under my supervision in a sort of study hall format, with me available to answer questions. I'd like to meet with new students individually before they start coming to walk-in hours so I know what their personal situation is and what format works best for them, and to see if there are multiple students with the same problem. If that happens, I could group them together, and maybe devote some time to teaching the students in a more lecture format than a one-on-one format if there's a lot of them with the same problem." He smiled as he listened to her talk this animatedly after she had been so nervous to bring this up with him. He understood why she had been nervous. Some may think it presumptuous for her, a sixth-year, to offer her skills as comparable or able to substitute his own. He knew, though, that at least where Transfiguration was concerned, it very nearly was true that her skills could substitute his own; where her skills fell short of his was negligible at the Hogwarts level.
"I think this idea has a lot of potential. I'll sponsor it, and I'll get a classroom reserved for your use. Do you have a time in mind already that you could set aside weekly for this?"
She replied that she was considering, for now, the hour before dinner was served in the Great Hall on Thursdays; he told her that he would arrange it with the other Heads of House and the Headmaster. They finished their chess game in a much more comfortable atmosphere, as Albus turned their conversation towards the Gryffindor Quidditch team and the tryouts she was holding that afternoon. He was pleased with how enthusiastic she was about their team's prospects; last year, they had just barely been beaten by Slytherin for the Cup.
The game lasted only for about twenty minutes, including the few minutes they'd stopped to finally discuss what she'd come to discuss. As McGonagall packed up her pieces, accepting her defeat gracefully and with a few wry jokes, Albus resisted the urge to talk to her about an apprenticeship after she graduated. He could not promise her that this early, no matter how convinced he was that it ought to happen. It was likely that Dippet and Flamel would force him into taking on an apprentice sometime soon, no matter how much he tried putting it off, and in that event, it would be best if he hadn't promised her anything. As such, he bid her farewell with nothing more than a warm smile.
Once her footsteps faded into the distance, he sighed heavily. As he began putting his chessboard and pieces away, he waved his hand in the direction of the door. The door shut, and he made a similar motion in the direction of the window, which opened at his silent command. Despite Minerva's concerns, they'd finished their chess match just as his office hours ended, and so now he took his time gathering his things to head to headquarters. He had a briefcase given to him by Perenelle in which he kept Resistance plans protected by powerful magical wards, which he worked on and studied in the privacy of his chambers. After he returned his chess box to its proper place – while it looked like he had no organization system judging by the state of his desk, he in fact had a place for everything in his controlled chaos – he entered his chambers through the door behind his desk to retrieve the briefcase.
One of the best features about this briefcase was the dial that gave him an extra layer of security should he for whatever reason need to open it in front of anyone who should not see the sensitive information it held. The dial was hidden and allowed him to subtly change what contents were seen when it was opened. He typically kept it set to reveal the false contents until he needed to retrieve any of the items he was hiding within. The innocuous version of the briefcase held the latest copy of Transfiguration Today, copies of his lesson plans, and copies of his own personal research. Perenelle had originally given it to him as a gift for finishing his apprenticeship with her husband, Nicolas, almost forty years ago, to protect his research from prying eyes that might seek to steal his hard work. Now, he did not feel as though anything he was researching was critical enough for such a level of protection, but it was valuable enough to warrant the protections anyone skilled at cursebreaking could detect. In the years since receiving the case he had gifted one to a promising student with a penchant for stretching the limits of the law for his own research.
Briefcase in-hand, Albus returned to his office and smiled to find a magnificent red and gold phoenix resting on the metal perch in the corner of his office, by the window. He approached the creature and reached out to fondly caress its feathers with his knuckles, "Hello again, friend." The phoenix preened and leaned into Albus's hand. "Are you ready?"
Fawkes the phoenix chirruped in response and started shifting on his perch, half-opening his wings. Albus stepped back to give him room, and Fawkes took to the air. Clutching the briefcase in one hand, he reached out with the other to grasp Fawkes's tailfeathers, and in a blaze of fire they disappeared.
They reappeared in Albus's bedroom at the Resistance's headquarters in France, repurposed from the Flamels' largest home in their native country. Albus was Nicolas's right hand in the Resistance, and not only that, he was like a son to him. As such, no matter how little time he spent at headquarters, he had a bedroom of his own there. Fawkes, too, had his own perch in this bedroom, and he settled upon it as soon as Albus released his feathers. Albus filled the phoenix's water dish with a quick, silent Aguamenti and headed out to find Nicolas before the meeting.
The private bedrooms in the Flamel estate were in the upper floors, whereas the meeting areas for the Resistance were on the ground floor. Consequently, Albus's walk from his room to the Flamels' was quiet; he met no one on his way. He preferred it that way, these days. He hated the questions.
Upon reaching the Flamels' door, he knocked, and was promptly invited inside by the cheerful voice of Perenelle Flamel. Albus smiled to hear her in a good mood as he let himself in. The Flamels had a small sitting area in their bedroom, in front of a fireplace. Their bed was concealed behind a curtain directly opposite the door. Albus found Perenelle seated on the side of the loveseat farthest from the door, cradling a cup of tea. This was her favored side of the couch. She sat poised, without the slightest arch in her back, making her seem far, far younger than she really was, despite her silver hair and lined skin. She smiled warmly up at him, and gestured to the cushion beside her on the loveseat. "Good, Albus. It is wonderful to see you," she said as he sat down, choosing to greet him in French.
He smiled at her as he took the proffered seat, and responded in the first language she'd taught him, her native language, "Hello, Perenelle. Where is Nicolas?"
Perenelle, sipping her tea, waved dismissively towards the curtain. She cleared her throat as she set the cup down, and replied in Finnish, "Overthinking." She shot him a mischievous look, her blue eyes sparkling at him. She loved this game. Perenelle, after more than six centuries of life, knew a little bit of every language spoken in the known world, and was fluent in approximately 500 of them. When Albus had been her husband's apprentice, just before he turned twenty years old, she had begun to teach him French. Albus had taken to language learning immediately and enthusiastically, and since then, she had been trying to teach him everything she knew. He doubted he would ever be fluent in nearly as many languages as Perenelle, but he was proud to say that he could comfortably hold a conversation in any European language – although perhaps not all the dialects – and several Asian ones, all thanks to Perenelle.
Albus merely grinned at her and replied in Finnish, "I suppose I should not be surprised."
"Should I be insulted?" came Nicolas's voice from behind the curtain, speaking in Finnish as well. Perenelle turned, grinning, as her husband emerged from his cave, a folder with pieces of parchment sticking out haphazardly under his arm. He was scowling, but both Perenelle and Albus knew that his face simply rested in that expression after centuries of furrowing his brow in deep thought. He had thick, silver eyebrows, too, which only served to make him appear gruffer. The very top of his head was shiny and bare of hair, but the hair only seemed to have migrated long ago to his chin, where a thick, impressive beard reached down to tickle the top of the slight curve of his belly.
Perenelle stood and approached Nicolas, her dusty pink robes swishing against the couch and the adjacent chair. She was grinning at him, and his expression softened. In their native tongue of French, she said, "I say it with affection, my love."
Nicolas chuckled and gave her a light kiss on the lips. Albus looked away in discomfort. He loved them as though they were his parents, and they had always been so openly affectionate, but he was still not quite accustomed to their displays. He admired it, though, and respected how much they loved each other after six centuries together. He knew, of course, that the strength and longevity of their love was due in large part to the fact that their souls were genuinely, magically bonded, meant to go through life together as one, in the sense that had become referred to in popular culture as "soul mates." Perenelle had done extensive research into the magical phenomenon of soul mates over the centuries, collecting data from mated pairs that she met throughout her life. She had discovered a way to entwine the magic of soul mates, effectively creating a marriage ritual exclusively for bonded souls. She and Nicolas proudly bore the marks of people who had performed this ritual, in the form of a vine pattern wrapped around their left hands and arms.
"Still an Englishman, I see," Nicolas remarked in English, now, amusement in his voice. Albus turned back to face them, and found them watching him with twin smirks, though not unkind ones.
Perenelle laughed at Albus's disgruntled expression as she returned to her seat, "We'll make you French yet, don't worry."
He raised his eyebrows in mock-challenge, "I wasn't worried." The twitching of his beard betrayed him. Perenelle simply grinned at him.
Albus's attention diverted as the curtain concealing the Flamels' bed moved again, this time to make way for a large, prowling cat, tawny in color and with an impressive mane of hair around its neck. It paid the three humans no heed as it moved slowly to the fireplace, its shoulder blades moving powerfully. The humans barely glanced in his direction, completely unalarmed by the arrival of the lion.
"Ames, are you really moving from one napping spot to another?" Perenelle asked the lion in French. Ames, the lion, merely turned his head towards her, rested it on his paws, and blinked slowly at her. Perenelle smiled. Ames had been Nicolas' first, but he and Perenelle had spent a great deal more time alone together as he had been a large part of her research into soul mates. This was because Ames was not a real lion, but a familiar. Only mated souls had familiars, but Perenelle had learned through her research that not all mated souls had familiars.
"Well," Nicolas sighed, taking a seat in the armchair nearest Perenelle, "it's time to be serious, I think. Today is going to be a rough one. Expect members to call for a direct attack."
Nicolas and Perenelle were two of a handful of people alive who knew the extent of Albus's history with Grindelwald. This was part of why Nicolas preferred to brief Albus before meetings; he thought it was important for Albus to know what to expect beforehand.
Albus sighed at the news, "What happened?"
"He made a spectacle of himself in Poland. He killed about a dozen Muggles himself as part of some kind of display of power and fidelity to his pet Muggle." Nicolas almost exclusively referred to Muggle dictator Adolf Hitler as Grindelwald's pet Muggle.
Albus bowed his head and frowned deeply. Every tidbit of news about Grindelwald made his stomach churn with a multitude of emotions. He felt disturbed, frequently, at the types of things that Grindelwald did, and that feeling was almost always accompanied by a sense of guilt for his part in inspiring some of the ideas held by the man Grindelwald was today. He felt sad for the lives impacted by Grindelwald's actions, and fearful that their past association would come back to haunt him during this war. Fear that the truth of how he first encountered Gellert Grindelwald would come out kept him up at night. He relived the horrifying duel in which he lost his sister, his sweet little sister that he was supposed to protect, nearly every night. It consumed him. It was the primary reason he hated questions about the war. He dreaded being asked to face Grindelwald. He dreaded those memories resurfacing at a most inconvenient time.
Perenelle squeezed his hand sympathetically. Nicolas continued, "That's all, though. We should make our way downstairs. Are you ready?"
Albus took a deep breath, nodded, and stood. He met Nicolas's eyes with a tight smile before turning towards the door and leading the way out. He slid his hands into his pockets as he did so, and his right hand closed around a crinkled scrap of parchment, reminding him of his earlier idea, "Perenelle, I have a question for you about Mermish…"
Two hours later, Albus appeared in a flash of flame on the grounds of Hogwarts, feeling weary. He scowled up at Fawkes as he realized that his phoenix friend had dropped him off outside the castle, instead of within his office or private quarters. Fawkes's only reply was to sing a soothing song and take flight. The music of the phoenix's song filled him up, easing some of his tension, and he sighed. He smiled softly as he watched the magnificent sight of his phoenix soaring up and away from him, over the Black Lake and towards the Forbidden Forest. He stood there for a few moments, taking in the beauty of the sight and the peacefulness of solitude. The Resistance meeting had been long and draining. There had been varying opinions of what should be done often communicated through raised voices, and Albus had done his best to stay out of it all. Standing here, alone, with the summer breeze rustling through his robes and the sun setting over the castle, he realized that perhaps Fawkes had known precisely what he needed.
With his mouth twisted in a suspicious but pleased smirk, Albus hitched up his robes and began the trek back up to the castle. It wasn't a terribly long walk, but it was uphill. That was the main reason he preferred it when Fawkes brought him back to his office or quarters. No matter how bonded they were, though, Fawkes always had and always would have a mind of his own. Over the years they'd spent together, Fawkes had shown that he had a mischievous side, and enjoyed intentionally inconveniencing Albus in minor ways for his own amusement, almost always in ways such as he had down tonight, by not taking him precisely where he wanted to go.
As Albus neared the castle, he noticed a group of students clad in bright red robes coming up to the castle from the Quidditch pitch. He smiled as he realized that the Gryffindor team must be coming back from their tryouts. He wondered how it had gone; what team won the Inter-House Quidditch Cup may be a small matter in the grand scheme of things, but to Albus, it was a welcome distraction from the real world. He was glad that the students had Quidditch to focus on in a time like this.
Albus slowed his walk, intending to meet the Gryffindor team at the castle doors. He smiled as the sounds of their chatter and laughter were carried his way on the breeze. The joy of these young people had nearly the same effect on him as a phoenix song. He reached the doors a little before them and waited. They noticed him standing there and greeted him with a mixture of smiles and waves. Once they were close enough, Donnie Longbottom called out, "Hi, Professor Dumbledore!"
"Good evening, Mr. Longbottom, Mr. Brown, Mr. Prewett, Mr. Cunningham, Miss Livingston, Miss McGonagall," Albus returned, smiling at them all and nodding at each of them in turn. "How did Gryffindor fare at tryouts?"
The team turned to their captain. Minerva McGonagall grinned and replied, "Fantastic. We've just spent about the past thirty minutes discussing who to add to the team, and we're excited about who we've chosen. I'll post the new roster tomorrow morning. I can bring a copy to you at breakfast tomorrow, if you'd like?"
"That would be perfect, thank you."
With that, the team exchanged enthusiastic goodbyes with their Head of House and entered the castle ahead of him. Albus followed them and stopped in the Entrance Hall to watch them climb the staircase together, a small, sad smile on his face. There were many young volunteers in the Resistance, and many more going into war-related professions in the Ministry and in Healing. Staring after them, he wondered how many of them would do the same. Gryffindors tended to go that way more than any other house. He hoped they realized how important it was to hold onto these moments, staying out until the sun set playing games with their friends. Not many more such moments awaited them.