Not mine. J. K.'s.
Author's Note
This takes place during Minerva's first year as a teacher. I may eventually update it, but be prepared to be patient,
please! : ) If you get bored, you could always read some of my other fics... (hint, hint!!!)
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Minerva lifted a fork laden with delicious-looking pasta, stared at it blankly for a moment, then set it back down on
her plate. She held the crystal wineglass filled with the finest of wines aloft but did not drink from it. Even the most
palatable dish could not tempt her appetite on this horrible night.
She had received the letter from the Ministry a few days ago announcing the death of her father. She had attended the
funeral yesterday, the visitation the day before. Everything seemed clouded and misty, as though she was trapped in a
terrible nightmare from which she could not wake. She wished to scream, to yell, to jump from the window of the castle
and plummet onto the sharp stones below, to throw things and hear glass shatter into a million fragments against a wall
as her heart had shattered when she got the letter. Inside, she felt as though everything she had ever known was sliding
from between her fingertips like water descending a blade of grass.
But she did not cry aloud.
Instead, she absently twirled spaghetti onto her fork and let it fall, uneaten, back onto her plate over and over again
until she was drawn from her contemplations by a gentle voice.
"Minerva, are you all right?"
She glanced up suddenly and very nearly knocked over her glass. She had completely forgotten Albus was seated across
from her until he had spoken.
"Yes, fine." But even to herself, her voice sounded flat and utterly unconvincing. She felt a tugging in the back of
her mind, telling her to talk to Albus and trust him. However, the memory of her father's voice overrode that; a memory
from when she was five years old and had been caught talking to a street urchin on one of the few trips they had ever
made to downtown Edinburgh.
"Minerva, you are a McGonagall. McGonagalls do not shout out or run through the streets or speak loudly out of turn or
allow themselves to be seen as vulnerable or as prey to the fearless predators that roam this world. What the human race
has lost is its dignity. But you will not lose that dignity, Minerva, not while I'm alive to see it..."
"But you're not..." she whispered.
"Minerva?" Albus was looking at her again. She mentally cursed herself and tried futilely to pay attention to what he
was saying.
"I'm very sorry, Albus. I'm afraid I am not being very good company tonight," she said softly, apologetically.
For a moment, he simply looked at her, his eyes filled with a jumble of emotions she couldn't identify. But when he spoke,
it was in a voice that sounded almost like his usual cheerful self, though she could hear a slight hollowness that
betrayed his normal expression.
"Minerva, it's Christmas. What do you say to dusting off your violin and playing a few duets with an old man, eh?"
Though she agreed with false enthusiasm, inside she felt absolutely nothing. It was as though her brain had become a
vacuum, void of the medium through which feelings were transported. It was as though she was wrapped in a blanket that
muffled all feelings and thoughts-- including those about her father, thankfully.
She found her wand inside the pocket of her robes, directed it toward the general area in which her quarters were located
upstairs, and muttered softly, "Accio violin."
As she waited for her violin to appear through the open doorway, Albus flicked his wand delicately over the table and
the dinner dishes disappeared in the blink of an eye. Another flick and his fingers now held a polished, well-cared for
violin and a slightly tattered book of duets.
"Mozart or Bach?"
"Mozart."
Her own violin had come sailing in the open door and into her fingertips by this time, so she resined her bow and thumbed
through the well-worn pages, seeking the Mozart.
By the time she found it, Albus had lifted his lovely old violin to his chin and was warming up with a series of arpeggios
that had always reminded Minerva of birds soaring through an open window. As he ended on a particularly high and
piercing note, she tapped a measure with the end of her bow and said flatly, "Start there."
Within a few moments, the glorious strains of music rang throughout the room. Minerva played with her usual grace and
ease, but there was something more than that woven into the notes of the melody. For the first time in a week, she felt
her barriers slowly slipping down and allowed the emotions to flow through her fingertips as she brought the notes on the
page to life.
As the music shifted into a beautiful minor section, she realized suddenly that tears were coursing down her face and she
sobbed slightly. She tried to keep playing, but the tears blurred the notes until she couldn't see and she had to stop.
Albus looked at her with concern, then laid both of their violins on the empty dinner table. She turned her face away to
hide her tears, but he caught her in his arms before she could escape. In an instant, she was sobbing helplessly as he had
never seen her cry before, not even when her mother had died during her fourth year. Not knowing exactly what to do, he
cradled her in his arms and let her weep.
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