3 - His Crooked Nose
Albus Dumbledore woke, early morning light lancing in from his curtains to shine right into his eyes. He thought about rolling over, but then he remembered his young guest, and thought he would be better to rise and fix her breakfast before she woke and didn't know what to do with herself. He slid out of bed and his feet hit the carpeted floor. He picked up his wand from the bedside table and, with a swish, brought his long fluffy purple dressing gown flinging up off the floor into his arms. He pulled it about himself and climbed to his feet, yawning and stretching so that his eyes watered and his muscles gave groans of displeasure.
He padded out into the kitchen and looked around. He opened the magically enhanced fridge that kept everything at the temperature that he most desired it, and waved his wand so that half a dozen eggs and as many rashers of bacon flew out. He left them hovering in the air for a moment, jerked his hand toward the cupboard, then the stove, and various pots and pans began to sort themselves out, while the stove lit. With another wave, the bacon dropped itself into the nearest frypan, the eggs wafted over and cracked perfectly into six egg rings, and the room began to fill with the sounds and smells of frying. As an afterthought, the toaster flicked on at the wall, and Dumbledore beckoned forth a few slices of bread.
Minutes later, having supervised the cooking of breakfast over the rim of a strong cup of tea, he arranged a plate with a medley of eggs, bacon and toast, poured a glass of icy pumpkin juice, laid both on a tray, and wandered out into the lounge room.
Minerva lay curled, knees pulled in close and head resting on her hands, on the elongated lounge he had converted into quite a comfortable bed. A white duvet covered her to her chest, and her face was partially obscured by the thick, messy curls that radiated over the pillow.
He watched her for a moment. In sleep, she looked so, so young, and at that moment he could see the child she had been only a few years before, the niave girl she had described the previous night from behind eyes that had seen so much in the last twenty-four months. Sleep made even the most worldly appear innocent, and only in sleep could a lot of people be seen for what they truly harboured inside.
He slid the breakfast tray onto the table beside him, laid his wand beside it. Taking a step closer, he leant down near her, and reached across to run fingers over her brow.
"Minerva?"
Minerva jerked into consciousness, her light sleep punctured by someone touching her - she had learnt to sleep lightly. Somebody was touching her! For a moment she forgot where she was, let out a screech and swiped blindly at her attacker, sitting bolt upright. She felt her hand connect with something, and felt it give beneath her blow, and only then did her heart rate slow, and did she realise where she was and what she had done.
Albus Dumbledore had not cried out as her fist connected with his face, in truth it had shocked him too much, but as she stared at him, horror struck by what she had done, she realised that he was in considerable pain. His hands were clutched over his face, over his nose, and, as she watched, blood seeped out between his tightly laced fingers.
"Oh, my Gosh!" she exclaimed, "Oh I am so sorry! What? What did I do?!"
Albus Dumbledore was shaking, but it wasn't with anger or indignation, but with pain. He took his hands away from his face, and she saw what she had done. His nose was bent at an obscene angle, and it was from it that the blood was gushing. His eyes were watering, but through his pain he managed to utter the word "wand" from between gritted teeth.
Instantly understanding, she looked around, saw the wand where it lat beside the breakfast table and lunged for it, grabbed it and handed it to him. He took it with a bloody hand, and turned it upon himself. Eyes drawing towards his own nose, he muttered the word "Emmendo!". As if someone had turned off a tap, the bleeding stopped and the bones healed; the pained expression left Dumbledore's face.
But he had not done an overly good job of the spell. His nose, though healed, was not at the same angle as it had been. It remained as long as ever but was slightly crooked.
"Ah, well," he surveyed himself in a mirror he had conjured out of nowhere, "I never was a particularly good healer." He seemed unconcerned. "I'm sure it will be able to be rectified."
Minerva, however, was still appalled by what she had done. "I. I don't know what came over me. I'm so sorry. I."
"That's quite all right." He waved away her apologies. "I admit that I have never known what it is like to live in constant fear for your safety, and I should not have presumed to wake you in such a manner without consequences."
"But I, I."
"Think no more of it." He ended, changed the subject by handing her the breakfast tray, and locomoting his from the kitchen so it spun out to join him. "I will have it fixed before the day is out."
But, as time would tell, Dumbledore may have been a bad healer, but the job he did he did well, and even with further attempts from him, gazing in a mirror, and endeavours from much more celebrated healers, his nose remained stubbornly crooked, as he had set it that morning. The crooked nose, then, could safely be said to be the first big impact that Minerva McGonagall made on Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore woke, early morning light lancing in from his curtains to shine right into his eyes. He thought about rolling over, but then he remembered his young guest, and thought he would be better to rise and fix her breakfast before she woke and didn't know what to do with herself. He slid out of bed and his feet hit the carpeted floor. He picked up his wand from the bedside table and, with a swish, brought his long fluffy purple dressing gown flinging up off the floor into his arms. He pulled it about himself and climbed to his feet, yawning and stretching so that his eyes watered and his muscles gave groans of displeasure.
He padded out into the kitchen and looked around. He opened the magically enhanced fridge that kept everything at the temperature that he most desired it, and waved his wand so that half a dozen eggs and as many rashers of bacon flew out. He left them hovering in the air for a moment, jerked his hand toward the cupboard, then the stove, and various pots and pans began to sort themselves out, while the stove lit. With another wave, the bacon dropped itself into the nearest frypan, the eggs wafted over and cracked perfectly into six egg rings, and the room began to fill with the sounds and smells of frying. As an afterthought, the toaster flicked on at the wall, and Dumbledore beckoned forth a few slices of bread.
Minutes later, having supervised the cooking of breakfast over the rim of a strong cup of tea, he arranged a plate with a medley of eggs, bacon and toast, poured a glass of icy pumpkin juice, laid both on a tray, and wandered out into the lounge room.
Minerva lay curled, knees pulled in close and head resting on her hands, on the elongated lounge he had converted into quite a comfortable bed. A white duvet covered her to her chest, and her face was partially obscured by the thick, messy curls that radiated over the pillow.
He watched her for a moment. In sleep, she looked so, so young, and at that moment he could see the child she had been only a few years before, the niave girl she had described the previous night from behind eyes that had seen so much in the last twenty-four months. Sleep made even the most worldly appear innocent, and only in sleep could a lot of people be seen for what they truly harboured inside.
He slid the breakfast tray onto the table beside him, laid his wand beside it. Taking a step closer, he leant down near her, and reached across to run fingers over her brow.
"Minerva?"
Minerva jerked into consciousness, her light sleep punctured by someone touching her - she had learnt to sleep lightly. Somebody was touching her! For a moment she forgot where she was, let out a screech and swiped blindly at her attacker, sitting bolt upright. She felt her hand connect with something, and felt it give beneath her blow, and only then did her heart rate slow, and did she realise where she was and what she had done.
Albus Dumbledore had not cried out as her fist connected with his face, in truth it had shocked him too much, but as she stared at him, horror struck by what she had done, she realised that he was in considerable pain. His hands were clutched over his face, over his nose, and, as she watched, blood seeped out between his tightly laced fingers.
"Oh, my Gosh!" she exclaimed, "Oh I am so sorry! What? What did I do?!"
Albus Dumbledore was shaking, but it wasn't with anger or indignation, but with pain. He took his hands away from his face, and she saw what she had done. His nose was bent at an obscene angle, and it was from it that the blood was gushing. His eyes were watering, but through his pain he managed to utter the word "wand" from between gritted teeth.
Instantly understanding, she looked around, saw the wand where it lat beside the breakfast table and lunged for it, grabbed it and handed it to him. He took it with a bloody hand, and turned it upon himself. Eyes drawing towards his own nose, he muttered the word "Emmendo!". As if someone had turned off a tap, the bleeding stopped and the bones healed; the pained expression left Dumbledore's face.
But he had not done an overly good job of the spell. His nose, though healed, was not at the same angle as it had been. It remained as long as ever but was slightly crooked.
"Ah, well," he surveyed himself in a mirror he had conjured out of nowhere, "I never was a particularly good healer." He seemed unconcerned. "I'm sure it will be able to be rectified."
Minerva, however, was still appalled by what she had done. "I. I don't know what came over me. I'm so sorry. I."
"That's quite all right." He waved away her apologies. "I admit that I have never known what it is like to live in constant fear for your safety, and I should not have presumed to wake you in such a manner without consequences."
"But I, I."
"Think no more of it." He ended, changed the subject by handing her the breakfast tray, and locomoting his from the kitchen so it spun out to join him. "I will have it fixed before the day is out."
But, as time would tell, Dumbledore may have been a bad healer, but the job he did he did well, and even with further attempts from him, gazing in a mirror, and endeavours from much more celebrated healers, his nose remained stubbornly crooked, as he had set it that morning. The crooked nose, then, could safely be said to be the first big impact that Minerva McGonagall made on Albus Dumbledore.