A Winter's Tale
Minerva McGonagall leaned against the diamond-paned window and watched the lazy snowflakes drift past her window. Her tartan dressing gown was belted loosely around her and stray tendrils of hair were escaping from her long braid. The hair that had been a rich dark brown in her youth had slowly shaded to gray over the years. Her eyes had lost none of their sparkle though, or so Albus assured her with tender kisses. She knew that few people thought of her as a beauty anymore; the thought was less harsh than it had been once. The right people thought her beautiful, the ones that mattered.
A soft sigh and a rumble from the bed behind her reminded her that really, there was only one person whose opinion mattered and he thought she was as beautiful now as she was at eighteen. She smiled against the glass, her breath fogging the window.
Below in the courtyard, she caught sight of Hagrid dragging an enormous tree through the snow. She remembered her first years teaching here when he was just an outcast child, working with Ogg on the grounds, expelled but not abandoned. Ogg, his short bandy-legged form scurrying about like a spider with the hulking youth beside him, had welcomed the boy with his usual brusque demeanor.
"Minerva?" Albus' voice, the soft rumble that she adored, drew her from her contemplations of the past.
"Hagrid is bringing in the last tree, Albus." She replied, still watching the white landscape.
"Good, good. Filius was complaining that there simply weren't enough of them yesterday. You know how he gets about Christmas." Minerva chuckled, a quiet sound almost masked by the crackling of the fireplace.
"Of course, Albus, we must keep Filius happy." As if Albus himself wasn't just a big child himself when it came to Christmas, Minerva thought fondly.
"Are you mocking me, Minerva?" Albus' amused tones served to turn her from the window at last, abandoning the clean whiteness outside for the multi-colored eclectic mess inside. Albus' bedroom, full of clashing chintzes and incompatible colors, could give her a headache on the best of days. At Christmastime however, when he had decorated with streamers, ornaments, and little moving sculptures of Father Christmas, the room was a sight to behold but only if you had a strong stomach.
Unlike his study or his alchemical laboratory -- both simple, almost Spartan environs -- his bedroom was where Albus' sense of whimsy was given free rein. A tartan-clad shepherdess flirted with one of the Father Christmas statues and a tiny stag raced across the bureau top. Tiny fairy lights bobbed near the ceiling and the warm light they cast illuminated a face grown dear through fifty years of continual association.
"I would never mock the greatest living wizard in the world, Albus." She remarked dryly.
"Never met the fellow and you haven't answered my question." Albus bounced out of bed still as energetic and full of life as he had been when she first met him. Minerva grinned as he came to stand beside her.
"Perhaps I was mocking you just the tiniest bit." She held up her thumb and forefinger to illustrate just how small she meant and he gave her an answering grin.
"Good, good, I would hate to think that we were growing respectful of each other. The day you do not mock me and keep me humble is the day my head will swell all out of proportion." Minerva's laugh had never been the tinkling sound that the more aristocratic witches produced -- it was warm and throaty and genuine.
"Your head is in no danger of swelling, Albus." She retorted; if anything his humility was almost daunting at times. "And you know full well that I respect you, as you had better respect me!" She poked his stomach with a slender finger to emphasize her point.
"No witch more, Minerva." He answered her, a ritual response that had fallen from his lips a thousand times yet still had the power to make her warm all through.
"W e should get dressed and head down to breakfast, my love." She dropped a kiss on his cheek and turned towards the bathroom. His hand gripped her arm suddenly, halting her progress and she turned to him in surprise.
"Minerva, it will get worse before it gets better." His eyes were serious now, filled with sadness.
"I remember, Albus." She replied, quiet and sorrowful. She saw him again as he had been, ginger-haired and stalwart, standing on the battlefield, wand smoking. She remembered the agony of dragging herself upright, seeing him through the haze of pain, Grindelwald's corpse a twisted heap at his feet. She remembered the heart-breaking look of devastation on his face as he surveyed the field, counting the costs of this battle. The bodies of friends and allies scattered across the ground, the weeping and moaning rising from the quagmire of blood, mud and misery. That was the victory everyone celebrated so joyously. That was the nightmare she had seen in her mind for fifty years. "That is the price we pay for freedom and peace, Albus. We paid it then; we will pay it again if we have to."
"I love you, Minerva." The words came from a face chastened by her quiet declaration and she patted him lightly on the shoulder. He hated wars and battles, hated having to fight and kill. It was one of the reasons she loved him so. Her simple practicality, the legacy of her Scottish ancestry, was one of the reasons he loved her.
"Merry Christmas, Albus." She replied, heading off to dress for breakfast.
"Merry Christmas, Minerva." She looked back as she paused in the doorway of the bathroom, to see him staring sightlessly out the window.