A room made for two doesn't fit for one alone. That was the first, coherent thought to leap into Minerva McGonagall's mind when she, after another long day of voluntary Defence Against The Dark Arts and Transfiguration classes, entered her own, usually so welcoming rooms again. Their own, usually so welcoming rooms, that was. Because every day, as classes had ended and students and teachers alike retreated in more private quarters, Minerva too would push open the large, familiar door, leading to the only chambers where she be exactly whom she was- Mrs. Dumbledore, no-one less nor no-one more. She then, usually would be welcomed by the very common, yet ever comforting sight of her husband- who almost always got "home" earlier than she did- sitting in his favourite chair, a mostly both old and thick book resting on his lap. But of course, as soon as he caught sight of her, he would- ever the gentleman- immediately close the no-matter-how-interesting book and rise from his chair, gently taking away the books, quills and all other possible artefacts she was carrying.
He would hold her, then- sometimes for just a moment, other times, according to both their needs of comfort-, somewhat longer- until slight, contented smiles were fixed on both their faces and her own "stern old McGonagall"-attitude had more than half worn off. Their embraces had, though, grown more and more desperate with every passing month, week, day.
But he was gone.
And Minerva could hardly suppress a sincere sigh as she, with quite a bang indeed, rested the as ever huge amount of books she'd needed for her classes on her dark-mahogany wooden desk. She was not really the person for sighs and complaints, though, so she bit her lips and grabbed a quill instead. Only mere seconds later, she realized what she was doing and immediately threw it down in disgust.
Because imagine, just imagine, she thought, what her students would think if they ever found out what was the most horrible but one secret of their prim Transfiguration teacher. If they ever found out that Professor Minerva Jean McGonagall… chewed on the end of her quills.
Minerva shook her head in horror. It was perhaps ridiculous, but it was as she'd once- it seemed so long ago now!- told Albus… As long as she stayed Stern Old McGonagall, prim, prude, strict and unstained, as long as she stayed that almost- caricature of herself she had through long years of teaching learnt to maintain, as long as that illusion lived among the students, the world of bitter imagination they and the magical society had built around themselves would remain untouched. And if this was the price she had to pay- well then yes, it was.
Minerva McGonagall had never been the person to spare herself.
And when the bell for dinner rang through the corridors, some time later, Minerva stood up, straightened her robes and adjusted The Bun- the simple hairdo that was more than just that, the simple hairdo that had quite automatically become a symbol of a lifestyle.
Only then her gaze fell on what she had seen so many times before. The large Gryffindor crest, decorating the wall above the large sofa- Albus himself had attached it there, so many years earlier.
Minerva sighed at the Snake, nodded at the Badger, smiled broadly, proudly at the Lion, but only one symbol did she touch.
It was the one of the Eagle.
He would hold her, then- sometimes for just a moment, other times, according to both their needs of comfort-, somewhat longer- until slight, contented smiles were fixed on both their faces and her own "stern old McGonagall"-attitude had more than half worn off. Their embraces had, though, grown more and more desperate with every passing month, week, day.
But he was gone.
And Minerva could hardly suppress a sincere sigh as she, with quite a bang indeed, rested the as ever huge amount of books she'd needed for her classes on her dark-mahogany wooden desk. She was not really the person for sighs and complaints, though, so she bit her lips and grabbed a quill instead. Only mere seconds later, she realized what she was doing and immediately threw it down in disgust.
Because imagine, just imagine, she thought, what her students would think if they ever found out what was the most horrible but one secret of their prim Transfiguration teacher. If they ever found out that Professor Minerva Jean McGonagall… chewed on the end of her quills.
Minerva shook her head in horror. It was perhaps ridiculous, but it was as she'd once- it seemed so long ago now!- told Albus… As long as she stayed Stern Old McGonagall, prim, prude, strict and unstained, as long as she stayed that almost- caricature of herself she had through long years of teaching learnt to maintain, as long as that illusion lived among the students, the world of bitter imagination they and the magical society had built around themselves would remain untouched. And if this was the price she had to pay- well then yes, it was.
Minerva McGonagall had never been the person to spare herself.
And when the bell for dinner rang through the corridors, some time later, Minerva stood up, straightened her robes and adjusted The Bun- the simple hairdo that was more than just that, the simple hairdo that had quite automatically become a symbol of a lifestyle.
Only then her gaze fell on what she had seen so many times before. The large Gryffindor crest, decorating the wall above the large sofa- Albus himself had attached it there, so many years earlier.
Minerva sighed at the Snake, nodded at the Badger, smiled broadly, proudly at the Lion, but only one symbol did she touch.
It was the one of the Eagle.