Notes: Many, many thanks to my reviewers. I hope I haven't kept you all waiting too long, but attempting to write short chapters is, for me, akin to pulling teeth, and this is rather speedy compared to my updating pace in this category of late. The muse is still going strong, though (knock on wood). Alchemine, I'm so thrilled that you're pleased with it! I'm having far too much fun writing it. :D And Auburn Lily, I'm flattered; unfortunately, I don't think I'll be completing Tourniquet -- I recently put a note in my bio section detailing why. Perhaps one day, though.
"Jean Brodie in a witch's hat." -- Dame Maggie Smith, describing Professor M.
And here's to you, Miss McGonagall; Jesus loves you more than you will know, whoa whoa whoa . . .
ii. What you were,
What you were, I couldn't say;
'Cause you left me here behind,
A stupid state of mind,
And I'm lonely.
Yeah, you left me here behind,
A stupid state of mind,
And you're gone.
Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Euterpe Music House: Join Our Club and Get Fifteen Records for One Knut!, Luna Lovegood, Floo bill, Neville Longbottom . . .
Minerva sighed as she thumbed through the day's post, seperating her own mail from Potter's. One week had passed since Alastor's infuriating visit, and her charge's correspondances still lacked any word from Ronald Weasley -- or any of the Weasleys, for that matter. Although he had said nothing of his best friend's silence, he nonetheless reacted to it. Whether it was relief, annoyance or disappointment, she couldn't tell, but Potter's usually blank expression seemed to falter whenever he glanced at the senders' names and did not find the one he was looking for.
His own responses were brief, if the amount of time he spent writing back to his peers was any indication, and rarely sent with any haste. The only exception to his apathy appeared to be Mr Malfoy, who was likely distant enough (and shallow enough) to both warrant and accept a few noncommittal lines of reassurance.
She set down her own stack on kitchen table. An advertisement for Gladrags blinked up at her, Sale! Sale! Sale!. She covered it with the Floo bill. Potter's letters she would leave at the base of the stairs for him to take to his room the next time he was headed in that direction.
He was in the parlour, occupying the same chair in which Minerva had defended her sobriety to Moody, immersed in one of the books he'd plucked from the shelves that lined two of the walls. She watched him, unseen, from the doorway. While he still said little, he had at least stopped lingering for hours in that infernal heather field, and not a moment too soon -- the flowered knoll had begun to look like a burial mound in her eyes, with his mourning form perched at its summit. Minerva wasn't one for excessive escapism, but thought it much better that he lose himself in works of fiction -- for it was C. S. Lewis' The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to which his mind currently travelled -- than in his own morbid ruminations. Eventually she would broach the subject of homework and hint that he also improve his marks. It didn't seem entirely fair that he was not exempt from summer schoolwork, but that unfairness paled in comparison to practicality. Potter needed all the education he could stomach, especially in matters of magical application, and Minerva would see that he got it. He had done quite well this past year, despite outside influences, qualifying for what NEWT classes he needed to take in order to pursue his ambition of becoming an Auror; she wasn't about to allow him to lose those dreams in addition to what he'd lost already.
For now, though . . . she fancied she could read his thoughts, so ingrained upon hers was the story he read.
"Narnia? What's that?" said Lucy.
"This is the land of Narnia," said the Faun, "where we are now; all that lies between the lamp-post and the great castle of Cair Paravel on the Eastern Sea . . ."
She was grateful that her family had always been too sensible to deem anything produced by Muggles as being inferior (her grandfather William's poetry would have rendered the notion purely hypocritical if they had). What a pity it was, the things the offspring of narrow-minded purebloods missed. Minerva herself had been in her twenties when Lewis' fantastical series had been published, still close enough to childhood to appreciate their magic -- and magic it was, neither Muggle nor wizarding, but something sentient and wonderful beyond those boundaries.
"Have you read the books before?" she announced her presence by way of a question. Potter lifted his head, a faint blush colouring his cheeks.
"No," he replied. "They weren't around . . . that is, my cousin wasn't very big on reading. I've missed out on a lot of things."
Of course, Minerva reminded herself with an annoyed thought of Potter's only living relatives, narrow-minded Muggles can disadvantage their children just as much.
"They may make more sense," she said, striding the length of the room to one of the bookshelves, "if you read them sequentially according to their timeline, and not their publishing dates." Running a finger along the spines, she selected a volume fourth to the right of the empty space left by The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, then made her way to the sofa and took a seat across from her ward. Potter closed the book he held and took the one she offered.
"The Magician's Nephew," he read aloud. "What's it about?"
"The creation of Narnia. Another world is discovered by a boy, fostered by his aunt and uncle, named Digory, who--" Minerva stopped herself, and her heart skipped a beat. How could she have been so thoughtless?
Potter offered her a small, consolatory smile. "It's all right," he promised, resting a hand lightly overtop one of hers. "It's not the least common of names. I'll read it. It already sounds like I'll be able relate to it."
Minerva glanced down at their hands, unable to conceal her surprise at the gesture. The boy's skin was hot, almost overly so, and the mottled scars that covered his palm felt like the mountain ridges on a globe. For a few seconds she was paralysed, unsure of whether to take her hand away or encourage the first human contact he had sought in weeks.
Potter decided for her. Taking note of her discomfort, he withdrew his hand under the pretence of covering a false cough.
"Yes, well . . ." Minerva cleared her throat and rose, smoothing her skirt (Muggle clothing, she'd always admired, offered an ease and quickness of movement not to be found in the robes favoured by witches and wizards, and she tended towards their sartorial benefits whenever she was away from magical society). "I'll leave you to it, then. Your post is on the stairs."
Without waiting for him to respond, she retreated upstairs to her chambers.
Not for the first time, she wished that Albus would find -- no, make -- the time for a visit, though she knew it was a futile hope. What little of Cornelius Fudge's wit that remained was frayed with the stresses of being responsible for overseeing things he had never so much as imagined he would glimpse. And he was so damned malleable, such a coward . . . how that man could could sit in his office and dictate orders -- contradicting orders, mind, that were more often than not counterproductive to their cause -- while so many others with far less reason to take action did so, and went unrewarded, unrecognised . . . it was enough to make her bristle with rage. Dumbledore was having enough difficulty as it was trying to keep his position as headmaster, an occupation he was one day guaranteed and the next shouting to sustain, as Fudge waffled between influences. Minerva couldn't very well request that he risk not being there when the minister's leanings shifted again. If any one thing in this deplorable war were certain, it was that the removal of Albus Dumbledore from all official power would prove disastrous.
Unless we made our own . . . The thought trailed off into anarchy, which was possibly where it would lead, if it were ever put to actual use. A leader was only as strong as the loyalty of those who followed him, after all, and if Fudge managed to bungle up much more . . .
Minerva slumped down onto the edge of her bed and rested her arms upon her knees, feeling for a moment like the insecure schoolgirl she had not been in many decades. What an awful habit Albus had bred into her, her dependance on him. Oh, she was fully capable of functioning on her own, making her own decisions, standing her ground . . . but he had always been standing right behind her. For as long as she could remember, the voice in the back of her head had been his. Her conscience spoke with his inflections, his dissatisfaction, his praise. She didn't need to be told what to do, hardly so; but whenever the option of asking Dumbledore's advice was denied her, it formed a Celtic knot in her stomach that refused to be unravelled.
"Oh, this is absurd!" she scoffed, catching her reflection in the cheval glass that neighboured the wall to the right of her bed. Standing up, she assumed her usual authoritative posture, straight-backed and with her head held high, and gave herself a steely glare as she surveyed her appearance.
If she was inclined toward vanity, she might have thought herself pretty. As she wasn't, she had, after an awkward adolescence, resigned herself to her own brand of strangely-featured dignity. A smoothly sloping forehead descended to heavy-lidded eyes that, at the moment, conveyed what she considered an appropriate level of imperious displeasure. Her nose was straight, if slightly pointed, her cheekbones prominent and her mouth small (growing up, she would have preferred that the strength of both features were reversed). The elegant upsweep of her hair -- which, she noted with some pride, was lacking so much as a strand of grey -- balanced the jutting line of what had come to be known as the King Jaw, from her father's side of the family. Her complexion had survived her somewhat abusive youth with a few telltale freckles and expression lines, and her figure had changed very little throughout adulthood. She had always been skinny and suspected she always would be, but at least maturity had lent itself to that description -- she'd been downright bony during her Quidditch days. Now, she was merely . . . sharp, an adjective which seemed to suit every aspect of her person and of her character.
Still, she had held up incredibly well for her age -- well enough for Poppy Pomfrey to feel it necessary to get in more than a couple of "At your age . . ." jibes, which were composed of equal parts jealousy and amiability. At her age, indeed; she was in her prime! Seventy-six was scarcely middle-aged for a witch, and rightly so a Muggle might mistake her for being somewhere in her late thirties to early forties, which was nothing to sneeze at, Poppy Pomfrey and her symptomatic leanings aside.
Her autonomy thus reaffirmed, Minerva squared her shoulders, took a breath, and made to return downstairs. In the throes of awareness of her own self-sufficiency, the Floo bill beckoned.
The lioness versus the lamb . . . one would think the results obvious . . .
Approximately two hours later found her again in the kitchen, her lips pursed in a scowl. The chops sizzled defiantly in their frying pan. She glanced at the yellowed family cookery book, where Tasgall Macnair's Axed Lamb with Orange Gore wore a guise of the utmost innocence. Along the top, around the title, Tasgall's pun of a doodle depicted a small hogget being led with a martyr's hauteur to the chopping block, as a maniacal-looking little stick figure sharpened the blade of its axe next to a pot of marmalade. Minerva was reasonably sure she had got the recipe correct, but the outcome thus far little resembled the engraving that had been stuck on at the bottom of the page.
A heavy slam from behind her caused her to start violently. Minerva whirled around, wand already in hand and poised for defence -- only to be lowered just as quickly, when she found not the masked descendant of Great-Uncle Tassy but the wide-eyed countenance of her untidy-haired charge.
"Good heavens, Potter!" she exclaimed, her wand hand clutched to her heart. The Magician's Nephew rested on the tabletop, the origin of the sudden noise.
"Sorry -- it slipped," Harry explained, sheepish, and added hurriedly, "I like it, though."
Her blood warming again as its adrenaline diffused, Minerva recalled how to breathe -- and how to smile. "Well, I'm glad to hear it. What part are you up to?"
"Strawberry's Adventure. They've just got to the lands beyond the edge of Narnia."
"Chapter twelve already?" Minerva raised an eyebrow, impressed. "That was fast. If only you became so absorbed in your lessons."
Potter shrugged, and the corners of his mouth quirked upward. "Some day I might surprise you."
Minerva laughed, a sound more hollow than lighthearted, as she spooned marmalade atop the lamb chops. "You always do, Potter, believe me. Sometimes I wonder if you don't have more lives than I do."
"Maybe," he confessed; and then, a moment later, "But not my own."
The change in his tone was like an icy floodhead, and the rush of adrenaline returned. Was the boy ready to talk at last? And if he was, how best to prompt him into speaking further?
". . . What do you mean, Potter?" she quietly asked.
"It always feels like I'm taking them, like I wasn't born to be like this. He made me this way; turned me into what I am, what I have to do. He left a part of himself in me, and I can't help but be partly him. I can't help . . . affecting people . . . the same way he does."
He spoke with the voice of a ghost, and Minerva stifled a shiver as she turned, slowly, to face him once more. His gaze had settled, trance-like and unseeing, on the book atop the table.
"You're not him, Potter," she assured him. All the same, an image flashed upon the screen of her mind, a transparency layered across her vision in the form of another black-haired, green-eyed boy she had known once, and too well. She blinked it forcibly away and tried again, "He chose his path, and yes, he decided, in part, your own; but the very fact that those paths intertwine is proof that they are not parallel."
Potter's eyes locked suddenly on hers. "We're connected. We always will be, until one of us . . ." The sentence trailed off, its ending unnecessary. Minerva noticed that his hands had clenched into fists at his sides. ". . . And even then," he murmured in an unnerving mix of menace and fear, "who knows what might be left behind?"
The question lingered in the air, and if she could have done Minerva would have snatched it from where it hung and torn it to pieces. As it was, she was at a loss for words and actions both, for she had nothing to promise the boy that mightn't be broken.
"He chose to become what he is," she reiterated, "and you have chosen not to accept that. As long as you contest him, Potter, as long as you defy him . . . he has no more power over you than you have over him. If anything, your hold over him is even stronger -- he chose you for his nemesis, not his successor."
Potter was silent, though the tendons in his temples corded as his jaw worked pensively. When he finally spoke again, the query wasn't what she had expected to hear.
"Is something burning?"
Minerva sniffed. Something was.
"Oh, of all the--" she hissed, pulling the pan of charred lamb chops off of the fire and waving at the smoke that had accumulated over the cooker. Potter, in a burst of foresight and more speed than she had seen him exhibit in the past month, managed to save the potatoes from boiling over in nigh the same instant.
Minerva coughed delicately as the air cleared, hoping that the dim evening light concealed the embarrassed flush she could feel heating her face (really, despite having grown accustomed to the readiness with which food was available at Hogwarts, she couldn't remember ever having been so frequently incompetent in the kitchen), and looked between the blackened entrée and the young man still holding the pot of potatoes between either end of a tartan teatowel. The tension of the previous moment had irreversibly slackened; to her annoyance or relief, she couldn't decide which.
"Sandwiches, then?" she asked.
Potter looked hesitant. "As long as they're not toasted."
Minerva glowered up at him (a growth spurt last December had left him a couple of inches taller than she, although it was doubtful he would ever grow any taller). "Five points from Gryffindor, Potter; I will not tolerate cheek in my house."
One corner of Potter's mouth tilted up in amusement.
Dinner, such as it was, proceeded without further incident. Minerva's icebox and pantry were better stocked than they had been in . . . than they had ever been, and there was a hearty supply of cold meats and cheeses, mustard, fruits, fish, vegetables and breads. They ate, standing, at the granite-topped island unit she had wheeled to the centre of the kitchen, Minerva casually adding a handful of kale and a couple of slices of tomato to Potter's scurvy-inviting beef roast and cheddar.
"Oh, don't look like that," she chided him when he wrinkled his nose at her contributions. "If you're only going to eat one meal a day, it's going to be a reasonably healthy one."
"Like scones?"
Minerva shot him a stern sidelong look. "Cheek, Potter. And my standards have since narrowed in regard to what approximates 'food', now that your aversion to nourishment has somewhat abated. Butterbeer, contrary to popular adolescent opinion, is not the backbone of a balanced diet."
Potter took a bite of his sandwich, but chewed it deliberately, as if to demonstrate emphasis on the 'somewhat'.
Quartering an apple, Minerva changed the subject. "Have you read your letters yet?"
After washing down his food with swallow of the aforementioned spineless beverage, the boy nodded.
"Anything of note?"
He shrugged. "Viktor Krum might visit Hermione in a couple weeks."
"Oh, well, that's nice." It was -- nice, but not anything spectacular. While she approved of the Bulgarian Seeker -- a polite, empathetic young man, and impressively humble despite his success -- Minerva couldn't imagine the ambitious Miss Granger to be more than passively interested in someone who was, despite his many admirable qualities, well . . . frankly, dull. Krum's life, albeit fairly extraordinary in some respects, seemed to lack excitement in every area outside of Quidditch, in which Miss Granger was not especially interested. He took what excitement came his way in stride, performed the tasks required of him and then moved on, and although some would argue that his reserve would provide an offset to Miss Granger's own ceaseless determination, Minerva had a feeling that the opposite was true. She saw much of her own younger self in the girl, recognised that same combination of bookishness and brazenness, that thirst, not only for knowledge but for experience, that she herself possessed. She certainly saw enough to surmise that Krum's placidity would ultimately be his undoing in his quest to win Miss Granger's heart. He simply wouldn't challenge her enough to hold her attention for very long. Their very farness from one another was likely the key factor in what had kept them in contact for the past two years.
In this case, however, Minerva admitted that Krum might be precisely what Miss Granger needed: a rock, someone unconnected to the turmoil yet fresh in the seventeen-year-old's mind, compassionate but distant enough to be an ideal distraction, at least for a brief while.
"And the others," she queried, "are they well?"
"They seem to be. Draco's in Chepstow, visiting a sick aunt. Luna's dad's hired Colin Creevey for the summer, as a photographer--"
"Naturally."
Potter nodded. "Mister Lovegood's got him hunting for the first known picture of a Blibbering Humdinger."
The derisive snort escaped her before she could stop it. At Potter's raised eyebrows, she rolled her eyes. "Well, really . . ."
". . . And Neville's Uncle Algie," he continued, "is building him a greenhouse in their back garden."
"Is he? Good. I've heard wonderful things from Professor Sprout about Longbottom's skill in Herbology. If only he were so adept in all his subjects . . . his father was such a brilliant wizard, especially in Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts . . ." The sentence ended in her mind, though apparently not brilliant enough.
Comprehension registered in Potter's otherwise stolid gaze.
"It must be difficult," he said, "to have taught them. To teach us."
"Oh, well . . ." Minerva faltered, flustered. "One gets used to it, I suppose."
She glanced up from a piece of gradually browning apple to find him staring at her evenly, sceptically, and breathed a defeated sigh.
"No," she admitted, "one doesn't. The teaching, yes, but . . . it's never easy, watching students leave Hogwarts, wondering what will become of them, did I do enough to prepare them for the world; and then to wonder it, again and again, when the absolute worst happens . . . But," she amended, smoothing a hand over her hair as if to cast off the dark cloak of thoughts from her head, "I wouldn't trade my position for any in the world."
"Did you ever have children of your own?"
Minerva laughed. "Good gracious, no. I already have an average of seventy per year; one more would have been the death of me. No, my students are all the children I've ever wanted."
A small smile touched Potter's lips. "So there was never a Mister McGonagall?"
She shook her head. "No -- though not that a few didn't try."
"Who?"
"That, Mister Potter," she said with finality -- the conversation had already grown more personal than she had intended, although she found herself not minding it overmuch, "is between they and their egos."
After the food had been put away, Potter made to retire with his book to his room, but paused in the kitchen doorway as Minerva charmed the dishes to wash themselves.
"Have you heard any news?" he enquired, his brow slightly furrowed. "From the Order, or . . . or anywhere else, about things?"
She brooded for a moment on the answer. Alastor had contacted her early that morning by fire. As for what to reveal, and how much, if anyone deserved to know . . .
"Attacks are still happening," she confirmed. "The only vaguely hopeful sign is that they appear to be made seemingly at random. The Death Eaters are still working together, but their organisation is . . . well, it almost isn't. Obviously, if they haven't disbanded, You-Know-Who must still be at large, but no reports have come in of his specific actions. He hasn't been sighted since . . ."
He caught her meaning and, ostensibly satisfied, his only response was a single nod before he disappeared into the parlour.
Minerva leaned against the edge of the sink, where a sudsy coarse-bristled brush was scrubbing furiously at the black crust left on the frying pan that had contained the singed lamb chops. 'Vaguely hopeful' was one interpretation of the goings-on -- or lack thereof -- of Lord Voldemort's devotees. 'Potentially catastrophic' was the other. Severus Snape had divulged that he had received no orders from a source of higher rank than Lucius Malfoy for the past month. What could the Dark Lord possibly be planning, that was so horrendous as to give him cause to secret himself away even from his followers?
A youthful voice, rich with amusement and terribly at ease, echoed in her head: What are you up to, Tom?
Hours later, the question continued to loop through her thoughts, a broken record of remembrance despite her efforts to knock off the needle. Her room was dark, soundless, and Minerva's mind was misted with lucid dreams, mimicking the nocturnal fog that settled nightly over the moors. The question had been a mere slip of the brain. She was no Necromancer, but the somnambulists of her subconscious clawed their way to the surface of their graves nonetheless.
. . . If you spent day in and day out with no one but that -- that zombie of a child . . .
Sixteen years old, near the greenhouses, picking dead leaves from her hat:
"What are you up to, Tom?"
"Shhh -- it's a surprise."
At seventy-six, in her bed, a hand reached up and tangled itself in her hair:
No. There is no Tom; Tom is long dead.
Sixty years dead and thus ageless, immortal, in ether or in ink or in memory . . .
Fifteen and seventy-two and seventy-six (in her own cerebral cemetery): The Chamber of Secrets has been opened.
Repression, regret: one cannot change the past.
"I loved you once."
"An eternity only needs once."
Responsibility, remorse: no matter how much one might wish to.
The boy is long dead; long live the boy.
Twice, Ginny Weasley had succumbed, beaten down by the repetitious laws of history . . . but what of immortality? What eternity awaits those who break the laws of yesteryear?
Minerva awoke to pain, blood, and screaming. The latter was not her own.
In the rapid blur of activity achievable by those who have slept lightly, she darted from her bed and out of her chambers, down the stairs and into his.
"Potter!" she shouted, her hands on his shoulders to still him rather than shake him; he was already thrashing plenty. "Potter, wake up!"
He did, bolting upright so quickly she had to flinch back to avoid being hit. His breath came so fast and heavy she wondered if he wouldn't lose consciousness again, and his eyes rolled wildly as he struggled to take in his surroundings.
"It's okay, Potter; you're safe." The vow left her lips before she could properly think it through. "It was only a dream."
Regaining something of his wits if not his calm, the boy shook his head vehemently. "It wasn't! It happened, it fucking happened, she--"
The sentence halted as though it had plunged off the edge of the world.
Potter's eyes, already red from restless sleep, grew redder, and glassy with tears.
"I can't stop seeing it," he said hoarsely, an uncontrollable quaver in his voice. "Every time I close my eyes, I can't . . . and the smell . . ."
Minerva drew him close, as much to mask the dampness gathering in her own eyes as to comfort him. So accustomed to his reserve, she momentarily tensed at the severity of his response. He clung to her like a life ring, his fingers curling desperately into the white satin of her shift, not sobbing but hyperventilating, his shoulders rising and falling erratically as he took in great gulps of air. She ran a soothing hand along his back, feeling more helpless in this task than if she were made to duel a dozen Death Eaters. To be optimistic would be horribly out of place; to lie, an insult, no matter how well-intentioned.
Minerva settled, as she too often did, for silence.
I'm so sorry, lad . . . oh, God, Harry, I'm so sorry . . .
It was some time before he calmed. In fact, his breathing grew so steady she suspected, momentarily, that he had fallen back to sleep in her arms. It wasn't until he began to pull away that she realised she had been holding on to him as tightly as he had to her, and she released him quickly, abashed. He had dreamt of fire, but the last thing she wanted to do was smother him. Furtively, she wiped her eyes.
"Better now?" The question sounded absurd even to her own ears, but Potter took it in the spirit in which it was meant.
"Better . . ." he murmured, empty-voiced and staring at the ceiling.
"Can I get you anything? A glass of water?"
His eyes flicked to hers. "No, thank you. But--" he quickly added as she began to rise, his cheeks pinkening as he nervously moistened his lips, ". . . could you stay -- stay with me, just until I fall asleep again?"
Minerva chewed lightly on her sore tongue, which was still smarting from the effects of her own zealous incubus. She nodded, and sat back down on the edge of his bed. "All right, Potter."
His mouth twitched in a semblance of a grateful smile, and, hesitantly, he shut his eyes.
She watched him for an indeterminate amount of time, remaining long after the occasional flutter of his dark lashes that indicated a return to the Land of Nod, although these new visions seemed mercifully benign.
Nevertheless, the sick, cold feeling that swam in her stomach made her feel as if she had swallowed an eel. Now, at sixteen and especially in sleep, the likeness was uncanny, right down to the faint crease of uneasy ruminations that furrowed his pale brow . . .
I loved you . . . You're not him.
She caught herself before she could slip further down that treacherous slope, and quashed guilt that ascended like bile in her throat. There was no use in dwelling on what she had -- or hadn't -- done, those many years ago. She was not the only one, after all, whose sightless trust had been violated, who had underestimated the gravity of what had been developing right under her very nose. Scholarly and worldly experience both had taught her well that stupidity was no more discriminating an affliction than any other illness of the heart or mind. And yet . . .
It was remarkable, really, how little rationality actually figured into one's life.
For the second time that night, Minerva fought to regain her mental footing. It was a sudden warmth upon her hand that managed to hold her fast to the present, tethering her to reality rather than revery in much the same way as she had, she hoped, done for him.
Repentance, redemption.
Giving Potter's hand an appreciative squeeze, Minerva left behind the boy who died, and turned her attentions to where they ought to have lain, with The Boy Who Lived.
The boy is long dead; long live the boy.
She hadn't meant the pledge to be taken literally, least of all by herself, and so it was with more than a little confusion and mortification that she found herself awakening next morning in a bed that was not her own.
How on earth had she ended up in here? True, she'd stayed longer than she'd intended last night, and exhaustion had been nipping at her heels all the while, having caught her up after her own restless kip; but surely she wouldn't have grown so fuzzy-headed with fatigue that she couldn't find her own chambers again?
The last thing she recalled was leaning down, her head brushing against his pillow, as she checked to be certain that he slept soundly . . .
"Oh, Merlin's beard!" Minerva exclaimed, burying her face in the traitorous feather-filled case that had brought about her undoing.
It was a small consolation -- extremely small, for she couldn't decide whether it was that or a curse -- that Potter was not presently in the room. She wasn't sure what she would have done, had she woken to his bewildered -- possibly alarmed -- gaze boring into hers. Preferably, she would have woken before him and snuck out undetected. Ideally, she would have done so some hours earlier.
As it was, he had at least given her the courtesy of collecting herself before she would have to face the gallows of her own humiliation -- namely, himself. He had even, she noticed as she sat up, been thoughtful enough to cover her with the eiderdown, whether for the sake of her comfortableness or modesty, she was unsure. She had sprung from her own bed so hastily the night before that she had not even considered assuming her dressing gown.
She did assume it, after scraping up as much of her composure as she could and detouring shortly to her room, where the rituals of her morning toilette bought her blissful time to further her equanimity -- mid-morning, she corrected herself, for a glance out the window revealed the sun to be high in the east. Good gracious, it had been ages since she had last slept in! And, judging from her level of energy, providing it was not only an aftereffect of shame, she seriously contemplated doing it more often, albeit hopefully -- definitely -- under different circumstances.
Tea, she decided. There was nothing in heaven, hell or on earth that could not be alleviated by the imbibition of a Nice Cup of Tea.
. . . And, she frowned to herself as she descended the stairs, a nice plate of bacon?
Yes, the smell was unmistakable. Bacon, sausage, and porridge, too. That couldn't be right . . .
But as Minerva entered the kitchen, she found all of these things -- plus one Harry Potter, who was bustling over the stove, clad in pyjamas and a tartan apron. Hearing the door swing closed behind her, he turned, spatula brandished like a wand.
"Good morning," he greeted her, and if she wasn't mistaken, Minerva could have sworn there was a cheerful note present in his voice.
She blinked, and her brain blanked of all the magisterial vindications she had planned to unload upon him. "Good morning," she echoed dumbly.
"There's tea," Potter informed her, gesturing with the spatula at the squat green pot and two matching cups which rested on the table. "I found Yorkshire and English Breakfast. I wasn't sure which you'd like, so I figured, as it's breakfast . . ."
"Oh, yes . . . that's fine." She sat down stiffly and poured herself a cup. The first sip had all the effect of a hot bath after a Quidditch game to her senses, and she allowed herself to slouch back into her chair in repose. "I didn't know you could cook."
Potter flipped the bacon and sausages onto a waiting plate, then brought the food to the table, resting the hot porridge pot on the multi-purpose tea towel. "Ever since I've been tall enough to reach the cooker," he shrugged. "Aunt Petunia insisted I pull my weight around the house. Did you sleep well?"
"Er--" Minerva started, her hands tightening around her teacup. "About that, Potter . . ."
"I didn't mind," he said quickly, spooning porridge into a bowl, which he then slid over to her along with the salt. "It was my fault. I didn't mean to wake you, or--"
"Oh, don't be silly, boy," Minerva dismissed his insistences with a wave of her hand. "It was pure irresponsibleness on my part; I should have left far sooner than I did. It is I who should be apologising to you. You have my word that it will never happen again."
She inwardly blamed the flush of her cheeks on the steam rising from her cup.
Potter's shoulders lifted in a second shrug. "It was kind of . . . nice," he quietly admitted, poking at a sausage with his fork. "I mean, I've never had . . . no one's ever, you know, done that. It felt good. Safer."
Minerva's heart went out to the boy. She had known more than one child throughout her years who had been forced to mature in the absence of basic human solace. She did all she could for them, of course, but it was difficult; so many, like Potter, having never relied on physical comforts, simply didn't recognise needing them.
Regardless, it was preposterous to think she could spend every night as she had the last. Impropriety didn't even begin to describe the flaws in that idea.
". . . I am here for you, Potter," she promised him, stumbling over the words. She had never felt so awkward in the presence of a student. "If you ever need . . . but I cannot . . . that is to say, it would be inappropriate for me -- for us to . . . oh, this isn't coming out at all right!"
"It's okay," Potter assured her. "I understand. I didn't expect -- I know last night was a mistake."
He looked as if he wanted to say more, but thankfully he held his tongue.
Minerva cleared her throat and straightened up in defiance of the urge she had to slide under the table and possibly, the castle's foundation permitting, into a hole in the ground. "Well, now that that's settled . . ." A swallow of porridge punctuated the sentence, and it was some minutes before either spoke again.
"You're the first woman I've slept with, you know."
Minerva choked on her tea.
"Jesus, Potter!" she spluttered between coughing. The boy looked unashamed.
"Sorry," he smiled puckishly. "Couldn't resist."
And because he was smiling -- the first true, broad grin Minerva had seen on his face in over a month -- her indignation dissolved in a matter of heartbeats.