Chapter Five
Albus Dumbledore awoke with the sun, the next morning- and found a well-filled plate on his bedside table. Breakfast, apparently, and he smiled whilst throwing off the sheets. Thank you, Rosmerta.
For that was where the unfortunate Headmaster had gone- very simply, but very effectively at the same time; Hogsmeade. The Three Broomsticks.
Both he and Minerva had known Madam Rosmerta for years- Minerva had taught her for seven years and he himself had already been Headmaster by then. And they had always known that, whatever would come to pass, she would always be there, ready to count on and ready to fight for the good side. She'd never been an Order member, true, but she'd helped the Order many times in the previous war against Voldemort, as well as in the present one, and when Dolores Umbridge had forced Albus to leave his beloved Hogwarts to her questionable cares, the Headmaster had immediately known that Rosmerta's hidden, spare room would once more prove its usefulness. For that was where the Headmaster had slept and lived in for the past days, occasionally Flooing to Grimmauld Place and back.
Albus smiled once more as he stretched out his arms in order to get the usual, sleepy feeling out of his limbs. It proved more difficult than usual, though- he had not slept well. He'd had a nightmare- and though he couldn't even remember what about, it had frightened him and caused him to lie awake for the greater part of the dark hours.
As he wanted to start his breakfast, though, taking the plate and resting it on his knees, the frightened, worried feeling inside of his stomach that had kept him awake came back full force, though. A small, yellowish envelope lay beside his plate- and somehow, whilst recognizing the big, clear handwriting on the envelope, the bacon and eggs lost all their appeal. His long, bony fingers trembled whilst trying to open the envelope- the knot inside of him grew bigger and bigger.
Why Poppy, he wondered. Why Poppy, while Minerva was there to send him messages about the what, why and how of the school? She had done so, after all- he'd been away for merely three days, and already two long, optimistic, although hardly hiding the writer's despair, letters formed a neat little pile on the corner of his small desk. And now, all of a sudden, a letter from Poppy.
It wasn't that he didn't like Poppy- oh no, she was a trusted friend of both him and Minerva, but perhaps that exactly was the reason why her letter bothered him. If it had been Severus, he'd understood it- the inter-House rivalry tended to sometimes affect the Heads of Houses as well, even though since they were both Order members Severus and Minerva got on remarkably better. Still- it would have been understandable.
But Poppy? Poppy, who was about Minerva's best friend?
That could only lead to the next suggestion, the one that made him shiver, the one he didn't even want to think about. The suggestion that his own, beautiful, strong, brave Minerva wasn't able anymore to write a letter herself. That was the only way he could possibly put it- the only way he could possibly think about it.
Shaking his head as if to shoo off those –naturally wrong, he convinced himself!- assumptions, he took the letter out and with shaking hands started to read the letter.
Three seconds later he was lying on the floor- fainted.
Albus Dumbledore awoke with the sun, the next morning- and found a well-filled plate on his bedside table. Breakfast, apparently, and he smiled whilst throwing off the sheets. Thank you, Rosmerta.
For that was where the unfortunate Headmaster had gone- very simply, but very effectively at the same time; Hogsmeade. The Three Broomsticks.
Both he and Minerva had known Madam Rosmerta for years- Minerva had taught her for seven years and he himself had already been Headmaster by then. And they had always known that, whatever would come to pass, she would always be there, ready to count on and ready to fight for the good side. She'd never been an Order member, true, but she'd helped the Order many times in the previous war against Voldemort, as well as in the present one, and when Dolores Umbridge had forced Albus to leave his beloved Hogwarts to her questionable cares, the Headmaster had immediately known that Rosmerta's hidden, spare room would once more prove its usefulness. For that was where the Headmaster had slept and lived in for the past days, occasionally Flooing to Grimmauld Place and back.
Albus smiled once more as he stretched out his arms in order to get the usual, sleepy feeling out of his limbs. It proved more difficult than usual, though- he had not slept well. He'd had a nightmare- and though he couldn't even remember what about, it had frightened him and caused him to lie awake for the greater part of the dark hours.
As he wanted to start his breakfast, though, taking the plate and resting it on his knees, the frightened, worried feeling inside of his stomach that had kept him awake came back full force, though. A small, yellowish envelope lay beside his plate- and somehow, whilst recognizing the big, clear handwriting on the envelope, the bacon and eggs lost all their appeal. His long, bony fingers trembled whilst trying to open the envelope- the knot inside of him grew bigger and bigger.
Why Poppy, he wondered. Why Poppy, while Minerva was there to send him messages about the what, why and how of the school? She had done so, after all- he'd been away for merely three days, and already two long, optimistic, although hardly hiding the writer's despair, letters formed a neat little pile on the corner of his small desk. And now, all of a sudden, a letter from Poppy.
It wasn't that he didn't like Poppy- oh no, she was a trusted friend of both him and Minerva, but perhaps that exactly was the reason why her letter bothered him. If it had been Severus, he'd understood it- the inter-House rivalry tended to sometimes affect the Heads of Houses as well, even though since they were both Order members Severus and Minerva got on remarkably better. Still- it would have been understandable.
But Poppy? Poppy, who was about Minerva's best friend?
That could only lead to the next suggestion, the one that made him shiver, the one he didn't even want to think about. The suggestion that his own, beautiful, strong, brave Minerva wasn't able anymore to write a letter herself. That was the only way he could possibly put it- the only way he could possibly think about it.
Shaking his head as if to shoo off those –naturally wrong, he convinced himself!- assumptions, he took the letter out and with shaking hands started to read the letter.
Three seconds later he was lying on the floor- fainted.