Yahoo, a new chapter! SO sorry for the long wait, this one was tricky! Hope you enjoy, don't forget to review! :)
Hanged for a Dragon, Hanged for an Egg
October was, in Minerva's opinion, the worst month of the year. Students had by now gotten past the novelty of a new routine, of being able to do magic freely, of learning. Now their attention shifted to other things: Quidditch, clubs, pranks, and – oh, horrors – each other. Students became bold, irritating, and attention-seeking; not at all the enthusiastic children they'd been in September. October held nothing of interest to capture anyone's attention (except for Hallowe'en, but that didn't count because it was at the end). Teachers didn't bother to report bad behaviour; for this month, it was commonplace. No child in the castle made any effort to work hard for these four weeks. October was boring, empty, and as annoying as Moaning Myrtle was on a bad day.
There was also her birthday.
Minerva had long since stopped caring about her birthday. It wasn't something she had done intentionally; it was simply that after fifty or sixty of them, she found them less and less important. She was also the only one who felt this way.
Albus treasured his special day. Perhaps because he was so old, he considered each year a blessing. Perhaps he simply loved an excuse to dress up, eat sweets, and celebrate. He delighted in making other people enjoy their special days too, a tradition Minerva had come to dread. And Slughorn, well, Minerva knew that Horace loved parties, especially dinner ones. There was not a chance on Earth that he would deprive himself of the chance to receive his favourite crystallized pineapple as a gift and gorge himself on delicious food. As for Filius, the little man was so cheerful and enthusiastic about everything; Minerva had rarely ever seen him frown. And Filius certainly loved to decorate, particularly with those live fairies he was so fond of.
Minerva didn't hate other people's birthdays; in fact, she didn't even hate her own. What she did hate was everyone making a large fuss out of something that, if she had her way, would be completely ignored. Minerva never got her way, not about this, and not with Albus in charge. It was the one time of the year when Minerva hated that man.
She'd been woken early on Saturday, the fourth of October, by a large tawny school owl hooting cheerfully on her nightstand. Frowning, she reached out and took the envelope and the rose from the owl's beak, swearing to herself two things: one, if the envelope made any sort of noise when she opened it, she would scream and throw it out the window; two, if it was from Connor and contained the word 'love' anywhere at all, in any context, it would be used to fuel the fire in her sitting room.
Thankfully, it was neither. It was a note from Albus, wishing her a wonderful day and telling her to stop frowning – which she was doing right at that moment. That did make her laugh, and the rose was lovely. She put it in a vase of water and got dressed.
It wasn't completely terrible, as birthdays went. Poppy and Pomona gave her a pair of dragonskin gloves and a beautiful ruby-red quill, respectively. Slughorn, predictably, gave her his usual: a package of Ginger Newts in a Slytherin-green tin. They both knew that Minerva would charm the tin to be tartan-patterned the second he left, but Minerva always waited until he left and besides, it was sort of a running joke between them. Filius gave her an interesting book entitled 'The Magical Properties and Research of Stonehenge', which Bran later said sounded boring but for which Minerva had been looking for ages. Bran gave her a cat collar (Minerva boxed his ears for that) and a new maroon-coloured book bag. Hagrid's gift was a box of his home-made treacle fudge. Trudy, who was obviously unsure if she ought to get Minerva something, though Minerva had her not to bother countless times, handed her a card and bottle of new black ink.
That left two and Minerva had spent that night sitting up in bed (Albus had given her the night off patrolling corridors) looking over them.
Connor's gift was a silver necklace. It was light, simple, and very tasteful: just the sort of thing that suited Minerva perfectly. The necklace both annoyed her and made her sad. Unless Minerva was very much mistaken (which she wasn't), Connor had given her a similar necklace almost fifty years ago, on their two-year anniversary. Minerva would have put the necklace aside to look at the other present, but Albus' gift was just as confusing.
It was a thick, heavy, winter cloak made of a deep black material. The inside was lined with some soft cloth that Minerva rubbed against her face (just once, mind you). Also on the inside, just over where her heart would be when she put it on, was a bit of detailed embroidery. There, in vibrant-coloured thread, was embroidered a vivid phoenix feather and a silver cat with spectacle markings around its eyes, watching it fall. Underneath was embroidered in a loopy handwriting, Gryffindors.
Every time Minerva looked at it her eyes watered and she needed a handkerchief. She remembered what Albus had said when he'd handed her the wrapped package.
'I do hope it's not too personal, Minerva,' he'd told her gently, quietly. 'It'll be useful in the coming months, anyway.'
'Don't be ridiculous, Albus,' Minerva had chided him. 'I've known you for fifty years. If you are not allowed to be personal, then who is?' He'd smiled and embraced her gently – perhaps a second longer than usual.
Connor had hugged her too, and longer than the norm, his eyes shining and his expression happy, hopeful. Minerva returned the smile tightly and had known, in that moment, that it was not Connor she wanted.
Gryffindors. Gryffindors, plural. Albus was referring to their shared house, their shared qualities, their shared everything. It indicated everything they had in common. If Connor had implied anything like that, Minerva would have scowled. When Albus embroidered it, on her clothes, did Minerva mind? Oh, hell no.
What the bloody hell was wrong with her?
Albus sat in his sitting room, in front of the fire. He watched the dancing flames and wondered if anyone else was sitting up in their rooms, in front of the fire, thinking. He glanced up at the clock and smiled ruefully, shaking his head. It was quarter past midnight; he rather doubted anyone was.
The day had been a success, in his opinion. After hours of contemplation, he had finally elected to send Minerva note in the morning. He had considered charming it to make it sing, but somehow he had doubted that Minerva would appreciate his efforts. He'd also neglected to write anything too 'touchy-feely', knowing that Minerva wouldn't be in the mood for something like that at seven in the morning. A rose, he'd thought, wasn't too intimate, so he'd felt fine sending one of those too. He'd also spent agonizing days and weeks wondering if he ought to personalize the fine cloak he'd bought her, finally deciding to chance it and embroidering it himself – with a little magical help. Albus was fairly good at reading emotions, and from the way Minerva's eyes had widened and the sudden increase in frequency of her blinks, he'd supposed she'd liked it.
How was it that he could spout wisdom off the top of his head, but he spent weeks struggling over whether or not to send a woman a good-morning note?
A slight ache in his legs alerted Albus to the fact that he needed a stretch. He decided to walk down to the kitchens for some hot chocolate before bed. Despite the fact that it was late, tomorrow was Sunday, and he could sleep until nine if need be. He pulled his purple dressing gown on over his night shirt and set off.
Albus saw no one on his way downstairs, though he half expected to hear a cough, or perhaps a swear word or two, as he often had when Harry and young Mr Weasley had crept about the castle under Harry's Invisibility Cloak. Albus strode downstairs, skipping over the trick stair and walking until he reached the painting of the fruit. He tickled the pear and went inside.
The few house-elves that stayed in the kitchen at night while the others cleaned tripped over themselves rushing to serve the Headmaster. Albus greeted them cheerfully and assured them that he quite enjoyed making his own hot chocolate, as he did every time he came to the kitchen. When they tiny creatures finally acquiesced, Albus set about finding a mug.
He was in the middle of pouring hot water from the kettle into his mug when he heard the door open behind him. Without turning around, Albus suddenly knew who it would be. He actually looked to the heavens in silent questioning before he turned to face the visitor. Sure enough, it was Connor McKinley.
'Professor McKinley,' he said with a smile. 'Good evening – or perhaps it should be good morning?' Connor smiled awkwardly. He had evidently not expected to run into the Headmaster in the kitchen in the middle of the night.
McKinley was wearing a cream-coloured night shirt and a mustard yellow dressing gown. He stepped hesitantly into the room and was immediately surrounded by three or four house-elves. 'Would Professor McKinley like something to eat? How can we serve the Professor?' they chattered excitedly.
'Um, no, thank you,' McKinley said awkwardly, and Albus knew this was his first time in the kitchens. It did take a while to get used to the house-elves' overly helpful manners.
'Would you care for some hot chocolate?' Albus found himself offering. 'There is some hot water left in the kettle, and the powder is next to it.' He inclined his head in the direction of the wooden stove. Connor paused for a moment before nodding and going to the stove. As he reached for the kettle it occurred to him that he had no mug. Almost at the same instant this thought occurred, Dumbledore's voice broke the silence.
'In the cupboard above you,' he said. McKinley found a mug and poured the water, mixing the hot chocolate together before turning and sitting down at the small table across from Albus. There was a silence.
Albus never felt awkward. He was simply not an awkward person. He had a personal motto that there was always something to do or talk about in order to alleviate any discomfort in a situation. When Bran had come to talk to him, Albus had hummed. Now, with Connor, Albus used a different tactic. He talked.
'It's a bit late,' he observed, blowing gently on his steaming mug. Connor shrugged and took a gulp of his drink, only to choke on it as it scalded his throat.
Charming.
'Minerva seemed to be fairly…unexcited, today,' Connor finally said slowly, as if he was thinking carefully about what he was saying. 'Sort of…cold.'
Albus nodded. 'Minerva's not particularly fond of birthday celebrations,' he said. Shouldn't Connor know this already?
'When Minerva and I were together, she loved celebrating,' Connor insisted, answering Albus' unspoken thought. The sentence reverberated around Albus' skull as the clear implication of the words drove in.
Albus considered his next sentence carefully, cautiously choosing his words. 'She's changed a bit in the years since then, I expect.' Connor mouth twitched into a slight frown, but his expression smoothed over quickly.
'I suppose so,' Connor said. He looked up and met Albus' gaze. 'Why do you celebrate it, if she dislikes it so intently?' Albus felt his brow furrow slightly at the slight emphasis of accusation in Connor's tone.
'I believe it is an important day that should be honoured,' Albus finally replied. 'Besides which, if she truly did not want to celebrate it, she would tell me, and I would discontinue. I am under the impression that as long as the event is low-key, she doesn't detest it.'
'I suppose so,' said Connor. After a pause, he asked, 'What did you get her?' This time, Albus could not keep the frown from twisting his visage. This seemed too personal a question to ask of a man who you had known but two months, was your superior, and when the topic in question concerned a woman that both of the men knew.
'A cloak,' Albus said truthfully enough. He did not elaborate, and Connor did not request further clarification. Perhaps he sensed Albus would not give it. He seemed more confident, slightly triumphant, as though he knew his gift had been better, more memorable.
'I gave her a silver necklace,' Connor provided without being asked (Albus did not actually want to know). 'It is one very similar to the one I gave her almost fifty years ago.'
Albus said nothing, but to Connor, the room suddenly seemed colder.
As the two men fell into silence, Albus was struck by a sudden thought. He could not say where the thought came from, or why it suddenly occurred to him at that moment. Perhaps it was the current uncomfortable conversation, or the subject of discussion, but whatever the reason, Albus looked at Connor with absolute certainty that they would never be friends.
Minerva strode down the hallway, her new bag over her shoulder, now slightly worn after a week of use, and her heels clicking steadily. She was going to drop off her bag in her office, pick up her new cloak, and then meet Pomona in the Charms corridor for a walk outside by the greenhouses.
Students were sprawled around everywhere, obviously not in any hurry to do homework now that it was Friday and they had an entire weekend to do it. Minerva's birthday had been nearly a week ago, and Minerva's opinion of October had somewhat improved in the time since. It was a cold, breezy day, as it had been for the last fortnight, and the weather showed no sign of improving. Whilst outwardly glad of the warmth her new cloak would provide, Minerva was a little wary of wearing it in public. She was sure she would suffer some sort of pathetic emotional display if anyone pointed out the cloak's personalization. Albus really was very sweet.
Once Minerva had pulled on the soft cloak, she impulsively decided to make her way to the Charms corridor in her Animagus form. She'd often received compliments about her fitness despite her age, but the truth was that she got most of her exercise when she was a tabby cat. Just one of the bonuses of studying Transfiguration for one's entire life.
Minerva slunk along the corridors, her paws making no sound as she stole away in the shadows. The sound of familiar human voices made their way to her, and her ears automatically pricked up in the direction of the sounds.
Minerva's general morals definitely included a lack of eavesdropping, so even though the voices belonged to Connor and Trudy – and Minerva heard her own name in the conversation– she kept going. She couldn't prevent hearing what was said when she passed by, unnoticed, however.
'…with Professor McGonagall, Connor?' Trudy was asking of her cousin.
'It's going well, I think,' Connor replied. 'I'm going to ask her to go out to the…'
Had Minerva been human, she probably would have gritted her teeth. As it happened, she wasn't, and so with an extraordinary amount of self-control, she slunk on to the Charms corridor.
Minerva met Pomona and the two went outside. Pomona complimented Minerva's cloak and raised her eyebrows when Minerva's stated where she'd gotten it.
'From Dumbledore?' she repeated. 'That's a very nice gift. Sort of makes me feel terrible about mine,' she joked. Minerva rolled her eyes.
'Don't be ridiculous,' she said. 'It is very nice, of course, but just a cloak.' Minerva frowned a bit as the half-truth slipped through her lips. Pomona seemed to sense otherwise.
'Of course, dearie,' she said comfortingly. 'Now listen, don't let's argue. It's been a while since we've really talked, hasn't it? I hardly saw you all summer, and now I rarely see you on weekends, what with work and your brother and everything.'
Minerva smiled fondly at her friend. 'I know, and I apologize. Things really have been rather hectic. In one way, I'll be glad when the castle is repaired; at least I shall be given back my Saturdays.'
'You'll miss Bran, though,' Pomona extrapolated from Minerva's sentence. It was obvious to everyone how close the two were.
Minerva nodded. 'Of course I will,' she replied crisply. 'It's not often I see him at all, usually only during vacation. And two months once a year is hardly fulfilling considering it's been that way for forty years.'
Pomona nodded. 'You know, I saw Bran with Trudy the other day. He must've said something funny, because Trudy hasn't laughed that hard since she arrived here.'
'Trudy laughs at whatever my brother says,' Minerva sniffed. 'More than likely Bran just asked her to pass the salt.' Though Minerva liked Trudy very much, she sometimes found the younger witch rather clingy, especially with her brother – which was odd given that Trudy had known him but two months.
'Jealous?' Pomona asked, looking amused. 'Is dear Trudy monopolizing your brother's precious time?'
'Certainly not!' Minerva snapped. 'I simply find it odd at times, is all. You don't see everyone else so familiar with Bran. I suppose I feel she overdoes it a bit.'
'May as well be hanged for a dragon as an egg,' Pomona said wisely. 'Don't let it bother you too much Minerva. She's just being friendly.' In actuality, Pomona wasn't sure what Trudy's true motivations were, but this didn't seem a good time to mention that to Minerva.
'It doesn't matter why she's doing it; I can't very well condemn her for being too friendly. It's just that I've seen Bran a total of four days since term started, and he's here once a week!' Minerva said briskly.
'No, I don't suppose you can,' Pomona agreed thoughtfully. 'Still, though, if you talked to her about the matter…' Minerva was shaking her head.
'No, no,' she sighed. 'I don't want to hurt her. I'll talk to Bran, I suppose, tomorrow.' Pomona agreed, and the two continued their walk.
Trudy was sitting in the staff room. She'd quickly learned, after the first Friday of the term, in September, that the staff gathered together for a drink on Friday nights. Dumbledore also held biweekly staff meetings, but this week wasn't one. She was a bit early, though there was no official time of commencement. Teachers usually started straggling in around nine o'clock, after the students had gone to bed.
Dinner had been odd. Professor McGonagall's behaviour had been almost strange, as if she knew something Trudy didn't. (Trudy still wasn't brave enough to call her Minerva, despite urges from the rest of the staff ('She's not a god, you know,' said Slughorn) and from the Deputy herself.) Trudy had wondered if Professor McGonagall had heard of Connor's plans for that night. But that was impossible, Connor hadn't told anyone but her. Still, Professor McGonagall had spoken mostly to Pomona and Dumbledore throughout the meal, though Trudy personally thought it was obvious Connor was trying to get the strict witch's attention.
But now the teachers were starting to come in. Madam Pomfrey came in with Filius, complaining about students who were always trying to sneak out of the hospital wing. Hagrid, never one to miss a drink, followed them. Pomona and Professor McGonagall arrived shortly after that, Dumbledore on his deputy's other side. Trelawney rarely ever showed up to the Friday night gatherings. Trudy had never really met the woman face to face, and to be honest, judging by the way the other teachers said the Divination teacher's name, she wasn't sure she wanted to. Horace arrived last, jovial as always, with a bottle of Madam Rosmerta's finest, oak matured mead, already partially empty.
Most people had a drink now, though Professor McGonagall had declined. Trudy had never seen her drink, though Slughorn had assured her that the deputy was no stranger to whiskey when there were no students in the castle. Dumbledore too was not drinking, but talking to Minerva. Trudy noticed Connor eying the Headmaster and sidled up to him.
'What's wrong?' she asked, sipping the glass of sweet sherry she held. She'd seen Professor McGonagall and Poppy glance at the sherry on the table disdainfully, but Trudy liked a sweet drink. She had a rather low tolerance for alcohol, to her own dismay.
'Nothing's wrong,' Connor muttered back. 'I'm just waiting for the right moment.' Trudy nodded, once again admiring her cousin's patience. It seemed endless, even to Trudy, who needed a lot of it when working with Muggles. Connor took another gulp of whatever liquid he held, and Trudy smelled alcohol on his breath.
'What's the right moment?' Trudy asked, a smile on her face. 'When the Headmaster leaves her alone?' Connor rolled his eyes at her.
'Preferably, yes,' he said, and Trudy giggled. Then she told herself to ease off on the sherry.
Finally, Dumbledore ambled off, and Connor put on a warm smile and walked off to Minerva's side. Trudy rather thought the room got slightly quieter, and glanced over to see Poppy and Pomona watching the couple carefully.
'Good evening, Minerva,' Connor said warmly to his companion.
'Evening,' Minerva replied, glancing down at her hands as though she suddenly wished for a drink.
'Can I get you something?' Connor offered gallantly. 'A gillywater, perhaps?'
'No, thank you,' Minerva replied stiffly, and with a sudden, violent sensation, Trudy felt like shouting out to Connor in warning. Why, she could not say, but the feeling did not go away.
'Minerva,' Connor began, 'may I be frank with you?' Professor McGonagall looked up.
'I'd rather you were,' she told him, but the look on her face told Trudy otherwise.
'Minerva,' Connor began again, his voice careful and polite, but still warm and eager. 'I cannot begin to express to you how very sorry I am that our time together ended on such a bitter note. I've thought about you, about us, in the years that have passed, and I confess that I have missed you.' Connor was looking down, and consequently did not see the look on Minerva's face. 'I have asked you out a few times since the lucky coincidence that brought us together again, and you have always been previously engaged. I ask you know, as bluntly as I can, to reconsider. I would be honoured to have another chance at a relationship with you, Minerva.' Connor said her name so tenderly, Trudy would have cried had she not been opening her mouth to tell Connor to shut up, suddenly realizing what Connor did not.
'Connor,' Minerva started, either not noticing or ignoring the fact that half the room was listening. 'I don't –.'
'I loved you, Minerva, and I know that we could have that again.' Trudy actually took a step forwards towards them, torn.
'No,' Minerva said slowly. 'We couldn't.'
'Couldn't?' Connor repeated, as though he didn't understand.
'No,' Minerva said again, slowly and clearly. 'I enjoyed our time together, but that was years and years ago. Too long, Connor. I don't wish to hurt you, but I have never regretted ending our relationship.'
'But Minerva,' Connor said, with dawning realization, 'I have always – always adored you, I would be so grateful – I made a – a mistake years ago…'
'No.' Minerva shook her head. 'I'm sorry, but it's not possible.'
'Why not?' Connor asked, almost desperate.
'I do not care for you in that manner any more,' Minerva told him bluntly, 'and I am certain that I never will again.'
To Trudy's horror, Connor actually seemed to grow angry. 'You can't hold a grudge against me for a mistake I made years ago! It was wrong of me to ask you to give up your work, but –.'
Now Professor McGonagall was angry, and she drew the attention of the whole room, including Dumbledore. 'I do not hold anything against you. I do not love you.'
That blunt, painfully truthful sentence, rather than turning Connor away, made him grow even more enraged. 'You broke up with me because I made one mistake! One!' he shouted at her. There was a collective gasp around the room.
'No,' Professor McGonagall said, her face white, her nostrils flared. 'I broke up with you because you were an arrogant, sexist bastard!'
Connor's mouth dropped open. 'I cannot believe you! I was everything you needed, everything! I still am, and this is how you treat me?'
'You are making a fool of yourself,' Minerva said coldly. 'Leave while you can retain some dignity.'
'Connor,' Trudy was shocked to hear herself say, 'Connor, come with me. You've had too much to drink.'
'No!' Connor cried, quite impassioned. 'She is insulting me, refusing me, for no reason!' Trudy took his arm and pulled him away, but Connor pulled his arm from her grasp.
'There's someone else,' he said wildly, 'that must be it!' His eyes roamed the room and rested on Dumbledore.
'It's you!' he shouted, pointing at the Headmaster. 'You lied to me!'
'Do not bring Albus into this,' Minerva ordered. Connor turned around, along with Trudy, and froze. The expression on Minerva's face was terrible. She was quite obviously utterly furious. She advanced slowly.
'My decision to remain unattached is entirely independent of anyone else,' Minerva said with an awful coldness. 'I am disgusted that you think this of me, and I am repulsed by your behaviour. I ask you now to leave, and to behave in a more mature and appropriate manner the next time I see you.'
Trudy took Connor's arm and pulled him towards to the door. This time, he did not resist. 'I will expect a formal apology from you tomorrow, when you are sober,' Minerva continued, her mouth in a thin line, 'to me as well as to Albus.' Connor looked horrified but Trudy finally managed to push him out the door. She could not look Professor McGonagall in the face.
As the door swung shut behind her, she heard Minerva's voice one last time. 'Albus Dumbledore, if you apologize to me, I will resign from Hogwarts.'
TBC
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