I expect anyone who's still remotely interested in this story will want to get to reading, so I'll save the rambling author's notes for the end, shall I?
New Developments
For four days after Minerva McGonagall had gone to France, nary a word came from her or from Dumbledore. Flitwick, Sprout and Slughorn were doing their best to keep things running as smoothly as possible, but the lack of the two highest forms of authority in the castle had taken its toll. Flitwick had no idea how Dumbledore's filing system worked (he changed it every decade or so), not to mention the fact that they hadn't needed a substitute teacher for Transfiguration in over forty years, and Pomona, close friends with Minerva, felt constantly worried for her. Four days without outside help (the Governors, in Pomona's usually gentle phrasing, were less than useless) was four days too many.
On the morning of the fifth day, a large, ruffled brown owl crashed into Flitwick's bowl of porridge, a letter tied to its leg, its wings trembling from exhaustion. Filius recognized the handwriting on the envelope at once, and slid open the letter – note, really – with a quick tap from his wand. He hesitated for only a moment before reading, feeling equal parts relief and trepidation. Finally, he read it through once, then twice, going more slowly the second time.
Fil –
Breathe and calm down. Everyone here is fine. Things are tight, I won't lie, and communication is difficult, so I wouldn't expect much in the way of post from me. If there's an emergency, send me a patronus. I haven't much time, so this will be brief.
Dumbledore's filing system: The bottom drawer of the chestnut filing cabinet starts with A. Work your way upwards. Each document is filed under the first initial of the person who wrote it. Don't panic – a list of who wrote what is in the top left corner of my desk, in my study.
The Trans. replacement: Not much help I can give you – he's a fantastic researcher, but keep an eye out for him, if possible. He's nervous with kids, and I called in a more than a few favours to get him here.
Poppy: Her shipment of medicinal herbs was due to come in yesterday (if this owl's as strong as I was promised he was). If it hasn't, owl the apothecary in Diagon Alley and order another load. I'll deal with it when I return.
Pomona: Dumbledore's approval form for the second Venomous Tentacula she requested is filed away. It needs to be posted to the school governors as soon as possible.
You: All I can say is good luck, Filius. Dumbledore's not the clearest of organizers, but there's a subtle system I hope you figure out that'll simplify your life. In the name of Merlin, I hereby grant you saint status. At least try to forgive me, Fil.
Minerva
A wave of relief crashed through Flitwick's body as he read the letter. They could do this. He stood, disregarding his unfinished breakfast, and hurried to Pomona, sitting three chairs down. He handed her the letter, ignoring her half-formed questions.
When Sprout had finished reading, she sighed, as though a large weight had lifted off her shoulders. 'Thank Merlin,' she said, and her eyes actually watered with relief. 'Okay. We're fine. Should we tell the others –?'
Filius considered carefully. He didn't want to call an emergency staff meeting for the sole purpose of reassuring everyone – for all he knew only the heads of house had been stressed. On the other hand, if everyone was worried, it would be downright cruel of him to withhold the reassurance Minerva had sent them. 'I'll mention it on Friday,' he decided. 'The biweekly staff meeting is this week, isn't it? I can bring it up then.'
Pomona nodded in agreement. 'Do you mind terribly if I show the letter to Poppy? She's been – well, you know Poppy. This'll calm her down a bit.' Sprout's breakfast lay forgotten in front of her, but she didn't particularly care at this point.
'Not at all,' said Filius. He didn't bother to return to his breakfast (the delivery owl was as good as wearing it, anyway), but exited through the staff door behind the table. Hurrying off to prepare his next class, Flitwick made his way with a new spring in his step. He felt so much better already.
He didn't stop to consider what might have changed during the time it had taken the owl to arrive – three days was a long time.
It wasn't as though she hadn't dealt with worse.
She had, of course. Over the course of many years she'd had her share of situations. There had been the time when Filius' wife had died and he'd been unable to face the world for eight days; the time when Gideon and Fabian Prewett had set half the Forbidden Forest on fire and nearly killed a herd of hippogriffs Professor Kettleburn had tethered there; the unforgettable time James Potter and Sirius Black had gone 'exploring' outside in the middle of the night, promptly left the front doors open, and thereby allowed a herd of unicorns to wander inside. (That last had taken a solid fourteen hours to sort out – the first six to realize that the male professors were actually being counterproductive.)
Still, the sight of her bones poking out through her flesh was a sight Minerva couldn't say she'd seen before.
'Bloody hell,' she muttered, trying to keep her language relatively mild – there were ministry representatives here, after all – as the frowning healer poked the bones with her wand. They'd given her some sort of potion for the pain, but it was obviously not a very potent mixture, because the fiery throbbing her arms was very much present.
'How did you say this happened?' the Healer asked. Minerva raised her eyes in disbelief but was unable to muster up enough energy for a proper glare. She compensated by offering the Healer some choice phrases instead – so much for mild.
'Minerva, I'm so sorry, really, I am!' cried a good-looking, middle-aged wizard named Finnegan, ringing his hands agitatedly. 'I didn't mean to knock you over – God, I nearly killed you! I'm so sorry, you have no idea!' Minerva tuned him out: his apologies, though good-natured, were far too annoying to be of any comfort, besides which, this was his fault, the lucky sod.
'You've got four fractured bones and a cracked rib,' the healer (Minerva couldn't be bothered to find her name) announced. 'Luckily, there's no sign of concussion, but there's some pretty extensive bruising on your back, and…' Minerva did her best to pay attention, but her concentration wavered at the mention of the word 'lucky'. Yes, I'm very fortunate to have my skeleton on the outside of my body, she thought savagely.
'Sir, you can't go in there!' came the voice of a young boy from outside the tent. Evidently, he'd been disregarded, for the following moment Albus Dumbledore swept inside. He eyes found Minerva easily, as she lay on the low cot that served as her hospital bed. He looked remarkably composed for a man that had just been told his deputy was grievously injured and currently lying inside the emergency tent. He moved to her side as his gaze swept her body, taking in her bloody robes, broken bones, and white, irritated face.
'Dear Minerva,' he muttered, kneeling her head. 'Is there anything you need?' He looked as though he would like to comfort her, but evidently the presence of her jutting bones and scarlet blood provided little room for comforting touches.
'Yes,' Minerva gasped. 'Shut that idiot up.' The ghost of a smile flickered over the headmaster's face as he turned to the horrified wizard. Finnegan had not escaped unscathed, but his injuries extended only to some bad bruising.
'Mr O'Reagan,' Dumbledore said benignly, 'why don't you go rest, hmm? I am sure you can adequately express your apologies later.' He smiled kindly at the anxious wizard, who relaxed slightly and exited the room with quiet thanks and a last glance to the injured witch.
The healer, meanwhile, had mended Minerva's broken bones and was setting about to the bruising on her back. Ever the gentleman, Dumbledore turned gallantly around as the experienced healer exposed Minerva's back. Minerva either appreciated the gesture, or was suffering too much to care. He hoped it was the former.
Finally, however, the witch – Healer Thompson – announced Minerva nearly good as new, and sent her on her way with the instructions to 'avoid all strenuous activity for at least three days' and a lotion to rub on her fragile back, to help with the bruising. Dumbledore accompanied her out of the tent.
After a quick check-in with her supervisor to give her report and assure them of her good health, Minerva agreed to Dumbledore's suggestion of a walk at the edge of the camp. They strolled along in comfortable silence for a time, before Minerva sighed and stretched, wincing slightly at the pain in her back.
'I suppose this will keep me out of the field for the next three days,' the stern professor said, shooting a glance at her companion. He met her eyes with a cheerful smile, his eyes sparkling with renewed cheer.
'Yes, I expect so,' he said benevolently, as though he hadn't a care in the world. Minerva shot him a look and sighed exasperatedly. He twinkled down at her and chuckled, his stout boots crunching on the path.
'Yes, I am grateful that you are currently out of commission and cannot partake in dangerous, risky tasks of which I know nothing, but Minerva, I of course wish you hadn't been injured,' Dumbledore finally obliged her, growing serious towards the end.
'Yes, well, that makes two of us,' Minerva replied curtly. 'And you needn't pretend you know nothing, Albus. I'm well accustomed to you knowing things you shouldn't.' She straightened her glasses, rolling her shoulders in an attempt to acclimatize herself to the soreness in her back.
'Omniscience is a gift,' Dumbledore joked in his usual, light-hearted manner. 'Truthfully, though, Minerva, I know very little of your – well, assignment, so to speak.' Minerva eyed him with a look he knew she gave students who lied about why they hadn't done their homework, and he relented. 'Alright, yes, I do know the gist of it. You are, I believe, to establish a safe route, of sorts, into the giant's camp?'
'You make it sound very simple,' Minerva muttered. 'Why don't you try it? That might prove more successful.' She stalked on ahead of him, irritation plain on her face, her back straight and her steps quick.
Dumbledore followed her, not put off, knowing her as he did. 'Minerva, you don't need me to tell you that you're doing well. You know that already. It is an intensely difficult undertaking, and you know that you are perhaps the only one capable –'
'Yes, and I'm starting to regret ever becoming an Animagus, if all it does is coerce me into dangerous things no one else is able to do,' Minerva said brusquely. Memories of tasks for the Order she'd done flashed through her mind, and she frowned involuntarily.
'It is very dangerous, then?' Dumbledore said briskly. 'What you do?' They'd stopped walking now, and paused at the edge of the forest line. Standing face to face, Minerva met Dumbledore's piercing gaze with resolution.
'Yes,' she said, 'but you knew that already.'
'I like hearing it from you, Minerva,' Dumbledore said earnestly. He took her hands gently, stepping closer to her. 'I like hearing everything from you.' His voice dropped, deep and warm, and the look in his eyes seemed to smoulder, a look to which Minerva was not yet fully accustomed.
His hands were warm and gentle around hers, and Minerva sensed more in that gesture than others, perhaps, would understand. Both Dumbledore and Minerva were very reserved, whether due to generation or nature she wasn't sure, and neither of them were people who touched others lightly. This seemingly innocent gesture, holding hands, seemed profoundly intimate, and Minerva, not one who blushed lightly, flushed rose as he tightened his grip.
'Perhaps,' she murmured, 'if you're patient, you might hear more from me. Something more…meaningful.' He smiled, gently, stepping closer still and enveloping her with his warm gaze.
'I can be patient,' he said softly. 'In the meantime, maybe you'd like to hear something from me? Something…meaningful?' His tone of voice, not quite teasing, but soft and deep, was the only audible sound – or perhaps, to Minerva, the only sound that mattered.
'Such as?' she smiled, allowing one of his hands to release hers and stroke, with a feather-light touch, her soft cheek. He touched her hair, then trailed his hand down her back, where he carefully laid his fingertips on the black-and-blue and skin he knew lay underneath her robes.
'Being the shameless eavesdropper that I am,' he said, smiling, 'I may have heard that your back requires some attention. I thought perhaps,' he said, pausing, breathing, 'that I might be permitted to help?'
Minerva looked at him, sensing, with acute precision, where his fingers touched her sensitive back, where his other hand still held hers. She remembered the lotion, prescribed by the healer, to be smoothed onto her back once a day. Was he too forward? 'Are you offering?'
'I am,' was the answer, straightforward, cautious, but sincere.
'In that case,' answered Minerva, 'I should be happy for the help.' They smiled at each other, not shy, but with the ease and warmth of two friends and who were, perhaps, en route to becoming something more.
Minerva, who rather thought the moment could have lasted much longer, was the first to hear the quick, crunching footsteps approaching their little sanctuary. She stepped away from Dumbledore – propriety first, after all.
Minerva vaguely recognized the witch that approached them, but without the name-tag (which read 'Justine' and was, if slightly ridiculous, rather helpful) she wouldn't have had a hope of putting a name to this face – a face, at the moment, was smiling at Dumbledore with unnecessary warmth.
'Madame Lebeau,' Dumbledore said, inclining his head in greeting. 'Good evening.' Oh. That Justine.
'Good evening, Albus,' returned the witch with the pinched face and curly brown hair. She gave him a smile that seemed almost unnatural on her irritating – no, corrected Minerva, irritated – face. Careful, now. The witch turned to Minerva.
'Miss McGonagall, I presume?' she said in what was obviously her usual short manner. The slight emphasis on miss, the challenging cock of an eyebrow – Minerva saw Albus tense slightly in preparation for – for lack of a better term – a catfight.
But Minerva held out her hand and replied, 'Professor, please. Madame Lebeau – pleasure.' in the tone of she always respectfully reserved for stuffy, annoyingly obnoxious ministry officials.
Madame Lebeau narrowed her eyes and shot a darting look between Minerva and Dumbledore as she shook the proffered hand, then gave Minerva a satisfied smile. 'Yes, well,' she said, smoothing her robes as though she was posing for a Witch Weekly cover and not standing the middle of a rocky mountain clearing. 'Dumbledore, if you could come with me, please,' she requested smoothly. Stepping forwards (offensively close, in Minerva's opinion), she laid a hand on Dumbledore's arm. 'There's something urgent we must discuss.'
Minerva, far from lowering herself to that level and rising to the challenge that had so clearly, if non-verbally, been issued to her, merely looked amused. 'It seems you are needed,' she said to Dumbledore. 'Off you go, I won't keep you.'
'My apologies, Minerva,' the headmaster replied, and Minerva knew him well enough to recognize the tone of voice that meant he was hiding a touch of irritation towards their intruder. 'Perhaps we can continue our walk later?' It was a genuine invitation, and though Minerva was sorely tempted to look at Lebeau's face, she resisted and shrugged instead.
'Perhaps,' she answered politely. 'Good evening, Headmaster, Madame Lebeau.' Dumbledore smiled at her, his eyes twinkling mischievously, and then he leaned in to kiss Minerva's cheek. At the last moment, however, he turned his head and kissed her lightly on the lips. He was brief, knowing how reserved she was (out of the two of them, she was the more reserved, but only by a slim margin), but he was grinning as he pulled away.
Minerva cursed her injury thoroughly for the first time, if only because it prevented her from popping into tabby form. It would have been easier to transform than to hold back her laughter as Dumbledore led a mortified, furiously disbelieving Justine Lebeau away. Ah, well. Life wasn't all Honeydukes chocolate, after all, as the saying went. And that, Minerva thought as she returned to her tent, is a damn shame.
TBC
A/N: Well, here I am. Contrite, pathetic, and begging your forgiveness, but here nonetheless. :) I swear that the next chapter will be up much more quickly than the last (I mean it this time, really), and I will do by best to respond to reviews this time around. I'm a horrible person, I know, and if I could send a winning lottery ticket to each and every one of you, I would. THANK YOU so much for your support, and, if you a have a moment, please leave a review - even if it's to tell me that I took too long with the update. ;-) You people are all wonderful! :D More coming soon!