A/N: Thanks to all reviewers!
009: Months
Winter came suddenly, a freezing hand that traced the window panes with rime. The unexpected earliness of it caught the students shivering in their autumn robes, and made necks ache for scarves that were not there. The temperature in the staff-room plummeted; the spasmodic talk was interrupted with multiple warming charms, the power of which was insufficient to prevent the chapped lips and running noses. The marking of the day abruptly became the marking of a premature night.
She was not alone in sitting in the darkness of a hoary chamber, dispensing grades for work that the weather had sapped all passion from. Slughorn was in the dungeons, wrapped in the warmth of his own corpulence, and the new Arithmancy professor was most probably shuddering over a desk in one of the towers. Yet she could feel no communion with them; the cold deepened the feeling of isolation. Where was Albus?
Not where physically, not where as in the Great Hall, or the office, or away on a business trip.
Where was he? Where was she?
Sitting next to each other at the High Table, talking about the curriculum, or at a conference about something meaningless - 'international learning directives' and 'action plans' and 'convergent teaching' – or perhaps in the his office, conversing about Transfiguration over tea…
Albus now. Not Headmaster, never Headmaster.
Albus, Albus, Albus.
She was professional. She spoke professionally, acted professionally, taught professionally. Never mind that her needs were entirely unprofessional, or that the golden friendship grated more with each clumsy expression or meaningful nod. Meaningful nod? She snorted at the essay in front of her. What man was ever attracted by a meaningful nod?
Were there times when the sapphire blazed more fervently? She could not be sure that it was not wishful thinking. Where was sometimes nowhere, and yet there were moments when she seemed to glimpse him from a distance, inhabiting the same reality, traversing a river of the same emotion, as if the chasm between fantasy and life was one that could be bridged. She crossed a student's answer with unnecessary savagery. The frost thickened. The corridors whistled with wind, and the darkness grew heavier, more absolute. Then he came.
"Minerva, forgive me for bothering you, but there is something depressing about drinking cocoa on one's own."
His presence in the doorway was blinding; the dressing-gown was bright purple, the beard mostly auburn, each grey hair a minor tragedy, the eyes the blue the sky had forsaken - he was vivid, warming, unreal… She belatedly noticed the steaming mugs in his hands.
"Oh - Albus - of course, I was finished marking anyway…"
"My dear, it is far too late and far too cold to be doing anything of the sort." He sat down, comfortably out of place on her demure settee, and warmed it with a charm. "And chocolate is the only medicine for sick souls."
He said it almost shyly, eyes wide, as though confiding a secret. The heat enveloped her as she sat down; a shudder of pleasure went up her spine. She took a mug.
"Albus, am I a sick soul?"
He smiled strangely. "We all have our sicknesses, Minerva."
"Not you."
"Yes, even me - particularly during these dreary winter months, I must say. There is nothing like a dark sky to dampen a spirit."
The cocoa flooded her mouth, rich and sweet. Did his mouth taste like that? She shoved the thought away and nodded, looking into the swirling brown.
"You are still shivering, my dear." He seized her hand, and frowned, oblivious to her blush. "You are frozen! Lie back."
Obediently she lay back, deeper into the heated cocoon he had woven. To her surprise, he lay back with her, suddenly shockingly close, tired smile filling the world. A dazed passivity entered his expression. A pleasant silence stretched; the agitation and misery of the previous hours was entirely gone, lost in warmth and companionship. Weariness which before had made her haggard returned, in the form of comfortable repletion, an unsung lullaby. Her eyelids drooped, and when he moved slightly closer to her, she lay back against him, exhaustion a willing surrender. Albus. There was no better bed designed for dreams. The winter was swept away. His heart beat through the dressing-gown, and a beard tickled her cheek. Nowhere but here…
She woke up still against him. Had some knowledge been communicated in the night? There was no way of discovering, as he apologised for falling asleep in her rooms and left immediately afterwards, and she allowed herself a smirk, whilst lying on the heated settee, imagining certain faces, certain reactions as the Headmaster dashed from her rooms, dressing-gown flying…
The winter months continued. So did the cocoa, and the night visits.
…Sick souls…
They were sick together, mended together. Perhaps, Minerva thought, they even had the same disease.