A/N: Thank you, all reviewers, and forgive my tardiness!
012: Orange
For a moment, response was impossible. She could only stare, stunned, blinded.
Orange!
Her temper roared; she felt her hair bristling like a cat's fur on end. Merlin, what on earth…? The blood began to pulse in her temples. She found herself marching out of the classroom, almost knocking over a hovering student on her way out.
"Professor McGonagall—"
An irrelevance; she shoved it to one side. She was going straight to the Headmaster, she was going to complain. Who had dared…? An image arrived in her head, of Albus at a staff meeting, eyes twinkling benignly as he said something about House-elves and decorating—
"I believe the House-elves may have a few surprises for us over the next few days…"
He had said it with an amused smile, and the pompous phrase the documents to the school board demanded, 'decoration initiative,' had been spoken with such a consciousness of irony…
Under the surface of her anger, something stalled. Of course she was going to the Headmaster's office purely to voice a complaint; the pleasure of having yet another chance to see Albus had nothing to do with it… That his company was soothing even when she was angry was merely a side-product of the situation… If the fact that, in a few moments, she would be in his office, and those sapphire eyes would be fixed on her, had any meaning at all it was completely and utterly…
She rounded a corner, wildly.
Can I never express it to you?
No, the problem was orange!
The gargoyle was in front of her unexpectedly soon, before she has even formulated what she was going to say. Her temper carried her up the spiralling stairs on inexplicably weakening legs—inexplicable but obvious—and she was suddenly in front of his door, knocking, breathing herself into rage, clinging to the white-heat of her fury—
"Enter!"
He looked up as she swept in and smiled—a smile that froze when he saw her face. Was that a dash of apprehension in those blue orbs?
"My dear—"
"Albus, my room is orange!"
The half-moons glinted. "Orange?"
"The House-Elves have painted my classroom orange. I cannot work in such an environment!" She paced agitatedly across the floor in front of his desk, and then turned sharply to look at him. "Who authorised this?"
Was it her imagination, or did he sink backwards slightly? The twinkle remained his eyes.
"Ah, orange. Doubtless they thought to make the room livelier, my dear—"
"Who authorised this?"
His fingers fumbled with each other. "Well I allowed them to work under their own jurisdiction—I quite dislike their subservient mentality; I was hoping that a little independence—"
She felt her nostrils flare. "So you allowed them to paint my classroom orange? It is not lively, Albus, it is distracting and garish! I demand—"
"Well perhaps if the shade is a little exuberant—"
Her lips twitched unexpectedly; she had to suppress a smile. "Exuberant? Hideous—"
He leaned forward seriously. "Do you dislike the colour orange, Minerva?"
"This is not about my preferences, it is about practical—"
"My dear, you preferences are all important to me."
The wind went out of her, and suddenly the atmosphere was different; he was sat still in his chair, fingers interlocked, expression sincere, and she was frozen mid-pace, gaping, searching for another suitable expression of now non-existent anger—
He stood up, and walked around the desk. One gentle hand rested on her shoulder. The blue was startlingly close, drawing her in…
"If you dislike it, then of course it shall be removed."
There was a secret in those eyes—something she glimpsed, a flash in the darkness, a disturbance in an ocean as an ancient mystery began to surface. The realisation brought the blood to her cheeks; she was glowing beyond the boundaries of her body, so strongly that she expected him to notice. The conversation had changed, moved onto some subtle dimension where any response she made was obsolete before she opened her mouth…
He seemed aware. "Minerva…"
…Closer to, closer to…
"I think…"
….His mouth, the prickle of the beard…
…The broken barrier—
He was drawing back, and her lips were burning, and the eyes were wide, opening the secret, disgorging the truth—
He cleared his throat and turned his back abruptly, spreading his hands on the desk, as if the air wasn't ringing…
"My dear, about the orange…"