Preface
This was the story I started for the 2024 Salt and Pepper Fest on Dreamwidth. I got about halfway through and realised that while it filled the prompt technically, it probably wasn't quite what the prompter had in mind. (Ordinarily I wouldn't be all that fussed about it, but I had another idea rolling around in the back of my mind that turned out to be a better fit.)
But this one kept prodding at me, and I had to finish it. The vast spectrum of human sexualities and the infinite ways in which we love one another interest me in general, and as someone who has resisted defining my own sexual impulses and loves, I especially like stories of peculiar relationships. I've always enjoyed poking around in the business of Albus's, and I am also hopelessly enamoured of the Minerva McGonagall I have in my head and find it hard to believe any sane adult in the Potterverse wouldn't fall for her. Your mileage may vary, but I do hope you enjoy this strange little tale.
Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
~ Alexander Pope, "An Essay on Criticism"
Someone to hold me too close.
Someone to hurt me too deep.
Someone to sit in my chair,
And ruin my sleep,
And make me aware
Of being alive.
~ Stephen Sondheim, "Being Alive"
~ 1 ~
Albus Dumbledore adjusted the paisley ascot around his neck for the third time and smoothed the front of his silk waistcoat.
He was out of sorts, had been all morning, and the constricting Muggle clothes weren't helping affairs.
Quite aside from the discomfort, Muggle attire didn't give one much room for expression, but the thistle pinned to the lapel of his black velvet morning coat picked up the purples of the waistcoat nicely and spiced things up a bit.
Most of the other men, including the groom, were in sober greys, but Elphinstone's tie was a lovely copper and blue stripe, in a nod to his old school house. Truth be told, Albus had always preferred Ravenclaw colours over Gryffindor's red and gold, which had never suited his auburn hair and pale complexion, a situation not much improved by the white mane that now engulfed his head.
Minerva was lovely in understated ivory silk, with a restrained dusting of lace at the neck and cuffs. She wore no veil, only a small spray of baby's breath — the mundane variety, not the kind that actually breathed — to adorn her elegant chignon.
"Ready?" he asked her, sounding more chipper than he felt.
"As I'll ever be," she replied, and took the elbow he offered.
The organist began the hymn, playing at a stately pace, the notes echoing through the small kirk, and Albus and Minerva began their walk.
Two men waited near the altar: one a Muggle, old but still straight and proud despite the walking stick that helped support his thin frame; the other a wizard, less old, but still grey-haired and -bearded, and far plumper than his companion. He was grinning like the Kneazle who had caught the Snidget.
Looking at Elphinstone Urquart's smiling face, a wave of hatred passed through Albus.
Fleeting as it was, it took him aback, this sudden animosity towards a man he'd known and respected for nearly fifty years, and he wondered whence it had come. Perhaps he was running a fever. He had to prevent himself from checking his brow for perspiration.
Minerva squeezed his elbow, and he looked over at her. She was flushed with happiness and fresh and pretty as the spring, as he supposed all brides were meant to be, even those on the wrong side of forty.
The thought hit him with the force of a curse.
I love her.
Only his long experience as a teacher and sometime diplomat kept him from gasping aloud with the shock of it. Instead, he took a deep breath. She glanced at him, and he suspected that the smile he returned didn't quite reach his eyes. She beamed back, then turned her eyes to the man she loved.
Albus was glad for her, truly he was. If anyone deserved the comforts of a loving — though much belated — union, it was Minerva McGonagall.
And yet …
He would rather be anywhere than in this old stone church in the upper reaches of Caithness. Even Nurmengard would be preferable.
Jealousy was not something he had experienced in his long life. Envy, yes. Longing, certainly. But not this, this strange, hot, tight sensation that burned somewhere beneath his sternum. He resisted adjusting his tie again.
Interesting.
Albus's curious mind palpated the idea of loving — of being in love with — his old friend, then filed it away for later examination. Highly inappropriate, he thought, to be considering it while he walked her down the aisle to meet the groom who'd been waiting patiently for her to make up her mind for twenty years.
And then they were there.
Minerva released Albus's arm and turned to her father, who kissed her forehead and murmured a blessing over his only daughter, then crutched to his seat next to Minerva's mother. Minerva joined hands with Elphinstone, and together they faced the minister to be joined until death did them part.
Three days later, Albus sat by the fire in his quarters, a dram of Ogden's best steaming in the glass in front of him, and considered what had happened to him. Or what had been happening to him for some time, unappreciated until now.
It was a considerable problem, and not one he'd ever expected to confront. He didn't fall in love. Not since Gellert, anyway — if love that had been - and certainly not with witches.
And absolutely not with witches he'd taught and who worked for him. (Although, he allowed, "worked for" might be a bit of a misnomer. She ran the school more alongside him than under him, taking care of the administrative tasks he loathed with an adroitness and efficiency that left him somewhat in her power.)
Was this, in fact, love? Or had he, in his mind, warped his friendship with Minerva into something it wasn't? Loneliness had never been a problem. He had several close friends — Minerva included — and many interesting acquaintances, and his disastrous youth had, he supposed, quelled any desire for another romance. It simply wasn't for him. Or he wasn't for it.
Instead, he'd devoted himself to scholarship, and it had fulfilled him. Armando's offer of a job at Hogwarts had been an unlooked-for blessing, the thing he hadn't known he'd needed. Teaching and guiding young witches and wizards had been the best course his life could take. For a long time, it was enough. It was fine. But now, fine seemed anaemic. Fine wasn't good.
When had his feelings for Minerva tipped over from the warm, challenging friendship it had long been to this almost farcical — and surely one-sided — longing for more? His inopportune realisation in the church had hit like a Zeusian thunderbolt, but no doubt these feelings had been building for years. He simply hadn't recognised them for what they were.
His heart didn't beat faster when she came into the room. That was a cliché she would have ridiculed. Besides, they'd been friends too long for her presence to stir any physical longings in him, even if he'd been in the habit of having such reactions. But when she was with him, it was as if the air were more alive, somehow. As if he were more alive.
No, Albus didn't doubt he was in love with Minerva McGonagall.
And he could never tell her.
He had kept himself even busier than usual since the wedding, avoiding spending too much time in the castle, the better to ignore its creeping emptiness.
Of course, it was mostly empty in July anyway, but Albus normally counted on passing at least a few hours a week in Minerva's company, working over issues for the upcoming school term or just enjoying a meal, a talk, or a friendly-but-cutthroat game of chess.
When August rolled around, Albus would normally be eagerly anticipating the start of the new term and the return of the residential teachers, who usually showed up a week or so before the 29 August deadline. Anticipating Minerva, he admitted to himself.
Her presence in the castle was a comfort. When she was in residence, there was always one person he could turn to for help that was as often personal as it was professional. For a stimulating kind of companionship he enjoyed with no one else.
This summer had been duller than most, the castle itself seeming listless and stale. With Minerva and Elphinstone off on honeymoon on the Continent, Albus couldn't owl her with a request for a meeting and perhaps an informal dinner in his rooms over a decent bottle of wine and some lively talk to relieve the tedium.
And, he suspected, the castle would feel even more empty once the students returned and Minerva didn't. At least, not to her quarters in Gryffindor Tower.
Instead, she would move into a cottage in Hogsmeade. With Elphinstone. Leaving Albus alone, metaphorically if not literally.
Thank Merlin he'd persuaded her to remain his deputy. She had no intention of giving up teaching, she'd said when informing him she planned to marry Elphinstone, but she realised she could no longer be an effective Head of Gryffindor while living away, and she'd wondered aloud whether she shouldn't also give up her post as deputy as well.
He'd resigned himself to finding a replacement Head of House but he would never find a better deputy, he'd told her, even if she would henceforth be less available to him. After all, how many headmasters had at their disposal a second-in-command he could call on at any hour of the day or night? Her proximity, he said, had spoilt him, and he would learn to make do with less of her.
Less of her.
That was the awful truth, wasn't it? He now had less of Minerva. And he wasn't sure that less was better than none. Not when less hollowed his insides out, as if he'd had some vital organ torn from his body.
Well, there was nothing for it. He would file this unnerving feeling away, much as he dropped memories in the Pensieve, and get on with the business of running his school and engaging in the scholarly pursuits he'd neglected during the long war.
The thought of a little research cheered him, until he realised he wouldn't be able to run ideas by Minerva, talking them through until the wee hours when they both would retire to their rooms, exhausted but excited by the conversation. She would now depart the castle after dinner, hurrying to her marriage bed, returning in the morning for classes, unless Albus could think up some deputy-related business requiring her early or late attendance on him.
Fawkes trilled wistfully, sensing Albus's melancholy.
"Ah, my friend," Albus said, scritching the phoenix on his plumy neck, "at least you won't leave me behind, will you?"
Fawkes chirruped and nipped at Albus's fingers.
Albus chuckled. "Quite right, quite right. I am feeling rather sorry for myself. I must endeavour to buck up."
Bucking up proved difficult, at least until term recommenced and Albus became too busy to allow his more maudlin thoughts much scope. A new spirit of hope had pervaded Hogwarts since the end of the war, and he wanted to build on it before … well, some things didn't bear thinking about right now. And he had a new staff member to train — this one with special duties only Albus could oversee.
Among the things he'd insisted Severus Snape learn was Legilimency. Snape was already a skilled Occlumens — thank Merlin, or he'd already be as dead as his erstwhile love and her husband — but he'd never focused enough on the art of mind-reading to become as adept as Albus needed him to be.
So, once the autumn term was in full swing and Severus had adjusted, more or less, to an unanticipated career as a teacher and custodian of young witches and wizards, Albus turned his attention to training him to invade minds in addition to moulding them. Unfortunate, but necessary, with what was to come.
What Albus hadn't anticipated was that Severus would quickly become good enough at Legilimency to see even that which Albus shielded most carefully.
It was with considerable shock that he realised Severus had come across his recent thoughts involving Minerva, which he had neglected to put in his Pensieve before their Legilimency session. He hadn't thought his feelings about her would interest the young man enough to pursue them down the labyrinthine corridors of Albus's mind. Not when there were so many other things for Severus to discover there.
When Albus pushed him out of his head — rather more forcefully than he'd intended — Severus sat panting on the stone floor, and, Merlin help us, smirking up at his employer and guardian.
"You love her."
"I …" A lie launched itself into Albus's mouth as he faltered, but his legendary wisdom reasserted itself in time. To deny something Severus had plainly seen would fracture the fragile trust they'd established over the past few months.
"I do," he admitted.
"Does she know?"
Albus sighed. "No. There is no reason for her to know."
He watched Severus consider what, if anything, to do with this information. Albus's mind went back a year to another meeting he'd had with Snape, who'd come to him, red-eyed and wretched, to excoriate him for failing to prevent the Potters' murder. As Albus looked at him now, he suspected Severus was also thinking of that day.
Finally, Snape gave a curt nod.
"Thank you, Severus."
Later, as Albus retrieved his memories of the last days with Gellert and Ariana and Aberforth from the Pensieve, he recalled that conversation, the one in which Snape had insisted Albus tell no one of his love for Lily Potter and his vow to protect her son.
My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you? If you insist …
Albus had kept his word. He wondered if Severus would keep his.
As term progressed, Albus and Minerva settled into a new routine, one which Albus found distinctly inferior to their old one but tolerated because there was little else he could do.
If they didn't spend as much time in one another's company as in days gone by, the time they did spend was as pleasant and stimulating as ever, and Albus did his best to enjoy it. Minerva gave no indication that she'd become aware — either through a deliberate slip of Snape's tongue or via her own well-developed instincts and her long familiarity with Albus's moods and habits — of Albus's deeper feelings.
Then, one afternoon in April, as winter was starting to release its hoary grip on Hogwarts, and the trees and flowers were bestirring themselves to bud again, he almost gave away the game.
They had wrapped up the official portion of their meeting, and Minerva had accepted the offer of a cuppa, which was delivered by the headmaster's house-elf along with some digestive biscuits. The Assam sat gently fragrant between them on the tea table in front of Albus's fire.
The talk turned to subjects of mutual interest. Transfiguration, of course, but also an intriguing Muggle novel Minerva had read, Albus's hopes for a new research project with Nicolas Flamel, and — Albus maintained a falsely pleased expression at this — Minerva and Elphinstone's plans for a summer trip to the Dordogne to visit friends.
Unwelcome images marauded through Albus's mind. Minerva and Elphinstone, walking hand-in-hand through the region's pleasant hills and valleys; stopping for impromptu picnics of strawberries, black truffles, and decadent foie gras; sampling the delightful village wines of Périgord. Albus had done many of these pleasant things with friends, but he'd never shared them with someone he loved. Someone who might take his hand or wipe a blob of jam from his beard with an affectionate laugh or lie sleepy and safe in his arms after a day of overindulgence. These were things he'd never done and never thought of doing until this very moment.
He closed his eyes.
"Albus?"
"Hmm?"
"Are you all right?"
She was looking at him, a frown of concern drawing her brows together.
"Quite, quite. A little hiccup, is all. Gone now."
Recovering himself, he told her about his travels in the area, mentioning a vineyard that produced a superior sémillon and recommending a lovely inn in La Roque-Gageac.
"The perfect place for a romantic getaway," he said. "Although I'm hardly an expert."
She smiled at the remark, and the stone Albus had carried in his breast since Minerva's wedding grew heavier at the thought that she might pity him.
"More tea?" he asked, to cover his discomfort.
"Thank you, yes." Without waiting for him to play mother, she poured herself another cup and added her customary splash of milk to it.
"This is a treat," she said, stirring, then tapping her teaspoon against the side of her teacup before placing it on the saucer.
"The tea?" Albus asked.
Her lips twitched in mild amusement. "Yes, but also this. You and I having a proper conversation."
"We have conversations all the time."
The look she gave him reminded him of the way she looked at a student who had turned his matchstick into a noodle instead of a needle.
"Yes, about the school and the students and so forth, but it's been ages since we've talked as friends. I've missed it," she said.
"So have I."
Her head cocked as if she were considering a thorny academic question.
"Why haven't we?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Why haven't we had a real conversation in … I don't think we've had one since before the autumn term. How can that be?"
"We've been busy, I suppose," he said. "And you no longer visit me in the evenings."
He grimaced inwardly. It had come out more plaintive than he'd intended, like a pouting child. He was about to apologise, but she cut him off.
"That is one of the disadvantages of living away from the castle." She set down her teacup. "We'll simply have to make more of an effort. You know you're always welcome at the cottage. You could come for dinner on the weekend if you like. Elph is a wonderful cook." She gave a light laugh. "Thank goodness, or else we'd starve. He won't even let me in the kitchen when he's cooking."
Albus could think of nothing he'd enjoy less than to than spend an evening as witness to Minerva's domestic bliss.
"Thank you, my dear, that would be lovely," he said. "Of course, it won't be as nice as having you to myself."
As soon as he said it, an intense desire to have an Antipodean Opaleye swallow him whole washed over him. Clearly, there was something wrong with his brain. It had somehow divorced itself from his tongue.
He searched her face for any indication she found his words peculiar, or worse, suggestive, and found none.
"You've had me to yourself for years, Albus, so no complaints about sharing me now," she said.
"No, of course not. I didn't mean to sound churlish."
"You didn't. And I do understand what you mean. This year has been something of an adjustment for both of us." She sighed. "Much as I love being with Elph, living with someone has taken some getting used to. I wasn't accustomed to sharing my private space or having to consider anyone's needs but my own."
"Don't tell me Elphinstone leaves his socks lying around?" Albus said, trying to lighten the somewhat serious turn the conversation seemed to have taken.
"No, he's quite tidy, but he does like far too many blankets on the bed. It's like sleeping in a wool cocoon in one of Pomona's hothouses. It was fine one or two days a month, but every night …"
An alarming image of Minerva cosying up in bed with Elphinstone flashed through Albus's head. He grabbed the last bikkie from the plate and shoved it into his mouth, chewing without tasting it.
"And I know he wants me to take an interest in the garden he's started, but you know how herbology has always bored me," she continued. "Whenever he's talking about some new cultivar, my mind seems to want to focus on Gamp's third law or Quidditch, or…" She threw her hands up in resignation. "I feel dreadfully guilty about it. He's such a dear, and he does love the garden. And I just … don't." She smoothed her hands over her skirt. "Anyway, it's all fine. I'm sure I'm no perfect Hufflepuff to live with. We're working around our respective crotchets and quibbles."
"I'm very glad," Albus said. He hesitated a moment before asking, "And are you happy, Minerva?"
Her smile enveloped him in a warmth he found disturbing.
"Very. I am so fortunate."
"Elphinstone is fortunate as well," Albus said softly.
She put her hand over his. "Thank you for saying so."
The gesture surprised him. Both of them were physically reserved people and didn't touch often. Of course, they had done over the years, but these were generally obligatory social niceties rather than spontaneous expressions of affection. A hand on an arm to get one or the other's attention; a quick cheek-kiss under the mistletoe at the staff Christmas party; even a few dances at various functions they'd been obliged to attend as headmaster and deputy. And none had had any effect on him beyond what might have been expected in context. But this touch sent a frisson of physical awareness through him that wasn't entirely pleasant, although it wasn't unpleasant, either. The simple fact of it left him blinking and wordless.
Thankfully, Minerva didn't seem to notice. She said something about the lateness of the hour and the need to collect some marking from her office, and wished him a pleasant afternoon, then headed home to her fortunate husband.
When she was gone, Albus looked at the hand she'd touched. Her fingers had been chilled, but they seemed to have left behind some heat that still breathed across his skin, a trace of her that remained behind.
His.
