Post by McGonagallsGirl on Jan 6, 2011 23:40:31 GMT -5
This is for pinnacle! Happy Secret Santa!
Child Friendly, set early in Minerva's career at Hogwarts. Short and to the point (meaning I didn't have time to elaborate the idea). Enjoy!
--MG
***
It was a very old castle when it was drafty and cold out. It was always a very old castle, Minerva supposed, but most especially when it was drafty and cold out because every draft could be felt thoroughly and every missing degree of temperature that might have pushed the thermometer above freezing was sorely missed. Even through her layers and layers of robes, most of them black and designed for such weather, she noticed every flurry of wind as it blew through the cracks in the window sills, rustled through her papers, swirled about the room, and quickly made to dissipate. With a moment of dull recognition Minerva noticed that she was missing her second bottle of emerald ink. Her first bottle sat pathetically on her desk, empty and echoing the wind as it made its way through her office. Minerva thought that perhaps she had left the other bottle on her other desk, the one in her classroom, and, as there was nothing else for it, went to retrieve it. Her chair slid back behind her, pushed by the motion of her legs as she stood, and it made an eerie sort of scraping sound against the stone below her feet.
The classroom was more cavernous than her office had been, with more windows. The drafts found it an exciting place to inhabit, and did so with a vigor that left Minerva’s bones rattling with the cold. She located the well of ink on her desk at the same moment that Professor Dumbledore opened the front entrance door to the classroom and entered quickly, trying to prevent the wind from gaining entrance. It was a futile battle, he realized once inside the room, for the wind had other ways of doing business and it did not necessarily require the services of a door.
“Pardon me, Professor. I don’t mean to trouble you at work.” He said.
“It’s no trouble at all.” It took Minerva a moment to respond. She was not quite used to being referred to as 'Professor'.
He walked through the room and up to her desk where she stood, and as he did he said, “I merely noticed your absence at dinner tonight and wondered if perhaps you might have left for the holidays without saying goodbye. I was almost certain that you had when I couldn’t find you in your rooms.”
“I’m sorry to have concerned you.” And she meant it, despite the formality in both of their tones of voice. “I’ve been working to finish grading the mid-term examinations. I should like to get a jump start on sending out the grade reports, but I can’t do that until I have all of the grades in.”
“Understandable, of course. Enrollment is up and it would be a sorry affair indeed to have to worry about finishing grade reports over Christmas.” The Headmaster said, stuffing his hands farther into his robe pockets, fruitlessly trying to warm them.
“Quite sorry.” Minerva mumbled, but she hadn’t meant it and that was rather evident.
Dumbledore noticed. “When are you leaving the castle for the holidays?” he asked.
“I won’t be. Pomona was meant to look after my Gryffindors over the break, but she has had an urgent family emergency. She apologized profusely but I advised her that, as long as she still had a family with which to have emergencies, she ought to take advantage of it. She’ll be leaving at dawn. I’ll be watching over her Hufflepuffs until her return.”
“I’m quite sorry to hear that. Did you have any interesting holiday plans?” He asked, already having a sense of the answer.
“None at all, Professor.” She said, hugging her arms closely around herself. She had begun to feel rather insecure during the course of the discussion, and she did not at all approve of the look that the still novice Headmaster had in his eyes as he mistook her gesture for a simple sign of being cold.
He said, “Perhaps it’s time to finish for the night, Professor. It’s rather chilly in here and I know for fact that the house elves have been instructed to add extra heating charms to the beds tonight. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”
A surge of anger struck her, “The magical substitute for human contact? It sounds divine.” It was out before she could stop herself. She wasn’t sure where the irritation had come from, perhaps the look that still hadn’t left his eye. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it struck her as ‘pity’. She decided, instead, to blame her momentary animosity on the frost bite she was acquiring with every passing second.
“Doesn't it just?” The Headmaster returned with a small smile, but the words were far from jovial.
“Perhaps you’re right, sir.” She added the ‘sir’ part as an afterthought, an apology, an effort she had learned in her days as his student. This was not her first slip of tongue before Professor Dumbledore, and 'sir' was always employed to try to make up for a previous comment.
“Excellent. Come along, quickly. You’ll find the Transfiguration Courtyards to be a veritable wind tunnel, and the sooner we can get inside the rest of the castle, the better.”
He walked the young Professor McGonagall to her rooms that night and their conversation passed gently from then on. He realized that if he didn't mention Christmas, she wouldn't make him feel as if he had murdered a puppy; and that was a desirable arrangement for them both.
Child Friendly, set early in Minerva's career at Hogwarts. Short and to the point (meaning I didn't have time to elaborate the idea). Enjoy!
--MG
***
It was a very old castle when it was drafty and cold out. It was always a very old castle, Minerva supposed, but most especially when it was drafty and cold out because every draft could be felt thoroughly and every missing degree of temperature that might have pushed the thermometer above freezing was sorely missed. Even through her layers and layers of robes, most of them black and designed for such weather, she noticed every flurry of wind as it blew through the cracks in the window sills, rustled through her papers, swirled about the room, and quickly made to dissipate. With a moment of dull recognition Minerva noticed that she was missing her second bottle of emerald ink. Her first bottle sat pathetically on her desk, empty and echoing the wind as it made its way through her office. Minerva thought that perhaps she had left the other bottle on her other desk, the one in her classroom, and, as there was nothing else for it, went to retrieve it. Her chair slid back behind her, pushed by the motion of her legs as she stood, and it made an eerie sort of scraping sound against the stone below her feet.
The classroom was more cavernous than her office had been, with more windows. The drafts found it an exciting place to inhabit, and did so with a vigor that left Minerva’s bones rattling with the cold. She located the well of ink on her desk at the same moment that Professor Dumbledore opened the front entrance door to the classroom and entered quickly, trying to prevent the wind from gaining entrance. It was a futile battle, he realized once inside the room, for the wind had other ways of doing business and it did not necessarily require the services of a door.
“Pardon me, Professor. I don’t mean to trouble you at work.” He said.
“It’s no trouble at all.” It took Minerva a moment to respond. She was not quite used to being referred to as 'Professor'.
He walked through the room and up to her desk where she stood, and as he did he said, “I merely noticed your absence at dinner tonight and wondered if perhaps you might have left for the holidays without saying goodbye. I was almost certain that you had when I couldn’t find you in your rooms.”
“I’m sorry to have concerned you.” And she meant it, despite the formality in both of their tones of voice. “I’ve been working to finish grading the mid-term examinations. I should like to get a jump start on sending out the grade reports, but I can’t do that until I have all of the grades in.”
“Understandable, of course. Enrollment is up and it would be a sorry affair indeed to have to worry about finishing grade reports over Christmas.” The Headmaster said, stuffing his hands farther into his robe pockets, fruitlessly trying to warm them.
“Quite sorry.” Minerva mumbled, but she hadn’t meant it and that was rather evident.
Dumbledore noticed. “When are you leaving the castle for the holidays?” he asked.
“I won’t be. Pomona was meant to look after my Gryffindors over the break, but she has had an urgent family emergency. She apologized profusely but I advised her that, as long as she still had a family with which to have emergencies, she ought to take advantage of it. She’ll be leaving at dawn. I’ll be watching over her Hufflepuffs until her return.”
“I’m quite sorry to hear that. Did you have any interesting holiday plans?” He asked, already having a sense of the answer.
“None at all, Professor.” She said, hugging her arms closely around herself. She had begun to feel rather insecure during the course of the discussion, and she did not at all approve of the look that the still novice Headmaster had in his eyes as he mistook her gesture for a simple sign of being cold.
He said, “Perhaps it’s time to finish for the night, Professor. It’s rather chilly in here and I know for fact that the house elves have been instructed to add extra heating charms to the beds tonight. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”
A surge of anger struck her, “The magical substitute for human contact? It sounds divine.” It was out before she could stop herself. She wasn’t sure where the irritation had come from, perhaps the look that still hadn’t left his eye. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it struck her as ‘pity’. She decided, instead, to blame her momentary animosity on the frost bite she was acquiring with every passing second.
“Doesn't it just?” The Headmaster returned with a small smile, but the words were far from jovial.
“Perhaps you’re right, sir.” She added the ‘sir’ part as an afterthought, an apology, an effort she had learned in her days as his student. This was not her first slip of tongue before Professor Dumbledore, and 'sir' was always employed to try to make up for a previous comment.
“Excellent. Come along, quickly. You’ll find the Transfiguration Courtyards to be a veritable wind tunnel, and the sooner we can get inside the rest of the castle, the better.”
He walked the young Professor McGonagall to her rooms that night and their conversation passed gently from then on. He realized that if he didn't mention Christmas, she wouldn't make him feel as if he had murdered a puppy; and that was a desirable arrangement for them both.
