Pensieve (UPDATE: 013: Yellow)

[Apocalypticat]

Hiya folks. This will probably be a very on and off challenge for me, but I thought I'd have a shot at it.

001: Beginnings

The castle rose before her, grim against the grey sky, seeming somehow far more imposing than it had to the eyes of a student. Her eyes moved automatically to find Gryffindor Tower, daring the air. The moving thunderclouds seemed to vaunt above it, asking her how on earth she could have aspired to teach here. The Headmaster’s tower rose above the rest, and with a small jolt, she realised that she was presuming to fill a post he had started in. The urge to get back into the carriage and ride back to the station was overwhelming.

“Ah, Minerva.”

All at once, the object of her thoughts was standing on the main threshold, beaming past his half-moon spectacles. She could not restrain herself from staring; the last time she had seen him had been on the shoulders of a shrieking crowd, as they bore him away to victory celebrations. More years than she cared to think of had passed since then, but he seemed almost timeless - the auburn of his hair was undimmed, and, if anything, his beard appeared more luxuriant than ever. The blue eyes held their old twinkle, but the light was distant - was he remembering Grindelwald as well? If his memories tallied with hers, it made her appointment all the more inexplicable; who could set responsibility on the shoulders of a girl who he had had to rescue, not once but twice?

Between them was a small flight of steps leading up to the doors, and she found it strangely appropriate; he was raised above her more ways than one. To set foot even on the lowest step seemed unforgivable, and she lingered, unsure, conscious of her battered umbrella and untidy bun. His mouth twitched, and she remembered that he was still waiting for a response.

“Thank you for the appointment, Headmaster,” she blurted. “It means a lot to me.”

One eyebrow quirked. “A great pleasure to hear. But there is no need to be so formal. You are welcome to call me Albus.”

She blinked, and thought it far too daring. He was waiting, but the steps still held an absurd symbolism. The blue eyes clouded. To her horror, he began to descend towards her, hand outstretched-

-To fall, slipping on the stone in a flurry of embroidered robes and assorted medallions, limbs akimbo, beard flying through the air-

-To land, face down, at her feet.

Later on, he himself saw a metaphor.

“After all, that is where I remained.”

[osusprinks]

That was excellent! I absolutely loved it and I hope you continue. The last line was great.

[childminerva]

[QUOTE}Later on, he himself saw a metaphor.

“After all, that is where I remained.”[/QUOTE]
That was brilliant!!! I can't wait to read more of your stuff. ;D

[StormAngel]

omg. it's brillant!!!

[expectopatronum08]

I agree wholeheartedly--brilliant.

[McGonagallsGirl]

I'm stunned. That was fantastic, please write more like this. The detail and personification were amazing.

[Apocalypticat]

Wow! Thanks, everyone! I feel very encouraged!

002: Middles

She was still crying by the time Headmaster Dippet returned from Professor Dumbledore’s office. His frail fingers skittered across the desk, moving aside papers and forms, and there was a wooden creak as he sat down. Without looking up, she knew that his face would be ashen, and that he was trembling. Her hands balled in her lap.

“Minerva.”

The name sounded awkward, as if his mouth was trying to shape itself around a foreign word. Her ears resounded with the memory of someone else whispering her name, with much greater familiarity, and this was what she was about to lose-

“Dear child, look at me.”

The wobble in his voice at the word ‘child’ forced her chin up. His white cheeks were quivering, and the skeletal hands gripped the sides of the desk; she could sense the panic at being out of control. Her tears heated, and burnt her face.

“I - I must ask a few questions.”

She heard herself speak. “You’re going to fire him, aren’t you?”

Her stomach clenched. A spasm shook the Headmaster, bending him as though with the weight of years. He gazed feebly at her, the light shining through his wispy hair.

You need him as well.

“That depends on how you answer my questions… child,” he said, with another wobble.

The fate of Professor Dumbledore, the most popular teacher in the school, and the lone torch against the darkness, was thrust into her lap. Her mouth went dry. Dippet let go of the desk and clasped his hands together, as if trying to compose himself. Once again, his voice betrayed him.

“To your knowledge, did you… encourage… what happened?”

His desperation was like a physical thing, seizing her by the shoulders. Words failed her.

“When did this begin?”

The office spun away from her - she was back in Professor Dumbledore’s rooms, watching pupils contracting from blue irises, mere inches away, and her lips were still burning, and she was staring at her teacher - and his face had her shock written all over it, shock at what line had just been crossed - and that was when Professor Merrythought had dropped her books and started shrieking, still standing in the fireplace-

Dippet’s face came back into focus. The question was impossible to answer, she thought dully. She did not know what he was asking. This. This was Professor Dumbledore handing back an essay with a smile twitching the corners of his mouth, this was blue eyes twinkling, this was the smell of sherbet lemons… Loopy handwriting stood out at her, on a school report: even when Minerva is unsure of the answer, she attempts the question with boundless enthusiasm. Her mind fogged, but she spoke:

“That was the beginning, sir.”

In truth, it was more like the middle.

[childminerva]

another great piece...I'm not much for the student/teacher thing, but your writing is amazing!

[laundry basket]

that was wonderful, even though I'm not all for the student/teacher relationship, it's still a great drabble

[Apocalypticat]

Childminerva and thelaundrybasket - thanks and I have to say I do agree. This little collection 'thing' will not have either of them in a proper student-teacher relationship; what happened in 'Middles' was a one-off which was as shocking for Albus as it was for Minerva. The idea just came to me and wouldn't leave me alone!

[robyn]

Good job. I loved both pieces greatly. You are doing a wonderful work here, thanks so much for sharing.

Robyn.

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks, all! Here's another:

003: Ends

His absence kept her away from the concealed door, barring her from it as effectively as a hex. Everything about the room was theirs - the password was theirs, the bed was theirs, the furniture, the secret. To enter it alone was to violate the air they breathed together. The chamber was a place locked inside her, an unstained image to be held in the mind whenever he was away. He would return to find the bed still dishevelled, and his eyes would sparkle, and he would say:

“I see we are not forgotten.”

To enter the chamber was to enter a realm invisible to the prying eyes of the outside world. Absurd ideas such as professionalism could be left behind. A detached part of her mind expressed surprise at that idea. Minerva McGonagall, abandoning professionalism? Not quite, for Minerva McGonagall did not exist in the chamber; only two Professor Dumbledores conversed over tea, or made the bed so as to untidy it again…

Weeks passed. This was but another absence - he was called away on business, on an Order mission, on a teaching conference. She tied her bun more tightly. When she spoke, she thought of the chamber.

“Minerva, I’m always here if you want to talk,” Rolanda said, one day in August.

“About what?”

There was nothing to talk about except the War, which thundered its way onwards as always. Letters passed between her and Order, and there were meetings to attend at Grimmauld Place. She argued, and gestured over diagrams and maps, hugging the secret to herself. Moody stumbled in and out of the office, effusive with information, but still completely ignorant. Energy swept her up and drove her. Potter’s movements occupied her thoughts at night, gave her an exciting instability that was fleeting, as there would always be a point of gravity in the room, when he returned. The thought came to her whenever she passed the door-

Silence. A void gaped.

“Minerva, talk to us,” Poppy said.

Foolishly, in a moment of utter numbness, she gave in.

Roses blinded her. They curled around chair-legs, hung from the bed canopy, gleamed with preservative magic. From the mantelpiece, blue eyes twinkled from a photo, so that she barely saw the woman next to him. The duvet was crumpled, and his weight still indented the sheets. The air was perfumed, and an enchanted piano began to play Chopin, for this was the end, this was the last outpouring, and for the first time, debilitating weakness had her sinking down onto the bed, with the female Professor Dumbledore, who had never really existed, as a separate entity sinking down with her-

A small black box sat on the pillow. Her vision blurred, but her hands were steady as she opened it, to reveal the engagement ring inside.

“Yes,” she said, but he was already in his sepulchre.

[childminerva]

Everything about the room was theirs - the password was theirs, the bed was theirs, the furniture, the secret.
...Minerva McGonagall did not exist in the chamber; only two Professor Dumbledores

I like the images evoked in those two lines. This was a beautiful piece, great job!!!
I can't wait to read the other 97

[McGonagallsGirl]

this last was so saddening. I like the images, though. Wonderful imagery.

[Apocalypticat]

Here's another, which was just pure fun.

004: Insides

“I will not insult your memory by giving you a tour, my dear. How about a cup of tea in my office?”

“Yes, please, Headmaster.”

The sense of being guilty of an atrocious presumption still remained with Minerva as she and her employer left her new office and attached rooms. On the other hand, her feet were remembering the old corridors, and there was some comfort to be garnered from the fact that she had twice turned instinctively in the direction of the Gryffindor Common Room. In more than one way, she remained a student, being led around the castle by Professor Dumbledore.

He made a face and walked ahead of her. “Albus.”

She said nothing, yet his fall had softened the air between them, even with the embarrassment it had caused. His blue eyes twinkled as they watched her; the subsequent laughter still seemed to twitch his lips. She had been horrified, but he had chuckled, and she had not expected it - had forgotten what he was like, that he was not a distant hero swollen by glory but her kindly old professor who chuckled and offered her sherbet lemons…

…And whom her lips had brushed…

The memory invaded so suddenly that she felt as if she had been winded. They had reached the seventh floor, and she realised that she was going into the office she had once been forcibly dragged to by Professor Merrythought, and would probably sit in the same chair as the one she had quivered in in front of Dippet-

‘Albus’ was unforgivable.

The blood rushed to her cheeks, and she lowered her head. Her companion appeared not to notice, and continued to chatter.

“I assume that you have read the papers sent you?”

“Of course.”

“Ah, no doubt, Minerva. But we shall need to discuss the specifics of your contract. I shall need your signature a few times. It is all very tedious, but necessary, I‘m afraid.”

As they arrived at the gargoyles guarding the office, her old apprehension came back with a vengeance. Dippet’s strained face flashed in her mind’s eye. The Headmaster ascended the spiral staircase before her, and was conspicuously silent. Had he remembered as well?

The office was considerably different from how it had been in Dippet’s time. A set of purple velvet curtains had replaced the grey faded ones that she remembered, and the desk was weighted with clutter, whilst Dippet had always been scrupulously tidy. Curious little ornaments stood on every surface, attracting examination, and an elegant armoire had replaced the clumsy old cabinet. There was a warmth about the room, and an energy.

His sudden stillness drew her eyes back to him. His back was turned towards her, with the auburn hair tumbling down. Her discomfort returned, and the silence stretched-

“My dear.”

Her spine shuddered and snapped to attention, for his voice had been a heavy, thick growl…

He turned, slowly, and shock held her frozen. The expression on that kindly face was predatory; every line stiffened with desire. The blue eyes were darkened, sweeping her form up and down with the power of a physical caress, sending a creeping heat though her body, burning with a hunger. Professor Dumbledore was gone; this was someone else, someone decidedly masculine - and not only aware of it but set ablaze with it, ablaze with something primal and ancient and undeniable…

Her tongue wagged irrelevantly. “Pardon? Headmaster-”

“Albus,” he whispered.

She realised numbly that it had always been there - there was a sensuality about the arch of his eyebrows, the curve of his nose, the largeness of those groping eyes-

“A-Albus…”

“Minerva, I think you have forgotten.”

Merlin knew how she spoke. “Forgive me, I don’t-”

“-Understand,” he hissed, and he dropped into his chair, drooping and slumping, draping himself over the arms like a cat curving itself round a pillar. “You understood better than me, back then.”

A spark leapt, igniting a fire. “Nothing was planned.”

He did not respond, but his fingers crept towards the clasp of his robes. Another tremor shot through her.

“I…”

She stopped; purple and gold robes were slipping to the floor. The undershirt parted, and fell. The Headmaster’s Seal gleamed against his naked chest, swinging hypnotically. Auburn glinted in the light of a sunset. Her own fingers imitated his. One long finger crooked and beckoned. She stumbled forward, and the beard met her cheek as hands passed through her head, undoing the bun, and a hanging thread of her existence was picked up, and woven to its conclusion…

Of course, that never actually happened. They had tea and, with it, a pleasant conversation on a variety of topics. They talked about the weather, about the curriculum, about her Auror exploits. She signed some papers. He offered her sherbet lemons, which she refused. He walked her back to her rooms, and reminded her to compile some lesson plans. He left, and she walked around her rooms both as a cat and as a woman, familiarising herself. Then she went to bed.

She knew that vivid dreams were caused by eating too much cheese.

[EloquentPhoenix]

Oooh you are evil aren't you? There was something more until *sigh* a dream. It was a bit different though, with Albus, but they were together. Bloody cheese

Does the whole thing all link together? Or will the whole thing link together, should I say?

[childminerva]

hahaha...I was a little worried for a second there, it seemed a bit out of character for Albus, but it was in fact, very funny

[Apocalypticat]

eloquentphoenix said:

Does the whole thing all link together? Or will the whole thing link together, should I say?

Yes it will... or at least that's the plan. 004 follows on from 001; the chronology's mucked up.

And yeah, Albus was a trifle odd, wasn't he?

[robyn]

Evil you deffinetly are
Both to Minerva and us!
Wonderful piece, just have no real words to go on describing how much I love your writing and how glad I am for you to start these pieces.

Thanks so much.

Robyn.

[StormAngel]

wow. wonderfully written, all of them

[Apocalypticat]

005: Outsides

Ugh. I hate this one. But I AM determined to do these in order.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, Headmaster.”

She was halfway into her seat next to Albus before she noticed the unwelcome visitor sitting on her other side. The sight of the inspector sent a cold bolt through her - for the eyes that watched her over thick, round spectacles were feminine, and the pouting mouth was daubed with lipstick. The fact that she was shaken made her even more so; why did the fact that this inspector was a woman bother her? There was no reason for the scrutiny to be any more personal, or the criticism to be any more biting. No, she was merely surprised; all previous inspectors had been fat, balding old men. Pointedly turning her head away, she reached for the toast.

The students were chattering and laughing as usual, but she had the odd feeling of being somehow trapped in a bubble of silence. The sound of the toast against her teeth seemed obscenely loud, and the creak of the inspector’s chair was painfully obvious. Blood rushed to her cheeks; she felt herself being looked at. Surely she couldn’t be evaluated on how she ate her breakfast? No, of course not - she was being silly, and paranoid - or was it because of the emptiness that was entirely unrelated to the inspector? She sneaked a glance to the side.

Albus was engrossed in the Daily Prophet, seemingly completely forgetful of his boiled egg. Looking over his shoulder, she tried to read the headlines, hoping that there would be something irritating enough to comment on. She found herself looking more at the half-moons than at the paper. The blue eyes scanned resolutely. She gave up, and took another bite of her toast. On the edge of her vision, she saw the inspector’s hand drift through her hair. The food became a rubbery morass in her mouth - the gesture had been so… deliberate…

At last, Albus cleared his throat, and she sat up straight.

“I shall have to see you in my office, around lunch-time. The syllabus for the Third-Years has been unexpectedly amended.”

The sapphire irises did not turn towards her, but continued to peruse the paper.

“Yes, of course, Headmaster.”

“By the way, I’m aware that Filius wishes to speak to you about a classroom change.”

“Ah,” she murmured. “I will see him at some point today.”

He nodded, and turned a page. The inspector smirked. Minerva felt suddenly like screaming; the outsider’s perception was no different from her own, she realised.

There was a rustle as her superior laid aside the paper. The half-moons glinted as their wearer swept his gaze up and down the House tables. Then he rose, so abruptly that her hand jerked, sending a knife sliding across the wood.

“I think I must relieve my bladder. Excuse me.”

As he walked away, she clung to the humour. The inspector leaned forward, and turned her chair conspiratorially towards her.

“You are… Professor McGonagall? The Transfiguration professor?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“How long have you worked here?”

“Three years.”

“Oh?” The inspector’s pencilled eyebrows rose. “I must confess, from that conversation I just observed, I thought you must be new. But, really, it is quite impressive. Hogwarts has a very professional atmosphere. Sometimes a head teacher will become too… personable with their staff. A school can lack authority and direction when that happens. You understand?”

One eyelid flickered, dripping mascara. Lead sank into her stomach. I thought you must be new. Who could blame the inspector for thinking that, after a conversation that had been so blank and cold? And that was her fault; the term ‘Headmaster’ was a wedge between them that would not go away. He was so kindly towards her - personable -at times, and so distant at others. Of course, she was being silly; subordinates were not supposed to obsess over their relationships with superiors.

Professionalism, professionalism, professionalism. What a bitter mantra!

Three years, and yet nothing had changed. Had she expected it to? Why? She delved, nervously. All was confused, indistinct. The inspector had left the table, but it was as if she was still there, binding her to her chair-

Albus cleared his throat again. She jumped again, feeling the slightly disturbed blue stare sear her. When had he come back? How long had he been sitting there, watching her argue silently with empty air? And she had completely ignored him! He was surveying her over interlocked fingers, both paper and breakfast pushed aside.

“Headmaster, I-”

He held up a hand, brow furrowed, instantly stopping the tide of excuses and apologies. When he spoke, his voice was soft.

“In magic, one can never judge the depth of the inside by the smallness of the outside.”

With that, he left. His words baffled her for years.

[maritelske]

Don't hate it - I ADORED IT. A very clever idea, too and I loved her becoming caught in his eyes as she reads over his shoulder.

His quote at the end was also beautiful, and very Albus. And very re-assuring for me.

I am enjoying these little one-shot pieces immensley.

[childminerva]

"His words baffled her for years"
ooooooooh. I like this one. Those last few lines were very powerful--they are fairly close to how I view the ADMM canon relationship.

[Drake]

I bow before you and your awesomness.

They were all so incredibly good.... and deep.

I especially liked "Inside," "Outside," and "Middle."

I'm gonna bow some more now.... ;D

[Apocalypticat]

Wow! Thanks everyone! It just didn't seem to be going very well as I wrote it. Here's another!

006: Hours

“Watch.”

May, and sunlight bathed the room in brilliance, shining through the tall panes, making her scrunch up her eyes. Dust motes danced through the shadows of the piled tables and chairs, every now and then catching the light and gleaming, before sinking back into invisible swirls. Her summer robes hung cleanly about her, soft and warm. A phoenix, his resplendent plumage painful to look at, chirped from his perch on a chair - a chirp which was echoed by the birds outside, black specks soaring through a blue sky. Auburn hair glinted. Her favourite teacher stood by the windows, a silhouette against the day.

“Watch.”

Long, thin arms extended themselves, stretching out like the wings of a bird. Large, embroidered sleeves made triangles against the light. Her breath was stolen away - for no apparent reason, the image was engraved on her mind-

The fingers lengthened, and the auburn spread, rippling through the robes. Talons moved out across the floor. The mane became a proud crest. For one, glorious moment, a gigantic phoenix stood, wings outstretched, blazing more brightly than the sun… It shrank, away from the sun, so that she glimpsed bright blue eyes encircled by half-moon markings, before the process reversed itself - and her professor returned, arms still out in an immense embrace…

“But how?”

Her whisper was absurdly loud. His chuckle was gentle, lilting.

“Practice.”

But her cat struggled away from her, brushing her face mockingly with unseen whiskers. It wrenched itself from her grasp, leaving only traces. Yet he was there, throughout the summer months and beyond, chuckling and spreading his wings. When her first transformation came, he was there to pat her on the shoulder, and ease the pain away. His words remained in the air, with the dust motes:

“Courage, Minerva.”

And “you have talent.”

She found her fur, but she would never find her wings like him. There was only wonder to be had at such grace, such ease. She never tired of watching his change, and he never tired of showing it. All track of time was lost, listening to his advice and amusement. Eventually, she found the courage to laugh with him - and then it was a joy, for he was more than her professor, more than a friend, but her platonic, intellectual lover; a mentor. They talked of Transfiguration, poetry, Muggle authors, wizarding politics. When she voiced an opinion, her face heated. Blue eyes twinkled.

“The cat is yours, Minerva.”

The lessons ended.

But she remembered them, those golden hours.

[childminerva]

Ah, beautiful piece! Thanks for such a quick update!

[Drake]

OOO! Muy muy bueno!

[osusprinks]

These are all so great and I am so very sorry I haven't reviewed them here! You do an excellent job and I am impressed you are doing them in order.

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks for all your lovely words! Here's another.

007: Days

Days passed, slowly, agonisingly, unbearably.

They spoke little, to the cracked walls behind each other, avoiding direct gaze. Hollow faces stared, fingers skittered. Muggle lights were erratic, like the movements of one of the other Resistance fighters, the blond youth who never slept. Did anybody? The weather was spoken of - the driving rains, the knifing wind; nothing which could hide the wails of the sirens or the bombs. What they all thought of was never mentioned, and they would retire wordless, to sleep beneath windows.

Her own window commanded a view of the skyline, the sickening lumpiness of trees. Perhaps the pane was chipped - she never noticed. Her retinas held the sight of the blaze beyond, and the raw bloodiness of the sky, and blues and greens and yellows; a rainbow of destruction. She hated those trees.

Days passed.

In the brief moment when she could drag herself away from the window, she faced another glass. Her reflection put its hair into a bun. Her shoulders felt cold.

“It is imperative.”

Yet he had nothing on the day he had left, equipped with only a phoenix and a wand. Nobody had said anything, had dared say goodbye. She had leapt up as he’d risen from the bench, but sad sapphire forced her back down. He had done nothing but stare at them - these few who had followed him - who were now broken because they could not. Had the dip of his head been one of respect, gratitude? The half-moons had glinted, and continued to superimpose themselves over distant explosions.

Days passed.

The blindness of the Muggles in the hotel was infuriating.

“Jerry’s having fun!”

They could not know that the distant storm was not one of bombs, nor could they realise that she detested them so much that she needed them to continue. They could not know that any silence would be one of death. None of them, not all the Muggle officers in their crumpled uniforms, had understood her sudden rise from the table, or the wordless cry of the blond boy, when a raven had trimmed its black way through the rabid sky. Muggles had not seen the front of the Daily Prophet; the image of a malignant figure bent with cruelty, raven on one shoulder, his single mad eye roving like a gun-sight-

Days passed.

Days passed, days in which the fight had not paused, in which the Dark Lord and his enemy had reddened the clouds with fire and stung the naked eye, in a War of Magi that could only be watched helplessly-

“I’m going there!”

“No you’re not, my girl!”

Moody’s grip was like a vice. She did not go. She wept, and clawed at Moody, imagining her professor’s blood spurting out…

The thunder rolled, and her hands were spread against the pane, ice creeping down her fingers. A tremor reverberated through her bent knees. The tree-line ruptured, like a vessel bursting, and skeletal branches were silhouettes against a fire-storm, scarlet and orange around a white nucleus; buffeting, burning, battering-

Days passed.

A comet came, on the seventh day. The guards on the French border muttered of dreams and nightmares, of a giant swastika drawn in the blood of God. Her straining ears drove her to anger, a false anger that masked a hope. Her vigil at the windowsill was almost broken; she wanted to run down to the khaki uniforms and contradict them - tell them that they had not seen, in some wild glimpse beyond the charms which blinded them, a swastika…

Only a rampant phoenix, flaming in victory.

[osusprinks]

Breathtaking. This is so beautiful. A very different style from my usual read. Thank you for sharing!