Resolving a Misunderstanding (complete)

[MMADfan]

Part XXIV: A Small Success

As Minerva lay there, drowsy from the warmth of the blanket and from the emotional exhaustion of the day, she remembered another early occasion that ought to have warned her that It was coming. It was a Saturday morning, she remembered clearly, and he had told her recently that he wouldn’t be making any more trips for a while. The wards here were going to occupy him for a time, and there was little more he could do on the Continent at the moment. Apparently, many of his trips had been spent not only in searching for Grindelwald and spying on the Dark wizard’s followers, but also in trying to rescue captives held by Grindelwald in various miserable places, as well as attempting to rescue muggles trying to escape from Germany and Nazi-occupied Europe. Occasionally, the two missions would merge, since, in certain communities in Europe, muggle-magic marriages were much more common than in England. Although Minerva was glad that her professor would not be going on anymore dangerous trips for a while, she felt guilty being happy about it, since it meant that there was no more hope of him helping any additional wizards or muggles who were trying to escape. Minerva didn’t even want to ask if it meant that they were all dead already. It certainly seemed possible, after all she had read of the war.

There was a Quidditch game that afternoon, Ravenclaw-Slytherin, so although Gryffindor wasn’t playing, the common room was buzzing with excitement. There was a great debate about whether it was more to Gryffindor’s advantage if Ravenclaw won or Slytherin, and Minerva had had to intervene several times to keep people from jinxing each other in an attempt to emphasise the correctness of their positions. Finally, Minerva gave up, saying that if they wanted to jinx each other and end up in the hospital wing instead of going to the match that afternoon, that was fine with her. Hoping that would provide them incentive to keep their wands to themselves, she had flounced out of the portrait-hole with her book-bag, and headed off to the Transfiguration classroom.

Professor Dumbledore was there when she arrived, which pleased her greatly, although she was a little worried that he’d be too busy to have her use the classroom that morning. Instead, he suggested that they work on some of her animagus exercises. In addition to the type that she had worked on over the summer, which were essentially a series of progressive exercises that helped focus the mind, the magic, or the physical energies of the practitioner –sometimes all three at once, although she hadn’t advanced to those yet– there were other exercises in which the practitioner focused her mind on a particular quality of a particular animal and then used her wand to cast a transformative spell on one of her body parts, usually a hand or foot. It was a difficult spell, since it was completely nonverbal, with no incantation even possible, and it required the caster to concentrate fully on both the essence of the particular animal and on the sensation of the body part in question.

Minerva had tried this twice before, in Dumbledore’s presence, and had rather lacklustre results, she thought. The first time, she had focused on her left hand and on the quality of a squirrel’s fur, since that seemed simple to her, and had managed only a smattering of silvery-grey hairs on the back of her hand. The second time, on the same occasion, she had removed her left shoe and sock, crossed her ankle somewhat indelicately over her right knee, and concentrated on a raven’s claw. Those results, although Dumbledore had said they were positive, were more disastrous, to Minerva’s mind. Instead of either turning into a raven’s claw, which would have been a perfect result, or at least changing her foot black, or something normal like that, three of her toes sprouted extremely long, sharp toenails, which she was unable to get rid of, even after concentrating on what her foot should feel like. Professor Dumbledore had had to cast a spell to force her toenails to resume their normal shape and size.

So this Saturday morning, she sat in a chair in Professor Dumbledore’s office, cleared her mind, and focused on her hand, then added to that the essence of a dog’s paw, imagining vividly the forepaw of a border collie. She opened her eyes, raised her wand, and cast. To her immense disappointment, only a patch of dark, black fur had appeared on the back of her hand and down the length of her fingers.

Impatiently, she waited for Professor Dumbledore to examine her hand, turning it this way and that, stroking the fur the wrong way, then peering at its roots, before she could wave her wand and reverse the spell.

“Well, at least this time, I could reverse it,” she said ruefully.

He looked at her thoughtfully. “Explain to me exactly what you were concentrating on before you cast.”

Minerva told him, in as much detail as she could manage, her entire thought process prior to casting. She watched him as he walked in a slow circle, looking at apparently nothing. Suddenly, he turned and said, “Cast it on my hand, instead.”

“But how?” she protested. “The spell requires me to focus not just on the dog’s paw, but on my hand, the way it feels, its bone, muscle, skin, blood, and so on. How am I supposed to cast it on you?”

“It will require a variation on your focus, of course, but that should be a relatively simple matter. Your ability to focus your magic in empathy with other living creatures is excellent, Minerva. The exercises you have been practising since the beginning of the summer have made that part easy for you, wouldn’t you say?”

“I suppose. I guess that’s why this is so frustrating. Using an ordinary transfigurative spell, I can change my hand into a dog’s paw and back again with no problem. And I did that last week, repeatedly, as you know. But I can’t force my hand to transform itself into a dog’s paw. I don’t know why.” Minerva sighed.

“That’s why I would like you to perform the spell on my hand, first. We know it is not that you don’t know what your hand feels like when it is a dog’s paw, since, as you pointed out, you’ve performed an ordinary transfiguration on it. Clearly, you are also achieving some kind of internal magical effect that drew forth the fur just now, and which we could no doubt diagnose in detail, if we were so inclined, but I don’t believe that such a diagnosis would aid you at this point.”

“But, Professor, your hand isn’t my hand. I can’t use an animagus spell to transfigure it!” Minerva, in all her reading, had never heard of anything like that being done.

“Ah, Minerva, but you can! I would perform it on you –and will, later, if you wish– but since you are trying to learn to cast, I would prefer you give it a try first.”

“I have no idea how,” Minerva said, feeling slightly stubborn about it, mainly because she still didn’t know what her professor was getting at.

“As I said, your strength at the moment is your magical empathy. Although it may complicate things a bit to focus both on the dog’s paw and on my hand, I believe that you will be able to. Once you have my hand fixed clearly, cast the dog’s paw. Do not hesitate; the essence of the dog’s paw is at your ready disposal, Minerva. Have faith that you do not need to linger over it. Simply cast.” He held out his right hand to her.

“Um, Professor, I’m not sure this is a good idea.” Albus raised an eyebrow at her, but she continued. “I don’t mean the idea as such, I meant casting it on your wand hand. I know you can use your wand with your left, but I would really prefer not . . . messing with your wand hand, if you know what I mean.”

Dumbledore smiled and dutifully stretched out his left hand to her. She looked at it, and hesitated. “Go ahead, Minerva, feel free! My hand is yours, at the moment,” he said, grinning.

She smiled back, and took his hand in her own two smaller ones. She pushed the cuff of his robe back so that she could see the fine, well-proportioned wrist bones. She rested the palm of his hand in her left one while examining it with her right, running the tips of her fingers from his wrist across the back of his hand and down his long fingers. She held his hand closer to her face, seeing all the small, dry lines that mapped the back of his hand, and the short, fine hairs; then Minerva examined his clean, neatly trimmed fingernails, running a finger along those, as well. She could feel a warm, deep vibration coming from him that was clearly not physical, and she felt wonderment that his magic expressed itself so strongly when he was simply at rest in a chair. His hand still cradled in her left one, she moved her examination to his thumb, taking it in her right hand, scrutinizing it, pressing it in toward his hand, then extending it, then letting it lay at rest. She was just about to turn his hand over to examine the palm when, without thinking, she lightly stroked her index finger down the length of his thumb, wondering whether he had sucked it as a child, and whether it would help her to know it better if she sucked it, and knew its feel in her mouth. That thought, which not long ago she would have dismissed as pure silliness, created the strangest reaction in her, as a warm tingle began low in her abdomen. Shaking herself mentally, she forced herself to return to her focus, and the tingle, ignored, subsided as she turned his hand over and explored his palm minutely. Again, a strange, unbidden thought passed through her mind, of how nice it would be to sit and hold his hand, stroke his palm, and caress the sensitive tips of his fingers, not because of a Transfiguration exercise, but just because it was his hand and it felt nice. At that distracting thought, Minerva closed her eyes and forced her mind and her magic back to their proper focus.

Eyes shut, she held his left hand between her two palms for what seemed an eternity as she tried to absorb its nature. When she opened her eyes, she said, “Ready?” He simply smiled slightly and nodded, so she released his hand, picked up her wand, and with the knowledge of his hand fixed firmly in her mind, she quickly called up the collie’s paw and cast.

Albus’s hand shivered a moment, like a mirage in the desert, then it slowly seemed to darken and melt. For a brief second, Minerva was alarmed, but before she could even register her own sense of panic, before her lay a perfect example of a border collie’s paw. True, it was larger than usual, since it seemed that it had taken on the size of Albus’s hand, but it was perfect. Almost tossing her wand down on the desk, she reached over and grabbed Albus’s hand, or paw.

Feeling that suddenly snatching up her professor’s hand was rude, she apologised. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir! I wasn’t thinking – may I? Does it hurt? What does it feel like? Did it hurt when it changed?”

“Of course you may, and no, it doesn’t hurt. It feels much as I remember a dog’s paw feeling the last time I did such an exercise. No, the transfiguration didn’t hurt, precisely, although it was more uncomfortable than when one casts the spell on oneself. And may I take this opportunity to say, ‘well done, Miss McGonagall’?”

Minerva was thrilled. It was a long way from her animagus transformation, and she had yet to be able to perform the spell on herself, but it was a major success. Dumbledore called Wilspy and had her bring a pitcher of pumpkin juice and a plate of shortbread to celebrate.

As she munched on her biscuit, Minerva thought of something. “Professor, I was wondering a few things.”

“That comes as such a surprise, Miss McGonagall! I didn’t think you had a curious bone in your body!” he teased.

Minerva just smiled, shook her head at him indulgently, and continued with her questions. “Well, first, why don’t they mention this technique in any of the books I’ve read –even in yours? Second, if I can change your hand into a paw, and I can, eventually, turn my hand into a paw, why can’t I change my hand into your hand, and then just, well, turn myself into you? No polyjuice needed!”

“Ah, Minerva, I believe that you will find part of the answer to your first question there in your final statement. I do believe that attempting to transfigure oneself into the likeness of another human being might be possible –it would certainly be possible to transfigure certain aspects, such as the hand– but such a transfiguration might have unwanted side effects, upon which one may only speculate. But even were there no side effects, the practical consequences of being able to transfigure oneself into the likeness of another human being without the use of polyjuice could be quite negative. Also, remember that whomever you wished to transfigure yourself into would have to be someone you knew intimately. It is one thing to transfigure a hand, or even a face, but to transfigure an entire body– well, it seems unlikely that anyone would wish to transfigure themselves into someone they know that well by happenstance, and more unlikely still that someone they didn’t know well would allow them to gain familiarity sufficient to enable such a transfiguration. Not to mention that most practitioners only obtain one form, and . . . .”

Dumbledore went on, discussing the practical, ethical, and magical implications of human-to-human internal transfiguration, and the differences between an animagus and a metamorphmagus, but Minerva’s mind had already stopped at his words, “whomever you wished to transfigure yourself into would have to be someone you knew intimately. It is one thing to transfigure a hand, or even a face, but to transfigure an entire body . . . .” She thought of her minute exploration of her professor’s hand –a hand that she already knew well, that belonged to someone she had known for more than four years. She halted herself from pursuing that thought any further, that thought which questioned, what kind of “intimate knowledge” would she need in order to do that, and how would she obtain it? She turned her attention back to what Professor Dumbledore was saying just in time to hear the words, “Dark Magic.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think I caught what you just said, what was that about Dark Magic?”

“Just that some people would classify what you just did as Dark, although it is not officially labelled so.”

“I’m afraid my mind wandered a bit, why do people think it’s Dark? I mean, anyone from about the third year up can cast a spell that will transfigure someone’s hand into a paw of some kind.”

“I see that the excitement of success has distracted you, my dear. As I said a moment ago, it is not the effect of the transfiguration,” Albus scratched the fur on the back of his paw, “it is the manner in which it is achieved. You forced an internal or essential transfiguration upon another person – in a sense, you made my hand your own first, and then forced it to transfigure itself from the inside out.”

“What? I didn’t feel as though I was forcing anything –” Minerva stammered.

“‘Force’ only in the sense of having my hand, the cells of my body, do something that is against their nature –rather like forcing crocus bulbs indoors. You might be able to force such a transfiguration on a muggle against his will, but to do it on a conscious, aware wizard would require a great deal more power than you expended in your effort here –although I do notice you ate the last of the shortbread without any trouble!”

“So someone could force such a transfiguration on someone else, as I did with your hand just now, but against their will, only if they used much more magical energy?”

“Yes, so you see that using an ordinary transfiguration spell is a far easier way to turn your friend’s hand into a paw! Of course, doing that requires an incantation, and to perform it nonverbally would take practice. Speaking of turning a friend’s hand into a paw, do you suppose you could,” Albus said, gesturing at his paw with his right hand.

“Of course, sir!” Embarrassed that she hadn’t thought of it earlier, especially when he kept scratching his fur, Minerva picked up her wand, concentrated on his hand as a hand, prepared to cast, and then hesitated.

“Minerva?”

“I’m sorry, Professor, it’s just that I’m more nervous about this than I was about performing the transfiguration in the first place. Supposing I do it wrong?”

“Don’t worry about it, just cast away –rest assured that my hand very much wants to be a hand again and will give you its full cooperation!”

Minerva didn’t even smile at that, but furrowed her brow in concentration, and then cast as quickly and forcefully as she could, before she could become nervous again. This time there was a smooth transition, as the fur rapidly disappeared, the fingers elongated, the palm widened, and his hand reappeared. Albus flexed his fingers, and said, “Very good, Minerva.”

“May I see? Is it really all right?”

“Yes, my dear, of course. And it certainly feels fine. In fact, I do believe my fingers feel more limber than usual.” Albus smiled at her.

Minerva took his hand, and in contrast to the painstaking examination she had performed before, simply held it, turned it over, then bent his fingers forward and back again. Letting go, she declared, “Well, at least you don’t seem any the worse for it! Was it as uncomfortable as the initial change?” she asked. “It looked like it went more smoothly.”

“No; in fact, although such a thing always feels peculiar, particularly when the spell is cast by someone else, I barely noticed anything beyond a kind of odd stretching and rolling. You did very well, indeed. I believe you will have greater success the next time you attempt it on your own hand. However, we have already missed lunch, and will miss the Quidditch game if we do any more at the moment. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow afternoon, just before dinner, and resume.”

Minerva readily agreed to this plan, and left to join her friends and troop off to watch a very exciting, rather cut-throat, Quidditch match, which Ravenclaw won by only two points, after their Seeker made a mad flight after the Snitch, catching it only seconds before crashing, ironically, into the Slytherin section of the stands. It was a clear win, however, and as unhappy as Slytherin House was at the loss, a couple of burly seventh-years pulled the hapless Seeker out by his ankles from the rather large hole he had created, and he was sent off to the hospital wing to be treated for concussion and who-knew-what-else.

Minerva was aglow from the excitement of the match, her success with the Transfiguration exercise, and the prospect of another tutorial with Professor Dumbledore the next day. After dinner, during which she spent more time than usual just talking with her friends, rehashing the game, and debating the necessity of the Ravenclaw Seeker’s dive into the Slytherin stands, and hardly any time worrying about her project, or the wards, or whether she should have volunteered for an additional Prefect Patrol duty that evening, she retired to bed early to reread Emergent Creature again. Minerva was as relaxed that evening as ever she had been, with not a clue that in just a matter of days, her internal peace would be shattered.

Note: I have begun adding little titles to the sections. I do hope everyone will forgive the very bad pun in the title of Part XVII . . . . Sometimes I just can't resist.

BTW, can anyone guess who gave Dumbledore the carpet bag he mentions in Part XIX? (The picnic chapter.)

Thanks for continuing to read my little MMAD-fantasia!

-MMADfan

[Miss Q]

Thank you!

Thank you for sharing your work (hard work I imagine!) with us! And I do apologize if I seem a bit impatience, but I do want to know what happens next!

I hope you have time to enjoy the up-coming weekend though!

M

[MMADfan]

missq said:

Thank you!

Thank you for sharing your work (hard work I imagine!) with us! And I do apologize if I seem a bit impatience, but I do want to know what happens next!

I hope you have time to enjoy the up-coming weekend though!

Oh, absolutely no need to apologize! It's EXTREMELY flattering to know that people are waiting for updates! (I was attempting to be somewhat drily witty in bringing up Minerva's patience, but guess I didn't succeed! ;D )

I hope you enjoy your weekend, as well!

-MMADfan

[Trulyamused]

Once again, a truly excellent part. Or should I say parts.

Things are progressing nicely. I'm looking forward to more.

Truly

[elivania]

My first thought was Mary Poppins. Seriously. It was instant.

Expanding Carpet Bag=Marry Poppins. At least to me anyway.

Lovely addition and I can't wait for more.

[MMADfan]

elivania said:

My first thought was Mary Poppins. Seriously. It was instant.

Expanding Carpet Bag=Marry Poppins. At least to me anyway.

Lovely addition and I can't wait for more.

Woo-HOO! A beautifully wrapped tin of ginger newts <virtual, I'm afraid> goes to . . . ELIVANIA!!!! <round of applause>

You certainly are a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious reader, Elivania!

I've always thought that Albus and Mary Poppins would have gotten along rather well -- although the original P.L. Travers' Poppins was rather sterner than the Julie Andrews/Walt Disney version. (I actually have a little fic w/ AD & MP rolling around in my head--not to be touched upon until I've finished this one -- don't worry, though, nothing in it that would disturb any ADMM-shippers, at least not 'ship-wise. ;D)

Have a good week-end!

-MMADfan

[Miss Q]

Mary Poppins and Albus Dumbledore? That sounds intriguing!!! I do hope you'll do something with that!!!!

M

[Apocalypticat]

I'm really enjoying this. The way you mingle present and past is truly mesmerising. Minerva's reaction to being held by Albus after fainting blew me away, and, although it is a little late to do so, I would just like to say that the image of Minerva placing her head against Albus's chest for the eased Apparition is a powerful, subtly sensual image that will remain with me for a long time.

Translation of this review:

SQUEE!!

[MMADfan]

apocalypticat said:

Translation of this review:

SQUEE!!

WOW! A "SQUEE" (all caps, yet!) from the author of "Him Again"? I don't know what praise could be better. (I've been readin' 'n' reviewin' over at ffnet, under a different username -- and loving it.)

I'm happy that you like the mingling of past and present. There have been times when I've not been sure that it's been clear that the perspective had changed, and had to revise the transitions. I'm glad that it's working!

And as for the image of Minerva laying her head against Albus in order to apparate, I'm very glad to know that the image stuck with you. I wanted to present it as sparely as possible, yet show how important that seemingly ordinary moment was for her, and what it showed already about their relationship. And don't worry about reviewing bits that appeared in earlier installments -- I'm pleased you like them well enough to remember them!

Thanks, Apocalypticat!

-MMADfan

[MMADfan]

Okay, while you’re all waiting patiently for the next installment, I thought I’d give you the following little time-line-sort-of-thing:

Canon Characters as They Appear in "RaM"

Albus Dumbledore
Born: August 1, 1840 (A guess on exact date & year–not canon.)
Sorted: September 1, 1851
NEWTs: June 1858
Teacher: June 1937 (age 97)
Headmaster: November 1955
“RaM”: July 1957 (age 117)

Minerva McGonagall
Born: October 4, 1924 (Could be 1925; in "RaM," it's 1924.)
Sorted: September 1, 1936
NEWTs: June 1943
Teacher: December 1956 (age 32)
“RaM”: July 1957 (age 32)

Noncanon Characters

Merwyn McGonagall (Minerva’s Father)
Born: 1869
Sorted: 1881
NEWTs: 1888

Egeria McGonagall, nee Egidius (Minerva’s Mother)
Born: 1875
Sorted: 1886
NEWTs: 1893

Murdoch McGonagall (Minerva’s Brother)
Born: 1913
Sorted: 1924
NEWTs: 1931

Melina McGonagall (Murdoch’s Daughter)
Born: 1936
Sorted: 1947
NEWTs: 1954

Perseus Parnovan (Minerva’s Mother’s Uncle)
Born: 1841
Sorted: 1853
NEWTs: 1860

Perrin Egidius (Minerva’s Mother’s Brother)
Born: 1865
Sorted: 1876
NEWTs: 1883

Other Events that Appear in RaM

1937: Tom Riddle enters Hogwarts
1939: Hagrid enters Hogwarts
1940: Churchill becomes PM, May 10; London Blitz begins September 7
1941: Minerva comes of age October 4
1942: Tom Riddle opens CoS & Hagrid expelled, June
1945: Albus defeats Grindelwald


I had to do this for myself, since otherwise I was getting confused about ages, events, etc.

Perseus Parnovon, you may remember, is the Great-uncle Perseus mentioned a couple of times in the story already. Perrin Egidius is Egeria's brother and owns/owned the apothecary where Murdoch apprenticed and which he now runs, Perrin having retired several years ago. Perrin himself took over the shop from his Uncle Perseus. Melina and Murdoch live in the flat above the apothecary, which is located on (fictional and non-canon) wizarding McTavish Street in Edinburgh. Minerva's parents live in the McGonagall house in the north-west Highlands, where Minerva grew up; Merwyn's mother continued to live with them until her death in approximately 1940 (sorry about her premature demise , but she was inconvenient to the story--I already had too many McGonagall kin running around! ). *EDIT: I may change this so that she remarries & moves away in 1940. (edited 18 March 2007) *END EDIT*

I hope this makes up for the fact that I likely won't post another installment until late today, or sometime tomorrow!

Thank you to Truly and all others who have been so kindly responding to the story!

(BTW, I'm trying to hold off on reading ADMM fics until I'm finished with this story --or at least not starting any I hadn't already begun reading-- partly for time, but also because it's easier for me to write in my own little ADMM universe if I'm not reading others; thus, no reviews from me on this Board until I've finished writing --another incentive to keep going! I look forward to catching up when I'm done!)

-MMADfan

[Apocalypticat]

mmadfan said:

WOW! A "SQUEE" (all caps, yet!) from the author of "Him Again"? I don't know what praise could be better. (I've been readin' 'n' reviewin' over at ffnet, under a different username -- and loving it.)

Thanks very much!

mmadfan said:

I wanted to present it as sparely as possible, yet show how important that seemingly ordinary moment was for her, and what it showed already about their relationship.

Ah well, they do say that our lives are shaped by those 'ordinary' moments. I admire those who can capture them, like you can - I always feel as though my own writing depends far too much on melodrama.

Another thing - I'm stunned by the speed at which you update. I'm sure there was one surreal point when I returned to this thread three times, to find it updated three times! (This coming from someone who has writer's block, and has spent 5 hours staring at one paragraph).

*Bounces excitedly*

Understand about the timeline. It just gets so confusing, doesn't it?

[MMADfan]

apocalypticat said:

Another thing - I'm stunned by the speed at which you update. I'm sure there was one surreal point when I returned to this thread three times, to find it updated three times! (This coming from someone who has writer's block, and has spent 5 hours staring at one paragraph).

*Bounces excitedly*

Ah, but I live to provide others with such surreal moments! ;D

Also, when I was first writing this, I had been sitting at home waiting for service people to show up, so I had LOTS of time. Now, it's simply become sort of describing scenes that have already presented themselves to me, fully blown, and organizing the sequence in a way that I find pleasing to tell the story. It's sort of weird, actually, I guess, but once I have the main kernal of the idea, and the beginning and the end of the story, set in my head, the rest of it just kind of flows out--at least for this fic. I've had a bit more of a struggle with another fic I'm writing, mainly because it requires me to actually do research <horrors!> and have some notion of what the real-world settings are. In this one, although I did do a bit of that (the Doncaster Royal Infirmary that Albus visited, for example, is a real place extant at the time this fic is set), most of the settings just pop out at me, pretty fully formed, as I write.

In addition, there are paragraphs written that haven't made it into the fic yet, because they don't have a good place --but I wrote them anyway just to keep the flow going, and cut them out once I rediscovered where I really wanted to be going.

apocalypticat said:

Understand about the timeline. It just gets so confusing, doesn't it?

COMPLETELY! I had hoped to be able to be lazy and not have to write it out like that, but I kept confusing myself. It was just easier, in the end, to have that to refer to (although my own version is a bit more convoluted than the one I posted).

Well, I'm about to post another part -- hope you enjoy!

-MMADfan

[MMADfan]

Part XXV: A Larger Success

Minerva returned to the Transfiguration classroom the next afternoon, joining Professor Dumbledore in his office. She was still somewhat giddy from her success the previous day, especially since, after a foray into the library, she had discovered that the bit of magic she’d performed was considered extremely difficult, even with the co-operation of the wizard upon whom the spell was being cast. Minerva felt that if she could accomplish that, she could overcome whatever problem was keeping her from performing the transfiguration on her own hand.

After a brief discussion of the surprising Ravenclaw win, the two settled down to work.

“Yesterday, I told you that I could cast the same spell on your hand, if you wished, once you had performed it successfully on mine. I think that would be a wise place to begin this afternoon. Although the sensation is somewhat different from that felt when one performs the transfiguration on one’s own limb, it is still sufficiently different from that felt during an ordinary, external transfiguration as to be valuable for you, I believe. After we have done that, I will give you my thoughts on why you have been unable to achieve the transfiguration on your own hand, despite having done so well with mine.”

“Yes, that puzzled me. I went to the library this morning, Professor –I hope you don’t mind my doing a little research outside of the texts you have given me– and learned that what I did yesterday is considered to be much more difficult than the transfiguration that I have been unable to do on my own hand. I was surprised I could do it at all, in that case.”

“It was unsurprising to me, however, Minerva. As I said yesterday, I believe that you are capable of casting the spell on your own hand; there is simply a slight impediment in your way, which we will attempt to remove this afternoon. So, with your permission?” Dumbledore reached for her hand, which Minerva readily gave him.

“Now, my dear, as I do this, it is most important that you trust me and allow me to perform the transfiguration. As you noted yourself yesterday, casting this spell on an unwilling witch or wizard would require a great deal of energy. And while I could do that, I do not wish to, for two reasons. The first is that I do not want to do anything to you without your full consent; the second is that, although the transfiguration might be uncomfortable even with that consent, it would likely be quite painful without it. At the first sense of any resistance from you –conscious or unconscious, my dear– I will stop. If necessary, we can make a few attempts, although, I must repeat, I will not perform this spell on you without your permission. All right, Minerva?” Dumbledore looked at her seriously to see if she had taken in all he had said.

“Of course, Professor. And I will try to relax. I do trust you, you know. So if there is any unconscious resistance, it is simply nervousness about the procedure, not about you.”

“Thank you; and I appreciate that trust. Shall we begin?”

With a nod from Minerva, Dumbledore began his examination of her right hand, proceeding somewhat differently than she had with his the previous day, seeming to rely less on visual inspection. First, he held her hand lightly between his, then, her hand resting, palm-to-palm, lengthwise over his left, his fingertips touching her wrist, he began passing his own right hand over hers, not touching it, merely hovering a few centimetres above it. He then turned her hand palm up, and did the same operation as before. Minerva almost gasped at the sudden sensation. Although he was not even in contact with her palm, she could feel the tingle of his magic against her skin, and, she thought, brushing against her own magic. That was sufficiently startling, but then he began to run the tips of his fingers lightly across her palm and down her fingers, and Minerva felt a stronger tingle developing in a much different part of her body. When he began lightly brushing each fingertip in turn, Minerva had to swallow hard to keep from gasping aloud. She could feel her face grow warm, although she wasn’t sure whether it was in embarrassment or from something else. Fortunately, she thought, her professor hadn’t noticed her sudden discomfort. Minerva distracted herself from her unexpected physical reaction by reciting to herself the four modes and eight moods of Transfiguration, which helped some, then distanced herself further by clearing her mind as she had learned to do that summer.

Dumbledore, oblivious to anything but his task, took Minerva’s hand lightly between his once more and closed his eyes. A bare moment later, he looked at her and asked, “Ready?” and Minerva, now relaxed and composed, nodded her consent. The entire examination of her hand had taken just a few minutes –far less time than she had taken on the previous day. Minerva hoped that the transfiguration wouldn’t be too uncomfortable.

Taking up his wand, Dumbledore prepared to cast, then stopped, and frowned slightly. “You’ll need to relax more, my dear. I can already feel a resistance in your hand. I do not wish to cause you any pain.”

“All right, Professor.” Minerva closed her eyes, cleared her mind, then thought of her trust in her professor. She thought of how he had apparated her from her home three months before, and the fact that she hadn’t felt the slightest discomfort during or after. Minerva opened her eyes, smiled, and nodded at him.

Dumbledore raised his wand once more; this time, he carried through. Minerva watched in amazement as her hand gradually morphed into a perfect example of an Irish Setter’s front paw. She remembered to note the feeling of the transition. Yes, it was different, somehow, from that experienced during an ordinary transfiguration. It was slightly uncomfortable, of course, but it seemed that, rather than her flesh and bone being molded from without, it was changing from within.

Minerva took her paw in her left hand and ran it over the fur, then turned it over to look at the pads, and the short, tough claws. “Wow.”

“Miss McGonagall, has the transformation affected your ability for human speech?” Albus teased.

“Oh, no, sir! I just, well, it was just . . . .” Minerva was at a loss for words. She stroked the soft reddish fur on the back of her paw, gazing at it admiringly.

Albus grinned at her. “So,” he said, “would you like to keep it for a while? It might interfere with your wand-use, of course. But I’m sure your professors would understand the innate attraction of possessing such a lovely appendage!”

Minerva laughed. “Oh, that’s perfectly all right, Professor! I think that I prefer my hand, actually.” She stretched out her paw to him, and, with a quick wave of his wand, the paw transformed itself back into her hand. He had been right the previous day, she thought, it does feel strange, but natural, at the same time.

“So, you said you would tell me where I’m going wrong now, Professor.”

“I believe that you are very fond of your hand, my dear,” he explained with a grin, “and have simply been too attached to its normal form. Your hand senses your reluctance, one might say, and does not co-operate fully. When you cast, I believe you are concentrating too much on its actual nature, and not allowing the potential paw to be expressed. You need to let go of your hand a bit, if you see what I mean, Minerva.”

“Yes! Yes, I think I do. May I try it again, now?” Minerva was anxious to try it immediately.

“I think that would be wise; in fact,” Dumbledore replied with a smile. “In fact, I would like you to cast it as quickly as possible, without hesitating.”

“All right, then,” Minerva said, taking up her wand. She pointed it at her left hand, felt that it was her left hand, then called up the border collie paw in her mind, and cast rapidly. She almost danced with delight as she saw her hand smoothly transform itself into a perfect paw. She held it out to her professor. “Look at that, Professor! Just look!” As her professor took her paw in his hand, she couldn’t resist, in her happiness, throwing her right arm about him and giving him a quick hug before stepping back, blushing only slightly. “I’m sorry, Professor! I just can’t believe I did it! I actually transfigured my hand from within! Wow!”

Albus grinned at her broadly. “No need for apologies, Miss McGonagall. Very well done! I believe you have proven yourself a more-than-competent student!”

Minerva laughed at that, remembering their conversation the previous June. “And congratulations to you, as well, Professor! Perhaps we are both more-than-competent!”

After Albus had examined her paw carefully, Minerva picked up her wand and transformed her paw back into a hand. Then, after just a moment’s hesitation, she transformed it back into a paw, then again into her hand. “Sorry, Professor, I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t a fluke, and that I could do it again.”

“I do believe that you could do it repeatedly, Minerva, and with great ease. I would prefer you not, however.” At Minerva’s incredulous expression, he explained, “We do not yet know your animagus form. Until we have some indication of what it will be, it is best not to practice this particular exercise, or it could confuse your later transformation. It is one of the errors that witches and wizards often make when they attempt to achieve an animagus form without the benefit of instruction, and one reason that many turn up in St. Mungo’s. Once we have an indication of what sort of animal-form you will take, you can take up a variant of this exercise. Until then, rest assured in the knowledge that you are able to do it. All right, Minerva?”

“Of course, Professor.” That made sense to Minerva.

“Now, I do believe it is dinner time. And although we could go to the Great Hall, perhaps you might prefer to celebrate with your old professor?” Dumbledore asked.

“Yes, sir, I would like that,” Minerva replied with a smile. Other than the occasional sandwich or plate of biscuits, they hadn’t shared a meal together since she had eaten breakfast with him in his study at the end of August.

The two went into the Transfiguration classroom, and Albus arranged the furniture much as he had the evening of their dinner “chez Albus.” This time, Minerva didn’t hesitate to use his little washroom. When she returned, Albus told her that Wilspy would be bringing dinner in a few minutes. They sat and chatted about her recent Prefect Patrols –she was sure that Riddle boy was up to something, as she had caught him out past curfew twice in the last week– until their dinners popped onto the table in front of them. This time, it was chicken with rosemary roast potatoes and carrots, creamed spinach, and pumpkin juice, with chocolate ice cream for pudding. “I would have requested a bottle of wine, Minerva, as you are of age, but in the event that someone should require my services and drop in on us, it would probably be better that it not appear that I am getting one of my students drunk!” He said it with a smile, but Minerva was made aware once more of the unusualness of their professor-student relationship.

In class, he treated her the same as he did all of his students, which, given his kind and encouraging manner, was hardly distant. But when in private, he often called her Minerva, and seemed to call her “Miss McGonagall” only when he was stressing a particular point, or when he was teasing her slightly, generally preferring the familiarity of her given name. Although no doubt he had heard her friends calling her “Min,” he never called her that himself –for which she was actually thankful. She liked her first name, and, as she had gotten older, had tried to impress upon her classmates that she would appreciate if they would use it.

Professor Dumbledore had always treated her ideas with respect, and had guided her and encouraged her to stretch herself and go beyond the mere requirements of her courses. When she was frustrated, whether with one of her projects with him, one of her classes, or with some aspect of her prefect duties, Professor Dumbledore had always listened, and, when appropriate, would make suggestions of things she might do, or, by asking her questions, help her find a course of action for herself. She had no doubt that she could confide in him about anything, and that he would listen to her seriously, but she didn’t do so. She felt that he was already helping her so much, and that he already carried too many burdens for her to present him with any of her own.

Minerva knew, too, that there were things he could have shared with her, but that he had protected her from. It was only through small hints and indications that she had divined that he had been rescuing Grindelwald’s victims, and she remembered clearly that night the previous school year when he had returned, depleted, from some skirmish, yet had attempted to grade essays as though nothing were wrong. He could have, Minerva reflected, told her what curses had hit him, but he hadn’t, just as he hadn’t told her what he had seen that had left him so affected. No, Minerva was not going to ask any more of him than she already was receiving. As it was, she felt he was closer to her than most of her Hogwarts’ friends. Perhaps closer than any of them, actually. He certainly seemed to understand her better, and wasn’t constantly trying to cajole her into being a different sort of Minerva than she was, as so many of her school friends did, without meaning to. Yes, she thought, she was very lucky that Professor Dumbledore had come to teach Transfiguration. She was sure she would not have accomplished so much by now if it weren’t for him.

“Professor?” she said as they were finishing desert and he was pouring them more chamomile tea.

“Yes, my dear?”

“I hope you know how much I appreciate all you have done for me. I don’t know how I will ever be able to thank you properly, or sufficiently, for all you’ve taught me, and for everything else, too. I hope that I have not been a burden to you.”

“A burden! Heavens, no, Minerva! Please, never say such a thing again –don’t even think it! If I were to say the pleasure has been all mine, it would not be far from the mark, I think. It is very rewarding to teach such an adept student, Minerva, but beyond that, I have enjoyed your company, and there have been times when your friendly face has, well, helped me to return to myself, shall we say. I do not believe I would be exaggerating if I were to say that I have benefited from our acquaintance as well, and in unexpected ways. I have, indeed, feared that it was I burdening you, my dear, for you are so young, and yet have taken on so much.”

Minerva reddened at his praise, and said, “Well, just so that you know that I do appreciate it, and don’t take all you’ve done for granted. And I am glad to know that I have been a little bit of a help to you. You mustn’t worry, Professor, that I have taken on too much –I know you wouldn’t let me, for one– and you yourself could never be a burden.” With that final speech, Minerva decided she’d been effusive enough for one evening, and changed the subject to her animagus training.

“You said that we need to obtain some notion of what my animagus form will be,” Minerva said, now quite confident in her use of the word, “will.” “What should my next steps be, then?” She was sure it would involve some kind of meditations, but she wasn’t sure whether they would involve any new exercises or not.

“Ah, yes, your form.” Albus took off his glasses for a moment and looked off into the distance at nothing. “Yes, continue with the meditative exercises that you have been doing, but concentrate on the ones that examine the nature of your mind’s expression and those that focus on the contours of your magic. You may begin performing the combined mind-magic meditations on your own, as well, if you feel confident of them; just be sure you do them when you are well-rested and haven’t overly exerted yourself on other magic-work during the day. Probably best not to do them on the days when you have Charms, Defence, or Transfiguration, unless I am present to monitor you.”

“All right, Professor! I’ll begin doing those exercises immediately,” then catching his expression, “tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep. Oh, I have Transfiguration and Defense tomorrow! I guess I’ll have to wait until Wednesday. I only have Potions, Arithmancy, Herbology, and Ancient Runes that day.” Minerva sighed in frustration.

“Wednesday will be soon enough, Minerva. Now, I do believe that you have Prefect Patrol this evening, and I have fourth-year essays to read. It is time for us to leave “chez Albus” and return to Hogwarts, my dear,” he said with a smile.

Minerva left then, with another, briefer, thank-you and a good-night to her professor, and performed her rounds. Twice as she patrolled the second floor, she got a prickly sensation that someone else was there, and watching her. But even after casting a strong lumos and opening several doors along the wide corridor, she could find no one, although one of the taps in the girls’ bathroom was dripping. Perhaps that was it, she reasoned. In the quiet, the dripping had likely echoed, creating the illusion in her mind that there was someone nearby. She quickly closed the tap firmly, satisfied with her conclusion, and made her way on to the third floor, where she routed two couples necking in the shadows of separate cases in the Trophy Room. Shaking her head in disgust after sending them off to their respective dormitories, and telling them they would appear on her report to the Deputy Headmaster, she continued her patrol, where she met up with Carson Murphy, a Ravenclaw prefect, on the fourth floor, and completed her rounds with him.

Carson was a decent fellow, she thought, and a good companion on rounds. She had noticed that he always waited to sign up for patrol until she had done so, and, it seemed, always tried to arrange to patrol on the same shifts as she. She wasn’t sure exactly how she felt about that, but he was good looking, with a lanky build and deep auburn-red hair, rather than the carroty colour of his younger brother’s. He was also the Ravenclaw seeker who had so precipitously crashed into the Slytherin stands just the day before, so she had to tease him and ask if he was sure he’d been sorted correctly, as he had seemed so eager to join the Slytherins! After that had gotten a chuckle from him, she went on to tease that it had been a manoeuver worthy of a Gryffindor –bold, but a bit ill-conceived– and he laughed out loud at that, saying that at least there was one Gryffindor with enough common-sense to realise that some moves, no matter how daring, weren’t very bright. Then he grinned sheepishly and told her that, as pleased as his House was with their victory over Slytherin, he had been teased “for a Gryffy” since he had been released from the hospital wing that morning.

They finished their rounds together, and Carson walked her back to Gryffindor Tower. After she’d climbed through the portrait-hole, she wondered whether she should have mentioned the peculiar feeling she’d had when she’d patrolled the second floor, then dismissed the idea. It had only been a drippy tap, after all.

Note: I hope you have enjoyed this installment. It came a little earlier than I'd thought it would.

P.S. As someone who's been called "Red" --and worse-- please believe me when I say I have nothing against red hair in any shade (although when I was growing up around a lot of dark-haired girls, I doubt I would have said the same thing!). ;D

[elivania]

W00T!!!

It had only been a drippy tap, after all.

Can someone say EvilChamberOfSecrets!??

I can't wait until the next chapter!!

[Apocalypticat]

I did indeed enjoy this installment! Minerva's tingles... ;D Though I'm not believing in that drippy tap. I loved the way you described how she worked through to that conclusion; she strikes me as very much the sort of person who wouldn't let suspicions run away with her but would search for a logical explanation.

mmadfan said:

Now, it's simply become sort of describing scenes that have already presented themselves to me, fully blown, and organizing the sequence in a way that I find pleasing to tell the story. It's sort of weird, actually, I guess, but once I have the main kernal of the idea, and the beginning and the end of the story, set in my head, the rest of it just kind of flows out--at least for this fic. [...] most of the settings just pop out at me, pretty fully formed, as I write.

Now THAT is the kind of writing experience I live for. I know exactly what you mean. I've had that a lot of that with 'Him Again,' but at the moment I'm stumped because I've got fully-formed scenes in front of where I am, so to speak, but with no notion of getting there. But I do know what you mean. Albus as Brian did not need to be invited into my head; he was already there.

Well, I shall be expecting more of these surreal moments. They're in great demand.

[Trulyamused]

Coolage. Great part, I'm all a-tingle myself.

Looking forward to more.

Truly

[MMADfan]

trulyamused said:

Coolage. Great part, I'm all a-tingle myself.

I'm glad, Truly! (The finger-tip tingle is a rather nice one, I'm thinkin' meself! )

BTW, whenever I write the word "truly" in the story, I think of you and your nice reviews.

Hope you're staying warm. It is FAR too cold lately, especially considering where I live.

-MMADfan, hoping to provide a few future tingles ;D

[MMADfan]

Part XXVI: After the Nap

Minerva became aware of a squeaky voice telling her, “It’s time to get up, Professor Minerva! Wakie, wakie! Time for Professor Minerva to get up! Professor Minerva has an appointment!”

Minerva moaned and rolled over. It wasn’t a particularly annoying wizarding alarm clock, she realised, but Blampa, who had arrived at four-thirty on the dot to wake her. Yawning, she said, “All right, Blampa! I’m awake. Thank you very much. Please bring me a cup of coffee, lots of cream.”

Rolling over and swinging her legs off the bed, she threw off the afghan and looked blearily around the room. She hadn’t even been aware of falling asleep. The last thing she remembered was thinking of how Albus had apparated with her to Hogwarts all those years ago. Her emotions of the morning seemed to have dissipated some as she had napped. Now, she felt only slightly muzzy-headed. She still felt regret, and shame, at the words Albus had overheard her use that morning, and still feared that she had done irreparable harm to their friendship, such as it was, but she no longer felt the agonising pain and grief that had overtaken her that morning. A bite to eat and a nap seemed to have restored her to some semblance of sanity, she thought. Perhaps she would be able to make it through the meeting, after all.

Minerva dismissed the Tempus alarm just as Blampa was popping back with a cup of coffee, two ginger newts beside it on the saucer. Was the house-elf going to bring her ginger newts every time she brought her something to eat or drink? Minerva wondered. Thanking the house-elf and dismissing her. Minerva got up and sipped some of the coffee. She rarely drank coffee, particularly in the afternoon, but long afternoon naps tended to leave her groggy. She dressed in the clothing she had taken off a few hours before, thinking it foolish to change one’s clothes three times in one day. Her hair, which had come undone as she slept, despite the charmed hair pins, needed brushing out, and rearranging, which she did, keeping it in a French twist.

Concentrating on dressing, and finishing her coffee, Minerva deliberately avoided thinking of anything but the task at hand. When she was done, after a quick visit to the loo, she left her quarters and walked over to her office, where she retrieved the parchments she’d left there earlier in the day, before she went to find Poppy in the infirmary. She supposed she should have taken a few minutes to go over them before this afternoon’s meeting, but she didn’t want to be late. If she were, it might look as though she were doing so deliberately, and she didn’t want Albus to think that she was so childish – nor for him to think that she was still angry with him about the cancelled meeting. Poppy had been right, Minerva knew: her distress hadn’t been about gaining his respect, nor about any apparent slight she may have experienced that morning. It went to a deeper frustration that she could not spare the time or emotion to think about just then.

As Minerva walked to the Headmaster’s office, she wondered what she should say to him when she saw him. It would only be right to apologise. She didn’t want to ask his forgiveness, although she desperately wanted it; that seemed too much to ask. He would forgive her, she knew, but perhaps he wouldn’t be ready to do so yet. Lord knows that if she had overheard him say anything like that about her . . . with that thought, the enormity of what she had said, and what her words may have done, came back again and hit her like a bludger in the chest.

Minerva paused, resting her hand on the corridor wall. She had to pull herself together. She couldn’t afford to go back over those words again, nor try to imagine what it would have been like had she been the one to overhear him saying them. She smiled thinly at that thought as she resumed her trip to his office. Albus Dumbledore never would have been overheard saying anything of the sort, since he never would have presented anyone with such an opportunity. He simply wouldn’t have uttered anything remotely similar.

Minerva cast a quick Tempus charm as she approached the gargoyle. Two minutes before five o’clock. “Pixie sticks,” Minerva ventured. Without the slightest hesitation, the gargoyle opened the door to her. As she rode up the stairs, she became determined that she should apologise immediately. It was only right. She didn’t think she could proceed with the meeting if she didn’t tell him how sorry she was.

Note: at least one more installment will be posted tonight, this one showing us a bit of Albus's afternoon.

[MMADfan]

Part XXVII: Albus Prepares

Albus spent the afternoon preparing for his meeting with Minerva, both mentally and otherwise. He believed it would be best if they held off on any discussion of what had occurred that morning until after they had discussed the curriculum, he reasoned. Best to start off as though nothing had changed between them, to reassure her, than to dive into such potentially emotionally fraught waters immediately. Not that nothing would change between them; no, Albus was determined to be better to her, both as a headmaster to one of his professors and as one friend to another. He would need to make that clear to her, and better to demonstrate it to her through his actions first, so that she would understand and appreciate the sincerity of his words.

His other preparations involved a visit to the greenhouses, discussions with Wilspy, and a quick trip to the infirmary, where he spoke briefly with Poppy. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Minerva had used a rather strong glamour charm that noon – which was one reason that he had chosen to sit beside Johannes. He hadn’t wanted to cause her any additional stress by forcing her to make small talk with him as Hagrid on the one side and Wilhemina on the other held their rather loud conversation about dragon copulation. He really was going to have to talk to them about their choice of polite topics for the dinner table, he thought. It didn’t bother him, but he knew it did put others off their lunches.

Albus knocked rather loudly on the closed door to the infirmary before opening it and making his way across to Poppy’s office. She smiled at him as he approached.

“Making sure I’m not in the middle of discussing the esoteric mating rituals of the Welsh Green with Wilhemina, Albus?” Poppy asked with a grin. They both knew it was not that sort of conversation he was wary of interrupting.

“Ah, yes, although I do believe that this would provide a more appropriate venue for such a discussion than the Great Hall at mealtime,” replied Albus with a twinkle. “I was just considering speaking with her and Hagrid about the range of acceptable dinner table conversation, in fact.”

“Ha!” Poppy laughed. “You might have some success with Wilhemina, but Hagrid, well, it’s not that he wouldn’t understand, in theory, and he would likely avoid the topic of dragon penises in the future, but there’d be nothing to stop him from choosing an equally unappetising topic the next time he becomes enthusiastic about something.” Poppy grinned.

Albus sighed melodramatically. “I suppose you are right. We should all learn to look upon these discourses as educational challenges!” They both chuckled.

“Have you seen Minerva this afternoon, Poppy?” he asked, changing the topic.

“No, not since lunch. I thought about dropping by her room this afternoon, but decided it might be best to wait until this evening,” she replied. She was unwilling to discuss her friend’s emotional state in her absence, even with Albus, or perhaps, especially with Albus, as he was the source of her distress.

“I had noticed this noon,” Albus hesitated a moment, not wanting to be indiscreet in discussing Minerva when she wasn’t there, nor wishing to be seen as gossiping, “she looked a bit . . . under the weather.”

“You mean to say that you thought she’d cast a glamour, don’t you?” asked Poppy, happier to be straightforward now that she discerned the headmaster’s own reluctance to talk about Minerva behind her back.

“Well, yes, I did notice that. And she didn’t eat anything.” Albus furrowed his brow. “I’m simply concerned because we rescheduled our meeting for later this afternoon, and, well, I’m just concerned about her, that’s all.”

At this point, Poppy could see that no matter any offense Albus may have taken at Minerva’s words earlier in the day, his overriding concern was for her and for her well-being, not for any slight he may have suffered. “Minerva’s a strong witch, Albus. I’m sure that, whatever may have been bothering her at lunch, she will come to her appointment with you. If you have any concerns, you could discuss them with her then.”

“Yes, yes, you are right, of course. I feel that I . . . I have not perhaps been as available to her as I could have been. I may be able to begin rectifying that error this evening, if she will allow me to.”

“You know Minerva as well as I do, Albus. You must know that if you wish to take the opportunity, she will be glad to give it to you.” Poppy wasn’t sure herself then precisely what “opportunity” she spoke of, although she did know that it went beyond the headmaster making himself more accessible to one of his professors. When Albus just stood there, gazing out the window behind her, she added, “You know you’ve been friends for a long time. She knows that, too. Now, I’m not trying to shoo you out of my office, Albus, but I am trying to finish my inventory and my orders for the fall so that I can leave for my holiday in a few days. I don’t think my boss would like it if I wasn’t finished before I left,” she joked.

Albus smiled at that, and said, “Well, then, I’ll just have to ‘shoo’ myself – I hear that your boss is something of a tyranical ogre, and I’d hate to have put you in his bad graces!”

Albus returned to his office, pensive, and completed his preparations for the evening. Poppy was correct, he knew. He and Minerva had been friends for a long time. He had resisted that appellation for a while, though he didn’t know why – no, he wouldn’t admit the reason, he admonished himself. For a time, he had tried to minimise the extent of their friendship, and the depth of his feelings for her. And he knew very well why, even if he was still, at his age, loathe to admit it even to himself.

He chided himself then. No wonder she had felt neglected since she came to Hogwarts; in truth, he felt now as though he had been neglecting their friendship for much longer than that. Unforgivably, to his mind, he had only truly begun to distance himself from his emotions following an event that might have, and should have, brought them closer.

Note: In the next installment, Minerva receives a special mission from a surprising person.

[MMADfan]

Part XXVIII: Minerva’s Mission

Minerva was up to her elbows in parchment at the Ministry that cold January afternoon in 1945. She wasn’t doing what she would have wanted to, following her NEWTs and leaving Hogwarts. If there had been no war, unquestionably she would have pursued an apprenticeship in Transfiguration. There was, however, a war, and although the Daily Prophet had been predicting its imminent end for the last three years, Minerva knew when she left Hogwarts that there was little chance of the war ending well unless all capable witches and wizards did what they could to bring it to a close – preferably one that did not involve Grindelwald controlling all magical and muggle governments in Europe. So she had applied to the Ministry, as had so many of her classmates. She believed that with her skills in transfiguration, charms, and defence – particularly the advanced knowledge of wards she had picked up while working with Dumbledore – she would be a valuable asset in the fight against Grindelwald. But she ended up here, in this little office in the Department for International Magical Cooperation, War Division, researching and recommending charms at the best of times and sorting requisitions for charmed objects at the worst of time. That day, she’d thought, was one of the worst of times, until she received a purple parchment aeroplane requesting her immediate presence in the office of the Minister for Magic, and her day got worse.

When Minerva arrived, she was ushered in, without a word of explanation, to the large conference room adjacent to the Minister’s office. To her astonishment, it appeared that the actual Prime Minister was in the room, as well as three people who appeared to be muggle officers – or were they wizards in uniform? – and four aurors, one of whom Minerva recognised as young Scrimgeour, who was fast making a name for himself as a dedicated and fearsome opponent of all those who supported Grindelwald. They were dressed in the muted red cloaks and rusty coloured trousers and blouses that had been adopted in the last year to ease the aurors ability to pass back and forth between the wizarding and muggle worlds. Minerva thought they still would seem rather conspicuous walking down a muggle street, but no one had ever asked her opinion on the subject.

At her entrance, the men who had been standing, examining a map on the far wall, turned, and those who were seated at the table, including Minister Ouellette and the Prime Minister, stood.

The Minister for Magic, Oliver Ouellette, whom Minerva had met twice in situations in which she thought she would be highly forgettable to someone in his position, greeted her, “We are very glad you could join us, Miss McGonagall.”

He came around the table and motioned to one of the aurors to pull out a chair for her. The chair he indicated was to his right and across from the Prime Minister, who still stood by his chair, chewing an unlit cigar, waiting for her to be seated.

“This is who we’ve been waitin’ for?” asked one of the uniform-clad men. Minerva thought he had an American accent, but maybe he was Australian. “They’ve brought us a schoolgirl! We don’t need someone makin’ us coffee! This is a serious –” He was interrupted by the Prime Minister, and he ceased his protest immediately. Well, thought Minerva, at least this Yank is well-trained, even if he is disgustingly rude.

“Colonel, Miss McGonagall is a graduate of one of England’s finest educational institutions. True, it may be a slightly unorthodox school, but I have been assured by the Ministry for Magic that she is fully qualified, and not a schoolgirl. And if your invective was aimed at her gender rather than her qualifications, I suggest you reconsider. My mother was an American woman, therefore I doubt, sir, that you are unacquainted with the many strengths, as well as the virtues, with which a woman may be endowed. And may I also remind you that you are here as a courtesy to General Eisenhower, which courtesy may be withdrawn at any moment. And I will not hesitate to have these gentlemen in red Obliviate you before you leave.” A lesser man would have asked if he had made himself clear, but Churchill merely gazed at the man from beneath a stern brow.

Minerva looked on as the Colonel turned beet red, his adam’s apple bobbing, and was surprised when he turned toward her.

“My apologies, Miss . . . um, apologies.”

“Now, if we are done wasting time here, let’s get down to it,” said Minister Ouellette, nodding curtly to the colonel, whom Minerva could now recognize was wearing a different uniform from the other two men, whose uniforms appeared to be from the British Army and the Royal Air Force. Minerva had been given a pamphlet with pictures of all the different uniforms worn by Allied troops, and an explanation of the various ranks, when she had begun working at the Ministry, but she hadn’t looked at it very carefully. Her menial job never brought her into contact with any muggles, so it had seemed rather pointless at the time.

Minerva had barely got over being startled by the company in which she found herself, and the peculiar reception she had received, when she found out why she had been summoned to the Minister’s office so precipitously.

“To put it briefly, Albus Dumbledore is missing.” Minerva went cold at the words, but forced herself to pay attention to what the Minister was saying. She would let herself react later, she thought.

“From what we know, he had successfully completed a mission in co-operation with American and British muggle forces. Two aurors had accompanied him. They were supposed to be a sort of guard for him, although we all know how well that usually turns out.” There were a few grins around the table. “Your Professor Dumbledore has a tendency to leave his aurors behind if he believes them unnecessary, or inconvenient, since, as he once expressed it to me, he’s ‘an old coot’ and it was better to leave them out of any danger, if possible. It is clear that he left the British camp in the company of the two aurors and two British soldiers, a Lieutenant – what was his name? – Rogers, and a private, who was driving the vehicle.”

“A jeep,” added the British Army officer, unhelpfully.

“Yes, just so. Well, perhaps at this point, Auror Scrimgeour might be able to recount the details better than I.”

“Ah, no, sir, you are doing very well,” replied the auror, although he then picked up Ouellette’s narrative. “We know that Professor Dumbledore and the four men he was with inadvertently entered an area in which there was some German troop movement. At the time they had left camp, the most recent intelligence indicated that their route was clear. By the time they went missing, this was no longer the case. We also know that the jeep in which they were riding either drove over a landmine or was hit by a mortar. From the damage to the jeep, it appears to have been the former rather than the latter. That evidence also accords with other information that we have received.”

“For heaven’s sake, man, get to the point!” One of the British officers was clearly restless at the recitation of facts he already knew.

Without missing a beat, Scrimgeour continued. “The plan in place was that the driver and the officer would drop Dumbledore and the two aurors near a particular crossroad, where, ostensibly, they would meet up with other members of a special, secret force – that is the cover that we normally give to explain the presence of aurors in muggle battle zones – in actuality, the three wizards would wait until the jeep was well out of sight, and then apparate to our headquarters outside of Amiens, where they could then apparate or portkey to their next assignment, or, in Professor Dumbledore’s case, back to London.

“We know that is not what happened. It looks as though the three wizards left the jeep just before the two roads intersected. It appears to have been fortuitous that they did so, since the jeep was destroyed as it entered the crossroad.”

“How do you know the three got out before the jeep . . . exploded?” asked Minerva. “If they are missing, isn’t it possible that they were all . . . .” Minerva couldn’t continue with that thought.

“We know because of certain evidence, Miss McGonagall,” said Churchill, evidently also impatient with Scrimgeour’s long-winded explanation. “First, we found the jeep and the remains of the two British soldiers. Those remains make it clear that they were in the jeep when it exploded. We also know that Dumbledore did not apparate away because we received a message from him. Dumbledore always carried one of those portkeys with him, in the event that he were ever unable to apparate.” Minerva marvelled at the ease with which the muggle Prime Minister used these wizarding terms – he seemed to have familiarised himself with the wizarding world to a greater extent than she’d thought possible. “It was imperative to our government – and by ‘our,’ Miss McGonagall, I speak of the entire government, not just the Ministry for Magic – that Dumbledore not fall into the hands of either the Germans or of that rogue wizard, Grindelwald. Your Professor Dumbledore, however, is truly the best of the best of men that this small Island produces: brave in facing what lies ahead of him, unwavering in his conviction to follow the path of right, and without peer in his readiness to sacrifice his all for the sake of freedom, and for the hope of freedom, for us all.”

As the Prime Minister spoke, dread grew in Minerva’s heart. They had said “missing” when she had arrived; was that a mere euphemism for “captured”? And why would they want her here? To be sure, her interest in his well-being was great, but these men had no way of knowing that, nor would they waste their time with such long explanations if they merely wished to inform her of her mentor’s disappearance or capture. Minerva felt she was scarcely breathing as she waited for Churchill to finish his explanation, which seemed to her as long-winded as Scrimgeour’s.

“I am no wizard, Miss McGonagall, but from what I understand of these things, the portkey in Dumbledore’s possession was created so that only he could activate it, and none other, and only he could actually be transported with it. It also has the capacity to carry only one person. These measures were taken in order that, should it fall into the wrong hands, it could not be used to infiltrate our secret wizarding headquarters in France.”

Despite his limited understanding of portkeys – although how many wizards actually understood them? – after all, a portkey doesn’t “carry” you like an automobile – Minerva was struck that Churchill spoke of the wizarding world and the wizarding government as though it was a mere off-shoot of the muggle world, and as though he actually exercised some authority over them, or at least as though he had some interest and influence on them. This was highly unusual, from what she knew of the muggle government.

“But apparently when the jeep exploded,” the Prime Minister continued, “Dumbledore and the two aurors were still very close to the vehicle, and were caught in the blast. One of the aurors had been badly injured. Somehow, Dumbledore altered his portkey to allow it to transport someone other than himself. He did not, or was unable to, alter it to allow more than one person to travel with it, however. The injured auror appeared in British wizarding headquarters outside of Amiens approximately,” the Prime Minister drew out his watch, “five hours ago. On his person, in addition to the portkey, was a note from Dumbledore, written with a biro on a small scrap of paper. It indicated his current position, but noted that the explosion had drawn the attention of German soldiers in the area. We believe he may have come under fire, although we do not know that. We do know that some of the blood on the paper, according to your medical wizards, belonged to him, and not to the young auror whose life he saved by giving him the portkey.”

Minerva had thought she was cold before, but at these final words, her blood seemed to turn to ice in her veins.

At that point, the American colonel picked up the story, with his peculiar drawl. “As soon as we got word that he was missin’, we sent out a search party, bein’ as we were the closest. Our platoon found the jeep with the two dead Brits, but no sign of General Dumbledore or the other man. We were only able to make a brief search, since it was daylight, and the jerries were too thick on the ground. There was evidence that the area had come under fire recently – my men found bullets and bullet holes – though nothin’ that would tell us whether the men fought back, or whether they escaped or were captured.”

“At least Dumbledore must have been injured, that was clear enough from the blood,” continued Scrimgeour, taking over again, “and probably fairly badly, because he didn’t apparate. Although, of course, it is possible that the second auror was too injured to transport by side-along apparition, and Dumbledore wouldn’t leave him behind.”

Minerva, finding her voice now, at what appeared to be the end of their story, said, “You keep referring to the two aurors who were with him, but haven’t said who they were. Who are they? And were they trustworthy?”

The oldest of the aurors, a short man with a small mustache and a round belly, spoke for the first time. “They are completely trust-worthy, Miss McGonagall; I believe you know them both. The one to whom Dumbledore gave his portkey is a young man named Alastor Moody.” Minerva nodded; she remembered him well. He’d been a year behind her at Hogwarts. She was shocked they would have sent someone so young into such a dangerous situation. “The other, whom I believe you also know,” he continued, “is named Murphy – Colin? no, Carson – Murphy.”

“Carson?” Of all of the people who could have disappeared with Albus, to Minerva’s mind, he was both the best and the worst. The best because Minerva knew him to be intelligent, brave, and true; the worst because she was already sick with worry about Albus; she now had another friend whose unknown fate made her stomach roil.

“I thought you would know him – you were both the same year at Hogwarts, weren’t you?” he asked.

“We were both prefects,” she replied, nodding, aware of how little that said of their friendship.

“Let us get to the reason that we brought you here, Miss McGonagall,” said Minister Ouellette. “We know of your animagus ability.” Of course you do, thought Minerva, it was on my application to the Ministry! And you stuck me in a windowless office sorting requisitions. “We had thought to make use of it prior to this, but, well, perhaps the time wasn’t right . . . Are we correct in believing that you,” here the Minister consulted a parchment in front of him, “become a domestic cat?” At these words, all three of the muggle officers goggled at her. Churchill’s expression did not change.

“Yes, sir, a tabby cat.”

“We really must make animagus registration mandatory when this is all over,” Ouellette muttered to himself, making a note on the parchment. “Am I also correct in understanding that you worked with Albus Dumbledore on a special, shall we say, classified, project?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir, unless you mean the extra credit Transfiguration projects I did with him.” Minerva had never forgotten her promise to her mentor that summer before her sixth year, never to reveal the nature of the warding project to anyone. He had never included the Minister of Magic, the Prime Minister of England, or any of these other men, as exceptions to that promise.

“Capital, my dear, capital,” Churchill said, with the closest thing to a smile that Minerva had yet seen from the man. “Yes, she is to be trusted.”

Minerva had hoped that when Dumbledore had recommended her to the Ministry, he might have made some mention of her work with him on the wards. She thought it might have got her a better job, one where she could really make a contribution. She had always thought he hadn’t said anything to anyone at the Ministry, and, given the nature of the warding project, she hadn’t blamed him. Now it seemed that at least one or two of the people in the room might already know about her participation in it. Nonetheless, she wasn’t going to say anything more.

Ouellette gazed at her hard for a moment, then asked, “Is it fair to say, however, Miss McGonagall, that you are familiar with Professor Dumbledore’s magic, and perhaps with some of the ways he might use it in such a situation?”

“After studying with him so closely, and training with him to become an animagus, I can certainly say that I am familiar with his magic. As to any ways he might use it in this situation . . . I am not an auror, sir, nor have I had any training from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement or the Department of Mysteries in battle tactics or espionage.” Though not for want of trying, she thought, considering all her applications for transfer to another division.

“I understand that in your animagus form, you take on some of its unique characteristics, such as improved night vision and a heightened sense of smell, that sort of thing,” questioned Ouellette.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, Winston,” he said, turning to the Prime Minister, “I believe we have the answers we need – other than the final one, of course. What do you think?”

“Winston,” who did not appear to appreciate the familiar address, bared a canine after the manner of the bulldog so many likened him to, and replied curtly, “Yes, she will do well, I believe.” He turned to Minerva. “Miss McGonagall, may I ask that you serve your country, and your mentor, by entering German-occupied France and searching for, no, finding your Professor Dumbledore?”

“Of course, sir,” Minerva said without hesitation. “I am ready to leave at this moment.” An entire hour had passed while they had been discussing the situation. Anything could have happened to Albus – and to Carson – in that time.

“It is still daylight, Miss McGonagall,” said the unidentified pot-bellied auror who had spoken earlier. “We have arranged a portkey for you for dusk, which will bring you close to the crossroads where they were last known to be. You will be accompanied by an experienced auror – sorry, Scrimgeour, not this time,” he said in response to that auror’s slight cry of protest. “In the meantime, I suggest you eat and study these maps. There are both muggle and wizarding maps of the area surrounding the crossroads, covering a three mile radius.”

“Only three miles?” Minerva interrupted.

“Yes; first, it is unlikely that, given the presence of the muggle enemy troops and the fact that one or both of them is injured, they could have made it any further than that. Second, you will portkey in after having transfigured, and stay in your animagus form until they are found, except for brief periods when you may need to speak with Auror Frankel. As a cat, there is a limit to the distance you can travel.” Hmmpf, thought Minerva; he evidently doesn’t know the first thing about cats. “Third, we have intelligence that suggests Grindelwald may be active in the area just to the south of that. Unless they had no other choice, or had become badly disoriented, I do not believe Dumbledore or Murphy would have headed in that direction. This surmise also narrows your focus. Let me make clear, Miss McGonagall, that Auror Frankel is in charge of this search. Unless he tells you otherwise, you are to cast no spells, and are to remain in your animagus form at all times, unless it becomes necessary to communicate with him. Are you clear on this?” the little man asked.

“Of course, sir,” she responded, thinking, Until he gets in the way of finding Albus, he can be ‘in charge.’

“We chose Frankel because he is an experience auror, but also because he speaks fluent German, having German grandparents. He will be dressed in muggle civilian clothes. In the unlikely event that you meet any Germans, you must remain in your animagus form, and stay hidden. He shall communicate with them.”

“And what if we meet any French?” asked Minerva, “Does he speak French, as well?”

“Only a little, but unless they are collaborators, that should pose no problem. He is also authorised to Obliviate anyone, as necessary, or to eliminate other ‘obstacles’ in whatever way he sees fit. I am more concerned with the possibility of your being discovered by any of Grindelwald’s followers – or any witch or wizard, for that matter, since he utilises somewhat extreme tactics to gain information from reluctant witnesses, thus, even coming to the notice of an innocent wizard could have negative consequences for both you and the witness.”

As the little pot-bellied auror was finishing his speech, Churchill began to rise from his seat. The other men around the table did so as well, and as Churchill approached her, Minerva got to her feet.

“His Majesty’s government thanks you for your readiness to serve your country in her hour of need, Miss McGonagall. It is with pride that I extend this thanks, pride that you have risen to take this challenge which, unlooked for, Fate has presented you. It is the youth of our nation who expend their lives in defence of us all; the bloom of youth has not yet left your cheek, and, loathe though we are to send our young women where must needs we send our young men, that loathing does not diminish our pride, nor our gratitude. I wish you the strength and courage that God gave to you and Britain made in you, Miss McGonagall, and may Fortune, sister to Fate, lead you to your goal and then home again.”

With that, the Prime Minister and three muggles left the conference room. Minerva barely had a moment to wonder where they were going, or how they would get there from the Ministry, when she was aware of the Minister for Magic speaking to her again.

“I shall leave you, then, in the capable hands of Auror Sprangle, and have my secretary send in some food for you. This is as good a room as any for you to prepare and wait for the portkey.” Sprangle must be the little fellow with the belly, thought Minerva.

Unbidden, the words “spero et expecto” came to Minerva’s mind, the first password Albus had set her for his classroom. “Minister, Auror Sprangle, I was wondering . . . a request,” Minerva hesitated, the others observing her, clearly wondering whether she was going to change her mind, “could the portkey be set to respond to the words ‘spero et expecto’?” she asked.

“Certainly, Miss McGonagall, it makes no difference what the trigger word is.” He turned to Scrimgeour and said, “Go take care of the portkeys now, and send up Frankel,” turning back to Minerva, he added, “you two should meet.”

Note: More to come in a day or two. I hope you are enjoying this detour from Hogwarts!

[elivania]

Agh! oh my gosh. I can't wait anylong for this to come to fruition. I'm almost to the point of wanting to wait until you've actually finished the entire thing before I read again. But I don't think I could last that long.

Do hurry!

*Eli*

[MMADfan]

elivania said:

Agh! oh my gosh. I can't wait anylong for this to come to fruition. I'm almost to the point of wanting to wait until you've actually finished the entire thing before I read again. But I don't think I could last that long.

Do hurry!

Believe me, Eli, I am trying to hurry -- the characters just aren't co-operating! Everytime I want to leave something out and skip ahead, they insist that I include all the events they think are important to their story! Not to mention I've forbidden myself from reading all ADMM fanfiction until I've finished the story. Now that's pain! (I have to admit, however, to cheating and catching up on "Him Again" -- who would have thought that could work without being squicky? -- and "Creature Comforts." I rationalize by telling myself that they're very different from my story, and that I'd already been reading them when I started writing.)

All kidding aside, I do know how you feel, but, believe it or not, there is a kind of method to my madness, or should I say "MMADness"? And I think, and hope, that the build-up will be worth the pay-off at the end. I just hope people stick with me and the story that long!

I've been posting over at ffnet, as well, and have the first 22 Parts posted -- through Minerva's lunch in the Great Hall. There have been some edits and tweaks to it, mostly for style, grammar, or continuity. Anyway, if you want to re-read any of it, to refresh your memory, or whatever, you can find it there. Or if you abandon ship (just this one, not the ADMM 'ship!) and wait until the story is finished, you could read the entire thing there . . . but I would miss you and your reviews!

Thanks for sticking with me this far. I think you'll find the non-Hogwarts installments worth the detour.

Anyhoo -- gotta go take care of RL at the moment. I shall return, however!

-MMADfan

[Apocalypticat]

Aha! Fantastisch! Grindelwald/WW2 era fics always fascinate me, so this detour seems to me to be the cherry on a superb cake.

Goodness, you do know how to crank up the suspense, don't you? The way you alternate between Albus and Minerva as they prepare for the meeting, only to suddenly dive into the past - well, it certainly keeps me glued to the screen! I also like the little references to Moody and Scrimgeour.

mmadfan said:

I have to admit, however, to cheating and catching up on "Him Again" -- who would have thought that could work without being squicky?

Let's just say a very sugar-soused daydreamer/nutter. Come to think of it, I should be writing it now... :s

[elivania]

Thanks for sticking with me this far. I think you'll find the non-Hogwarts installments worth the detour.

I am positivly rivited by the non hogwarts parts. That whole scene between the prime minister and MM--fabulous. Though I must admit that it seems rather obvious that Dumbledore had something to do with her being stuck in a desk job.

My, my, how she's going to be furious when she finds out.

Don't worry. I'm not going to jump ship. It's just me, being a little too excited about your fic. I'll wait, as your posts are worth waiting for.

*Eli*

[Aurinko]

All of it, absolutely brilliant! Sticking her at a desk job! How abominably stupid and mean! But I'm glad that she gets to go look for him and can't wait till she runs off and finds him--presuming, of course, that those other wizards will get in her way...Your descriptions of Minerva's experiences and understanding of It are awesome, and I really hope that you can update again soon! Loving this story, ~ A.

[MMADfan]

apocalypticat said:

Aha! Fantastisch! Grindelwald/WW2 era fics always fascinate me, so this detour seems to me to be the cherry on a superb cake.

;D SOOO glad you like it, Apocalypticat! (Sprichst du deutsch?)

apocalypticat said:

Goodness, you do know how to crank up the suspense, don't you? The way you alternate between Albus and Minerva as they prepare for the meeting, only to suddenly dive into the past - well, it certainly keeps me glued to the screen!

Yes, well, from one meeting to another -- I was looking for a place to "shoe-horn" it in, and this seemed to work well, particularly given Albus's last thoughts in "Albus Prepares."

apocalypticat said:

mmadfan said:

I have to admit, however, to cheating and catching up on "Him Again"

[. . .] Come to think of it, I should be writing it now... :s

Yes, please do!

[MMADfan]

elivania said:

I am positivly rivited by the non hogwarts parts. That whole scene between the prime minister and MM--fabulous.

Thanks! I'm very glad.

elivania said:

Though I must admit that it seems rather obvious that Dumbledore had something to do with her being stuck in a desk job.

Tee-hee! *smirk* (And I'm not saying anything else on that topic!)

Glad you're going to stick around, Eli!

[MMADfan]

aurinko said:

All of it, absolutely brilliant! Sticking her at a desk job! How abominably stupid and mean! But I'm glad that she gets to go look for him and can't wait till she runs off and finds him--presuming, of course, that those other wizards will get in her way...Your descriptions of Minerva's experiences and understanding of It are awesome, and I really hope that you can update again soon! Loving this story, ~ A.

Thank you, Aurinko! I will try to update again tonight, but won't promise anything. I'm especially pleased you like my descriptions of Minerva and "It" -- I don't want to get toooo melodramatic, you know, but still somehow convey the intensity of her feelings for Albus, and her confusion about them, as well. Poor Minerva!

[Gemmie Lou]

woohoo loving it xxx

[MMADfan]

Note: I couldn't sleep (every time I drifted off, something woke me up -- aargh!), so I got up and decided to post this. It isn't as polished as I'd like, but I figure I can tweak it later. Let me know what you think. There are three more installments coming that round out this portion of the story -- one from Albus's perspective, and two from Minerva's -- then we get back to Hogwarts for a while. I had originally planned just one from each, but then decided, for plot reasons, to divide Minerva's into two. I had to post this in two sections, because of length--it continues in the next post.

Part XXIXa: A Sudden Change of Circumstance

Even after viewing the memory in a pensieve, Dumbledore never had a clear recollection of what had happened. Ministry Healers told him that the shock of the blast had been such that anything he might have perceived under ordinary conditions, even those things of which one was usually unaware but which became accessible when viewed in a pensieve, had never even made it to his brain to be stored.

Between disembarking from the jeep and his return to consciousness a few moments later, Albus had only scattered, banal memories. The British soldiers saying good-bye, Carson joking with Private Merrick, and reminding him of their promise to meet after the war at some pub they were both acquainted with – no matter what the year, Carson said, he’d meet him on the fifth of January in the Sheep’s Head the year after the war ended. Merrick had laughingly agreed, and said that with luck, they’d be seeing each other next year. Alastor had walked a few feet ahead of the jeep to look down the road that the two soldiers would be turning on to, and Albus himself had begun to turn from the jeep, scanning the trees and fields for a likely Disapparition point.

It seemed as though the two young men were still laughing as Private Merrick ground the jeep into gear and started forward. Almost simultaneously, there was a short, immense roar, followed closely, the pensieve memory revealed, by a second equally loud explosion. Albus instinctively raised his wand hand and attempted to cast a wandless shielding charm; as he was doing that, Carson had, just as instinctively, turned toward his old teacher and pushed him to the ground, covering him with his body as he did so. The next moments were garbled, even when viewed in the pensieve, a peculiar riot of heat, colour, and sound, intermixed with moments of complete silence and utter dark, which the mediwizards said indicated he’d likely either been unconscious or close to it.

One of the few memories that Albus had no conscious recollection of, but which emerged clearly when viewed in the pensieve, was that of Carson, drenched in blood, struggling to his knees, hooking his own arms around Albus and under his arms, desperately dragging him away from the fire; coughing and crawling, heat and smoke following, the boy rising and falling and rising again as he struggled, gasping through his blood, to pull them both away from the blazing vehicle.

The pensieve memory then went black and silent, and when the memory resumed, Albus was lying at the side of the road. He no longer needed a pensieve to remember the next minutes and hours. They were as clearly etched in his soul as ever a memory could be.

Albus came to, smelling the acrid smoke from the burning jeep, knowing in that instant that both of the soldiers, Rogers and Merrick, were dead. He was aware that Carson was lying to his right, almost face down in the dirt and snow, his own right arm still thrown protectively across his former teacher. Albus’s head was throbbing with pain, and sticky blood had made long rivulets down the left side of his face. His left shoulder felt peculiar, although at that moment, he detected no injury in it, but when he attempted to move his left arm, sharp pain shot through his shoulder and into his neck and chest. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Albus forced his left hand to reach out and take the boy’s right one.

“Carson . . . .” Albus’s voice was rough as he choked out the young man’s name. “Carson, my boy, we need to turn you over.” Albus could hear Carson breath bubbling in his chest and throat. Alarmed, Albus set his mind against his own pain, and raised himself up, using the leverage of his body to ease Carson’s right arm up, turning him slightly as he did so, and wrapping his right arm around the boy’s back, supporting him.

Albus had seen many a ghastly sight in his life, and many of them in just the last few years, but the sight of a sharp piece of metal protruding from the boy’s chest was somehow worse than even the most grisly scenes he’d encountered recently. Albus gently explored Carson’s back with his right hand, relying on his tactile senses, as his own injuries appeared to have temporarily lamed his magic. There he found the other end of a metal fragment that had apparently entered the boy’s back and then partially emerged on the other side. Albus couldn’t be sure yet, but he believed that Carson had also suffered a head injury: the back of his neck and head were wet with warm blood.

Albus cast a thought toward the other young auror, Alastor Moody. He had been almost as close as they had been, he thought, but on the other side of the car. “Alastor!” Albus croaked. He cleared his throat and called more loudly, “Alastor!” Albus thought he heard a slight answering moan somewhere beyond the still crackling flames. He couldn’t have been unconscious long. Probably less than a minute. Heaving himself up, Albus ignored the growing pain in his shoulder and arm. Unconsciously mirroring Carson’s earlier actions, but this time kneeling behind the boy and hooking his arms around him, Albus half dragged, half carried, the semi-conscious boy further away still, toward one of the trees that lined the road. He felt a moment of gratitude that there had been little snow in that area recently, as he dug his knees into the hard, frozen mud, and pulled the boy along.

Breathing was becoming more difficult for him, as well, and when he finally had reached the tree he had been aiming for, Albus propped Carson against it, then lay back flat on the cold ground and gasped for breath. His mind returned to Alastor, and Albus cursed himself for his age and his weakness. He sat up and pulled himself closer to Carson.

“Carson, my brave boy, can you hear me?” Albus was relieved to see Carson’s eyes flutter for a moment. “Carson, you have a shard of metal sticking through your back into your chest. That’s why you are having a hard time breathing. I have set you up against a tree, but you mustn’t move very much, or the piece of metal might shift and injure you further. Do you understand, my boy?”

Carson’s eyes opened at that, and he tried to lick his lips, where blood had frothed and was beginning to dry. “Yes,” he said weakly. He tried to smile. “I think I’ll just sit here for a while, if you don’t mind, Pr’fessor,” he whispered.

“That’s just fine, my boy. Now, I haven’t seen Alastor yet, and I am going to try to find him. I am going to have to leave you alone for a few minutes, but I promise I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“’Kay, Pr’fessor,” he whispered back. “I’m a little cold, though.”

“Here, then, take my coat.” Albus removed the heavy woolen coat he wore over his muggle Army uniform and draped it over his former student, trying to avoid having its weight fall on the metal protruding from his chest. After smoothing the boy’s hair back from his face with a bloodied hand, and cringing inwardly at the sight of his pale features and dilated pupils, Albus felt for his wand by his right side. At that moment, Albus truly wished he had learned how to swear properly. Somehow “Doxiedoodle” just didn’t express his current sentiments adequately. His wand was broken in two places.

“Carson, one last thing, it seems your old professor has gone and sat on his wand and broken it. Where do you keep yours, my boy?”

“H’it’s in m’boot, Pr’fess’r,” he gasped.

Albus felt about and found Carson’s wand, thankfully in one piece, tucked into a boot holster. “That’ll teach me to take my wand for granted,” Albus grumbled to himself. Carson choked a bit, and Albus looked up, alarmed, to find Carson smiling wanly at him.

“Don’t make me laugh, Pr’fess’r. Hurts when I laugh,” he said, still trying to manage a smile. “O’ course, it hurts anyway . . . .”

Albus took the wand in his right hand, and waved it experimentally. A few golden sparks fell weakly from its tip. Well, either the wand was poorly suited to his magic, or his magic had been concussed worse than he’d thought, or both. Still, it was a wand. He waved it over Carson, daring to utter only a light warming Charm on the air around him, with a strange wand and his own magic injured.

Albus smiled at the boy, hoping he was being reassuring. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, Carson.”

Albus forced himself to his feet, then steadied himself against the tree trunk until he was certain that he wasn’t going to pass out again. He made his way toward the blackened jeep, surprised to see that it was still burning, and looked away from the disturbing sight, casting his eyes along the road. “Alastor! Alastor! It’s Albus – Professor Dumbledore; where’d you get to, my boy?” He called, trying to keep his voice light, despite his growing anxiety over their predicament.

“Mmmmp.” Albus heard a vague, low moan, and walking around the jeep, discovered its source. If Albus had been horrified at the sight of the shrapnel emerging from Carson’s chest, the sight that met him at that moment was no better.

The young Auror lay in a twisted, crumpled, bloodied heap. He had caught some shrapnel, but that wasn’t what alarmed Albus. Alastor’s left leg was a mangled mess. Albus walked to him as quickly as he could, trying to ignore the pain in his head and his left shoulder. Squatting next to Alastor, he saw that the boy had managed to tie a tourniquet around his leg at the knee before he lost consciousness. He shook his head in amazement at the young wizard’s fortitude. Raising Carson’s wand, Albus hesitated, then decided that he didn’t dare cast any healing Charms on the injured Auror with that wand – particularly since, now that he was moving about, Albus could tell that his own injuries were effecting his magic.

He knelt stiffly next to the boy’s head. “Alastor! It’s Albus Dumbledore. Can you open your eyes for me, lad?” he called softly. Albus wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a vehicle in the distance. “Alastor, I’m going to need to move you, all right, son? Here we go. I’m afraid I can’t use a nice Mobilicorpus today,” Albus said, keeping his tone light. “Your old professor sat on his wand, would you believe it? Broken in three pieces.” As he was speaking, Albus lifted Alastor just under the arms, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder. He couldn’t lose consciousness now.

He began the painful process of dragging Alastor back toward the tree where he’d left Carson. The movement caused Alastor to open his eyes and groan. “I know it hurts, my boy. I’m terribly sorry. If I could, I would take it away for you. Just bear it a bit longer, that’s it.” Albus continued talking to the sweating, pale Auror, trying to distract them both from their inevitable pain. Alastor was clearly attempting to swallow his moans, but each time his mangled leg hit a bump or a stone, he’d intake his breath sharply, and let it out in a slight, almost inaudible groan.

“You’re doing very well, Alastor. Very well. We’ll need to see what we can do about some of those cuts, lad. They don’t look too bad, but, well, we don’t want to scar you up, now, do we? Although the girls do love a man with a few interesting scars. Adds character to the face.” Albus was sweating despite the chill temperature, and felt nauseous. He sincerely hope he wasn’t going to pass out.

After what felt like an hour, but was surely only minutes, Albus and Alastor had made it to where Carson lay propped against the tree. Alastor had begun to help for the last several feet, pushing with his right leg as Albus dragged him.

“Carson, I’m back, my boy. I brought Alastor with me.” Albus was feeling at a loss. What to do now that he had both young Aurors there by the roadside? His own wand was broken, and his magic was at the lowest ebb he could remember in decades. He doubted he could Apparate without dangerously splinching himself; he certainly could not Side-Along with either of the two others, let alone with both, even if he had his own wand. No, it would have to be the Portkey. He sighed. They couldn’t all use it. It was keyed to his magical signature, but he could alter that, he thought, although the operation would surely deplete him further.

Carson was breathing shallowly. He had opened glazed eyes when Albus had called his name, but then closed them again. “Come now, Carson, don’t fall asleep.” Albus was frightened by the sight of the youthful Auror’s pale brow, and by his rasping, uneven breath.

Alastor tried to sit up, and managed to lean on his right arm. “Oh, God, Professor,” he said in a low voice. “This does not look good.” He said “this,” but nodded toward Carson. “And I’m a mess, I know. I won’t be able to Disapparate. Or walk out,” he said, trying to look at what was left of his leg. “Funny how I didn’t feel a thing at first; now it hurts like hell. An Episkey didn’t do much; I had to use a tourniquet, but I know I lost a lot of blood before I stopped the bleeding. You’re supposed to loosen a tourniquet every ten minutes or so, and I haven’t done that. Rather difficult if you’re not fully conscious. They don’t mention that little fact in any of the pamphlets they give us. And Carson,” Alastor added in a louder voice, forcing himself to sound cheerful, “hey, there, Carson, old chap! Still the old Gryffy-Ravenclaw, aren’t you?!”

He lay back down on the frozen mud, and in a whisper said, “Carson doesn’t look like he’ll be going anywhere . . . on his own, either. You look like hell, too, Professor . . . and your Glamour is fading. You’ve got to take your Portkey . . . send someone for us.” Moody’s chest was heaving from the strain of this speech, and Dumbledore saw that he was going into shock, as well.

Not willing to debate anything with his former student, Dumbledore asked, “You tried an Episkey? Do you still have your wand then?”

Alastor gestured toward his leg. “Couldn’t cast another one. Couldn’t manage a Lumos at the moment.”

Albus looked down at Alastor’s leg and saw that he had used the wand to tighten the tourniquet. In the effort it had taken him to drag the young man out of the road, he hadn’t noticed this novel use for a wand.

“Do you mind if I remove it and try it? Carson’s wand doesn’t seem to agree with me. I can use the larger piece that’s left of mine to retighten the tourniquet when I’m done.”

“Help yourself,” said Alastor. His eyes were almost closed, and his breathing was rough and irregular.

As quickly as he was able, Albus loosened the tourniquet, and was somewhat alarmed when very little bleeding resumed. He didn’t know why this would be, but it didn’t seem normal to him. Although it felt as though it had been hours since the explosion, in reality, it had only been about twenty-five minutes, Albus thought. Perhaps it was the Episkey that Alastor cast, combined with the Muggle tourniquet.

Leaving the tourniquet loose for the moment, Albus tried out Alastor’s wand. This time, the sparks seemed a little more lively, although Albus would never want to rely on this wand in an emergency. Unfortunately, he thought with a sigh, and shoving it into his belt, he would have to.

He was just preparing to retie the tourniquet, when he heard the alarming sound of voices in the distance, and, from the cadence, he could tell they were speaking German. Without worrying about the consequences, Albus cast a Silencio on both Alastor and Carson, then, with a rush of adrenaline, dragged Alastor none too gently further from the road, behind some scrubby bushes. His left arm had given out by the time he returned to Carson, but he put his right one around the young man’s chest, and heaved him up, trying to hold onto the coat he’d flung over him whilst simultaneously avoiding the metal shard. Dizzy from the exertion, Dumbledore stumbled backward, pulling Carson with him. He controlled his stumble enough to reach the line of bushes where he had deposited Alastor. Rolling Carson onto his side, with a quietly whispered, “Sorry, my boy,” he collapsed beside him.

This Part continued in next post!