Love and Wisdom

[esoterica1693]

Title: Love and Wisdom

Summary: An introspective Albus Dumbledore ponders the meaning of loss, love and wisdom over 30 years. A series of vignettes in which Minerva McGonagall becomes increasingly important to Albus.

Rating: 13+ (a few scenes of battle violence, very mildly suggested sexual content)

Disclaimer: None of it is mine--thank you for everything, JKR.
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Chapter 1

Albus Dumbledore laid down his quill and pushed his chair back from the desk. He took off his half-moon spectacles and put his head in his hands, massaging his temples. It was late. He was hungry. How he wished he could just get something to eat and go to bed. But he could not. The piece had to be at the printers in 36 hours, and it was far from finished. The floor around his desk was littered with crumpled pieces of parchment, each headed “Conclusion” and covered in lines of looping text, with very many strike-outs and edits. He fished another sherbert lemon from the bowl and popped it into his mouth, willing the sugar and tartness to give him the energy and clarity he so desperately needed. He picked up the quill again and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment towards him. He deliberately wrote the running header across the top: “The Alchemy of Transfiguration: A New Approach to the Question of Love.” Then on the next line: “Conclusion: Further Directions.” And then he could write no more.

He was exhausted. His mind had hit a wall the previous week. Up until then the looming deadline for his monograph had not concerned him. He was an intuitive, inductive thinker, not a deductive one. His academic style had always been to immerse himself in a question, reading and thinking in bursts of energetic free association, piling books in haphazard towers all around him, filling scroll after scroll of parchment with lists and notes and diagrams. Always it came together at the end, in a process he did not fully understand but had learned, over years, to trust—the seemingly random notes and theories swirling around inside him like thoughts in a pensieve before finally coalescing into some shining unifying insight. He would then pour it out onto parchment in a frenzied marathon of writing and revising, putting the finishing touches on his work just hours before the deadline.

So it had been no great cause for worry that a month before deadline, he had written barely half of what he needed to. It would all come together. It always had. He had spent the past three years as the first-ever Endowed Fellow at the Department of Mysteries. Up until the past fortnight he would have said his fellowship had been a very productive time.

Although when he had been given the Fellowship he was already hailed as the leading practitioner of both alchemy and transfiguration in the British wizarding community, he knew that a lifetime of study could not exhaust those subjects. The chance to be a Fellow had seemed too good to be true.

The first year had been spent undergoing the same training and formation that all Unspeakables received. Days of reading and attending seminars presented by the other members of the Department. Absorbing as much of the knowledge that had been amassed on the various Mysteries as possible. Week-long “retreats” devoted to deepening skills of concentration and reflection. Honing Legilmency and Occlumency abilities. Some basic defense training—that had been the only part of the course which Albus had found truly redundant, but at least it gave him a way to keep from getting too rusty. The wizard who had defeated Grindelwald in battle could not be seen to be rusty, even if he had privately vowed never to lift a wand in combat again. After full qualification as an Unspeakable, then a year joining the others in the daily routines of the Department. Taking his turns inside the Rooms.

Finally--the final year—what distinguished his Fellowship from an ordinary Apprenticeship in Mystery. He had been given his own office, his own laboratory, a comfortable apartment rather than a room in a dormitory, unlimited chits in the Refectory, and unfettered access to any and all libraries in the wizarding world. He had even been assigned a personal assistant to handle day to day chores and a small team of Aurors for his personal protection, so that he could devote all his energies to study and thought. Twelve months of reading, pondering, and much reflecting. His notes filled an entire file cabinet; the books and articles he had read covered every surface in his office.

The terms of the Fellowship requiring the publication of a substantial monograph and presentation of his findings to the entire Department of Mysteries had not seemed onerous in the slightest, such a small thing to repay three years.

When he had embarked on the Fellowship, he had sensed that he was on the verge of some major insight. His years of studying transfiguration, and then teaching it at Hogwarts before the War had called him away, had laid the foundations. After the War he had turned all his energies to alchemy.

It was as if the War itself and coming to grips with the losses he had endured functioned as the purging and refining phases of his work as an alchemist. He threw himself into the research and strove to think of nothing else. Only the work with Nicolas kept him from foundering, being swept under the crushing waves of sadness, the nightmares, the guilt and self-recrimination which had brought him at times frighteningly close to utter despair.
.
But after six years of unremitting laboratory work and such hard focus, the pain no longer had control over him. The work and time put enough distance between him and the losses he had once thought would kill him. He no longer felt at the mercy of what he had endured in the War. He was finally immune, imperturbable.

If asked, those who had known him before the War would say that he had not fully recovered by any means. The twinkle, the playfulness, the transparency which had been such an endearing part of his personality seemed permanently gone. In its place was a reserved, flintlike center. His magic core was as strong as ever, his powers even more focused; his mind as brilliant, but his spirit was now as thoroughly warded and unplottable as were the walls of Hogwarts Castle. In truth, joy had not been seen in his eyes since he had been compelled to leave those very walls a decade ago to lead a contingent of the Ministry’s forces into battle.

His and Flamel’s eventual triumph with the Stone could never outweigh the losses the War had wrought, or the change at his center, but at least he could take some comfort that the pain had been able to be put to some good use. Flamel had been very close to ultimate triumph long before Albus had partnered with him. He had achieved something very near to a Stone—some even called it a Stone--but it had been unstable. It had yielded the Elixir of Life, but the near-Stone would eventually deteriorate over the decades, the fluid it produced becoming less and less powerful, and finally a new one would need to be created. Since there was considerable risk of failure each time the feat needed to be repeated, one could not truly say that Flamel had achieved his ultimate goal. However, he and Dumbledore together had finally solved the problem, and the Stone they had created was perfectly stable, and would last forever, unless it was deliberately destroyed by someone with particular knowledge of its makeup.

And then…. He had felt like there was some other great work just waiting to emerge after the Stone. The Stone was what got all the attention, and had even led to a revision of his Chocolate Frog Card, and some other honors, but he had sensed that there was yet something more to emerge from the crucible. It seemed to have been growing there, calling to him from just below the level of conscious thought, ever since the Stone had been created

It was this sense of impending insight which he had described to a few of his most trusted friends, who also happened to have some connections with the Department of Mysteries. These friends, excited by Albus’ renewed creative energy, and knowing his capabilities and untapped potential, had, entirely on their own initiative, convinced the Department to design the Fellowship for him. He had been taken totally by surprise when it had been offered to him, but had accepted without a moment’s hesitation He had been confident that after two years of intense, oftentimes ascetical, training and practice as an Unspeakable, followed by a year of privileged study, whatever it was lying deep in his thoughts would have emerged.

But it hadn’t.

And now, for the first time in his life, he faced the very real possibility of failing to fulfill an academic obligation, of failing to meeting others’, and his own, expectations for his intellectual and professional work. Even if he was suddenly blinded with clarity and inspiration at this very moment, 36 hours was not enough time to write a coherent, much less polished, conclusion to his opus. He had drafted the middle portions, outlining the inter-connections between the theoretical foundations of transfiguration and alchemy which no one had ever made explicit before. But he could not see anything beyond the descriptive. These connections must mean something, must enable something, must point to something larger, but he could not see what it was. It remained beyond his grasp, just as tantalizing and elusive as it had been a little over three years ago when he had first drafted his study proposal.

He crumpled the most recent piece of parchment, hurled it across the office, and then put his head down on his desk. There was nothing else to do. He would have to admit that he could not finish the work on schedule. And that he could not even predict when he might be able to. He wasn’t sure exactly how he was going to do this, how he would explain it to the head of the Department, but he had no alternative. He could not begin to imagine the response he would receive. Or rather, he did not want to imagine it.

Dumbledore did not know how long he sat there, his mind and willpower numb. But eventually he could no longer ignore the physical aching in his stomach and the tension in his neck. He had to formulate some sort of approach to confessing his situation to his patrons, but he could not do that in his present state. He would go to the Refectory and get some food out of the cooler, and perhaps go for a walk. Food, exercise and air.

His cramped muscles protested as he unwound himself from the chair. He looked around at the disheveled piles of books and parchments, sighed deeply, and opened his office door.

Auror McGonagall turned towards him as he emerged. He didn’t know why, but he was glad to see that she, and not some other, was the member of his protective detail on duty this particular night. They had known each other for years, and he considered her a friend of sorts as well as a colleague.

“You’re still here? It’s so late. I’m sorry for keeping you up.”

“Are you done for the evening? Heading back to your rooms?” McGonagall asked, her eyes sweeping along the path he would need to take to his apartment, scanning for threats.

“No. But I need to get something to eat, and some air. I thought I would grab something from the Refectory, maybe take a walk in the courtyard, before going back in and facing it again.”

So they were headed the other way. She turned to stay in front of him in regulation point position.

“But really, you don’t need to stay with me. I’ll be fine. I’m far from the high-value target some seem to think.” Thinking ruefully of his failure with the article, he said, “Not very valuable at all, in fact. Please, turn in for the evening; get a decent night’s sleep.”

“No. The Ministry knows exactly how valuable you are. I will stay with you until you retire, or until the watch changes at 0800. After all, we wouldn’t want something to happen in your last week here, before you present your paper.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, realizing that this was the last guard watch she was due to stand for him before the conference, she added,“ It’s been an honor to help you in your project, Professor, even if it’s been from a distance, guarding your privacy and your safety.”

At the mention of his project, Dumbledore physically winced and flushed with indescribable shame. He was thankful that McGonagall’s attentions were so focused on guarding him from assaults from outside that she did not notice the signs of inner defeat which he felt must be written across his very features.

Minerva McGonagall had once been his student at Hogwarts. One of his best students, in fact. He had been her mentor. He had guided her in her animagus training, and had felt very protective of her as she embarked on that long and sometimes dangerous discipline. Now, a decade later, as she strode ahead in her cloak and cape, wand at the ready, it was she who was in the role of protector to him. His mind noted the role reversal, not sure what he thought of it.

They entered the empty Refectory. The house-elves who cooked and served the food had left for their quarters hours ago, but residents were free to get prepared food from the cooler at any hour, or summon the duty elves for a more elaborate menu. Dumbledore reached for a ham sandwich and some banana cake from the case. He would never dream of asking a house-elf to serve him at this hour. A dim memory tugging at his brain, he also picked up a slice of blueberry pie, selected two bottled coffee drinks, and then made his way to a table.

Eyeing the two bottles and the considerable amount of dessert, McGonagall asked, “Planning an all-nighter, Professor?”

“No. This bit is for you,” he said, pushing one of the coffee beverages and the slice of pie across the table towards where she stood, her back to him. “If you’re going to insist on guarding me during my late night snack, instead of retiring, the least I can do is offer you some dessert. Do you still like blueberry pie? Please, sit down, and eat with me.”

When she hesitated, obviously unwilling to abandon her role as guard, he gestured to the chair backed against the wall and took the one opposite for himself, “Here. You still have a regulation field of view—nothing can sneak up on us! Now, please, join me.”

There was something in his voice which took her by surprise. A quavering, underneath the normally strong tones. Just barely perceptible. If it was there at all. She sat, secretly glad for the food but also sensing that he needed company much more than he needed a guard.

As McGonagall savored the pie and sipped the coffee he had provided, Dumbledore recalled the evenings they had spent together as professor and student years before. Often after a long and demanding session of animagus training, he would escort her back to her dormitory by way of the kitchens. He would insist she eat some sort of cake or pie to restore her energy, and they would chat over the sweets and mugs of tea or cocoa. By unspoken agreement they did not discuss academics or magical theory at these times, but rather talked as friends would. They would discuss music, or the latest muggle movie, or the Weasley boys’ latest pranks. In her last year they had often discussed news of the spreading war, and he told her something of his duties for the Ministry. He knew she planned to become an Auror, and so they would sometimes discuss military matters. He had confided things in her which he would not normally have confided to a student.

“Thank you,” she said, wiping her mouth. “I do still like blueberry pie. I’m surprised you remembered!”

“Hmm. Those nights at Hogwarts do seem like they were in another lifetime, don’t they? I enjoyed those evenings very much. That must be why your fondness for blueberry pie stuck in my memory!”

But the smile his memories had brought him quickly vanished. So much had changed. In those days, after dropping Minerva at the Gryffindor common room, he would return to his own quarters, where he would continue his preparations for the next day’s classes for another hour or two and then finally slip into bed beside his wife Sara.

His heart twinged with an unanticipated jab. He inhaled sharply. It had been several years since thinking of Sara had hurt that much. This struggle over the unfinished monograph must be unsettling him even more deeply than he realized. He had to make a conscious effort to turn his thoughts away from their once-natural path. That path led back to memories of the War, and the night Sara had been killed. Using some of the mental techniques he had honed in his Unspeakable training, he tried to stem the thoughts before they turned to loss and pain.

He looked across the table, trying to recall the happy sense that the blueberry pie exchange had conjured. But the juxtaposition of his former protégé’s face and her Auror uniform suddenly assaulted him. It evoked, unbidden, memories of other former students who had worn that uniform, who had stood in formation beside him, and who had gone into battle under his command. He and McGonagall had even fought side by side in a few battles, he recalled. While she had come through largely unscathed, many others in his units had not survived. He had been responsible for them, and they had died. Died in horrible pain, many of them. Just as Sara had died, and the child she carried. As his mother had died. They had died because of his failures.

He couldn’t believe how his thoughts were spiraling out of control. He didn’t understand it.

McGonagall looked at him with a slightly questioning expression. Had she noticed the quick disappearance of his smile, seen the pain flitting across his eyes?

-TBC-

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 2


“I need to go for a walk. Let’s go!” Dumbledore said suddenly. As he stood he unconsciously removed his wand from his inside pocket, and gripped it tightly by his side as he strode out of the Refectory to the courtyard and then toward the front gates. McGonagall was soon in position as his wingman. He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he had to be moving, had to be away from that office, those crumpled parchments. That pain. Those memories. He had to get himself back under control.

He strode quickly, his head down, not paying attention to anything around him. His feet picked out a route seemingly of their own accord. All of his energy was directed inwards, trying to master the feelings buffeting him. Occasionally he felt McGonagall subtly blocking him from turning down some street or the other and realized she was trying to prevent them from crossing over into Muggle areas. Finally they found themselves in a park centered around a large lake, with trees and picnic areas around the edge of the water. Dumbledore walked up to the water’s edge, leaned heavily against a gnarled tree trunk, and stared out over the black water, saying nothing. McGonagall stood just a step off his shoulder, her eyes scanning all around them. Occasionally Dumbledore’s wand hand twitched, and a stone would be hurled up from the shoreline and sent skimming violently over the water before sinking near the center of the lake. She realized that was the first magic she had seen him use all evening.

The Auror made one more careful scan around the park, and then, moving her own wand through the air with quick lassoing gestures, cast a series of wards. She established an outer perimeter to detect anyone coming towards them and then a strong set of protections in a circle closer in. Confident that she no longer needed to devote all her energy to scanning the outer environment, she attuned her senses instead to the man beside her.

She knew only the basics of Legilimency, and in any event would have never used it against a friend without explicit permission, but she needed no such skills to know that her former mentor was battling waves of sadness. She also sensed disgust and anger and, perhaps, even tinges of despair. A breeze was picking up, and Dumbledore shivered. He was dressed only in the lightweight robes he had been wearing in his office. McGonagall unclasped her heavy uniform cloak and gently draped it across his shoulders. He showed no evidence of having noticed, though eventually he did pull it around himself.

Finally she could bear his agonized silence no more. “Professor?”

“Don’t call me ‘Professor’!”

“Sir…”

“Or ‘sir’! I deserve neither title!”

“What would you like me to call you, then?” she asked tentatively.

“You could use ‘Useless,’ or ‘Idiot,’ or ‘Disappointment,’ or ‘Failure,’ or ‘Charlatan,’ I suppose.” He almost spat the words out.

Now it was her turn to shiver—not only from the cold, but from the words she heard him say. She could not fathom them coming from him, yet they just had. She trained her mind on his magical core, probing for its signature. Yes, this was Albus Dumbledore. No polyjuiced imposter. But the energy was ragged, undisciplined, oscillating wildly, something she had never expected to sense in this man.

Deciding to forgo any form of address at all, she simply grasped his shoulder and pulled him away from the tree. He allowed her to guide him to the nearest picnic table and obeyed her gesture to sit. She kept her hand on his shoulder and looked into his blue eyes for the first time since they’d left the Refectory.

“What is it?”

He simply shook his head mutely. He saw the deep concern in her eyes, but he could not meet it.

For the first time he noticed the crisp breeze as it pushed her robes against her, and simultaneously realized she’d given him her cloak some time ago.

“See—what kind of Professor of Transfiguration am I, if I can’t even figure out a way to keep us from freezing here while I….” He left the sentence unfinished as he returned her cloak to her, simultaneously transfiguring it into a full fur-lined overcoat, in proper Auror colours and insignia.

“You’re not the only Master of Transfiguration here, you know,” she replied, turning the overcoat into a very large stadium blanket. She sat down sideways beside him and wrapped the blanket around them both while casting a Warming charm. After a moment’s deep concentration she produced two large tankards of steaming hot cocoa. She hoped he wouldn’t notice the very generous amount of Scottish firewhisky she’d laced into his, and hoped that the other magical elements she added would also help. If she’d managed the charm as she intended, it packed even more punch than did the firewhisky. At least it was not as out of line as tricking him into drinking veritaserum would be. Though she was sure that an Auror guard spiking the drink of an Unspeakable under her protection violated more Ministry regulations than she could count. But she was very worried about him. She had to find out what it was that had him in such a state, for his own sake.

As they sipped their cocoa McGonagall replayed his actions this evening over in her mind and studied them carefully for any sign of what was wrong.

Dumbledore took a sip of the rich brew she had handed him, and then several large swallows. It was thick and velvety, slightly sweet without being the slightest bit cloying, with an undertone of spice, and deeply satisfying in ways he could not even name. It filled him with warmth instantly, and even seemed to take the slightest edge off his misery. And it had been conjured out of thin air. As had been the finely wrought silver tankards. ‘Very impressive indeed, Miss McGonagall. Very.’ he thought to himself. His former protégé had obviously not only kept up her considerable skills in transfiguration but had advanced markedly in the art. He noted wryly that even here, on the edge of despair, his inner professor and teacher could not be totally suppressed.

He gestured towards her with his tankard and repeated his praise aloud. But she was deep in thought and did not seem to hear him. After a bit, she spoke quietly.

“When you first came out of your office tonight, you said you needed to get something to eat and some exercise before, before ‘going back in and facing it again.’ What are you facing?” She laid her hand along his jaw and turned his face towards her. “Please tell me what it is.”

The past ten years had taught him nothing if not how to keep his emotions under wraps, hidden from everyone. He would not, could not tell her. He took another deep draught of his cocoa.

Something stirred in his mind, and in his core. It wasn’t insight, or intuition, but it was at least a very pale shadow of those feelings. And it was saying, ‘Talk to her. Tell her. Let her help you.’

No. He couldn’t.

“Please.” Her voice had an undertone of pleading in it. “Tell me what it is you are facing. It, it, ….it is…tearing at your very center.”

Tipping his tankard high to drain it allowed him to break his eyes free of her gaze. Her mind and core had much more power than he’d realized. She could sense his torment, could penetrate at least the outermost layer of his defenses, maybe further.

‘You are safe with her. She will not hurt you. Albus, you truly do not know how to go on from here. Maybe she can help you find some way forward, at least the first few steps.’

No. Surely no. He had to go through this alone. He didn’t know in what form he would emerge on the other side, or even if he would, but it was something that he had to do alone.

But this persistent sense that he should confide at least some in the person in front of him was the closest feeling he’d had to a flash of intuitive insight in some weeks. The very feeling he’d been hoping for, grasping for. He found he couldn’t ignore it. He took a deep breath. If his gamble went wrong, if she could not cope with what she heard, he could Obliviate her memory of tonight and apparate them both back to the Department. And then, for him, if no way forward had appeared, there was always ….he fingered his wand…the wand he had heretofore only used to protect his life….

Some remnant of his old, more optimistic self met and rebuked him there in the darkness as he pondered his wand. If this was how far down his thoughts had descended, he should take the risk and confide in her. He truly had nothing to lose.

-TBC-

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 3

Dumbledore gripped the handle of the empty tankard until his knuckles were white. He could not meet her gaze.

“I have failed. Utterly.”

She could barely stifle the gasp that caught at her. This was the man who had guided her as a student, and grown into a valued friend. After her father had died near the end of the War it was only his series of letters full of compassion and wisdom which had enabled her to keep going—letters he had taken the time and energy to write while on campaign, living in the mud. This was he who had led troops in horrific battles and defeated the worst enemy ever known to wizardkind. They had lost touch after the War but she had followed news of him in the press. Almost as an encore he had gone on to achieve what alchemists had considered nearly impossible. He was, by any objective measure, the most powerful and intelligent wizard alive.

While Albus Dumbledore was certainly capable of erring, being human, she was convinced he was constitutionally incapable of “utter failure.” He was also someone she cared about deeply, even though they had not had any significant contact since those consoling letters. It took all her focus to keep her tone even and neutral, rather than incredulous, as she responded to his confession.

“You have failed at what?”

“The Fellowship.”

“What do you mean?” It seemed such a ludicrous statement on its face. But she maintained her neutral tone.

“The book. I can’t finish it.”

She looked at him quizzically. She’d had her own share of late-night panics in her schooldays, fearing she would run out of time for edits, not have time to finish the bibliography. Surely he couldn’t mean something like that, however. In addition to Quick-Quills and innumerable charms, he could enlist any number of Department apprentices as scribes and copy editors and to chase down last-minute citations. And if it was simply the mechanics of getting his thoughts transferred to parchment according to proper style he was worried about, surely he would have headed directly back to his office, not gone on this despondent trek through the city. But if he didn’t mean that, what did he mean? She quickly ran through other possibilities in her mind, but could imagine nothing which would throw the greatest wizard in the world to the edge of despair and could batter his very magic in a way Grindelwald’s spells had not.

“No matter how I consider it, I cannot conceive of any bumps you may’ve hit as you come down the home stretch of this paper putting you in this state.”

“There is no home stretch!”

She looked all the more confused.

He decided to plunge ahead. He was, after all, a Gryffindor, even in failure. He let his words tumble out.

“When I took this fellowship it was because I felt that I was on the verge of some significant insight which would really move our understanding of the Mysteries ahead. The years of studying transfiguration, the War, the five years producing the Stone….it was as if it was all on the verge of coalescing into something in my mind. When I described my hopes to some others, they created this Fellowship to enable me to work on it. I have been given three years’ generous keep, the best training in the most arcane disciplines known to wizardkind, unparalleled academic resources, and have been entrusted with Mysteries which give their keepers the name of Unspeakable. All because people had faith in the brilliance and wisdom of Albus Dumbledore. Great master of transfiguration, vanquisher of evil lords and supreme alchemist. Several months into the fellowship I realized just how great peoples’ expectations were. Are. I had defeated the most evil man alive, created a Philosopher’s Stone, and here I was saying I felt there was something even bigger swirling around just outside my consciousness. If I’d already done all that, just what could I have up my sleeve for afters, eh? No wonder they have given me as close to the keys of the metaphysical kingdom as is possible.”

Suddenly his eyes gleamed.

“Have you ever known anyone to be trained and initiated as an Unspeakable without having to take the ancient life vows binding them forever? Have you?” His voice had risen and taken on a tone of panic-tinged urgency.

She didn’t answer. But she hastily and wordlessly added several layers to the Muffliato and Imperturbable charms surrounding them. Wherever this confession was heading, it had to do with something much more significant than polishing up a bibliography under deadline.

“I didn’t think so,” he continued, his tone somewhat more controlled. “Because it has never happened. Ever.

“I knew this as an historical fact at the beginning, but I hadn’t pondered what it meant. It was months into the training before I even began to wonder about it. Some nights in the department Taproom the other apprentices would be talking of the vows that awaited them, and why they were making the sacrifice. It was not known to my peers that I was exempt….that I would not have my future proscribed. I would not be bound to the Department of Mysteries for life; I would not be forbidden any change in my marital status; and I would not have my mind and lips sealed with a spell that ….that makes the Fidelius look like a child’s paper chain. Only the Minister of Magic and the head of the Department knew.

“I began to seriously puzzle on why I was exempt. I eventually got up the courage to ask the Minister about it—did he truly think the exemption wise, and what was his reasoning? He would not answer me. He complimented me on my modesty and sense of propriety in going through the formalities of asking, when he ‘knew I understood the matter perfectly already.’ And other similar dodges. The way he answered, or rather, didn’t answer, just convinced me that I had to learn what was behind this, and had to do it before we passed the point of no return in the apprenticeship—the point at which the apprentice has learned so much that they must either take the vows or… or….” Dumbledore’s mouth drew into a tight line, he paused, and then he jumped over the obvious gap in his sentence and plunged onwards.

“Finally, when the deadline drew very near and I still had no information except the one suspicion that was beginning to form in the back of my mind, I used all the power I had to get the answer I needed. I had no other choice.” His voice fell on the last phrase.

McGonagall inferred that he meant he had crossed over the accepted limits of the uses of Legilimency and other mind-altering magic, but she did not ask him to elaborate. She knew, from having studied under him, and from their discussions on the eve of the War, that he felt incredibly strongly about the ancient codes of honour regarding the use of powerful magic, the sort of magic so great that it hovered volatilely on the boundary between Light and Dark, its hue determined solely by the intent and purity of its caster. He would not have done such a thing lightly. He had to have felt it was a question on which many lives hung, not just his own.

“I confirmed my suspicion, although by the time I’d put all the pieces together our cohort had passed over the line which meant the vow was inevitable. For them, at least. I, on the other hand, am deemed exempt from the vow. From the pieces I discovered, I concluded that this is because the Department can only imagine one achievement in magic which I have not yet reached, and they assume it is this very thing I am on the verge of. Once it is attained, there will be no need for secret-keeping. And they are so sure that I am going to achieve it, and within the time period of the Fellowship, that they have exempted me from the vow. Once I have achieved it and it has been acted on, the vow would be irrelevant.” His voice had fallen to a hoarse whisper as he uttered these last few sentences. Minerva had to read his lips and focus all her energy on his mind to understand what he said next, as he could not bring himself to actually vocalize it.

“I have been given unfettered access to the Mysteries because they believe I am the one who will finally….”

He stopped suddenly. “Minerva, exactly how much do you know about what goes on in the Rooms? About why Unspeakables are, well, Unspeakables?”

“Well, first, the Rooms are the repository for all we know of meta-magic. Whatever understandings have been gleaned about not just the how of magic, but the why, on the deepest levels. Why Light and Dark interact as they do. The foundational reasons for the effects of love and hate on magic. And…those materials then form the building blocks for the further research which is done by the Department. Research to try to discover how to ultimately defeat the Dark, permanently, at the most fundamental level, not simply temporarily on the battlefield. The Grand Unified Theory of Magic, as it were.”

“But do you understand why there is so much secrecy? Why the Unspeakables?”

“Because it is thought that in the wrong hands, that information could possibly be turned to the exact opposite purpose—to give the Dark the very knowledge that would allow the Light to be extinguished. That cannot be risked.”

Remembering their shared interest in muggle current affairs, and confident that he received even higher-level Ministry briefings than she did, she continued, “It’s sort of like our world’s version of what’s being done at Los Alamos. And whoever solves the riddle first has power over all of magical civilization.”

“Exactly!” Dumbledore paused. “And, to continue your most apropos metaphor, the reason I was given this Fellowship with its startling terms is that the Ministry and Department concluded I am meant to be their Oppenheimer.”

McGonagall placed her hand on his arm as she focused her mind on all he had said, trying to tease out the connections he had not made explicit.

“Let me just think for a moment, Albus Oppenheimer!” she said, squeezing his arm gently. Then she waved her wand and refilled their tankards. She made Albus’ second serving just as heavily magical but somewhat less alcoholic. His tongue had been suitably loosened by the first mug.

“So, the Ministry got wind that you felt on the verge of some significant insight, and believed that it was going to be even more significant than you imagined. They offered you this Fellowship in order to give you an ideal environment for bringing it forth. They are so confident that you shall succeed that they have made a startling exception to their regular procedure. They fully expect that next Saturday you shall be presenting them with the solution to the one fundamental Mystery the department has been seeking for generations. Or at least a sure and certain roadmap to it. That is their expectation of you. Based on your accomplishments to date in transfiguration, military and political strategy, and alchemy, they felt this was actually a very realistic expectation and worth the trust they were placing in you…… Am I on track with what I’ve said so far?”

“Yes. That’s it.” He was thankful she’d been able to follow his meaning when his words seemed to him to be totally disordered by the emotions he was fighting.

“However, given that the reason we are huddled beneath this blanket, having this discussion at all, is that you have fled your office in a storm of self-destructive emotions, describing yourself as a worthless charlatan who has utterly failed at the Fellowship, I am forced to conclude that you do not feel that the insights you have gained into the Mysteries are yet in a form ready for presentation. Am I correct?”

“You are a master of understatement,” he said, the full measure of the earlier pain and bitterness returning to his voice. “It is not a question of form, but of content. I have produced nothing. Nothing. Not the key to the Ultimate Mystery, not even a précis of it or a roadmap to it. Nothing at all.” His voice grew progressively softer, the bitterness turning back to despair.

“One year of apprenticeship, one year of working with the Mysteries alongside the Unspeakables, and one year of uninterrupted private study with every resource in wizard-dom at my disposal. And without any of the restrictions, material or otherwise, that would normally have been placed on anyone with half the access I have been granted. The great Albus Dumbledore, Transfigurations genius, military savior and co-creator of the only known Philosopher’s Stone in history, has produced nothing.” He let the last words hang in the air, mocking him.

“Yet there was something truly significant there, just barely beyond the grasp of my mind, three years ago. I know there was. And I’ve had glimpses like that since. It’s been like a snitch, sparkling at the edge of the Quidditch pitch at the climax of a match…tantalizingly close, then veering out of reach, but never entirely gone from sight….and until just the past few weeks, when the reality of the deadline set in, I was sure that I would eventually grasp it. Perhaps I needed to change my approach vector but I felt I was fundamentally capable of it. Not necessarily resolving the Ultimate Mystery—it was only the Ministry who had ever that high an opinion of me, and I never signed on to it—though by the time I realized what they truly expected things were already beyond the point of turning back. But I have felt that I was working towards something genuinely catalytic, something that would advance the quest by a huge amount.”

McGonagall reflected that from any other wizard, words like this would be ludicrous, even offensive--arrogance personified. But not from Albus Dumbledore. She knew that he had not an atom of overweening pride in him. She had seen both his mind and his magic in action enough over more than a decade to know that he was merely speaking the truth. His mind could see things that others couldn’t, make connections that others missed, understand implications and consequences that were invisible to all around him. He had considerably more than a touch of genius. But his own description of ‘the great Albus Dumbledore’ had been laced through with bitter irony. Tremendously magically gifted through no doing of his own, fortunate in material circumstances, well-trained, always fiercely disciplined, and at times simply very lucky--yes, all these he would admit to. But he would never boast of greatness. It was that humility which, paradoxically, made him truly great.

“But instead, Minerva, I have achieved nothing. I have fallen woefully short of my own expectations, not to mention those of the Ministry. Everything I thought I am, or was, has been shown to be a sham.”

She cut him off abruptly.

“You do not speak the truth when you say you have achieved nothing. I have stood at least one watch daily outside your office or with you in the library. I have often seen the lightness in your step and heard your humming as you have emerged after a long day’s reading and writing. I have seen the editorial assistants going back and forth. I have even heard their awed whispers in the staff room—never betraying particulars but making it clear that they found your latest work quite impressive indeed. You may not have yet arrived at a conclusion you find satisfying, but you have been producing something at that desk of yours.

“Let us set aside the question of a grand conclusion, and a finished monograph for a moment. Simply tell me about those stacks of parchment I’ve seen emerging from the copyists, the ones which have impressed your assistants so. You said yourself that until a few weeks ago you felt you were making quite acceptable progress. Tell me about that. To the extent Department policy allows, at least.”

“Well, yes, I admit, the inquiries into the nature of transfiguration and alchemy have produced some fruit.” Dumbledore pondered how much he could tell her without compromising confidential materials. “I do have three solid chapters….one looking at the fundamental structures and manipulations at the molecular level in transfiguration, one at the matrices underlying the sequence of the alchemical transformations, and the third demonstrating that the fundamental structures and dynamics of the two disciplines are actually perfectly symmetrical. And they both manipulate the exact same part of the spectrum of magical energy. They are actually two dimensions of the same essential discipline. I’ve run it by the leading theorists in both fields, and they agree that I really have explicated connections no one else had seen before, connections which could be quite important going forward. But those three chapters aren’t all that much, considering.”

McGonagall sat there with her jaw hanging open. She knew enough of transfiguration from her own study and practice, and of alchemy from devouring the accounts of Dumbledore’s great achievement, as well as some independent study in her youth, to understand what he was saying in at least a rudimentary manner. ‘Connections which could be quite important going forward’ her foot! This was nothing less than a paradigm shift in the theoretical understanding of transformational magic.

“Professor Albus Dumbledore, sir, you are utterly impossible! What you have just dismissed as ‘not all that much, considering’ is an insight most scholars would consider to be the capstone of a brilliant career. It will revolutionize the scholarly agenda in both transfiguration and alchemy. It also has the potential of moving your and Flamel’s achievement from the realm of a one-off near-miraculous lucky break by two singular and idiosyncratic scholars to something which can be shown to be essentially consistent with the well-established laws of magic, if a tremendous extension of them. In short, if you can get clearance to publish this beyond the Annals of Mystery, it will win you the Hermes Medal. Again.

“Of course, winning your third consecutive Hermes might not pack quite the emotional impact as the first two did, I grant you. It might begin to feel, well, entirely ho-hum to you.”

Minerva’s eyes twinkled as she tweaked him. The Hermes Medal was the magical world’s Nobel Prize, except that it was not necessarily awarded annually, but only when something truly outstanding was achieved. No wizard save Dumbledore had won more than one Hermes. Dumbledore and Flamel had been the most recent recipients, for their Stone. The award previous to that had also gone to Dumbledore, for his defeat of Grindelwald. In that instance he had adamantly declined the statuette and medal, insisted that the citation be re-written to also honor “all those who sacrificed their lives in the recent struggles against the forces of Dark,” and had quietly used the considerable award monies to endow a fund for children of those killed in action. He steadfastly refused to consider that Hermes as having gone to him, but that is how the record books read. And McGonagall knew that the discovery he had just described to her should by all rights win him another.

“Seriously, Albus. Those three chapters sound quite substantial and definitely original. Why can’t you just do some final edits to turn them into a finished work and present it as your Fellowship monograph?”

“Because they do not fulfill the terms of the Fellowship! They may well be as important as you say. At the time I wrote them I was certainly pleased with them. But the Fellowship requires an original work advancing both magical theory and practice in ways which directly touch on resolving the Ultimate Mystery. I do not trust myself to say more. Any compromise of security on my part, even inadvertently, would have grave implications for you as well, and I do not fully trust my judgment in this regard right now. You will just have to believe me when I say that while alchemy and transfiguration are certainly key disciplines to master in approaching that Ultimate Mystery, they do not touch on it directly. This is not false modesty on my part. If you could speak to any senior Department person they would concur. I will even allow that I believe that any resolution of the Ultimate Mystery will have to incorporate my findings, and will grow out of them. But there is still a great ditch between what I have discovered and the Mystery.

“In the terms of the Fellowship, I tell you: I have produced nothing. I have failed.”

“No! You have said that what you have done is a key building block; that the ultimate resolution will grow out of it. You have also said that you felt like you were making quite tolerable progress up until a few weeks ago. Staring at a deadline can cause almost any brain to freeze. Anyone who has done theoretical research knows that insights don’t come on command or on schedule. While three dedicated years may seem like a long time to you, consider that the best minds of the wizarding world have been working on this problem for centuries. Three years is but a moment. Expecting any human being, no matter how brilliant, to accomplish such an insight in what is essentially a year’s sabbatical is beyond ludicrous. I don’t know how they bewitched the Fellowship offer to induce you to accept its terms, but they truly must have. They set you a literally impossible task. You cannot call yourself a failure, because success on their terms was always impossible.

She took his wand hand and held it tightly in both her hands, while looking directly into his eyes. “Albus, be honest with yourself. You know I am right.”

-TBC-

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 3, part 2

They sat there in silence for several minutes. He could not break her gaze. Finally, he whispered, “Yes, I believe you are.” He lowered his head until it rested against their joined hands. After several more minutes he sat up again.

“But what do I tell them, what do I submit to them? I can’t very well tell them that they set me up to fail. I was all too eager to agree to the task, even though it turns out their expectations were higher than mine. You’re right, I need to examine that eventually and see how I made such a blunder, but it’s done now. How do I go forward, given the situation as it stands?”

“Why not submit the three chapters, with a preface explaining how you think it is a building block towards the Ultimate Mystery. Explain what you have told me—that you still feel something more profound is out there waiting for you to grasp, it’s just apparently not going to obey the schedule they have so nicely laid out. The golden snitch image is marvelous. Even the Minister understands Quidditch, though I’m not too sure of his grasp of deeper Mysteries. You can then agree that you will continue to work on the question, but on an open-ended schedule. You are tremendously grateful for the past three years, and are as disappointed as they are that larger insights didn’t come on command. You do not expect them to continue to support your living expenses beyond the end of the Fellowship, but you will continue to work on the questions as you have been.”

“I don’t think that will work.”

“Why not?”

“I do not feel that I can attain any more progress while living and working in the Department. It has been a wonderful sabbatical, but it is not the atmosphere in which my mind moves most nimbly. If I am to have any hope of progressing on this question, I must come out of seclusion and resume at least some semblance of an active life. The very atmosphere which gives me the resources to contemplate ironically ultimately drains my energies. ‘I do not have a contemplative vocation,’ as the metaphysical literature puts it. I hadn’t consciously realized that until just now, explaining it to you. But I think I realized it on some subconscious level earlier this week, and that’s when the panic and despair began to take root.”

“Well then, why not resume that active life? Spend a portion of your time consulting. For the Ministry, for Hogwarts, whatever. On a fee schedule commensurate with your resume! Two Hermes Medals, etc.” She smiled. “Use the income to support yourself and spend the remainder of your time working on the Mysteries.”

“That definitely won’t fly.”

“Why on earth not?”

“It goes back to the matter of the vows. I am not presently bound as an Unspeakable. I have all of the knowledge, knowledge which they believe could be very dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands, and yet that knowledge is not protected by the vows. They exempted me from the vows only because they were so confident I would be grabbing the snitch very early in the match, as it were. They were sure that my inherent magical powers, combined w/ the protections on the Department complex and my own personal around the clock detail of senior Aurors, would be sufficient checks on me for the short time involved.

“I think they also suspected that I didn’t think much of the Vows and would not put myself in a situation where I would be expected to take them. It seemed a worthwhile gamble for them. But if the time frame is now open-ended, if the match is not about to be brought to a sudden, dramatic conclusion, then they have miscalculated. They will feel it imperative to have me take the Vows. Even if I were to stay cloistered here. They would be absolutely insistent if I were to resume as much of a normal life as the Vows permit. Which isn’t much, frankly. My ability to consult would be very limited. If they would allow attempting anything outside the Ministry complex at all.”

“And?”

“Minerva, being bound as an Unspeakable would be a slow but certain death for me. If it has worn on me in three years, imagine what it would do over a decade, much less a century. I truly believe I would go mad. It would kill me. You know me well enough to understand why, I think. I am at heart an active person. And I am hopelessly drawn to involvement in practical things, worldly things. I may keep my own counsel on those things closest to me, but I do it while being active.

“Working with Nicolas on the Stone, and then this Fellowship, have been the only times in my life I’ve been turned primarily inwards. And even the work with Nicolas had its active dimensions. Traveling around the world to acquire metals and re-agents. Working side by side with him and our lab assistants as we did the actual chemical work. And he and Perenelle are actually rather social. Yes, living with them was being rather reclusive. But at the time I was trying to recover from the War. From Sara’s death. I was devastated on every level. I needed time apart. But those years were the exception, I think.

“So, you wouldn’t take the Vows.”

“Not if I had a choice, no. But I wouldn’t really have a choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once an apprenticed Unspeakable passes that point of no return I mentioned, which I have passed, they must take the Vows when asked. The very request to take the Vows is wrapped in incredibly strong magic. If the request is refused, if the Vows are declined, the apprentice knows what will happen, and so….well, it simply isn’t declined. Ever. If they asked me, I would have to take the Vows.”

McGonagall was shocked that there was anything, other than love or loyalty to family or friends or the Good, which could force Albus Dumbledore to do something he did not want to do.

“Tell me what it is, this threat that the greatest wizard alive fears. That has driven him to despair for his life. That would force him to make Vows he felt would kill him!” She stared into his eyes.

He knew he could not tell Minerva the specific consequences of refusing the Vows, because the Vow magic itself was considered part of the Mysteries and was in turn enlaced in magic. Even though he was not yet bound by the Vows themselves, he was caught up in their larger magical field. If he were to divulge this magic to someone unqualified, that would trigger the spell itself. It would strike him and the person he revealed it to.

First it would subject them to agonies which far surpassed Crucio and the Dementor’s Kiss combined. Then it would shatter their magic, literally—the powerful cores exploding inside them, searing their sinews and nerves. Then, if they were still alive, the curse would expel their souls from their bodies and, finally, snuff their life-breath.

One reason he was so opposed to the Vows was that they were enforced with magic that in any other context would be considered supremely dark. The Vows were used in service to the Light, guarding its most precious secrets, but to him even that was not enough to justify that sort of magic.

And this was but a taste of what living under the Vows would be like—constantly having to censor his thoughts, guard himself, practice constant Occlumency. He had a rather different opinion of the level of secrecy properly required—the more he learned of how the deepest magic in the Rooms of Mysteries worked, the more he became convinced that the Vows were actually unnecessary. Only someone who wanted to use the ancient magic for the Good could actually use it at all. Attempts to use it for Evil would fail—it was built into the very structure of the magic. But by the time one understood that, one was already bound by the Vows, and ironically could not tell anyone outside the Room.

(He was a singularity in that regard. He was the only one who both knew the Vows were needless and was theoretically free to say so if he chose. Though it would certainly make him Enemy # 1 of many in the Ministry who derived considerable power from their control over the Department of Mysteries.) He had become convinced that while the deep Magic the vows supposedly protected was biased towards the good, the Vows themselves, though well intentioned, were not an instrument of Good. In large part because living in fear of them removed the very spaciousness and generosity of soul which, he was becoming more and more convinced, were essential to unraveling the Ultimate Mystery. The Vows were not Dark, but they were deeply flawed and ultimately short-sighted. Like the frightened human wizards who had devised and imposed them.

“Tell me!” Her stare intensified.

“No. I cannot.” He looked away, to block any attempts at Legilimency. He was in no state to use Occlumency. And she must not enter his mind. She must not see anything about the Vow magic—he could not have her tortured death on his conscience as he himself died.

McGonagall grabbed his chin and tried to force his face back to meet her gaze.

“Minerva, no! If you make me look at you while you ask this—I have no shields—I cannot take the risk—Minerva, I swear I will kill myself right here and now rather than risk the consequences of your seeing even a flicker by accident. It would be too awful.” He had wrenched his wand hand free of her and touched the tip to his chest. He quickly cast a strong wordless Protego on her to prevent her being harmed from the proximity of the AK if he had to cast it on himself.

She saw that he was serious. Deadly serious.

“Albus, my gods! I do not know what we are dealing with, but I promise you I will stop thinking about this. I will not ask you again, or even think the question. Just please put your wand down.”

“Only after we’ve left this topic well behind and are not sitting or standing across from one another, or even close.

“So, you begin to see now, Minerva, why I feel trapped and am in such a state.

“First, I cannot meet the requirements of the Fellowship. That alone means I have betrayed my own expectations for myself and those of so many others for me. That failure alone is almost more than I can bear. It tears at my very self-understanding—leaves me wondering who I am.

“Since the War I have been hoping that I could use my mind to contribute something meaningful to the Light, something that would be at least some small token offered against all the failures of those years, the tactics that were not always good enough, the magic that was sometime insufficient, the evil that was sometimes too close. A token offered in memory of the soldiers who fell alongside me while following my orders. Those on the other side who died in attacks I ordered. The civilians and refugees. Most of all, for my beloved Sara, for whom I would have given my life a thousand times over if I could have, if I had only read the signals correctly and seen the threat as it approached. And for the child she was carrying and who could not survive his untimely birth.

“For whatever reason, I am ‘The Wizard Who Dueled Grindelwald and Lived,’ when so many others died. My work on the Stone, and then this Fellowship, have been some effort to make that life count for at least something. And now I feel I have failed.”

Minerva had certainly seen some of her colleagues tormented by similar guilt at surviving while others died. They ended up drinking themselves to death, or dying in senseless duels, or even “falling off” their brooms in pickup Quidditch matches, because they could no longer live with what they had endured in battle. She had tried to make sure all her troops felt comfortable seeking out help to deal with such thoughts when needed. But never would she have dreamed that her mentor, friend, and hero was in such straits. She desperately wanted to take him in her arms, but was very aware of the wand he still had pointed at his heart. She did not even dare cast any cheering charms on him, lest he mistake it for Legilimency.

“Albus, I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were carrying such a burden. You don’t have to carry it alone any more. We will find a way out of this for you.”

“And that is just the problem, isn’t it, Minerva? I cannot see a way forward past next Saturday. One way or the other, I’m trapped. The best-case scenario is that they put me under the Vows but allow me to work and live outside the Department at least some of the time. The middle option is that I am both Vowed and cloistered. Either of those leads to eventual death, first of my soul and magic, then my life, it’s just the speed is different. I doubt I’d be able to finish the work they have set me, in either situation. The last option is that I refuse the Vows on principle. That at least is quicker, though I think the least desirable for other reasons which I cannot share.”

For a long time neither of them said anything. Minerva had unconsciously put one arm around his shoulders and had the other on his knee. Her thumb traced small circles on his shoulder blade while she thought.

An idea that had been in the back of her mind for a while slowly took full shape.

“Albus, I know you can’t tell me about the mechanics of the Vows themselves—either their acceptance or how they achieve the control they intend—in any specificity. But I have a question which may lead to a way out, or at least buy some time to figure one out.

“If someone had absolutely no fear of any consequences whatsoever—they were willing to bear unbearable pain and psychic torment, and in fact could bear such, through some heretofore unknown magical power, would the Vows still silence and bind them? Or would they be able to break through and speak of the unspeakable mysteries to others?”

“That is a good question. I do not think I can risk answering it directly. Perhaps if you told me more of what you are thinking?”

“Albus, I think you are at least partly wrong as to why the Ministry has not made you take the Vows. It is not because they know you would have balked at that requirement, though that may be part of it. It is not just because they are overconfident you would catch the metaphorical, metaphysical snitch right away, though I’m sure they’d love it if you did.

“For all their admiration for your knowledge and achievements, they don’t know you very well. They see that you made a Philosopher’s Stone and they leap to a certain assumption.”

Now it was Albus’ turn to look puzzled.

“Albus, I think they are assuming that you, like Nicolas, are using the Stone you made. Or at least are fully prepared to should you anticipate any risk to your life. Albus, they think you are essentially immortal. Between the Stone and your considerable magic, they think you are immune to the Vows and whatever ways they have to coerce you to take them. They believe it would be pointless to make you take them, as they would not successfully bind you. There would be nothing to gain. And if they do suspect that you find the Vows somewhat offensive on principle, then there would be much to lose by even raising the question. You could potentially cease any cooperation with the Department immediately, perhaps even become antagonistic to them.

“They are indeed gambling that the benefit to be gained by giving you access is greater than the risk of your being compromised or turning Dark. They are gambling that you will find the Ultimate Mystery, and they will not have to live with nightmares at the prospect of a fully ‘Speakable’ Unspeakable running around for eternity. But I think there are those at the Department who do truly know that while you may have your fights with the Ministry, you would never compromise the Good of your own volition, and that your judgment is generally sound. Being immortal also makes you immune to some forms of torture and blackmail. Giving you access, even though they could not bind you, was a risk they were willing to take, because the potential of what you might discover was so great.

“I think there is at least a good chance that if you go to them and present the work you have done, and then propose to continue working on the Mysteries on your own time, they will swallow slowly but ultimately let you walk away. After all, if you are immortal, if they ask you to take the Vows you will be able to refuse. Whatever the consequences are, you will endure them knowing they can not ultimately defeat you. You’d still end up unVow’d, but in the meantime others may have witnessed the consequences they tried to impose on you. Which I gather the Ministry does not want to be public knowledge. By making you endure those consequences, they will have exposed them to the world.

“I think if you make your announcement at the end of your presentation, and then immediately head outside the Department building, so that there is no way they can ask for the Vows without non-Department wizards seeing what happens when you refuse, you might be fairly safe. I can certainly guarantee your safe and speedy passage out of the building. It would be a gamble, admittedly. But I think I know you well enough to know you’d rather take the gamble, then torture yourself into despair as you’ve been doing tonight.”

“Yes. I would,” he said after having considered what she had said. His intuition told him her analysis was correct. He would not have to take the Vows.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the Wizard Who Lived, slowly laid down his wand, and allowed himself to sag into McGonagall’s embrace. Sobs of relief wracked his body. She held him and stroked his hair. Years later, when he would ponder when exactly it was that the emotions of joy and happiness and hope had begun to re-enter his core, he knew it had been in that embrace.

-TBC-

[goddessmcg]

Wow! What an absolutely fantastic story. This is the first review I write here and this story simply screamed to me: REVIEW!!! :-9
I was pulled into the plot and your excellent writing skills kept me there until the last chapter and has left me wanting more. And I aught to be concentrating on getting ready for my oral literature exam on Monday and not reading fan fiction ;-) Well done

[esoterica1693]

Thank you, goddessmcg! This is the first real story I've posted, and I now have a greater appreciation of reviews!
I have 20-some chapters written and will post them over the next day or two.

[esoterica1693]

Minerva McGonagall smiled as she caught sight of Albus Dumbledore walking purposefully towards her, his shoulders back, his chin forward. He was even smiling himself. He had shed the cowed, anxious bearing of his last weeks at the Department and now resembled the man she had known previously.

“Minerva, I am so glad you agreed to this lunch.” He took her hand and pressed it quickly to his lips in his customary gallant greeting, and escorted her into the restaurant. He had owled her a week previously on his personal stationery,

Auror McGonagall,

I have been most remiss in not expressing my deepest appreciation for the invaluable assistance you rendered me at the end of my Fellowship. I can plead only that my mind was still much distracted at the time.

I would be most grateful if you would allow me to rectify my oversight by taking you to lunch on a mutually convenient day. I will be in London on Hogwarts business at least weekly for the remainder of the summer. If you are agreeable, simply tell me which day would be convenient for you and I will arrange my schedule accordingly.

Sincerely,
Albus

When she had agreed, he had asked her to name a first-class restaurant she had wanted to try, and he had made the reservations.

Over a delicious meal which more than lived up to the reviews she had read in Witch Weekly, they caught each other up on what they had each been doing for the two months since he had concluded his Fellowship. He had indeed been hired as the Deputy Headmaster at Hogwarts immediately upon his application. The appointment included the post of Transfigurations Professor and Head of Gryffindor House. She had been the one to point him to the vacancy and insist that he apply for it immediately. She had not told him that the reason she knew the position was open was that she had applied for it herself, and had already interviewed twice with Headmaster Dippet and been offered the position, albeit as a one-year trial basis.

Dippet had been in the process of drafting a Letter of Hire to her to confirm his offer of the Transfigurations position on a tenure track and the Deputy slot as an Interim appointment when she had sent him an Urgent owl:

“Headmaster Dippet: You will shortly be receiving an application packet from Albus Dumbledore. I greatly appreciate the estimation and trust which has led you to offer me the Deputy position. However, the greatest service I could render you and Hogwarts at present is to withdraw my name in favor of his. Yr most obed’t servant, Minerva McGonagall, Lt. Col., Auror Corps. P.S. I would appreciate your not mentioning my application to Professor Dumbledore. MM”

Dippet had offered Dumbledore the position at the pro-forma interview he had arranged immediately upon receiving the application, and Dumbledore had taken up the post at the end of June.

“Yes, I’m more or less moved in at Hogwarts now, and have gotten a sense of what Armando wants and needs to be done. The position being open really was a stroke of exceptional good luck. I don’t know what else could have suited me more.”

Minerva smiled—his obvious happiness took the last vestiges of pain from her sacrifice. Though insisting he apply had been the only and obvious thing to do, and she did not seriously regret it for an instant, she had to admit to feeling some pangs in retrospect. She had been hoping to take early retirement from the Auror Corps and move back into academia. The Hogwarts post would have been a stretch given her lack of previous teaching experience, but Dippet had been willing to take a chance at least on a trial basis. He desperately needed a Deputy, and he had been willing to have the position filled for the year while he looked for someone more senior rather than leaving it entirely vacant. He had been hoping to find someone who could succeed him as Head in a year or two, as he was anxious to retire himself, but failing that, Minerva would have been a quite capable stop-gap.

“You feel it’s enough of a challenge for you, then? It’s not all that different from the position you had before the War.”

“It’s different enough. The Deputy part I think will end up being quite substantial—at first Armando wasn’t sure how much he was willing to delegate, but he’s beginning to see he can actually give me some sizeable tasks and not have to worry about them any more—not just paperwork, but liaising with the Ministry, and fundraising, and so on. He is more tired than he admits. And I wasn’t a Head of House before. No, it doesn’t feel like I’m just coming back to what I was doing before. And, being Head and Deputy means that I have different rooms and additional offices.”

He did not need to spell out the importance of this—Minerva understood. Returning to the rooms he and Sara had made their home would have been more than he could have stood. She smiled. “I’m glad.”

“You know the Head of House’s rooms from your own days in Gryffindor. I’m going to use the same Transfiguration classroom as before, and keep my teaching materials in that office, but the Deputy’s office on the first floor is much larger. That’s where I’m putting most of my books and papers, and that’s where Fawkes seems to want to be.”

“Fawkes?” McGonagall looked at him quizzically.

“Oh, right. You haven’t met Fawkes. I, well, I seem to have acquired a familiar!”

“You ‘seem to have acquired?’ What—he just apparated into your bags or something? You had absolutely nothing to do with it?” Minerva’s voice was stern but teasing. Dumbledore’s hesitancy at admitting he’d sought out a companion, even if simply an animal familiar, amused her.

“Not far off, actually. Fawkes is a phoenix. Quite an amazing bird, though I’m just getting to know him. Brilliant red and gold plumage—must be a Gryffindor himself,” Dumbledore said, smiling. “Maybe that’s why he came to me. Maybe he’s a benefit of being Head of Gryffindor that no one bothered to mention.”

“A phoenix?!” Now his phrasing made sense. One did not choose a phoenix as a familiar. It was exceedingly rare for one of these incredibly magical creatures to live with a person, and from what she recalled from reading about them as a student, the pairing was always at the bird’s initiative. She was seriously intrigued. “Tell me more about how he came to you.”

“Well, after I’d accepted the Hogwarts post I had a few weeks off before Armando expected me to report. I spent part of it at my house, sorting through things and putting them in order after a decade of ignoring the place and its contents.”

“Where is your house, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“On the Welsh coast, Carmarthenshire. Near enough to the old Dumbledore estate to be able to look in when I need to, but not too near! I have a few other properties—a city condominium for when I have extended business in London, and when I was first teaching I acquired a bit of a retreat within range of Hogwarts for use on school holidays, but if I had to call any place my home it would be the coast house. Though I’ve spent very little time there since I built it. A few summers with Sara is all, before the War began occupying every spare moment and making sunlit days along the coast impossible.

“After, after the end of the War, when it was clear I wasn’t coming back to Hogwarts, I had the things from our rooms there boxed up and sent to the house in Wales while I went to live with Nicolas and Perenelle. Last month was the first time I’d been back for any length of time. I decided I finally had the energy to deal with those boxes and reclaim the place as a house, not a storage facility. It took most of the month, but by the end of the time I’d sorted through it all and winnowed it down to just a handful of keepsakes. And then I transfigured some of the furniture so that it looked new and no longer reminded me of, of before, and selected what I wanted to send back up to Hogwarts.

“But it was hard work, very hard, physically and emotionally. I would take frequent breaks and walk along the coastline. On one of the first of those walks this majestic flame-red bird began soaring overhead. He must have been nesting nearby, as he joined me for every walk thereafter. Sometimes, when I was particularly spent from the sorting, he would sing--the most amazing song. The descriptions of phoenix song in the textbooks don’t begin to do it justice. Each time he would stay with me longer, flying right back to the house with me, and eventually beginning to hop around the gardens and deck right outside the house. Sometimes when I was outside he’d actually perch on my shoulder or arm. Just looking at him filled me with wonder. I had no idea why he was staying so close, but his presence seemed to help make the house less lonely, and his song made even the most painful tasks bearable. One morning I caught him actually inside the house, as if he was inspecting it and its owner, and from then on he stayed fairly close. It was shortly after that that he bonded himself to me, so I guess I passed inspection.”

“Oh—that must have been painful!” McGonagall thought she remembered that a phoenix bonded itself to its person in an act of blood magic.

“No, actually, though you remember rightly—a phoenix familiar bonds to its person by blood in a life bond. But Fawkes didn’t have to draw the blood himself. It happened when I was looking at a picture—a picture of Sara and me on our honeymoon. We’re both waving and smiling. It had always been my favorite picture of us, and I was holding it very tightly in my hands while I tried to figure out what to do with it. I couldn’t bear to keep it and yet I couldn’t bear to leave it. I must have been holding it a bit too tightly, because the frame broke and the glass shattered rather violently.”

‘Holding it too tightly? Hardly,’ thought McGonagall to herself. More like his grief had focused his magic on the glass and his emotions had shattered it. But she said nothing.

“Some glass shards flew into my arm and made some cuts. Fawkes was perched nearby, and he flew over and laid his head on my arm, along the cuts. After he took some of the blood in his beak, he dropped tears all along the wounds, and then began to sing even more beautifully than he’d done before. Of course the cuts healed instantly. And the song—it was incredible. It reached my very core. When he finally stopped and looked at me, with those eyes that are far more intelligent than those of any bird….something had changed. Of course I recognized the significance of the bonding actions, and that he had chosen me as his companion. And I was given his name—I now knew he was called ‘Fawkes.’ But it was a deeper change than that.

“I stroked Fawkes’ head for several minutes, amazed at what had happened, and that I could touch this creature, and that we were now deeply linked in some mysterious way. Then I stood and cleaned up the bits of glass and frame from the floor. And when I looked again at the photo, there was no more sharp pain. It was, it is, a beautiful photo of a wonderful moment, a part of my life I will always treasure, and sometimes even ache for, but the image was no longer cutting into me with pain. That evening I made a new frame for it, and it’s now on the mantel in my rooms in Gryffindor. And Fawkes is established on a perch in my office.”

Minerva didn’t know what to say.

“Thank you for telling me that. I was just teasing about your new familiar apparating into your bags. I didn’t realize it would be such a personal story when I asked. Beautiful, but very personal. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Don’t apologize. You haven’t intruded at all. Now, shall we ask to see the dessert cart? Or should I just order us each a sample of everything?”

“You’re hopeless! Maybe Fawkes can do something about your sweet tooth! He’s likely the only creature with enough power to cure you of it!”

Dumbledore laughed. “He is incredible, but I’m not sure that even phoenixes have that much power!”

It took several minutes of banter and close examination of the large cart before they were able to tell the waiter which desserts they wanted. Once he’d had a bite or two of the elaborate lemon and chocolate creation he’d selected, and Minerva had sampled the shortbread cookies and fruit cup she’d chosen, Dumbledore turned the conversation to her.

“So, I’ve gone on more than long enough. What have you been doing since I last saw you? Now that you don’t have that hopeless, eccentric Department Fellow to guard 24/7, what does the Ministry have you doing?”

“Well, my military contract was up at right about the time you left. I decided to re-up for another tour. They’ve made me a full Colonel as a result. I’m now the Commanding Officer of the Ministry detachment—basically I’m responsible for all security at the Ministry and its surrounding buildings, and for Ministry workers even when they are away from the Ministry. I report directly to the General responsible for all of London and the southeast, and of course have to work very closely with the Minister and his staff. My office is now just down the hall from his.”

“Congratulations!”

“Don’t you think ‘condolences’ would be more in order?! Now my day is totally occupied with politicians and meetings and budgets and right-sizing and ‘reinventing the Auror Corps for a new era.’ The closest I get to field work is sitting in on strategy briefings, but my XO and his staff handle all the actual mission planning. If I thought that being an Auror in peacetime was beginning to lose its thrills back when I was at the Department of Mysteries keeping you out of danger, I didn’t know the half of it! I had seriously thought of getting out before this hitch—I have enough years in that when you add in my combat credits and such I could have retired. But I didn’t start planning far enough in advance, and didn’t have anything lined up to move into.”

The fib had crossed her lips easily. She would not let him know she had given up her retirement plan so he could have the Hogwarts job she had been offered.

She continued, “I just couldn’t see myself retiring into total leisure—I’m not even 40 yet! Though if I’d known what was coming with this assignment, I might have done it anyway! But at least the higher pay grade means my pension will be better when I do retire. And my office is bigger. And the silver eagles on the uniform are impressive.” She said this last with a snort, knowing Dumbledore placed as little stock in such things as she did.

“I can well imagine that higher-level bureaucracy and politics aren’t your cup of tea. You are a woman of action and determination. Rather the opposite of what bureaucracy demands! But you’re right—I can’t imagine you just retiring and joining the local garden club and shuffleboard league, either.” His eyes twinkled with that image. She scowled at him in mock indignation.

“Seriously, I’m sorry it’s a rather miserable post. But it will give you time and incentive to plan out what you do want to do after you retire from the Corps. And maybe being at home, rather than being off on missions and standing watches will give you time to devote to--outside interests.” He said this last with a raised eyebrow.

“Outside interests? I don’t believe I have any of those.” Her voice was clipped and businesslike. “Constant vigilance, you know, that’s the Auror motto. Doesn’t leave much time for outside interests.” She knew Albus wouldn’t catch the double meaning in her reply. The bitterness in her voice was hidden beneath the patina of professional dedication.

Dumbledore frowned inwardly. So it was true what he’d heard through the grapevine that spring at the Department--that the long-tortured romance between her and Alastor Moody had ended very badly, and that the formidable, but attractive and still-young Auror who sat before him had more or less withdrawn from any social activities. She had become even more devoted to her work—to her unit’s missions and to ensuring her subordinates’ well-being. She took a slot on the watch-standing rota daily, even when, as unit commander, she could have had much more time off. At least this gave him a natural avenue to bring the conversation around to the stated purpose for the lunch.

“Well, I know you have always been entirely devoted to your work. As you were as a student. And I was certainly the beneficiary of your dedication this spring.” His voice caught as he pondered how to proceed.

“I invited you to lunch today to say thank you. But a lunch, even one as splendid as this, is but a poor token for what I owe you. If you hadn’t been the one on duty that night . . . .I was …I was…desperate, Minerva, and you, you, well, you saved me. Your team’s task was to guard me from external threats. Nothing more. I don’t know exactly what would have happened if it had been another Auror who had accompanied me on that walk, one who would have stuck to the conventional limits of the mission. I haven’t let myself ponder that possibility, frankly. But I know that I was on the verge of self-destructing that night, one way or another. The only reason I didn’t is because you paid attention to more than external threats. You knew me well enough to see that something was seriously wrong. And you cared enough to stay with me, and then to solve the puzzle that was defeating me, to see the errors in my own thinking and spring the door behind which I was trapped. I don’t think I could have explained what I was going through to anyone else other than you—and I am still thankful and rather amazed I managed to do it even then. But I also know you’re the only one who would have even asked what was wrong. Much less had the calmness and the brains and the courage to work out a solution.

“Colonel Minerva McGonagall, I owe you my life, literally and figuratively.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could get a word out he had put up his finger to silence her.

“And I am utterly appalled that I have allowed two months to pass without saying ‘Thank you.’ There is absolutely no excuse for that. I could say that my mind and emotions have been in turmoil of one sort or another for much of that time, and that the transition from the Department of Mysteries to Hogwarts has kept me fully occupied, all of which would be true. But it would be but a shallow justification.

“So, please accept my heartfelt apology, along with my very belated, but immeasurable, gratitude. You have given me back my life. And I thank you.”

He reached into his robes and pulled out a large package.

“You say you have no outside interests. But it is clear you have kept up your considerable abilities in Transfiguration—even increased them—despite the demands of your life as an Auror. And I do believe you follow the academic press closely as well. Please accept these as a small token, a symbol, of my appreciation. Perhaps they will be of some use in pursuing your interests and further honing your talents.”

She took the heavy package and opened it. Inside was Volume 1 of The Complete Encyclopaedia of Transformational Magick. The page edges were gilded and the leather covers embossed and stamped with gold leaf. Eleven smaller objects and two pieces of paper fell from the packaging. The objects were miniature versions of the book she held in her hands.

“Carrying the whole set with me would have been rather difficult, so I took the liberty of shrinking volumes two through twelve,” Dumbledore said. “But they will expand nicely onto any bookshelf!”

“Any sturdy bookshelf, you mean!” Minerva replied, hefting the full-sized tome. She then looked at the two pieces of paper. One was a certificate showing that the books came with a lifetime subscription to a loose-leaf updater service, so that they would always be current. The other announced she was the recipient of a lifetime subscription to Transfiguration Today and a life membership in the Society of Transfiguration Masters.

She was on the verge of tears. “Thank you. These are—amazing. Perfect. No more going into the Ministry building even on my day off just so I can use the library. And this deluxe edition—every time I go into Flourish and Botts I confess I have lusted over the set they have there. But you shouldn’t have—I know what these cost!” She stared up at him. She was on the verge of handing the volumes back to him.

“I told you this was but a small token of the debt I owe you, and I mean it, Minerva. And lest you fear I will be eating gruel for months to pay for them, don’t worry. I believe we have previously discussed some of the negative things that my name and fame have led to—various expectations placed on me and such. Well, being ‘the great Albus Dumbledore’ does have one definite benefit. Circumstances have conspired to ensure that I have quite a few financial resources. Trust me, Minerva, the monetary cost of this gift is negligible to me. But the gratitude it represents cannot be measured in any material terms. I will be forever in your debt.”

“Oh, Albus, thank you. I cannot imagine a more perfect gift, and I mean it. I do not think anyone has ever given me anything as thoughtful, or as meaningful. And enough talk of being forever in my debt! Please! I simply did what any friend would have done in the circumstances, and am thankful that I was in the position to do so.

“Seeing you now, free of what held you helpless that night, is more than repayment enough. Knowing that ‘the great Albus Dumbledore’ knows me well enough to give me such a thoughtful gift is a rather large bonus. Though, since you seem to insist on feeling indebted, perhaps I will push my luck and ask you for one more thing. Will you inscribe the first volume for me?”

“Certainly!” He smiled as he drew a dark red quill from his robes. He thought for a moment, and then wrote:

To Minerva McGonagall, my best student, whom I am fortunate to also count as a friend,
May these volumes help you surpass even the greatness I have always seen in you.
With my most profound gratitude,
Albus
30 July 1954

“Albus. Thank you.” She looked down at the inscription again. Her eyes were drawn to the phrase, “the greatness I have always seen in you.” She read and re-read it several times, and whispered to herself, ‘I will try to live up to your words, Albus.’

“The journal subscription and the loose-leaf will be most helpful, Albus. Now I won’t have to worry about missing your big article once you finally get it cleared for publication!”

“Well, you don’t need to be standing by the owlery quite yet. I’m sure I won’t have much time to work on that this year. Hmm….though, maybe…..if I do get some time to focus on it, would you be interested in helping me? The Department of Mysteries won’t give me clearance to publish it as-is, so I’ve got to figure out how to re-write it using only non-classified documents. Re-work the argument so that everything comes from cleared stuff. But I’ve been so immersed in it, and the restricted materials which I used to write it, for so long, I can’t necessarily see the gaps in logic I might be leaving in the edited version without even realizing it.

“You know the published material, you grasp my argument, you’ve got a high enough clearance that I can at least allude to the restricted stuff with you without feeling guilty, and you’re an excellent writer and editor. And I’ve always done my best work as part of a team, anyway. Would you be interested in being a named co-author on this paper? If I can even carve out a little time for it, that is—no guarantee of that.”

“I’d be thrilled to help you with it, Albus, just for the experience. You don’t have to try to bribe me with co-authorship. Which would be a lie, anyway! You had the paper written before we ever spoke of it. Someone who helps with final stage revisions isn’t a co-author!”

“Well, we can have that discussion when the time comes to submit the thing! Like I said, I can’t say when I’ll have any time to devote to it. Not before Christmas hols at the earliest, and frankly, probably not ‘til next summer. But knowing I’d have someone to help me work it over would be a good incentive to not totally forget about it.”

“You’d better not forget about that paper, Professor Dumbledore—you must get your insight published! And in the meantime I can be brushing up on the latest scholarship in transfiguration and alchemy.” Minerva had a huge smile on her face, and could hardly wait to get home and begin.

“Well, don’t spend all your free time with your nose in those books, as wonderful as they are!”

“Why not? It will be more fun than I’ve had in years.”

“Precisely.”

[esoterica1693]

Part 2

He had not anticipated broaching this next subject with her, and Dumbledore knew he was about to risk ruining the whole luncheon, but he felt he had to.

“Minerva, I don’t know what happened between you and Alastor. I just heard that it ended badly, and that you’ve pretty much kept to yourself since. Please. Don’t. Whatever happened, it truly is no reflection on you, or anything about you. No matter who broke it off, or why. Please.

“I’m no one to tell someone to ‘just get over it’—with my track record that would be laughable. But I don’t want to see you trapped in a prison of your own making. If you can, take advantage of this tour of duty giving you a more predictable schedule. Get out and about. Live the life the War tried to deny you.

“It’s no wonder you and Alastor tried so hard to make it work. You are haunted by some of the same nightmares. But now you’ve got time to go back and do the things that, if you’d been born in a different generation, you’d have been doing in your 20s! Don’t let the War and its wounds have the last word!”

From his first sentence Minerva had been shocked speechless. Once she saw where he was going, she had wanted to tell him to shut up--what did he know of her personal life--how dare he, but she literally could not speak. Instead she sat there with her mouth open. Part of her wanted to get up and run out of the restaurant. And give him a good slap on the way out. But the waves of her fury broke against the book she saw there on the table. She could not reconcile the man who had given it to her, who had written the inscription just moments before, with the man she now wanted to slap. Caught on the contradiction, she was immobilized.

Her eyes must have flashed her fury, because Dumbledore suddenly put his head in his hands. “Oh gods, I’m so sorry. It is none of my business. I should not have spoken. I have offended you and ruined our lunch, and probably our friendship. I am sorry. I just….” He looked at her. “I want you to have every chance to be happy.”

She could not stay furious. Hurt, mad, insulted, but not furious. “I accept your apology. But please do not presume to speak to me of my personal life again.” She returned her attention to her fruit cup.

“Thank you. If I could take back every word of that speech, I would. Please put it from your mind.”

He was pleading. She reached out and drew the book closer, and traced the inscription he had written with her finger. Somehow she knew that he’d spoken truthfully in his apology—that his sudden advice had come solely from his care and concern for her. She might not agree with his opinion of her life, but he had been speaking from love, not judgment. She could see that. As much as she wanted to, she could not be mad at him any more.

“I will try. I know you were only trying to help, even if I came very close to slapping you and running out of here. And that would have been a bad end to what has been a lovely lunch. And besides, slapping you would have probably violated several regulations, even if I am off duty and you no longer work directly for the Ministry. Now, tell me about your plans for your fall classes.”

Dumbledore gave an audible sigh of relief. “Thank gods for your respect for regulations, Colonel McGonagall! I’d hate for you to have done something which would require you to throw yourself in the brig. Yikes. The paperwork that would have required! Not to mention the serious risk of splinching.” His mustache twitched and his eyes twinkled.

McGonagall had to laugh in spite of herself. “Albus Dumbledore, you are impossible! Does Armando remember just what he’s getting for a Deputy?

“I think when he saw the piles of sherbert lemons he did begin to remember, yes. Something about ‘As bad as one of the students. What was I thinking?’ ”

By the time the two had finished their desserts and coffee Albus’ presumptuous words had receded from their minds and their conversation was easy and relaxed once more. He offered to escort Minerva back to her offices. “No, that’s alright. It’s my day off, I think I will do some shopping. It has been ages since I bought any civilian robes.”

“All right, then. Thank you, Minerva, for everything. This has been a lovely day. And I look forward to working together on that article.” He left her as he had greeted her, with a gallant kiss of her hand.

[esoterica1693]

That night Albus sat in his new offices, reviewing the last of the paperwork he had picked up from the Ministry that morning before his luncheon with Minerva, and sipping his second glass of neat single-malt firewhisky. “Educational Decrees Series 3: 1954-1955. Nos. 299-345” They did not require his full attention. He wrote a two-sentence summary of each into the logbook and made notes of the ones he or Dippet actually needed to do something about.

“Well, overall it was a very good lunch, Fawkes. She really appreciated the Encyclopaedia. I was right on the mark about that. She even asked me to inscribe the first volume for her. I got to use my lovely new quill. ” Albus smiled at the bird.

He had first started talking to the phoenix as a bit of a joke. It was summer; the castle was often totally empty save for the house elves and ghosts. If Armando was away Dumbledore could go days without seeing another wizard to speak to. So he had begun to tell Fawkes about whatever it was he was working on or thinking about, just to keep his vocal cords limber.

At first it had never occurred to him that the phoenix understood what he was saying. But after a few days the patterns of head shakes, squawks, chirps, and feather-smoothings in response to his comments became too deliberate to ignore. It seemed the bird was actually listening—and understanding. Was he? Dumbledore had decided to find out.

“Fawkes, if you understand me, please hop over there and get me a sherbet lemon out of the third bowl from the left. I’ll trade you for a WonderWorm.”

As he sucked on the candy and Fawkes ate his treat, Dumbledore had reflected that it would really have been more unusual if the phoenix, one of the most magical creatures known, did not understand human speech. He laid another Worm on his perch and stroked the noble head. There was so much to learn about this magnificent creature. Little was written about living with a phoenix, because the phenomenon was so rare. He would just have to let Fawkes teach him himself.

At least now when Dumbledore told Fawkes about the events of his day, he felt less ridiculous talking to the bird. It was becoming a bit of an evening routine.

“And she’s been given a bigger command, and now goes to even more meetings than I do! I think they ought to give her hazardous duty pay for that. To Colonel McGonagall!” He lifted his glass in a mock toast. Fawkes made an odd sound which Dumbledore was beginning to think signified a laugh.

“I offered that if she needed something to distract her, she could help me revise my Fellowship article, when I eventually have a chance to work on it. She’d really be a great help, and I think she’d like to do it.”

“Oh, Fawkes—I told her about you. And about the way you bonded to me.” Dumbledore looked at the bird earnestly.

“I told her the whole story—the shattered frame and everything. Is that alright? Or is that supposed to be something special just between us?” Dumbledore hoped the gentle chirp meant that he had not offended.

“It’s not something I would ordinarily tell anyone about, but somehow when I get talking to Minerva I tell her much more about myself than I would ordinarily reveal. No one else even knows where I spent June or what I was doing but I told her all about it. I guess, since she’s seen me at my absolute lowest and worst, I don’t have as many automatic defenses around her.” He worked silently for a while.

Decree 342, 343…thank gods he was nearly done with this batch. The warmth from the firewhisky was seeping deep into his brain and extinguishing the last vestiges of any interest he had been able to feign in the Ministry’s newest policy revisions. He topped off his glass for a nightcap.

“Speaking of my absolute worst and saying too much around her…there was one horrible bit at lunch. I, I offered her advice about romance.” Fawkes squawked and hopped up and down with agitation.

“Told her she shouldn’t let Alastor turn her off the idea completely. Should get out more. I thought she was going to hex me right there in the restaurant! She finally accepted my apology, but it sure was touch-and-go there for a bit.”

From the look Fawkes shot him, Dumbledore thought that the bird sympathized entirely with Minerva. “I was just trying to be helpful—give her the benefits of some of my many additional years of life experience.”

“Squawk!” Fawkes ruffled his feathers and turned on his perch so that Dumbledore could see only his tail.

“Well, my new friend, even I understand that gesture!” Dumbledore waved the paperwork into the appropriate file cabinet with one quick flick of his wand and then stood up, grabbing the edge of his desk with one hand to steady himself and waving his near-empty glass with the other. “But we got past that, we really did. Really. It was a very good lunch. Very good.”

His recollection of their lunch sent warmth all through him. “Best conversation I’ve had in ages. Present company excepted, of course.” He giggled as he turned towards Fawkes, whose perch suddenly seemed to be swaying quite a bit.

Oy. The firewhisky had really gotten ahead of him. Way ahead of him. He was seriously out of practice at holding his liquor—the Department of Mysteries had been a bunch of virtual teetotalers. Was he ever going to feel this in the morning! But for some reason he had felt like celebrating tonight. And better to discover his lowered tolerance like this than at some important Ministry or School function, he rationalised. He looked at the bottle, now barely one-quarter full. Not enough whisky left to bother saving—might as well finish it off.

He moved towards the windows and gazed out over the school grounds. He felt in more harmony with his surroundings and situation than he had for years. It was all so right, and yet it would not have happened without her actions. He toasted, “To Minerva!”

As he slowly made his way back to his rooms a bit later he was thankful the castle’s stairways and walls didn’t move of their own accord during the summer. He was having more than enough trouble navigating as it was.

“I guess I need an Auror to keep me shhdeady,” he apologized to a tapestry as he nearly fell through it into a secret passageway. He imagined Minerva putting her arms around him to steady him and guide him back to his rooms, and finally into to his bedchamber. That was a very nice chain of thoughts to pursue. He fancied her hair smelled of heather and lavender, and that her lips tasted of butterscotch, and her skin…

In her quarters near the Ministry, Minerva had gone to bed at her regular early hour after her customary mug of herbal tea. She awoke just before dawn feeling exceptionally well-rested and relaxed. A smile from a forgotten but obviously very pleasant dream still played on her face. Her eyes fell on the Encyclopaedia volume on the bedside table. Ah, Albus. What a thoughtful gift.

Albus spent most of the following day in his bed with the drapes drawn, sipping diluted fruit juices and eating dry toast. The last thing he remembered from the night before was telling Fawkes about his and Minerva’s luncheon. As his stomach lurched and his head throbbed he felt sure that he had not been this hung-over for decades. Probably never, in fact.

He did not emerge until Dippet’s house-elf summoned him for his weekly meeting with the Headmaster, which he’d totally forgotten about. Judging by the tittering from the portraits as he passed and their mock-serious solicitations as to his health, he must have made quite a spectacle of himself the night before. Several of the knights were taking truly perverse pleasure in sounding hunting horns and battle trumpets directly into his ears. One, who also frequented a frame in Dumbledore’s bedroom, even leered at him as if he had observed some serious impropriety. He scowled at the knight. Though he didn’t remember much of the night before, he was quite certain he had spent it alone. Barmy paintings.

[esoterica1693]

The following Wednesday Madam Pince strode into his office. Daily she scanned the periodicals the library received with a Quaero spell and clipped all mentions of the School and its faculty. She delivered the collected articles to the Head and the Deputy weekly as well as placing copies in the school archives. She tossed that week’s stack down on Dumbledore’s desk with unusual force.

“I see your appointment here has reached the press. But never did I imagine when I became Hogwarts Librarian that I would ever have to actually read….tabloids." She spit the final word out as she turned on her heel and left his office.

On top of the “Professional Appointments” sections of Transfiguration Today and The Journal of Magical Education, which held the perfectly customary notices of his new position, sat clippings from the society and gossip pages of Witch Weekly and the Quibbler and Daily Prophet. The Witch Weekly piece was representative:

Albus Dumbledore has emerged from the seclusion of his former high-level post at the Ministry of Magic to serve Hogwarts School as Deputy Headmaster, Professor of Transfiguration and Head of Gryffindor House. He has been spotted in London at least weekly this summer. The perennial front-runner in our reader polls for ‘Wizarding’s Most Eligible Bachelor’ claims his trips to the city are for Hogwarts business. However we think they may have more to do with the young witch who had him so obviously enchanted over a very leisurely lunch at the trendy Centaur restaurant this Thursday last. Our intrepid columnist is working diligently to confirm her identity, so that the rest of the country’s single witches know who their competition is!

Albus groaned. In the years immediately after Grindelwald, despite his protestations that he was a grieving widower, he had been the focus of immense attention from all sorts of women and from the society pages. It had finally waned when his Fellowship took him from public view, and he had hoped it had been permanently extinguished, but clearly he was not to be so lucky. He reached for a piece of notepaper.

Minerva—

I trust the “intrepid columnists” (see enclosures) have not caused you any inconvenience. I know how infernally persistent they can be in search of items to misconstrue into their falsehood d’jour. As the senior Auror in London you should at least be able to throw them off your track better than most! My most sincere apologies for your having to experience one of the hazards of being seen with ‘the great Albus Dumbledore’ [sic].

Albus

He cast a “Secret/Need to Know Basis Only” charm on it and gave it to Fawkes to deliver. If Minerva was in her office when he arrived she’d at least get to see the bird which she’d been so curious about.

[osusprinks]

I had so much to say about the first set of chapters, but then I read the part about the photo of Albus and Sara on their honeymoon and his reaction after Fawkes' bonding. I started to cry and honestly everything else went out of my head. What a beautiful moment.

I want to know more about Minerva and Alastor. She seems just as raw as Albus was about Sara. What a pair they are.

I loved the interaction with Fawkes. It is neat to watch them learn each others habits.

Beautiful job!

[PiER]

Gosh this is great!

I've never really given much thought as to how Albus required Fawkes but I like your explanation.

As for Sara...aww... But Min and Moody? That was a slight bolt out of the blue but not at all unreasonable. I wouldn't mind finding out a bit more about that.

I can't help but wonder how Albus will react if he ever finds out she offered up the professor post for him.

You're doing a wonderful job and it is making for quite the enjoyable read!

PiER

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 7

One evening in mid-October Albus and Headmaster Dippet sat in front of the fire in Dippet’s office. Both sipped glasses of fine Scotch.

“So, Albus, I hear nothing but good things about your Transfiguration classes. Not that I expected anything else—you were the best teacher on faculty when you held the post before.”

“Thank you. Teaching is rather, what’s that Muggle expression, ‘like riding a bike’—you never really forget. And I do enjoy it.”

“How are your Gryffindors? How does being Head of House suit?”

“Oh, they’re all fine, I think.” Albus fell into a silence which told Dippet there was more he was not saying.

“You haven’t answered the second part of my question.”

“Mmm.” Another long silence. “Well, I’m not sure I’ve found my rhythm yet. It’s not that the students don’t mind or respect me. They do. It’s just I feel I haven’t connected with them. Even in the classroom, while they’re all grasping the material well, it still feels different from before. I seem to recall that in my previous tenure, the students were more at ease with me. Not to flatter myself, but I do think I was regarded as one of the more accessible, popular instructors. But this year they’re very reserved, very formal. In the classroom and in the House tower.

"I know I’m ten years older, and times are different, and I certainly don’t expect to be best mates with them, but still…. when I stop by the Common Room I obviously am putting a real damper on the spirit of the place—everything goes quiet and it suddenly evokes memories of sitting on overstuffed horsehair chairs in my grandmother’s gloomy sitting room in the 1860s. I don’t think any of the Gryffies would confide in me if they were in distress, and I don’t know what it is that I’m doing any differently than before.”

Armando looked at his Deputy sympathetically. He was the most famous and powerful wizard in the land, and yet he still saw himself as the young scholar who had come to teach at Hogwarts twenty years ago.

“I’m sure you’re not doing anything differently, Albus. But your students aren’t reacting to anything you’re doing. They’re reacting to your reputation. You look in the mirror and see the same Transfigurations Master who first taught here two decades ago. Having experienced considerably more of the tragic dimensions of life, perhaps, but basically the same person. Whereas, your students look at you and see Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of Merlin 1st Class, member of the Wizengamot, two-time recipient of the Hermes Medal, co-creator of the philosopher’s stone, and defeater of Grindelwald. They are in awe of you, Albus. No wonder they don’t want to step out of line! They only see your Chocolate Frog Card, not the Sherbert Lemon addict we colleagues know! Eventually they will come to see you as a person, not a poster. But it may take a while.”

Albus pondered Dippet’s words. The old man was surely right. He would have to come up with a way for his Gryffies to see him as someone other than a trading card.

~~~

Albus had enjoyed himself thoroughly. After his and Dippet’s conversation he had organized a Gryffindor Games Day for the last Saturday in November. He had researched the rules to various muggle games he remembered from his days in primary school and his students had entered into the spirit of the day with surprising enthusiasm.

Albus had recruited his colleagues to help referee so that he could participate in some of the more outlandish contests alongside his students. He had hopped down a field and back in a burlap bag in the sack race. He had even won a leg for his side in the crazy-clothes relay race by being the fastest at racing across the Quidditch pitch, trading his outer robes, boots and hat for the muggle clothing he’d drawn out of the bag--which had turned out to be a woman’s frilly dress, Easter bonnet, and high-heeled shoes--and then racing back, all without using magic.

Lunch was picnic-style on the grounds and concluded with a pie-eating contest, in which Albus had come in second—the pies had been lemon meringue. He’d challenged the entire House Quidditch team on the flying slalom course, and while he came in last, at least he’d finished the course cleanly and in a respectable time, which was the most he could hope for given how rarely he flew a broom anymore. The afternoon included contests to see which year could chant the House cheers the loudest, a simple dueling competition (which he had sat out in the interests of fairness), and boat races on the lake.

Now, after what muggles termed a “barbeque,” the entire House was gathered around a large bonfire and the different dormitory rooms were doing skits and charades. Albus licked the last of his fourth roasted marshmallow off his fingers. When the final skit concluded, he called for the school song, and the festivities ended in a spirited cacophony. As he walked among the gaggles of students returning to the castle, he could tell the day had achieved exactly what he had hoped. There was now much more camaraderie among his Gryffies—first-years were comfortably mingling with second- and third-years, and the OWL-level students looked more relaxed than he’d seen them in weeks. And, perhaps most importantly, the students felt much more at ease with him. Several had engaged him in small talk during the meals and joked with him during some of the later contests. He smiled to himself. After seeing him dash madly across the Quidditch pitch in a dress, his students seemed far better able to understand that he was not some marble statue from the lobby of the Ministry of Magic! He knew that a picture of him in that dress would be on the front page of the next issue of the student paper. He wondered if he should send a copy to Witch Weekly and the Quibbler, since they were so interested in how he spent his free time.

Albus stopped by the Gryffindor Common Room before retiring for the evening. Most of the sixth- and seventh-years were lounging about, enjoying the case of butterbeer he had supplied. Their conversations continued unabated as he took a bottle for himself and stood off to the side. “Professor—do you want to play the winner?” called out one of the two seventh-years playing a close game of wizards’ chess. “Certainly,” he replied, settling down on a nearby hassock to watch the end of the match and taking a deep pull on his bottle. It had been a successful day indeed.

-TBC-

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 8, part 1

May 1955

Sitting next to him on the dias, Minerva McGonagall thought that Albus looked extremely impressive in his Auror Corps dress uniform. Although he had not worn it in a decade, it fit perfectly. The midnight blue cape and tunic set off his auburn hair, while the scarlet red riding britches and polished black leather boots led her eye along his long legs. The bright May sunlight reflected off the medals on his chest and the pip and crossed sword insignia on his epaulets and cap.

As she was nominally on duty rather than present as a guest, Col. McGonagall wore khaki Service Dress uniform, with the few embellishments customary for formal parade duty—miniature medals instead of ribbons, a peaked dress cap instead of a garrison cap, and a decorated leather sheath for her wand instead of an ordinary belt holster. She saw Albus turn his gaze to a particular section of the audience, focus intently and furrow his brows.

“Something of concern?” Minerva wondered what he’d seen. It wouldn’t do to have her or her subordinates miss some security threat with all these VIPs gathered.

“Oh, no,” he chuckled. “I brought most of my students with me, and I just wanted to quiet them down a bit. Those centuries-old veterans in front of them are not appreciating my Gryffies’ youthful enthusiasm.”

“Ah! Decided you needed to bring your own cheering section?” she teased him.

“No. I just thought it would be a chance for them to remember what this day is really about. Several of them sent a petition round asking that the 3-day school holiday be made into a Hogsmeade Weekend just like any other hol. They didn’t seem to appreciate why I found that incredibly offensive—they even appealed to Dippet, thinking he’d grant it when I wouldn’t.

"Taking House points from them for their disrespect of the holiday and of me did get their attention. But I thought that visiting the Memorial might help them better understand why this weekend is not about revelry, or at least not about mindless, thoughtless revelry. It will also give them a chance to see the individual Eternal Memories of the particular wizards and witches they chose to focus on in the 5-foot parchments I set them on “Honor and Sacrifice,” which they are to turn in to me on Tuesday. They could choose any name from the List of Honor of those civilians and military killed in the War to research for part of their essay.”

‘Well, almost any,’ thought Dumbledore to himself. He’d magically edited the list before posting it on his bulletin board, so that there were two fewer names in the “D” section than on the official master list at the Ministry.

The Minister of Magic stepped to the podium, cast a sonorus charm on his throat, and began welcoming the crowd to the Victory Day Memorial Assembly. Minerva and Albus both turned their gazes straight ahead and pasted attentive looks on their faces as the Minister droned on. He finally reached the end of his lengthy “introductory” remarks.

“And, in honour of this special ten-year anniversary commemoration, our speaker today is none other than Major General Albus Dumbledore, Auror Corps Reserves, Order of Merlin First Class, the man most responsible for the victory we honour today.”

Albus reached the podium in one fluid stride. “Thank you, Minister.”

“I appreciate the Minister’s well-meaning introduction, but of course I am not the man most responsible for the victory over Grindelwald. The 5,232 people whose memories are honoured in this memorial park--they are those who are most responsible, and we are all in their debt. They are the ones who demonstrated their dedication to the Light, the Truth and the Good at the cost of their lives. Many of them died in battle. Others of them died at home or at work, slain by Grindelwald’s terror squads. They died because they knew that Darkness could not be allowed to triumph, and they trusted that Grindelwald’s lies and hate would ultimately not be able to withstand their witness of honour, love and sacrifice.”

Minerva reflected that not once in ten years had Albus taken credit for defeating Grindelwald, invariably deflecting all credit away to others. After the night at the end of his Fellowship Minerva had read through all his service records. His account of the final battle was off-limits to her, but she had access to basically everything else, including his psychological and medical records, and she thought she now had a much better understanding of what had haunted him. And why he so rarely agreed to speak at such events.

Albus continued, “Despite being in uniform today, I have not served in a military capacity since the end of the War, and for the past academic year, I have been Deputy Headmaster, Professor and Head of House at Hogwarts School. I consider this position to be even more an honour and privilege than was commanding scores of brave Aurors in battle, if that is possible--”

At these words Dumbledore’s splendid uniform cape rippled crisply in the wind, and suddenly he was no longer attired in Auror Corps dress blues, but rather in a heavy black teaching robe, identical to what he wore to class daily except that it bore the miniature versions of his medals. The transfiguration had been done silently and wandlessly, and from the timbre of the powerful magic McGonagall sensed washing over her, she suspected that it hadn’t even been conscious on Dumbledore’s part.

“--because every day at Hogwarts I have responsibility for those whose world we were fighting to save a decade ago.

“When we fought, we fought so that those who came after us could live free of the fear that gripped all of Europe in those days. We fought for ourselves and our families and friends, but we fought most for the generations who would, we hoped, come after us. Many days, especially early in the War, it seemed that the easy thing to do would be to ignore the rising Dark, gamble that it would pass us by, and so long as it passed us by, what concern were the others whom it did visit? But those whose memories we honor today did not choose the easy thing, they chose the right thing. They gave up their day-to-day freedom, their simple daily routines and deepest joys, and ultimately their lives, so that freedom, joy and life would be possible for future generations.”

“Every day at Hogwarts I see what their sacrifice gained. My students are able to study without worrying about the safety of their relatives or the potential destruction of our society. They can complain about, and sometimes even break, the school rules like normal schoolchildren, instead of being reminded at every turn that outside the school’s protective wards lie true danger and very possibly death. They can receive the morning owl post with anticipation, rather than dread that the unfamiliar bird heading towards them brings a parchment from the Department of Casualties. They can prepare for more careers than only Auror or Healer. They can fall in love and marry at leisure, without rushing to the altar the day after graduation for fear their beloved will be killed in their first battle. They can laugh and sing. They can, in short, live and be free. And it is my privilege to guide, guard and shepherd these students as they learn how to enjoy that freedom and use it well.

“Some of my oldest students and some of the Hogwarts faculty lost immediate family members in the War. For us, the meaning and cost of this holiday is permanently engraved on our hearts. But my youngest students were just infants when the War ended. They have no memory of its horrors, and have not felt its sacrifices first hand. To them it is simply the section of their history course they probably will not get to because it is the last item on the syllabus and no professor ever gets all the way through a syllabus.

“Some of these younger students approached the Headmaster and myself a few weeks ago asking that this long weekend be made one of parties and town visits and relaxation. We refused, thinking it a most unseemly request. You may notice that some Hogwarts students are here today—a mandatory field trip to the Memorial Field and commemorations is as close to a town visit as they are getting this weekend! However, as I reflected on this, I recognized a paradox.

It is these youngsters’ very innocence, their ignorance of victory’s true costs, their obliviousness to the power of great evil, their near-carelessness, which demonstrates that the sacrifices we honor here were not in vain. We fought and sacrificed just so that children as yet unborn could be innocent, could be utterly ignorant on the subjects of war and evil, so that they could simply live their lives in freedom. Their innocence and insouciance is in its own way as much a tribute to the lives memorialized here as are the wreaths and tears which the rest of us bring.

“So, we gather today to remember and to pay tribute. Those of us who are old enough to remember the War come to honor those we knew and loved. We come here to look into the eyes of the portraits preserved in this place, and perhaps we grieve for what might have been. But we also look into the eyes of these young people, eyes young enough to be free of our grief, our regrets, and our memories, and we take heart--that indeed those who died won the victory they sought. And we rejoice in what is, and what now can and will be, all because of the sacrifices made for that victory.

“Those youngsters here who are too young to remember the War, whose families are basically intact, whose memories are unscarred, what should they do? Do we hope they will leave here suitably chastened, having learned a lesson? Do we hope they will shoulder some of our lingering grief themselves, damper their energy and innocence out of respect or guilt for the lives lost?

“I, for one, do not. I hope that they come here and investigate, learn, and absorb, and appreciate. And that they then, along with the rest of us, go forth determined to enjoy our freedom to the fullest. So that when any of us next has a free weekend, or even a free afternoon, or a free hour, we enjoy it fully, savoring it, treasuring it—always striving to choose the right, which is not always the easy, way to spend it--not out of guilt or obligation, but out of sheer gratitude.”

After a moment’s silence the crowd rose to its feet as one. Every wand was raised straight overhead, and the sky was suddenly filled with gold sparks. Dumbledore joined the spontaneous salute, understanding it was not a salute to him or his words, but an expression of the gratitude and honor of which he had spoken. As McGonagall lowered her arm and returned her wand to its holster, she subtly cast a charm on herself to stop and dry the tears which were rolling down her cheeks in a most un-military manner.

“Honour Guard! For’ard ‘HARCH!”

The Guard responded to McGonagall’s commands with their usual precision. Levitating the large wreath in front of her, she fell into step beside Dumbledore.

“Guard, Halt! Pre-sent WANDS!” Wands snapped from holsters.

He took the wreath from her and laid it carefully at the base of the Cauldron of Eternal Fire. Then, as one, the two of them stood at attention and saluted, holding the salute for several seconds.

“Pa-rade REST.
“Honour Guard, fall OUT!”

McGonagall made her way back to her command post while Dumbledore quickly oriented his students to the Memorial Field. Each witch or wizard, military or civilian, who had died at the hands of Grindelwald had a memorial plinth. A series of waves of a wand over the stone revealed their portrait and obituary and any other things their family had chosen to embed in the memorial. He sent them off to find the memorials of the figures they had been researching and to answer a lengthy set of questions on a worksheet he had prepared.

Then, confident that his students would be occupied for quite a while, he headed to a portion of the Field he knew well.

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 9

Part 1

Sean Kirkpatrick, a sixth-year, looked around the Field to see if he could find Dumbledore—he wanted to compliment him on his speech. He was surprised to spot his Head of House’s distinctive figure kneeling bowed next to a plinth on the far side of the field. Dumbledore had a large bouquet of flowers in his hand, and Kirkpatrick watched as he laid it at the base of the memorial and then slowly pulled himself up. He stood there, actually leaning against the plinth for support, for several minutes and then moved away. After Dumbledore was well out of the area, Kirkpatrick gave in to his curiosity and walked over to the plinth.

The first flick of his wand revealed:

Sara Evans Dumbledore
b. 15 February 1895. d. 17 December 1944

Brian Albus Evans Myrrdin Dumbledore
b. and d. 17 December 1944

Beloved Wife and Son of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

After recovering from the shock of what he had read, Kirkpatrick cast the second Revealing charm. Three photographs emerged.

One was a formal portrait of Albus and Sara on their wedding day, in dress robes, their eyes sparkling and gold bands gleaming so bright they seemed to leap out of the photo. Sara was even more beautiful than Albus was handsome. She had dark hair and pale skin, and striking pale green eyes with flecks of hazel. The two of them made an absolutely stunning couple.

The second was a photo of them on a beach in what looked to be south Wales, standing with the ocean and a setting sun behind them. Sara leaned with her back against Albus’ chest, and he had his arms wrapped around her. Both waved at the camera and then returned their gaze to each other. By the look on his face it had been a struggle to keep his hands in appropriate places for the length of the photograph’s exposure. He was looking down at her with a mixture of adoration and desire, and his lips were grazing the top of her head, planting gentle kisses all along her crown.

The final photo was a snapshot of a very, very pregnant Sara, taken in what looked to be a Hogwarts faculty apartment. She was standing in front of a roaring fireplace and had a pot of floo powder in her hand. A message was written across the corner of the photo:

14 Dec
Planning to give you a very wonderful Christmas present, maybe a few days early!
Stay safe and keep your head down!
Love always,
Sara and Brian/na

Tearing his eyes away from the photos, Kirkpatrick cast the final revealing charm.

An article from The Daily Prophet replaced the photographs.

“General Dumbledore’s Wife and Child Tortured and Killed in Brutal Attack”
28 January 1945
[updated 8 February 1945]
Swansea and London Bureaus

Due to operational security concerns, it has only recently been revealed that a team of Grindelwald’s personal storm troopers carried out a brutally targeted attack in south Wales in December. Sara Evans Dumbledore, wife of Brig. Gen. Albus Dumbledore, and their newborn son were killed at Dumbledore Manor in Carmarthenshire early in the morning of December 17th. Genevieve Dumbledore, the General’s 150-year-old mother, survived the attack, although she is currently listed in serious condition in the Emotional Trauma unit at St Mungo’s. She explained that the storm troopers said, ‘We’re going to make you watch and then let you live, so you can tell your son exactly how we tortured his wife and baby to death. Merry Christmas.’

The official Auror account, based largely on Genevieve Dumbledore’s memories, states that Sara Evans Dumbledore normally resided at Hogwarts School where she and Gen. Dumbledore are on the faculty, he as Professor of Transfiguration and she as Librarian. Gen. Dumbledore was mobilized this summer but believed the well-warded Hogwarts to be the safest place for his wife, who was due to deliver their first child on 30 December. However, she had decided on short notice to go to her mother-in-law’s estate to have her baby because Hogwarts was so empty over the winter holidays. She sent an owl to her husband, who was stationed in the Ardennes (at the time thought to be a safe rear-guard area) to notify him of this change in plans and floo’ed to Carmarthenshire on 14 December. The owl was evidently intercepted and its encrypted message deciphered.

The storm troopers arrived very late in the evening on 16 December. They first tried to Imperius Sara Dumbledore to force her to contact her husband and influence his response to Grindelwald’s crushing Ardennes offensive which had launched that morning. When she had successfully resisted four Imperius curses, the storm troopers shifted to Crucio. They were attempting to get Sara to summon her husband to her side. The Cruciatus induced labor and Brian Albus Evans Myrrdin Dumbledore was born in the early hours of 17 December. Sara Dumbledore withstood over three additional hours of torture without compromising her husband’s situation in any way. She died before dawn on the 17.th Newborn Brian, his nervous system fatally damaged by being subjected to the Crucio in utero and not having received any care immediately upon birth, died in his grandmother’s lap shortly thereafter.

Due to the tactical and logistical situation in the Ardennes, Gen. Dumbledore did not learn of his wife and son’s murder until 7 January. He returned briefly to Wales and a private memorial service was held. The tenuous military situation in his sector forced him to return to the front almost immediately. He has not been available for comment. Sara Evans Dumbledore has been awarded the Magical Legion of Merit posthumously for refusing to compromise her husband’s position despite hours of the most severe torture and at the cost of her and her son’s life. The citation revealed that in addition to being the Librarian at Hogwarts she was also employed by the Magical Secret Service as an analyst. It does not appear the storm troopers were aware of this, however.

Wire service update 8 February: Genevieve Dumbledore died 7 February of unnamed causes. Not officially listed as a war-related death.”
-end article-

“My gods.” Kirkpatrick could think of nothing else to say, and he realized that tears were running down his cheeks. He waved his wand one final time, “Scripsi,” and a roll of parchment, tied in black ribbon, floated into his hands. It was a copy of everything contained within the plinth. He tucked it deep within his robes.

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 9

Part 2

Auror Alastor Moody had also been watching Albus pay homage. 'Amazing he’s managed to heal so much in 10 years, given everything.' Alastor had been Albus’ adjutant in 1944-1945, and they’d been friends for years before that. He probably knew more about Albus’ reaction to Sara’s death than anyone. The entire period still gave Alastor nightmares a decade later.

To their credit, when the Auror Department at the Ministry had learned of Sara’s murder and its circumstances, they’d immediately realized they had a significant problem on their hands. The Auror investigative unit in Swansea was the first to view Genevieve Dumbledore’s memories of the attack, and they had been asked to write a summary and a recommendation of how to inform the victim’s husband. The junior analyst who first viewed the memories, who knew nothing of the Dumbledores other than what the storm-troopers’ actions themselves revealed, ran out of the room and became violently ill.

When he had composed himself and floo’ed the Ministry to make his report, he asked, “Who is the husband? What unit’s he in? He’s going to go ballistic—you’ll need to pull him off the line before you even give him a summary, and do it in a very safe place. If he’s an officer I don’t think you’ll be able to trust him in combat command again. He’ll butcher any German wizard he sees, International Wizarding Conventions be damned.”

The senior Auror at the Ministry responded, “Yes, he’s an officer. And pulling him off the line will be a tricky deal. They’re that bad? You really think the husband would crack, lose control of his military judgment?”

“I’m sure of it. Not to mention his magical control. If I had just watched those memories happening to my wife, this room would be a smoking ruin right now, and I’m a muggle-born whose magic has never been at all remarkable. If he’s any more powerful than I am…”

The other Aurors, who knew exactly who “the husband” was, looked at one another in alarm. It was already apparent that Dumbledore was one of the most magically powerful wizards alive. He was also in command of several key Auror units heavily engaged with the enemy in a pivotal battle, the outcome of which was still far from certain.

“Well, then, write up two summaries….one fairly complete for us folks who have to figure this out, and one which you think is suitably edited to give to the husband once we’ve got him off the line. Also write your opinions of what his reaction could be and what precautions you think would be advisable. You can assume for the sake of this analysis that he is, err, umm, a wizard of considerable magical power and significant command responsibility.”

In the end Auror high command had decided to tell Albus nothing until the outcome of the battle was certain and he could be removed from command for a considerable time if need be. They had then told Alastor the bare basics first, so that he could be prepared to help with damage control when Albus was informed.

On January 7 the two had portkeyed to an abandoned airfield outside London, where the C-in-C, Aurors, had met them on the taxiway and verbally relayed the most minimal description—that Sara and their child had been killed by Grindelwald’s men in a deliberate attack. Albus had crumpled to the ground in agony but remained in control of his magic until he realized that the attack had been on 17 December and that he was only just now being told. He had been anxiously awaiting news of the birth of his child for the past week, confident of a backlog of owls, muggle mail and telegrams reaching him once the supply lines and air superiority were reestablished. Instead the news was that his wife and child had been dead for well over a fortnight and his mother was hospitalized and near death. The fireball which shot from Albus’ wand scorched 50 feet of the taxiway and singed his CO’s overcoat.

Albus had immediately surrendered his wand to Alastor without complaint, but his friend knew just how powerful Albus still was without it. He did not look forward to when they actually got to Swansea. There Albus would be told that his wife hadn’t been merely AK’d, but had been tortured for hours, that his unborn son had also felt the Cruciatus, and it had all been done as a way to get to Albus. HQ had pondered not telling him that part at all, but were afraid his mother would let something slip, either directly or when Albus used Legilimency on her, as he surely would if no one else volunteered any details. And they were not so cruel as to deny him a visit to his mother who was clearly dying.

When they arrived in Swansea the senior officers pulled Alastor aside. “We’d like to show you the memories first. Then you can tell us if we dare show them to Dumbledore, and if so, how. We’re afraid there’s no way we can avoid showing them to him eventually—but we don’t know whether now is the right time.”

They ushered Alastor into the room with the pensieve. “The written summaries leave a lot out,” warned the young analyst. Alastor plunged his face into the bowl.

When he saw the storm troopers grind their cigarettes out onto Sara’s face and pelvis, and savagely assault her between rounds of Crucio, he knew Albus could never bear these memories. He himself was trembling with rage. He forced himself to watch until the end, when the storm troopers had left the estate, leaving Sara and Brian dead and Albus’ mother untouched but slipping into psychic shock. Somehow she had managed to floo for help, and the memory faded out shortly after the local Aurors arrived.

When Alastor pulled his head from the pensieve his own magic was out of control. Everything his gaze touched or his hands pointed to shattered violently. The window exploded and the blackout curtain gaped in ribbons. Objects flew around the room, bursting into flames and transfiguring at random. After a few minutes Alastor was finally able to get himself under control. The senior officer crawled out from under the desk where he had taken sudden shelter. “Moody! Explain yourself!”

“I was best man at their wedding, sir. Sara was like a sister to me. They’d asked me to be godfather to the child.” His voice was quiet, flat, but full of steel. “And if I ever see the bastards who did this, they will wish they’d never been born. There won’t be anything left of them for Albus to torture. No, you cannot show these memories to Albus. Not now, maybe not ever. If he saw this, it would kill him, literally rip his magic in half. Problem is, his power would take down every building and person in a four block-radius right along with him. Now give me a few minutes while I figure out what we do tell him.”

Alastor had ultimately taken Albus out to a large farm and had told him the bare basics…which curses been used, and that Sara had been incredibly brave, determined to protect Albus and his troops. That there really hadn’t been any moment when Sara might have saved Brian or herself—it was clear from the beginning that the troopers intended to leave them both dead and would have done so even if Sara had sung like a bird. That from their insignia it was clear the storm troopers had been members of Grindelwald’s personal guard.

Albus could sense that Alastor was not telling him the full truth. He had to know what had really happened. “Alastor, tell me all of it. I have to know.”

“No!”

“Legilimens!”

Alastor felt his friend force his way into his mind and find his recollection of the memories. The other wizard’s mounting anger seared his own mind. When Albus saw the troopers physically assault Sara after the first Crucio, he let out a tortured scream and withdrew from Alastor’s mind, unable to witness any more.

By the time Albus’ anger had cooled, the field they were standing in looked like Verdun at the end of the First (Muggle) War, the earth churned and all vegetation cut down. Electricity crackled in the air and the magic equivalent of sonic booms roiled around. Alastor had never felt waves of magic like that before.

Once it appeared that Albus had some semblance of outward control again, Alastor began to worry that he would direct his rage on himself.

The accusations came one after another: “If she hadn’t married me, if our marriage hadn’t been public, if I’d refused the call-up orders, if I had put better wards on Dumbledore Manor, if I’d made sure she had more people staying with her so she would have stayed at Hogwarts as we’d planned; if she hadn’t felt obligated to protect me and the troops….” Albus’ skin began to erupt in blisters and he collapsed in writhing pain.

Alastor quickly Stupefy’d him and poured a double-strength sleep potion down his throat. It took a week of keeping Albus at least partially sedated at all times before Alastor had finally managed to talk some sense into him. If Sara had suffered so to keep him safe, he should not now harm himself—it would make her sacrifice in vain. If Sara had suffered so to protect his troops and the war effort, he should not endanger them with foolish behavior or abandon them.

Finally on day nine Alastor used legilimency on Albus and saw that he had begun to build some interior mental walls, behind which he was locking the pain so he could function rationally. By the end of the second week they had held the memorial service and Albus was declaring himself fit for duty. The same immense inner power which had destroyed an acre of fields like an earthquake when it was released was now focused on containing and neutralizing his emotions. There was a new tightness to his jaw, and a coldness to his eyes, but otherwise he showed no sign of the immense inner efforts he was expending just to function.

Alastor probed his mind again. He inserted images of German soldiers and POWs to see how Albus would react. He seemed fine, or as close to it as any combat veteran would be. Then Healers and more skilled Legilimens examined him and pronounced him ready to go back to the front. The only safeguards they put in place were to have Alastor be with him 24/7 and for any orders concerning prisoners, storm troopers or civilians to require a counter-signature by another general officer.

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 9

Part 3

It was perhaps fortunate that their units did not encounter any storm troopers for the remainder of the war, at least not up until the final battle. They had spent weeks carefully maneuvering, dividing Grindelwald’s forces and defeating them piecemeal, but they had not engaged the awful wizard himself or his immediate protectors until that final day. When Albus finally found himself face to face with Grindelwald after a day of dueling, the evil lord was surrounded by his personal storm trooper guard and wore the same uniform himself.

Those who watched the battle were never able to determine what spell it was that Albus used. Witnesses recounted that his wand arm glowed a blinding fiery red as he lifted it towards Grindelwald and his guards. There was a sudden giant, deafening, thunderclap and Grindelwald and his guards disappeared. Where they had been standing there was now a hole a foot deep, and the earth was burnt black several inches below that. No trace of their magical signatures could be found. They were simply gone. Despite the force of the thunder, however, no one else in the vicinity was seriously injured, save Albus.

Albus had been knocked off his feet by the blast, and was lying on his side, deathly pale, trembling, retching, and clutching his wand arm. His eyes were glazed, his robes were ripped entirely off him and his wand was nowhere to be seen.

Alastor ran to his friend and wrapped him in his cloak, and forced wizards’ chocolate into his mouth. He was frighteningly cold to the touch. Alastor cast dozens of cheering and warming charms and levitated him to the field hospital. For days he lingered near death, alive but with virtually no magic power. Slowly whatever remained of his magical core began to regenerate and he was moved to a top-secret unit at St Mungo’s.

Albus’ old friend Nicolas Flamel visited him in the hospital, and seemed to be the only person who could reach him. These talks were the first things that really seemed to help Albus. Even so, it took over six months of long daily sessions with Nicolas before he was back to anything like even an ‘average’ wizard, and it took twelve months before he in any way resembled the Albus Dumbledore who had left Hogwarts in mid-1944. Yet not even Nicolas could restore the twinkle in his eyes or remove the cold steel which had taken up residence in his center.

Alastor had later asked Albus what he remembered of the battle. All Albus would say was that when he saw Grindelwald he became enraged beyond anything he had ever imagined possible, and that whatever magical action was produced by that rage had been Dark. Since Albus was in essence a very powerfully Good wizard, he had been nearly killed by the forces of Dark expressing themselves in his soul. Even though there was enough Light in him to cling stubbornly to life, his ego was totally shattered.

When he realized what he had done—utterly lost control and spontaneously incinerated half a dozen wizards standing hundreds of feet away--he plunged into despair. To make matters worse, the entire wizarding world was acclaiming him for his victory. They did not care for nuances, about what kind of magic or motivation had achieved it, they simply rejoiced that the tyrant was dead.

It was only Nicolas explaining the links between magic and spiritual and chemical alchemy which gave Albus hope that he could eventually repair the damage to his soul and magical core. Perhaps some day he could once again trust in himself. The cold steel at his center came from the realism with which he now viewed himself—as someone who was as capable of great evil as of great good. Much of the ensuing years of his work with Nicolas on the Stone were really spent working on his own mind and core.

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 9

Part 4

‘Yes,’ Alastor thought, ‘Dumbledore has done a remarkable amount of healing in the past ten years.’ More, perhaps, than he himself had.

McGonagall found Dumbledore later at a table in a remote corner of the tea-shop adjacent to the Memorial Field, drinking his customary hot cocoa.

“May I?” she inquired, gesturing at the empty chair across from him.

“Of course,” he said, waving the chair out for her with his wand.

“Your remarks this morning were very moving. Brought the commander of the Auror detachment to tears, even. I needed to hear that perspective on how we are to live. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Writing and delivering it helped me a lot, too.”

“By the way, Albus….I saw some of your young cubs over at Sara and Brian’s stone. I think they saw you there and got curious. Thought you might want to be forewarned—don’t know if they’ll say anything to you, but you can at least be ready if they do.”

“Ah. I had thought I had given them enough work to do in other sections that I could have some privacy. Oh well. Thanks for the warning. Good recon and intel, Colonel, as always. At least now maybe they appreciate why I take this holiday seriously, eh?

Dumbledore and McGonagall sat in thoughtful silence for a few minutes before he changed the subject.

“Speaking of holidays, Minerva, how is the Fellowship article research coming? Were the notes and summaries I sent you over Christmas intelligible?”

“Very intelligible. I think I’ve got most of the supporting articles you’ll need tracked down.”

“Most excellent! Then perhaps you could come up to Hogwarts for a week or so during the summer and we could begin work on the piece itself? If taking leave is a problem, I could make some sort of request that we consult over security for the school supply shops in Diagon Alley and the Hogwarts Express, or something, to justify your trip.”

“I’ve got plenty of leave time accrued, so no excuse will be necessary. And my summer is actually fairly flexible. Name your time.”

“Wonderful. I’ll take a look at my diary and owl you specifics this week. And if you’d like to come up earlier or stay later and use Hogwarts as your base for a bit of a Highlands break, away from the muggy City and insufferable Ministry mandarins, feel free. You can have a guest suite for as long as you’d like.”

“That would be lovely. Thank you.

“You’re welcome. Least I could do for such an efficient research assistant. Now, I see my cubs are getting restless, so I need to be on my way. If you’ll excuse me. Until June or so, then, Minerva.” He rose, bowed towards her, and departed.

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 10

Dumbledore gathered the books he and McGonagall had selected from the Restricted Section. “Let’s take these back to my office.” As they exited into the general stacks a loud siren wailed, the books soared from his arms, and Madam Pince erupted from her office. The books flew into her protective arms.

“Professor, you know Restricted materials must be used here at this table,” she said, gesturing sharply with her wand, “and nowhere else.”

“I was simply taking them to my office. They will not leave the castle. We won’t even stop by the kitchens en route. Sorry for disturbing you—I had assumed you had dropped the wards when I entered.”

“The materials will not leave this table.”

“I promise I will even put all my candies away while I have these books. Now, please remove the charms. I simply cannot do this work sitting at this table, for a number of reasons.”

“Rules are rules, Professor.”

At this one of the portraits on the wall behind Madam Pince’s desk rolled her pale green eyes, in clear commiseration with the Deputy Headmaster, whose patience had just been exhausted.

“How would you like to proceed, Madam Pince?” Dumbledore inquired. “Shall you remove the charms? Or shall you lay down your wand while I remove them? Or perhaps you would prefer to explain to the Headmaster why you are preventing his Deputy and a senior Auror with Ultra Secret clearance from working on a classified project in the privacy of his heavily warded office?”

“I will not remove them, and I am sure you cannot remove them, so floo the Headmaster if you insist.”

At this the portrait snorted in audible derision, though Madam Pince did not notice it, being entirely focused on the miscreants in front of her.

“I cannot remove them?!” Dumbledore’s eyebrows had reached new heights of incredulity. “I crafted and cast these charms myself, at the request of the Librarian who preceded you but one. I daresay I am perfectly capable of removing them. But it is not my custom to unilaterally defy my colleagues in their areas of responsibility, no matter how rudely I am treated. So, since you insist on making this difficult …” Dumbledore leaned towards the fireplace and bellowed. “Armando!”

The Headmaster’s visage appeared, rather startled to be summoned to the Library in the middle of the summer. Pince immediately related her grievance.

“Sir, your new Deputy seems to think that Library rules do not apply to him. He and his assistant here are insisting I allow them to take Restricted materials not only out of the Section, but out of the Library. He expects that I will remove the charms on the Section just for him.”

The portrait was now scowling at Pince with undisguised contempt. “It’s ones like her that give all librarians a bad name,” she mouthed towards Dumbledore.

Dippet spoke from the flames. “Madam Pince, Professor Dumbledore is quite well-versed in all Library policies and the reasons behind them, I assure you. As such, he is correct in his presumption that they do not apply to him in this instance.”

At the Headmaster’s words the books flew back into Dumbledore’s arms and the siren ceased.

“Sorry to have had to disturb you for this, Armando. We will just be in my office. Thank you.” Dumbledore then winked almost imperceptibly in the direction of the opinionated portrait before turning towards the exit with McGonagall. Madam Pince stood open-mouthed, staring at the face in the fire.

“But sir! My authority!” she spluttered. “I cannot have people in this library deciding which rules do and do not apply to them! Next we’ll have sixth-years snogging in the Reference section.”

“Madam Pince, if you cannot distinguish between a sixth-year snogging in the Reference section and the Deputy Headmaster doing sensitive research in the privacy of his office, perhaps you need new glasses. And if you have any further questions about Professor Dumbledore’s character or trustworthiness when it comes to library materials, or regarding anything else for that matter, please direct them to the late Librarian Evans. I’m sure her portrait would be most willing to vouch for him. Good day.” Dippet’s face vanished.

Dumbledore called out over his shoulder, “I believe she could also vouch for my snogging, Irma. Though we generally preferred the Medieval History section—entirely too many students around in Reference.”

Once they were safely out of earshot of the library McGonagall burst into laughter. Dumbledore wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her laugh before, or at least not since early in her student days.

“How I’d love to see Pince’s expression at your last comment—the Mediaeval History section indeed! That was brilliant, absolutely brilliant.”

“And totally factual," he replied. "That was our favorite spot. Most nights that she had to keep the Library open late, I’d come and keep her company, then help her clean up after all the students were gone. But Mediaeval History was not our only spot…in fact, if Pince knew some of the uses that table in the Restricted Section has served, she might not be so keen on having her precious books on it.”

“Albus!” Shock vied with amusement in McGonagall’s voice.

“Hmmm.” He feigned deep and careful thought. “I don’t believe Brian was conceived on that table, but it’s at least theoretically possible.”

“You know, Albus, even the handful of us students who knew of your marriage--I don’t think any of us ever pictured you two snogging and shagging in the Library!”

“Yes, well…we certainly did.” By this time they had arrived at Dumbledore’s office and were beginning to arrange their materials on the work table. “That’s one reason I wanted to bring these things back here. I don’t think I could have sat working at that table for hours—too many memories.”

Dumbledore walked towards the window and stood looking out over the grounds, his back to Minerva. “You know, Minerva, grief is such an odd thing. It’s been what—over 10 years now. I think the grief is basically gone, but I also know that it has the oddest way of reappearing when I least expect it.

“I know you saw Sara’s portrait communicating with me in there. We couldn’t have done that a year ago. One of my main achievements this year, beyond settling into my duties here, has been for us to come to terms with, with everything. Once I’d finally gotten up the nerve to even look at one of her pictures. Much less talk to her. We each blamed ourselves horribly, and neither of us could believe the other one didn’t blame us. Nicolas had to dust off his ‘wise uncle’ persona and come up and help once or twice, and Fawkes helped too.

“We’re at peace with it, and with each other, and ourselves, now. We both accept that we each did the best we could. War is hell. In war horrible things happen no matter what we do. What happened wasn’t her fault, or my fault. It was Grindelwald’s fault, if it was anybody’s. It simply was. And we know that at least we both loved each other ‘til the last.

“And so now I smile at her when I come into the Library, maybe even share the occasional joke, and I am not paralyzed by grief and guilt.

“But, even though Sara and I have made our peace with what happened, and can talk, in a manner of speaking, I can’t still spend too much time in the Library. It would be too tempting to get lost in old memories there, to try and live in the past, instead of the present. And Sara and I both know that the present is where I need to be.”

McGonagall had come over to stand beside him, gently resting a hand on his forearm. “Yes, Albus, grief is an odd thing, full of surprises and ambushes. I am glad you and Sara have found this peace. And . .. I am sure Madam Pince is not at all sad that you do not spend more time in the Library!”

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 11
Part 1
Albus put his quill down and looked at Minerva. They had been working together on the article for the past three days. He would like to think that asking her to be his assistant on this article had been a stroke of genius, but that would be giving himself too much credit. Ever since she had been his student he had recognized her brilliance in the area of transfiguration, and knew she kept up with the literature in the field. But what made her such an excellent choice for this project was the way their working styles and thought patterns complemented each other, and that was something he had not realized until they had dived into the task a few days ago.

She was methodical and logical in her approach. He watched as she set one stack of articles aside and reached for another. In front of her were pages of carefully outlined notes and neatly organized stacks of articles, sorted by subtopic, and marked with color-coded slips of paper. This orderly scene was the polar opposite to the pandemonium of parchments in front of him.

His much more free-wheeling, intuitive approach to things served him well in coming up with unique insights and connections. But their present task was not to come up with insights, but rather to build a new logical and rhetorical underpinning for the insights he’d already had—an underpinning which would withstand the Ministry’s overzealous security watchdogs and censors. Minerva’s mind was much better suited to this kind of work than was his.

He noted with a smile that her appearance was rather different from the stern Colonel of Aurors known at the Ministry. She was not in uniform, instead she wore rather thin summer robes of pale lavender, trimmed in a dark green which matched her eyes. Her hair was gathered in a loose twist which brushed the neckline of her robe, rather than being up in the usual tight bun which satisfied Auror Corps uniform regulations. Her face was softer and more relaxed than he’d ever seen it when she was in uniform.

Every now and then when she found something especially insightful in an article she actually smiled to herself, or even laughed quietly. When she found a point which she thought they could use in their project, her eyes sparkled in triumph. Colonel McGonagall was impressive and commanding. Minerva McGonagall, scholar, was winsome and engaging, as well as brilliant.

He studied her at more leisure. The lines of her nose and chin gave her an almost patrician appearance. Her skin was milky white in contrast to her shining dark hair, and her eyes were a deep jade which could turn, he knew, to pure fire in an instant when she was angry. With her dark hair and fair skin, she actually looked more Welsh than he did, while his own auburn hair made him look more Scottish than she was. The reversal made him smile.

He noted approvingly that the cut of her robes was much more flattering to her willowy figure than was the Auror cloak he normally saw her in. ‘Figure.’ He laughed to himself. That was not a word one customarily used in connection with ‘Auror.’

He deliberately blinked his eyes and determined to look at her as if he they had just been introduced, as if he hadn’t known her for almost two decades, had never taught her, and had not fought beside her in pitched battles. He realized with a bit of a start that the only words which sufficed were ‘lovely,’ ‘beautiful’ and perhaps even ‘stunning.’ With some reluctance he pulled his gaze down and resumed examining the articles before him, sheets of parchment filled with complex formulas of advanced alchemy. Daydreaming was not going to find them the information they were looking for.

“Albus, look here. Davies’ Second Law of Alchemic Catalysts. If you extrapolate from that…I think it’s what we’ve been looking for to demonstrate the structural parallels with organic transfiguration and transformation.”

Dumbledore looked up, surprise showing on his face. “Say more.”

She proceeded to show him the key link they had been searching for.

“That’s it! You’re absolutely right, Minerva, that is the final piece of the puzzle. Bravo!”

For the next hour their quills scratched energetically as each of them made notes of the connections and roughed out the text explaining them. Now the end was in sight—it was simply a matter of crafting and polishing the prose.

“Minerva, one thing is intriguing me.”

“What’s that?”

“You are really quite good with all these alchemic texts. You grasp them at an advanced level. If I didn’t know better I’d think you’d done an apprenticeship in alchemy, and with a very good Master, to go with your Mastership in Transfiguration. Or have you?” Dumbledore couldn’t imagine the Auror Corps having given her leave to pursue a second Apprenticeship.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. With my father. He was an alchemist. He never taught or published, but he devoted all his time outside his responsibilities at the distillery to the study of alchemy, and he was rather adept by non-academic standards. He used to joke that as a whisky distiller who dabbled in alchemy, he devoted all of his time to concocting Elixirs of Life of one sort or another. I spent a lot of time with him in his lab, and he would always explain what he was doing, and why. I had free run of his library, too. I spent most of my summers as his assistant. By the time he died, it certainly was advanced Apprentice-level work, though obviously I have no Master’s certificate to show for it.”

“You never mentioned it.”

“Well, it wasn’t a subject at Hogwarts, was it? I didn’t know then you had an interest in it, either. No reason to mention it to you.

“And after my father’s death I went rather entirely off the field. He felt it had betrayed him, and I sort of agreed. I didn’t do anything more with it for quite a while. Not until I heard about your and Flamel’s work, actually. That intrigued me.”

“Felt it had betrayed him? How is that?”

“Yes. He had originally focused on the chemical dimensions of alchemy—he was, after all, a chemist at heart. But after my mother died, he began to explore the spiritual side more. He was overwhelmed by guilt—she had died in childbirth with my younger brother, who died too. He blamed himself for having wanted another child when she was so much older. It was clear he had always wanted a son, though he wasn’t so thoughtless as to say so aloud. But it always showed in other ways.”

McGonagall was quiet for a few moments before continuing. In the silence Dumbledore recalled the young witch who had been his student so long ago. She had been one of the leading Quidditch players in the school, the only witch to continue on any of the house teams past her fourth year. And in the classroom she had never sat with the gaggle of witches at the rear of the classroom, the girls who did just enough to pass and focused their energies instead on catching the attention of the most promising young wizards. Instead she’d been near the front, and had always studied with the most accomplished and academically ambitious boys in her classes. It all fit now.

“He could never get over the guilt or grief—he felt his selfishness had been the cause of her death. He had adored her so. It slowly consumed him. He hoped to find some healing in alchemy, but didn’t. Eventually he couldn’t stand the pain anymore. And I was focused on my NEWTs and wasn’t home much that year.”

She sighed. “The autopsy said poisoning by aconite diluted in alcohol.” Minerva had set her quill down and was staring at the opposite wall, her eyelids blinking rapidly and her mouth in a thin line.

Dumbledore hadn’t known Minerva’s father had killed himself. At the time she had simply said he died after a long and difficult illness. “I’m so sorry, Minerva. I shouldn’t have probed,” he said quietly. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s knock off here for the day. We’ve made quite a lot of progress, entirely thanks to you.

“I am going to go for a walk around the lake. I could use the exercise after all this sitting. I would be glad of your company, though I can appreciate you might prefer some time to yourself. I do hope you’ll join me for our customary game of chess this evening, regardless.”

“I’d like the walk, Albus. It would do me good.”

[esoterica1693]

Part 2
They walked together in silence, both taking long strides. It was a beautiful sunny summer’s day. Even the giant squid seemed to be enjoying the sunshine. Minerva remained lost in her own thoughts. After half an hour, Albus broke the silence hesitantly.

“I didn’t turn to alchemy to cope with my grief over Sara and Brian. If I had, it wouldn’t have helped me any more than it did your father.”

Minerva looked at him in surprise. He had, it seemed, read her mind. She had always wondered how Albus had managed to survive the loss of his wife and son in such horrific circumstances while her father had been undone by his grief. Even allowing for Albus’ superior mental powers, it seemed unfair.

“What Nicolas helped me with was dealing with the consequences of mis-handling that grief and guilt. Like your father, I found out that guilt has the potential to kill. But our losses were in very different circumstances. In my instance someone else bore the immediate consequences of my grief and guilt. I then had to come to terms with what I had done—the second layer of guilt, which, because of the particulars, was even worse than the first.

“Alchemy helped with that, but only because of the specifics of who I was and what had happened, things unique to my situation. In general, grief is something one cannot fix, by alchemy or any other means. Only time seems to work, and sometimes it is simply not fast enough. Even the best alchemists are powerless over some things. I’m very sorry the grief outran the healing for your father.”

“Thank you. That means a lot to me, more than you can know.”

After more silent walking they came to a dock and walked a ways out onto it.

Now it was Minerva who broke the silence. “You said that someone else bore the deadly consequences of your initial guilt, and that you then had guilt over that. You mean Grindelwald, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But defeating him was a good thing. Why would that create any guilt, much less to such an extreme?”

“Because of how I did it. Because of the rage.”

“Well, given what he did to Sara, of course you felt rage. You’d have to be inhuman not to. I’ve read your file. I know what the newspapers didn’t mention. Rage is the only possible reaction.”

“It was more than rage. There are some means that should not be, cannot be, justified by any end, even the defeat of an evil despot. I am glad my action had the beneficial consequence of liberating us from him, but still, if I could take it back, I would.”

“Albus, that is ridiculous. I know you feel strongly about not using Unforgiveables, and not killing, but you are being entirely too scrupulous. A few AKs, given what those bastards did not only to Sara but to the rest of our world—that is nothing to feel guilty about.

“We aren’t talking AKs, as much as I dislike them. You’re right, in the circumstances those would eventually be forgiven, even by my conscience.

“Nicolas is the only person other than me to know what I did that day. Even he could not believe it at first. It was only its effects, measurable on me and on the site, which convinced him. If I had put it in the files, no one would believe it anyway. At least I hope they wouldn’t. I couldn’t believe it of myself, which is why the alchemy.

“If I was going to go on living, I had to come to terms with it. Those were days I almost cursed the strong Myrddin magic in my core. I would have rather I had died there on the battlefield where Alastor found me. I almost did. Much of the Albus Dumbledore who had lived up to that point essentially did die. It took all of Nicolas’ compassion and skill to help me re-emerge, a new, if very chastened, wizard.”

“You presumably aren’t going to tell me, Albus, but I still have to ask. What exactly was it, then, that you did?”

Dumbledore did not respond at first. Then, “You were the one who helped me overcome the final phase of the damage, so if anyone is entitled to know, Minerva, it’s you. Though I will deny it to anyone else.

“Because we were in the middle of the deciding months of the war, after Sara’s funeral I had to go right back to the front. I took all the hurt and pain and grief and guilt and rage and shoved them deep down. I bound them tightly inside my mind. That is the only way I could function without losing control of my magic or compromising my command. When I did finally encounter Grindelwald and his guard, my contained rage had mutated into an immeasurable, awful force, one I certainly never would have expected or desired.”

He paused and took a deep breath. “ ‘Ad nihilo.’ Those wizards didn’t cease to live, they ceased to exist in any form whatsoever, whether matter or energy.”

For a moment she looked incredibly shocked, but then her face regained its composure.

“Utterly impossible. First, ad nihilo is only a theoretical cosmological construct. Second, if it did ever exist in reality, it could only be invoked by a wizard so dark that he would make Grindelwald look like a mere boggart.”

“How I wish it were only a theoretical construct, Minerva. But Nicolas went back to the battlefield and tested the charred dirt underneath where they’d been. It was utterly unstable and the changes to the molecular structure were unmistakable. They fit the hypothesized effects of ad nihilo perfectly, while contradicting any other possible explanation. Adjacent matter had definitely been un-created. By me.

“My repressed, contorted rage had totally mutated my magical power into its complete opposite, and even magnified it. For those few moments standing there in front of Grindelwald, I was magically indistinguishable from the most evil wizard imaginable.”

“But, that can’t be. You’re…you’re….you’re not…..” Minerva shivered involuntarily at the thought that the wizard in front of her might really have done what he claimed, and she left her sentence unfinished.

For a moment Dumbledore feared she was about to hex him, or at least run away and never speak to him again. Either reaction would be totally understandable, was even to be expected.

But she didn’t. She stood there, looking confused and hurt, but mainly looking at him with a desperate hope—that somehow he would say something, anything, which would counteract what she had just heard.

“No, I’m not an evil wizard, Minerva,” he said gently. “But for those few instants, I was. My rage was so dark that it warped virtually all the light in me, and revealed just what great power can do when it is subjected to such forces of hatred.

“The damage to my core from causing the ad nihilo was so awful that I was left nearly dead, physically and magically. It is still not entirely clear why I survived. All Nicolas and I could conclude is that some small bit of magic in me had remained untainted—that ultimately there was just an infinitesimal bit more light than dark. A tiny pinprick, but enough that I survived, and gradually that bit filled the vacuum left by the dark power I had literally expelled at Grindelwald.

“But if you cannot imagine that the man standing in front of you once embodied that much evil, even if only for a few seconds, Minerva, imagine how I felt.

“I could not believe I had done such a thing. I wanted to die, because every bit of who I’d thought I was had evaporated in that instant along with those wizards. I couldn’t possibly be Albus Dumbledore, strongest descendent of Myrrdin yet known. I was something else entirely.

“If I had done such a thing, I surely deserved to die. Even if the benefit of eliminating Grindelwald spared me from public execution, what if it hadn’t been an odd aberration? What if I truly was evil at my core and just had never realized it—or what if something had snapped inside me when Sara died and I’d truly become evil?

“That is what the work in alchemy was about. To assay and try my core, to demonstrate to myself that the man who had survived that attack was not in fact an evil wizard. To prove that the good I had once thought I embodied still existed in me, and still had the upper hand. It did, at least as much as it had before, but I could not trust that for a long time.”

At this she suddenly wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. It was as if she was greeting him upon his return from a torturous journey. Her action took him by surprise, and touched him immensely. He returned the embrace, incredibly thankful she was not repulsed by his very presence. One hand stroking the top of her head, the other on her back, he continued his confession.

“For months I was terrified of myself, fearing that the evil would re-possess me. I couldn’t sleep, I was afraid to use magic. I had nearly lost my soul and I almost lost my mind. It took years of work with Nicolas before the near-corpse which he had first visited in St Mungo’s was transformed into a functional, emotionally and magically healthy wizard. My magical power didn’t return to what it had been before Sara’s death for quite some time. And I will never be the same. I now have a humility and realism that, frankly, the younger Albus was lacking.”

Minerva gently removed herself from his arms and gestured to a bench at the end of the dock, and they both sat down.

“Even with Nicolas’s expert tutelage I didn’t always take the most direct route back. For the first few years I thought that the safest thing was to not allow myself to have any emotions whatsoever. I cut myself off from everything and everyone. It was only part-way through my Fellowship that I discarded the last of that approach. And it was only at the very end of my Fellowship that I escaped what I have come to call my ‘atonement complex.’”

“Atonement complex?”

“Believing that I only deserved to live as long as I achieved so many good things that they compensated at least in part for the contact with evil. That is why it was so devastating to me to not achieve my goal with the Fellowship. It was to be the next major payment against the guilt I felt. Feeling I had failed in that, I was slipping quickly into despair.

“And that is why I still say that you saved my life that night.” Without even realizing it, Dumbledore took her hand.

“Somehow, and I still don’t know how you did it--I just thank Merlin you did--you managed to lift that burden from me. From that night on I have been freed from the compulsion of thinking I have to achieve a never-ending series of great things. I can be fallible once again. Sometimes I slip back into the old way of thinking, but I can recognize it now, and eventually I manage to banish it, though it can take a while.”

“Good. I’m glad.” She turned her hand and gave his a quick encouraging squeeze. “If you ever need a reminder, come find me. I do know a bit about fighting that complex.”

“Hmmm. I suspect you do.” Dumbledore looked at her thoughtfully. He was beginning to better appreciate the forces which made her the formidably focused witch she was.

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 12

When Minerva presented herself at his office door that evening for their ritual game of chess, she handed him a bottle of dark amber liquid. “It’s the best McGonagall single malt. Thank you for clearing up that question you sensed I had about my father’s reliance on alchemy.”

“That is very kind,” he said, taking the bottle ushering her into the sitting room where the chess board awaited.

“Speaking of alchemy, I believe Nicolas and Perenelle are just back from a long round-the-world trip. Would you like me to introduce you sometime? I think you’d like them, and they you.”

“Would you? I’d love to meet them.”

“Of course. I’ll have Perenelle invite us both to supper some evening soon.”

Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on Minerva while she focused on the chess board plotting her next move. He won the first game quickly and challenged her to a second, but now he was finding his concentration waning.

He felt as if he was seeing so much of her for the first time. Here was the thorough, keen scholar who had organized all the material for his article and found the one essential piece of information they had been lacking. Here was someone more knowledgeable about alchemy than many Masters in the subject, but who dismissed her knowledge as unremarkable. And perhaps most amazing, here was the loyal friend whom he had told his most shameful secret, and yet she had not run away. She turned her body slightly to contemplate the pieces from a different angle, and the light revealed the beautiful woman he had first noticed that afternoon.

“Earth to Albus. Your move.”

He studied the board briefly and moved his castle. Tonight he didn’t want to study the board, he wanted to study his opponent.

“Check.”

He moved another piece, knowing that he was doomed.

“Mate. That was one of my easier victories.”

“And I’m sure it won’t be your last.” He thought for a moment.

“Minerva, I do believe fitting all the pieces of that article together today deserves some sort of celebration. How about a nightcap?”

“Well, I do need to savor beating you so handily.”

Dumbledore conjured two tumblers and opened the bottle she had presented him. He poured their drinks and gestured to the sofa. Minerva sat down at one end, pulling her legs up under her in a way which reminded him of her tabby form.

“To Andrew Davies’ Law of Catalysts, and to the researcher who saw its importance,” he said, raising his glass in her direction.

As the whisky rolled across his tongue he had yet another reason to appreciate Minerva. It was perhaps the finest single malt he had ever tasted. “This is extraordinary. I shall have to be sure to stay on the best possible terms with the distillery.”

She smiled back at him. “That should not be difficult.” He felt a warmth beginning to settle in his center.

He wanted to say something to thank her for having not run away from him that afternoon, but he found himself strangely tongue-tied. Every time he tried to think of the right words, he felt an odd catch in his throat and the sensation of tears forming behind his eyes.

He leaned forward and stared into the fire. Focusing intently on the flames he finally managed to say, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You’re the only one besides Nicolas I’ve ever told. About Grindelwald. Thank you for not hating me.”

“Oh, Albus, I could never hate you.”

She had put her hand on his shoulder. The sensation of her touch raced from his shoulder all the way through him. His breath quickened for an instant before he summoned some control. He just managed to quash the impulse to turn and sweep her into his arms.

“You are too kind. Clearly you do not know me well enough yet. Though I must say when I’m around you I invariably talk more than I intend. And that’s even without any whisky.”

Minerva smiled to herself. Obviously he had never figured out how she’d doctored his cocoa that night of his first tortured confession.

“Thank you for trusting me, Albus. I’m honored.”

She uncurled her legs. “And now I think it’s time for me to retire, especially if you want a keen researcher in the morning. A little of this goes a long way for me. We folks in the business either drink a lot or very little. I tend towards the latter. Just enough to reassure myself our current distiller is maintaining the label’s standards.”

“You’re very wise.” Albus rose to his feet. “Let me walk you to your door. The castle can be eerie at night when it’s so empty.”

They walked in companionable silence and stopped in front of the pastoral scene which marked the entrance to her rooms.

“Good night, Minerva. Sleep well.” He bowed, took her hand and raised it to his lips. He hoped she did not notice that he held it there a moment longer than was his custom.

“Good night,” she whispered and quickly let herself into her suite.

Returning to his office, Dumbledore stoppered the whisky bottle and put it in his liquor cabinet. His body’s reactions to Minerva had taken him by surprise. 'Probably just an after-effect of having confided so much to her in the afternoon. I don’t know why she has that effect on me—I always find myself telling her things which I’d never dream of telling anyone else. She’s right, I do trust her. I guess that’s a good sign, that I can trust someone again. '

Fawkes had returned from his evening hunting and was now sitting on his perch, asleep. He stroked the regal bird’s chest for a few minutes and then, his mind cleared, headed to his own quarters.

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 13

On Sunday evening McGonagall listened as Alastor finished reviewing the duty logs with her. She had been away at Hogwarts for a week and a half, having taken a few days’ break tramping about the moors by herself after the article had been finished, but her XO had kept the command running smoothly in her absence. It had mystified her friends that she had chosen him as her XO after their break-up, but she had always been able to put duty first, and he was clearly the best Auror for the job. He handed her the last of the briefing papers she’d need for the morning’s meetings.

“Thank you, Alastor. A fine job, as always.”

“Dinner?” he asked. He did not need to specify what they would do after dinner.

The two had ceased being a couple well over a year ago, after Alastor had made it clear that he had no interest in ‘emotional entanglements’ which could compromise his constant vigilance. McGonagall, who had always been skeptical of her suitability for family life anyway, had eventually admitted that she agreed with Alastor--at their level of responsibility, in their line of work, they could not allow themselves the luxury of romance or commitment to anyone. The job and its great risks demanded an exclusive commitment.

But a few months ago, they had come to a new arrangement. While the romance and angst between them were now in the past, they both missed the sex. And so they had begun their habit of spending occasional nights together. In some ways it had always been the best part of their relationship, anyway.

Once Minerva had taken the decision that her life had no room for romantic commitments, her extraordinarily determined mind ensured that her heart understood the new situation. Alastor wasn’t the only one who could be ruthless in sealing off parts of his life when necessary. Now, sleeping with Alastor compromised neither her emotions nor their working relationship.

“Yes, let’s get dinner.”

Over dinner in a nondescript pub she told Alastor bits from her stay at Hogwarts.

“How is Dumbledore? I saw him in May, but we didn’t get a chance to talk.”

McGonagall knew that the two friends had drifted somewhat apart in the years after the War, for reasons unknown. They still thought highly of each other, but rarely saw one another.

“He is doing well, very well, actually. Being back at Hogwarts really seems to suit him.”

“Doesn’t bring up too many memories?”

“Oh, it definitely did, at first, but he and Sara have made their peace with each other. He can actually banter with her portrait now.” McGonagall smiled, remembering the morning in the Library. “And the present Librarian couldn’t possibly be more opposite to Sara, so that’s one less source of possible torment!”

McGonagall told him of their finishing the article, and sending it off to the publisher. “He insisted on naming me co-author. And when he makes up his mind, he’s immovable. So in a few months I’ll be published.” McGonagall couldn’t repress the smile that found its way to her face.

“Congratulations. I know you miss being able to be a bookworm. Not something I’ve ever understood—I’ve yet to read an article that can deflect a curse or track down a dark wizard—but you’ve always been different that way. Now, Colonel, let’s review your abilities in other areas. We need to make sure your skills haven’t slipped.” The two left the pub and headed to his flat.

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 14

Spring 1956

“Armando, of course I will need to fill the Transfiguration and Head of House posts fairly quickly. Shouldn’t really wait until I officially take the reins in July to start interviewing, I don’t think. Any suggestions?” Dumbledore sat across from his Headmaster, who had just submitted his retirement papers to the Governors.

“Hmm. Surely you have someone in mind?”

“Well, the most talented Transfigurations Master I know is Minerva McGonagall. And, conveniently, she is also a Gryffindor. However, I don’t know if she’d be interest--”

“Don’t know if she’d be interested?” Dippet interrupted before Dumbledore could even finish his sentence. “Since she already accepted the job two years ago, I should think that’s a safe assumption.”

“What on earth do you mean, ‘she already accepted the job two years ago’?”

“Oops. She did ask me at the time not to tell you, but I was sure she’d have told you herself by now. But if she hasn’t, I really shouldn’t say more.”

“You can’t stop now that you’ve opened it up. What in Merlin’s name are you talking about?”

“That two years ago, by the time you responded to the advertisement for the position, I had in fact already offered it to McGonagall and she had accepted. I was literally putting the school seal on her contract preparatory to owling it to her for her signature when I received an urgent owl from her. She said that you were going to be applying for the position and that she was stepping aside to allow me to give it all to you.”

“You’re joking, Armando. The only reason I even knew of the position is that she showed me the advertisement and urged me to apply herself. She wouldn’t have done that if she was competing for it.”

“How long from the time she told you of the position ‘til you sent me your letter of application?”

“Hmm, two days at most. Maybe less.”

“Well, at the time she told you, then, she’d definitely already accepted the position herself.”

“I absolutely cannot believe that she would withdraw from such a position in my favor. She re-upped in the Auror Corps rather than taking the retirement she might have solely because she hadn’t gotten any future plans sorted in time.”

Dippet turned to the file cabinets behind his desk. He extracted a file, opened it and set it in front of Dumbledore.

“Here is my formal letter of request to the Governors to hire her, with their approval signatures in response, and here is the contract I’d drafted, with my notes about what I’d offered in our verbal negotiations attached, and here is her owl withdrawing from the position.”

Dumbledore looked at each document carefully, noting the dates, and even waved a quick detection spell over the file to check that the papers hadn’t been altered in any way. His eyes returned to the final sentence of her resignation:

However, the greatest service I could render you and Hogwarts at present is to withdraw my name in favor of his.

He exhaled slowly and set the paper down, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly. “I had absolutely no idea, Armando. She never mentioned it. She led me to believe that when her last Auror tour ended she was at a total loss for options.” His voice was barely above a whisper. He was silent for a few moments.

“Dammit! She’s been enduring an insufferable desk job in London for two years, having weekly meetings with every bloviating senior bureaucrat for miles, when she could have been here, doing the thinking and writing and teaching that she loves. Damn. All because she knew I was a bit at loose ends at the time myself.”

“Well, I take it that decision is made, then. You will be offering McGonagall the Transfiguration and Head of House positions.”

“Immediately. And the Deputy position. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go compose a letter.”

Several sheets of crumpled parchment later, Dumbledore realized he could not do this via letter. He stuck his head into his fireplace. “Colonel McGonagall’s orderly, please.”

The fresh-faced Lieutenant stammered. “General Dumbledore, what can I do for you?”

“I need to meet with Colonel McGonagall at her earliest convenience. Does she have half an hour available any time in the next few days?”

An hour later Dumbledore was being ushered into Minerva’s office by the young Lieutenant, who seemed totally flummoxed at the protocol for greeting a famous retired General who was in civilian robes.

“I can’t salute indoors and out of uniform, my boy. If you would simply get the Colonel and me a pot of her favorite tea and then leave us, we have some matters to discuss in private. Thank you.”

Once the tea had been delivered Dumbledore cast a silencing charm on the office, and transfigured the chair in front of her desk into something slightly less government-issue. McGonagall was now seriously intrigued as to his agenda. “Albus, to what do I owe this pleasure? Another article proposal?”

“No. Something much better. I presume you know that Headmaster Dippet is retiring on 30 June? And that I have been named to succeed him?”

“Yes. Congratulations!”

“Thank you. However, I didn’t come here to talk about me, Minerva. I came here to talk about you. Specifically, to offer you the posts of Deputy Headmistress, Professor of Transfiguration and Head of Gryffindor House at Hogwarts, all with tenure, effective 1 July.”

McGonagall’s mouth fell open.

“I, I…I am extremely honored, Albus. But I haven’t seen any advertisements—don’t you have to list the positions, interview lots of people, and so on?”

“There is no one else I can even imagine considering.”

“But don’t you still have to advertise?”

“I assure you the formalities have been fulfilled.”

“Albus, there is nothing in the world I would like more than to accept this offer. But my current Auror contract isn’t up until next May.”

“Do I understand you to say that if you weren’t under that obligation you would accept?”

“Yes, most definitely!” The sparkle in her eyes told him all he needed to know

“Then we must simply convince the Auror Corps that you’ll be doing more good at Hogwarts than here.”

“Good luck on that one.”

“Well, surely being The Great Albus Dumbledore must have its uses. I’ll have a few conversations and see what can be arranged. But the offer stands no matter what we’re able to negotiate with the Ministry. You will be the next Professor of Transfiguration and Deputy Head of Hogwarts, even if I have to wait until next May to welcome you to the faculty. If you have to start later than August I will need to appoint an interim Head of Gryffindor of course, but only until the following year. I’ll have a contract drawn up as soon as we’ve worked out the particulars and know what start-date we’re talking about.

“Welcome back to Hogwarts, Professor McGonagall!” Dumbledore’s eyes were shining, and he was smiling perhaps more broadly than she’d ever seen.

“Thank you! Thank you so much, Headmaster!” McGonagall replied, still nearly speechless with shock and pleasure.

“ ‘Albus’ will still suffice unless we’re in front of students. And no thanks are required—far from it. There is still one thing I need to tell you.”

“Oh?”

“After I told him that you were far and away my first choice for the positions, Armando let it slip about having offered them to you himself two years ago, and your resigning them in my favor.”

Dumbledore saw the fire ignite in McGonagall’s eyes and hastened to damp it. “He thought you’d surely already told me and he was free to speak of it. He didn’t mean to betray your confidence. He was simply reassuring me that you’d be favorably inclined to consider the positions, having already accepted them once.

“As I recall you don’t put much stock in my ‘I will always be in your debt’ speeches, Minerva, so I’ll spare you another. But I was incredibly moved to learn what you did. I am most humbled. And, I know this tour of duty has varied between tedious and torturous. So let’s see what I can do about shortening it up a bit now, shall we?”

“Thank you.”

“May I suggest we toast our mutual good fortune at whichever nearby restaurant receives your custom? We can work out an outline of specific terms over dinner, Professor.”

~ ~ ~

December 1956

Just before noon on the last day before Christmas break, 1956, Albus escorted Minerva to the staff table in the Great Hall, and guided her to the seat which had been vacant since his moving to the Headmaster’s chair. She wore traditional black teaching robes over inner robes of deepest green, and her dark black hair was pulled back tightly in its customary above-the-collar bun. When it was time for him to signal the start of the meal, he asked McGonagall to rise.

“Students, staff and faculty of Hogwarts. Today it is my very great pleasure to introduce to you our newest faculty member, Professor Minerva McGonagall. Professor McGonagall will be assuming the posts of Deputy Headmistress and Professor of Transfiguration effective today. These positions have been vacant this term because there was no other person nearly as highly qualified, and she is only just now available. She and I will be sharing responsibility for the OWL- and NEWT-level Transfiguration classes for the remainder of this year so as to minimize disruption in exam revision, but she will have sole responsibility for all other sections beginning in the new term. She will become Head of Gryffindor House in July.

“Professor McGonagall’s full biography will be in tomorrow’s notice sheet. However, I would be remiss if I did not tell you now how fortunate we are to have her back at Hogwarts. Head Girl while a student here, and one of the best students in the history of the School, she achieved her Mastership in Transfiguration immediately upon graduation in 1943. She then began service in the Auror Corps. She saw extensive combat during the last years of the War, received several decorations for bravery, and will be retiring to the Reserves with the rank of Colonel in May. She is presently on a leave of absence for community service.

“No more shortening your detentions by bribing the Deputy Head with treats from Honeydukes—Prof. McGonagall knows something about discipline. And about finding out any sort of mischief. She knows even more about Transfiguration. Please join me in welcoming her back to Hogwarts.”

Albus turned towards Minerva, his face beaming, and clapped enthusiastically. The Hall filled with applause. The Gryffindor table was the most energetic, honoring one of their own.

McGonagall made a slight bow towards the student tables, and then to Dumbledore. “Thank you very much. It is an honor,” she said simply, and took her seat. Dumbledore waved a hand over his charger and immediately lunch dishes appeared.

[esoterica1693]

The day after the students were loaded onto the Hogwarts Express for summer break, Albus and Minerva met to review her work.

“Well? How do you feel about your first semester?” Albus offered her a sherbert lemon, which she declined, as always.

“Pretty good, overall. I think teaching went well. Even our tag-teaming the OWL and NEWT classes was pretty smooth, in my estimation. We’ll see what the test results indicate. Of course all the students feel I’m too strict and assign too much homework. I take that as a compliment.” She was almost smirking. “But as many students have chosen Transfiguration as an upper-level class for next year as in the past years, so underneath the grousing my reputation can’t be all that bad.”

“As far as the Deputy Head role, I think you and I are still finding our rhythm—you’re still figuring out your style as Head, so it’s only to be expected that we’ll be fine-tuning the Deputy role for a bit yet. But so far we make a good team administratively. Even if your attitude towards deadlines and Ministry paperwork will make me grey prematurely.”

At this Dumbledore repressed a smile. He didn’t want to appear to be dismissing the energy McGonagall had to expend to keep him on task with paperwork. He knew it was one of his biggest shortcomings.

“The students are still getting used to my firmer approach to discipline. I think my being the firm first line of order and you being the more flexible overseer plays to both our strengths, as we’d discussed at the beginning. But of course as your Deputy I am to be whatever it is you think would serve you and the school best, regardless of my own inclinations. If you wish to make any changes, simply tell me.

“So, Albus, how do you feel about my first semester?”

“Well, I’m afraid must differ with your assessment in a few matters.”

At this McGonagall’s jaw tightened and one eyebrow rose slightly.

“Your teaching didn’t ‘go well’—it was absolutely outstanding. I took you at your word when you said I should feel free to enter your classroom invisibly and observe you as often as I wanted. The first time I did so it was simply a routine observation to make sure your first week was going smoothly. I was so impressed by what I saw that I observed several more times over the course of the semester, especially in the fourth and sixth years—not to check up on you, but to see how you presented various subjects.

"I’ve taught Transfiguration for a number of years now, and I think I’ve been a pretty good teacher, frankly. But every lesson of yours I observed gave me new insights into how to present the specific material, or how to help students organize and retain what they were learning. Watching you got me thinking more about my own approaches in the classroom than I have since my first years teaching.

“In every lesson your enthusiasm for the subject, as well as your respect for the magical powers you were working with, came through clearly. As did your dedication to the students. They may grouse about the homework, but they know you really care about their understanding the material and succeeding. As the semester progressed they could see that there was a method to your madness--that the workload really was helping them learn. And they know your severity in the classroom is because you’re permitting them to do some pretty advanced magic, which requires much care.

“I won’t deny students like me as a professor—but I tend, perhaps, to rely too much on my charisma and innate talent. Especially since my return, as I have been balancing the administrative roles with teaching. After my first semester back I was de facto Headmaster--Armando essentially retired in place. I was responsible for everything while making it look like he was still doing it. And as you’ve observed, administration takes a lot out of me.” At this Dumbledore allowed himself to smile.

“There were days I admittedly coasted in the classroom. Flashy wandwork, intriguing gadgets and a bit of humor can cover many a weak lesson plan. I’m just fortunate that I can pull off more magic when I’m tired and distracted than your average wizard can on his best day.

“In contrast, in you they see someone who not only can do the wandwork, and who loves the subject, but who also loves teaching the subject, and who wants to entice other people to love and respect the subject as much as you do. Not that I failed at that by any means, but you are doing it at a much higher level, and much more consistently, and the students sense it. I believe that over time upper-level enrollment in Transfiguration will actually increase measurably.”

“As for your work as Deputy Head, I concur with you. We will continue to refine our teamwork, but we’ve done pretty well for just starting out. I’ll be honest with you—I will never be on top of deadlines and paperwork. That will always be a major part of your job. However, I need you to bring me up short if I ever cross the line from being my usual distractible and procrastinating self to taking undue advantage of your dedication. I want you to speak freely in such an event. I do, and will, rely on you heavily, but I do not ever want to exploit you!

“Of course next year you will add responsibility for Gryffindor House. But I observed how Wilhelmina involved you right alongside her this year, so there won’t be that much added to your plate. You’ll just have slightly more convenient and comfortable quarters!

“Lastly, Looking ahead, I really only have one concern. And that is the question of balance. Our current system means that you always get the short end--you have to play the strict disciplinarian role, and you get all the worst of the administrative tasks. I know you love teaching, but I don’t want that to be the only enjoyable thing in your work. We need to make sure you have time for your research and writing, and developing scholarly relationships outside Hogwarts. You are not only a teacher, but also a scholar, and I don’t want that eclipsed.”

“Albus, Hogwarts is not a research institution. My job is to teach and mentor students and help you run the school. Period. If I manage to do some writing in my free time, well and good, but it’s not your responsibility to make sure I can.”

“To the contrary. It is my responsibility to make sure Hogwarts contributes as much as possible to the advancement of the magical community. That includes giving the professors the time and resources they need to exercise their talents for the good of the larger world. It is also my responsibility to make sure faculty morale and energy are as high as possible. I have seen the look on your face and the energy coming from your core when you are immersed in research and writing, even if you haven’t. Making sure you have time for scholarship is thus very much my responsibility.

“I want you to spend no less than 15% of your time on your own research and writing. On whatever topics interest you. I don’t expect any minimum volume of publications. I just want to see you exploring whatever questions intrigue you, pushing yourself, learning for its own sake. You are to take the 15% from the time you would otherwise spend on administrative minutiae which I could do as easily as you.”

“Albus, I will only agree on one condition.”

“Oh?”

“That it be a one to one match. I will spend one hour on such pursuits for every hour you do the same.”

“No deal. While I enjoy doing that when time allows, it’s not nearly as central to who I am as it is to you.”

“Okay, I’ll compromise, then. I’ll allow you to count any recreational activity in your hours, for up to two thirds of the total. I’ll do one hour for every hour you spend on either scholarly pursuits or on things totally unrelated to school, things done purely for enjoyment. Music or bowling or knitting or socializing with people entirely outside the School and Ministry. Our chess games don’t count. And one third of the time does need to be spent on things academic. You still have a few Mysteries to ponder.”

“You drive a very hard bargain, McGonagall. Must be your Scots blood. But you have a deal.”

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 16

Spring 1957

“Minerva, I have a rather odd, and large, favour to ask you.”

“What is that?”

“Even though you’re a retired Auror now, I imagine you keep your dueling skills up?

“Yes, I do. I have a sparring partner who keeps me sharp.”

“Well, you’ve been wiser than I have. I’ve rather let myself go soft. Hoping I’d never have to use a wand in anger again. Wishful thinking that there would always be peace, and so on. But that’s naïve. Could be dangerous eventually. Would you be willing to work with me, get me back on form? And, you don’t have to say ‘yes,’ you know, it’s not exactly in your job description.”

“Nonsense. Of course I will. I’d enjoy it.”

“Don’t be so sure. I’m rather rusty. I’d want you to treat me like one of your Auror recruits—take me back to the fundamentals and then bring me current.”

“You can’t be that rusty—your body won’t have forgotten the moves--but it doesn’t matter even if you are. I’ve got a free period on Tuesday afternoons—how about we start tomorrow? Meet me in the lower fields at 1:30 with your wand, dressed in comfortable robes and boots. I’ll have you do the standard Auror assessment and we’ll go from there.”

After putting Albus through his paces for an hour Minerva agreed that, for someone of his stature, he was rusty. He was still a much better duelist than the average wizard, better even than any of the faculty except Minerva and the DADA instructor, but he was far from the dominating fighter he’d been fifteen years previously. His reflexes were slow, his stamina was low and he wasn’t aware of any of the maneuvers or spells which had been perfected in the past several years.

She sketched out a training regimen and taught him how to conjure a standard Auror practice range, with moving targets and attacking opponents. Several afternoons a week Albus went to the lower fields alone, cast protective wards so that the students and faculty wouldn’t see him, set up the range, and practiced defending and attacking, evading and shielding, until he was too tired to move. Every Tuesday afternoon he and Minerva dueled briefly, focusing on the skills he’d practiced the previous week so she could evaluate his progress and refine his training.

~ ~ ~
Spring 1958

After a year Minerva proclaimed that she had taught Albus all she could and he was now once again as proficient a duelist as any wizard she knew. She proposed demonstrating this by dueling him with no spells barred and letting him see he could hold his own against her, or even defeat her.

They each cast the safety spell on the other’s wand, so that when they cast truly dangerous spells any hits would be signaled only by a light singe, with the actual magic of the spell disabled. And then they dueled. They were well-matched indeed. For thirty minutes spells and charms flew through the air with increasing fury as the two wizards ducked, weaved, dove, rolled on the ground, and leapt. Finally Minerva fell to the ground heavily and held up her wand in the surrender position. “I think that last one surely would have done me in,” she panted, looking at the most recent smoking line Albus had snaked across her chest.

Albus staggered over to her, just as exhausted himself, and bent over at the waist to catch his breath. After a moment he offered her a hand and pulled her to her feet.

“Very well done, Albus. I pulled no punches, and you had me on the ropes much of the time. I’d say you’re in fine fighting trim.” She looked him over. His robes were torn, he had dirt ground into his knees and elbows from rolling away from spells, and smudges of soot and dirt on his face. Judging by his stance he had also twisted an ankle rather badly. “You look quite a sight, though.”

“You’re not exactly dressed for a ball either,” he said, laughing. “Oh, that hurt!” He winced with the stitch in his side and then lurched from the pain in his ankle. He didn’t think it would bear his full weight to walk. “Are you as bunged up as I am?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to have to do much with my left arm at the moment--I think I dislocated my shoulder on that last roll. Let’s help each other up to the hospital wing and get some potions. Here…lean on me.” Dumbledore put his arm on her good shoulder, she braced him around the waist, and the two set off for the castle.

As they walked up the path towards the entrance the very nearsighted Prof. Slughorn approached. Without his glasses on at the moment, he only perceived the odd site of the Head and Deputy Head, both extremely disheveled, breathing heavily and walking slowly with their arms around each other.

“Well, well, well, what have you two been up to this afternoon?”

“I’ve been helping Albus polish his wand work—we’ve just been going at each other a bit. He acquitted himself very well. Left me flat on my back.”

“Helping him polish his wand work, indeed. Ever the helpful Deputy. Didn’t think you two’d ever dare be so obvious about it, though,” Slughorn said with a leer.

Albus caught Slughorn’s meaning. He immediately pulled away from Minerva and turned to face the rotund Potions professor, ignoring the stabbing pain from his ankle. His voice was cold. “Horace, we were dueling. Wandwork as in practicing self-defense. Spells, hexes, jinxes, evasive maneuvers. You may vaguely remember some of those things from your student days? Minerva has been kind enough to share some of the latest techniques from the Aurors with me.”

Slughorn’s eyes darted back and forth between the two, now looking at their appearance more closely as he reached for his glasses and put them on. He blushed slightly. “Ah, yes. I see now. Not even the most energetic shagging could put you in that state. Sorry.”

Albus drew closer to him, his wand drawn for emphasis. “Professor, if you EVER so much as breathe such an insult to the Deputy Headmistress’s honor and integrity again, it will be the last thing you do as a faculty member. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Headmaster. Most clear. My sincere apologies to you both.” Slughorn said, realizing the gravity of his very un-Slytherin error.

Dumbledore continued, “Frankly, I don’t much care if people think I shag my brother’s goats. But I will not stand for my Deputy to be insulted by her colleagues. Nor will I tolerate the implication that I would be so unprofessional as to behave inappropriately with a subordinate. Thank you for your apology, Professor. Good day.”

Albus limped the rest of the way unassisted despite Minerva’s protests. “I’m sorry, Minerva. I know being my Deputy makes you the object of the occasional rumor, but I didn’t realize it was common enough that someone like Sluggo would be so bold.”

“Well, in hindsight I did rather wind him up. Saying you’d left me flat on my back and so on. Don’t worry about it. Anyone who’d seriously think that of either of us isn’t anyone whose opinion matters anyway. Let’s get your ankle tended to.” They continued on towards the castle.

“So, Minerva, just who is your sparring partner who keeps you so sharp? Clearly it can’t be anyone from around here.”

“Alastor. We meet every other week and work out for two hours.”

“That’s very generous of him. I didn’t know you were still friends.”

“I compensate him nicely.”

“Well, training me really wasn’t in your job description. I’d be glad to compensate you as well.”

Minerva snorted. “That is hardly necessary, or, I daresay, even appropriate.”

Dumbledore looked at her, puzzled.

“Besides, Albus,” she added hurriedly, lest he ponder her unguarded comment too long, “training with you is its own reward. With Alastor, it’s always about duty, from beginning to end, for both of us. We both know we what we need to keep fit, and our arrangement allows us to do that. It’s mutually beneficial but it’s duty. With you, it’s a pleasure. Fighting against you reminds me why dueling has always been considered a sport as well as a necessary skill. You bring a certain enthusiasm, even an élan, to our sessions which Alastor totally lacks. Plus it’s good for me to train against someone with a very different fighting style. Keeps me from getting lazy.”

“Well, thank you. I do appreciate the time you’ve spent. I’m relieved it hasn’t been a burden.”

“Hardly. In fact, if you’d like to continue our weekly sessions as a regular discipline, I’d be happy to. Alastor has shown me about all he can, and he has the pick of the current Auror Corps to keep him in shape in everything. Frankly, I’d be glad for a new sparring partner, on several counts. No further compensation required,” she added, smiling.

“Then you have one. You may put it on my calendar for every Tuesday you’re available.”

“I shall.”

The two sat in the faculty examining room waiting for the school mediwitch to finish tending to a student who had lost a battle with gravity during a flying lesson.

“Albus, I’m curious about one thing.”

“Mmm?”

“What’s made you suddenly decide you need to be in top form for dueling? Some specific threat you haven’t told me about?”

“You mean other than pompous asses insulting my Deputy?”

Minerva smiled. “Yes, other than that.”

“Nothing so specific that I have felt comfortable talking about it. Just a sense. An awareness that my hope that we would not see aggressive darkness rise again was probably naïve.”

Dumbledore cast a silencing charm around them. “To be honest, I don’t like what I’m hearing, or rather not hearing, about the doings of one wizard in particular. Someone who I know has been fascinated with things Dark for years, and who doesn’t much care for me, or the School, to put it mildly. Now he’s gone totally underground, and I can’t imagine that’s a good sign. He has enough talent to cause quite a bit of trouble. I don’t want to be caught flat-footed when he re-emerges. There is nothing to indicate a specific threat at this time, nothing we should be doing differently here, which is why I hadn’t mentioned it to you yet. But it’s enough that it made me realize I should probably be in a bit better shape. The next time I encounter him it may not be for tea.”

“Well, now that you have mentioned it, are you going to say more? Two minds are always better than one. And I still have contacts in the Auror world.”

“Do you remember Tom Riddle? I believe he was Head Boy the year after you graduated?”

“Of course I do. I think I was one of the few girls in my year who didn’t faun over him. ‘Services to the School’ my broomstick! I was always convinced he knew much more about that Chamber than he let on. As if Hagrid would ever do such a thing.” She snorted.

“You always have been a good judge of character. You’re right—he is the one who opened the Chamber.”

“You knew?! Why on earth didn’t you do something?”

“I did all I could. Armando didn’t feel he was in a position to stand up to him, and I couldn’t budge him.”

“Armando knew?”

“Yes. But here comes our Angel of Mercy. We’ll have to continue this conversation some other time.” Dumbledore dropped the silencing charm.

“Good afternoon, Matron. Professor McGonagall and I want to make sure you keep your hand in with adults as well as children. We were taking some dueling practice, and as you can see neither of us was willing to lose easily.”

The nurse looked them over quickly and rolled her eyes. “Headmaster, really. You’re as bad as the students. Though you are both Gryffindors, aren’t you? What else should I expect? Now each of you into a separate area and I’ll have a prod at you.”

[esoterica1693]

Chapter 17

That Friday evening they sat down at the chessboard in his study for their weekly match. But as Albus set up the pieces, Minerva pushed back from the table.

“I want to continue our discussion from Tuesday, Albus. About the Chamber, and Riddle.”

“All right, then. This could get involved.” He gestured to the comfortable chairs and conjured two tumblers. “Which of your family’s products would you prefer tonight?”

“How about some other label? Lagavulin?”

“Very well. Now, where were we?”

“You were saying that both you and Armando knew it was Riddle who opened the Chamber, but Armando wouldn’t do anything against him. Why not? He let Hagrid’s wand be snapped when he knew he was innocent? I can’t believe that of Armando.”

“He felt he was trapped.”

“What do you mean?”

“Blackmail, essentially. Tom had encountered Armando in a rather compromising situation. You remember the rumours that always swirled around about Armando’s personal life? They were tremendously overblown, of course, but they weren’t entirely off the mark. Tom ran into Armando and Franz, his friend, at a bar in London one night during a school holiday. Even got some pictures, if I recall.”

“When Armando twigged to Tom’s being the one opening the Chamber, Tom threatened to expose him. To the School Governors, but that was just for starters. I think if it had just been the threat of being sacked from Hogwarts, as he would have surely been, prejudice being what it is, Armando would have risked it, to save Hagrid.

“But Tom threatened more than that. Franz was German, you see, he taught at Durmstrang. They’d known each other since they had competed against each other in the Triwizard Tournament as students. Tom threatened to turn Franz in to the Gestapo—and he was already connected with lots of unsavory types, so it wasn’t an empty threat. Which would have meant much worse than Franz losing his job, since this was 1943--it would have been a death sentence. Armando couldn’t bring himself to betray Franz. So he let Tom get away with framing Hagrid.”

“He told you this?”

“Not at the time, no. Back then he simply insisted that he believed Tom’s version of the facts, that Tom was an exemplary wizard, and that he would hear nothing against him. The only hint I had otherwise was his allowing Hagrid to stay on as gamekeeper at my suggestion. He didn’t tell me the full story ‘til I came back to Hogwarts to interview as his Deputy. He knew I’d lost a lot of respect for him over that incident and he felt he needed to explain himself if we were to have any hope of working together. He wasn’t proud of what he’d done, to put it mildly, but felt it better to tell me than to continue to keep the secret.”

Minerva sipped her whisky. “I guess he figured that while Hagrid would lose his wand, he’d still be alive, unlike Franz if he’d decided the other way. And Franz was an innocent third party. Armando didn’t have much of a choice, really--I can see that—even as distasteful as what he did was. Riddle is even more a bastard than I’d credited him for.”

“Indeed. It gets worse.”

“Worse?”

“Franz was picked up and sent to the camps anyway. He didn’t survive. Armando never had absolute proof of who turned him in, but he had his strong suspicions.”

“Damn.”

“Quite. Sara and I were among the few faculty members whom they trusted enough to socialize with as a couple, so I knew Franz. He was a fine wizard, and he and Armando loved each other, I think. Franz didn’t deserve that. As if anybody did. And Armando never really recovered—he always felt responsible.

“After the War he thought about re-opening the whole question of the Chamber, to get Hagrid cleared, as he had nothing more to lose. But by then Tom had disappeared. And what evidence Armando had, and I have, is still circumstantial. We were both convinced, but at this point it would take putting Riddle under veritaserum to prove his guilt and Hagrid’s innocence. And now with Armando dead, and all first-hand evidence of the blackmail gone, Hagrid will just have to wait til Riddle re-appears and gets caught for something.

“It’s a damned shame, but that’s how things stand. In the meantime I’m stuck unable to do anything at all beyond making sure Hagrid is secure and as happy as possible here, and looking the other way at that pink umbrella of his.”

Dumbledore drained his glass, poured himself another, and swallowed half of that in a gulp. “I hate it." His mouth was drawn.

“At least Hagrid’s been champion about it. He doesn’t know the whole story at all, he just knows I believe in him completely. I’ve promised him I’ll do all I can to clear him if an opportunity ever presents itself, and that has been enough for him. Quite remarkable of him.

“So now you know for just how long I’ve had Riddle marked as no good. And why it’s a bit personal.”

“Does he know you know?”

“Oh, definitely. And I’ve given him additional reasons to dislike me since.”

Dumbledore took another large swallow.

“He re-surfaced briefly my first term as Head and came to see me. Actually that meeting was the immediate prompt to work on my dueling. I realized I couldn’t take him on alone, and he wouldn’t permit anyone else to be in the room with us, so I had no back-up. There wasn’t time in between his making the appointment and our meeting for me to get my wand skills back into shape.

“So we met and I had to let him walk away. I was furious with myself. If I’d only been prepared, I could have taken him. After that I started working on my dueling on my own. When you started coaching me, I’d already been training quite a while, believe it or not. So you can imagine how useless I had been when I was sitting across from him.

“When I was with him it was clear that he has gone totally Dark. And despite my efforts to keep the meeting on an even keel, he nearly drew his wand on me anyway. I couldn’t arrest him, but I did refuse him what he’d come to request—that he be given the Defence faculty post. He did not like being refused. To understate the case. If he’d known how rusty I was, he surely would have followed through when he reached for his wand. I was very lucky.

“And so, whenever he turns up again, it will not be pleasant between us. And he wanted to get a position inside this school for some reason. That is not a good sign either. Now you know why I want to keep tabs on him, and why his being utterly off the radar makes me very nervous.

“His followers all call him Lord Voldemort now—he’s totally discarded his old identity. And, Minerva, the thoughts I sensed in him—well, let’s just say I haven’t been in the presence of such pure evil for well over a decade. He’s very dark, very powerful, and he’s up to something big. And I don’t think it’s just about me or Hogwarts, though we’re certainly one of his prime targets….

"Minerva, when we next hear from Tom Riddle, I am very afraid our entire world’s peace may be over.”

It was the first time Dumbledore had stated the situation so baldly, even to himself. After this neither he nor McGonagall spoke for a very long time. Both were lost in their thoughts, considering the implications of his words--the return of the conflict and fear they had both hoped they’d vanquished over a decade previously, the loss of the peace they had, unfortunately, begun to take for granted. Their long friendship meant no words were necessary. For well over an hour neither even moved, except to reach for the bottle and refill their glasses. McGonagall had begun matching her boss drink for drink.

Finally she stood up, with a determined expression. “Albus?”

“Yes?” he replied, standing himself, though with a moment’s difficulty.

“We will defeat him.”

“Yes, I know we will. We’ve had Tom Riddle’s number since he was a student. He won’t take us by surprise. But it won’t be easy. I am not afraid that we’ll lose. But I am afraid of what we’ll have to endure, and what it will cost....

"I had so hoped that one such ordeal would be enough for a lifetime, even a long lifetime.” A deep sadness filled his normally sparkling eyes.

“Yes. As had I. It is almost too hard to think about.” McGonagall’s eyes had turned into pools of dark liquid jade, and the resolve that had been in her voice moments before had evaporated.

“I know.” He reached out and drew her towards him, wrapping his arms around her and placing his chin on the top of her head. She trembled in his arms, and he drew her closer, stroking the base of her neck. “I know, Min. I know.” Her trembling lessened and they stayed motionless for several minutes, their breathing gradually falling into rhythm with each other.

“I...I’d better go now.” Her voice quavered into his chest. “It’s late. I need to check on my cubs and go to bed.”

“Mmm.” He pulled his lips away from the top of her head, surprised to find he had pressed them there. “Will you be alright? These are dark thoughts to go to sleep on.”

“They are that. But I’ll be alright. At least you’re not having to bear them alone any more.” She stepped back from his embrace, took his hands in hers, and gave them a strong squeeze. “Good night, Albus.”

“Good night, Minerva.”

She walked swiftly to the door and let herself out. Albus instinctively moved to follow her and escort her through the castle back to Gryffindor Tower, but stopped himself.

[esoterica1693]

Part 1

It was two days before Albus would allow himself to revisit that night in his mind. Luckily Minerva didn’t seem to have changed her behavior towards him. She had the grace to act like nothing had happened.

But something had been going on between them in those last few minutes, there was no denying it. If he were honest with himself, it hadn’t been Minerva’s going to bed alone with her thoughts he’d been concerned about. It was a very good thing he had not followed her to her rooms. That would have ended disastrously.

He shivered at how he had almost destroyed his relationship with the friend and colleague he relied upon the most, trusted the most, and whose partnership he would need the most if his fears about Voldemort proved accurate. What in Merlin’s name had come over him? But it hadn’t been just him. He was sure of it. They had both been on the brink of crossing a line.

He considered. Their emotions had been churning with memories and feelings they had both put aside for years. He had been incredibly relieved to have finally shared his fears about Voldemort with someone whom he could trust and who he knew would take him seriously. They had been drinking steadily. And both of them lived solitary lives.

When he thought about it from those perspectives, what had happened was not all that surprising. He would simply need to be careful and not allow the same combination of factors to intersect again. And be thankful they had both had the sense to pull back that night.

By the end of the following week Albus had to admit there was one rather significant factor he had not taken into account in his previous analysis. Somehow, at some time he could not name, he had fallen in love with his Deputy, and his feelings had crossed a tipping point in the past week. At first he attributed the way his eyes were now drawn to her at every meal and in the hallway, and the odd feelings in his chest and stomach, to concern for how she was coping with learning of the threat of Voldemort. He excused his distraction at the weekly faculty meeting as a product of a boring agenda.

But their next weekly chess session ended any pretense his mind could maintain. He could not focus on the game at all. His mind swirled with thoughts only of Minerva and how she captivated him. Her mind. Her skill. Her loyalty. His eyes fell on her robes. They were a set he’d always admired. He began to consider how the clasp at her neck worked, and what her breasts looked like beneath the fitted bodice, before he caught himself and forced his thoughts back to the chess pieces. He reached across the board to move a piece, their hands brushed, and lightning shot through his body. He let out an involuntary gasp.

“Albus, are you alright? You don’t seem yourself tonight.”

He was focusing every bit of his mental power on extinguishing the sensations which would be all too obvious if her gaze dropped any lower.

“Yes. Err, actually no. I mean yes. No, I’m not. Umm, I don’t feel well. I think I should concede this match and go to bed early tonight.” He shifted his robes in his lap.

“Of course. Would you like me to look in on you later?”

“No, I’ll be fine. It’s just a nasty headache coming on. If you would show yourself out, though—I think I need to just sit here with my eyes closed for a bit. Then I’ll go to my rooms, take something and lie down. I’ll be fine by morning if I don’t let it get ahead of me.”

“If you’re sure.” McGonagall sent the chess pieces sailing into their case with a quick flick of her wand and conjured him a glass of water. “Fawkes, keep an eye on him, alright? Stay with him. I’ll be in my rooms if you need anything.”

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her Dumbledore let out a deep sigh and buried his head in his hands. Once he was sure she was out of earshot he exclaimed, “Fawkes, we have a problem. I have fallen head over heels in love with Minerva. I don’t know when or how, but something happened and …I haven’t felt this way since, since …since I met Sara.”

“Dammit, she’s the one person I can’t be in love with, Fawkes. For years every other single witch in the magical world has thrown herself at me and you’d think I was made of ice for all the impression they made. But now the one witch I absolutely cannot have feelings for has taken over my mind and my heart and ….every other part of me.”

“Oh, Fawkes, what do we do now?”

The bird merely cooed.

Dumbledore rehearsed in his mind all the reasons why he could not love Minerva. She was his subordinate, first and foremost, full stop. Nothing else mattered beyond that.

But if it did… He continued to itemize.

She surely didn’t return his feelings.

He was seventy-five years older.

He couldn’t leave Hogwarts, because it was where he was best positioned to help the wizarding world.

She couldn’t leave Hogwarts, because she was excellent at what she did. He could not imagine her being as fulfilled anywhere else. He could not ask her to give that up. And the school, the students, needed her blend of sternness and care, and her teaching.

Their relationship had begun when she was a student and now he was her boss, and there would always be a residual imbalance of power. Even if one of them left Hogwarts, they could never really be equals.


There was one other reason which ultimately couldn’t be ignored; it was second only to the matter of his being her boss, probably greater, actually. Danger was rising. When Voldemort moved into the open, once again he would be a target. He could never again put anyone he loved at even the slightest risk. Sara had demonstrated the folly of that, and he hadn’t been half as famous when she was killed. He trembled at the thought of it. No love was worth that. No true love could put another person in that kind of danger.

His magical power and fame, and the ability he had to help the wizarding world, came with a cost. That cost was that he would live his life without intimate companionship, emotional or physical. It was that simple. Of he to whom much is given, much shall be required. He had been fortunate enough to have the years with Sara. To want more was positively greedy. He thought he had come to terms with all that years ago. He must simply train his mind to put aside his new feelings for Minerva.

He began to practice his occlumency and mind discipline exercises with a focus he hadn’t used in years.

[esoterica1693]

Part 2

By lunchtime on Saturday he thought he could perhaps get through a meal seated beside her.

As he responded to her earnest queries about his health, he could barely keep his thoughts under control. He could not go on like this.

“Yes, the headache is nearly gone. But I think I need a break. Do you think you could take the reins of the school for a few days? I could do any urgent paperwork before I go, if you would get it together for me this afternoon.”

“Of course. Where will you be going?”

“I haven’t thought that far yet. I just know I need to get away for a bit. I hit a wall last week. I’ll let you know how to contact me before I actually leave.”

He left the table and headed back to his quarters. He had a sudden idea. He stuck his head into the fireplace. There was one person who knew his mind almost better than he did, and had lifetimes of wisdom. They were due to have lunch in a few weeks, but this could not wait. “Nicolas Flamel, please.”

“Albus, my boy! To what does my fireplace owe this pleasant surprise?”

“Ah, Nicolas! I’m so glad you’re in. I’m afraid I’m in quite a bit of a muddle. Do you and Perenelle by any chance have some time this week to help The Great Albus Dumbledore get his head on straight again? It’s come right off, I think.”

“Of course. You know we’d always make time for you, Albus, but we genuinely are quite free this whole week. I’ll just have Tempy make up the guest room. Perenelle will be thrilled to see you. It’s been too long. When would you like to arrive?”

“Would tonight after dinner be too soon?”

“Not at all. See you in a few hours. And if your head’s come off, do be sure you don’t lose it in the floo.” Nicolas’ eyes twinkled.

“At the moment I think that would be an improvement. But we can discuss that later. Actually I think I’ll apparate—I’m going to get some dinner away from Hogwarts on my way. I’ll walk the last block, so you don’t have to worry about dropping your wards. Til this evening, then. Thank you so much.” Albus stepped back from the fire for a moment to break the connection and then floo’ed Minerva’s office.

“Minerva? I’ll be leaving at about 5. I don’t know my exact itinerary yet, but you can reach me through the Flamels if you really need me, though I hope you don’t. Or call for Fawkes. Otherwise, I trust you to handle everything. You don’t need to report to me unless there’s a true emergency. I’ll let you know how long I’ll be gone once I’ve figured it out myself.”

Minerva tried to sound unconcerned. “Okay. I’ll bring some papers by at about 3:30. Sign the lot of them and you can stay away a whole week.” She turned back to her desk. 'What on earth is bothering Albus so? He’s been totally out of sorts since last weekend, and Nicolas is who he turns to in times of genuine crisis. Is there more to the Voldemort situation than he’s letting on?'

A few hours later she set a tall stack of papers on his desk. “All utterly routine. You really can be gone all week if you need to be.”

He took the stack without looking at her and began signing. “Thank you. That’s great. I may take you up on that.”

“Give my warmest regards to Nicolas and Perenelle.”

“I certainly will.”

“Albus?”

“Yes?”

“Is anything serious the matter? Is there more to that situation we discussed last weekend?”

“No. It’s nothing that should concern you or the School. I just need some time away to work on some personal affairs I’ve let slide. I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted this week. When I come back I will be able to be much more focused on School matters. I promise.

“Now, here are all your papers back. If I missed any, go ahead and charm a quill to sign for me. If you need to make any excuses for me to the Ministry, tell them I’ve been called away on urgent family business. That should confuse them no end, as they know I don’t have much family. I’ll see you by supper next Sunday at the absolute latest. The School is entirely yours from now, Deputy Headmistress.” He tossed a mock salute towards her.

She returned the salute sharply. “Have a good time. Or whatever kind of time you need, Albus.”

“Thank you very much. Oh, and I really do appreciate your filling in on short notice, Minerva,” he said as she turned to leave.

[keri]

I love this story! It is so well written, and so much has been written at once that I couldn't believe what good luck I was having when I saw a new story. Please keep writing.