Preparations

Chapter Eight: Preparations

"Minerva! How delightful to see you again!" chuffed Horace Slughorn as the Transfiguration professor took her seat at the High Table.

His words echoed noticeably through the Great Hall thanks to the hush that had fallen over the room when she appeared at breakfast.

"Thank you, Horace," she said brightly. "I see my absence did nothing to diminish your appetite," she added, referring to his plate, which was nearly overflowing with scrambled eggs, bangers and mash, and assorted pastries.

Pomona Sprout let out a snort.

Hagrid leaned down and whispered in Minerva's ear, "Good on yeh, Perfessor."

She smiled up at the large, scruffy face and asked, "Would you be so kind as to pass me the currant jelly, Hagrid?"

Seeing that Professor McGonagall seemed perfectly at ease, the students nearest the High Table slowly returned to their conversations. The rest of the room gradually followed their example.

Minerva breathed an inward sigh of relief. She hadn't been sure what she would feel upon returning to the Great Hall, but it was turning out to be easier than she had anticipated. It helped that in the bright Scottish morning, the room looked nothing like it had the last time she had been in it.

Having a renewed sense of purpose gave her the courage to do what she would have thought impossible only the day before, despite her apprehension about the plan. It also helped that Severus had told her he took all his meals in his chambers, preferring to limit his interactions with students and staff to the absolutely necessary. Although she no longer despised him, she knew everyone would be watching the two of them intensely if they appeared in the same room.

That, she thought, would certainly destroy my appetite.

Poppy Pomfrey walked alongside her as she left the hall after finishing her meal. "I'm so happy to see you eat!" she exclaimed. "It's really nice to see a bit of the old Minerva. We've missed her."

"Thank you, Poppy. So have I," she replied.

"Oi! Minerva!" called Rolanda Hooch.

Minerva waited for the cropped-haired flying instructor, who was walking with Pomona Sprout, to catch up with them.

"Care to place a little wager on today's match? Looks to be a good one. Ravenclaws are down one Chaser thanks to that incident with the Venomous Tentacula, so they've got to start a rookie. Evens things up a bit with the Hufflepuffs," the woman added conspiratorially. "Come by my rooms after and we'll have a drink and you can collect your winnings from Pomona," she said with a grin.

Pomona, who had puffed along behind the spry Madam Hooch, shot her an annoyed glance. The Head of Hufflepuff was not especially fond of Quidditch; nevertheless, she didn't like to hear her House team disparaged.

"I'd love to, Ro," Minerva answered. "But I've got a stack of essays to mark, and I just got the reviewers' comments back on my article for Transfiguration Today."

"Ooh, I know how that is," exclaimed Pomona. "It's always the damned third reviewer. Sometimes I think they pay them extra to find fault. That bloke they had on my last paper for Review of Theoretical Herbology sent the blasted thing back four times for revision," she said irritably. "As if he knew his Mimbulus mimbletonia from his..."

"Indeed," interrupted Minerva. "So I'm afraid I'll need to beg off for the day."

She hated deceiving her friends, but she and Snape had agreed that it would be better if nobody else were privy to their arrangement. She had to admit, however grudgingly, that Albus' penchant for cloak-and-dagger secrecy had its advantages. The fewer people that knew about a thing, the fewer the opportunities for its discovery by the wrong ones. Moreover, she thought, it wouldn't do much to improve Snape's image.

In any event, she wanted to be alone for the afternoon to prepare for the evening's meeting.

Despite the resolve she had felt while she and Snape were hatching the plan, now that the thing was looming, she was unsure if she had made the right decision.

The Order hadn't heard from Harry Potter since he, Ronald and Hermione had embarked on whatever quest Albus had set them on. When Ron had suddenly reappeared at the Burrow, he reported glumly that he thought Harry wasn't making much progress. Everyone was worried, but there was nothing to do but watch and wait.

Given this state of affairs, Minerva didn't know how much information...or rather, misinformation...she could feed to Voldemort via Snape's memories. Anything she said was just as likely to be true as untrue.

In the absence of any direct way to mislead the Dark Lord, she and Snape had agreed that their scenarios should at least be arranged to provide maximum distraction. To that end, they had decided that they would not establish a regular schedule; he would alert her when he believed the time to be advantageous to their side. Of course, this added an element of uncertainty to what was already a difficult task, but if they were going to go through with it, she thought, they should make it count. She had to believe it would make a difference.

As she paced her sitting room later that day, she allowed herself to think about Albus for the first time since her meeting with Snape.

What would he have thought of what she was about to do? How would he have counseled her? She wondered then if Snape had discussed the plan with Albus' portrait. Very likely, she decided. The portraits were created and bound by magic to provide the current Head with the wisdom of his or her predecessors.

Albus had always been steadfast in his belief that Snape's position as a spy must not be compromised. Her husband had, in effect, given his life for that belief. It was almost a certainty that the portrait-Albus had urged Snape to do as Voldemort demanded.

All at once she was furious. Albus had abandoned her twice: first when he allowed...no, forced...Severus to end his life, leaving her to face the Dark without her partner and helpmeet; and again now, this time to endure the violation of her body at the hands of the man who, however unwillingly, had ripped him from her life.

How could he? she thought, angry tears forming in her eyes. How could a husband simply pass his wife's body on to the next man like a cloak he no longer needed; a body he had loved and protected, warmed when it was cold, soothed when it ached, enjoyed with his own?

She knew that the portraits were only imprints of their subjects. They were imbued with memory of the wisdom and experience the Heads had had in life, and this gave them a façade of their living personalities, but no more. They were without souls and did not love. Nevertheless, Minerva could not help being furious with the portrait of her dead husband.

Against her will, tears began to spill from her eyes .

She rubbed her sleeve over her face roughly. Of course, the living Albus Dumbledore never shied away from sacrifice...his own or others', she thought bitterly.

"Stop it now, Minerva Sigrid Aithne McGonagall," she told herself aloud in her well-practiced schoolmarm voice. Speculation in the absence of evidence leads to faulty conclusions, she thought, recalling a favorite saying of her father's. Thorfinn had been a supremely rational man, and she needed his analytical detachment now more than she ever had.

She looked at the clock. Twenty minutes to six. She had only twenty minutes until she would what find out what she was made of.

Help me, Da, I'm not sure I can do this, she pleaded silently.

She needed a distraction, she decided. Then she smiled glumly. Minerva, my girl, you might well consider how Russell's paradox applies, she thought, echoing in her head her father's manner of speaking.

It was twelve minutes to six.

/***/

Severus Snape sat at the massive, claw-footed desk, unmoving. Anyone who happened into the Headmaster's office just then would have assumed the man was under the influence of an Immobulus Charm, so still and unblinking was he.

However, the wizard was not enchanted. He had been sitting for the past ten minutes trying to clear his mind and calm his body in preparation for the evening's undertaking.

He was not entirely successful.

Snape rose from the Headmaster's chair to prepare the room for the task at hand. His voice pierced the silence:

"I have a request."

The portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black spoke for the group of paintings that lined the walls of the office. "Yes, Headmaster Snape, how may we be of service?"

"I would like you all to leave this room for at least an hour. You all have portraits elsewhere that you can visit, I believe?" Snape asked evenly.

"How tedious," Phineas Nigellus replied. "My only other portrait has been removed from the house of Black and now resides in a dingy container being transported I don't know where. It is most unpleasant to be tucked away in the dark, you know."

"My apologies for any inconvenience," Snape replied, "but it is necessary. I am expecting a guest this evening and do not wish to be disturbed."

"Do not wish to be observed, you mean," grumbled the painted former Headmaster.

"Quite," said Snape dryly.

"Young man, we all know who your guest is to be and what is to happen this evening," said the portrait irritably. "I don't see why we must all leave the comfort of our portraits here when you will be entertaining your guest in your private quarters."

"I intend to meet with my guest here," Snape replied calmly.

"Good Gods! Surely you don't mean to..."

"Yes, well, I think we can all certainly manage to provide Headmaster Snape with some privacy for one evening," interrupted the portrait of Armando Dippet. "Come, Phineas. Gentlemen... and ladies," he added, nodding toward the pictures of Dilys Derwent, Heliotrope Wilkins, Phyllida Spore, and Eoessa Sakndenburg, "let us 'shove off,' as the children say."

"Thank you, Headmaster Dippet," said Severus.

He watched the portraits disappear, Black muttering to himself, "Outrageous, completely inappropriate..." as he went.

Dumbledore's portrait was already gone, Severus noted.

He removed his wand from his robes then approached the now-empty portraits one by one. "Dissoludio," he murmured, casting a charm on each, rendering the paintings' backgrounds blurred and out-of-focus. He doubted any of the portraits would attempt to sneak back into the room, but he intended to take no chances.

He and Minerva had decided that their meetings...as each referred to them...would take place in the Headmaster's office rather than in Snape's private quarters. For his part, Snape did not wish to introduce anything that would make their activities feel more personal. Although she hadn't said so to Severus, Minerva didn't want to carry out their scenarios in the bedroom she had sometimes shared with Albus, no matter how changed it might be from the time her husband was in residence.

Once the Disillusionment charms had been set, Snape began to feel uneasy again. He decided to do what he did on the rare occasions his powers of self-control threatened to fail him. He held his wand aloft, and said, "Sonus."

Woodwinds began to sound, andante and pianissimo, soon joined by the trombones, then the strings, combining in shimmering harmony and growing steadily in force and majesty. Severus began to forget himself and his predicament.

As the Pilgrims' Hymn gave way to the leaping strings, flutes and oboes of the Venusberg, Severus was far away, in an entirely different magical world...an intoxicating one that had been dreamt by Muggles.

He didn't hear the knock at the door.