Chapter Six

Minerva sat alone in the Gryffindor girls' dormitory, grateful for the silence. She had intended to practise emptying her mind, as Professor Dumbledore had instructed, but too many thoughts and feelings were bubbling too near the surface of her consciousness to allow her to concentrate on anything, much less on nothing at all.

She kept replaying the day's lesson in her memory: specifically, the moment when Professor Dumbledore had run his thumb over her hand. She had not been able to help her reaction, and she knew the professor had noticed it. Had it happened even a week ago, her primary feeling would have been one of embarrassment; however, something had changed, and now her feelings were much less predetermined.

She had realised some time ago that she had what she told herself was a schoolgirl crush on her teacher. She had accepted it, as she was nothing if not rational, and reason told her it was not surprising, given the time and care Professor Dumbledore habitually bestowed on her, as well as his courtly behaviour and their shared interests. She knew from listening to her housemates that such attachments were far from uncommon. Until recently, it had not caused her much difficulty in her interactions with him. She had analysed it intellectually and decided that it would wane, as she knew these things normally did, or would soon be replaced with another affection for a more suitable object. In the meantime, she would just carry on as if her feelings were no different than they were for any of her other teachers. Or maybe just a little different; he was her favourite professor, after all, and he had become her mentor.

There were two new factors, however, that threatened her ability to manage this . . . situation rationally. The first was her newfound recognition of her physical attraction to him. She had been aware of her burgeoning sexuality since she was fourteen; this had first manifested itself in dreams in which things happened to her body, things she couldn't quite define but that she enjoyed, and she awoke from them feeling slightly empty, as if something she desperately wanted was just outside her reach. She had also found herself fantasising about things she had read, and about someone doing those things...and more...to her, but never in her dreams or her fantasies had the someone taken recognisable, specific form.

It was several months after this awakening began that she had discovered that she could touch herself in ways that would assuage for a time the peculiar ache the dreams and fantasies caused in her centre. She knew quite a bit more about human biology than did most of her peers, and she was neither especially upset about the feelings she had been having nor ashamed of the way she had found to satisfy them. She knew other girls in her dormitory did the same; she could occasionally hear them moaning and sighing in a way she recognised from her own explorations. Dormitory life afforded little privacy, and she was also aware of at least two girls who had apparently found ways to satisfy themselves with one another. She was not shocked at this, but she was curious about it. Did they do this simply because it was another way to orgasm or because they harboured those kinds of feelings specifically for each other? She asked herself if she would welcome such an opportunity to expand her access to sexual gratification and decided she wouldn't. So perhaps Agnes Crouch and Regan Robards did indeed desire one another specifically.

She recognised now that she desired Albus Dumbledore...specifically. Which brought her to the second new factor: she believed that he desired her too. The caress that very afternoon, coupled with the strange, quiet thickness of his voice when he had told her to open her eyes suggested it, as had the look on his face when she opened them. His momentary inability to look her in the eye seemed to her as telling as any blush of her own. As she thought about the afternoon...about him...her hand crept down to the secret place between her legs. For the first time, she allowed herself to imagine that the fingers that stroked her flesh were his, that the digits that slipped inside her were him. She allowed herself to want him...specifically...as she touched herself, and to imagine that he wanted her the same way. She thought of the way he now said her name, her given name, and imagined him calling it out in the heat of passion. She allowed herself for the first time to call his name as she came, once more glad she was alone in her dormitory.

As her breath slowed and her heart regained its normal rhythm, she realised she didn't know whether or not his desire was specific to her or not. She had to admit it was possible he was simply attracted to her because she was a young, pretty female, although she had never heard a whisper of gossip about him, as she had about other men of her acquaintance. She didn't know if his attraction was general or because she was Minerva McGonagall, specifically.

No, she didn't know, but she meant to find out.

/***/

Albus glanced at the clock on the wall. Most of the staff, and many students, thought it was a silly affectation, his liking for the Muggle artefact, but he found clocks, watches, and timepieces of all sorts an ingenious solution to a problem and felt they had a magic all their own. Moreover, he found that the presence of familiar Muggle objects in the classroom helped put some of the Muggle-born students more at ease. There was so much that was foreign to these students in their first weeks at Hogwarts that they would instinctively seek out familiar comforts of a world Albus knew most of them were about to leave behind forever. He was a legendarily kind man, and as such was happy to provide whatever comfort he could.

In fifteen minutes, he thought, Minerva would be in his office, expecting him to teach her. Expecting him to stay in control of events that took place in that room. Expecting him to care for her, but not too much. The first two he could manage; it was the third that was proving troublesome. Placing boundaries around one's actions was one thing, erecting them around one's feelings quite another. Occlumency was no help in hiding one's thoughts and feelings from oneself, not that Albus was a man especially inclined to try. However, this was an entirely new and uncomfortable experience for him.

Albus Dumbledore was an experienced observer of people and was well-versed in teasing out the unspoken meanings behind words and actions. He didn't need Legilimency to know that Minerva harboured feelings for him just underneath the surface control she was obviously working very hard to maintain. He would not permit himself to take advantage of those feelings simply because he happened to have some very specific and inappropriate feelings of his own. He would not tell himself that she was eighteen, technically an adult, and a mature eighteen at that. He would not think about the way she blushed or the sound of her gasp when he had caressed her hand. He would not think about the way she teased and bantered with him or how they seemed to have developed a secret language of their own. He would not think of these things, he decided.

It was not too late, he reasoned; after all, the caress had only been a momentary lapse, and not a serious one. He need not apologise, or even mention it at all, he thought. He would simply not repeat it. He would teach her. And he would not touch her.

His resolve lasted until he found her crying in a corridor after the Christmas feast.

Their lesson had gone as smoothly as he could have hoped. They discussed more Animagus theory, and he introduced her to a new exercise. He did not take her hands or lay his on her in any way. And if she looked at him more intensely than she had in the past, he tried not to notice it. At the end of it, he had said, "You did well today, Miss McGonagall. I think you deserve a rest tomorrow, as it is Christmas, and perhaps on Boxing Day as well."

She noticed he had reverted to calling her "Miss McGonagall".

"We can still meet if you like, Professor; I don't mind," she said.

"Well, I for one, intend to be nursing a hangover on Boxing Day. Headmaster Dippet is always most generous with Hogwarts' private mead at the Christmas feast." He winked at her. "I will see you there tomorrow evening, I trust?"

"Yes, sir." Would he not be at meals until then?

As happened so often, he seemed to know what she was thinking. "I have some visits to pay this evening and tomorrow, so I will be away from the castle until the feast."

"Until tomorrow evening, then," she replied.

"Until tomorrow evening, my dear."

He didn't see her again until the feast. He sat several seats away from her, and she appeared to be conversing happily with the students who sat near her...even, to his slight dismay, Tom Riddle, who had occupied what Albus had come to think of as his perch next to Minerva...and had politely accepted the glass of mead the Headmaster had offered to the three seventh-years at table.

In truth, however, Minerva was melancholy. She was surprised at how much she missed being with her family at Christmas. She knew they were all there at Castle Isleif: her father, Einar, and her grandmother, enjoying smoked salmon and some of the glorious champagne her father had brought back from his last trip to France before the occupation. They would be opening gifts and Christmas crackers, and after dessert they would sing Christmas songs, and her father would read from Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol, which had been a family tradition since her earliest memory of childhood.

After dessert, and after the staff had enjoyed another round of mead, Minerva excused herself from the table. She was tired of keeping up the appearance of festivity, and she was irritated that Professor Dumbledore, whom she had not seen since her lesson the previous afternoon, appeared to be ignoring her. He had kissed the cheeks of several other students...and Professor Merrythought...when wishing them a happy Christmas, but he had spared her only the barest nod of his head and a quiet, "And to you, as well," when she had wished him the joy of the season.

She had gotten out the door and down the corridor when a hand caught her arm.

"Minerva, didn't you hear me call you?" asked Tom Riddle.

"I'm sorry, Tom, I didn't," she said.

"I tried to catch you before you left the feast, but you hurried out so fast, I didn't have a chance," Tom said. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Oh, Tom. I'm just so tired. Maybe another time."

"But another time won't be Christmas," he replied, giving her his grin. "And I have a present for you, Minerva."

She was taken aback. "A gift, Tom? That's very thoughtful, I'm sure, but I'm afraid I haven't anything for you."

"That's all right. This is just something I happened to see, and it reminded me of you," he said, taking a small box from his pocket. "Happy Christmas, Minerva," he said, holding it out to her.

She took it...reluctantly...and opened the ribbon. The box then unwrapped itself, and the top opened to reveal a silver necklace with a delicately wrought pendant in the shape of a dragon, its tail curling around to meet its mouth. She looked up at him questioningly.

"It's a Norse dragon...Jormungand, I think the man said...it's very old. It reminded me of you because of its Viking origin and because you can be as strong and fierce as a dragon. And you fly like one on the Quidditch pitch." He grinned at her again. "And it's very beautiful, like you." He reached out a finger to caress her cheek.

She pulled back immediately, saying, "I can't possibly accept this, Tom. It's too much, it's too . . ." She trailed off.

"What?"

"Too personal. I'm not sure what you want from me, but I can't be with you. I can't . . . love you. I'm sorry," she said, holding the box out to him.

"You haven't given me a chance yet, Minerva," he answered, ignoring the proffered box. "I could make you happy, I know I could." He frowned. That sounded suspiciously like begging to his ears, and he hated it.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "Please, I can't take this," she said, offering the box again. He took it this time.

"I guess everyone was right," he said, sighing. "They told me I wouldn't be able to melt your heart. You're like some beautiful statue, Minerva. So perfect, so serene. I thought I could bring you to life. I was wrong. I'm sorry," he said, sounding so sincere, so regretful. He gave her a wan smile, then turned and walked away.

Minerva stood rooted to the spot. She was angry. Angry with Tom, who had ambushed her and had surely meant to wound her with his parting words...his false ruefulness didn't fool her. And angry with herself because she did feel wounded. She knew many of her classmates found her cold. She was polite and cordial to everyone, and nobody could claim she wasn't kind, but she was not effusive with her emotions. She was quiet and thoughtful, and in truth, she found she had little in common with most of her peers. She had made some friends based on her enjoyment of and prowess at Quidditch, but having just resigned from the Gryffindor team, she was afraid even those friendships were about to wane. Even her father, before she had left for Hogwarts her first year, had advised her not to be "too hard" on her peers, but she couldn't help it if she found most of them tedious. She tried not to let it show, but pretence had never been her strong suit.

All at once, she felt terribly lonely. She normally enjoyed her solitude, but the combination of the holiday, Tom's remarks, and the fact that the one person at Hogwarts she had always been able to connect with seemed to be ignoring her suddenly came together to envelop her in caul of misery. She could not prevent the tears that had been standing at the periphery of her vision from falling. She went over to a bench in the corridor, sat down, buried her face in her hands, and cried.

Five minutes later, she heard Professor Dumbledore's warm, familiar bass-baritone. "Why, Minerva! Whatever is the matter, my dear?"

She looked up to see him standing over her, his eyes full of questioning concern. He had been her teacher and Head of House for the past six years, and he had never seen her cry.

Hearing his voice and his use of her first name once again made her tears come faster and harder. He sat down next to her, and despite his earlier vow to himself, put his arms around her shoulders, letting her weep against his own. There could be no harm in comforting her, after all. It was expected, wasn't it?

He murmured, "There now, shh . . ." several times, his hand making small circles on her back, and as the storm gradually passed, he fished in his pocket to proffer a handkerchief for her to wipe her eyes and nose. After she had done so, he asked, "Would you like to tell me what's troubling you, Minerva?"

"I'm sorry, Professor," she said. "I'm just . . . it's just the holidays, I think. Just feeling homesick."

"I see. And Mr Riddle wouldn't have anything to do with it?"

She looked up at him, surprised.

"I saw him follow you out of the Great Hall. I simply used Ockham's razor to make a deduction," he said, smiling at her.

She managed a small smile back at him. He was speaking their almost-private language.

"He wanted to give me a present. I wouldn't take it, he said . . . some things," she told him.

"What things?"

"He implied I was cold, like a statue," she said.

"That was wrong of him."

"I'm an icicle," she continued bitterly. "At least, that's what everyone thinks. After all, I keep turning down the ever-charming Tom Riddle."

"I don't think you're an icicle," said Albus softly. She looked at him, and he back at her, with the tears drying on her cheeks. It seemed to Minerva that it took an eternity for him to move his head toward hers. She was trembling, sure he was going to kiss her, and she turned her face upward to him, her lips slightly parted. Instead, he hesitated less than an inch from her mouth, then took her head in his hands, bent it gently down, and kissed the top of her head.

"Come, I'll walk you back to Gryffindor Tower," he said, taking her hand.