Chapter Seven

Everything was the same, and yet, everything was different. That's how it felt to Minerva, anyway. They carried on as if nothing had happened, as if no spark had been lit between them Christmas night in the corridor outside the Great Hall. They recommenced their lessons on 27 December, and there was no acknowledgement of what was growing between them. Yet each of them was keenly aware of it, and each knew that the other felt it too. It was the proverbial Thestral in the middle of the room, and they tiptoed around it, pretending to each other, if not to themselves, not to see.

Albus had promised himself he would not allow himself to be too close to her physically again, as it had become painfully obvious to him that, despite his age, despite his power, he was not fully in control of himself when she was near. He had considered calling a halt to their private lessons, but he knew how hurtful that would be to her. If their attraction to one another impeded her development as a witch, it would be grossly unfair and his fault, he reasoned. He was the adult, and it was up to him to manage the situation appropriately. Moreover, he knew any excuse he could give for discontinuing their lessons would be transparent to her and would serve only to bring the thing out into the open. If that were to happen, he believed that what little control he currently exercised over the situation would fly away. She would fight him, and he wasn't sure he could win that kind of battle with her. But above all, he could not bear to hurt her.

For her part, Minerva understood as well as he did the meaning behind the additional space that now appeared between the chairs in his office, and the fact that he rarely sat facing her anymore. She hated that he no longer felt comfortable being close to her, but she relished what it meant. She was more determined than ever to make him declare openly that he loved her (if he did), or that he wanted her (which she knew), but she didn't know how to go about it. She hadn't much experience to go on, and she was, by nature, direct. She had never had much use for coyness or slyness before, and she wasn't certain those would be the best tools to use now, but she didn't think directness was the best approach either. The stakes were too high not to have a way out, a way to claim it was all a misunderstanding. She did not want to risk losing his respect or his friendship, however strained it might be at the moment.

In the end, she settled for a hybrid approach. She would create the opportunity but leave it to him to make the conclusive move. She would have to be bold, but not too forward. Direct, but subtly so. A walking contradiction, in other words. She approached it like a chess game, trying to anticipate all possible results of each move she could make.

The day before Hogmanay, she went into Hogsmeade. It was her privilege as a seventh-year and Head Girl to come and go as she pleased, provided she let her Head of House know when and where she was going, which she dutifully did.

Which was why, if anyone who knew Minerva had seen her go into Tipplethwaite's Fine Spirits, they would have been utterly astonished. It was not, strictly speaking, forbidden for students to go into the shop, but in practice, few did. First, it was impossible for anyone under age seventeen to get past the Age Line that had been drawn at the shop's door. Second, true to its name, the shop specialised in quality wines and spirits rather than the cheap Firewhisky and ale most students inclined to the enticements of drink could afford.

"Do you carry any Muggle spirits?" Minerva enquired of the proprietress.

Georgiana Tipplethwaite looked the girl up and down, as if trying to decide if she should accept her custom. She was clearly a student, although the way she carried herself and looked the shopkeeper right in the eye suggested she was not up to any mischief.

After a moment, Madam Tipplethwaite answered gruffly, "In the corner, next to the mead section."

"Thank you," replied Minerva, ignoring the woman's tone.

There was indeed a small selection of Muggle wines and stronger spirits, and although the selection of Scotch whisky was small, Minerva was able to find something suitable for her purpose. She paid the outrageous (to her very Scottish sensibilities) sum for the bottle, and tucked it into her bag. Once outside the shop, she took the precaution of Transfiguring the label to read "Cadwallader's Best Gillywater". She briefly considered changing the colour of the liquid inside to resemble Gillywater more closely but thought the better of it. She wouldn't want to affect the quality of the Scotch, and in any event, nobody was likely to see the bottle until she was ready to use it.

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New Year's Eve was not typically an event of great celebration at Hogwarts. Most of the staff and students would not return until 2 January, and classes would not begin until the following day. Minerva knew that some of the staff typically went to the Three Broomsticks to ring in the new year and that the Headmaster and his deputy were not usually among them.

She spent the day in nervous anticipation, although she did nothing to alert Professor Dumbledore to her state during their afternoon lesson. After dinner in the Great Hall, she treated herself to a long soak in the prefects' bath, then settled down with a book to wait. At 11:40, she closed the book and went to her trunk. She withdrew not her usual flannel nightdress but a white batiste gown with long sleeves and a slightly scooped neckline trimmed with eyelet lace and held closed at the top with a satin ribbon. It had been a gift from her grandmother when she began her seventh year at Hogwarts. "You should have something prettier than old flannel, now you're grown," her gran had said, but Minerva almost never wore it. It was pretty, she thought, and although she had inwardly rolled her eyes at her grandmother, she was happy to have something more feminine and grown-up for this occasion.

She put on the gown and her normal cotton tartan dressing gown, then went to the vanity that the girls in her dorm shared and brushed her hair until it shone. She had taken out the green ribbon that normally held it back, and it now flowed in ebony waves over her shoulders and down to the middle of her back.

She donned her slippers and took the bottle of Scotch from its hiding place in her trunk. Transfiguring the label back to its original state, she put it in a small cotton bag with a tin of shortbread. She was half tempted to open the bottle and take a few swigs to steel her nerves, but she resisted. It wouldn't do to have Professor Dumbledore think she was a closet souse.

Just before midnight, she slipped out of the portrait-hole...ignoring the Fat Lady's raised eyebrow...and padded down the corridor toward her Head of House's quarters. When she arrived at his door, she hesitated for a minute, gathering her courage, which was threatening to desert her. She forced herself to knock on the door firmly. Nobody answered for a minute, and she was afraid she had miscalculated and that he had gone out after all, but just as she was about to give up, the door opened to reveal a surprised Professor Dumbledore, still fully dressed in purple robes.

For just a moment, she forgot what she had planned to say. He began, "Minerva, my dear! What are..."

"I've come first-footing. Of course it's bad luck for the first-foot to be a woman, but I am tall and dark-haired, and I bring offerings," she said, pulling out the bottle of Scotch.

It was the first time she had ever seen him at a loss for words. He stood with his mouth agape for a moment before recovering his wits. She was afraid he was going to scold her and send her away, but he relieved her by emitting a low laugh.

He said, "Of course. I should have remembered Hogmanay."

He stood aside and gestured her in. She did not fail to notice how his eyes darted around the corridor, making sure nobody was around to see her enter his quarters.

"You realise, of course, that this is somewhat foolhardy, Miss McGonagall," he admonished gently as she glided past him into his sitting room. "People might take the impression that..."

"I know. It's just that I couldn't bear not celebrating Hogmanay, and I couldn't think of anyone else I'd like to celebrate with," she said, looking him in the eye.

"You mean there's nobody else up at this hour."

"No, I meant exactly what I said."

There was a moment of silence. This was unexpected. And dangerous, he knew, and he realised she knew it too. There was perhaps more Slytherin in her than he had at first believed.

"Well, perhaps one toast to the new year is in order, as you've gone to the trouble of bringing provisions," he said, Summoning a pair of glasses from the cabinet at the side of the room.

"Aye, and I have more," she said, producing the tin of shortbread. "A bit of biscuit, and," she said, withdrawing a piece of shortbread, "a lump of coal are traditional." She withdrew her wand and Transfigured the shortbread into coal. She was rewarded with a smile from her professor. "If I may?" she continued, walking to the fireplace.

"Of course," he answered, amusement dancing across his features.

She tossed the coal into the fire, then turned back at him. "May your hearth never grow cold," she said, looking at him, a slightly insouciant smile on her face.

Very dangerous indeed, he thought. She knows precisely what she's doing. He decided to play things straight.

"Shall I pour?" he asked, taking the bottle from the side table where she had laid it.

"Please."

"Glenmorangie, very nice," he remarked as he opened the bottle.

"Not as nice as what my da usually has, but it'll do," she said and immediately regretted it. Mentioning her father at this point was incredibly indelicate. "Do you like Scotch whisky?" she asked quickly to cover her blunder.

"When it's as fine as this," he said, pouring two fingers in one glass and three in the other. When he handed her the glass with the smaller amount, she raised her eyebrow.

"Afraid I can't hold my liquor?" she asked.

He simply smiled and said, "To the new year," lifting his glass.

"A guid new year to ane an' a' mony may ye see," she answered, and they both drank.

She shivered and asked, "Could we sit by the fire for a few minutes? I'm a bit cold."

"Of course, my dear," he answered, and they sat on a small sofa facing the fire.

She felt his closeness, and despite the chill she had just felt, her skin suddenly felt very warm and flushed.

They said nothing for a few minutes, just sat and drank the whisky. She felt its warmth begin to permeate her belly and course through her veins. When he finished his drink, she thought he was about to send her back to her dormitory.

It's now or never, she thought, and emboldened by the drink, she leant against him, putting her head against his shoulder.

"This is lovely," she said.

"Minerva . . ."

"Yes?" she said, lifting her head.

He knew what he needed to do. He needed to stand up, force her to stand, and gently but firmly steer her out of his quarters and back to the safety of her dormitory. He needed to remember who he was and who she was and why this was all wrong. And that was surely what he meant to do. Surely, when he took her by the shoulders, he meant to push her away, to tell her in no uncertain terms that she was a child and needed to forget about her girlish fantasies; surely, he meant do to these very responsible and correct things.

Instead, somehow, he felt himself pull her toward him and lower his mouth to meet hers. He tasted her breath, sweetened by the whisky, and felt the pliancy of her slightly parted lips. He felt his tongue move, tentatively at first, then more forcefully against them and into her mouth, and he felt her tongue answer. He felt himself press his mouth more insistently against hers, felt her arms snake around his neck, pulling him even closer. He sucked her lower lip into his mouth and ran his tongue over it, eliciting a moan from her.

He was kissing her, and it was a whole new kind of magic to her. She had been kissed before, but never by a grown man who knew what to do, nor by someone she loved and wanted. This was no exercise, as those past kisses had seemed, but something elemental and vital. She wanted to taste him forever, press him ever closer.

Suddenly, he broke the kiss. She pressed her head toward him, hungry for more of his mouth, but he held her by the upper arms.

"Minerva, stop. Minerva . . . please, stop."

She sat back a bit, looking at him questioningly.

"We cannot do this," he said.

"I thought we already were," she said, smiling at him.

"Minerva, you know what I mean."

She sighed. "I don't see what the problem is, if you want it and I want it."

"You don't see the problem?"

"No."

"The problem, my dear," he said, "is that I am your teacher. And you are eighteen."

"You were my teacher a minute ago, and I was eighteen. And you enjoyed kissing me," she said, trying to keep the note of accusation from her voice.

"Yes," he admitted. "But I shouldn't have. And I am so very sorry, Minerva."

"Why? I'm not."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. This is all my fault..."

"How, exactly, is it your fault that I threw myself at you?" she exploded, suddenly angry. "That I came here with the intention of seducing you? Please do me the courtesy of giving me proper credit, Professor. I am perfectly capable of making my own mistakes, sir." He was trying to deprive her of agency in this, and it made her furious as few other slights could.

He let her glare at him for a few moments. All at once, her anger seemed to evaporate. "But I don't think it was a mistake," she said softly.

"Perhaps not a mistake, exactly," he allowed. "But a one-time event. This cannot happen again, Minerva. It will not. I would like to remain your teacher, and I cannot do that if I become your lover. And I think, at this point, it is far more important that you learn magic from me rather than . . . the other things you seem to think I have to offer you. If you would like to continue to learn from me, I need your promise that you will put this out of your mind."

"I don't think I can," she said.

"Minerva, we cannot go back to the way things were before this happened, but we can put it behind us and move on from here. I will always cherish the kiss because you gave it freely and with the most flattering of intentions. But it will be the last. I hope you understand that," he said.

She nodded, not looking at him.

"Now I think it's time you got back to your dormitory."

They rose, and he saw her to the door.

"Goodnight, my dear." She stood in the doorway for a moment, then turned and walked down the corridor. He watched her go, then closed the door, leaning his head against it for a few seconds to catch his bearings.

As he crossed the sitting room to his bedroom, he spied the Scotch bottle sitting on the side table like a silent accusation. He entered his bedroom, stripped off his robes, and went into the bathroom.

He took the first cold shower he had had since his twenties, feeling each stinging jet of frigid water hit his body like a scourge.