Chapter Eleven

Albus sat in the Great Hall, not really listening as Headmaster Dippet welcomed the students back to Hogwarts for the new term. He was thinking instead of how he might find more time in his already-busy days to see Minerva. He would see her during N.E.W.T. classes...which promised to be a torturous exercise for both of them...and at their semi-weekly Animagus lessons, but he had a sneaking suspicion that these officially sanctioned meetings would not be enough for either of them.

It really was quite unnerving, he thought, how easily he had slipped over the precipice from distraction to obsession. The previous evening, when he had gone straight from Minerva to his meeting with the Headmaster, he had been unable to concentrate on the discussion at hand...how to transition Rubeus Hagrid from disgraced student to apprentice groundskeeper...thanks to the images and memories that kept leaping insistently into his mind.

Armando, who, for all his bonhomie and astute sense for the internecine politics of school governance, was not the most observant of men, had noticed his Deputy's unwonted inattentiveness.

"I say, Albus, are you quite all right?" he had asked the second time Dumbledore had not answered a question put to him.

"I beg your pardon, Armando?"

"You seem to be somewhere else today. Is all well with you? I noticed you weren't at breakfast this morning."

Dippet seemed just touch annoyed.

"I am sorry," said Albus. "I'm afraid I was up rather late last night; I ran into a bit of difficulty in reviewing an article on Elemental Transfiguration and had to reacquaint myself with Gamp's theories."

"Really?" Dippet had asked, not convinced that Albus Dumbledore would have any trouble remembering anything having to do with Hieronymus Gamp, on whose work the Transfiguration master was the author of several book chapters. Too late, Albus realised that it was a stupid, transparent falsehood.

Albus had said, "What was it you asked me when I went so rudely woolgathering, Armando?" hoping to change the subject.

"Just whether you had given any thought to how we might answer the concerns of parents who believe young Hagrid to be a danger."

They had continued the discussion right up until it was time for dinner, and Albus had been careful to keep his mind on the conversation and out of his private quarters.

Now, as he looked out over the sea of newly returned students, he allowed his eyes to rest for just a moment on Minerva, who was seated safely back at the Gryffindor table, far from him, and, Albus noted with relief, even farther from Tom Riddle, who had taken his normal place surrounded by admirers at the Slytherin table. It was a useful exercise, he told himself, to regard her in public without thinking of her in a more private context. He was not entirely successful, however. As she tossed her head back to laugh...unusually...at something one of her tablemates had said, he was unable to prevent the image of her hovering over him, head thrown back in ecstasy, from crowding out everything else for a few moments.

When he returned to his quarters, he considered moving his memories of the past two days to his Pensieve. While it would not remove them entirely from his mind, they would be less available at the surface of his consciousness, and thus less likely to leap into his thoughts unbidden. But he rejected the idea, not quite ready to dispatch them just yet. Truth be told, he enjoyed the tiny frisson of pleasure mixed with guilt that arose in him whenever a memory of making love to Minerva popped into his head.

He thought also about what she had said about having no use for traditional courting. He had no doubt this was so, yet he yearned to do something that would feel normal. Something he might do if their situation were not so impossible. They could not share meals in a public place nor take long strolls around the lake hand in hand. It would need to be something private. The germ of an idea began to form in his head. He crossed to a bookshelf and searched for a few moments before he found the book he wanted and pulled it from the shelf.

/***/

Minerva yawned. She had gotten too little sleep of late, especially the past night...not that she was complaining...and decided to head to bed earlier than usual.

When she had changed to her nightclothes and went to turn down her bed, she saw a small volume in red leather lying on her pillow. She frowned. She didn't remember leaving a book on the bed, and besides, this one looked unfamiliar to her. She read the title: The Shapeshifter's Code of Ministry Regulations: 1735-1935.

Ugh! She hoped it wasn't part of her next assignment for Professor Dumbledore.

She picked it up, intending to browse through it before going to sleep, and settled into her bed to read. When she opened the book, however, a curious thing happened. The title page began to empty of its print, and in its place, florid, purple-inked script began to appear. It read:

My sweet Minerva,

~ A

She read the note through three times, her smile broadening a little each time. She pulled the bed curtains around her, lest any of the other girls wander in, and lit her wand tip, charming it to hover just over the book so she could see. She opened the volume to the first entry:

Come, then, and mounted on the wings of Love

Thomas Carew, "A Rapture" (20-54)

The naked eroticism of the poem sent waves of longing through her. How she wanted him right at that moment! He had to have known the effect the poem would have on her, she thought. She fell asleep thinking of the ways she could show him what reading it had done to her the next time they were together.

They managed to get through class the next day without incident. If anyone noticed that Professor Dumbledore no longer came close to his star pupil to examine her work or correct an error, nobody remarked on it. Minerva managed to keep her thoughts away from dangerous waters by employing some of the mind-clearing exercises she had learnt during their Animagus lessons. It didn't matter much that she also missed much of the class discussion that way; she knew most of the material already, anyway.

They were not quite so successful at their private lesson. They had the best of intentions, they really did. But she made the mistake of mentioning his gift right off, and that was all it took. Before long, she was clawing at his robes, and he was pulling her toward his private quarters. When they were finished, rather than showering, he merely Scourgified both of them, in the interest of time.

"We really should get back to your lesson," he said.

"I know. I'm sorry, I just couldn't wait."

"Don't be sorry, I'm happy my little folly had the desired effect," he said.

"So you did send me that poem just to get me all hot and bothered?"

"No, although I will admit I had hoped that might be a delicious side-effect. I sent it because it came into my head when I thought of you, and I wanted you to know."

"I loved it, thank you," she said, caressing his face with her palm.

"Are you familiar with the poem?" he enquired.

"No, not at all."

"You should read the rest of it. I only included the most . . . pertinent section, but the remainder of it is quite startlingly erotic, even for a Petrarchan poet," he advised, ever the teacher.

"Only if you'll read it with me," she answered.

He smiled at her. "That, my dear Miss McGonagall, would be my pleasure." He kissed her again and said, "Now, the lesson . . ."

"Oh, all right," she said, getting out of his bed.

They did manage to do forty-five minutes of proper tutoring that day. As she was preparing to leave, he said, "In future, we really should not neglect your lessons in favour of other activities, tempting as they may be."

"I know," she said, slightly chastened.

"I've been looking at my schedule to see if there is any additional time we might spend together," he said, and her heart jumped. "I may be able to clear Thursday evenings after dinner, if you would be amenable to meeting then."

"Of course!" She would have to give up the wizard chess club, but she didn't give it a second thought.

"I thought perhaps we could then reserve your Tuesday and Saturday lessons for . . . well, lessons. And Thursdays we would spend together as . . ." he stopped, uncharacteristically shy of putting a name to things.

"Friends? Lovers?" she prompted.

"Either. Both."

"We are both, then?"

"Of course. I'm not a man who takes lovers of convenience, Minerva," he said, suddenly grave.

"I know that," she said. She, of course, did not yet know what kind of woman she was with regard to lovers, but she would find out in due course.

"Good. Now, off you go," he said, handing her the two books he had assigned for the week.

And so it was that Albus and Minerva continued her Animagus training. On Tuesdays and Saturdays, he taught her about transformation, and on Thursday evenings, he taught her about pleasure. She was an exemplary student of both disciplines.