LXXVII: Impulse

LXXVII: Impulse

Albus returned to his bed, but not to sleep. Despite having been on the verge of falling asleep standing up while speaking with Minerva, as soon as he lay down, he was distracted by a roiling ball of nervous tension that had taken up residence in his stomach. He was able to subdue and then dismiss the nervous tension, but not its cause. What had he been thinking? Obviously, he hadn't been. He had acted on impulse. Fortunately for him, the level of ease between him and Minerva had grown over the past few weeks, and she hadn't expressed any offense taken at his excessive display of affection, though she had raised her hand between them. At least she had only held him at a distance and not felt compelled to push him away, he thought. It was good that she was fond of him . . . and a relief, as well, to realise that she still was, after his fears for their relationship earlier in the day.

After Minerva had left him earlier in the evening to attend the small gathering in Hafrena's tower rooms, Albus had taken a walk, very relieved to learn that the reason for Minerva's apparent distance that morning had been her own bad mood and some misunderstanding about something he and Gertrude had been discussing in the staff room. After his brief stroll, he returned to his office to attempt to work through some of what he had neglected that day in order to keep Gertrude company. Albus now recognised that he should have had Gertrude help him with it; she likely would have preferred that to the rather aimless shape her day took, and it was, after all, the reason that she had returned to Hogwarts rather than going to Amsterdam to be with her son and daughter-in-law. Better yet, he should have insisted on making her a Portkey to Robert's and had her leave immediately. He had offered, but she had declined. Of course, at the time she had declined the offer, she had thought she was going to have a busy day of work, not one in which she would have to try to humour him in his attempts to cheer her up.

Albus did manage to get through some of the less pressing matters that had been accumulating on his desk, but he was unable to concentrate well enough to deal with any of the more complicated documents and requests, so had left them for the next day and retired to his suite for the evening. Despite his discipline, his mind kept returning to the conversation he had had with Minerva, and to the feel of her kiss on his cheek. It was irksome, the way it kept returning to him; his mind would seem to be fully occupied in its task, and there it was again: the sensation of Minerva's lips brushing his cheek, followed by another kiss, one no less soft and gentle than the first, but warmer and less brief.

Finally, unable to concentrate even on the light novel he was reading, Albus put his book aside and got ready for bed, deliberately directing his mind toward the tasks he had ahead of him the next day. After lying down, Albus did a number of brief meditations aimed at calming mind and body and preparing it for sleep. He hadn't performed these exercises in a number of years, at least not all of them at once, but they came easily to him, and when he doused the lights in the bedroom, he fell asleep shortly thereafter.

His dreams had been pleasant, though mundane, the only remarkable thing about them being the constant presence of Minerva. When, in response to his wards, he awoke shortly before one o'clock, he had stuffed his feet in his slippers, grabbed his dressing gown from its place at the end of the bed, and blearily gone downstairs. There were only a few people who it might be, since not everyone present in the castle that night had the summer password. Nonetheless, he had been somewhat surprised to find Minerva in his office. Her dedication was commendable, if a bit excessive in that moment. She had, after all, been in the committee meeting almost all day; he hadn't expected her to have fetched the applications yet.

Albus had been truthful when he had said it was a pleasant disturbance to have woken and found her in his office. But he had been so sleepy . . . when he saw her off at the door, he thought only to give her a light kiss, a mere peck on her forehead, as a fond uncle might. But he did not feel like a fond uncle. He hadn't felt like a fond uncle toward Minerva in at least ten years. And, sleepy as he was, as relaxed as he felt, he had held her to him, pressed his lips to her forehead, and then closed his eyes, breathing in her scent. It was not a brief, avuncular peck. It was not as though he had even been moved to do more than he had, but as he stood there, holding Minerva, his rather muddled brain had considered that a most perfect moment, and that he could quite happily remain like that forever. Minerva had not seemed at all disturbed by it, fortunately. Likely, she had simply put it down to his being half-asleep – which, indeed, was the case. He certainly would have exercised greater restraint had he been fully awake. This incident reminded Albus of his resolve to act out of love for Minerva, but within the confines of an appropriate friendly relationship. There was no point in regretting what he had done, Albus decided. She hadn't minded, and that was the important thing. He would simply need to be more careful in the future and not give in to momentary impulses.

Albus rolled over and fell asleep, remembering the scent of Minerva, and his dreams were sweet.

Minerva chided herself the entire way back to her rooms. She hadn't acted on her impulse, but it had been there. It had been there when she had vowed that she would not do that to herself, torment herself with desires that could not be answered, with urges that could not be acted upon without disaster. Albus's sweet, sleepy kiss had been the gesture of an old friend, a dear friend whom she had woken from a sound sleep and yet who had been gracious and warm, despite the fact that there was no good reason for him to have had his sleep disturbed. What had she been thinking when she had decided to go to his office? Even being unaware of his charm and that he would be awoken, it was inappropriate or, at least, unnecessary, to enter his office in the middle of the night to retrieve applications that weren't pressing and that she could just as easily have picked up in the morning. She probably looked like an over-eager student trying for extra House points or something. Minerva just hadn't wanted Albus to think that she had forgotten her promise or that she was reluctant to help him, and she certainly didn't want him to doubt his choice of her as Head of Gryffindor. Not that he'd had much choice, despite what he'd said that morning about her being his first choice no matter how many Gryffindors were on staff. And that was all the more reason to do her very best, but fetching the applications in the middle of the night . . . that was a bit over-the-top.

Minerva entered her sitting room, the Silent Knight, sitting propped against the apple tree, never bothering to pretend to awaken from his sham sleep, Fidelio snoring at his feet, but merely clicking the door open at the password. She would change it in the morning, she thought. She really ought to have done so weeks ago, but after having given it to Dumbledore, she hadn't wanted to go through the awkwardness of deciding whether or not to give him the new one. It didn't appear he'd had any reason to enter her rooms since he had connected the landscape to the portrait network, and he always could use the Headmaster's password if he had to enter if she were away. He might not even need a password, for all she knew.

She placed the applications on her work table, remembering with some pleasure that she would soon have a study, as well as an office. There were a few perks to being a Head of House. Of course, staff could always request new quarters, or an additional room, but most found the two or three rooms sufficient to their needs. But she would have more room for her books if she had a study. Right now, many of them were in her office, and she would prefer to have at least half of those in her rooms.

As Minerva got ready for bed, casting fond glances at the photograph of Albus – well, the photograph of Albus and her – she thought how sweet he had been, sleepy and slightly befuddled, kissing her forehead as he had. Practically asleep on his feet, he'd been! Poor wizard! And she'd had the . . . the lack of self-discipline to keep unseemly urges at bay. At least she hadn't acted on them, Minerva thought with a sigh, trying not to think of the feel of his lips, his breath, his magic. . . .

She placed her hairpins in their little porcelain dish, and the evil eye caught Minerva's attention. As she brushed her hair out using the Charmed silver-backed brush her brother Morgan had given her one Christmas, she looked at the peculiar talisman, hanging by its cord from one corner of her mirror. After she had gathered her hair into a loose braid for sleep, Minerva reached out and lifted the crude pendant from its place, held it in her hand, and considered it. What to do with this odd Muggle artifact? Albus had fastened it round her neck, or she would certainly have put it in a drawer or cupboard out of sight. There was something slightly unsettling about the warm blue stone and its eye in veins of darker blue and grey. She wondered whether folk went about looking for such stones, or whether they simply chanced upon them serendipitously. There did seem to be something about it – the combination of the stone with its bit of mirror, perhaps, or just the uncanny blue eye – that made her wonder if there were some kind of Muggle magic about it. Not real magic, of course, but some sort of . . . natural magic that was recognisable even to Muggles.

Minerva rejected the thought that flitted through her mind, that she could just keep it in her vanity drawer, and, instead, placed on her bedside table, in front of Albus's picture, between the two white stones, its cheap cord puddled beneath it, creating a small nest for it. Now she really did have the makings of a shrine she thought with a rueful grin. A very peculiar shrine, it was, too, the small rose seeming disproportionately large in contrast to the small frame to which it was affixed, the two stones, one a twin of the other, and the trinket given her by the foreign Gypsy, seeming to stare up at her with an eternally open eye. And all surrounding a photograph of Albus that she had clipped from the Daily Prophet more than twelve years before.

Opening one side of her window to the cool night air, Minerva darkened the room and slipped into bed, her face turned toward where she knew Albus's photograph sat on her night stand, and slowly, her eyes drifted shut, and she dreamt of a man with eyes more blue than any nazar.

When Minerva opened her eyes again, sunlight was streaming in through the window and a cup of tea sat steaming on her night stand, a miniature pitcher of milk beside it. She sat up and reached to pour a little milk into the tea, wondering when Blampa had delivered it and how late it was. Much later than she usually woke, Minerva thought. Blampa had carefully set the tea several inches from the photograph of Albus, and Minerva pulled the cup and saucer toward her.

As she sipped the hot tea, Minerva thought about the previous day. She certainly had behaved poorly, not to mention that she had spent most of the day feeling miserable. The cause of her bad mood and her embarrassing behaviour had been entirely avoidable, as well, if she had simply restrained herself from eavesdropping – or, if she hadn't managed that, at least had entered the staff room immediately, rather than retreating to her rooms like a hormonal adolescent. At least everything had worked out in the end; Gertrude had forgiven her easily, for which Minerva was grateful, and Albus had been understanding, not even scolding her for listening at doors. Of course, she was an adult, and she had clearly seen and suffered the consequences of her rudeness. It had been so good of Albus to explain it away as her bad day colliding with Gertrude's bad day . . . and she was very relieved that the consequences hadn't been catastrophic.

Albus. Dear, sweet Albus. Minerva cradled her cup in her hands and remembered his calm, unquestioning acceptance of her confession that she had eavesdropped. And his explanation had been kind and patient. Tears rose in her eyes as she remembered the warmth of his gaze when he'd wished her a very good night. And he had called her "my dear Minerva." She sniffed a bit. Perhaps it was foolish of her, but she cherished those words, and it did seem to her that he called her "my dear Minerva," or sometimes "my dear Professor," if they were in company, and she didn't believe that he addressed anyone else in quite that way.

She closed her eyes and allowed herself to remember the way he had bid her good-night when they were in his office, the way his hand had slipped around behind her as he stepped closer, the feel of his lips upon her forehead, lingering there, his breath on her hair, and how she could feel his heartbeat and the gentle strumming of his magic beneath her hand. Minerva grew warm with the memory of his sleepy, unselfconscious kiss, and she permitted herself the daydream she had denied herself the night before, a daydream in which she dropped the parchments to the floor and put her arm around him, rubbing his chest with her other hand as she raised her face and brought her lips to meet his . . . she imagined the feel of his lips and his beard, and how he would release the handle of the door, forgetting completely that she had been about to leave, and he would put his other arm around her, pulling her closer, and her hand would go from his chest to his face, caressing him, threading her fingers through his hair, and he would hold her tightly against him . . . and suddenly Minerva opened her eyes as hot tea spilled over her lap. She ground her teeth together, biting back the expletive that had been on the tip of her tongue.

Shaking her head at her idiocy – for not only was spilling her hot tea all over herself incredibly stupid, but her fantasy was even more foolish – Minerva Summoned her wand and cleaned up the mess she had made. She looked over at the little photograph of Albus. At least it had been far from the spilled tea. Although she had strengthened the photograph when she clipped it from the newspaper, she didn't have any charm or any picture glass protecting it. She was unfamiliar with the charm that Albus had used on the other two photographs. She would have to ask him what it was so that she could cast it on her other little keepsake. Though she did hope that she wouldn't be spilling any tea in its vicinity again.

Minerva cast a Tempus and was astounded to see that it was ten minutes past nine. She never slept that late. Of course, she had been up late the night before, and the day's events had been exhausting, but she was still surprised at the hour.

"Blampa! Blampa!" Before she had finished calling the little house-elf's name for the second time, her grinning little face was in front of her.

"May I, Blampa, serves the Professor Minerva?"

"Yes, Blampa. Thank you for the tea. That was very thoughtful and nice to wake up to."

The little elf's colour deepened, and Minerva presumed she was blushing. "Professor Minerva, nothing to thank Blampa for. I, Blampa, is happy her Professor Minerva sleeps well and wakes to tea!"

Her grammar could use a little work, but Minerva appreciated the sentiment. "You know, Blampa, you can use the word 'you' when you address me. You've done it before. I don't mind." Ignoring the little elf's growing blush, Minerva continued, "I would like a light breakfast, please; just a little toast, perhaps some fruit, and some tea."

"Light breakfast coming right up for you, Professor Minerva, yes, indeedy!" Blampa said, with a bounce on her toes before she Disapparated.

Minerva brushed her hair and put on her dressing gown, feeling quite indolent, still not dressed at that hour of the day. Her walk would be late, as well. When she entered her sitting room, she found that Blampa had already efficiently laid the table and left her tea, toast, and a bowl of mixed berries.

As she ate, Minerva remembered something else that Albus had mentioned the night before – well, she supposed it was earlier that morning, actually – he had been surprised, it seemed, that Minerva had been able to feel his door charm when she had been sitting at his desk. He had said something about "resonance." Could this have something to do with their wands? When speaking of their wands, he had said that their magic "resonated" well together. Minerva frowned over her berries as she thought about the question. It was unlikely that it was her wand that had been the cause . . . unless it had served as a conductor or an amplifier of some sort. But she hadn't been able to feel it elsewhere in the office, only when seated behind his desk, the focus of the charm. No, it was more likely that the phenomenon that had led them to possess mated wands was the same phenomenon that had allowed her to feel a charm that Dumbledore had said he had specifically tuned to himself.

Minerva thought about the notion of resonance, and what Albus had mentioned before about their magic "harmonising." Was that what had drawn her to him, those years ago? She had become increasingly sensitive to his magical signature the longer she had studied with him, and it seemed that her growing awareness of him as a wizard had accompanied her growing awareness of his magic. But it wasn't only his magic that drew her to him, any more than it had been her magical accident in the Transfiguration classroom that had created her love or her desire for him. The accident had triggered her love and desire; it had not created them from nothing. And if she was particularly well-tuned to his magic, that only enhanced what she felt for him, it did not cause it.

Now that Dumbledore had told her about the wands and their magical harmony, so much made sense to her. The ease with which he had brought her magic in tune with his in order to make the Side-Along Apparition comfortable, for example – no doubt he would have been able to do so, anyway, being a very powerful wizard, but it had seemed easy, and she had been so aware of his magic flowing through hers, almost as though it was a part of her own magic . . . there had been nothing uncomfortable or foreign about it whatsoever. And when she had collapsed in the classroom and he had held her . . . in her sudden crashing awareness of him and of her yearning for him, she had been so aware of his magic, as though it had been her own pulse she felt within her.

And, of course, there was the way he had staunched her magical drain. Minerva wished she knew more about the phenomenon. The next summer, when they were working on the wards together, the two were having tea and Albus was answering some questions she had, when she had remembered what Madam Valentius had said to her about the wards that protected underage students from magical drain.

"Professor Dumbledore, do you mind if I ask you another question?" Minerva asked.

He smiled. "Oh, I don't believe you have exhausted me quite yet, my dear. Ask away!"

Minerva had always been reluctant to broach the subject of her accident with him, but this seemed different to her, more of a professional discussion of the wards. As long as he asked no questions of her about what she had experienced when she had lain, weeping, across his lap, of course . . .

"You remember my accident last autumn?" Minerva asked. At his nod, she continued quickly, "Remember that Madam Valentius said that I had been open to magical exhaustion, but that the drain had been staunched?"

Professor Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, I remember."

"Well," Minerva continued, "Madam Valentius said something about the Hogwarts wards protecting students . . . but she said that she had thought that the wards only extended that particular protection to underage students, but she guessed she might be wrong about that. But, from what I've learned about the wards from you, she wasn't wrong, was she? It wasn't the wards that prevented my magical exhaustion."

"No, Miss McGonagall, your deductions are correct. Very good," he said.

"Yet something staunched the drain." Minerva took a swallow of her tea, unsure how to phrase her next question. "Sir, did you do something to help me? I mean, something more than . . . more than getting me to the Hospital Wing that evening?"

Professor Dumbledore looked at her a moment before speaking. "There is a phenomenon among witches and wizards – perhaps you have even heard of it or experienced it yourself, or perhaps your mother, as a midwife has mentioned it to you – a phenomenon that sometimes occurs between a parent and a child, though sometimes between others, as well. It is spontaneous, and although it can be controlled or halted once it has begun, it is essentially . . . instinctual." Dumbledore shrugged. "A small wizarding child, through some stress or trauma, creates a magical accident. If, because of severe stress, the accident is worse than the ordinary . . . fit of temper, the child can begin to suffer magical drain. Before it can proceed and possibly damage the child, the mother – or, in some instances, the father – holds the child and instinctively uses her magic to . . . contain the magic of her child, and even to infuse some of her own magic into her young son or daughter. This containment or infusion can be controlled or halted, as I have said, but is essentially instinctive. Such intervention is most commonly seen between a parent and a child, but also amongst others, particularly relatives. And the one who is protected from magical depletion is not always a child. It is occasionally an adult."

Minerva sat and waited for him to continue, but he had begun drinking his tea again, and it appeared he had finished answering her question.

"So . . . what you are saying is that . . . you staunched the magical drain and prevented my magical exhaustion. Through this . . . this instinctive reaction."

"Mmhm. Yes. Although, as I said, the first impulse is instinctive, but it is . . . controllable." He sipped more tea. "When I realised what was happening, I was able to tap into the wards and Hogwarts magical field and draw on them. It was almost immediate, so I . . . I was fine, myself."

Minerva swallowed, staring at him. "What do you mean, you were fine, yourself?"

Dumbledore shrugged. "Well, it is extremely rare for any true damage to be done to the magical donor, and in the case of accidents with children, the immaturity of their magic, while making them susceptible to harm from a magical drain, also makes it very easy to staunch, and the parent is barely affected, sometimes even unaware that they have done anything. If the victim of the drain is older and their magic is mature, it is more difficult and requires greater energy. And a magical drain caused by the sort of syncope you experienced, that tends to be a rather fast, violent drain, as I later learned. But you were never in any true danger, my dear," he added, noting her alarmed expression. "You may have been ill for a number of days as your magic recovered, but you would have recovered, fully, even if nothing had intervened."

"Even if nothing had intervened? Professor! You intervened – not some, some formless thing. And you could have been injured!"

"No, my dear. I have some store of magic, myself. And I drew on the Hogwarts magical field, as I said." He smiled kindly at her. "Truly, Minerva, neither of us was in any danger, I assure you."

"But my magic was mature – what you just said implied that there was a greater danger to the . . . to the donor if the victim of the drain had reached magical maturity. And magical syncope can cause a violent drain, you said. You could have harmed yourself, Professor!"

Her professor shook his head. "It was not particularly taxing, truly, my dear. And the wards assisted. Even if they hadn't, I would have been fine. I may have been slightly more fatigued had we not been at Hogwarts, but I would have been fit as a fiddle in no time."

"My thanks and my apologies to you at the time seemed inadequate before; now they seem completely unsatisfactory. I don't know how to thank you at all," Minerva answered, wishing she hadn't asked him about it, wishing she didn't have one more reason to admire him, to be grateful to him, to love him.

"You have thanked me, Miss McGonagall. You returned to your classes the next day, and to your Animagus training the next term. It was clearly a traumatic experience for you, and I was unable to allay that trauma for you. What I did . . . it was the least I could do. I wish it had been more."

"Thank you . . ." Minerva once again felt guilty about the way she had avoided him after the accident. Now that she knew that he had actually intervened to prevent her magical exhaustion, it made her seem completely ungrateful in those weeks after the accident.

"Do you want to talk about it, Minerva? About the accident?" Professor Dumbledore asked, pouring her another cup of tea.

"No. I am fine now, Professor. As you can see." And Minerva changed the topic, making a mental note to do some research into magical exhaustion and this instinctive staunching he had spoken of.

Almost precisely fifteen years after that conversation, Minerva thought again of how Dumbledore had staunched her magical drain, seemingly instinctively, on impulse, and with relatively little after-effect for either of them. Perhaps it had been because of the harmony of their magic – if that hadn't been what had caused him to intervene, perhaps it had made it easier for him to do so, and more effective, as well. She never had done any research on the phenomenon, she had been so busy, and she had eventually forgotten her curiosity about it, though she had never forgotten that Albus had helped her that evening. How could she forget? That event had seemed to define her life for so long. There was Before It and After It. The accident still defined her life, its consequences did, anyway. But when Minerva thought of how wonderful it felt to be with Albus now, how much she treasured her time with him, and every look, every touch, every gesture of affection, she knew that It would have arrived in time, whether she had had that accident or not. She loved Albus and was drawn to him. She wanted only to be with him and then to build the rest of her life around that. Minerva could not imagine her life without Albus's presence, and she could not imagine his presence in her life without also imagining loving him. As a friend, of necessity . . . yet perhaps . . .

No, it was foolish of her to think there might be any other sort of love between them. But remembering how she had tried to cheer herself up the previous afternoon by thinking of all the lovely things he had done for her recently, Minerva struggled with her feelings. She wasn't even sure whether she was struggling to create hope out of those memories or to suppress it. All that Minerva was sure of was that when Albus had touched her cheek and inserted the small rose in her hair, saying he would be her mirror, her heart had pounded harder, and it seemed such a romantic gesture. But, Minerva reminded herself sternly, it could not be a romantic gesture because they were not romantically involved. And yet, Albus thought her beautiful . . . he had told her so. If he thought her beautiful, and if he enjoyed spending time with her . . . .

Minerva held her head in her hands. How had she gone from contemplating the phenomenon of magical resonance to somehow beginning to imagine that . . . not that Albus was interested in her, but that, in time, he might come to be interested in her? Tears rose in Minerva's eyes. She had simply felt too much in the past days, weeks, months, and she was tired of having her emotions so tossed about. She wished she had someone to talk to about it – to talk her out of doing anything foolish, at least. Not that she would ever say anything to Albus, of course, but she might begin to harbour hopes, foolishly, and leave herself open to having them dashed. Minerva shook herself and brought herself back to reality, pouring herself a last cup of tea. Distraction. She needed distraction, without a doubt. Researching magical resonance could be a distraction.

There was the matter of their magical resonance, their wands, and the way in which he had staunched her magical drain fifteen years ago. Now, there was a project for her holiday at home. Her mother, as a Healer-Midwife, had shelves full of books on Healing. Surely she must have some books that dealt with the topic of magical exhaustion and that instinctive protection Albus had exercised on her behalf; perhaps her mother could even tell her something about it. And she could ask her father for help researching wands. Minerva wasn't entirely sure whether she wanted to tell her father about her wand or not, but perhaps if he knew more about why she was doing the research, he would be better able to help her . . . she would wait and see how it went. In the meantime, there was her walk, and perhaps a visit to the Jarvey later in the day, and Albus – the Headmaster – had agreed to meet with her in the afternoon. She had enough to occupy her time.

Minerva left the remnants of her breakfast to Blampa, dressed, and got ready for her walk, pulling on her stout shoes and putting on a tartan over robe. She stepped through her front door, closed it behind her, and paused, remembering that she had been going to change her password. Because this portrait was her door warden, it has been charmed so that only she, the Headmaster, or the Deputy could change the password.

Minerva drew her wand, pointed it at the centre of the portrait, and said, "Desinero 'Alvarium album.'" Having cancelled the previous password, she set the new one, hesitating only slightly before saying, "Patibis 'desidero et spero.'"

Another foolish password, "desidero et spero," more foolish than the last, but she wouldn't be sharing it with anyone. If Albus asked her for it, well, she'd just have to change it again, quickly, before he would have occasion to use it. But still . . . there was growing within her a foolish hope, born, no doubt, only from her own foolish desire. And she shouldn't be doing anything to nurture it. Minerva raised her wand again, almost prepared to change the password yet again, but . . . it was only a password. Using it certainly couldn't do her any harm.

Now, time for her walk. Past time, actually, at almost ten o'clock, but Minerva didn't want to fall out of the habit, even for one day, so she set off briskly, trotting quickly down the stairs then out the front doors. It was a cloudy day, and the wind was strong. Minerva thought it might rain before the day was over, but it wasn't raining at that moment, so she strode down the path towards the gates, then, on impulse, she veered off in the direction of Hagrid's cabin. She wasn't planning on visiting him – though if she saw him, she would stop and speak – but she had always loved the feel of the wind, and listening to it, too, as it blew through the branches, shaking the leaves. A short stroll in her tabby form through the small stand of trees near Hagrid's appealed to Minerva. Perhaps she might even follow the line of the forest down to the wall and back.

Minerva popped into her Animagus form and trotted towards the trees before breaking into a sprint for the last several yards, and then leaping onto a tree, grasping its rough bark with her claws. Minerva looked around, then scrabbled up the tree to a large, low branch. She sharpened her front claws briefly, enjoying the feel of the bark on her paw pads and under her claws. With a yawn, Minerva stretched her full length along the branch. A little nap, then the rest of her walk, then lunch, and maybe even a visit to a Jarvey that swore like a drunken Auror. She closed her eyes and drifted into a light sleep, the wind moving through the leaves around her, a sweet lullaby.