CVII: Unsolicited Advice

CVII: Unsolicited Advice

Hearing neither the rain nor even the thunder, Minerva sat at the desk in her study, her quill in her hand, but she wrote nothing. She had letters yet to respond to, but her mind seemed a blank. All that she could hear were Albus's final words to her, I am sorry I am not who you wish me to be, Minerva.

Albus could not know what she wished from him, not what she truly wanted, but he was able tell that she did want something more from him, and it pained him. At least, Minerva hoped that he had no idea what it was she wanted from him, from their relationship. Given his obviously friendly affection for her, his almost paternal feelings, what would he do if he learned of her own overwhelming love for him? But Albus still wanted her to accompany him in the morning. Whatever he thought, or guessed, about the pathetic state of her emotions, he had not changed his mind about that – despite the fact that she had tried to pressure him to talk about something he did not wish to discuss. She had made her need for him to talk to her more important than his own comfort. And that was not what she wanted. Not at all.

Minerva closed her eyes and breathed a strained breath out. She should have just let him be. Albus may not have wanted to talk about it, but he had wanted her to stay. She should have stayed. Instead, she had left him, alone and feeling as though he were lacking, feeling worse than he would have felt if she had said and done nothing. He had already had dreadful news that day after a very long, emotionally exhausting night. It wasn't as though she didn't understand the desire not to talk about something, to let something rest a while before talking about it. She had waited fifteen years, after all, to speak to anyone of her feelings for Albus, and she still had never properly discussed her magical accident with anyone. And after her mission in France and Carson's death, her parents had tried to get her to talk, and she wouldn't. And then after Albus's visit, they had been even more concerned about her. She knew that, she had seen it, and she knew that they wanted her to talk. But if her parents had hounded her about it . . . tried to insist that she talk about it before she was ready, she would have gone to stay with Murdoch, she was sure. But shared grief and pain . . . that was something different, wasn't it?

No . . . it had still been wrong to press him. Albus hadn't wanted to discuss his feelings at that moment. Perhaps he wouldn't have wanted to discuss them with anyone. She should have done as Gertie had advised and just let him take his time and come to her. And to love him. But it was so difficult to love him and not to show him how very much she did, and she didn't know how to do that. Her attempt to get him to talk was a substitute for what she had really wanted to do: take him in her arms and hold him.

Now, too, Minerva had no doubt that Quin had been wrong. Albus didn't harbour any hidden love for her. Oh, he did love her, but as he had when she was a child. He had practically said that there in his office. Something about having felt somewhat responsible for her well-being for a long time . . . his feelings stretched back to her days as a student, and she had no indication from him that these feelings had changed at all. Even when she told him that she loved him . . . he might as well tell her she was a good girl again. But that was foolishness. Albus had said and done nothing wrong. She simply had expectations that were unreasonable, not only that, but he didn't have the slightest idea what her expectations were, and she had no ability to tell him.

It seemed to Minerva as though each time that she felt closer to Albus and the more she enjoyed his company, the more she would afterward feel even further from him and as though it were impossible to even be in his presence. Is this what Quin meant about her joy dying? If it was, then she was helping to kill it. She had to accept what relationship she and Albus actually had and not try to force things to be other than they were. If she did push too hard, she was bound to say or do something that would be dreadfully embarrassing for them both, as if she hadn't already done so that evening.

The storm outside was letting up, although rain still pattered against the window pane. Minerva pulled her parchment toward her.

"Dear Albus,

"Minerva"

Minerva wanted to tell him that she loved him as he was – and she did, though she wished their relationship could be different – but she could not think of a way to say it that would not sound overly sentimental or romantic. She was already walking a narrow line. Perhaps she could say something when next she saw him. If he came to breakfast, she could say something then.

The storm was subsiding as Albus looked up and sighed. Someone was coming to see him. There were few people in the castle now – he didn't believe that Wilhelmina and Hagrid had returned yet. He was unsure whether he would be pleased if it were Minerva returning or not. He would be pleased to see her, but his mood was not conducive to being with her, particularly not if she embraced him again; his control was very tenuous at that moment. If he held her in his arms, he didn't think he could let her go or, worse, given his current weariness, if he could resist doing more than just holding her.

And if it were Johannes coming to see him, as much as he liked the Herbology teacher, Albus didn't believe he could sustain rational conversation with him just then. There was one sharp rap of the knocker. Gertie. Albus sighed again, this time in relief, and gestured for the door to open.

"Albus?" Gertrude stepped in. She looked at him a moment. "What is wrong? Other than the obviously distressing news about Pretnick?"

Albus shook his head. "Nothing. Just that. And I am tired."

Gertrude examined him. "If you say so. You do look tired, though. Minerva said it had been a late night for you?"

Albus nodded. "Yes . . . we talked quite late."

Gertrude sat down in the chair to one side of him. "Did you. . . . About Hogwarts?"

"A little about Hogwarts. A little about other things."

"And today?" Gertrude asked.

Albus glanced over at her. "What do you mean?"

"Just that, what did you discuss with her today? Hogwarts?" Gertrude asked with a slight shrug.

"Primarily. The wards, her position, that sort of thing."

"And Robert Pretnick, I presume – as that was a rather dominant bit of news today."

"Some," Albus said with a nod.

"Is that the letter?" Gertrude asked, pointing to the parchment that lay on the low table in front of him.

"Yes. You may read it, if you wish."

Gertrude picked it up and read it through twice. She nodded. "Very Gryffindor. Not particularly sensible, but very Gryffindor. He was a fine wizard."

Albus nodded.

"Strikes a chord with you, Albus? Perhaps a few?"

"I understand what he was saying, but I agree with none of it," Albus responded. "Not his assumptions, not his reasoning, not his conclusions, and certainly not his action."

"I didn't ask whether you agreed with him or not, Albus," Gertrude said gently.

"I don't even know what I feel," Albus said softly, "beyond the sense that there was so much more I could have done for him that I did not do. That I could have averted this, that I have failed . . ."

"I expected you would feel that, and I believe that if you were counselling another in your situation, you would see how Pretnick's choices were his own and not a result of your failure. And I know that you will eventually see that, and feel it, too. But there is something beyond that, isn't there? And some of it has to do with Pretnick and his death and some of what troubles you . . . is unrelated to that entirely."

Albus looked at her wearily. "There are always things that trouble me, Gertrude. You are beginning to sound like one of those supposed seers who says enough that is vaguely true that, to the gullible, they sound as though they actually possess the Sight."

Gertrude shrugged again. "We have known each other a very long time, Albus. The only sight I possess is that with which I see you now. You are tired, you are troubled, and you need some supper, which I can easily guess you have not had."

"I doubt you have eaten, either. You haven't even changed clothes," Albus pointed out. "I am not particularly hungry."

"There is no one in the castle who seems bothered by it, although I have found a few of the portraits making amusingly scandalised remarks," Gertrude said with a slight smile. "Let's have some supper, then. Just a cup of soup, hmm?"

Albus nodded wearily, and Gertrude called Wilspy, who reappeared just a few minutes later with soup, fresh bread, and butter. They ate in silence, and when Albus had finished, he sat back and sighed, closing his eyes, then he looked over at Gertrude.

"Thank you."

"Of course. Now . . . do you feel up to telling me what is troubling you?"

"No . . . except to say that I do understand what you meant by his death striking more than one chord with me, and you were right." He smiled slightly. "Thank you again – for understanding."

Gertrude nodded and looked at him a moment. "I do understand, Albus, and I care. And I know that Minerva cares, as well. She must have been distressed by this news."

"Yes, of course. It is, as you have said, distressing."

"And she knew, too, how much you had hoped to be able to help him."

Albus nodded.

"And I am sure that, caring for you as she does, it was just as distressing for Minerva to know how upset you must be as it was simply to hear the news of it herself," Gertrude said.

"That is an exaggeration; however, I know she was concerned," he conceded. "I tried to allay her concerns and reassure her that I will be fine – as I will be."

"I am sure you will, and no doubt Minerva knows that, too. But she was with you when you heard the news that he had been bitten, she helped you in the days following, she was your proxy on the committee, and she was with you when you received the news today from the Ministry. I would say that my estimation of her distress was not exaggerated in the slightest, particularly knowing how devoted she is to you. You may not be able to help Pretnick, but Minerva is here and she is concerned about you and distressed by the situation. It may sound paradoxical, but you can help her by letting her help you."

Albus looked at Gertrude sharply. "Have you spoken to her?"

"Not since you saw us together earlier. But your reaction tells me that if I had, it might have been an informative conversation."

"No . . . but you are right. She was distressed when she left. But I am not in any position to alleviate that distress." He sighed. "And even if I were . . . I am so tired. And I really do not wish to discuss it yet. Not with you or with Minerva or with anyone. I am sorry." He took a deep breath. "I am sure you have other places you would prefer to be, and yet again . . . here you are. . . . Here you are."

Gertrude took his hand. "I don't mind. I told you I would always be here when you need me, and I try to live up to that – and it is no burden. You know it is not. No more than it would be for you." She stood. "But if you don't feel up to talking yet, I think some sleep might be in order. For a wizard who rarely admits fatigue, I think the fact that you have said you are tired several times this evening might just indicate that you need some rest."

Albus stood, and Gertrude placed one hand gently on his cheek. She said, "You will have a better perspective on things in the morning. Take some time to talk to Minerva while you are together tomorrow. You will both benefit, I am sure."

"I am tired, but I do not know if sleep will help . . . the last days . . . the last weeks . . . I feel old, Gertie," he said, turning his face toward her hand, closing his eyes. "Like an old, worn-out wizard."

Gertrude shook her head. "You are not an old, worn-out wizard. But you need to deal with whatever is causing you to feel that way. And sleep might not be the complete cure, but it is a good first step, hmm?" She caressed his cheek with her thumb.

He nodded and smiled. "Very sensible. Of course."

"Come here," Gertrude said softly, and put her arms around him. He leaned his weight on her and let out a long breath, and the two stood like that for a few minutes. Albus breathed deeply and tightened his arms around her, then rested his head against hers.

"Here now, I think you are falling asleep already. I'll go now, and you sleep – rest, Albus. It will do you good. And it will help you deal with the source of your troubles." She gave him a brief squeeze before stepping back and out of his embrace. "I will see you tomorrow."

He walked her to the door. "Sometimes it is still difficult – "

"Is it? Or is it only that you think it would be easier for you otherwise?" Gertrude asked with a raised eyebrow.

Albus smiled. "You are, perhaps, right. It is also ego speaking, I think."

"Good night, Albus."

"Good night." He leaned toward her and she turned her cheek to receive his kiss. As she opened the door, he said, smiling a little, "You still look rather fetching in trousers, you know."

"So I have been told, Albus, so I have been told," Gertie said with a slight smirk. As she stepped onto the moving stair, she called out behind her, "Don't forget: talk to Minerva, comfort her, Albus. She needs you."

Then she was gone, and Albus was standing at the open door thinking that Gertrude couldn't be more mistaken. Minerva didn't need him, but he did need her.

As he closed the door, Albus heard Dilys's voice above him.

"She gave you good advice, you know. You shouldn't have let Professor McGonagall leave as she did. They both care about you. You should heed them," the portrait said.

Albus sighed. They were just portraits. "I know they care about me. And I am not in the habit of holding my staff in my office against their will."

"Mmm, you should have with that first one," Eliphelet said with a bright eye. "She could be quite the enjoyable diversion for you – hidden depths, that one – depths to be plumbed, if you take my meaning!" He leered. Before Albus could object to the portrait's description of Minerva, the headmaster continued, "But that second one, quite fetching, a bit more mature, but that can be a very good thing, and you were right about the trousers. Never saw a witch in trousers before – brought my eye right to the crux of the matter, so to speak. Would love to get my hand in there, I would – "

Albus turned and raised his hand to the portrait, ready to cast a spell to cover the portrait and silence it in one go, but Eliphelet was already half-way out of the portrait on the way to his great-great grandson's boring library, no doubt. Albus gritted his teeth and ignored Dilys's voice floating down to him, instead, leaving his office for the Headmaster's library, the closest avenue of retreat at the moment.

Albus slumped into the chair by the door, closing it behind him, leaving himself in the pitch dark. Gertrude. She did look quite fetching that night, and she had been so understanding, just as he could always count on her to be . . . but this, he couldn't talk to her about this. He had no desire to discuss Robert's death just yet, nor the turmoil of feelings it brought to him, and he had no ability, let alone desire, to discuss the greater source of his distress: his own unseemly desires for a young witch who looked up at him as a father-figure, and that was a generous description of himself – he was old enough to be her grandfather. Indeed, some of his classmates had great-grandchildren older than Minerva. She had come to know him when she was such a sweet, earnest young girl . . . her teacher, her mentor, and now, her friend. How could he confess his love and desire for her to anyone, even to Gertrude? Even Gertrude would be bound to be . . . not shocked, perhaps, but surprised, and definitely pitying. And it would bring up other uncomfortable topics . . . he was, sadly, well past the age when he could be considered remotely an eligible wizard. Gertrude would doubtless be kind, and perhaps brisk and practical, but she would see his folly and think him a wizard in his dotage with an unseemly, perhaps even laughable, infatuation with a very young witch completely out of his reach. How he wished it were only an infatuation.

Albus rose and turned in the dark, finding the door. Before opening it, he leaned forward, his palm resting on the door, and lay his head on the back of his hand. He had understood Gertrude, but . . . Albus sighed. It was a simple fact that the time in his life when he may have been able to develop a relationship with a witch was past. If nothing else had convinced him of that, the fiasco with Valerianna should have. But still . . . perhaps a nice widow of one hundred or so. He let out a short, bitter laugh. Even if he wanted such a "nice widow," meeting one would not be easy with all of the duties and pressures of his work. And any such witch would likely have certain expectations of him, socially, professionally . . . and it would not be fair, either. Even if this "nice widow" were seeking companionship and not the love of her life, it would certainly not be fair to become involved with anyone now, not with his feelings, his passions, directed, however inappropriately, toward another witch, toward Minerva. If only he had found that hypothetical witch sooner, before Minerva returned to Hogwarts, before his emotions and his attachment to her had become so unavoidably powerful. He had thought he had found this witch, even before he became aware of his growing feelings for Minerva, and she was a witch whom he thought was eminently suitable, and he cared for her so deeply, and his attraction for her was so strong . . . but even by then he was already well past "eligible" and on his way to "obsolete." And there was nothing to be done for it now. The past was past, and at one hundred-seventeen, he had a lot of experience dealing with the past and with irretrievably lost opportunities. The trouble was, despite what he had said to Gertrude about feeling old, there was a part of him that didn't feel old at all, and that part of him unfortunately also included the part of him that loved Minerva. Perhaps it was time to resort to other remedies . . . a potion. If he could kill at least the most superficially physical part of his passion for Minerva, perhaps the rest of his passion would die a natural death, and he could love her as he should. There were several simple potions that acted directly on the libido, after all . . . most had side-effects, however, and rather unpleasant ones. And as much as he was desperate to protect Minerva from himself, there was still that selfish streak in him that did not entirely wish to be freed from his passion for her. He just wanted to avoid acting on it and making her uncomfortable with him. No, potions could wait. They would be the absolute last resort.

Gertrude was right. He needed sleep. Such bleak thoughts, such regret, it wasn't his general nature, despite the difficult period in his youth. Albus opened the door and reentered his office. He glanced up at the portraits.

Dilys said, "He came back. I sent him away again. I told him that if he kept up the way he was, he would meet the same fate as Charles, behind a curtain. I think he will stay at the Longbottoms' library for a while."

When Dilys mentioned the curtain, Albus reflexively looked over at the dusty brown cloth that covered the portrait of Hogwarts most ignominious Headmaster. He had used his ability to access any area of the castle at any time to enter the rooms of young students and molest them, and then Obliviate them afterward. Apparently he received quite a shock when one night, the wards and secret passages wouldn't respond to him. He had been discovered the next day by the Head of Slytherin, trapped in the corridor of the girls' dormitory, unable even to leave despite the fact that the corridor had never been warded against exit. He was Headmaster less than two months. After he was found, and it was clear that Hogwarts herself had somehow rejected him, it was learned what he had been doing, and the man was sacked. When he died, his portrait appeared in the Headmaster's office. He had been a legitimate Headmaster until Hogwarts rejected him, after all. But his portrait had been immediately covered with a brown cloth that had never been removed, and no one ever spoke his name. Other Headmasters or Headmistresses may have occasionally abused their position to entice, lure, impress, or intimidate, many were even cruel and overbearing, but none had ever come close to committing the transgressions that he had by so very egregiously violating the most important duty of any Hogwarts staff: the care and protection of her students.

"He was right about one thing, though," Dilys continued. "You should have kept Professor McGonagall from leaving. Professor Gamp was right, as well: that one cares about you. You shouldn't allow her to believe that her affection and concern is unwelcome. I may just be a portrait, but I've seen a lot, hanging here, and I'm a bit more awake than many of them. You seem to be accepting and rejecting her simultaneously. Do something about it. She's a generous witch. She will understand, if you allow. That's my unsolicited advice for the day. Now I'm off for Mungo's. They're having a poetry reading in Healer Bothwick's library. It's not a very large painting, and if I don't want to be sitting behind a bookcase or perched in the still-life across the way, I have to leave now. Good-night, Headmaster!"

Albus brought himself up to his suite and went into his study. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out the picture of Minerva, the copy of which he had given her. Perhaps it had been then . . . Albus gazed on Minerva's face, mesmerised, watching as, time and again, she turned toward the Albus in the photograph and smiled in delight. Even now, seeing Minerva smile could not help but bring a slight smile to his own lips.

Albus put the photograph down on one side of the desk, then sat, took a bright red quill in hand, and set about writing a note. When he was finished and had sealed it with a small blob of golden wax, he called for Wilspy.

Minerva returned from the Owlery, entered her small kitchen, and began making herself a cup of mint tea. She needed something soothing before bed, but did not want chamomile tea, and her mother's favourite, warm milk, didn't appeal, either. Of course, she could always follow her father's example, and do a bit of slightly warmed Scotch and water with a smidgen of honey.

As Minerva set the tea to steep, she heard a tell-tale crack in the sitting room. She stuck her head out.

"Wilspy – I'm in here," she called.

"A letter from Professor Dumbledore for Professor's Professor Minerva," the elf said brightly, holding out a small rolled parchment.

Minerva took it, and before she could say anything, Wilspy had popped away.

Bringing her tea with her, Minerva went into the sitting room and sat at the round table by the window. She unsealed the parchment.

"Dear Minerva,

"P.S. I do hope to see you for breakfast, my dear."

Minerva smiled. It was no declaration of love, not that she would expect that, and it was rather blunt, as he said, but there was still something very sweet about it. Well, now, who was going to go to whose rooms for breakfast? Clearly their notes had crossed. But that notion pleased her. And if he was blunt, at least she understood his meaning, and it reassured her that he had not taken her declaration of love as she meant it; given his feelings toward her, that would be disastrous. But he did value her concern and her affection, and that was certainly reassuring.

Minerva decided that she would call for Wilspy when she woke in the morning and ask her whether Albus was expecting her or coming to her rooms. Since she hadn't suggested a time, perhaps she should just go up to his rooms. But she would call Wilspy first, or send a message to Albus with her. Given their recent interactions, Minerva could see herself arriving in his sitting room as he took his backstairs to the seventh floor to go to her quarters. That was one misunderstanding they could definitely avoid, at least.

Leaving her teacup, still half full, on the table, and her ginger newt uneaten on its saucer, Minerva brought the note into her bedroom, placed it, open, by her specially framed photograph of her and Albus together, then got ready for bed, opening the draperies and setting a Tempus alarm for six-thirty. With one last look at her little "shrine" with the small photo of Albus, the dried rose on its frame, the twinned white stones, and the blue nazar stone, Minerva slid between the sheets, and scarcely had she placed her head on her pillow, when she was sound asleep.

Next: "In Memoriam" 6 August 1957