CXI: Headmaster’s Holiday

CXI: Headmaster's Holiday

Minerva found she was enjoying herself during dinner, far more than she had anticipated, certainly. Hagrid and Malcolm did get along, and Malcolm was interested in meeting Brutus, seeing the Jarvey, and visiting the Thestral paddock. Gertrude seemed quite at ease, and although Minerva could not say that the other witch was smiling, her expression was relaxed, and she seemed happy. Of course, after the activities Minerva presumed that Malcolm and Gertrude had been engaged in that afternoon, she supposed the witch would be relaxed and at least somewhat content. Still, other than the fact that Malcolm would occasionally catch Gertrude's eye and give her a smile, Minerva wouldn't have guessed from their demeanour with each other at dinner that they were anything more than friends, or even casual acquaintances.

Hagrid invited Malcolm out to his cabin after dinner, and Malcolm agreed, saying to no one in particular as he left that he would be back up to the castle later.

"Fancy a walk, Gertrude?" Minerva asked.

They headed, by mutual but unspoken agreement, away from the castle and down toward the gates, in the opposite direction from that taken by Malcolm and Hagrid.

"Malcolm told me that you two have been seeing quite a bit of each other," Minerva said.

Gertie nodded. "Yes, we have."

"It was somewhat unexpected for me to learn of your, um, friendship, and its extent," Minerva said.

Gertie hesitated only slightly. "It was unexpected for me, as well. And, I think, for your brother. But unexpected does not mean it was unwelcome," she added.

The two walked on in silence for a while.

"Do you mind? Does it bother you?" Gertie asked. "That it is I whom Malcolm is seeing? Or that it is Malcolm whom I am seeing?"

"Even if it were my place to mind, no, I don't," Minerva replied. "I have concerns, but they are not mine to deal with."

"Concerns about?"

Minerva shook her head. "Just general ones. I probably know and understand Malcolm the least of my three brothers, but I do know that he is peripatetic and not prone to developing romantic attachments. I suppose that is one reason I don't really know him well; he was rarely around when I was a child, and growing up, he always seemed larger-than-life, almost a mythical character, to me. I outgrew that picture of him, of course, but the one I replaced it with was incomplete. Still, that is the source of one of my concerns. He is very independent."

"That adventurous spirit is part of what I liked in him when we first met that day. I wouldn't try to change it," Gertrude said.

"But if he just up and leaves?"

"Then he leaves."

"And if he doesn't?" Minerva asked, wondering now whether Gertrude saw her brother as a safe fling, someone with whom she could have a semi-clandestine affair but who would develop no ties to her. Perhaps she was attracted by the very fact that her brother would not stick around and become a nuisance to her well-ordered life.

"Then he stays . . . and we shall see." Gertrude looked over at Minerva. "I do think your brother and I understand one another on that point for now, Minerva."

Minerva nodded. Whenever one loved, there was the danger of being hurt. As long as they were both aware of that particular possibility for difficulty between them, it certainly wasn't up to her to lecture either of them.

"You haven't known one another long, obviously," Minerva said. "I hope you don't mind my being frank and, as I said, it isn't any of my business, but you are generally reserved, from what I have seen. And so I suppose that is another reason I find it unexpected."

"Your observation is accurate. But Malcolm, for all that you may not believe you know him well, is not very difficult to get to know. And, not to delve into particulars, I did find him attractive when I first met him. Certainly you can understand that an initial attraction can encourage someone to want to get to know someone else better." Gertie added more softly, "And he can make me laugh. He is new and fresh, and I can forget myself with him . . . or remember who I was . . . and I like to think that I have something to offer him, as well."

"He does like you, very much," Minerva said, wanting to reassure the older witch, but not wanting to betray Malcolm's confidence, either.

"I would say that he reminds me of Reginald, but that would be unfair to them both. Still, some of Malcolm's characteristics are ones I find myself repeatedly attracted to, whether I am a fourteen-year-old girl with a crush on her brother's best mate or a sixty-year-old witch who has seen too much of life and is suddenly taken with the rather unusual brother of a colleague."

Sixty. So only ten years older than Malcolm. Minerva had taken Gertrude to be older than that, but it was partly because she had had grey hair for as long as she had known her. Albus had said it had been a beautiful chestnut brown and had gone grey soon after her husband's death. Albus had spoken of Gertrude lovingly that night; he always did, really.

"And Albus?" Minerva asked.

Gertrude looked over at Minerva, a peculiar expression on her face. "What of Albus?"

"I just wondered . . . Malcolm said you weren't keen on having many people know, either of you. I was wondering whether you had mentioned anything to Albus, or if you would. I wouldn't want to say the wrong thing to him, not realising . . ."

"I haven't spoken with him about it, not specifically, no. But I don't know as it will come as a surprise. He seemed to have some notion that I . . . that Malcolm . . . that his visit yesterday was something other than casual," Gertrude responded hesitantly. "He saw us just before he left. He didn't say anything, but . . . I don't think it would be a complete surprise for him to learn of it, but I didn't tell him anything other than that a friend was visiting me, and he saw that the friend was Malcolm."

"I won't say anything to him, then, although if he asks me, I would feel uncomfortable lying to him."

"I would never expect you to lie to Albus, Minerva. I also doubt it would occur to him to ask you about us," Gertrude said.

"Malcolm is my brother," Minerva pointed out.

"Yes, he is." Gertrude stopped and looked over at Minerva again. "That makes you uncomfortable."

"No. Not really. I think I am still too surprised to feel uncomfortable."

"You find it difficult to believe that Malcolm . . . that he could find me . . . attractive?" Gertrude asked.

"No. More the other way around, to be honest, even after you explained that he has certain characteristics you appreciate," Minerva said.

They had reached the gates some time earlier and had turned and walked along the perimeter of the grounds, just inside the wall; now, having reached the edge of the Forest, the two turned and headed slowly back toward the castle, walking in silence.

"He sang to me," Gertrude finally said softly. "That evening on the cliffs, the ocean crashing in the distance. And I think . . . I have never heard anything more beautiful. I thought I heard his soul in his songs." She looked over quickly at Minerva, opened her mouth, then closed it again, as if embarrassed by what she had just admitted.

Minerva nodded. "I see. You know I won't say anything to him, Gertie. It's all right." Minerva smiled and said briskly, "Come, let's go find Malcolm and Hagrid."

Albus sat at the small, rough-finished wooden table and ate his bread, apples, and cheese, washing it down with cool, fresh water. He hadn't much appetite, and the food seemed to stick in his throat as he swallowed. He normally appreciated this time in his little cottage on its rocky island, but this year was different. Part of it, Albus acknowledged, was Robert Pretnick's untimely fate. But a greater part of it was his internal struggle with his feelings for Minerva. It seemed that no matter what he did, how he approached it, he was failing somehow.

His visit with Robert and Thea had been good. He had spent all of Friday and most of Saturday with them, and he had been very pleased to see that Thea was growing satisfyingly round with her child, and to learn that even the local Healers now believed that she would carry the baby to term. Thea was religious about performing the magical exercises that Egeria had prescribed, and Robert himself brewed the special potions the recipes of which had likewise been provided by Egeria. He would have to remember to extend his special thanks to that fine witch, who still refused payment for her visits and her care, insisting that the Portkeys were sufficient recompense.

It was no wonder that Minerva had such a generous nature, given the parents she had. Oh, Minerva . . . what was he to do? Several times, Albus had fought and defeated the urge to pick up a quill and write her a letter. He could tell her of his visit to Robert and Thea, of course, but what he really longed to do was to tell her that he missed her, that he yearned to hear her voice and to see her face, that his heart would be heavy until he did.

She hadn't come to see him before she left this time. Tuesday evening had been difficult, of course; there had still been staff present. She had likely thought him too busy to see her, if she thought of it at all. He knew that Minerva enjoyed his company – it would actually be easier on him if she didn't – but it would be foolish of him to think that he entered her thoughts as persistently as she did his. Wednesday morning, he had even risen early, thinking she might come by before she left. He considered going down to the grounds to take a walk so that he would see her before she walked down to the gate. But he hadn't. And she hadn't come up to his Tower. He had seen her depart, however, standing in Hogwarts Heart, the grounds revealed to him through its walls. Hidden in the Heart, he watched her walk down from the castle to the gates. She seemed to pause once and look back. He imagined Minerva was looking up at him where he stood looking out at her, but she could not see him there in the stone tower, and it was vanity to believe that she was doing anything more than glancing back at the castle in general.

And so he had been glad when Gertrude had returned and he could take his holiday. If Minerva had been there, he would have found it difficult to leave, and he surely would have returned directly to the castle after his visit to the Crouches had she not also been on holiday. But as she was away . . . and then there was Gertrude herself. It seemed to him that there had been something different about Gertrude the last few times he had seen her. She seemed lighter and somehow more like the witch he had come to know so many years before. He had at first ascribed it to her recovery from the anniversary of Reginald's death. Now, though, he thought it might have another cause.

When Gertrude returned to the castle and came up to his rooms early Friday morning, she was dressed in sea green robes with silver embroidery. Not dress robes, not on any other witch, but certainly not her usual school attire. They spoke briefly about the school and his absence, then she said that she was expecting a visitor, a friend, and he would be arriving at the gates soon. Albus told her to go meet her friend. He would pass the wards to her before he left, whether he saw her again or not. A few minutes later, he glanced out his window to see Gertie hastening down the path to the gates. He wondered who her guest was. She rarely had any, and kept her family and personal life away from the school. When he looked out his window again, he saw her walking back up the drive, a tall wizard at her side.

Albus went to the window and watched them together. She hadn't even taken the wizard's arm, and the two were not touching, but there was something easy in the way they walked together. As they drew nearer, Albus recognised the wizard. Young Malcolm McGonagall. That was . . . interesting. Minerva had mentioned that they had met at her tea a week or two before. Albus had been quite sure that, for all Gertrude may have found the wizard amusing, she would not be in danger of believing she had found a new friend. She formed friendships slowly and warily, after all, and from the little he knew of Malcolm, she would not have the time and opportunity to develop a friendship with him. Yet, there they were, together.

Albus recalled what Gertrude had said to him a few nights before when he had told her that she was still fetching in trousers. "So I have been told." He had taken it as a general statement, but . . . could it be that it had been this young wizard who had told her that? He was a brash Gryffindor, and Gertrude did seem to have a fondness for Gryffindor wizards, after all. He hoped that she was not putting herself in a position to be hurt or disappointed.

Albus sighed and banished the remains of his bread and cheese. Gertrude could look after herself, he was certain. If young McGonagall did anything to hurt her, though, did anything intentionally . . . if he learned of it, he would certainly see to it that McGonagall would not be in such a position to hurt her again, at the very least. But he did think that Malcolm was honourable, if flighty. Still, it drove home to him once more that he was an old, obsolete wizard. Gertrude deserved happiness, and if she could find any with young Malcolm, even if only for a short time, then he was pleased. Yet Albus did feel a stab of jealousy toward the young wizard, which he acknowledged and dismissed. He had had his youth, and he had no claim on Gertrude, just as he had once said in anger that she had no claim on him, when she had tried to warn him against Valerianna. He had done Gertrude an injustice then, believing that despite not wanting him herself, she did want to keep him from being with any other witch. It had been a grave error on his part, and not simply because of its consequences for him and his dogged refusal to see Valerianna for the witch she was. He had hurt Gertrude . . . and yet she had still come to his aid and saved him from what could have become a public embarrassment.

Albus closed his eyes. Dear Gertrude. He did love her . . . not with the love that he held for Minerva, but still, he loved her. She had always been an important part of his life from the time he had met her. He hoped he had never completely taken her for granted, but he was certain that there were times when he hadn't appreciated her as he should have, and times when he hadn't given her the care and respect she deserved. He believed Gertrude knew he loved her, but he did not know if he had ever even told her that. She loved him, and he knew it from both her word and her deed.

Gertrude had been so good to him over the years, and after her husband died and then she joined him at Hogwarts, they became even closer. Albus had always found her a desirable witch, in an abstract way, even before her husband's death. After Reginald's death, being attracted to her seemed worse than it had, because he never would have acted on his attraction before, and was quite happy to have Gertrude and Reginald both as very close friends, but now . . . Gertrude's grief was palpable, and it felt unseemly to him to feel such growing attraction to the widow of a wizard who had suffered such a dreadful death at the hands of Grindelwald.

Nonetheless, their friendship deepened and their understanding of one another grew as they worked together at Hogwarts, and Gertrude became his only true confidante. Then one night after a particularly difficult and tiring mission, he returned to his rooms exhausted. It was too late to call on anyone, though he would have appreciated some company, and he settled for a cup of chamomile tea with the prospect of some calming mental exercises before retiring for the night. But then there was a light tapping at his door, and he opened it to find Gertrude, a teaching robe tossed on over a nightgown. She had seen him coming up from the gates, she'd said, and she thought he might like some company.

And he did want company. They sat together and drank tea, Gertrude's silent presence such a comfort to him. Then he rose and said something in gratitude, thanking her and bidding her good-night, and she had stood, putting one hand in his and laying a finger on his lips, quieting him in the midst of his words of thanks. Albus put his arms around her, holding her, and she embraced him in return. When she drew back slightly, he looked into her eyes, trying to see what she felt at that moment. Still unsure, he simply traced the line of her face from her temple to her chin with one finger, and she put just the slightest pressure on the back of his neck, encouraging him to lower his head, then they kissed. At first, it was tentative, but it grew more passionate, and before Albus had time to reflect on what he was doing, he had pushed Gertrude's teaching robe from her shoulders, and his hands were exploring her body; he lowered her to the couch and was pushing her nightgown up with one hand as he continued to kiss her and unfastened the buttons at the top of the gown with the other hand. He kissed her and touched her, and finally finding her bare breasts, he kissed them, and then he lay his head down upon her and began to weep in exhaustion, grief, and present sorrow. Gertrude stroked his hair and his back, holding him, never saying a word. She had not let him apologise; he had done nothing wrong, she told him, and she held him there for a long time. When he woke hours later, she was gone, but she had covered him with a blanket before she left.

It was a few days before they had an opportunity to speak in private. Again, Albus tried to apologise, but Gertrude would hear nothing of it. They were certainly close enough, she said, that such a thing was nothing to apologise for. She had not objected to his touch, after all, though, Gertrude did admit, she had felt a peculiar sense of guilt, as though she were betraying Reginald, despite the fact that he had been dead more than six years. But, she said, that was no reason for Albus to be sorry.

Then her brother was killed, just before Christmas that year, and after the funeral, she returned to Hogwarts and came to him. She said that it was selfish of her, but she could bear her grief better, she thought, if she were not at home just then, where everyone else was so full of grief and everyone wanted to rely on her to be the strong one. She didn't want to be the strong one that day, Gertrude said, looking up at Albus, eyes full of tears, and he told that she didn't need to be. He held her in his arms and she wept softly at first, finally sobbing into his chest, and her tears wrenched his heart. Albus led her to the sofa, and continued to hold her as she cried herself out. Gertrude fell asleep against him, and he stroked her hair, remembering when it had been long and chestnut brown, before Grindelwald had taken Reginald from her. Albus moved slightly, and her eyes opened sleepily before closing again as she let out a long sigh. He lifted her, one arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders, and carried her to his bedroom, where a nonverbal spell moved the covers aside. He laid the drowsy witch on the bed and removed her shoes and her outer robe with a whisper, then pulled the covers up over her and bent and placed a soft kiss on her cheek before turning to leave.

"Don't go. Please." Her hand was outstretched to him.

He nodded and removed his own robes, leaving on the thin sleeveless tunic he wore under everything during the cold winter, and he climbed into bed beside her, wrapping his arms around her, cradling her as she fell back to sleep. In the morning, Albus left the bed as soon as he awoke and dressed quickly. He went to the sitting room and called for Wilspy, asking for breakfast for two, and when it arrived, he prepared Gertrude a tray and brought it into her, Levitating it behind him. He reached down to touch her, and she opened her eyes.

"I wondered where you had gone," she said. "I woke and you weren't here."

"I am here, and so is your breakfast," he said gently, though he felt somewhat awkward.

She shook her head. "I'll eat out there with you, unless you would prefer to join me."

Albus brought in his own breakfast and sat down on the other side of the bed on top of the covers. They spoke little. When they finished eating, she said that she thought she ought to return home. Her parents needed her, as did her niece, she was sure. Gertrude left that morning and when she returned after the holiday, they did not speak of it, but when, one evening late in February, he came to her rooms, closed the door behind him, and kissed her, she led him to her bedroom, and this time, without apology, he undressed her and slowly made love to her. It was warm and loving, but tinged with sadness and a need that went beyond the physical, and Albus worried that he was using her. That would be good for neither of them, and Gertrude sensed his unease as he lay beside her.

She ran a hand down his beard to his sternum, then under his beard back up his chest. She moved her hand over to his shoulder and rolled closer to him. "What is it that bothers you?" she asked simply.

"I feel I shouldn't be here, that I am using you and losing myself," Albus replied frankly.

She shook her head. "I would not allow myself to be used in that way, you should know that, Albus. And losing yourself . . . only you can answer that. But I hope that it means more than just a little escape for you." She raised up on one elbow and looked into his eyes. "It may not be . . . wise or comfortable for us to be here now like this. And we may be finding solace with each other. But I don't think that is necessarily a bad thing. It isn't as though we were . . . mere acquaintances, after all. This could never be solely about escape or solace, at least not speaking for myself."

Albus smiled slightly. "And which of us is the Gryffindor today, my forthright Slytherin?"

After that, they made love at times over the next several months, but then one late summer's evening she was visiting him, and he reached for her, and she held onto his hand.

"I have been thinking that perhaps we shouldn't do this anymore," Gertrude said. "I find myself . . . not regretting it, never that, but feeling as though it isn't the right time for this. That we are not developing our relationship . . . it is as it was before. And that is fine, please do not misunderstand me, Albus. But I remember what I had with Reginald, and as much as I enjoy our intimacy, it is only added onto the friendship we already had, but without being integrated with it. Part of it, of course, is being at school. Our duties, particularly yours, don't make it easy to develop more of a relationship, even if we did not have this war on, too. But it is also because our friendship . . . that is what you value, Albus, and you do not want anything beyond that. I am not saying that I do, either. In fact, I don't believe that I do want anything more – it may have been a while since Reginald's death, but I don't think I am ready yet to consider remarrying, or even simply being in a romantic relationship with anyone yet."

"I can't do that, Gertrude, make any promises or commitments," Albus replied, a pained look on his face. "And I never said anything about marriage, although not out of any disrespect for you nor lack of affection. But with the war – "

"I know. You needn't say anything more. I know that you genuinely care about me, and I love you. It may sound paradoxical to you, but I cannot continue like this both because it isn't more, and because, at the moment, anyway, I don't want it to become more. And there is the possibility that it might do just that, I suppose, without either of us intending it, and one or the other of us might be hurt. But I needed to tell you and be completely honest and forthright about it."

"You are becoming more Gryffindor with each passing day, Gertrude," Albus teased with a smile. "Perhaps you have been spending too much time with me."

Gertrude smiled at that. "No, not too much time. Never too much time. But the kind of physical intimacy that we have shared, I will miss it, but I think it's best if we were to avoid it. At least until the war is over and things are more normal. But I will be here for you in every other way, just as I always have been. Don't avoid me, please. I would miss you."

"I am afraid I have brought nothing into your life, Gertrude, but more burdens and sadness. Even your work here is for my benefit, you came here because I asked you to. And now I have taken what was not mine to take, and never even asked what you wanted from it. I am very, very sorry."

"Do not be! Do you have so little regard for me that you think I would simply . . . prostitute myself for you? For, as it is very clear that you did not take me against my will, that is the only other option, the way you have described our relationship." Seeing his crestfallen face, Gertrude sighed. "I am sorry. I know that is not what you meant. But you surely could tell that I was quite a willing participant, even enthusiastic. It has been very good, Albus, and you are a marvellous lover – not that I have much basis for comparison, but I certainly think I would know if you were not. And I still do want you, but it simply isn't a good idea for either of us right now."

"It hasn't been terribly frequent, though. And I have tried not to be demanding . . . although I am quite aware that I am the one coming to you." Albus swallowed. "I can't help but feel that I have importuned upon you, and that you have given far more than I."

Gertrude shook her head, then leaned toward him and kissed his mouth lightly. "I would have gone to you many a night, but for the fact that I have felt torn about what it is we have and what it is I might want. And that is why it is best if we just cherish what we have now and the memories of those more intimate moments, and go forward from here."

Albus had agreed, and if there were a few times when their embraces were more lingering or their kisses more tender than those between mere friends, they still refrained from any intimacies beyond those. Until the time he Apparated to the Gamp Estate a few years later, the summer before Grindelwald's fall, and sought her out on the moor and found her sitting on a fallen stone by the hill fort. She was dressed in brown trousers and a pale blue blouse, he remembered, and she looked extremely attractive as she stood and greeted him. He was tired and he was uncharacteristically lonely. He had spent the past three days in the constant company of others, and their mission had been successful. On returning to the Ministry, he had been debriefed by Sprangle and his assistant. When he left the Ministry building, he knew that he did not want to be alone, nor in the company of strangers. He had actually stopped by the Department of International Magical Cooperation to see if Minerva might be free for lunch, but he was told that she was already out. And so he had Apparated to the Gamps and been informed by a fuzzy-eared house-elf that Madam Gertrude was out on the moor "for a clamber."

Knowing that she and Reginald usually used to make the hill fort their destination when they were out for a "clamber," Albus Apparated directly there. Gertrude was unstartled, but smiled and stood to greet him.

"I was thinking about you," she said softly, "wondering how the mission went and if you were all right, if you were safe or . . . hurt somewhere."

Albus kissed her cheek. "Quite safe. It went well. And I'm quite alive, as you can see," he said with an affectionate squeeze to her arm. "I am just tired . . . and tired." He smiled. "I wanted to see you."

Gertrude put her arms around him and placed her head on his shoulder. "I try not to worry. It does no good. But sometimes . . . sometimes when it's been days and I've heard nothing . . . I woke up last night from a nightmare. He'd done the same thing to you," she whispered, "and no one was there to help you." She closed her eyes and a few tears squeezed out.

Albus rubbed her back, wanting to reassure her. "I am quite safe. And I think he would have quite a time trying to do such a thing to me. I do know a few tricks, still, that he does not, and I am more aware of the potential dangers than Reginald was all those years ago. He could not take me completely unawares."

He felt her sigh and relax against him. Albus continued to rub her back, noting that on that very warm day, it seemed she was only wearing the blouse with nothing beneath it. Her arms went around him a bit more tightly and she turned her head, resting her forehead on his shoulder, her breath a light breeze on his beard. Albus closed his eyes and relaxed, not fighting his physical reaction to her closeness. Surely she must be aware of the effect she was having on him; she was completely within his embrace. When she made no move to step away, Albus brought his hand lower. He had never held her when she was wearing trousers before, and as his hand rounded the curve of her buttocks and his fingers discovered where her leg began, he paused and his reaction grew. Gertrude pressed herself against him for a moment before turning her head and looking up at him.

"Gertrude," he whispered.

"Shh . . ." She closed her eyes and he kissed her, his fingers exploring the trousers where the legs joined, and when she did not protest, he continued touching her there. With his other hand, he rubbed her back and began to pull her blouse out from the waistband. Gertrude's breathing quickened, then she broke the kiss, and he stilled his movements.

"Very interesting things, these trousers," Albus said hoarsely.

Gertrude nodded, then stepped back, still holding on to him, and led him back around a wall to a spot that was smooth, dry, and level. Albus removed the grey tunic he wore over his dusty blue robes and spread it on the rock, then cast a spell that Transfigured it into a large cushion. She sat down and he joined her, kissing her, touching her, embracing her. He began to unbutton her blouse and he felt her Support Charm release her breasts. Her trousers gave him more trouble, and she laughed as he finally resorted to a spell to finish removing them.

She smiled up at him. "I was about to tell you that we should remove my boots first. It makes it much easier. Indeed, it makes it possible."

Albus chuckled and looked at her. "I don't know. There's something . . . intriguing about a witch in nothing but boots and knickers."

"I'd like to see you in nothing but your boots, then," she answered with a laugh.

He stood and quickly removed his robe and stood naked but for his boots. He lifted an eyebrow. "Well?"

Gertrude shook her head, hiding a smile. "Off with the boots for us both, I would say."

They made love there in the sun, then lay together afterward, covered by Albus's robes, and she watched him as he fell asleep. It was the most fun they had ever had being intimate, and it was the last time that they were. They returned to their previous loving relationship, but never to make love again.

Several years later, the war over, some peace in their lives, Albus began to think again of finding a witch, romancing her, loving her, perhaps eventually marrying her. And his thoughts naturally turned to Gertrude. He certainly cared for her, and he knew that she cared for him. They had been intimate at one time. She seemed the perfect candidate to him. He decided to woo her, to court her in a way that he hadn't before. It wouldn't have been appropriate then, but now . . . he wanted her to understand his intentions.

But when she did understand his intentions – and it was only when he stepped into her rooms one late summer's evening to kiss her good-night, and his lips touched hers, that she finally realised that he was attempting to court her – she had been surprised. He had been encouraged by her initial reaction to his kiss. She had obviously enjoyed it, but she pushed him away and turned from him.

"Gertrude?" he said, confused by her reaction. He reached out and touched her sleeve.

Her eyes were closed, and she seemed to be trying to gain control of her breathing. "Albus . . . those days . . . those days are long past. I don't believe we can return to them. I don't want to return to them."

"This is different, Gertie. It is. For me, at least. I want to court you. It wouldn't be as it was before. I want there to be a future for us."

Gertrude shook her head. "No. No, you don't, Albus."

He was stunned by her words, and he didn't know how to respond.

"You mean that you do not," he finally said.

Gertrude sighed and turned back to him. "If this were even just a few years ago, perhaps I would . . . or perhaps I would, even now, if I believed what you say. But what you want, what you really want, it isn't me. I know that." She tried to smile. "It's all right, though. And I know that you mean well. I just know that your happiness lies elsewhere, and you should have the opportunity to find that happiness, to try, at least, and not discard it before its time and settle for me."

"Gertie! I don't see how you can say that – you are the most wonderful friend, a beautiful and talented witch. I certainly do not see how being with you, courting you, would be 'settling,' as you put it."

Gertrude's smile was sad, and Albus thought he detected tears in her eyes, but she said, "You do not see that now, but it is the truth. And you will realise it one day. I will always, always love you, Albus. And I will always be there for you, in whatever way you need me but that one."

"If it's the physical side of things . . . I know that I may have been somewhat . . . urgent before. We can refrain from that, if you wish."

"No, that is not it, Albus. If that were the only consideration – " Gertie took a breath. "Believe me, that is not it at all. You are still very attractive to me, and if I could turn off my brain and just allow myself to react, you would be in my bed right now, after that kiss. But, no, you have my friendship. And as your friend, as someone who loves you . . . I have to say good-night now. And thank you for your offer. To say that it is flattering would be an understatement."

He had tried over the next few weeks to change her mind – bringing her flowers, presenting her with a cloisonne Slytherin snake brooch, finding her to walk her to breakfast in the morning, bringing her late night snacks – but as he did, he could feel her impatience with him growing. Finally, he decided to try one last romantic gesture. He remembered the day very clearly. He had just received a letter from Minerva. She had arrived in Heidelberg and was beginning her apprenticeship with old Sachs. She thanked him for his help in obtaining the more suitable placement. She was so excited about it . . . he had been happy and had shared the good news with Gertrude. She was pleased for their former student, as well, he could tell. And then he had asked her to go to dinner with him. They could both leave the castle that night, there were no duties keeping them. He would pass the wards to Dippet. Gertrude had agreed, but then, after he had Apparated them to London and she saw where he was taking her, she balked.

"Delancie's? Albus . . . that is a bit much. It's not as though there's an occasion to celebrate. If it were my birthday . . . perhaps then, but let's just go around to the Leaky Cauldron. Or you could Transfigure our clothes and we could go into Muggle London for Italian. Or a curry."

"But, Gertrude, you deserve so much more. I want to treat you well, my dear."

Gertrude shook her head. "I have told you, Albus, that we are friends, and that is the way it will remain. Are you truly so blind? Or are you set on making us both unhappy?"

Albus felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. "It makes you unhappy. I make you unhappy. Even the thought of being with me . . ." He couldn't look at her. He had been a fool to continue to try to court her when she had made it clear that she wasn't interested. But he had thought if he showed he was sincere, that he didn't want just a clandestine sexual affair but that he wanted to bring her out in public, on his arm, that she would agree. He had believed she simply hadn't understood his intentions. But she had, and she did not want him.

Gertrude touched his arm. "Not the way that you are thinking, Albus. Please . . . I only want you to be happy. I cannot allow myself to keep you from that opportunity."

"As though there were some other opportunity . . ." Albus sighed, despondent. "I appreciate that you are trying to ease this for me. But I see now, finally. I am sorry. I should not press my attentions upon you the way I have."

"You know, Albus . . . why don't we have dinner at Delancie's, anyway? Hmm? We do have something to celebrate today, after all." When Albus looked at her questioningly, she smiled and said, "Minerva's apprenticeship. First her successful Challenge last spring, and now the start of her new apprenticeship."

Albus smiled. "All right, then. Thank you. You are very kind."

"No, not kind. Just your friend. And a Slytherin. You sometimes forget that, Albus. Always a Slytherin."

"Yes, and I suppose you will want to order the most expensive items on the menu and drink the best wine, my sweet Slytherin," he teased as they walked toward the restaurant.

"Only the best wine to toast a Gryffindor!" Gertie answered with a grin.

He had ceased trying to court Gertrude and was content with her friendship. Yet there was still a part of him, a small, unreasonable, and selfish part of him, that still stung from her refusal even a few years later, when he had begun to see Valerianna. And so he had rejected Gertrude's advice about the witch. It had been unworthy of him and of her and of their friendship. He certainly knew her better than that, to believe that she merely wanted to keep him to herself despite not really wanting him.

When he had walked into the cottage that late Friday afternoon a few years ago, anticipating a romantic weekend with Valerianna, he noticed that things were not as he had left them, then as he walked toward the back of the cottage, toward the largest of the bedrooms, his bedroom, he began to hear unmistakable sounds. Despite the roiling in the pit of his stomach, he was drawn to the open door of the bedroom, and there he had seen them, on his bed. Their clothes were strewn about the room, and Valerianna was on top of the wizard, straddling him, both of them so fully engaged in their activity that they did not notice him immediately.

Albus controlled himself and his anger as the young wizard had scrambled for his clothes, telling him quietly to leave. The worst of it was, he recognised the wizard as a boy whom he had taught. And now he was fornicating in his bedroom, and with the witch who had declared her devotion to him. Up until that day, Albus had not seen Valerianna naked. He had respected her avowed desire to move slowly. She had made it sound as though once they were betrothed, he could offer her further physical intimacies. But she would shrink from him, and when he wished to bring her pleasure just with his touch but not requesting or expecting that she return the gesture, she had seemed shy. Shy. She who had scarcely tolerated his touch of her covered breasts, or a caress of her lower abdomen, or a light touch to her knee or thigh, she was rutting with a wizard half her age in his own bedroom.

First, Valerianna had pleaded with him, but in his hurt and his anger, he was implacable. He told her to dress and leave. She begged, but her begging soon turned to taunts. And however much spite and venom was in her taunts, Albus heard the truth of them, as well. If he had ever known how to satisfy a witch, he had forgotten, and his touch turned her cold. She would have borne it, though, if he only had some ambition. She would have allowed him the pleasure of her body on occasion if he had married her; she could have taken younger lovers to satisfy her desires, and he would have satisfied her other needs, and she would have helped him to achieve great things. She had needed a young man, a wizard whose dried up touch didn't disgust her. She was no different from any other witch, Valerianna told him, how could he expect her to want him to touch her? He was old, he was pathetic in his attempts at love-making, it was bad enough that she had to tolerate his withered lips on her face or her mouth, but the thought of them touching her elsewhere made her ill, as did his beard and his long grey hair. And if he believed that she or any other witch would ever want his ancient penis in her when they could have a young wizard, then he was completely deluded. Albus could still hear her voice railing at him.

Valerianna may have been shallow and vain, and she may have desired his courtship for all of the wrong reasons, but it was undeniable that he was old. And, despite the brief profligate period in his youth, his experience with witches was limited. At first, by choice, and then by circumstance. Had he ever been able to please a witch, his long periods of abstinence had clearly taken their toll on that ability.

He hadn't loved Valerianna. He had had a hard time warming up to her, in fact, but she had a certain attractiveness about her, and he had tried to treat her with respect and to please her with his courtship. And he had wished to bring her some physical pleasure. He could still remember how lovely it had once been to know that he, with a loving touch, could bring a witch pleasure. And now he could no longer inspire anything more than disgust, or, at best, tolerance.

After Maria, there had been almost no one until Gertrude. That was a very long time. A lifetime. And Gertrude, she was his friend, but she had been lonely, too. She had put an end to the physical side of their friendship all those years ago. And he had understood her reasoning at the time, and had even agreed with it. But then later, when he had offered her courtship, she had refused him. She had said it was so that he could pursue the opportunity to be happy with the right witch, and she wasn't that witch. Yet now he wondered whether it wasn't more that he wasn't the right wizard, the wizard to make her happy.

He now knew that it was just as well that Gertie had refused him; he had never loved Gertrude as he loved Minerva, despite their much longer friendship and all their shared intimacy. What he desired and what he felt when he thought of Minerva, he had never even dreamed of desiring or feeling with Gertrude or with anyone else. Of course, he had not known that when he had attempted to court Gertrude, even though his feelings toward Minerva had already begun to grow and change. He hadn't understood the kind of longing he would come to have for Minerva. If he had, he never would have approached Gertrude, for her sake more than his. She did deserve better than what he had offered her; he simply hadn't realised that at the time.

Would it be easier on him now if Gertrude had accepted him then, if they were together now? He would not be struggling with his feelings for Minerva. Or would it be worse? Worse because he would never betray Gertrude if he were with her, but, knowing how he felt about Minerva now, if he were with Gertrude and still felt this way about Minerva . . . it could only come between them, even if he avoided Minerva, even if he were completely faithful to Gertrude, even in his thoughts and dreams. He couldn't imagine trying to be devoted to Gertrude while having these feelings for Minerva. No, he would have been even more conflicted than he was now. And Gertrude deserved a wizard who wasn't completely in love with some other witch. That went without saying. But if Gertrude had allowed him to court her, then to marry her, perhaps his feelings for Minerva never would have developed as they did. He might have had some peace. He might have been able to appreciate Minerva as he should, and have been content in his relationship with Gertrude.

Somehow, though, Albus could not imagine knowing Minerva and not loving her as he did now. But it had taken time for it to develop to the stage it had reached. It didn't suddenly spring into being. It may have begun years ago, but he could have nipped it in the bud. And he almost did. But Gertrude had refused him.

Then there had been Valerianna . . . she had been a dreadful mistake, and nothing would have worked out with her. Gertrude had tried to warn him, and told him that Valerianna was just a pale imitation of the real thing, and that she was not interested in him for who he was but for what she thought she could get out of him. When he told Gertrude that who he saw socially was none of her affair, she no longer mentioned it, and he knew that he had hurt her. It had bothered him that he had hurt her, but there was some rebellious part of him that had wanted to give Valerianna a chance. If Gertie had tried to tell him that Valerianna was seeing other wizards, he would have discounted it. He certainly wouldn't have believed that "seeing other wizards" included having sex with them. But he couldn't deny the evidence of his own eyes, and Valerianna may have made a fool of him under his own roof, but he was not enough of a fool to be taken in by her pleas or her excuses. Nonetheless, Valerianna's final rant remained with him for days afterward, perhaps because it hit the mark, and even now, he could hear her words.

And now he understood even better what it was that Gertrude had not told him when she refused his courtship, and that she had denied to him even the other evening in his office: he was old. He was old and past the point of being an eligible wizard. If he hadn't understood that after the debacle with Valerianna, he could see it staring him in the face in the person of young Malcolm McGonagall when he had walked down and met him and Gertrude by the lake before leaving for Amsterdam. He would not dishonour Gertie by pretending that it was only Malcolm's youth that attracted her to him – she was no Valerianna Yaxley – but certainly the wizard was not well over one hundred, nearing one hundred-twenty. Malcolm was even younger than Gertie, Albus believed. And Minerva deserved a vital, young wizard, too. But that didn't stop him from wanting Minerva, wanting her with increasing desperation. If he believed that Minerva would welcome him to romance her, oh, how he would court her! He would love her, if she would welcome that. He would be happy if she would simply accept him as a chaste suitor if he could only be with her, hold her, cherish her, have her heart and give her his.

But Minerva deserved a young, vital wizard. She was a healthy young witch. She would not want a chaste romance. Albus grew warm at the thought of Minerva's desire . . . but his touch would surely cause her disgust, not pleasure. Even if he were younger, it would likely not change that. She knew of his period of dissipation, what he had done, and he was sure that she knew of his attempt to court Valerianna and how the witch had made a fool of him. No, there was little chance Minerva would ever welcome his romantic attentions, and as for his physical attentions . . . he would never touch her. He would control his emotions around her, and he would certainly control his actions. He would give her no cause to fear his intentions or to be offended by his touch. Even if that required him to keep a physical distance between them and maintain the usual formalities between a headmaster and one of his teachers.

Albus slowly climbed the stairs to the single upper room that served as his cozy bedroom. He readied himself for bed, though it was still early. He would spend another day here at the cottage, then if he was still restless, he would return to Hogwarts a day early. At least he might find some distractions there, even if he still missed Minerva. Perhaps he could owl her, though, and invite her to lunch. She would be busy with her family, but she might still be able to find the time to have lunch with him. She had invited him to lunch the last time she had been away from the school, after all. He would see Minerva soon. Minerva. He smiled. The prospect of seeing Minerva lightened his mood.

Yes, he would spend Sunday at the cottage, refresh his wards, take care of some of the paths that had washed out since the last time he had been there, and finish a few other care-taking tasks, then he could return to the school on Monday. Wilspy wouldn't be back at the castle until at least Tuesday, but he could tend to himself quite well, and he knew that Aberforth had had a list of things he had needed the house-elf's help with, and so Albus didn't want to ask him to have her return early just so that he could have his cup of tea in the morning. Besides, Wilspy enjoyed her little jaunts to Aberforth's and liked to fuss over him. Aberforth always complained about her fussing, but Albus believed he secretly appreciated it.

Albus went to bed with a book, and fell asleep before he had read three pages. His sleep was undisturbed by the arrival of Fawkes, who sang softly to the slumbering wizard before falling asleep himself at the foot of the bed, head tucked beneath his wing.