The Comedy of Errors

The Comedy of Errors

Disclaimer: They (almost) all belong to J. K. Rowling and her publisher. I’ve only borrowed them for some playing, but I promise, as soon as I’m done with them (or better said, as soon as they’re done with each other) I’ll give them back.

Author’s Note: If the idea of older people falling in love and having sex squicks you, then - please - do me a favour: Go away. You won’t like this story.

Chapter 1: The cat who got caught by the bird

“… don’t have to tell you how difficult some of our work is to explain to someone who obviously doesn’t have a clue about the basics,” the grey-haired wizard sighed. “And when it comes to Earnest Dribblewit - really, Minerva, the man sometimes drives me mad!”

The tall, elegant witch strolling at the side of the man, smiled sympathetically. “I can imagine, Ignatius. I taught Dribblewit through his last year and he really was outstandingly slow. Albus, who’d suffered with him through six years always said …” She didn’t come to finish her line, because just at this moment a bright flame seemed to burst out of the top of a tree only a few steps away from the walking couple.

The wizard jumped in shock and, bumping against the witch, pulled his wand out and directed it at the tree. “Take cover behind me, Minerva!” he yelled.

Minerva McGonagall sounded slightly ironic as she said: “I don’t think there’s a need to protect me heroically. You can put your wand away.” Stretching out her arm, she called: “Fawkes! Come down from there immediately!” The moon, just coming out behind a wandering cloud, lit a shadow on top of the tree, glimmering in gold and red. It raised a set of wings, trilled a melodious note, then sailed gracefully down to the witch’s outstretched arm where it revealed itself as a swan-sized bird with a sharp beak and big, dark eyes. As the bird nibbled affectionately on Minerva’s ear, she smiled, petted his head and asked: “Whatever are you doing up there, frightening visitors in the middle of the night, Fawkes? Were you taking a flight or were you once again thrown out for bad manners?”

Obviously the last was the case because the phoenix sang an awkward sounding note and hid his head under his wing. Minerva laughed. “Aye - that probably means that you’re asking for asylum in my chambers again.”

For an answer, she got another nibble at the ear - and a rather indignant sneer from her companion. “Isn’t that Dumbledore’s pet?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t exactly call Fawkes a ‘pet’,” Minerva answered with forced lightness. “He is a phoenix and - as you should have learned in Care of Magical Creatures - that means he not only possesses powerful magic of his own, but picks out his human companion for himself.”

“Nevertheless,” the wizard responded angrily, “Dumbledore should look after his phoenix himself. He obviously is quite used to putting everything he doesn’t want to do on your shoulders. You should tell him that you’re not his personal slave, but his Deputy.”

With the moon now once again shadowed by a cloud, he probably couldn’t see that Minerva’s lips had become very thin. But her voice made it clear that she was annoyed. “Ignatius, I don’t think I need your advice on how to handle my supr. Ar. Albus Dumbledore and I have been working with each other for almost 40 years now - with success, I like to think. And I certainly don’t feel like his personal slave.”

Ignatius Pemperbroke took Minerva’s hand and bowed over it, lightly kissing it. “Don’t get me wrong, Minnie,” he said softly. “I don’t wish to patronize you. But I -,” he swallowed and squeezed the small hand he was still holding, “I adore you very much,” he proceeded then. “I’d like to become the one who protects you, who admires you as you deserve, who spoils you and who makes you happy. Let me court you, Minnie, my Goddess, will you?”

Fawkes, still sitting on Minerva’s shoulder, whistled a note which almost sounded like a snort. But Minerva didn’t look at him. Instead she smiled - a bit forced as someone who knew her might have registered - at the wizard by her side. Slowly pulling her hand out of his, she said: “Well, I actually thought you were already courting me. Also, I must tell you that I don’t like being called ‘Minnie’ much.”

“Oh, I’m sorry Minerva,” Ignatius Pemperbroke responded quickly. “And of course I was already courting you. But I’d like to do it more properly now. I mean,” he sounded a bit awkward, “I think I’d like to deepen our relationship - with your permission, of course.”

They had by now arrived at a side door of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where Minerva had taught and lived for almost 40 years. In the light of the lamp over the door Minerva could now see her companion better, and she used the opportunity to study his face for a long, silent moment. She actually liked what she saw. Although the almost 100 years he’d lived had left traces upon his features, Ignatius Pemperbroke was, with his chocolate brown eyes, high forehead and short, grey hair, still a handsome man. And what she could see from his body under the voluminous dark robe looked strong yet lean. He moved with grace, his scent - austere lavender, sandalwood and rosemary, very male - was pleasant, and she had liked the feeling of his well-groomed hand touching hers.

For a few seconds another face came to her mind - smaller, the wrinkles around the eyes and on the forehead deeper, the nose more prominent, the eyes blue-grey instead of brown. Remembering this face - and, oh how well she had known it and how often she’d tried to smooth the wrinkles with a tender finger - she felt once again the pain to which she’d become accustomed since that terrible day three years ago, when her husband had fallen in the last, so called “Final” battle of the war against the evil wizard Voldemort.

Energetically she shoved the thought of the man she’d lost away and smiled at the wizard who was now before her. Hadn’t he asked her opinion about deepening their relationship? He wasn’t Augustus, and her feelings for him were nothing like the deep love she’d felt for her husband but, being the sensible woman she always had been, Minerva didn’t expect to get such love, passion and proven friendship a second time. She respected Ignatius as the decent man he was, she felt affection for him - wasn’at sat something?

“I think I’d like that,” she said and, laying her hand on the doorknob, asked, “Would you like to have a nightcap up in my rooms?”

The phoenix on her shoulder didn’t seem to like the idea. He made one cackling sound and hopped from one foot to the other. Ignatius Pemperbroke looked irritated at him, wrinkling his forehead. But then, ignoring the bird, he bent forward and kissed Minerva’s cheek. “My Goddess, I don’t think it would be appropriate. It’s quite late and your students … and …” Now he didn’t sound awkward, but pompous. “Just the other day, Madame Fenton-Fuller - you know her? She’s been on the Hogwarts Board of Governors for ages - complained about Dumbledore’s conduct setting a bad example for the pupils of the school. His affairs - he doesn’t even try to be discreet about them! Only two weeks ago he paraded his newest conquest - a very lush blonde - at the most posh restaurant in London, right under the nose of all society! Really, I don’t know what this man is thinking. As headmaster of Hogwarts he should be aware of having certain obligations. I know you don’t like to…”

“No,” Minerva interrupted him energetically. “I don’t like my superior being criticised like that because I don’t think that the private life of the Hogwarts Headmaster - or his deputy as the case may be - should be of any concern to the governors of the school. I can’t remember having a paragraph about celibacy in my contract and I really can’t imagine that Albus would have signed something like that in his.”

“Minerva,” now Pemperbroke sounded soothing and patient, as if he was speaking with someone who would need to be coaxed back from the wrong path, “your loyalty toward your superior honours you. But you certainly can’t tell me that you agree with his conduct.”

“Albus Dumbledore isn’t only my superior,” Minerva said sharply, “but someone I consider a friend. Therefore I certainly won’t discuss his private life behind his back. As you’ve said: It’s quite late. I think we should call it a night now.”

Pemperbroke swallowed and for a moment he seemed tempted to pursue the subject. But then he simply bowed. “You’re right of course, dear Minerva. May I hope to see you again next week?”

Minerva, opening the door, didn’t look at him as she answered rather coolly: “Next week is the last in the term. That means I’ll be very busy. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Pemperbroke breathed deeply. “I understand. But I may send an owl, inquiring after your wellbeing? And, perhaps, the week after term’s end?”

“We’ll see.” Minerva stepped through the door. “Good night, Ignatius.”

“Good night, Minerva, my Goddess - and thank you for the wonderful evening!”


Closing the door behind her, Minerva raised her hand and petted the phoenix who still sat on her shoulder. Slowly wandering through the dimly lit corridor which lead to a small, wooden staircase she said quietly: “Fawkes, can you explain to me why I obviously only attract rather stuffy, terribly old-fashioned Ministry bores? Have I become such an old spinster?”

The phoenix of course didn’t answer her question, but nibbled once again at her ear. She sighed, reaching the staircase. For a few seconds, sheitatitated there, her hand already on the rail upwards. Then she turned around and went downstairs, in the direction of the kitchen. The conversation with Ignatius Pemperbroke had irritated her and, even if it hadn’t, ever since she had become a widow, sleeping had been a problem. For years she’d been used to talking about the events of the day with her husband in the evenings, and she’d become accustomed to his calm voice and the soothing warmth of his body next to hers. In the three years since his death she’d learned to deal with her loneliness during the days, but at night it was still hard. She’d tried to develop a new bedtime routine, and she’d found that walking down to the kitchen to get herself a hot cocoa often helped - perhaps because she often met her friend and superior there. Albus Dumbledore had always been a night owl; he often worked late and, having not only a sweet tooth but a very healthy appetite, he loved having a midnight snack. He didn’t want to bother the house elves though, so most of the time he went down to the kitchen to prepare something himself.

However, on this night Minerva didn’t expect him in the huge room behind the still life with the fruits. She knew that he was entertaining what Pemperbroke had named his ̶westwest conquest”. When leaving the castle for her appointment with Pemperbroke, Minerva had met Ingar Freyasdottir, guest charms professor at the Merlin College and current love interest of Hogwarts’ Headmaster. And Fawkes - who normally spent his nights on a perch in his human’s bedroom - coming to her in the middle of the night could only mean that the phoenix had been left back in Albus’ office once again because he wasn’t wanted in the bedroom.

Minerva couldn’t suppress a smile, thinking about it. As close as Albus and his phoenix were, Fawkes certainly didn’t share his human’s taste in women. Whenever one came close to Albus, Fawkes reacted jealously - and being a clever bird he had his ways of showing the lady that he didn’t approve of her. Minerva remembered how Fawkes had once taken the lingerie of Albus’ lady for “play” which was how Albus had referred to it in a failed attempt to defend his feathered companion. The lady hadn’t liked it - probably because Fawkes had showed her magical push-up bra to the portraits of the former headmasters and headmistresses in Albus’ office. Phineas Nigellus Black, even after his death possessor of a very acid tongue, had pretty clearly expressed what he thought about such clothing. And there had been another lady who had been always very proud of her artificial hair dos. After Fawkes had twice approached her in low-level flight it had become clear that Madame was wearing a wig and Albus’ usual “Fawkes only wants to play”-speech had in no way soothed the infuriated lady. She’d obviously felt insulted not only by the phoenix, but by his master too. At least the scratch on the cheek she’d provided Albus with had quickly been healed by a few tears from Fawkes.

Entering the kitchen Minerva marched to the enchanted shelf where the house elves kept milk, fruits and some snacks. While she filled a pot with milk and cocoa and put it on the stove Fawkes, who’d made himself comfortable on top of a closet, made a cacklsounsound. Minerva smiled, took a knife out of a drawer, picked an apple out of the basket and started to cut it in neat slices while with one eye watching her cocoa. As it began to cook, she put the dish with the apple slices down, stirred the cocoa, spiced it with cinnamon and a little red pepper, poured some in a mug and turned. Mug in the one hand and dish with the apple in the other, she sat at at the table near the fireplace. In doing so, her gaze fell upon the closet and she laughed, because now on top of it sat not one, but two phoenixes. Both watched her with crooked heads and in unison they sang melodiously.

Minerva, amused and shaking her head, threw an apple slice to the left phoenix. He took it graciously in his claw and started nibbling on it. The other phoenix made a disappointed sound. “You can slice your apples yourself,” Minerva told him. “Besides, I assume you would rather have cocoa. Just serve yourself – there’s enough left for you.”

The phoenix spread his wings and, sinking slowly down to the floor, he changed into a tall wizard in forest green robes with silver embroidered hems that suited his glorious mane of silver hair and his beard, which reached down to his belt. Smiling out of azure blue eyes he said, “I’d hoped to be spoiled by you too, Minerva.”

Minerva, who’d made herself comfortable in a worn chair at the table, sipped cautiously at her steaming mug. “I think you’re spoiled enough by the ladies, Albus,” she answered dryly.

He was walking to the stove now and Minerva watched his back, once again admiring how much energy he radiated. He was almost 150 years old, and though that didn’t mean too much for a wizard of his strength, it certainly made him feel his years now and then. Despite his age, his broad-shouldered tallness, and the heavy robe, he moved with the grace of a dancer.

“Actually,” he said, pouring cocoa in a mug, “I don’t feel very spoiled tonight. Rather on the contrary.”

“Oh?” Minerva stretched her long legs. The combination of hot cocoa and Albus always made her feel relaxed.

Now he came over to the table, gave Fawkes another apple slice and sat down next to Minerva. “Tonight obviously wasn’t my night,” he said, sounding slightly amused. “I was a bit late for my date with Ingar…”

Minerva couldn’t suppress a smile. “Aren’t you always, Albus?” she asked.

“No, I’m not! It’s only that I forgot to sign a few papers and if I hadn’t done them tonight, my deputy would have bitten my head off tomorrow. You know, she’s a rather severe mistress.”

“With you she needs to be,” Minerva replied. “I take it Madame Freyasdottir wasn’t too pleased aboeingeing stood up again?”

“I didn’t stand her up.” Albus took his golden half moon spectacles down and started to massage the bridge of his crooked nose between thumb and forefinger. &#;I w;I was only five or six minutes late. I apologized and told her the reason, but she obviously was in a rather bad mood.” Putting his spectacles up again he proceeded, sounded amazed by it all. “You know, Minerva, sometimes I really wonder. Ingar acts as if she were jealous over you.”

“But you told her there’s no reason for it?” Minerva couldn’t avoid feeling a little hurt. Studying the contents of her mug, she added: “How could your bony, rather plain deputy ever be a rival for a Nordic Goddess like Madame Freyasdottir?”

Now she had his full attention. Furrowing his brows, he studied her for a moment then shook his head. “Women! Perhaps I should enchant your mirror, Minerva, to show you how I see you. Or,” he chuckled, “I should enchant it to show you how Ingar sees you. She obviously doesn’t think of you as bony and plain.”

Minerva felt how she was blushing. Although she was used to Albus being a charmer, she’d never before talked with him about her appearancee hae had never even thought about how he saw her. Her friendship with him had always been “neutral”. That was probably connected to the history of it. When they’d first met, he had been the transfiguration professor at Hogwarts, an he had been very well renowned in the circle of transfiguration masters. Minerva had been his student, and as much as she had admired his brilliance as a teacher and scientist –it was his playfulness, the attitude of carelessness, and his way of flirting with every female human being that she had despised.

Falling in love with a close friend of his - Oxford’s law professor Augustus McGonagall - hadn’t changed Minerva’s opinion about Albus Dumbledore much. Her husband had told her once a week: “Albus means no harm, really. If you only knew him better, you would certainly like him.” But there had been hardly a week when she had opened the newspaper without looking at a picture of Albus Dumbledore with a woman on his arm. And his promotion to the position of Headmaster at Hogwarts had added to her dismay, due to something she’d always found rather disturbing: Albus Dumbledore hadn’t only been in Slytherin during his time at Hogwarts, but had become head of that house when he’d returned to teach.

Minerva - who’d been in Gryffindor - would have fiercely denied that she was biased against the other Hogwarts houses. Hadn’t she married a former Ravenclaw Head Boy? Wasn’t her best friend, Poppy Pomfrey, a former Hufflepuff? No, really, she didn’t judge people by their house membership. But a Slytherin! Even Minerva’s husband, as a lawyer always factual and certainly not into prejudices, couldn’t deny that almost every former Hogwarts pupil who’d ever been accused of involvement with the Dark Arts had been a Slytherin.

Slytherins were famous for strength and cleverness and notorious for being power hungry, cunning, and holding themselves above the rules. Minerva had never liked a single one of the lot, and she always followed the first rule for Grndorndors: “You can trust a Slytherin only as far as you’re able to throw a hippogriff single-handed.” So she hadn’t danced for joy when Albus Dumbledore had become Hogwarts’ Headmaster. When he’d asked her to become his successor as transfiguration teacher, she’d found herself torn between her love for her old school and her dislike of him. Her love had won - her love and her husband’s persistence. Augustus had said, “Just give Albus a chance, Minerva. Trust me - you’ll get used to him. Go to Hogwarts, teach there - and if you still think after a year that you can’t stand him, I won’t say another word.”

It had taken more than a year before she’d overcome her distrust of Albus. But he’d given her the time she had needed - patiently, always showing himself to be a perfect gentleman with impeccable manners. And the longer she worked with him, the more she learned that he hid a deep sense of responsibility, a lot of sensitivity, and a big heart behind his sometimes eccentric behaviour. In discovering the true Albus, she’d come to like him, and although she’d never been outspoken when it came to her feelings - Albus wasn’t a Slytherin for nothing. He understood subtle signals, and her becoming more open toward him had earned her his trust and a chance for another discovery about him: He gave the impression of being an extrovert, but wasn’t really one. While he was able to “talk a centaur’s hind leg off” as her husband once had said, he very rarely let someone have a look at his real self. His verbosity was the wall he’d erected around his vulnerable soul.

But Minerva sometimes got the chance to see behind the wall, so she’d learned how caring, warm-hearted, generous, and loving he was. The more she got to know him, the more she felt ashamed for once judging him so harshly. And after a few years, he not only earned her affection, but her trust and her loyalty. In addition, she developed something almost like motherly love for him. He was 80 years her senior, but that didn’t change Minerva’s opinion that Albus needed to be looked after. He sometimes complained that she “bossed him around”, but Minerva knew that he actually liked it. His grumbling about being a “big boy” who didn’t need to be told to go to bed, to eat, or take a cloak neither of them took seriously.

Now he laid his hand for a moment on hers. “Why are you here, Minerva? I thought you had a date with Mr. Pemperbroke.”

“I had dinner with him at the Miracle,” Minerva responded flatly, not looking at Albus, but throwing another apple slice up to Fawkes.

“Hmm.” He leaned back, crossing his long legs. “You know, Minerva, you don’t sound like someone happily in love.”

“You mean I’m not sounding like a smitten teenager?” Minerva looked at him over the rim of her spectacles. “That’s probably because I’m too old to be behaving like one of our students.”

“I don’t think you’re too old to fall in love, Minerva. I rather suppose Mr. Pemperbroke isn’t the one to win your heart.”

Minerva couldn’t suppress a little smile. Knowing Albus as well as she did, she understood that the formal way he referred to her admirer was borne out of dislike. “You can’t stand him, can you?” Minerva asked, amused.

Albus grinned. “Honestly?”

“I won’t tell him.”

“Oh, you could. He knows I think him a pompous bore. I told him so a few years ago,” Albus said. “I mean - perhaps he develops something like temper when he’s in love, but it’s difficult to imagine. Whenever I have to deal with him he acts as if he’s got a stick up his wrinkled butt and had just swallowed a dusty, 200 year old book about manners for gentlewizards.” He looked almost apologizingly at her, obviously not sure if he hadn’t just overstepped the bounds of friendship.

Minerva sighed. “He calls me his ‘Goddess’ and he says he wants to court me properly. Hked ked if I’d like it.”

“What? Goddess?” Albus raised an eyebrow. “And he wants to court you properly? What has he been doing for the last four weeks? He was hanging around you like a wilting cabbage hoping to be cooked. I suppose that is what he calls ‘courting’.”

“Albus!” Minerva’s scolding tone lacked effect because she started laughing. “Obviously your and Ignatius’ ideas about proper courting are quite different.”

“I do hope so!” Albus said firmly. “Besides, I can’t remember ever asking a woman for her permission to court her. If I feel like it, I simply start. And if Madame doesn’t approve of my advances, I actually consider myself sensitive enough to notice that before she decides to hex me for harassment.”

“I’m sure you are,” Minerva stood up and went with her cup to the stove. In the pot was still a bit of cocoa, which she poured in her mug and drank, looking thoughtfully at it. Turning around she cleared her throat and asked, “Do you admire your lady friends as goddesses?”

“Hmph!” Albus put his cup down and scratched behind his right ear. “No,” he answered then. “It’s probably one of my problems in relationships. I want an equal, someone whoR at at eye level with me, a friend I can relax with. Yet women want to be admired, don’t they?”

“Not all of them.” Minerva came back to her chair and sat down. “I don’t want a man on his knees, looking up to me. I’m no lifeless, stone statue of a goddess, but a woman of flesh and blood. And I want to be treated like one.”

“A woman of flesh and blood,” Albus repeated quietly. Smiling at her, he took her hand and kissed it. “You are indeed. And Pemperbroke is a fool if he doesn’t see it.”

For a moment Minerva was silent, looking down in her lap. After a while she said, “At the moment I rather feel like a fool. I asked him if he’d like a nightcap in my chambers and he refused, saying it wouldn’t be appropriate. Your love life already sets a bad example for the students...” She let her line hang in the air and looked at Albus.

“Oh, dear,” he sighed. “I’m sorry, Minerva.”

“What for?” she asked briskly. “It’s not your fault that I almost got myself involved with a stuffy Ministry bureaucrat. And,” her voice became quiet and sad, “it’s certainly not your fault that I sometimes feel lonely.”

Once again he took her hand, warming it between his. “You still miss Augustus,” he said warmly.

Minerva nodded. “Of course I do. But the idea of being alone for the rest of my life scares me. You know, I can be on my own. I have Hogwarts and our students and I have wonderful friends. Nevertheless I sometimes feel lonely. Probably I was just spoiled by Augustus. He was always there for me.”

“You certainly weren’t spoiled,” Albus said firmly. “You were happily married and you’re simply not used to being alone.”

Once again Minerva fell silent for a few seconds. Albus waited patiently, still holding her hand, until she started to speak again. “Sometimes I feel bad about wanting a new relationship - as if I’m cheating on Augustus’ memory. But as much as I loved him and as much as I miss him, Augustus is dead and his memory isn’t enough to keep me warm at night.” Looking up at Albus she asked, “Honestly, am I too demanding?”

“You’re certainly not,” he answered promptly. Residesides I’d wonder about your marriage if you’d become one of these widows who always tell the world that they would never marry again because they’re still so connected to their late husbands. Love is for the living. It needs life to stay alive. Widowed people not wanting new loves make me suspect that their marriages weren’t really happy.” His voice, always a bit husky, wasnR muc much more as a whisas has he proceeded. “I think losing someone you loved and lived with happily leaves a big hole in your life. Wanting to fill it up, to become part of something whole again is only human, I suppose.”

“You’re a wise man, Albus Dumbledore,” Minerva smiled tenderly at him.

As always when he was praised honestly, he grinned awkwardly. “I try, Minerva.”

For a while both were silent. Then Fawkes sailed down from the closet, landed on Albus’ shoulder and started to play gently with his hair.

Minerva knew why the phoenix had come down. Fawkes was even closer to Albus than she was, and he too had heard the sadness in his voice as he’d talked about love and marriage. Even with her, Albus rarely ever mentioned the wife he’d lost in the war against Grindelwald. Minerva had never met her, but her husband had told her about Octavia Dumbledore.

“The wedding,” Augustus had said, “was one of the great social events of the twenties. Albus was not only the offspring of one of the great families, but the son of the Minister of Magic and already known as a brilliant wizard. Besides, he was quite handsome with his blue eyes and auburn hair. And his bride - wow! Octavia Contessa di Falerni, from a noble Roman family, potion mistress at the Cagliostro University in Venice, was a breathtaking beauty with a passion and a temper to match yours, Minerva. Yet I think this temper and passion became a problem in her marriage to Albus. They loved each other very much but, both being independent and proud, it always was difficult for them to live with each other.”

Nevertheless the marriage had lasted for seventeen years - until Octavia Dumbledore had become a victim of Grindelwald.

Minerva knew that Albus had always blamed himself for the death of his wife. He’d felt guilty because he’d been away when Grindelwald had caught, tortured, and killed his wife. That his marriage hadn’t been at its best when it happened had added to his misery. Although he’d never talked about it, Minerva knew nevertheless that the problems in his marriage had been the reason why he’d never wanted to marry again. He didn’t trust himself anymore - not when it came to love. What the gossips in the magical world now named “Dumbledore’s womanizing” Minehad had long before recognized as a deep fear of failing once again.

Now it was Minerva who was cautiously stroking his hand, and he smiled at her. Clearing his throat he asked, “What will you do during the summer, Minerva?”

“Oh, my.” Minerva looked down at her lap once again. In previous years she’d always looked forward to the summer break because it meant travelling with her husband. But now she almost feared the summer. So she slowly answered, “I have a lot of work to do. The new time tables, the NEWTs and OWLs…”

“Minerva!” Albus interrupted her. “You won’t work through the entire summer!”

“No, I certainly will not,” Minerva said. “I will perhaps visit my sister in Edinburgh for a few days. She always asks me…”

“…but you never visit her because you don’t get along with her,” Albus finished. “How would you feel about coming with me to Cornwall for a few days?”

Minerva raised an eyebrow. “Why do I think Madame Freyasdottir wouldn’t like that much?”

“I don’t think she’ll be there,” Albus answered calmly.

“All over, Albus?” Minerva asked.

He sighed. “Almost over, Minerva.” Once again he stroked one finger over her hand. “I’d really like you to come.”

Minerva pursed her lips. Pulling her hand away she said, “I don’t want to be poor Minerva who needs to be kept from feeling lonely.”

“Minerva!” Albus sounded sharp. “Did it never occur to you that I could sometimes feel lonely? I certainly didn’t ask you because I thought you’d spend all summer crying in your pillow. I asked you because I’d like to be with you.”

Minerva hung her head and swallowed. “I’m sorry, Albus. I’m afraid I’m a bit touchy tonight. Perhaps I should just go to bed.”

He immediately rose and with a wave of his hand made the cups and the pot sail to the sink, where they washed themselves before they hopped back to their shelves. Offering Minerva his arm, he said, “I should get some sleep too. I’m in for a nice fight about our budget with the Minister tomorrow. He obviously needs some help understanding that more students mean more teachers and more teachers mean more money.”

Walking with him to the door, Minerva asked sympathetically, “Same procedure as every year?”

“Of course,” Albus answered. “Giving the same speech once a year without being bored to tears is one of the qualifications for my job.” He grinned at her. “Considering that you tell your Gryffindors at least once a week to clean upir dir dorms and common rooms, you’re probably even more qualified by now than I am. Perhaps I should send you to the Ministry tomorrow.”

“And take over my classes?” Minerva shook her head. “I’d rather not. Last time you did I needed an entire week before I had discipline in the classroom again.”

“Spoilsport!” Albus smiled down at her. Arriving at the entrance to Gryffindor tower he bent down and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Good night, dear Minerva. Sleep well. And you’ll think about Cornwall? I’d really like to have you there.”

“I’ll consider it,” Minerva promised, tugging lightly at his beard. “Good night, Albus.” Raising her hand, she petted Fawkes, who sat on Albus’ shoulder. “And you be good, Fawkes, will you?” Murmuring her password she stepped through the hole in the wall which opened in front of her and walked up the little staircase which led to her chambers. On her way up she pulled the pins out which kept her long, still black hair in a bun. Combing through it with spread fingers, she smiled to herself. She was glad that she’d met Albus. He always managed to make her feel better. And the idea of spending a few summer days with him at his home in Cornwall was tempting.

During the war the heavily warded, unplottable Chateau Dumbledore had sometimes served as a meeting place for the Order of the Phoenix, the resistance group Albus had led. Thus Minerva had been there a few times, and she’d liked the bright, cheerful rooms and the beautiful grounds which surrounded the building. Yet the best part about the Chateau was probably that its grounds bordered on the sea and that a lovely cove belonged to it. Minerva, who’d grown up near the Scottish Sea, had always loved swimming and sitting on the beach, watching the waves rolling upon the sand. And Albus was always good company. Spending time with him was infinitely more tempting than going to Scotland to give her sister another chanceshowshow off her five children, and to annoy Minerva with her complaining about how difficult it is to provide five children with money when one’s husband is only a rather underpaid tutor at the university. Minerva, who’d never liked her brother-in-law, always needed all her patience not to tell her sister that one shouldn’t have five children if one can’t afford it.

Being with Albus during the holidays certainly would be nicer, that much was certain. But, on the other hand, some people wouldn’t think it appropriate for Minerva to visit him in his home. Ignatius Pemperbroke certainly would be shocked. But - who said that Minerva would have to tell him? She wasn’t in a relationship with the stuffy wizard and she doubted she’d ever be. His opinion of her morality didn’t really count. What counted was that she knew that her relationship with Albus was nothing she had to be ashamed of - and this had to be enough.

to be continued