Fic: Borrowed Light, The High Priestess, Minerva McGonagall
Title: Borrowed Light
Author: lesyeuxverts00
Type: Fiction
Length: ~15700
Main character or Pairing: Minerva McGonagall/Albus Dumbledore (unrequited)
Card: The High Priestess
Card Interpretation: "She is the Queen of the borrowed light."
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, all of the characters in this story, and everything that you recognize belongs to JK Rowling.
Warnings: Character death (HBP-compliant)
Summary: "The light before dawn, the dark before twilight, the strange uneven transitions between teacup and hedgehog, needle and match - there's a moment before the new overwhelms the old. There's balance in the imbalance, and Minerva revels in the teeter-totter moments in life, the instant when being turns into becoming."
Author Notes: A million thanks to svartalfur for the wonderful beta! Huge thanks also to theentwife and jadzia7667 for help with the Tarot, and to brightfeather, faynia, bewarethesmirk, and schemingreader for inspiration and encouragement, and of course to ravenna_c_tan for all her hard work as a mod ... and for letting me post this late. *g*
The light before dawn, the dark before twilight, the strange uneven transitions between teacup and hedgehog, needle and match - there's a moment before the new overwhelms the old. There's balance in the imbalance, and Minerva revels in the teeter-totter moments in life, the instant when being turns into becoming. It's the art she practices. Transfiguration, despite all of its rules, its theorems and equations, is the recognition of these moments, the gentle push over the edge. Minerva feels it in her bones, itching along her skin, every time she transforms. After years of practice, the shifting moments have become a part of her, integral and fluid.
Such transformations are everywhere in the wan morning light. Minerva sits by the window in her warm tartan dressing gown and waits for the first sign of light across the lake, her cold fingers warmed by a cup of hot tea. The light that floods the portion of the world visible through the wavy, warped old glass in her office window, just before the advent of sunrise, is the harbinger of change. This predawn light is thin and almost transparent, as though a blanket of it was stretched around the world and it ripped in the attempt to cover everything. The warp and the weft of the blanket separated and the world became visible through the holes.
This light washes away the shadows, brushes away the tired bones of the night, cleanses the early frost from each blade of grass, and readies the world for a clean, new day. Even through the green-tinted glass of her old window, it permeates her every pore, rejuvenates her for another day of duties and well-worn cares. Her morning cup of tea is cooling and forgotten in her hand - it is the advent of the first pale light over Hogwarts that wakes Minerva.
Light and shadows divide the world - for now, light dominates the balance, but the forest and the castle and the hazy, scurrying clouds all cast their own shadows, and there's never one without the other. Shining through the castle's shadow, there's a light in the tower opposite, in the Headmaster's office window. Bright in the dawn, bright in the shadows, the light flickers and shines as Minerva watches.
-----
He is a man made entirely of light, Albus Dumbledore. Minerva feels it humming in the air around him and does not need to know that he is the Savior of their world, the Slayer of the Dark, to sense it. It comes from him like light from the sun, a constant radiance, and those who are near him can feel it, a little, and be warmed by it.
He asks her to take a cup of tea with him in his office and she agrees, arriving early and still awed by the ponderous stone gargoyles that serve as his guardians. They stare at her, unblinking and fine-hewn.
With the lightest of touches to her elbow, Albus alerts her to his presence. "Formidable statues, aren't they?" he asks as he waves them aside.
Still holding her arm, he helps her up the stairs. She's like a fragment of dandelion down, fragile and fleeting, poised between earthbound and airborne. Albus Dumbledore, master of Transfigurations, has transformed her into this, heady and light-headed. She doesn't know whether she's floating or firm on the ground - Minerva needs his hand on her arm, this warm anchor to reality.
The office is thick with shadows and Albus banishes the darkness with a wave of his hand. The portraits of past Headmasters peer at her with smiles or sneers, and Minerva pinches her lips together, folding her arms.
Silver ornaments gleam on the heavy wooden desk, and books and scrolls jostle together, the rustling of parchment their almost-silent plea for his attention. All of the room, all of the eccentricities and oddities are dwarfed by the light that shines here. A phoenix, the greatest of all Transfigurations, is perched behind his desk and Minerva loses her light-headedness in her delight. Life to death is the most common transformation, a change effected by all, but its reversal, the subtle alchemy of rebirth, the brilliant jewel-toned phoenix, that is nothing short of miraculous. She stops short of the phoenix's perch, breath caught in her throat.
With a soft warble, sugar-sweet and ethereal, the phoenix stretches its wings. A flutter of breeze kisses Minerva's face, and she blinks. The brightness burns its way through her closed eyelids, warming her in radiance - it's a light reflected in the glass windows, in the Headmaster's blue eyes, and Minerva has never seen anything more beautiful.
The phoenix preens his feathers, displaying his bright plumage in all its glory, fire-born and fire-bright. He cocks his head at Minerva, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, restless on his perch.
"I do believe he's taken a fancy to you," Albus says, reaching out to smooth the ruffled feathers.
Albus stands beside her, one gnarled finger caressing the phoenix, stroking the delicate downy feathers around the eye and neck, outlining the fire-brilliant patterns. "Fawkes, this is Minerva McGonagall, our new Transfiguration Professor. Professor - may I call you Minerva, too? - this is Fawkes."
With a tentative hand, Minerva reaches out to stroke the phoenix's soft feathers, and she is rewarded with Albus's smile. Their hands brush together, their fingers curled around the warm curve of the phoenix, and she's hard-pressed to know whether the clamoring is the rapid beating of Fawkes' heart or if it is her own pulse thrumming through her veins like quick-fire.
Albus smiles at her again and pulls his hand away from hers, giving Fawkes a last stroke. Minerva's fingers are cold when she moves away from the phoenix, coming to sit in the chair Albus indicates, across the desk from him.
December settles around the castle in earnest, washing it in pearly gray light and the ringing laughter of students anticipating the holidays. Minerva learns to expect the arrival of Fawkes in her office each morning. He settles on her shoulder, watching the world transform itself for the new day, and then with a mischievous tweak, he pulls a strand of hair from her braid with his beak before he flutters over to her desk. There are lesson plans waiting for her, along with a fresh cup of tea, evidence of the Headmaster's kindness.
Fawkes sits with her while she revises her plans for the day, gives her a sharp peck when her fingers clutch the textbook in panicked spasms or when she dozes off over the Headmaster's firm, spiky handwriting. The notes are precise, laden with decades of experience and uncompromising skill, and still Minerva flounders. She finds herself frozen in front of the class, pinned in place by their inattentive stares, every prepared syllable fleeing her grasp. The Transfigurations are simple, the students slow, her explanations lacking, and she falters. The memory of Fawkes's sharp pecks is enough to reanimate her in front of the class, enough to speed the hours in each lagging day, enough to knot her spine and burn her lungs in the dark unending nights.
The Headmaster says nothing to her, but Minerva dreads going to her desk in the mornings, certain that she'll find a note of reprimand attached to the lesson plans. She skips meals in the Great Hall, eating instead in the dim solitude of her rooms, and she avoids the staffroom, refusing to linger there after meetings. The weight of dread in her stomach, the stiffness of failure settling around her shoulders like an ill-fitting cloak, taints every smile she receives from Albus and darkens the light emanating from him.
At length, he comes to speak with her, one morning as she watches the pale first light of dawn color the edges of the clouds and etch out the tree's shadows on the frosty lawn. Fawkes has not made an appearance, and she watches the sunrise alone until she feels the faintest of touches on her shoulder.
"I thought that Fawkes had been lingering on his errands," Albus says. "Perhaps he misses the view - he and I used to watch the sunrise from this window, you know."
Minerva closes her eyes for a second before she turns to face him. "Sir?"
He smiles and nods at her desk. "Fawkes is having a burning day, and so I thought I'd bring my old lesson plans down to you. Have they been helpful at all?"
She feels the blush rising to her cheeks and opens her mouth to confess her inadequacy, to offer her resignation, to stammer and stutter like a schoolgirl. She is transparent before his light, dissected by his piercing gaze, unable to hide her failures as though she is made of clear glass.
Before she can begin, he cuts her off with another smile. "Of course, you can hardly have your bearings yet, you've only just started. I'm sure you'll have found your teaching style in a few months and then you'll toss my notes on the fire like so much Gobbledygook. I hardly find them comprehensible myself, you know.
"Were you headed to breakfast?" he asks when she rises, unsteady, to her feet, and he takes her elbow to escort her before she can protest. Minerva casts a look over her shoulder at the waiting textbooks and sheaves of notes on her desk, all wreathed in the golden light of dawn. With a gentle tug on her elbow, Albus pulls her through the door and toward the Great Hall. Minerva steps as though her boots have been Transfigured into glass, a fairy-tale professor leaving her tower with the hero as her escort.
It is a shock, then, when Professor Sinistra takes her by the elbow after the next staff meeting and leads her to the nearest classroom. Minerva's fingers tighten around her scroll of notes, snapping her delicate quill, as the torches flicker to light.
"My dear, I think I should tell you that we're all very disappointed in you," Sinistra says, "the Headmaster especially."
"I - I beg your pardon?" Minerva draws her spine straight, pulling her eyebrows together into a single line. She is brittle, like the dry and painted wood of a doll on a string, poised to break at the wrong pressure.
"Albus hunted for three months until he found you, teaching all of the Transfiguration classes while he learned how to be Headmaster and rejected one applicant after another. Then he found you, a green graduate from university, still wet behind the ears from your apprenticeship, too new to know how to Transfigure water into a boat if you were drowning.
"We were all skeptics, but he swore until the clouds on the Great Hall's ceiling blushed that you were the one for the post. Full of verve and fire and spirit, he said you were, a mind like lightning and a spirit to match. I can't say that I've seen a hint of it since you began, girl. Have you been Transfigured into a mouse?"
Minerva clenches her hands into fists hidden by the folds of her robes. The torches flicker, casting light and shadows on Sinistra's firm expression, and Minerva turns to leave.
On the threshold, she pauses. "I think that you will find, Professor Sinistra, that I eat mice for breakfast." Shoulders stiff, spine straight, with all the posture of an offended cat, she strides down the corridor to her office.
The darkest day of the year dawns, Minerva waking long before the sunrise, and the students, full of sugar and mischief, flock out of the castle in a mass exodus, swarming to the train and leaving emptiness in their wake. Minerva sighs. She gathers textbooks and lesson plans, locking her office and shutting herself in her rooms for the evening.
She is deep in the stacks of the library when Albus finds her on the second day of the holidays. He's wrapped in a warm cloak, swathed in a blanket of cold air. A faint hint of smog clings to him, a hint of the city, a harsh overtone to the smell of fresh air, and Minerva smiles at him. "You've returned from London, then," she says, dropping her book.
He retrieves it with a quick levitation spell and floats it into her hands. "Indeed, and I've already heard that you have yet to be seen outside of your quarters or the library. Come for a walk by the lake with me, Minerva."
She looks down at the book in her nerveless fingers. With a soft laugh, he Transfigures it into a warm cloak. He wraps it around her shoulders and says, "No excuses now."
The cloak is warm, rich with the smell of leather, down-soft and smoother than his fleeting touch - Albus's fingers, time-wrinkled, straighten her collar and Minerva blushes, looking down at her feet. They step out into the fresh air, Minerva trailing after him with her steps an echo of his.
The world recognizes the need for change with millennia of practice, slipping into each transformation with a grace that Minerva can never imitate. Water into ice, life into hibernation, autumn into winter, and so the old blends into the new in a gradual procession, a careful and unmatched Transfiguration. The last of the brown leaves have blown off the oak tree, and the edges of the lake are turning into frosted crystal, and when the light flashing off the ice blinds her, Albus slips a hand under her elbow. Minerva leans into his warm support.
They skirt around the edge of the dark forest, stepping over branches and shadows. Albus's expression is like glass, transparent, and yet Minerva learns nothing from watching him. She holds her tongue and lets him guide her around the lake. When they return to the castle, they've shared the walk in perfect silence, and Minerva's elbow is still warm from Albus's touch.
-----
The routine of classes hangs heavy on Minerva's days, with the echo of Sinistra's reproof lingering in her ears, Albus's touch lingering against her skin. They are bookends to her days - her first thought as she watches the dawn, the last as she blows out the candle by her bedside.
The lesson plans arrive each morning, brought by bright-feathered Fawkes or by Albus with his gentle smile. Minerva wears the scrolls flat and the ink pale, poring over them until her desk is stained with tea rings and her eyes are weak and blinking. The days are heavy and long, the sunlight fleeting, and Minerva's late hours do nothing to help her in front of the gaping, squirming children. She flounders still, and it sharpens the memory of Sinistra's words.
Change after change, from matches to needles, from buttons to beetles, with every mistake - Minerva lectures and reminds, chides and reverses mistakes. There's no impression left by her work, by her lectures. It's like the passage of wind over sand, erased by the waves - empty-minded, the students remain.
They gape in answer to her questions, they fidget when she poses a practical exam, they whisper and pass notes when she lectures. Before and after each exam, the answers slip through their minds like rice through a fishnet. Minerva despairs. No amount of striving on her part overwrites Quidditch with Transfiguration.
"There's no need to despair," Albus tells her over tea. Cup and saucer clinking, his spectacles glinting in the light, he reaches across the table to offer her a pastry. Their fingers brush together, dusted with sugar. "Children will be children, more intent on games than books. You're doing a fine job, Minerva."
She hides her doubt with a sip of sea. Her breath mists the porcelain, and the amber liquid swirls in clouded eddies. The pastry crumbles, fragile and buttery and sweet, in Minerva's fingers as she watches Albus.
"Perhaps a change in scenery, my dear?" he asks. "There are some books and potions ingredients and such, delivered for the school to the shops in Hogsmeade - would you care for the errand?"
Through the shadows gates and down the dusty road - Minerva had declined all offers of a carriage to take her into the village and at last, Albus had let her go. The change of scenery, the change of air, it seeps into her veins and cures her of both failures and expectations.
Warm and pure, the sunlight washes the streets. Witches and wizards bustle through the village, bundled up against the coming winter, their scarves flying in the wind. Minerva has known these streets as a child and student, she knows the merriment of a Hogsmeade weekend, the busy jangle of a shopping trip with friends. She's known the village under shadow of war and gleam of peace, and she makes her way through the streets, walking through memories and sunlight and shadows. Bundles under her arm, the packages Albus had sent her for, she steps out of the bookshop at last, turning back to Hogwarts and its familiar routine.
Her name, whispered from the shadowy alley, makes Minerva stop and turn. "Who's there?"
"Professor McGonagall, do you seek the light?" The voice is high-pitched, cracking and strained. "Professor McGonagall?"
Minerva takes a step closer to the alley, clutching her packages and taking a quick look around the deserted Hogsmeade street. Wan sunlight washes the paving stones, casts ghostly shadows on the houses. Across the road, a charred husk of a house remains, ravaged by Death Eaters, black with soot and nightmares. Its broken glass windows reflect the sunlight at odd angles, a shattered code of light signals to the empty sky for help. Minerva swallows. "Who's there?"
A woman steps out of the shadows, floating through the still air like the palpable miasma left by a nightmare. She's all gauze and glass beads and fripperies, her big eyes gleaming in the sunlight, and Minerva knows her. "Sibyll Trelawney."
"Professor McGonagall." Sibyll reaches for her, the light sparkling on the veins in her gaunt hand, on her gaudy rings. She smiles, the same syrupy insincere smile that she affected as a student, and Minerva turns away.
"Wait, Minerva, there is much that I must tell you. The cards hold your fate, you must be prepared."
Minerva walks away, her boot heels echoing with dull thuds on the stones. She passes through the shadow cast by the ruined house and clutches her packages in cold hands.
Sibyll follows her. "I have seen Death in the cards, I have seen a period of great darkness. I must warn you, Professor. If you will only allow me to read your cards ..."
Minerva flees, running down the path back to Hogwarts, wishing that she'd accepted the offer of a carriage, wishing for the speed of the dark Thestrals or for wings of her own. There's no banishing Sibyll's voice, there's no forgetting the clouded look in her eyes or the eerie light glinting off her beads and shawls. She shudders and hurries back to the comfort of the castle.
Albus is waiting in the library when Minerva returns. She leaves the new books in a neat stack on the librarian's desk, ready to be catalogued and spelled and shelved. Her fingers linger on the smooth, unmarked leather spines, the precise lines of the pages, the angles and planes of the books all in perfect symmetry and orderliness. Just so, the library is, the books in straight lines on their shelves, the dust whisked away by magic, the sum of knowledge gathered here greater than its parts and users.
Precision, order - the library is maintained, a small arsenal of ever-ready spells the guardian here. In the silence, Albus beckons her closer with a small wave, and Minerva, with a last caress for the new books, obeys.
He's in the Transfiguration section, near the divide between animate and inanimate Transfigurations. He brushes an invisible speck of dust from the shelf, and Minerva smiles at him. From the clattering streets of Hogsmeade to the hushed library, it's a huge transition, a sweeping change, and she braces herself.
She leans closer and whispers to him, "Headmaster -"
"Oh no, call me Albus, my dear. I insist."
Minerva clenches her hands into fists to hide her blush. "Albus, I - I saw Sibyll Trelawney in Hogsmeade today."
He says nothing, turning back to the shelves and tracing the gold-lettered spines.
"She was prophesying, as she always does," Minerva says. "I - it's always doom and darkness with Sibyll, but the chill in the air when she said that she's seen Death in the cards ..."
"Hush, Minerva," Albus says. He puts a hand on her shoulder and turns back to look at her. "The past holds nothing that can be changed, the future nothing that can be altered by vague prophecies, and the present ... the present, my dear, contains nothing that can't be enjoyed."
Turning back to the books again, he says, "After all, it is a gift."
She stifles a giggle at his off-handed pun, at the light reflected off his spectacles, at the unusual sober blue robes that he wears today - Albus is nothing if not whimsical, and today his whimsy lends itself to seriousness. It masks his gaiety, as his advice masks his good counsel.
She takes a deep breath and turns to leave, but he stops her with a hand on her elbow. "Do have a look at this one, Minerva. It's a lovely collection of essays, insightful and full of promise, truly a gem."
He leans forward and presses the book in her hands before he leaves the library. The memory of his fingers against hers burns and lingers, a pleasant heat that curls her toes and twists her stomach.
The cool leather cover of the book warms in her hands, and she looks down to see the collection of her published articles. Albus's trust and praise are warmer than the touch of his fingers - she presses the book to her chest before she reshelves it, and she leaves the library with a lighter heart.
-----
Minerva feels the prickle of prophecy at the ends of her nerves, a sense of foreboding that tingles and burns like a wild light. Magic rises around her, mutable and free, and she watches as the children congregate, forming alliances and enemies, choosing their seats.
They quiet at last, looking up at her with inquisitive eyes, and Minerva makes her move. She springs down from the desk, grasping the cusp of change, twisting and reshaping. The pull and burn of muscle and bone, the change flows through her, and she takes a deep breath.
Her glasses are askew, and Minerva straightens them, peering at the students. The gasps and whispers have shifted to giggles in the last row. She raps her wand with a loud wooden thud against the desk.
Minerva glares at the class over her spectacles, unwilling to show any hint of weakness, any flaw to them. "Mr. Black? Mr. Potter?" she asks. "Was there something that you wished to share with the class?"
They shake their heads, stifling their giggles, and she reaches for the scroll with Albus's notes - it's a comforting weight in her hand, though she hasn't used it in over a decade. Here in the classroom, she can reach out and touch Albus through ink and parchment, she can touch his thoughts and his confidence in her.
"Now, understand that Transfiguration is a delicate, complicated science and that any errors you make can be harmful to yourself and your classmates. I will not tolerate nonsense or inattention."
It is enough, when she can't touch him, to have this parchment and ink connection to him. The oddness of taking Albus's place, of teaching in his place, has disappeared, and it's all evaporated away to leave crystals of certainty. In front of the students, in the light of the classroom, she follows her lesson plans and answers questions and manages, somehow, to impart knowledge. As long as she is not convinced of her unworthiness by Sinistra, as long as she is not taken to task by Albus for her failings - Minerva squelches the thought.
The first years, fraught with nerves and newness, heed her threats. There is dead silence seeping through the classroom, overrunning the scratch of quill against parchment, burying the noise of nervous twitches and the whispery, uneven sounds of their breathing.
The theory of change, basic and bookish - it is nowhere near the elemental, bone-deep understanding that is required for the complicated Transfigurations - occupies the first half of the class, and then Minerva passes out matches. She's met with blank expressions, with disappointed sighs, and she stops the questions and protests. "We will begin with the most elementary of Transfigurations today," she says. "You will not be capable of more complex spells, such as the Animagus transformation that I demonstrated earlier, for many years yet. This is the basis of the knowledge that you will need. This, and any Transfiguration that does not stretch or shrink matter or change the intrinsic nature of the object, is simple and easy to learn. You will not attempt anything more complicated except under my direct supervision."
"That," she says with a pointed glare at the giggling boys in the last row, "will not be for several years yet, and for some of you - Mr. Potter, Mr. Black - it may never happen. You have been warned."
The prickle of prophecy still tingles along her spine, the sense of impending failure, and Minerva stands behind her desk, one hand on the scroll of Albus's notes. "Focus on your matches," she tells the class. "Think of needles, silver and pointed. Think of the differences between metal and wood, the smoothness of metal, the eye of the needle, the sharpness of its tip. Think of the changes that you want to make and impose your will on the match. Make the match be a needle."
Potter and Black have grabbed a handful of extra matches and once they've mastered the beginnings of the spell, they flick them - half-needle, half-match, silvery and rough and blunt - at their classmates. Minerva stalks over to the troublemakers, a reprimand ready on her lips, but the damage has already been done.
One of the Slytherins, a Mr. Snape, springs to his feet with a dull needle sticking out of the back of his neck. He turns on the Gryffindors, his wand held at the ready, his scowl enough to curdle milk. He shoots off a curse before Minerva can stop him, and huge tentacles burst out of the back of James Potter's head, weighty enough to unbalance him and send him reeling to the floor.
"If you ever dare to lay your hands on me again, you will regret it, you ..."
"As if anyone would want to touch a nasty little bastard like you ..."
"Stop it this instant, gentlemen," Minerva says. "Mr. Potter, get yourself to the hospital wing. Mr. Snape, are you hurt? You may go as well if you're injured."
"No, Professor," he says, staring at his shoes.
"Very well. You will all write an essay about the improper use of magic in class and Mr. Potter and Mr. Black will focus on the dangers of imprecise transfiguration while Mr. Snape will discuss the proper place and time for casting hexes. You will turn your essays in to me before the next class, and you will apologize to one another. Is that clear, gentlemen?"
She waits for their sullen nods before she adds, "That will be a detention for all three of you, and five points each from your Houses. I will not be so lenient again, gentlemen."
Minerva turns to address the class. Some things never change - the foolishness of the first years, the headaches of teaching, the failures that stung deep to her bones. "You will all remember that I do not tolerate any foolishness in this classroom. Anyone found to attack their peers here, be it through physical means or through magic, will not be returning to class until they demonstrate, to my satisfaction, a thorough repentance and understanding of the rules. Magic is a dangerous tool - more dangerous than the fire that can burn or the blade that can cut. You will treat it with appropriate caution at all times, and you will refrain from foolish displays such as this."
Snape scowls at her, his eyes hidden by his long hair, and the Gryffindors shift in their seats, shame-faced and whispering to each other. Sirius Black turns to the other Gryffindor boys and begins to gesture at Snape, and they nod and whisper together.
"Continue practicing with your matches," Minerva says, rapping her wand on her desk to gain their attention. "Remember, focus on the attributes of the needle. Focus is the key to change."
The Gryffindor boys align themselves together, their needles gleaming silver, their eyes bright with triumph, their wands pointed at Severus Snape. He raises his own wand to defend himself and Minerva steps between them, calling them to order. The prickle of prophecy in the air, the electric thrum of possible changes - it's gone now, erased during the course of the class. There's no sense of change in the air now, nothing vibrant or full of possibilities. She watches her students file out of the room, their matches clutched in their hands.
Their footsteps echo, and Minerva feels empty. Sinistra's words poison her confidence still, eating away at the reassurances that Albus has offered. Drip by drop, a subtle word here, a doubting look there - every day, every meal, she's reminded of her weakness, her flaws, her unsuitability. She rises above the taunts with Gryffindor courage, she ignores the other professor, she leans on Albus for support, but nothing can erase the implanted doubts, the sense of failure. They're fed and watered by darkness, growing strong inside Minerva in spite of every attempt to eradicate them.
She straightens the classroom before she leaves - the scrolls in neat pyramids, the books in their stacks, the matches put away to wait for their next transformations. She locks the classroom door behind her and makes her way to Albus's tower. She needs a more tangible connection than parchment with him now, needs his warmth and radiance, needs the cup of tea that washes away the stress of the first day of classes.
-----
Darkness gathers over the grounds, a shadow show born of the sunset. The shadows lengthen, twisted and bent, and Minerva shivers, pulling away from the cold glass. There's no need to find omens in the darkness, no need to worry at half-hidden portents or half-chilling dreams - winter follows summer as shadows follow light, each of them in their own place.
Lily Potter creeps into Minerva's office, her flame-red hair a beacon in the dark. "Professor? Albus asked me to let you know that he's ready to start."
"Thank you." Minerva rose and followed her down from the tower, emerging into a corridor full of bright torchlight. She blinks the dark out of her eyes, shaking the dark visions out of her head, before she follows Lily to the meeting. Cold creeps along the corridor, drafts and darkness from the depths of winter, and though Lily doesn't even shiver, Minerva draws her cloak close around her.
They are all gathered there, what Albus has called the Order of the Phoenix - a ragtag band, but vibrant with trivialities and laughter. Sirius Black plays the clown, walking backwards on his hands while Potter and Pettigrew clap and holler. Remus Lupin is loud in his absence, the full moon a stark announcement as it shines through the high windows in the hall. Lupin is changing tonight, half-man and half-wolf, wild in the shadows and caught between worlds. For their loneliness, the three remaining troublemakers are the more outrageous in their pranks and boisterous in their laughter.
Albus gives them an indulgent smile and flips Sirius Black nose over toes with a wandless spell. "Now, let's come to the meeting at hand," he says. He's as gentle and patient as he ever was, waiting for them to take their seats and stop chattering. At last, Fawkes appears with a pop, shining jewel-red against the gray walls, and Albus seals the meeting up with secrecy spells and wards.
"This is no trivial matter," he says. "As much as it gives me great pleasure to welcome you back to these hallowed halls where many of you learned your first spells and indeed, other lessons that were beyond the scope of our curriculum here, I am afraid that this is quite serious."
Minerva watches him, aglow with torchlight and serene intent, as she fidgets with the glass buttons on her robes. Faceted, sharp-edged, they leave ridged imprints on her fingertips, skin memories of their smooth surfaces.
They are silent, all of them, waiting for Albus to speak. Even the students that Minerva has taught stop their fidgeting and mischief and daydreams - Lily Potter elbows Black in the ribs when he begins to move, and his sharp intake of breath breaks the silence.
"Tom Riddle has named himself the Dark Lord," Albus says, and Minerva rubs the diamond imprints of the glass buttons off her fingertips. This, then, is the omen that's been aloft in the wind, the lines that have masked Albus's face these past months, the shadows that have lurked around the corners of Hogwarts. Minerva has suspected it, but she hasn't known - hasn't seen with Albus's clarity, hasn't taken on the aches and disquiet of foreknowledge, hasn't shared the burden with him.
Albus looks across the room at her, his smile in his eyes if it hasn't made it to his lips, and Fawkes is crimson in the muted light, and the world has been blessed with long years of peace. Minerva will not resent the shadow of war falling into their lives once again, will not rail against her fate, will not complain that Albus should not be forced to bear this burden twice - smoothing her robe, her fingers snag on the buttons and she smiles back at him. This, no less than the last war with a Dark Lord, is his war to win, and she will be at his side this time.
"We will not let him triumph," Albus says. "Darkness can never triumph - the sun always returns with the dawn, the phoenix is eternally reborn with a burst of light. We will stand together against the darkness, my friends. We will be the Order of the Phoenix, guardians of the light, defenders against the dark. We will not let lives and dreams and hopes perish unheeded - instead, we will fight."
He clears his throat, waiting for the smattering of applause to subside. "Let us unite with one purpose, one destiny, one goal. Will you join with me? Will you keep the eternal light and do all that is in your power to uphold the Order of the Phoenix?"
He is made of light, Albus, even without the flame-shadow of Fawkes on his shoulder, even without the halo of the torches and the crowning applause. Minerva grips her chair until her nails bite into the wood, until the blood pounding through her veins slows to a more mortal tempo. The crescent gouges in the wood are easily smoothed away, easily mended, but the change to her heart is permanent.
The new-founded Order of the Phoenix stirs with plans and excitement, purpose and apprehension. They have known this fight - they have fought against the last Dark Lord, and those that are too young to remember the last war, their families were touched by it, their loved ones lost to it. Albus has chosen them and he has chosen witches and wizards that are well prepared for this. With a last caution and a reminder of their purpose and secrecy, he claps his hands together and removes the wards before he summons the house elves with tea and biscuits.
"I should have known," Minerva says. She pours a cup of tea for Albus and sweetens it to his taste, passing it to him and pouring another cup for herself. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You weren't to worry yet, my dear," he says.
There's a bitter taste to the tea, like mushrooms grown in darkness and herbs harvested by full moonlight. Minerva freezes with the cup half-way to the table. "Veritaserum, Albus?"
"Forgive me."
There's a moment between them, Minerva watching the nervous twitch of his lips, the stillness of his wrinkled hands, the glint of the torches off his spectacles. At last, she raises the cup and drains the rest of the tea, grimacing at the aftertaste. "What would you ask me?"
Albus reaches out, pauses before he can touch her. Their fingers are a whisper away, close enough to share heat, and Minerva does not let her fingers tremble, does not move away from his touch. She cannot deny him this.
"Will you remain loyal to the Order of the Phoenix?" he asks.
The words come easily to her now, uninhibited by any strictures or structures, not masked or considered. "Yes, I will."
"Will you obey, even when you disagree, even when it will cost you everything that you care about?"
"I will."
"Will you do everything within your power to ensure the defeat of Voldemort?"
"I will."
At last, he bridges the gap between them, touches the back of her hand with gentle fingers. "Thank you, Minerva."
He moves away, offering tea and questions to the other members of the Order. He does his duty and she will do hers - despite anything and everything, it is that simple. Light fades to darkness, darkness to light, but some things will always remain - Fawkes on his bright wings, Albus with his responsibilities, and Minerva with her own duties and buried dreams. Blinking, swallowing to clear the bitterness of the tea from a dry throat, she looks away from Albus.
There is Lily, glowing with the beginning of life, smiling at James. Minerva has seen that look on their faces before, has seen other couples bright with that joy. Lily is not dimmed by the prospect of the war - she cradles her belly with a protective hand, she lets James keep her in the circle of his arms, but her smile is still bright, her eyes still shine. James rests his chin on her shoulder and laughs with his friends, and Minerva turns away from their happiness.
Gideon and Fabian Prewett, flame-haired and friendly, tap her on the shoulder. "Professor McGonagall?"
She turns to them and seeing their empty plates, passes the biscuits. "Yes?"
They smile with their twin-echo, each the mirror image of the other. "We're very happy to be working with you and the Headmaster."
"I have a feeling -" Fabian says.
"-that this will be the most important battle of our time," Gideon says.
Minerva nods at them, unable to respond to their youthful vigor, the enthusiasm that lights their eyes and lightens their steps. She is tired, washed through with the cares of the day, burned by the revelation at the end. With listless, echoing steps, she leaves the hall. She reaches out to touch the doorframe as she passes, the smooth wood under her fingertips, and turns back to look at Albus.
In a blink and a flash, he is by her side, his hand under her elbow, his voice in her ear. "Tired, my dear? Let me walk you back to Gryffindor Tower, then."
There's nothing more natural than to lean on him, to let him take her weight and her tiredness and to let him support her, but Minerva holds back. She will not add to his burdens.
At her door, he stops and stands with his hand on the doorknob. There's a haze in the air, warmth and protection, the faint smell of tea and lemon that she associates with him, and Minerva leans toward him, reluctant to relinquish his comfort.
His hand lingers under her elbow and the bitter taste of Veritaserum lingers in her mouth, numbs her tongue. Its effects are fading, but she is light-headed still, and dizzy, and she stares at him as though the air between them is wavering with heat, is swirled with iridescent haloes and confusion.
"Are you well?" he asks her. "How do you feel?"
"I feel - well," she says. "I - I feel -"
She stops herself before she can continue, fighting against the last of the Veritaserum. Albus brushes her shoulder, traces the line of her neck, follows her jaw down to her chin, and then he tilts her face up. Looking into her eyes, he asks, "How do you feel?"
She will not add to his burdens. Minerva bites her tongue and ducks under his arm, fleeing into her room. She locks the door and wards it before she succumbs to the potion. "I feel as though I'm in love," she says into the silence.
-----
Part Two
Author: lesyeuxverts00
Type: Fiction
Length: ~15700
Main character or Pairing: Minerva McGonagall/Albus Dumbledore (unrequited)
Card: The High Priestess
Card Interpretation: "She is the Queen of the borrowed light."
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, all of the characters in this story, and everything that you recognize belongs to JK Rowling.
Warnings: Character death (HBP-compliant)
Summary: "The light before dawn, the dark before twilight, the strange uneven transitions between teacup and hedgehog, needle and match - there's a moment before the new overwhelms the old. There's balance in the imbalance, and Minerva revels in the teeter-totter moments in life, the instant when being turns into becoming."
Author Notes: A million thanks to svartalfur for the wonderful beta! Huge thanks also to theentwife and jadzia7667 for help with the Tarot, and to brightfeather, faynia, bewarethesmirk, and schemingreader for inspiration and encouragement, and of course to ravenna_c_tan for all her hard work as a mod ... and for letting me post this late. *g*
The light before dawn, the dark before twilight, the strange uneven transitions between teacup and hedgehog, needle and match - there's a moment before the new overwhelms the old. There's balance in the imbalance, and Minerva revels in the teeter-totter moments in life, the instant when being turns into becoming. It's the art she practices. Transfiguration, despite all of its rules, its theorems and equations, is the recognition of these moments, the gentle push over the edge. Minerva feels it in her bones, itching along her skin, every time she transforms. After years of practice, the shifting moments have become a part of her, integral and fluid.
Such transformations are everywhere in the wan morning light. Minerva sits by the window in her warm tartan dressing gown and waits for the first sign of light across the lake, her cold fingers warmed by a cup of hot tea. The light that floods the portion of the world visible through the wavy, warped old glass in her office window, just before the advent of sunrise, is the harbinger of change. This predawn light is thin and almost transparent, as though a blanket of it was stretched around the world and it ripped in the attempt to cover everything. The warp and the weft of the blanket separated and the world became visible through the holes.
This light washes away the shadows, brushes away the tired bones of the night, cleanses the early frost from each blade of grass, and readies the world for a clean, new day. Even through the green-tinted glass of her old window, it permeates her every pore, rejuvenates her for another day of duties and well-worn cares. Her morning cup of tea is cooling and forgotten in her hand - it is the advent of the first pale light over Hogwarts that wakes Minerva.
Light and shadows divide the world - for now, light dominates the balance, but the forest and the castle and the hazy, scurrying clouds all cast their own shadows, and there's never one without the other. Shining through the castle's shadow, there's a light in the tower opposite, in the Headmaster's office window. Bright in the dawn, bright in the shadows, the light flickers and shines as Minerva watches.
-----
He is a man made entirely of light, Albus Dumbledore. Minerva feels it humming in the air around him and does not need to know that he is the Savior of their world, the Slayer of the Dark, to sense it. It comes from him like light from the sun, a constant radiance, and those who are near him can feel it, a little, and be warmed by it.
He asks her to take a cup of tea with him in his office and she agrees, arriving early and still awed by the ponderous stone gargoyles that serve as his guardians. They stare at her, unblinking and fine-hewn.
With the lightest of touches to her elbow, Albus alerts her to his presence. "Formidable statues, aren't they?" he asks as he waves them aside.
Still holding her arm, he helps her up the stairs. She's like a fragment of dandelion down, fragile and fleeting, poised between earthbound and airborne. Albus Dumbledore, master of Transfigurations, has transformed her into this, heady and light-headed. She doesn't know whether she's floating or firm on the ground - Minerva needs his hand on her arm, this warm anchor to reality.
The office is thick with shadows and Albus banishes the darkness with a wave of his hand. The portraits of past Headmasters peer at her with smiles or sneers, and Minerva pinches her lips together, folding her arms.
Silver ornaments gleam on the heavy wooden desk, and books and scrolls jostle together, the rustling of parchment their almost-silent plea for his attention. All of the room, all of the eccentricities and oddities are dwarfed by the light that shines here. A phoenix, the greatest of all Transfigurations, is perched behind his desk and Minerva loses her light-headedness in her delight. Life to death is the most common transformation, a change effected by all, but its reversal, the subtle alchemy of rebirth, the brilliant jewel-toned phoenix, that is nothing short of miraculous. She stops short of the phoenix's perch, breath caught in her throat.
With a soft warble, sugar-sweet and ethereal, the phoenix stretches its wings. A flutter of breeze kisses Minerva's face, and she blinks. The brightness burns its way through her closed eyelids, warming her in radiance - it's a light reflected in the glass windows, in the Headmaster's blue eyes, and Minerva has never seen anything more beautiful.
The phoenix preens his feathers, displaying his bright plumage in all its glory, fire-born and fire-bright. He cocks his head at Minerva, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, restless on his perch.
"I do believe he's taken a fancy to you," Albus says, reaching out to smooth the ruffled feathers.
Albus stands beside her, one gnarled finger caressing the phoenix, stroking the delicate downy feathers around the eye and neck, outlining the fire-brilliant patterns. "Fawkes, this is Minerva McGonagall, our new Transfiguration Professor. Professor - may I call you Minerva, too? - this is Fawkes."
With a tentative hand, Minerva reaches out to stroke the phoenix's soft feathers, and she is rewarded with Albus's smile. Their hands brush together, their fingers curled around the warm curve of the phoenix, and she's hard-pressed to know whether the clamoring is the rapid beating of Fawkes' heart or if it is her own pulse thrumming through her veins like quick-fire.
Albus smiles at her again and pulls his hand away from hers, giving Fawkes a last stroke. Minerva's fingers are cold when she moves away from the phoenix, coming to sit in the chair Albus indicates, across the desk from him.
December settles around the castle in earnest, washing it in pearly gray light and the ringing laughter of students anticipating the holidays. Minerva learns to expect the arrival of Fawkes in her office each morning. He settles on her shoulder, watching the world transform itself for the new day, and then with a mischievous tweak, he pulls a strand of hair from her braid with his beak before he flutters over to her desk. There are lesson plans waiting for her, along with a fresh cup of tea, evidence of the Headmaster's kindness.
Fawkes sits with her while she revises her plans for the day, gives her a sharp peck when her fingers clutch the textbook in panicked spasms or when she dozes off over the Headmaster's firm, spiky handwriting. The notes are precise, laden with decades of experience and uncompromising skill, and still Minerva flounders. She finds herself frozen in front of the class, pinned in place by their inattentive stares, every prepared syllable fleeing her grasp. The Transfigurations are simple, the students slow, her explanations lacking, and she falters. The memory of Fawkes's sharp pecks is enough to reanimate her in front of the class, enough to speed the hours in each lagging day, enough to knot her spine and burn her lungs in the dark unending nights.
The Headmaster says nothing to her, but Minerva dreads going to her desk in the mornings, certain that she'll find a note of reprimand attached to the lesson plans. She skips meals in the Great Hall, eating instead in the dim solitude of her rooms, and she avoids the staffroom, refusing to linger there after meetings. The weight of dread in her stomach, the stiffness of failure settling around her shoulders like an ill-fitting cloak, taints every smile she receives from Albus and darkens the light emanating from him.
At length, he comes to speak with her, one morning as she watches the pale first light of dawn color the edges of the clouds and etch out the tree's shadows on the frosty lawn. Fawkes has not made an appearance, and she watches the sunrise alone until she feels the faintest of touches on her shoulder.
"I thought that Fawkes had been lingering on his errands," Albus says. "Perhaps he misses the view - he and I used to watch the sunrise from this window, you know."
Minerva closes her eyes for a second before she turns to face him. "Sir?"
He smiles and nods at her desk. "Fawkes is having a burning day, and so I thought I'd bring my old lesson plans down to you. Have they been helpful at all?"
She feels the blush rising to her cheeks and opens her mouth to confess her inadequacy, to offer her resignation, to stammer and stutter like a schoolgirl. She is transparent before his light, dissected by his piercing gaze, unable to hide her failures as though she is made of clear glass.
Before she can begin, he cuts her off with another smile. "Of course, you can hardly have your bearings yet, you've only just started. I'm sure you'll have found your teaching style in a few months and then you'll toss my notes on the fire like so much Gobbledygook. I hardly find them comprehensible myself, you know.
"Were you headed to breakfast?" he asks when she rises, unsteady, to her feet, and he takes her elbow to escort her before she can protest. Minerva casts a look over her shoulder at the waiting textbooks and sheaves of notes on her desk, all wreathed in the golden light of dawn. With a gentle tug on her elbow, Albus pulls her through the door and toward the Great Hall. Minerva steps as though her boots have been Transfigured into glass, a fairy-tale professor leaving her tower with the hero as her escort.
It is a shock, then, when Professor Sinistra takes her by the elbow after the next staff meeting and leads her to the nearest classroom. Minerva's fingers tighten around her scroll of notes, snapping her delicate quill, as the torches flicker to light.
"My dear, I think I should tell you that we're all very disappointed in you," Sinistra says, "the Headmaster especially."
"I - I beg your pardon?" Minerva draws her spine straight, pulling her eyebrows together into a single line. She is brittle, like the dry and painted wood of a doll on a string, poised to break at the wrong pressure.
"Albus hunted for three months until he found you, teaching all of the Transfiguration classes while he learned how to be Headmaster and rejected one applicant after another. Then he found you, a green graduate from university, still wet behind the ears from your apprenticeship, too new to know how to Transfigure water into a boat if you were drowning.
"We were all skeptics, but he swore until the clouds on the Great Hall's ceiling blushed that you were the one for the post. Full of verve and fire and spirit, he said you were, a mind like lightning and a spirit to match. I can't say that I've seen a hint of it since you began, girl. Have you been Transfigured into a mouse?"
Minerva clenches her hands into fists hidden by the folds of her robes. The torches flicker, casting light and shadows on Sinistra's firm expression, and Minerva turns to leave.
On the threshold, she pauses. "I think that you will find, Professor Sinistra, that I eat mice for breakfast." Shoulders stiff, spine straight, with all the posture of an offended cat, she strides down the corridor to her office.
The darkest day of the year dawns, Minerva waking long before the sunrise, and the students, full of sugar and mischief, flock out of the castle in a mass exodus, swarming to the train and leaving emptiness in their wake. Minerva sighs. She gathers textbooks and lesson plans, locking her office and shutting herself in her rooms for the evening.
She is deep in the stacks of the library when Albus finds her on the second day of the holidays. He's wrapped in a warm cloak, swathed in a blanket of cold air. A faint hint of smog clings to him, a hint of the city, a harsh overtone to the smell of fresh air, and Minerva smiles at him. "You've returned from London, then," she says, dropping her book.
He retrieves it with a quick levitation spell and floats it into her hands. "Indeed, and I've already heard that you have yet to be seen outside of your quarters or the library. Come for a walk by the lake with me, Minerva."
She looks down at the book in her nerveless fingers. With a soft laugh, he Transfigures it into a warm cloak. He wraps it around her shoulders and says, "No excuses now."
The cloak is warm, rich with the smell of leather, down-soft and smoother than his fleeting touch - Albus's fingers, time-wrinkled, straighten her collar and Minerva blushes, looking down at her feet. They step out into the fresh air, Minerva trailing after him with her steps an echo of his.
The world recognizes the need for change with millennia of practice, slipping into each transformation with a grace that Minerva can never imitate. Water into ice, life into hibernation, autumn into winter, and so the old blends into the new in a gradual procession, a careful and unmatched Transfiguration. The last of the brown leaves have blown off the oak tree, and the edges of the lake are turning into frosted crystal, and when the light flashing off the ice blinds her, Albus slips a hand under her elbow. Minerva leans into his warm support.
They skirt around the edge of the dark forest, stepping over branches and shadows. Albus's expression is like glass, transparent, and yet Minerva learns nothing from watching him. She holds her tongue and lets him guide her around the lake. When they return to the castle, they've shared the walk in perfect silence, and Minerva's elbow is still warm from Albus's touch.
-----
The routine of classes hangs heavy on Minerva's days, with the echo of Sinistra's reproof lingering in her ears, Albus's touch lingering against her skin. They are bookends to her days - her first thought as she watches the dawn, the last as she blows out the candle by her bedside.
The lesson plans arrive each morning, brought by bright-feathered Fawkes or by Albus with his gentle smile. Minerva wears the scrolls flat and the ink pale, poring over them until her desk is stained with tea rings and her eyes are weak and blinking. The days are heavy and long, the sunlight fleeting, and Minerva's late hours do nothing to help her in front of the gaping, squirming children. She flounders still, and it sharpens the memory of Sinistra's words.
Change after change, from matches to needles, from buttons to beetles, with every mistake - Minerva lectures and reminds, chides and reverses mistakes. There's no impression left by her work, by her lectures. It's like the passage of wind over sand, erased by the waves - empty-minded, the students remain.
They gape in answer to her questions, they fidget when she poses a practical exam, they whisper and pass notes when she lectures. Before and after each exam, the answers slip through their minds like rice through a fishnet. Minerva despairs. No amount of striving on her part overwrites Quidditch with Transfiguration.
"There's no need to despair," Albus tells her over tea. Cup and saucer clinking, his spectacles glinting in the light, he reaches across the table to offer her a pastry. Their fingers brush together, dusted with sugar. "Children will be children, more intent on games than books. You're doing a fine job, Minerva."
She hides her doubt with a sip of sea. Her breath mists the porcelain, and the amber liquid swirls in clouded eddies. The pastry crumbles, fragile and buttery and sweet, in Minerva's fingers as she watches Albus.
"Perhaps a change in scenery, my dear?" he asks. "There are some books and potions ingredients and such, delivered for the school to the shops in Hogsmeade - would you care for the errand?"
Through the shadows gates and down the dusty road - Minerva had declined all offers of a carriage to take her into the village and at last, Albus had let her go. The change of scenery, the change of air, it seeps into her veins and cures her of both failures and expectations.
Warm and pure, the sunlight washes the streets. Witches and wizards bustle through the village, bundled up against the coming winter, their scarves flying in the wind. Minerva has known these streets as a child and student, she knows the merriment of a Hogsmeade weekend, the busy jangle of a shopping trip with friends. She's known the village under shadow of war and gleam of peace, and she makes her way through the streets, walking through memories and sunlight and shadows. Bundles under her arm, the packages Albus had sent her for, she steps out of the bookshop at last, turning back to Hogwarts and its familiar routine.
Her name, whispered from the shadowy alley, makes Minerva stop and turn. "Who's there?"
"Professor McGonagall, do you seek the light?" The voice is high-pitched, cracking and strained. "Professor McGonagall?"
Minerva takes a step closer to the alley, clutching her packages and taking a quick look around the deserted Hogsmeade street. Wan sunlight washes the paving stones, casts ghostly shadows on the houses. Across the road, a charred husk of a house remains, ravaged by Death Eaters, black with soot and nightmares. Its broken glass windows reflect the sunlight at odd angles, a shattered code of light signals to the empty sky for help. Minerva swallows. "Who's there?"
A woman steps out of the shadows, floating through the still air like the palpable miasma left by a nightmare. She's all gauze and glass beads and fripperies, her big eyes gleaming in the sunlight, and Minerva knows her. "Sibyll Trelawney."
"Professor McGonagall." Sibyll reaches for her, the light sparkling on the veins in her gaunt hand, on her gaudy rings. She smiles, the same syrupy insincere smile that she affected as a student, and Minerva turns away.
"Wait, Minerva, there is much that I must tell you. The cards hold your fate, you must be prepared."
Minerva walks away, her boot heels echoing with dull thuds on the stones. She passes through the shadow cast by the ruined house and clutches her packages in cold hands.
Sibyll follows her. "I have seen Death in the cards, I have seen a period of great darkness. I must warn you, Professor. If you will only allow me to read your cards ..."
Minerva flees, running down the path back to Hogwarts, wishing that she'd accepted the offer of a carriage, wishing for the speed of the dark Thestrals or for wings of her own. There's no banishing Sibyll's voice, there's no forgetting the clouded look in her eyes or the eerie light glinting off her beads and shawls. She shudders and hurries back to the comfort of the castle.
Albus is waiting in the library when Minerva returns. She leaves the new books in a neat stack on the librarian's desk, ready to be catalogued and spelled and shelved. Her fingers linger on the smooth, unmarked leather spines, the precise lines of the pages, the angles and planes of the books all in perfect symmetry and orderliness. Just so, the library is, the books in straight lines on their shelves, the dust whisked away by magic, the sum of knowledge gathered here greater than its parts and users.
Precision, order - the library is maintained, a small arsenal of ever-ready spells the guardian here. In the silence, Albus beckons her closer with a small wave, and Minerva, with a last caress for the new books, obeys.
He's in the Transfiguration section, near the divide between animate and inanimate Transfigurations. He brushes an invisible speck of dust from the shelf, and Minerva smiles at him. From the clattering streets of Hogsmeade to the hushed library, it's a huge transition, a sweeping change, and she braces herself.
She leans closer and whispers to him, "Headmaster -"
"Oh no, call me Albus, my dear. I insist."
Minerva clenches her hands into fists to hide her blush. "Albus, I - I saw Sibyll Trelawney in Hogsmeade today."
He says nothing, turning back to the shelves and tracing the gold-lettered spines.
"She was prophesying, as she always does," Minerva says. "I - it's always doom and darkness with Sibyll, but the chill in the air when she said that she's seen Death in the cards ..."
"Hush, Minerva," Albus says. He puts a hand on her shoulder and turns back to look at her. "The past holds nothing that can be changed, the future nothing that can be altered by vague prophecies, and the present ... the present, my dear, contains nothing that can't be enjoyed."
Turning back to the books again, he says, "After all, it is a gift."
She stifles a giggle at his off-handed pun, at the light reflected off his spectacles, at the unusual sober blue robes that he wears today - Albus is nothing if not whimsical, and today his whimsy lends itself to seriousness. It masks his gaiety, as his advice masks his good counsel.
She takes a deep breath and turns to leave, but he stops her with a hand on her elbow. "Do have a look at this one, Minerva. It's a lovely collection of essays, insightful and full of promise, truly a gem."
He leans forward and presses the book in her hands before he leaves the library. The memory of his fingers against hers burns and lingers, a pleasant heat that curls her toes and twists her stomach.
The cool leather cover of the book warms in her hands, and she looks down to see the collection of her published articles. Albus's trust and praise are warmer than the touch of his fingers - she presses the book to her chest before she reshelves it, and she leaves the library with a lighter heart.
-----
Minerva feels the prickle of prophecy at the ends of her nerves, a sense of foreboding that tingles and burns like a wild light. Magic rises around her, mutable and free, and she watches as the children congregate, forming alliances and enemies, choosing their seats.
They quiet at last, looking up at her with inquisitive eyes, and Minerva makes her move. She springs down from the desk, grasping the cusp of change, twisting and reshaping. The pull and burn of muscle and bone, the change flows through her, and she takes a deep breath.
Her glasses are askew, and Minerva straightens them, peering at the students. The gasps and whispers have shifted to giggles in the last row. She raps her wand with a loud wooden thud against the desk.
Minerva glares at the class over her spectacles, unwilling to show any hint of weakness, any flaw to them. "Mr. Black? Mr. Potter?" she asks. "Was there something that you wished to share with the class?"
They shake their heads, stifling their giggles, and she reaches for the scroll with Albus's notes - it's a comforting weight in her hand, though she hasn't used it in over a decade. Here in the classroom, she can reach out and touch Albus through ink and parchment, she can touch his thoughts and his confidence in her.
"Now, understand that Transfiguration is a delicate, complicated science and that any errors you make can be harmful to yourself and your classmates. I will not tolerate nonsense or inattention."
It is enough, when she can't touch him, to have this parchment and ink connection to him. The oddness of taking Albus's place, of teaching in his place, has disappeared, and it's all evaporated away to leave crystals of certainty. In front of the students, in the light of the classroom, she follows her lesson plans and answers questions and manages, somehow, to impart knowledge. As long as she is not convinced of her unworthiness by Sinistra, as long as she is not taken to task by Albus for her failings - Minerva squelches the thought.
The first years, fraught with nerves and newness, heed her threats. There is dead silence seeping through the classroom, overrunning the scratch of quill against parchment, burying the noise of nervous twitches and the whispery, uneven sounds of their breathing.
The theory of change, basic and bookish - it is nowhere near the elemental, bone-deep understanding that is required for the complicated Transfigurations - occupies the first half of the class, and then Minerva passes out matches. She's met with blank expressions, with disappointed sighs, and she stops the questions and protests. "We will begin with the most elementary of Transfigurations today," she says. "You will not be capable of more complex spells, such as the Animagus transformation that I demonstrated earlier, for many years yet. This is the basis of the knowledge that you will need. This, and any Transfiguration that does not stretch or shrink matter or change the intrinsic nature of the object, is simple and easy to learn. You will not attempt anything more complicated except under my direct supervision."
"That," she says with a pointed glare at the giggling boys in the last row, "will not be for several years yet, and for some of you - Mr. Potter, Mr. Black - it may never happen. You have been warned."
The prickle of prophecy still tingles along her spine, the sense of impending failure, and Minerva stands behind her desk, one hand on the scroll of Albus's notes. "Focus on your matches," she tells the class. "Think of needles, silver and pointed. Think of the differences between metal and wood, the smoothness of metal, the eye of the needle, the sharpness of its tip. Think of the changes that you want to make and impose your will on the match. Make the match be a needle."
Potter and Black have grabbed a handful of extra matches and once they've mastered the beginnings of the spell, they flick them - half-needle, half-match, silvery and rough and blunt - at their classmates. Minerva stalks over to the troublemakers, a reprimand ready on her lips, but the damage has already been done.
One of the Slytherins, a Mr. Snape, springs to his feet with a dull needle sticking out of the back of his neck. He turns on the Gryffindors, his wand held at the ready, his scowl enough to curdle milk. He shoots off a curse before Minerva can stop him, and huge tentacles burst out of the back of James Potter's head, weighty enough to unbalance him and send him reeling to the floor.
"If you ever dare to lay your hands on me again, you will regret it, you ..."
"As if anyone would want to touch a nasty little bastard like you ..."
"Stop it this instant, gentlemen," Minerva says. "Mr. Potter, get yourself to the hospital wing. Mr. Snape, are you hurt? You may go as well if you're injured."
"No, Professor," he says, staring at his shoes.
"Very well. You will all write an essay about the improper use of magic in class and Mr. Potter and Mr. Black will focus on the dangers of imprecise transfiguration while Mr. Snape will discuss the proper place and time for casting hexes. You will turn your essays in to me before the next class, and you will apologize to one another. Is that clear, gentlemen?"
She waits for their sullen nods before she adds, "That will be a detention for all three of you, and five points each from your Houses. I will not be so lenient again, gentlemen."
Minerva turns to address the class. Some things never change - the foolishness of the first years, the headaches of teaching, the failures that stung deep to her bones. "You will all remember that I do not tolerate any foolishness in this classroom. Anyone found to attack their peers here, be it through physical means or through magic, will not be returning to class until they demonstrate, to my satisfaction, a thorough repentance and understanding of the rules. Magic is a dangerous tool - more dangerous than the fire that can burn or the blade that can cut. You will treat it with appropriate caution at all times, and you will refrain from foolish displays such as this."
Snape scowls at her, his eyes hidden by his long hair, and the Gryffindors shift in their seats, shame-faced and whispering to each other. Sirius Black turns to the other Gryffindor boys and begins to gesture at Snape, and they nod and whisper together.
"Continue practicing with your matches," Minerva says, rapping her wand on her desk to gain their attention. "Remember, focus on the attributes of the needle. Focus is the key to change."
The Gryffindor boys align themselves together, their needles gleaming silver, their eyes bright with triumph, their wands pointed at Severus Snape. He raises his own wand to defend himself and Minerva steps between them, calling them to order. The prickle of prophecy in the air, the electric thrum of possible changes - it's gone now, erased during the course of the class. There's no sense of change in the air now, nothing vibrant or full of possibilities. She watches her students file out of the room, their matches clutched in their hands.
Their footsteps echo, and Minerva feels empty. Sinistra's words poison her confidence still, eating away at the reassurances that Albus has offered. Drip by drop, a subtle word here, a doubting look there - every day, every meal, she's reminded of her weakness, her flaws, her unsuitability. She rises above the taunts with Gryffindor courage, she ignores the other professor, she leans on Albus for support, but nothing can erase the implanted doubts, the sense of failure. They're fed and watered by darkness, growing strong inside Minerva in spite of every attempt to eradicate them.
She straightens the classroom before she leaves - the scrolls in neat pyramids, the books in their stacks, the matches put away to wait for their next transformations. She locks the classroom door behind her and makes her way to Albus's tower. She needs a more tangible connection than parchment with him now, needs his warmth and radiance, needs the cup of tea that washes away the stress of the first day of classes.
-----
Darkness gathers over the grounds, a shadow show born of the sunset. The shadows lengthen, twisted and bent, and Minerva shivers, pulling away from the cold glass. There's no need to find omens in the darkness, no need to worry at half-hidden portents or half-chilling dreams - winter follows summer as shadows follow light, each of them in their own place.
Lily Potter creeps into Minerva's office, her flame-red hair a beacon in the dark. "Professor? Albus asked me to let you know that he's ready to start."
"Thank you." Minerva rose and followed her down from the tower, emerging into a corridor full of bright torchlight. She blinks the dark out of her eyes, shaking the dark visions out of her head, before she follows Lily to the meeting. Cold creeps along the corridor, drafts and darkness from the depths of winter, and though Lily doesn't even shiver, Minerva draws her cloak close around her.
They are all gathered there, what Albus has called the Order of the Phoenix - a ragtag band, but vibrant with trivialities and laughter. Sirius Black plays the clown, walking backwards on his hands while Potter and Pettigrew clap and holler. Remus Lupin is loud in his absence, the full moon a stark announcement as it shines through the high windows in the hall. Lupin is changing tonight, half-man and half-wolf, wild in the shadows and caught between worlds. For their loneliness, the three remaining troublemakers are the more outrageous in their pranks and boisterous in their laughter.
Albus gives them an indulgent smile and flips Sirius Black nose over toes with a wandless spell. "Now, let's come to the meeting at hand," he says. He's as gentle and patient as he ever was, waiting for them to take their seats and stop chattering. At last, Fawkes appears with a pop, shining jewel-red against the gray walls, and Albus seals the meeting up with secrecy spells and wards.
"This is no trivial matter," he says. "As much as it gives me great pleasure to welcome you back to these hallowed halls where many of you learned your first spells and indeed, other lessons that were beyond the scope of our curriculum here, I am afraid that this is quite serious."
Minerva watches him, aglow with torchlight and serene intent, as she fidgets with the glass buttons on her robes. Faceted, sharp-edged, they leave ridged imprints on her fingertips, skin memories of their smooth surfaces.
They are silent, all of them, waiting for Albus to speak. Even the students that Minerva has taught stop their fidgeting and mischief and daydreams - Lily Potter elbows Black in the ribs when he begins to move, and his sharp intake of breath breaks the silence.
"Tom Riddle has named himself the Dark Lord," Albus says, and Minerva rubs the diamond imprints of the glass buttons off her fingertips. This, then, is the omen that's been aloft in the wind, the lines that have masked Albus's face these past months, the shadows that have lurked around the corners of Hogwarts. Minerva has suspected it, but she hasn't known - hasn't seen with Albus's clarity, hasn't taken on the aches and disquiet of foreknowledge, hasn't shared the burden with him.
Albus looks across the room at her, his smile in his eyes if it hasn't made it to his lips, and Fawkes is crimson in the muted light, and the world has been blessed with long years of peace. Minerva will not resent the shadow of war falling into their lives once again, will not rail against her fate, will not complain that Albus should not be forced to bear this burden twice - smoothing her robe, her fingers snag on the buttons and she smiles back at him. This, no less than the last war with a Dark Lord, is his war to win, and she will be at his side this time.
"We will not let him triumph," Albus says. "Darkness can never triumph - the sun always returns with the dawn, the phoenix is eternally reborn with a burst of light. We will stand together against the darkness, my friends. We will be the Order of the Phoenix, guardians of the light, defenders against the dark. We will not let lives and dreams and hopes perish unheeded - instead, we will fight."
He clears his throat, waiting for the smattering of applause to subside. "Let us unite with one purpose, one destiny, one goal. Will you join with me? Will you keep the eternal light and do all that is in your power to uphold the Order of the Phoenix?"
He is made of light, Albus, even without the flame-shadow of Fawkes on his shoulder, even without the halo of the torches and the crowning applause. Minerva grips her chair until her nails bite into the wood, until the blood pounding through her veins slows to a more mortal tempo. The crescent gouges in the wood are easily smoothed away, easily mended, but the change to her heart is permanent.
The new-founded Order of the Phoenix stirs with plans and excitement, purpose and apprehension. They have known this fight - they have fought against the last Dark Lord, and those that are too young to remember the last war, their families were touched by it, their loved ones lost to it. Albus has chosen them and he has chosen witches and wizards that are well prepared for this. With a last caution and a reminder of their purpose and secrecy, he claps his hands together and removes the wards before he summons the house elves with tea and biscuits.
"I should have known," Minerva says. She pours a cup of tea for Albus and sweetens it to his taste, passing it to him and pouring another cup for herself. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You weren't to worry yet, my dear," he says.
There's a bitter taste to the tea, like mushrooms grown in darkness and herbs harvested by full moonlight. Minerva freezes with the cup half-way to the table. "Veritaserum, Albus?"
"Forgive me."
There's a moment between them, Minerva watching the nervous twitch of his lips, the stillness of his wrinkled hands, the glint of the torches off his spectacles. At last, she raises the cup and drains the rest of the tea, grimacing at the aftertaste. "What would you ask me?"
Albus reaches out, pauses before he can touch her. Their fingers are a whisper away, close enough to share heat, and Minerva does not let her fingers tremble, does not move away from his touch. She cannot deny him this.
"Will you remain loyal to the Order of the Phoenix?" he asks.
The words come easily to her now, uninhibited by any strictures or structures, not masked or considered. "Yes, I will."
"Will you obey, even when you disagree, even when it will cost you everything that you care about?"
"I will."
"Will you do everything within your power to ensure the defeat of Voldemort?"
"I will."
At last, he bridges the gap between them, touches the back of her hand with gentle fingers. "Thank you, Minerva."
He moves away, offering tea and questions to the other members of the Order. He does his duty and she will do hers - despite anything and everything, it is that simple. Light fades to darkness, darkness to light, but some things will always remain - Fawkes on his bright wings, Albus with his responsibilities, and Minerva with her own duties and buried dreams. Blinking, swallowing to clear the bitterness of the tea from a dry throat, she looks away from Albus.
There is Lily, glowing with the beginning of life, smiling at James. Minerva has seen that look on their faces before, has seen other couples bright with that joy. Lily is not dimmed by the prospect of the war - she cradles her belly with a protective hand, she lets James keep her in the circle of his arms, but her smile is still bright, her eyes still shine. James rests his chin on her shoulder and laughs with his friends, and Minerva turns away from their happiness.
Gideon and Fabian Prewett, flame-haired and friendly, tap her on the shoulder. "Professor McGonagall?"
She turns to them and seeing their empty plates, passes the biscuits. "Yes?"
They smile with their twin-echo, each the mirror image of the other. "We're very happy to be working with you and the Headmaster."
"I have a feeling -" Fabian says.
"-that this will be the most important battle of our time," Gideon says.
Minerva nods at them, unable to respond to their youthful vigor, the enthusiasm that lights their eyes and lightens their steps. She is tired, washed through with the cares of the day, burned by the revelation at the end. With listless, echoing steps, she leaves the hall. She reaches out to touch the doorframe as she passes, the smooth wood under her fingertips, and turns back to look at Albus.
In a blink and a flash, he is by her side, his hand under her elbow, his voice in her ear. "Tired, my dear? Let me walk you back to Gryffindor Tower, then."
There's nothing more natural than to lean on him, to let him take her weight and her tiredness and to let him support her, but Minerva holds back. She will not add to his burdens.
At her door, he stops and stands with his hand on the doorknob. There's a haze in the air, warmth and protection, the faint smell of tea and lemon that she associates with him, and Minerva leans toward him, reluctant to relinquish his comfort.
His hand lingers under her elbow and the bitter taste of Veritaserum lingers in her mouth, numbs her tongue. Its effects are fading, but she is light-headed still, and dizzy, and she stares at him as though the air between them is wavering with heat, is swirled with iridescent haloes and confusion.
"Are you well?" he asks her. "How do you feel?"
"I feel - well," she says. "I - I feel -"
She stops herself before she can continue, fighting against the last of the Veritaserum. Albus brushes her shoulder, traces the line of her neck, follows her jaw down to her chin, and then he tilts her face up. Looking into her eyes, he asks, "How do you feel?"
She will not add to his burdens. Minerva bites her tongue and ducks under his arm, fleeing into her room. She locks the door and wards it before she succumbs to the potion. "I feel as though I'm in love," she says into the silence.
-----
Part Two