WISHLISTS: Linchpin (Hooch/McGonagall)
Author: borealgrove
Recipient: dustbunny105
Title: Linchpin
Pairing: Hooch/McGonagall
Request/Prompt: a quiet night
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,103
Summary: Minerva lets her hair down.
Author's Notes: I'm new here (...hello), a bit rusty with this writing business, and this is unbeta'd.
It started with a pin, removed, from the side of her temple, and with the wispy hairs that it let loose.
"Another long one?"
"I cannot believe I ever thought I knew that man, could trust that man-" Her throat closed with the force of her anger. "If not for the students-"
Then came another, this time at the back of her head, and the tight bun she always wore lost some of its firmness, a few stubborn strands of hair probing out into the air of the dim room.
"What was it this time?" Her fingertips gently worked their way around the bun, searching for more pins tucked neatly into the grey-black hair. "Has he-is he on about Filius again?"
"No, it's the bloody sixth and seventh years he fixated on this evening," Minerva's voice rang, covering the living space in her frustration. "Merlin love their bravery, but I haven't the faintest idea how to keep protecting them if they keep purposefully antagonizing the Carrows, let alone Snape, that horrible bastard!"
Rolanda sighed, removing a pin that caused the other woman's coiled hair to seem to take a breath, go slack.
"I know that we're meant to wait, but for what?"
"I don't know."
"Damn Albus for leaving us this way," Minerva ground out, her voice thick with fury-with grief.
Rolanda ran her fingers through Minerva's long hair, encouraging it to unwind, unknot, untangle the rest of the way. She sat with one foot folded on the bed, the other planted firmly on the magically-warmed stone floor. Minerva faced away from her, toes reaching for the wool rug over the side of the bed, and her gaze (likely unfocused), drifting through the windowpane and on towards the setting sun. Rolanda's soft leather riding boots wilted next to the armoire, their laces splayed over the flagstones.
"Any day-any day now... Potter, Weasley, and Granger will tumble into the grounds, and we'll be fighting for all our lives. I really do believe they'll show up."
And she did. Mostly because she needed to.
"You know I want to believe that," Minerva's voice rose, veering out of anger and into despair. "But Albus, he... What if they're all dead? What if it happened all of a sudden, without warning, just like Albus? He died before he could tell us what he'd been planning-they're little more than children, just bloody children; what do they know of war? Of winning one? What could they possibly do that we cannot?"
"They're not dead," Rolanda reassured her, as she often did, in the privacy of their rooms.
"They could be," Minerva insisted, her voice catching. "They could be..."
"You know as well as I do that if that were the case, the evidence would be spread far and wide by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, their deaths crassly reported to break our morale and our hope. It would not be kept silent." Rolanda believed this because it was logical, and because she needed to. "But all that aside, you know far better than I how intelligent and resourceful they all are in a crisis. I daresay they have faced at least as much-if not more-danger than I have so far in my life, and they still live to tell of it. I feel certain."
"We mustn't lose hope, right?" She sounded just shy of bitter.
"No, we mustn't."
Snowflakes drifted past the tall, arched window and then jumped, swirling through a sudden gust of wind. The last light of the evening was swallowed by clouds which would no doubt bring more snow, more cold to the already buried grounds. Rolanda's ears would ring, now, whenever she stepped out onto the pitch. Too quiet.
"There's something else."
Rolanda's eyebrows creased at the foreboding tone, her hand resting on the loose robe that still covered Minerva's shoulder. "Did they manage to send you a reply?" Despite the strong privacy wards that encapsulated their quarters, she could not help but lower her voice in her asking.
"She's been abducted. Her father's seen neither hide nor hair of her. Taken right off the Hogwarts Express by Death Eaters, more than likely, and Snape had the gall to look me in the eyes and lie, when I asked him. How could they dare-" The venom in her voice rose and then suddenly left in a ragged breath. "Miss Lovegood is..."
The thought of what she was, or where she was, proved to be too much for Minerva, and she sniffed, her voice trailing off until her shoulders began to shake under the gentle weight of Rolanda's hand. There was no platitude she could say to make the news less devastating; no reassurance she could give that would not sound hollow. So she said nothing. She sat forward and pressed her closed eyes to the crook of Minerva's neck. She reached around Minerva's waist to find the hand laying in the other woman's lap, to take hold of it, thread their fingers together. It was all she could think to do, and it wasn't enough, but it was something.
Minerva held tight to her hand for a moment, still shaking, and then let go. Rolanda pressed a kiss to her neck and sat back again, watching Minerva's silhouette as she lifted her hand up to her eyes, sniffing, and wiped them with one of her bell-like sleeves. Her shoulders relaxed again, back into their usual set.
"I'll have no more of that in my school." Minerva's voice had risen again, its iron undercurrent resurfacing.
"We underestimated them," Rolanda agreed, a sensation of guilt muting her words.
Minerva let out a long breath. "Yes, we did."
Rolanda stretched out, reaching for the lacquered wooden brush next to Minerva's spectacles on the night table. Holding out only a handful of the other woman's hair, Rolanda began to run the brush through the wavy, crinkled strands, working out the stubborn tangles with a patience borne of more than a little practice. She gave equal attention to each section of Minerva's hair, falling under the thrall of her favourite sound: the bristles whispering against the strands. When she was finished, she set the brush aside, and ran her fingers through Minerva's hair again, taking comfort in the softness, the way it cascaded over her arms, slipping away.
Rolanda pulled Minerva back against her chest, and held her there for a moment.
They watched the moonless night.
The dim reflection of themselves in the window.
"I love you," Rolanda reminded her, a quiet statement of fact.
Minerva caressed the arms that held her in place.
Recipient: dustbunny105
Title: Linchpin
Pairing: Hooch/McGonagall
Request/Prompt: a quiet night
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,103
Summary: Minerva lets her hair down.
Author's Notes: I'm new here (...hello), a bit rusty with this writing business, and this is unbeta'd.
It started with a pin, removed, from the side of her temple, and with the wispy hairs that it let loose.
"Another long one?"
"I cannot believe I ever thought I knew that man, could trust that man-" Her throat closed with the force of her anger. "If not for the students-"
Then came another, this time at the back of her head, and the tight bun she always wore lost some of its firmness, a few stubborn strands of hair probing out into the air of the dim room.
"What was it this time?" Her fingertips gently worked their way around the bun, searching for more pins tucked neatly into the grey-black hair. "Has he-is he on about Filius again?"
"No, it's the bloody sixth and seventh years he fixated on this evening," Minerva's voice rang, covering the living space in her frustration. "Merlin love their bravery, but I haven't the faintest idea how to keep protecting them if they keep purposefully antagonizing the Carrows, let alone Snape, that horrible bastard!"
Rolanda sighed, removing a pin that caused the other woman's coiled hair to seem to take a breath, go slack.
"I know that we're meant to wait, but for what?"
"I don't know."
"Damn Albus for leaving us this way," Minerva ground out, her voice thick with fury-with grief.
Rolanda ran her fingers through Minerva's long hair, encouraging it to unwind, unknot, untangle the rest of the way. She sat with one foot folded on the bed, the other planted firmly on the magically-warmed stone floor. Minerva faced away from her, toes reaching for the wool rug over the side of the bed, and her gaze (likely unfocused), drifting through the windowpane and on towards the setting sun. Rolanda's soft leather riding boots wilted next to the armoire, their laces splayed over the flagstones.
"Any day-any day now... Potter, Weasley, and Granger will tumble into the grounds, and we'll be fighting for all our lives. I really do believe they'll show up."
And she did. Mostly because she needed to.
"You know I want to believe that," Minerva's voice rose, veering out of anger and into despair. "But Albus, he... What if they're all dead? What if it happened all of a sudden, without warning, just like Albus? He died before he could tell us what he'd been planning-they're little more than children, just bloody children; what do they know of war? Of winning one? What could they possibly do that we cannot?"
"They're not dead," Rolanda reassured her, as she often did, in the privacy of their rooms.
"They could be," Minerva insisted, her voice catching. "They could be..."
"You know as well as I do that if that were the case, the evidence would be spread far and wide by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, their deaths crassly reported to break our morale and our hope. It would not be kept silent." Rolanda believed this because it was logical, and because she needed to. "But all that aside, you know far better than I how intelligent and resourceful they all are in a crisis. I daresay they have faced at least as much-if not more-danger than I have so far in my life, and they still live to tell of it. I feel certain."
"We mustn't lose hope, right?" She sounded just shy of bitter.
"No, we mustn't."
Snowflakes drifted past the tall, arched window and then jumped, swirling through a sudden gust of wind. The last light of the evening was swallowed by clouds which would no doubt bring more snow, more cold to the already buried grounds. Rolanda's ears would ring, now, whenever she stepped out onto the pitch. Too quiet.
"There's something else."
Rolanda's eyebrows creased at the foreboding tone, her hand resting on the loose robe that still covered Minerva's shoulder. "Did they manage to send you a reply?" Despite the strong privacy wards that encapsulated their quarters, she could not help but lower her voice in her asking.
"She's been abducted. Her father's seen neither hide nor hair of her. Taken right off the Hogwarts Express by Death Eaters, more than likely, and Snape had the gall to look me in the eyes and lie, when I asked him. How could they dare-" The venom in her voice rose and then suddenly left in a ragged breath. "Miss Lovegood is..."
The thought of what she was, or where she was, proved to be too much for Minerva, and she sniffed, her voice trailing off until her shoulders began to shake under the gentle weight of Rolanda's hand. There was no platitude she could say to make the news less devastating; no reassurance she could give that would not sound hollow. So she said nothing. She sat forward and pressed her closed eyes to the crook of Minerva's neck. She reached around Minerva's waist to find the hand laying in the other woman's lap, to take hold of it, thread their fingers together. It was all she could think to do, and it wasn't enough, but it was something.
Minerva held tight to her hand for a moment, still shaking, and then let go. Rolanda pressed a kiss to her neck and sat back again, watching Minerva's silhouette as she lifted her hand up to her eyes, sniffing, and wiped them with one of her bell-like sleeves. Her shoulders relaxed again, back into their usual set.
"I'll have no more of that in my school." Minerva's voice had risen again, its iron undercurrent resurfacing.
"We underestimated them," Rolanda agreed, a sensation of guilt muting her words.
Minerva let out a long breath. "Yes, we did."
Rolanda stretched out, reaching for the lacquered wooden brush next to Minerva's spectacles on the night table. Holding out only a handful of the other woman's hair, Rolanda began to run the brush through the wavy, crinkled strands, working out the stubborn tangles with a patience borne of more than a little practice. She gave equal attention to each section of Minerva's hair, falling under the thrall of her favourite sound: the bristles whispering against the strands. When she was finished, she set the brush aside, and ran her fingers through Minerva's hair again, taking comfort in the softness, the way it cascaded over her arms, slipping away.
Rolanda pulled Minerva back against her chest, and held her there for a moment.
They watched the moonless night.
The dim reflection of themselves in the window.
"I love you," Rolanda reminded her, a quiet statement of fact.
Minerva caressed the arms that held her in place.