after a long winter part 2
@malbusfest missing scene
The holidays had officially begun only a couple of days ago, when the last June exams were finally over and the senior students had said goodbye to the school that had been their home for seven long years. Yet Hogwarts had already changed dramatically. Unusual and unfamiliar metamorphoses had overtaken the entire castle: just a few days earlier, the ancient corridors had hummed with the pounding of footsteps, ringing voices, and the nervous anticipation of the end of N.E.W.T.s and O.W.L.s, but now silence had fallen. It filled every hall, settled into the tapestries, lurked in the high vaulted ceilings, and lay heavy upon the stone floors.
Most of the professors had departed at dawn, and those few who remained seemed to have dissolved among the endless staircases and towers. Their presence could only be guessed at by the occasional rustle of a robe or the distant creak of a door somewhere deep within the castle. The silence felt almost too peaceful, but not uncomfortable. After a long, grueling year, it felt like a long-awaited respite.
Albus, having returned from his conversation with Headmaster Dippet and finished writing several letters for Nicolas Flamel—which he had owed his former mentor for quite some time—threw open the window. The warm summer breeze immediately rushed into the office, playfully ruffling his hair and rustling the parchments on his desk. Below, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the trees swayed their crowns briskly. Sunlight gilded the ancient walls of Hogwarts, and birds circled lazily over the Black Lake. For the first time in many months, Albus didn't need to think about schedules, essays, or the administrative routine that had been suffocating him lately.
Inevitably, one set of worries would be replaced by another: the headlines of the Daily Prophet continued to cause concern. Yet something new was kindling inside him. No, not anxiety anymore. This was genuine, sweet, almost-forgotten anticipation, all of it revolving around one person, whom it might be wise to remind about a bit of rest.
After all, the final weeks of exams had been particularly exhausting. He and Minerva had only stolen rare moments together. It was catastrophically difficult to find a compromise with her when it came to work. Minerva wouldn't allow the personal to seep into her duties, and Albus couldn't blame her for it. Their relationship already balanced on a knife's edge. Many in the castle had long suspected something, but it never went beyond cautious rumors. And that suited them perfectly.
He didn't find Minerva right away. She wasn't in the Transfiguration office, nor the library, nor the staff room. Only one place remained. Fortunately, the finally completed letters for Flamel came in handy. Albus climbed the spiral staircase to the Owlery. Even in the height of summer, a pleasant coolness reigned here. Through the narrow arrow loops, slanted golden rays fell, casting bright, quivering stripes across the stone steps. Gusts of wind managed to find their way in, carrying the scents of summer grass. Somewhere above, owls hooted softly, surveying the arriving guest with an air of importance.
Minerva stood by the tall arched window. She didn't notice his presence at first, her gaze thoughtfully tracing the lines of a letter, as if weighing for the last time whether to send it or keep it to herself. This was almost always the case with letters meant for her family. A few unruly strands had escaped her neat hairdo and fallen along her cheekbones. On her open palm sat a small barn owl. Minerva stroked its silky feathers absently, and the bird, half-closing its amber eyes, fluffed its wings ever so slightly. Behind her, through the wide window frame, stretched an endless sky dotted with light, wispy clouds.
Albus decided to make his presence known.
"I've been looking everywhere for you, Minerva," he said, approaching. "Much news? Or do you simply prefer the company of owls to mine?"
She turned. A warm, slightly mischievous smile appeared on her lips.
"Perhaps because they at least don't try to distract me from my work," Minerva replied, raising one eyebrow.
"A fair point, but not entirely appropriate," Albus said, stopping very close, almost breaching their usual distance.
The barn owl hooted in annoyance, sensing Minerva's attention slipping away, and quickly flew to a nearby perch. Now they were alone.
"You look suspiciously pleased with yourself," Minerva observed, studying his face closely.
"I am indeed pleased," Albus replied. "At last, we can talk, just the two of us."
His gaze traveled over her face, lingering on the unruly wavy strands that traced the line of her cheekbones.
"Yes, there are certainly advantages to that," she agreed, finishing the dispatch of her letter.
Albus watched her movements carefully, committing every detail to memory: how the light fell on her profile, making her green eyes squint against the bright rays. When Minerva was about to ask him something, he touched her chin with his fingers and leaned in, drawing her into a kiss. Slow yet persistent touches of lips, her hands settling on his shoulders, and his fingers tangling in her hair—all of it clearly conveyed the accumulated mutual exhaustion from the routine, the tenderness, and the strong need to be closer. It was always a relief to finally stop pretending to be "just colleagues," constantly mindful of caution. His forehead lightly touched hers, and she closed her eyes, pressing herself more closely against him.
"You know, I've realized one thing," he said, brushing his lips against hers again.
"What's that?" Minerva slid her palm along his jaw. The stubble felt pleasant beneath her fingers.
"Not quite that," Albus chuckled. "I owe you a date, Minerva."
Minerva looked at him in surprise.
"Albus, that's absolutely not necessary," she replied, tilting her head slightly.
"Not necessary?" he repeated softly, his gaze fixed on her.
"Having time to just be together is enough for me," Minerva admitted. "And you said yourself that we'd have to stay here for a few days because of Professor Dippet's request. Why add unnecessary complications?"
Instead of leaning in again, he gently squeezed her fingers.
"I'm afraid, Professor McGonagall, I must disagree," he said with a barely perceptible smile, and in it flickered something boyish, utterly at odds with her practicality. "Trust me and don't worry about anything else."
"Very well, Professor Dumbledore," Minerva agreed, trying not to think about how noticeable their absence might be.
His eyes held that familiar glint of mischief as he led her along.
Apparition, which by all rules shouldn't have worked on Hogwarts grounds, remained a mystery to Minerva. Albus managed not just to circumvent the rule but to blatantly break it, yet to all her questions he only replied with an enigmatic smile. Now, however, she had no time for inquiries.
Before them stretched a wide expanse of heather, which had dramatically altered its usual color palette: instead of green grass, there lay a continuous, dense rippling of purple and pink hues. The hills sloped gently toward the horizon, and gusts of wind swept back and forth, lifting the stems and laying them down again. The sunlight fell across this carpet in slanting bands, illuminating a pale, almost translucent stem in one spot and emphasizing a deep, rich violet shadow in another. Rocks loomed darkly in the distance, and clouds drifted low, briefly softening the vivid colors.
Minerva had never hidden her weakness for heather. It reminded her of her favorite places in Caithness and long walks during which time and all other concerns were blissfully forgotten.
"How did you manage this?" she finally asked, pulling herself together and overcoming a completely childish urge to leave Albus behind and lose herself among the heather.
Albus looked at her with warmth.
"As you can see, I remember your love for heather moors," he said. "Lucky that it bloomed early this year, isn't it?"
He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and drew her gently against him, pressing his chest to her back.
"What a remarkable coincidence," Minerva smiled, though her voice carried a clear note of irony. "And you, of course, won't tell me exactly where we are?"
She turned in his arms. The wind immediately tousled her hair again. Albus tucked an unruly strand behind her ear.
"You'll find out for yourself," he smirked. "If, of course, you learn patience and simply come with me."
"Professor," Minerva narrowed her eyes playfully, "do you think I lack patience?"
Her voice rang with playfulness, but her gaze remained serious. And the spontaneous switch from the informal 'you' to the more formal address, which had become habitual for them during workdays, reminded Albus that he wasn't the only one who liked to spring surprises… He smiled at the corner of his mouth, his hands still resting on her waist.
"Oh, I would never dare to make such a claim, Miss McGonagall. Except… perhaps just a little." His fingers traced slow patterns on her lower back. "But I would be happy to help you… develop that quality."
Minerva didn't answer with words. She suddenly stretched up and pressed a quick, greedy kiss to his mouth. Her lips were hot, insistent, with a faint taste of tea and summer. For a moment, Albus felt her press her whole body against him, but before he could deepen the kiss and hold her tighter, she had already slipped from his arms.
Stepping back into the dense heather, Minerva licked her lower lip and said with a teasing smile:
"Then help me learn patience, Professor… Your practical methods are always particularly effective."
Then something happened that Albus least expected. Instead of the young woman, a silver-striped cat stepped gracefully into the undergrowth. She flicked her fluffy tail and cast one last, alluring glance at Albus with bright green eyes. Then she vanished silently into the purple-pink sea of heather, leaving only a slight swaying of stems behind her.
Albus stood motionless, tracking her path, then laughed deeply.
"That's a completely unfair move, Minerva…" he said, smiling into the void. The wind carried his words over the hills.
From somewhere deep in the thicket came a sound characteristic of all cats—a meow—as if a peculiar invitation to follow her.
Minerva, in the form of a silver-striped cat, glided silently through the sea of heather. The purple stems, swaying, left behind a sweet, fragrant trail. She reveled in her heightened senses: every gust of wind, every minor rustle, even the tiniest, barely visible insect hidden among the flowers, instantly came into focus. Everything around felt ten times sharper.
Ahead, beyond the purple waves of heather hills, an old stone bridge came into view. Time had darkened its masonry, but it still looked sturdy and reliable. A narrow stream flowed quietly beneath the wide arches. Minerva stopped and, squinting her bright green eyes slightly, peered intently ahead.
"Glen Coe," she thought immediately, finally satisfying a bit of her curiosity, and in the very next moment she was deftly scooped up by strong arms.
"Caught you," came Albus's low, pleased voice right by her ear.
The cat meowed indignantly and struggled, but Albus only chuckled, holding her tighter. Eventually, she had to accept this small defeat and acknowledge—to herself, of course—that Albus possessed some inexplicable ability to find her quickly even in this form. A moment later, Minerva was herself again, and they were on the grass: Albus lying on his back, with her hovering over him, pressing her whole body against his. Her hair, once neatly pinned, now fell freely across his chest, tickling his face slightly.
"You're messing up all our dinner plans," Albus said with mock reproach, but his hands had already slid firmly along her back, pulling her closer and preventing her from pulling away. "If we linger any longer, we'll be completely late."
Minerva slowly drew the tip of her nose along his cheekbone.
"We're in Glen Coe," she whispered contentedly, looking straight into his eyes.
Albus raised an eyebrow in surprise, but genuine admiration flickered in his gaze.
"And how did you guess so quickly?" he asked.
"The stone bridge," she explained.
Neither of them knew who closed the last few inches between them first. Minerva barely breathed the words against his lips, feeling his shoulders tense beneath her palms and his heart pound rapidly. Finally, Albus reluctantly pulled back.
"Now we really need to head into town." He stood up quickly, glanced at his wristwatch, and smiled, extending his hand to her. "We still have a little time."
"Don't worry. I think one lesson in patience is quite enough for today," Minerva replied with a smile.
In the distance, the heather rustled, swaying in the warm evening wind. The sun slowly sank toward the horizon, flooding the hills with honey-pink and golden hues, softly illuminating the cobblestone path onto which they had emerged.
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