after a long winter part 1
In the last weeks of May, Hogwarts sank into a peculiar state: the pre-exam tension and fatigue that bound professors and students alike slowly melted away under the gentle May sun. The castle seemed frozen on the threshold between seasons — it still held the breath of spring, yet eagerly welcomed the first stirrings of summer. The windows of classrooms and common rooms remained open for long stretches, letting the warm air, heavy with the scent of fresh green grass, flow into the cool stone walls and corridors.
The lake, usually a deep blue, gleamed silver in the morning sunlight these days, shimmering and beckoning. In the air hung a strange mixture of anticipation and quiet sadness: everyone, from first-years to graduating students, not to mention the teachers, sensed without words how swiftly time was passing — soon, the academic year, full of discoveries, debates, victories, and mistakes, would become nothing but a warm memory.
For Minerva, this month still felt unusual. After leaving Hogwarts, she had, for many reasons, never considered returning to the Scottish highlands — especially as a teacher. But time had put everything in its place, and she had to admit she did not miss the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry of Magic; in some ways, she even felt relief at finding herself once more in these halls, leaving behind regulations and arguments with superiors.
The morning followed its usual rhythm, filled with discussions about the upcoming exams. But Minerva’s thoughts wandered far elsewhere. She had noticed immediately that Albus had left earlier than usual. He rarely left the Great Hall first, preferring to linger: listen to the end of Headmaster Dippet’s speech, exchange a few words with a colleague, slowly stir his tea, and watch the latest mischief at the Gryffindor table.
Still, if Albus needed to slip away unnoticed, he did so without the slightest difficulty. Minerva lingered at the table a few more minutes: she slowly finished her almost-cold coffee, half-listening to Professor Dippet’s musings on discipline among second-years. The words reached her as though through a fog — she could not concentrate at all, and a growing unease tightened like a cold knot she could not untie.
The boundaries of her relationship with Albus had always been unstable — ever since the extra Animagus lessons. During that final school year, something had arisen between them that almost resembled friendship, if not for the sudden flash of attraction that threatened everything. And in the years that followed, this uncertainty tormented them both; closeness was followed by distance, over and over again. Sometimes it irritated Minerva unbearably and even disappointed her. Yet at the same time, she clearly understood that letting each other go was something they would likely never manage.
Albus must have thought the same, seeing as they had finally stopped resisting and allowed themselves to be together. Minerva had learned far too well to notice the slightest changes in him, and this knowledge was dangerous: it wound around her like a tight knot, heavier than the gossip they so carefully avoided within the school walls, preferring not to display their relationship in public. She had begun to distinguish the shades of his silence, but she did not always know how to act — or whether it was appropriate to interfere in something so personal. Did she have the right to intrude on what he chose to keep closed? These unanswerable questions constantly circled in her head.
The coffee had gone completely cold and left a bitter taste on her tongue when Minerva rose from the table and headed for the exit. The corridors were almost empty: the students, of course, spent as much time as possible outdoors. Beyond the high windows, the shadows of trees fell across the walls, but sunlight still streamed along the pathways in soft golden ribbons. She climbed the stairs, spoke the password at the door to Albus’s office, and entered. The room welcomed her with silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock, methodically counting minutes and seconds.
Fawkes dozed peacefully on his perch, his head tucked comfortably under his wing — his feathers glowed with crimson and gold. The desk was slightly messy: parchments lay in uneven stacks, and the written pages would have scattered at the faintest breeze if not for the charms placed upon them. Albus stood by the window, and even from a distance, Minerva could feel the weariness that had settled into him. He continued gazing at the sunlit courtyard and seemed not to notice her intrusion without invitation. Or perhaps it was so obvious that no extra words were needed.
In part, Minerva understood what caused his dark pensiveness at moments like this. May was drawing to a close. Summer was approaching too quickly — and with it, inevitably, Ariana returned. Minerva had seen the girl’s portrait once or twice: flaxen hair, a gaze filled with sorrow mixed with longing — as if she knew something beyond the reach of others. The ghost of the younger sister had taken up permanent residence in Albus’s soul, like a wound that would not heal and ached with the arrival of warm weather.
Minerva moved closer, almost soundlessly, deciding to announce her presence:
"You’re unusually silent today."
Albus did not turn around, but the corners of his lips twitched in a faint smile.
"Will you never break the habit of sneaking up quietly, Minerva?" he replied.
"Look who’s talking," she countered softly.
Now he turned his head. In the sunlight, his eyes seemed astonishingly light — blue, almost translucent — and therefore particularly poor at hiding his true feelings. Minerva frowned slightly, studying his face. The features she knew so well always seemed simultaneously complex — demanding to be deciphered — and simple. How did that happen? These observations made her feel flustered, as though they had gone back in time to when she crossed the threshold of his office as a student. But Minerva quickly pulled herself together.
"What’s troubling you?" she asked directly.
Albus looked back toward the window, as if beyond the glass lay the answer to all unspoken questions.
"It’s nothing," he said almost indifferently.
"Albus," Minerva insisted, stepping closer.
He sighed, as if he had already conducted this conversation in his head many times.
"I’m wallowing in regrets, as always. Nothing new," he added, a bitter note in his voice.
Albus tried to live without looking back at the past, but the old ghosts of his mistakes would not release him. Part of his soul wished this conversation were taking place between him and Aberforth. His younger brother would likely listen with his usual irritation, call him a "damn brooder" who looked at the past as though it could change.
And perhaps that was precisely why, after talking to Aberforth, things became easier. Not because his brother was kind — kindness had never been his strength — but because he ruthlessly brought him back to a reality where plenty of problems remained, as the newspaper headlines constantly testified, whether the Daily Prophet or the ordinary Muggle press.
But Aberforth did not look at him the way Minerva did — as though there was always something good in him. She gently touched his face, and Albus closed his eyes almost imperceptibly. It surprised her anew each time — how natural her tenderness became when she was with him. Minerva had never thought of herself as particularly affectionate. She had always found it easier to back her words with action. But next to Albus, something warm rose up inside her, something she had not known in herself before — or had not wanted to know. She suspected she would never be rid of this feeling.
"You shouldn’t torment yourself with self‑recrimination again," she said, tracing the line of his cheekbone with her fingers.
Albus gave a barely audible chuckle, his eyes still closed.
"What a philosophical speech for a weekend morning," he said, a hint of irony in his voice.
"I’m serious," Minerva said, raising her voice slightly.
"I can tell," Albus replied, finally turning to face her.
Suddenly he caught her hand and gently pulled her toward him. Minerva didn’t even have time to protest: Albus made her step back toward the desk, then easily sat her on its edge. The unexpected turn of events made her instinctively grab the edge of the desk.
"Albus," Minerva looked at him reproachfully, even though his desire to change the subject was expected. Albus didn’t like burdening her with his problems.
"Yes?" He leaned slightly toward her so that their faces were now very close.
"Of the two of us, you’re the only one with a bad habit of sitting on desks," Minerva said, trying to keep a straight face.
"You do love to criticize me," said Albus, and for the first time in their conversation, something like amusement flickered in his eyes. "It’s becoming a habit, isn’t it?"
Minerva shook her head. Still, a little distraction wouldn’t hurt either of them.
"Changing the subject again," Minerva said, squinting against the bright sunlight.
He took her hand, interlacing their fingers.
"I just know what you’re going to say."
Minerva looked at Albus carefully, her gaze lingering on the furrow between his brows that appeared whenever he was preparing a convincing argument. This was not the first time they had had this conversation, and each time she wished it would make things easier afterward.
"You are better than you think you are, Albus," she said bluntly, looking him straight in the eye.
He slowly moved closer, touching his nose to her cheekbone. The gesture might have seemed almost boyish if it hadn’t held so much caution. As if Albus still didn’t quite believe he was allowed to be happy with anyone.
"You’re just in love with me," he murmured with a smile. "For some reason completely unknown to me."
Minerva snorted in near irritation. She had never liked it when he said that.
"That’s not it," she countered. "I simply know you."
Albus was silent. Arguing was pointless. For a long time, he had walled himself off from this kind of scenario, and he still didn’t understand how it had happened that with Minerva he had miscalculated. It had started with friendship — a permissible thing, even if it was between a teacher and a student — and had ended with her knowing so much about him, and he about her. Not just knowing — understanding. With all the mistakes and the past that could not be erased.
With his and Grindelwald’s shared ideals. With Ariana’s death and the endless quarrel with Aberforth that followed. With a youth spent thinking more of his own grandeur than of those around him. But none of this repelled Minerva, and what was even more astonishing — it did not disappoint her. In her gaze there was neither judgment nor pity. In her green eyes he saw a glimmer of a familiar feeling. The same one that arose in him when she was near.
"You are so stubborn," Albus remarked.
"When it comes to stubbornness, we could give each other a run for our money," Minerva said with a smirk, tilting her head slightly like a cat.
She was the first to gently touch his lips, and his response was sharp, almost impetuous. Much more assertive, as if behind it all was a hunger he had suppressed for far too long. His hand slid to her waist, the other rested on her cheek, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. The heat of each other’s lips and their quickening breath made all the dark thoughts dissolve.
For so many years, Albus had carefully tried to atone for his guilt, but now, after a winter that had dragged on too long, he had finally, desperately and irrevocably, fallen into the tenderness that Minerva had given him.
