HA 11c: Fantasy

HIM AGAIN: Chapter 11: Moving On - Fantasy

Minerva McGonagall walked up to the Owlery, sealed letter in hand. Stepping delicately over the floor stained white by centuries of bird-droppings, she headed for the nearest school-owl, an elegant tawny. It really was a shame, she thought as she tied the letter to the bird’s leg. Harry and Ginny would certainly be less than happy.

Once the owl had flown off, she left the acrid stench of the tower for the battlements outside. September meant it was cold and windy; gusts teased at her silver hair, trying to entice it out of its bun. Dinner was drawing near but she had a strange compulsion to stand and watch the clouds for a bit, and think of nothing.

How long she stood there, she did not know, only that it was long enough for the chill to finally reach her bones and make her draw her cloak closer. Minerva turned to go back inside - and caught a glimpse of something red and gold.

The wind carried a melodic cry. Something was flying over past the Owlery, soaring towards the Forbidden Forest.

She looked up, and the breath caught in her throat. The red and gold feathers, the proud crest, the streaming tail - the thing flying towards the trees was a phoenix. She gulped and hobbled to the far end of the battlements, peering intently at the feathered form. Rolanda’s words came back into her head; was it His? Was it Fawkes?

The phoenix circled, turning back towards the castle. Minerva saw the crested head turn towards her, and the hundreds of feet that separated woman and bird were pierced by an intense look reminiscent of its owner. Suddenly, the idea of the phoenix being any other but Fawkes seemed preposterous. Convinced she was dreaming, the Headmistress let her walking stick fall and proffered an arm.

Albus and the phoenix were together in her mind, they always would be. Ever since she’d first walked into his office and seen both him and the bird look up at the same time - their heads both inclined quizzically to the side, the soft brown avian eyes seeming to imitate the sharp blue human ones - one could not exist without the other. In reality, it was impossible for the phoenix to be Fawkes because that would be too wonderful, too suggestive of an unattainable fantasy…

The phoenix was mere feet away now, obviously accepting the offer of her arm. Contrary to all reason, she could see that it was definitely Fawkes; there was something distinctive about the crest. The moment was so utterly surreal that she half expected to see Him appear round the side of the Owlery, humming a little tune.

Fawkes landed on her arm, and at the same time, footsteps could be heard echoing up the stairs in the tower. Minerva ignored them and crushed the bird against her chest, savouring the warmth of the feathers and deciding to enjoy the dream whilst she could.

“Fawkes,” she whispered. “What are you doing here, back again without your master?”

The phoenix squawked as though in protest, but rested its head against her shoulder. Minerva ran a finger down the proud neck and into the soft plumage.

“Minerva!” Rolanda’s voice said abruptly. “There you are! Listen, about what I said yesterday-”

“I know,” the Headmistress said, shocked, turning round. She knew it wasn’t a dream now; had it been a dream then the moment would have remained uninterrupted until Albus’s appearance. Stunned, she looked at the phoenix in her arms and then up at Rolanda, who was gaping at the scene.

“Oh,” said the flying instructor. “Ah. I see you’ve… so it is his then?”

Minerva nodded. “I’m not in the habit of embracing random birds,” she heard herself say vaguely.

Rolanda’s expression became tentative and awkward. “Are you all right?” she asked, peering at her carefully. “I mean, I know - well I don’t really - but it must be hard-”

“I’m perfectly well, Rolanda.” There was no sense in worrying her friend unnecessarily, after all. “It has come as a bit of a surprise…” The phoenix stared up at her. “Why has it returned now? After so many years?”

The other woman shoved her hands into her pockets and bit her lip. There was a pause in which Minerva did nothing but stroke Fawkes, and then the flying instructor finally spoke.

“You still aren’t really over it, are you? Minerva, it’s been nearly eighteen years.”

“Indeed,” she replied softly.

She heard Rolanda swallow. “I’m sorry. I just - well, I’ve never had feelings that strong… If it happened to me, I think I’d just… I’m sorry.”

“No, no - you’re right. I should have put it behind me by now. Any normal person would have.”

“Well,” continued Rolanda hesitantly, “you knew the man for simply decades… so I suppose it wasn’t a normal situation, really.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“This sounds really callous, especially considering what happened - but I almost wish I’d known someone like that.”

“There’s still time to meet him.”

The other professor snorted. “I doubt it. Especially when all I talk about is brooms and Quidditch.”

“All I ever was to Albus was a Deputy. A person to delegate tasks to.”

“Don’t be silly,” scolded Rolanda. “You were friends. If he’d just thought of you as Deputy then he wouldn’t have bothered having tea with you or giving you presents for your birthday or - or anything!”

Minerva sighed and stared out across the grounds. Her eyes were drawn to the corner where she knew His tomb to be and she tore herself away. “It really is time for me to move on.”

Fawkes crooned in her ear. She shivered: for one wild second it had reminded her of Albus’s voice.