HA 12a: Proclamation

HIM AGAIN: Chapter 12: Generosity - Proclamation

The Easter holidays arrived, alternately marked with rain and sun. The holiday week saw a mood of tranquillity and snatched relaxation descend upon the castle; many students had gone home for the chocolate-dominated festivities, and the OWL and NEWT students seemed to disappear almost from existence, retreating to the Common Rooms to cram in sessions of belated revision. The faculty took a collective deep breath in preparation for the exams - harried-looking teachers could be seen flopped in the staff room, clutching cups of tea to themselves with the determination of people who knew that the peace wouldn’t last long. The corridors became empty, the Great Hall’s size emphasised by its lack of incumbents. The Hogwarts Headmistress was disturbed less and less for business, instead Rolanda and Poppy forced Minerva down from her office and outside.

“Come out and enjoy the sunshine,” Poppy said repeatedly.

Yet the sunshine was fitful, soon surrendering to the rain clouds. More than once, picknicking faculty members were forced to beat a hasty retreat, rushing to cover over food and fold up blankets. Minerva was, however, not unhappy to sit in the staff room or in the office. Periods of loneliness never lasted long as either friend would soon appear in the doorway and drag her down “for some company.”

Thursday afternoon of the Easter week saw her in the office writing a long letter to Eleanor Reeves. Really, she thought fondly, such a waste of parchment was hardly justified: the letter was about both nothing and everything - yet Eleanor would lap it up and send an equally long reply back, again about nothing and everything. The joy of distant, reciprocated correspondence had absorbed her for a few hours before there was a knock on the door.

“Enter,” she called, expecting either Rolanda or Poppy - or even Filius, who seemed to delight in pottering around the office nattering about all the jokes he’d ever heard. The door opened, and there was a marked silence.

Rolanda’s entries were manifest with cheery greetings, Poppy always made some summary statement regarding her health, a topic that seemed endlessly fascinating to the Healer, and Filius squeaked whenever he passed through the doorway. The person who had just entered, however, merely hovered and said nothing. Curious and surprised, Minerva looked up from the letter.

Aberforth Dumbledore stood in the doorway, scowl in place, clutching a parcel to his chest. The scraggy grey beard was as tangled as ever, the hair as unkempt, the robes patched and worn, the bristling eyebrows lowered. Minerva stared at him.

“Aberforth,” she said blankly. The old wizard hadn’t visited since before the school-year had started - and, given that encounter, she hadn’t expected him to do so again.

“Professor McGonagall,” he muttered, frowning and sitting down in the seat opposite with the attitude of waiting at a dentist’s. The smell of goats drifted across the desk.

Minerva waited, trying to disguise her astonishment with a prim, expectant expression. She wanted to ask for the reason for his visit, but her last attempt stood out painfully in her mind. The most likely reason was out of pity, or perceived duty - hadn’t he said something to that effect last time? Yet there was no point in offending him by asking, so she simply watched him from behind her horn-rimmed spectacles, waiting.

“You are well?” he growled at last, voice deep and throaty.

“Very well, thank you.”

“Good, good.”

“I suppose the Hog’s Head is very busy around this time of year.”

“Busy enough, busy enough.”

“Hagrid sometimes goes there. His favourite is the Redcurrant Rum.”

“Yes, men of his type tend to like that.”

She resisted the urge to sigh. This conversation was turning out to be a repeat of the last. She opened her mouth to made a pointless, polite enquiry into his own health when Aberforth suddenly thrust the parcel at her, as though trying to hand over something both dangerous and undesirable.

“This is for you.”

When she failed to take it, he dumped it on the desk and sat back, glaring at her. Shocked, she fingered a corner of the brown paper. A present? From Aberforth?

“What-”

“It’s for you,” the old man said, almost defiantly. His face was hard, unreadable. “It’s nothing important.”

“Nothing important?” she repeated.

“No. Just some old junk.”

“Some old junk?”

“Don’t parrot me, woman!” The blue eyes blazed with sudden anger, the lines in his face deepened.

“Aberforth…” Minerva said disbelievingly. “There’s no… obligation for you to-”

“There isn’t, is there?” Each word was weighted, suggesting obligation in every syllable. The glower increased in intensity.

The Headmistress stared at the parcel. Nothing important… some old junk… obligation. A confused anger shot through her chest.

“I don’t need charity,” she whispered.

The old man’s frame stiffened. “You aren’t a beggar, are you?”

“Most certainly not.”

“Then it’s not charity! Don’t you expect it, either!” he snarled.

“I expect nothing of you!” she snapped. “Your visits are completely incomprehensible. You informed me last time that you ‘detested this blasted place’ and now you decide to make a gift of some of your ‘old junk!’ I think I would much rather opt out of your generosity, Mr Dumbledore.”

She expected him to stand and storm out; instead he remained seated and silent. The scruffy bearded jaw tightened and face became cliff-like, the eyes chasms.

“I do detest this blasted place,” he said harshly.

“Then you may leave.”

“I do not detest you.”

A cloud passed over the sun outside. The office darkened and then lightened; the first drops of rain began to beat against the window panes. A raven gave a sharp cry and then fell silent. Inside the tower, several of the portraits opened their eyes; the fake snores ceased. A barely perceptible shiver passed around the painted former head teachers, as though a ghost had glided through the wall. The tone of the last speaker’s voice hung in the air: significant, heavy, cracked with unexpected emotion.

Minerva looked away and down at the parcel, ears ringing. Impossible, chanted her brain. Impossible, impossible, he can’t have meant it in that way-

She sensed him stand up, the chair scraped back. Her hands went forward without any conscious intervention and seized the brown paper, ripping it apart. The rustling dominated the room, the castle, the whole world. The footsteps towards the door stopped.

An embossed book sat on the desk, a rich deep purple in colour and edged with gold. The front bore no title, but had instead the gold-traced design of the outline of a phoenix, breathing expense. Dazedly, she flipped the book open - and froze.

Albus grinned up at her, Fawkes on his shoulder, his joy limited only in the constraints of a photo. Another photo underneath showed the former Headmaster at his inauguration ceremony, shaking hands with a nameless official whose presence was entirely eclipsed the man standing next to him. Blue eyes twinkled, spectacles gleamed. His innate cheerfulness and innocent genius seemed to emanate upwards from the page and hit her in the face.

She turned more pages, stunned. He winked and smiled from every side. Certain images stood out at her - that of Albus standing next to her in a picture of the Hogwarts staff, looking as though it had been cut from the overseas prospectus, that of Albus dancing with her at the Yule Ball of 1994, beard and hair shining from the lighted candles hovering overhead, that of Albus sitting at the centre of the newly-founded Order of the Phoenix… Each photo had writing beneath it - clumsy, poorly-formed writing, as though the writer was not used to applying a pen to anything, the words misspelt and simplistic. ‘Albus with proffesors.’ ‘Albus at Yool Ball.’ ‘Albus fownds Order.’ ‘Albus with Fawkes.’ The entries were dated and appeared to be in chronological order - but backwards, starting with the most recent photos and most likely ending with the oldest.

Minerva felt the blood leave her face. She looked up at Aberforth, shaken. The album was expensive, the photos carefully arranged and ordered, the labels hand-written… The gift was staggering.

Aberforth was looking narrowly at her, with a somewhat bitter expression. He took a step backwards when she looked up, as if to leave, and aimed his eyes elsewhere.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “Thank you. You did not pay for this… you did not do this… all by yourself?”

He grunted. “Found a load of old photos. Scrounged around a bit… thought you might like it.”

“I do. More than I can say.”

“Really?” The blue eyes locked with hers.

“Yes. This is the best gift I have ever received… and the most sensitive… the most-” Minerva cut herself off, speechless. What did it mean?

The immovable face twitched.

“Well, I’ll be going then.”

“Thank you,” she whispered again.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered huskily, sounding angry once more, waving a hand as though swatting a fly. “It’s not worth a damn thing.”

The door opened and shut: Aberforth was gone. Minerva stared at the front of the photo album, feeling the phoenix design being seared into her brain. A small printed label near one corner modestly informed her that the design was ‘specially customised by Lancing Special Deeds Ltd.’ Why, she thought dazedly. Why go to all the trouble? What did it mean?

I do not detest you.

She buried her face in her hands. It was too early to examine her emotions, too early to understand what had happened. The portraits broke out in a cacophony behind her.

“What a thoroughly undignified fellow,” Phineas Nigellus commented.

“By Merlin! How exciting!” Dippet laughed.

“I do declare the man holds our Headmistress in some esteem,” said Derwent delicately.

“’Some esteem?’” repeated Everard, grinning. “Well, he said he did not hate her-”

Dippet gave a roguish wink, an action that looked entirely foreign to the frail old wizard. “A knight in shining armour!”

“I would hardly call him that,” sniffed Phineas. “The man looks like a doormat. I wouldn’t have let him in-”

“Isn’t it a bit ironic, though?” Everard said vaguely. “Him proclaiming his feelings with a photo album crammed full of his brother?”

“That’s enough!” Minerva heard herself say. “There is no need to leap to conclusions.”

She got up and walked over to the window, watching the rain smear the dirt off the glass. Aberforth’s gift sat on the desk behind her like a murder weapon, screaming suggestions. Proclaiming his feelings? No! He was happy with his goats - and all he had said was that he did not detest her-

The Headmistress took the album with her to the private chambers, to remain transfixed by the first two pages until exhaustion forced her to bed. Meanwhile, the portraits whispered, argued and ‘leapt to conclusions,’ with half of the paintings deciding that the old wizard was bound to “sweep the Headmistress off her feet, a rose in his hand and a serenade on his lips” and the other half declaring him to be an “asexual madman, as incapable of feeling as Phineas.”

“Charming,” the former Headmaster muttered.