June Week

Chapter 5: Explosions

By the time Dumbledore returned, nearly an hour late because of all the mess on the streets, an early winter twilight was already beginning to fall over the crammed-together buildings of Diagon Alley.

Minerva, who was waiting near the brick archway behind the Leaky Cauldron, spotted him and hurried over, holding her skirt up out of the slush with one hand and lugging a large Flourish and Blotts bag with the other.

"How was your meeting?" she asked breathlessly. As she spoke, she set her bag down on a clear spot of pavement and started rummaging around in it.

"It went well, thank you," said Dumbledore, amused at the sight of her trying to politely inquire about his day when she was about to explode with news of her own. She had red, frost-nipped cheeks and snow in her hair, and looked happier and more animated than he'd seen her in months.

"Oh, good ..." Her mind clearly wasn't on his answer, but on something in the bag. In a moment she pulled out a colossal book and pressed it into his hands. "Can you teach me this?"

"Slow down, slow down," Dumbledore said with a chuckle. "Let's get in out of the cold before we start planning your postgraduate work, shall we?" He dropped the book back into the bag, picked it up, grabbed her by the elbow and steered her into the firelit warmth of the Leaky Cauldron.

Once inside, he made her sit down and order food before he'd consent to look at what she'd given him. Then he went through an elaborate production of cleaning and adjusting his glasses and finding the right distance to hold the book at, all the while enjoying her frustration.

"The Animagus transformation," he said finally. "It's very difficult, you know. And not entirely risk-free."

"Yes, I remember that from your lectures." Minerva was leaning toward him in eager anticipation. "I want to learn it. Will you help me?"

"Certainly I will," he said, and she breathed out a sigh of relief.

"How long will it take?"

He shrugged. "A few months, maybe a year, maybe more. It depends on whether you have the talent for it - which I think you will - and how hard you work."

"I'll work hard," Minerva said fervently.

"I don't doubt that in the least," Dumbledore replied. "And before we even start, let me warn you: I'm not agreeing to help you so you can become obsessed and work yourself into the infirmary. You're to keep your main focus on your day job, eat and sleep properly, and leave at least a little time for recreation. Don't argue," he added, as she drew breath to do just that. "I know how you get about these things. You spend far too much time shut up in your room already as it is."

Deflated a bit by this, Minerva scowled down at her plate and jabbed at her untouched food with her fork.

"But," he went on, "I must say I'm very proud of you for wanting to try. Do you realize how few people have accomplished the transformation in the last fifty years? You'll definitely earn a moment in the sun if you succeed."

"When I succeed," she corrected him.

"Yes, of course," said Dumbledore, amused all over again.

They sat and ate in companionable silence for a while, watching the mostly strange patrons that frequented the Leaky Cauldron. At one point, a nice-looking young wizard in a grey cloak passed by and stared at Minerva appreciatively. She gave him an offended glare in return and scooted closer to Dumbledore on the wooden bench they shared. The wizard looked from one of them to the other, first puzzled, then a little disgusted, and left.

Dumbledore shook his head slightly. He knew all about Minerva's fledgling infatuation with him, of course. In the long span of his teaching career, he'd been the object of more teenage crushes, both male and female, than he could count. The signs were unmistakable, though Minerva was less obvious and more dignified about it than most. (Here he spared a moment to squirm at the memory, still blush-provoking after forty years, of the sixth-year girl who had thrown off her cloak halfway through a conference with him to reveal not a stitch of clothing underneath.)

Minerva's feelings would fade as quickly as they had blossomed, he thought. In a few weeks or months, she would meet someone close to her own age and forget all about him, except as a friend and mentor. He would walk her down the aisle at her wedding, spoil her children with toys and sweets on their birthdays. There was no reason she shouldn't have a brilliant career and a family too. Many Hogwarts professors did; the house-elves looked after the children when they were small, and some of the more junior staff saw to their lessons until they were ready to enroll as regular students. That was how Minerva herself would have grown up, had her father not elected to quit Hogwarts - and civilization - altogether.

He gazed over at her sharp profile, made all the more striking by the severe new hairstyle she was affecting these days. He never would have wished for anything to happen to Malcolm, but he would forever be grateful that he'd had the chance to develop a relationship with Minerva. Really, he couldn't have loved the girl any more if she'd been his very own. It was such a relief to see her excited about her Animagus project. She'd been so preoccupied and jittery since this term had started.

This will be just what she needs, he thought. He only hoped that spending the extra time with him wouldn't prolong the natural course of her crush, or prompt her to do anything foolish. "Foolish" and "Minerva" were not two words that normally went together, so it probably wouldn't.

He'd been lost in these thoughts for a while when someone near the bar said "Sssshhh – listen!" and the entire room fell silent. Off in the distance, a faint drone, as of engines, could be heard.

Dumbledore looked at the nearest window, which was completely dark now. It was night - but the Muggle air raids didn’t come till much later in the night, did they?

Or did they?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Throughout Muggle London, all hell was breaking loose as defense sirens wailed and people ran for cover. It had been some time since the last air raid, and a false sense of safety had crept over the city. Now that feeling was shattering like so much blown-out window glass.

The mood inside the Leaky Cauldron was more subdued, but no less tense. After a few minutes of quiet, the patrons had begun to talk and move around again - they knew about the protective spells over Diagon Alley and all its businesses - but there were more than a few nervous faces, and a trickle of people was quietly departing through the rear doors.

Far away at first, the booms and shudders of bomb explosions and gunfire soon drew closer. When the plates on the table started to rattle with each one, Dumbledore decided it was time to take Minerva and go. She was already sitting rigidly at the edge of the bench, looking pale and worried, and jumped up without hesitation at his suggestion that they head back to Hogwarts. They left a few coins to pay for dinner and moved toward the exit.

But going was easier said than done. The numbers who were leaving had increased sharply as the action heated up, forcing them to push and struggle to get out to the designated Apparition point. Just as they reached the open air, a loud, angry buzz was heard overhead, and the entire crowd looked up in time to see a formation of low-flying planes zipping past. An instant later, the fiercest explosion yet rocked the street. A tower of thick, whitish smoke immediately climbed into the sky, and a violent red glow filled the horizon between the buildings.

Minerva grabbed for Dumbledore's hand. "That was too close," she said urgently. "Let's go now."

"We're almost there," he said. They were getting shoved from behind by the growing mob, and he decided that if they weren't able to move any farther in a hurry, he was going to Apparate right from where he stood, and rules be damned.

No sooner had he thought this than the buzz of planes returned, louder than ever, and an unbelievable wave of force threw him off his feet.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When the second explosion came, Minerva lost her grip on Dumbledore and was flung facedown into a pile of snow with a crushing weight on top of her. She lay stunned for a minute, fighting for air - all her wind had been knocked out by the blow. Then she crawled out from under the heavyset wizard who had landed on her and knelt beside him to see if he was all right. He seemed to be in one piece, just dazed, so she left him where he was and looked about for Dumbledore.

He was here a second ago. What happened? She automatically put her hand into her pocket and curled her fingers around her wand. It wasn't likely to be much help in this situation, but she felt better with its familiar smoothness against her palm.

The blast had tossed her next to a wall, which was fortunate, as the street was now full of agitated witches and wizards who looked ready to start trampling each other any second. Plastering herself against the bricks, Minerva stretched up to her full height and craned her neck, searching for any glimpse of Dumbledore's familiar silver-flecked auburn hair and beard. She still couldn't see him, but she could see something terrible: another group of planes streaking in her direction. A series of fresh explosions erupted as they passed. The final one struck the invisible barrier over Diagon Alley, and Minerva gasped at the image of bright orange flame spreading across it, turning the sky into a dome of fire.

"Can it stand up to direct hits like that?" It was the wizard who had knocked her down, now getting shakily to his feet.

"I don't know," Minerva said, unable to take her eyes off the horror above her. She prayed to all the powers there were that it could. Another explosion came, and still another. Each lit up the street with a brilliant flash, not unlike that of fireworks.

"You'd best get out of here, girl," said the wizard. "Don't bother going to the Apparition point." With that, he took his own advice and vanished.

Get out of here, I wish I could, Minerva thought in desperation. Where the bloody hell is Dumbledore? I can't go without him. I won't.

Frantic screams erupted from the crowd, and she stopped hunting for Dumbledore long enough to cast a glance upward and see that a ragged hole had developed in the barrier. Smoke was pouring through it, collecting just underneath for now, but inching down toward the street as its volume increased. Soon she wouldn’t be able to see Dumbledore even if he was a foot away.

“Minerva, there you are!” She knew it was him even before she looked around, and slumped against the wall in relief.

“Thank goodness. Where on earth have you been? I’ve been looking for you.”

“I ended up by Ollivander’s,” he said, running his hands quickly over her to check that she wasn’t hurt. Normally she would have been pleased to have him touch her in any way – he was the only person who could do that without making her flinch these days. Right now she was too scared and upset to enjoy it. That was just her sort of luck.

“Well, I’m glad to see you. Come on, let’s go, please, before anything worse happens.”

“You’ll have to go back on your own,” Dumbledore said. His eyes had none of the mischievous twinkle she was used to seeing in them. They were dead serious. “I’m needed here to help repair the spells. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

“And leave you here? No! Let me stay. I’ll help too. I want to help.“

“Absolutely not. You’ll go straight to Hogsmeade and use the fireplace at the Three Broomsticks to get back to the castle. I mean it, Minerva. I’ve already made a mistake in bringing you here to begin with. I’ve no intention of leaving you in harm’s way a minute longer.”

“But you can’t stay – if it’s dangerous for me, it’s dangerous for you too -” The first wafts of smoke were beginning to work their way down to street level, and she broke off, coughing.

“I don’t want to hear another word about it,” Dumbledore said, in a tone that clearly meant business. She found she couldn’t keep arguing her point in spite of her longing to do so -- he’d been her teacher and House head for years, she was accustomed to obeying him.

“All right,” she said, defeated. “Just please, please be careful.”

“I will if you will,” he replied.

With a laugh that was half a sob, she took one last look at him and Apparated away.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Getting back to Hogwarts took a matter of minutes. The hours that followed seemed to last forever.

Minerva wrapped a blanket around herself and sat in front of the empty fireplace in her room – frosty as the night was, she couldn’t face the task of lighting a fire after all the flames she’d seen earlier in the evening – smelling smoke in her hair and on her clothes, and pondering everything that had happened. She was furious at Professor Dumbledore (Albus, damn it, call him Albus) for forcing her to leave the scene. Did he think her completely incompetent? She was a witch, just as he was a wizard. If he believed she’d be terrified into helplessness, it was only because he’d no idea of what she’d been dealing with on her own, these last six months.

I could have helped, she thought angrily. Why wouldn’t he let me? Why can I ask him for help, but he can’t ask me?

Mixed in with her anger was agonizing worry for his safety. Whether he ever returned her new feelings or no, he was the best friend and only real family she had. No one else cared for her the way he did. She couldn’t bear to lose him.

Finally, around midnight, Dumbledore returned and stopped in to see her. He reeked of smoke even more powerfully than she did, and he was covered with ash and black soot, but he was uninjured. It was all she could do not to weep with relief.

Once he’d told her the story of what happened after she left (there’d been no casualties, and they’d managed to patch together and reinforce the protective spells), he instructed her to go to bed, and before she knew what she was doing, she found herself obeying again. Her last thought before falling asleep – easily, for a change – was that if she’d learned one thing that night, it was that she’d never escape troubles by leaving Hogwarts. There were troubles everywhere. It was cold comfort, yes, but better some comfort than none.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Early the following Monday morning, Minerva arrived at the Transfiguration room to teach and was immediately swamped by a wave of students.

"Miss McGonagall, we heard you were in a bombing!"

"Was it awful?"

"Were you frightened?"

"Did you see anyone killed?"

"Tell us!"

"Yes, do tell us, Miss McGonagall,” came a deeper voice from behind her, and Minerva whipped around to see none other than the dreaded Tom Riddle standing there with his blessedly ribbon-free book satchel slung over one shoulder, watching the proceedings. It was the first time he'd spoken to her directly since the previous spring, and her heart lurched with such alarm at the sound that she thought it had actually stopped for a moment.

Tom gazed back at her, all innocence and raised eyebrows, as if waiting as eagerly for her story as the children surrounding her. He had grown of late – instead of matching her height as he had done, he now surpassed it by at least three inches. She had to tilt her head up to look him in the face. From there, her eyes traveled down to the pale hand wrapped around the strap of his satchel, and she swallowed hard, trying not to think of how that hand must have touched her defenseless body, must have clamped over her mouth to silence her --

Just ignore him, she thought. She shooed her charges inside the classroom and shut the door, resisting the urge to lock it for good measure.

The students didn’t seem to notice their teacher’s distress. They immediately carried on in the single-minded vein they’d been pursuing a moment before.

"Come on, Miss McGonagall, tell us what happened!" pleaded one of the smallest boys, crowding up close to her. "My cousin's street was bombed during the Blitz last year, and he said there were bricks and boards and bodies everywhere. Was it like that?"

Still floundering around in the wreck of her composure, Minerva tried to think of a response that would both satisfy them and shut them up. She'd been having some discipline problems – her three years of experience as a prefect helped surprisingly little when it came to keeping a class in order -- and could just imagine the entire lesson being wasted on a discussion of everyone's bombing experiences.

"That's nothing, Alexander," scoffed a girl at the edge of the group. "I saw pieces of bodies when I was in the city after an attack last summer." She turned to Minerva for confirmation of this grisly fact of war. "There were pieces, weren't there? Like arms and legs and -"

Minerva suddenly found her voice. "No, there weren’t any pieces, Miss Llewellyn, or any bodies either. What a horrid question! I'm disgusted that you asked it. Yes, the experience was frightening, but no one was seriously hurt - a fact for which you should all be very grateful. Now, we have a lot to cover before the holidays start, so I suggest you all take your seats and get in a Transfiguration frame of mind. Unless you'd like me to start deducting points, that is."

She hadn't meant to sound quite so snappish, but her ill temper did the trick where patience never seemed to. The class sat down, looking disappointed that they weren't going to hear a blood-curdling tale of death and danger, and she started passing out pencils for them to turn into peppermint sticks. As she did, she noticed that her hands were shaking.

Pull yourself together, for heaven's sake, she scolded herself. You’ve survived having bombs go off over your head; there's no need to get the vapors just because he said a few words to you. You'll never be able to catch him if you can't stand to be near him. And it would be a shame to do all the work of becoming an Animagus and let him escape you after all.

"Miss McGonagall?" Alexander was calling to her from his desk.

"Yes, Mr. Barnett?"

"We're very glad you're all right," he said, and the lingering chill inside her vanished in a delicious rush of warmth and pleasure. This teaching business definitely had its rewards. But it wouldn't do to lose the momentary control she'd gained to foolish sentimentality.

"Thank you," she said crisply. "Now, please open up to Page 78 …”