Assassins and Lovers

This was a mistake, Albus Dumbledore thought, knocking on Minerva McGonagall's door. But I can't regret it just yet. Nelda could have handled whatever injuries she has. But still. . . I want to make sure that. . . Stop fooling yourself, old man, you're just seizing any opportunity you can to be with her. . . to. . . touch her. He took a deep breath.

"Who is it?" her stern voice called out. Every time she talked like that, he wanted to hold her until all her layers of strictness and tension fell away and he could see the softness, the gentleness that he had sometimes glimpsed. She had a wonderful voice.

"Albus."

"And the password?"

"Amicitia."

The door slid open. Minerva was sitting in a small chair on the other side of the room. Her expression seemed slightly pained, but her eyes were as sharp as ever. He could see that she was trying resolutely to appear strong. "Well, don't just stand there," she snapped, "come on in." Despite the harshness of her words, her lips turned up slightly in a very small smile as Albus approached her. Stop looking at her lips. . .

His gaze shifted to her glinting black eyes. He knelt down beside her chair so that her face was just above eye level. "How are you feeling?"

"It'll ruin my reputation if I tell the truth," she said, and they both laughed softly. "I've had five extra hours in the day. I'm tired."

"You were very brave," he said, and she met his gaze. Her eyes seemed too shiny. . . He wondered for a moment just how much pain she was in. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw a telling wetness at the corner of her eye. Impulsively, he wiped it away with his finger. "Where does it hurt?"

She gestured toward her left collarbone. "Right here. . . She got me with the heel of her boot, twice."

He gently held her right shoulder as his other hand lightly caught the edge of her neckline. He tried to control his breathing as he pushed the robes over her smooth white shoulder. A dark bruise interrupted the pale skin, directly on the bone. He quickly pulled out his wand and healed the bruise. . . But there seemed to be something more. He ran his thumb gently along the length of her collarbone. He found it; a slight crack in the bone. Minerva winced. He looked back at her face. "Just a moment, dear." She closed her eyes. He said the incantation and the bone was healed. His hand lingered in the hollow where her neck joined her shoulder a few moments longer than necessary. His pulse quickened considerably as her small hand found its way on top of his. "Better now?" he asked.

"Much. Thank you," she said. Albus withdrew his hand in fear, confronted by her penetrating gaze. Why did she stare like that? "Albus, can you read minds?"

"Certainly not. Why? Were you thinking about how annoying interfering old codgers can be?"

Her harsh look remained frozen for a few seconds. "I'm tired."

"Shall I tuck you into bed, Minerva?" he joked.

"I wouldn't mind that. You can put a Sleeping Charm on me. I hate waiting to fall asleep," she explained. She stood up slowly and walked over to the bed. Albus followed, pulling back the blankets for her. Before lying down, however, she sat on the side of the bed and began to undo her hair. With a few turns of her hand, the thick black hair fell to her waist. She removed her black glasses and laid them on the table beside the bed. Is she doing this on purpose? Albus thought. Under normal circumstances, hiding his feelings for Minerva was not as difficult. But how did she expect him to behave in the firelight, with her wavy hair softening that severe face? It was with a great deal of restraint that he stood beside the bed, waiting for Minerva to lie down. As she stretched out on the bed, he pulled the blankets back over her, not quite successful in his attempt to avoid touching her. "I'm sorry you have to see me like this," she said, "with my hair in such a mess."

"No need to apologize." He didn't trust himself to say anything more.

"You can put me to sleep now," she yawned.

"Of course. Dormio," he said lazily. As her eyes shut and her head fell back onto the pillow, Albus finally gave in to the impulse he had been restraining; he ran his hand slowly through her hair as he brushed his lips across her cheek. Then he turned quickly and walked out alone.

-----

Snape wished he had never lost his illusions about Fleur Delacour. It was so easy to dismiss her as beautiful and shallow. . . She certainly acted that way most of the time. Unfortunately, he had had the misfortune of finding her at Dervish and Banges, purchasing boomslang skin. He had quickly walked out, wishing to avoid any sort of encounter with the woman.

He strongly suspected that the boomslang skin was for a Polyjuice Potion, probably a tool to use in the Assassins game. It wasn't as if Polyjuice was a tremendously difficult potion-after all, Granger had recently confirmed his suspicions that she had mixed it in her second year. What struck him was the fact that it was exactly what he would have done. In fact, the entire incident had led to a slight change of strategy. He couldn't bring himself to use the same tools Delacour was using.

It wouldn't have been so bad if he had left it at that. He could have accepted that Fleur had something of a similar deceptive streak, a penchant for disguise. This meant nothing more than that he shared a characteristic with a fool. But, why, oh why had he pursued the matter further? He had somehow been compelled to look up the woman's published research. Why, oh why did the little twit have to have researched the effects of preparatory potions in performing advanced charms and the use of charms in the preparation of potions? It irritated him to no degree that she possibly knew something about the art of potion-making that he did not. What irritated him still further was the uncontrollable admiration he felt.

Was it possible that she was something more than she appeared? That seemed undeniable now. Her research was top-notch in quality. He was itching to compare notes with her, to see what they could teach each other. Clearly, there was something more going on inside that beautiful little head of hers. He was disgusted to compare his own appearance with hers. Somehow everyone imagined that he did not know how ugly he was-or that he didn't care. With a nose like that, they always expect me to be a cruel old bastard. And I deliver. Delacour seemed somehow to understand how it felt to be judged on outward appearances. . . and yet, he envied how she could flaunt hers to such advantage. In fact, he admired her cunning. She had everyone fooled. Somewhere beneath that exterior there was something entirely beyond what anyone would expect. What a fine Slytherin she would have made-and like all the rest of us, she's lonely. And there's nothing you can do about it.

-----

Fleur hated to consult Severus Snape, but somehow it seemed unavoidable. It wasn't that she disliked him-in fact, she had a fierce respect for him that she wholly lacked for virtually anyone else at the school. But he seemed to hate her intensely. Somehow his genuine hatred was more palatable than the insincere attentions of the other men, but she hated to have her walls broken. Usually, she could interact with others without being affected emotionally in any way. Severus Snape was somehow a battering ram who knew just where her weak spots were and sadistically delighted in watching the structure crumble.

But it did seem entirely unavoidable. She needed to learn to speak Transylvanian-quickly. She knew that a Linguis Charm alone would not be effective enough; the language was too grammatically complex. However, she theorized that by preceding the Linguis Charm with a preparatory potion, she could master the grammatical structure and the vocabulary in two steps. An Orato Charm would polish up her accent, and she would be ready for the journey. But she continued to be uncertain about the potion-making process. There was no one else to consult. She only hoped he didn't ask too many questions.

She knocked on his door. Is there a reason that he lives so far in the dungeon? It's really very depressing here.

"What is it?" he snapped from inside. He seemed to be in a bad mood, but no worse than usual.

"It is Fleur Delacour."

"You may enter. I have unlocked the door."

She slid in tentatively. "Why," he said, "have you come here?"

She felt as if she'd committed a crime. "I need to consult you on a matter concerning language potions." She was careful to sound as English as possible.

Snape's face stayed blank. "All right. Tell me what you are trying to do. By the way, I would like to apologize for my. . . er. . . hostility at dinner tonight. The truth is, my mother was French, and it is sometimes difficult to be reminded of her-that is, she died last year." Fleur was silent in her incredulity. This sort of openness was completely unexpected. "I don't know what I'm going into such detail." He glared at her again.

"Well, thank you for your apology. But you are correct, Professor Snape, it is silly of me to keep the accent-but you see, I do not have to think as much."

"Would you prefer to speak in French?" he asked her, switching to her language.

"I did not know that you spoke it."

"I told you, my mother was French."

"Then that is why you speak it so well. This is very nice, you make me feel at home." Fleur thought she saw a strange smile at those words, but dismissed the idea of Snape's lips having the ability to curl up in a smile. "Why did you not go to Beauxbatons?"

"My father was English; we lived in England. And Hogwarts, at the time, had a much more solid Potions curriculum. Though, after looking at your research, Beauxbatons appears to have strengthened its Potions instruction."

Fleur found herself again surprised by this man. He had read her research? She felt a little embarrassment. . . What if he thought her research unscholarly or trivial or badly-written?

"What I mean, Miss Delacour, is that I was very intrigued by some of your conclusions."

"Well, thank you."

"Now tell me what your problem is."