Epithalamium (Harry Potter for grown-ups)

Chapter Fifty

Albus could not decide whether he preferred Saturday evenings or Sunday afternoons.

Saturdays were for chess and conversation. Albus and Minerva had continued their traditional game after dinner in the Great Hall on Saturdays, and she had quickly become a formidable opponent, which gave Albus great pleasure. It had been some time since he had had an opponent who could be counted on to beat him half the time. Even Filius, who was a fine chess player, had become somewhat predictable. Not so, Minerva. He could never be certain exactly what she would do in response to any of his moves. It was emblematic of the intricacies of her mind, he thought. As well as he thought he knew her, she still had the capacity to surprise him in ways large and small.

Which she did one Sunday evening over haddock in Mornay sauce at her cottage.

Sundays were for slipping off the mantles of Headmaster and professor and being just Albus and Minerva together. Since the start of the autumn term, Albus had been visiting her at the house on Sunday afternoons, staying for dinner when circumstances at the school didn't preclude it. They would eat whatever Glynnie had prepared for them before she popped away after greeting Albus at the door, saying, "Will Albus Dumbledore ask Mistress Minerva to summon Glynnie after he leaves?"

In between bites of fish, Albus asked Minerva about the elf's behaviour.

"I'm getting the sense that your Glynnie doesn't much like me," he said.

"Why would you think that?" enquired Minerva

"She disappears for the duration as soon as I come in the door. Do you think she disapproves of us?"

"Not at all. She leaves because I asked her to make herself scarce whenever you come."

At his questioning look, she added: "This is a very small house, Albus. I simply prefer to have it to ourselves when you come 'round."

Albus said, "I see. And how did she take it?"

"In stride. She wished us 'successful matings'," Minerva said with a laugh.

"Well, this afternoon was certainly 'successful' in my book."

"I don't think that's quite what she meant," said Minerva. "She said she'd like a baby to look after."

Her gaze upon him was steady, and he knew she was asking a question. What surprised him was not the question itself, but the roundabout way she was posing it. She was normally so direct with him that when she wasn't, it made him prick up his ears.

"Minerva," he said, putting a hand on hers, "we should probably have spoken about this before."

"I know," she said. "And now it's getting late. We can discuss it another time."

Her attempt to end the conversation after having brought it up so obliquely told him how uncomfortable she was with the subject. She rarely avoided an issue; he suspected he could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had caught her at it.

In truth, he had avoided the topic as well. Before Minerva, it hadn't been anything to think about, an idea with no connection to himself. And after she had re-entered his life, she had rapidly become as essential to him as air; the thought of anything that might divide them—his past or a future in which competing desires might drive a wedge between them—was nearly intolerable.

Judging by her obvious discomfort with the topic, Minerva was as leery as he was of discovering something that might divide them, but they must consider it, he thought.

He stopped her from standing up and said, "No. You brought it up. You must have some feelings about it."

"I don't know . . ." she said. "I suppose I've just wondered if you wanted children."