Betrayal and the Art of Salvation | Harry Potter for Grown-Ups

Chapter Five

14 August 1971

Minerva had just emerged from the steam-filled bathroom when the knock came on the door.

Pulling her dressing gown tightly around her, she peered out the peephole. She had thought it might be Griselda, looking for a bit of company with whom to wander about the streets of Paris, poking through dusty Muggle antique stalls.

But no, there was no one.

She Summoned her wand—just in case; one could never be too careful, peacetime or not—and cautiously opened the door a crack. Seeing no one, she was about to close it when a sound came from the direction of her feet.

An elf wearing a neat, sky-blue tea towel bearing the crest of the Hôtel Morgan le Fay Paris was holding a small, white box tied with a tartan ribbon.

"De livraison pour le Professeur McGonagall."

"Merci," said Minerva, bending down to take the box.

The elf gave a small bow, then popped out.

Minerva took the box into her room, placed it on the bed, and sat down, opening the small card that was attached. She smiled indulgently at the bright purple ink as she read:

Hoping to remind you of the beauty of your homeland, that you might return all the sooner. The world is grey and colourless without you.

Missing you terribly,

Albus

Pulling on the ribbon to open the box, Minerva was startled when several long, grey stalks popped up from inside and began to grow longer, then delighted when they eventually popped open to reveal six large, umbrella-shaped blossoms. The blossoms were also grey at first, but gradually began to change to brilliant hues of orange, pink, and yellow.

Nice bit of magic, that, she thought with admiration. Then: Pomona will have his head if he got these out of her greenhouse.

She scooped up the flowers, took them into the bathroom, and Transfigured a vase from a drinking glass, then filled it with water and settled the blossoms into it.

Looking at the flowers as she continued getting dressed, she was gripped by a wave of affection and longing for her husband.

The conference didn't end until Sunday afternoon, but surely, it wouldn't be the end of the world if she skipped the final day of symposia, just this once. She had already given her talks and heard all the ones that were apt to be especially interesting. And Griselda could certainly manage without her for an afternoon; it wasn't as if she didn't know anyone else here, and the fact that her French wasn't as good as Minerva's wouldn't be a problem, unless there were an issue with the hotel bill, in which case Griselda was perfectly capable of roping another English-speaking witch or wizard into helping her out. Besides, the formidable old witch would have no problem having any problems addressed chop-chop, language barrier or no.

By the time she had slipped on her shoes, Minerva had made up her mind.

She quickly packed her few things and went down the hall to knock at Griselda's room. When nobody answered, she slipped the note she had dashed off under the door. She then went to the small lobby and settled her bill.

Six Galleons and twelve Sickles! she thought. It's criminal how they jack up the prices during a conference.

But she paid it with a smile and was off—Paris to Le Havre, show one's trans-channel Apparition licence at the checkpoint, then Le Havre to Portsmouth, show one's Magical British Passport, then, after the nausea wears off, Portsmouth to Newcastle, and Newcastle to home. To home and to Albus.