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.
An hour after leaving Paris, Minerva was standing outside the gates to Hogwarts. The late summer sun was just beginning to duck down behind the Astronomy Tower as she hurried up the path to the castle, her charmed valise floating dutifully along behind her. She was glad she met none of the few souls who remained in the castle over the summer holiday on the way; she wanted to surprise her husband with her early return.
She went to her quarters to drop her things off and to have a quick freshen-up before going to find him.
She checked his office first, and, not finding him there, mounted the spiral staircase that led to his private quarters. She gave the password to the portrait that guarded this entrance to his rooms and slipped in. He wasn't in the sitting room, nor in the small study in the alcove just off it.
The bedroom, perhaps?
All the better, she thought with a wicked grin.
She crossed the sitting room quietly and was reaching for the knob to his bedroom door when she was stopped short by the sound of voices from within.
The low rumble was definitely Albus, but there was another voice, one she couldn't quite make out.
A house-elf? But not Heflin.
She crept closer and listened for another moment.
She heard the voice give a quick laugh and that was when she knew it was a woman.
A woman.
In Albus's bedroom.
There's a logical and innocent explanation for this, she told herself, but even at that first moment of recognition and denial, she didn't believe it.
She didn't believe it because she knew with sudden clarity that it all made perfect, logical, terrible sense. His late evenings at the Ministry, when he couldn't be reached; the little gifts "for no reason"; the pecks on the cheek at inappropriate moments; the increased frequency of their lovemaking combined with a definite reduction in quality—they all led to this conclusion. This utterly banal and impossible conclusion.
She backed away from the door and allowed herself to see the other evidence for the first time. There was a wine bottle on the table by the fireplace, flanked by two glasses, one still partly full. There was what appeared to be a yellow silk wrap hanging partially over the back of the settee, and a pair of dainty women's shoes lay strewn haphazardly at the foot.
Betrayed. I've been betrayed.
She hated how overly dramatic the word sounded in her head, but it was the only one that seemed adequate.
By the time she got back to her own quarters, she was numb.
When she saw him coming through her door the following afternoon with a broad, beaming smile on his face and a bottle of Hogwarts's best mead in his hand, she suddenly knew she would say nothing and nearly fainted with relief.
She let him take her in his arms and kiss her. Later, when they went to bed, she claimed a headache brought on by Apparition. She declined his offer to rub her head. If it puzzled him, he didn't say.
Over the days that followed, the numbness gradually wore off, to be replaced by the predictable pain and anger that was the stock-in-trade of the woman wronged. Curiously—to her rational self—those feelings soon gave way to self-doubt and self-recrimination, as the question of why began to overshadow the what.
She kept telling herself that she would confront him—make him admit it to her, prove that she wasn't crazy or paranoid, or any of the other adjectives that tramped through her head late at night—but as the days wore on, and the beginning of the autumn term neared, she simply let the matter fade away. With the beginning of the school year, he wouldn't have the opportunity to disappear to London for a night, nor would she be away nearly as often as she had over that busy summer.
It was a lapse, she told herself. It wouldn't happen again. And if it did ... well, then she would confront him. A single slip was one thing, but she was not a woman to tolerate a philandering husband.
For one thing, it was a cliché she had always hated.