"Talks about love"

"− AND GRYFFINDOR SCORE!" shouted Orion Black, the Quidditch referee, when the Quaffle went through the Slytherin goal post.

The crowd went wild. On one side of the pitch, the Gryffindor supporters were cheering for their Chasers, who'd been playing exceptionally well today. On the other, the Slytherin fans booed and whistled in disapproval. The stakes were high, the emotions peaked, for the last match of the season would determine the winner of the Quidditch Cup.

The game had been going on for most of the day. Despite the interesting action, many students had left the stands to get ready for bed. Albus was one of the not-so-many people that had seen the match almost all the way through. As the Deputy Headmaster, the Transfiguration Professor was seated next to Orion and was responsible for the boy's reliable, unbiased commentary. This duty, however, meant that he could express support for his house in a very limited way.

With his eyes still on the game, the teacher recounted in his head the most recent events. Since the lunch break, Gryffindor had been in the lead by a respectable margin. They needed to score thirty more points to secure their victory. It meant that, under these circumstances, Slytherin would lose even if their Seeker caught the Snitch. However, feeling the pressure of time, the Slytherins redoubled their efforts to defend the title. Suddenly, their movements became quick and swift, almost as if they were playing on fast forward. The players couldn't keep this up for more than a few minutes, but it was enough to gain additional twenty points. In the blink of an eye, the tables had turned, and now the team in red was backed into a metaphorical corner.

They weren't allowed to make any more mistakes.

"− and Burke catches it. Slytherin back in possession. Burke passes to Shafiq, Shafiq dodges the Bludger sent his way by Carador, he speeds up, makes a long throw back to Burke, and − oh my, the Quaffle is blocked by McGonagall. Why was the Gryffindor Chaser near their own goal posts? No matter − now it's Gryffindor again, Malder's off past Shafiq −"

But Minerva wasn't bothered by Orion's commentary. She flew back to the Slytherin's side of the field and waited. Her legs were stiff from squeezing the broom, her hands sore from gripping the handle. Her back hurt from leaning in an uncomfortable position. Even after years of training, staying in the air for many hours was troublesome. Despite her tiredness, when asked by the captain to switch with a substitute, the witch blatantly refused. The adrenaline flowing through her veins made her want to be in the centre of action. All she had her eyes and mind for were the Quaffle and the score.

"− but now what? Crockett shot up − she's so high I can barely see her − was that… the Snitch?"

At these words, Minerva intercepted the Quaffle from Malder, who was blocked by the Slytherin Beaters. She dived to get past them and flew alone at the goal posts. She made her decision: she wasn't backing off. She'd fly through the goal post with the Quaffle under her arm if she had to. Minerva pressed the broom handle against her chest to minimize the air drag. She was twenty − fifteen yards away; still too far for a clear shot. She had to be faster than the Seeker. The opposing Keeper flew straight at her, but she wasn't slowing down; she ducked to the right and −

"Minerva − !"

A loud thump echoed around the field, as Minerva hit the right hoop at full speed, thrown off course by a well-aimed Bludger. Her limp body fell off the broom and to the ground − slowed down at the last moment by Professor Dumbledore, who kept repeating her name. Madam Maius reacted instantly, pushing everyone aside and taking the injured girl to the Hospital Wing.

Minerva woke up the next day. Disoriented and confused, all she wanted was to grab a quick bite, turn to her other side, and go back to sleep. But Madam Maius had other plans. After the routine check-up and the morning doze of medicine, the student had to endure the change of her clothes and dressings to fresh ones. On several occasions, the girl asked the matron about the results of yesterday's match. Yet, her every question was rebuffed as insignificant and unimportant. Therefore, when the Gryffindor Quidditch team paid her a visit, Minerva almost begged Madam Maius to let them in.

When the team circled her with the grave expressions on their faces, she didn't have to keep asking. The conversation was awkward and unpleasant. Fortunately, it was cut short by the Transfiguration Professor, who suspiciously didn't need the matron's permission to enter.

For a wizard his size, the teacher was making relatively little noise. Especially compared to the exiting group of students, who seemed to forget that their Chaser had bandages around her head for a reason. In a silent question, Professor Dumbledore lifted his eyebrows and waited for her response. Until she gave him a single long blink, indicating that he could indeed come in.

When Albus approached her, he noticed that the girl looked a little better than the last time he caught a glimpse of her. Her skin was still unnaturally pale and her breath shallow, but the witch was definitely conscious and hopefully not hurting anymore. She was sitting with her side to him, her legs under a blanket and her back against the pillow.

"Hello, Minerva," said the wizard, as he pulled a chair to take a seat close to her. "How are you feeling?"

There was relief present in the professor's voice, and also in the way his features softened when he spoke to her. He was evidently happy to see that his student was getting better.

Minerva seemed not to have noticed.

"I'm so sorry, Professor," she stated, ignoring his question.

Slowly, the girl turned her face to him, and the teacher realized that something was wrong. Her eyes were red from tears, which she must have wiped right before he entered.

The wizard's brows furrowed, and he shook his head in confusion.

"Sorry? What for?"

Minerva blinked in pain that had nothing to do with her injuries. She was certain that the professor was aware of the confession she was about to make. Otherwise, it might have been impossible for her to say it out loud. Trying to ignore the tightness in her chest, she stated,

"We lost the cup because of me."

Albus's initial thought was that this was a strange thing to worry about after being severely injured. Also, he couldn't grasp her logic here.

"What are you talking about?"

Minerva took a deep breath. In much haste, she said everything that she wanted to say, leaving no place for interruptions.

"Slytherin won by ten points. The points I didn't get because I blew my throw. All I had to do was score one stupid goal before they caught the Snitch. But I failed. I've failed you all. I'm truly sorry…"

All of a sudden, the pain she tried to avoid came back to her with full force. It was crushing her ribs, squeezing the air out of her lungs, nearly suffocating her. Her lips formed a long, thin line. The girl gave her teacher the impression that she would have fled the room had she not been bedridden.

Albus felt a sudden flash of anger. He sat up in his chair, his face solemn.

"Is that what your teammates told you?"

How could the Quidditch team be so insensitive was beyond his comprehension. Usually, he understood that the game was a cause of strong emotions. He would have to set the team's priorities straight.

But Minerva shook her head.

"They didn't have to."

This gave him pause. His mind drew a blank.

"Forgive me, then, but I do not follow your reasoning," he admitted, giving up on figuring out the answer by himself.

The witch said nothing. It was evident that she was distressed, although Albus couldn't grasp why.

"Do you even remember why you missed your throw?" he asked gently, wanting to make sure that they were on the same page. "You were hit by a Bludger and fell off your broom. You hit the goal posts − with so much force we were all afraid that you−"

What he almost said, he couldn't get through his mouth. He backtracked a little.

"− that you might not make it. Nobody would ever blame you for what happened. We're all thankful that you'll make a full recovery."

In silence, Minerva listened to his every word. Her entire posture was strained, every muscle tense. Her lower lip shook dangerously, but she bit on it, hoping that he wouldn't notice.

She couldn't have known that, but when the Transfiguration teacher looked at her now, above all he saw someone who was very passionate about what they loved. The wizard felt a sudden urge to put his hand on top of hers but was afraid that it would be too much for the girl. Minerva had been doing an admirable job not to break down in front of him, and Albus knew from experience how much it cost her. So instead, he said,

"You don't have to worry yourself about Quidditch. There'll always be next year."

The student missed her professor's encouraging smile.

"No, there won't," she contradicted him. "Not for me. There aren't any matches next year. Astrix told me."

Of course, the captains had already been notified. Even if they hadn't, similar rumours had been circulating over the castle for the last several months. In Albus's opinion, it was a miracle that Armando allowed this year's cup to be carried out until the end. There were no arguments to convince him for the second time.

Without using magic, Dumbledore closely studied the girl's features. The way her shoulders slumped, her eyes avoided his, and even how she'd spoken to him up to this very point. It was only his suspicion, but the wizard was beginning to think that Minerva didn't want to win the cup for him nor for the team. Probably not even for herself. The question was, why then. Why would she desire it enough to get herself seriously hurt?

The stakes of the game must have been higher than he'd realized. At least for the girl before him.

"Why would you want to win so badly? What difference would it make?" he asked her.

Minerva needed a moment before she was able to speak in a straight voice.

"Because I made a promise. I promised my mother that I'd bring home the cup. Last year, I almost did, but the Chamber of Secrets was opened, and we didn't get to play our last match. I hoped I could keep my word this time. She loved Quidditch so much…"

Finally able to interrupt, Albus said with emphasis, "She loved you more."

"What does it have to do with anything?" Minerva expressed her sudden irritation. "I hope this isn't another one of your talks about love, because I believe I've heard them all."

She was getting defensive without meaning to. The thing was, the witch hated talking about her deceased parents. If there even was a right answer to her grief, she'd never heard one. People would tell her that her parents had great lives, that they couldn't wish for more, that they died a heroic death, and they would live on in others' memories. Meanwhile, all Minerva ever focused on was how much they wished they could see their children again. How much more they could have done. How many regrets she and Malcolm had.

How these regrets made her forget all the good times they shared together.

Dumbledore's comments about love getting people through the hardest of times weren't helping her. She'd heard him say similar phrases to Rubeus, to Augusta, to her fellow Chasers. Apparently, he was telling the same things to everyone that lost a relative. Unfortunately, his statements didn't gain meaning through repetition. She'd never truly got his message, or − if she had − it never made her feel any better.

The Transfiguration teacher probably realized that some explanation was in order, because he elaborated on his answer.

"I might have never met your mother, but I'm sure she couldn't have asked for a daughter that is more considerate, more caring about others' feelings, or more ambitious with both her academic and private lives than you are. You're an exceptionally strong person, Minerva; even more so than you give yourself credit for. I believe that your parents would be proud of the woman you've become. Regardless of the things beyond your control."

Minerva had to exercise all her willpower not to burst into tears. She couldn't express how much hearing those words meant to her. Even though she found it hard to believe them, the witch truly hoped that what her teacher said was true. With her throat clenched, all that she mustered was a short nod.

Albus could tell that Minerva needed a few moments to process. This seemed like the right time to bring up another subject.

"It was good to see you. I'll be leaving to let you recover. There is one more thing I need to ask of you, though." The girl looked up at him with interest. "You haven't given me any contact to your brother, and I have to notify him about your condition."

Minerva was taken aback by the news.

"What − why? I'm of age, aren't I?"

Professor Dumbledore smiled with understanding. He remembered how it was to feel mature only to be reminded that you're not. Calmly, he replied,

"But you're still at school, so the same set of rules applies to you as to any other student."

Too tired to argue, the witch refrained from voicing her further objections. She took the stationery that was offered to her, wrote down her brother's postal address, and handed it back to her teacher.

"Thank you," he said, putting the note into his pocket.

"Please don't tell him more than necessary. Malcolm doesn't really get Quidditch, and he has other things to worry about."

The girl's request made Albus feel warm on the inside. There again was the considerate, caring Minerva he grew so fond of over the years. The young witch who in many ways reminded him of himself when he was her age. Hopefully, he wouldn't be able to say so in another few years.

The wizard was about to leave, but something stopped him from doing so. Without thinking, Albus reached forward to cover Minerva's hand with his own. He could read it from her face that he surprised her. And yet, she soon responded by wrapping her fingers around his palm. Her touch was soothing, and Dumbedore took comfort from the fact that she didn't mind. It took him a moment to realize that he still didn't let go. He pulled his hand away, slowly, not to scare her.

"Now, try to get some rest," stated Albus before he withdrew from the room.

Seconds later, Minerva was left alone with her conflicting thoughts. On the lost Quidditch Cup, on what her parents would have wanted for her had they lived, and on what on Merlin had just happened between her and Dumbledore. Before she could focus on any one of them, sleep got to her first.