A/N: I've really enjoyed writing this story and thanks as always for your reviews. It's always a thrill to receive them. Cheers, and enjoy!

Blossoming

"Albus!" Minerva slapped Dumbledore's hand away from the Phoenix Elite's ivory keys for what had to be the fifth time in as many minutes. "You can't touch it until I say so."

"I have to say that I now understand fully how you can reduce an entire hall of students to total silence, Minerva," said Dumbledore, rubbing his fingers.

Minerva's eyes flashed dangerously at him. Dumbledore cleared his throat and folded his hands neatly on his lap. A small smile crept onto his lips as he looked at Minerva's unyielding features.

"Do go on," he said courteously.

x

Fifteen minutes had passed and Dumbledore had finally been allowed to play a chord. Minerva watched as he leant forwards on the stool and peered closely at the white keys, his long, crooked nose only inches away from them. She saw as his hand hovered over certain notes and he softly hummed the sound he expected to emerge if he pressed the correct keys. A rare smile appeared on Minerva's lips as she watched the spectacle.

"Yes, yes that's right," Dumbledore said cheerfully to his fingers. "I think…"

Minerva would not be surprised if the sound that then emerged from the Elite even offended the ears of the tiny creatures that had taken up residence in the abandoned classroom over the years, as well as her own. Dumbledore quickly pulled his hand away from the keys.

"Oh dear," he muttered. "That didn't sound too good, did it?"

"No, it didn't," Minerva said shortly. Then in an attempt to curb her impatience, added, "But that's all right, Albus. Here, let me show you – again."

Dumbledore determinedly brought his right hand back up to the piano keys and this time Minerva placed her hand on top of his. An all too familiar feeling suddenly erupted in Minerva's stomach. It was a feeling that only the man beside her could produce, and she quickly tried to force it away. But as she sat there it only grew and swelled deep within her.

His hand was warm and smooth. His fingers were much longer than hers, and very suited for a pianist, she thought. She slid her hand higher, making sure the tips of her fingers were level with his. After placing their thumbs lightly over a white key, Minerva then manoeuvred their middle fingers two notes up from that and finally their little fingers two notes higher than their middle, all the while instructing Dumbledore with softly spoken words.

She pushed her fingers down on his, which in turn pressed the keys on the piano, and the chord resounded beautifully around the room. As it rang on, a large circle of purple mist wisped up from the flagstones surrounding them and the Phoenix Elite. It floated upward in a thin ring then vanished to nothing as the echo of the note faded away. Minerva stared into mid-air at a point where the mist had disappeared and her brow crinkled.

"Anything the matter, Minerva?" asked Dumbledore, who had assumed that the appearance of the mist was normal at the playing of only a single chord.

"No," she replied, "nothing."

"Good," he declared happily. "Well I think I'm getting the hang of this, my dear."

Minerva looked back at the wizard next to her and saw him beaming at the instrument. She wiped away the sceptical look that had just appeared on her face and exchanged it for one of impassivity as his pleased face turned to hers.

"Yes, well," she said, "you still have a long way to go, Albus."

"Yes, Professor," he replied, his eyes glittering merrily in the summer sunlight from the tall windows in the room as he smiled.

"Try again," Minerva commanded, ignoring Dumbledore's playful, teasing manner and the fact that she found it endearing.

He did so, again and again, improving each time. After another fifteen minutes had passed, Minerva had shown Dumbledore three more chords for him to play. He got on with these much easier now that he had grasped the first.

Minerva taught Dumbledore as though she was teaching a student of Hogwarts. Her manner was strict and stern. She gave careful encouragement when he became frustrated, and she grew irritated when he asked to perform a little spell, just so he could grasp the basics.

"You were the one who asked to be taught the muggle way, Albus," she reminded him crossly.

"A little magic to get things going would hardly hurt, Minerva," he said, amused at her annoyance from his desire to cut corners.

"You will learn the hard way, or not at all," Minerva snapped.

Dumbledore sighed rather too spectacularly. "Alas, you are right as usual," he said smiling. "This is an excellent exercise for patience."

"Of which you have plenty," she stated. "So behave yourself and forget about the magic that could make it easier."

Dumbledore chuckled. "You are marvellously strict, my dear. Very well," he said.

It was only five minutes later when Dumbledore began, once again, to feel restless.

"I find it hard to believe that you had the patience for this," he said.

Minerva huffed resentfully. "I am very patient when I want to be, Albus," she told him. "I was just a lot younger than you when I started learning, and had little else to concern myself with."

"How old were you?" he asked curiously.

"Seven," she said, and Dumbledore bubbled with laughter. "What?" she asked indignantly.

He looked at her, delighted. "I think you would have made a marvellous seven year old."

A gentle tug at Minerva's lips forced her to smile. "I was rather mischievous actually," she informed him. "At that age I used to take my mother's wand when she wasn't looking and try to curse my brother."

Dumbledore chuckled heartily. "And did it ever work?" he asked, and to his surprise, Minerva laughed.

"Once," she replied, thinking back to the less complicated time of her life. "No one knew which curse I had done so my parents ended up having to take him to St. Mungo's."

"Impressive for a seven year old," Dumbledore declared with proud astonishment.

"He didn't talk to me for a week after that," she said, still smiling. Minerva's own curiosity then got the better of her. "What about you?" she asked.

Dumbledore as a seven year old was an image she had never attempted to form in her mind, and now that she tried she found it almost impossible. He looked at her questioningly.

"What were you like when you were seven?" she asked. "I find it rather difficult to imagine you as an obedient child."

"I recall being called 'a little terror' once or twice," he told her with satisfaction. "Far too curious for my own good. Everyone was an inventor in those days," he continued, "and my Uncle was among them. He used to keep jars upon jars full of what looked like swirling light in his dungeon. He took me down there only once and when he had his back turned I opened a jar to see what would happen. In hindsight it was not a very sensible thing to do."

"What happened?" Minerva asked in anticipation.

"Let's just say my uncle has forgiven me and is now very happy," he answered, "…as a yak."

Minerva gasped but a smile had grown into her features. "He's not?" she exclaimed. "Can't you turn him back even now?"

"Theoretically, yes," Dumbledore answered, and after a long pause Minerva gave up on expecting him to elaborate. She didn't ask.

"So," she said finally into the strange silence, looking at Dumbledore with curious amusement, "back to business?"

She saw Dumbledore's smile fade as he turned hopelessly back to the instrument that had been standing forgotten before them.

"I think I am not ready for more quite yet," he said. "And I have a proposition for you."

"And what's that?" Minerva asked sternly, knowing full well what Dumbledore's propositions had the potential of leading to.

Dumbledore gestured towards the white and black keys of the Phoenix Elite and looked hopefully at Minerva over his shimmering glasses.

"No," she stated, rather too firmly.

"Come now, my dear," he responded. "I should like to hear you play."

"You have heard me play, Albus," she said stubbornly.

"Well then I should like you hear you again," he stated simply.

Minerva looked down at the magnificent piano and her fingers suddenly itched for the keys. She could very easily argue with the man beside her, but not when a part of her was reaching out, desperate to feel again the sensation that only a wizard piano can give.

She did not respond but moved to sit straight on the stool while Dumbledore, smiling, shuffled further down to give Minerva room.

She began to play. This piece was very different from the first. Her fingers were light on the keys and the rhythm was slow, holding a strange mixture of despair and overwhelming joy. Minerva could feel the magic tingle at her fingertips and then surge through her veins, swelling like a balloon in her chest.

She hit the keys harder as the build up of the piece increased only to soften again. The slow rhythm remained as the sound level rose and fell, teasing the ears of its listeners. All of a sudden, the very soul of the piece changed and grew deeper, casting an enchantment over the listeners that they could not see the limit of. And the magic began.

Dumbledore sat very quiet and still, watching the magic as it took hold of Minerva. Slowly, with the measure of the music, her hair loosened and unravelled from its tight bun as if by many invisible hands. The long, black strands floated out gently behind her, making it appear as though she was under water or had been caught in a strong breeze but in slow motion.

At the same time, her robes flew out behind her moving at the same slow pace as her hair. The effect was captivating, and the unhurried music flowed through Dumbledore as he watched the magic unfold around her.

Then something happened that was completely unexpected by both of them. Through an open window that was letting in the warm summer air, streamed thousands of pale pink, delicate petals from the flourishing blossom trees in the school grounds. They swooped into the room, dancing to the glorious music that surrounded them.

The petals stayed together like a shoal of fish, diving and swirling around. Minerva closed her eyes and continued to play, feeling warm air on her face as the blossom flurried past. Her hair was still dancing behind her and she felt it lift skywards as the mass of silky petals flew up around her, fluttering in and out through the folds of her robes and strands of her raven hair.

She opened her eyes. Turning to her left she saw Dumbledore watching her approvingly, still seated by her on the ebony stool.

Minerva's fingers steadied as she looked at him. The intense expression in his twinkling eyes was enough to distract her from the notes of the Elite. She stopped playing. She saw Dumbledore's lips moved as he muttered a mysterious spell that prevented the piano from silencing when Minerva's fingers fell from the keys. The rhythm continued and so too did the magic it created.

Minerva could not look away from Dumbledore's eyes. Their intense look reflected the earlier feeling that Minerva had still not been able to push away and which was now growing stronger with every second that ticked by.

Only vaguely did Minerva notice that the blossom which was soaring around her was also surrounding Dumbledore. It thickened as the music quietened to a gentler rhythm, and in no time at all there was a solid wall of pink, velvety petals moving silently in a single circle surrounding them.

The piano continued, its rhythm changing to one of such tender longing. Dumbledore smiled at Minerva. He had at some point moved closer to her and his hands now moved with certainty to gently hold her face. Minerva's forehead creased ever so slightly. Dumbledore saw her hesitation.

His voice was tender as he spoke; "What two people can cause such magic if love was not the answer?"

He gradually received a warm smile from the woman beside him and Minerva saw his eyes sparkle with affection. "You are my hope, Minerva. Without you I fear I would live in desolation."

Minerva moved her hands to Dumbledore's face, all too aware of their delicate tremble.

Her voice emerged as a whisper. "And you are mine."

END.