Title: Epithalamium
Author: Squibstress
Rating: MA
Genre: Drama, romance
Warning/s: Explicit sexual situations; teacher-student relationship (of-age); language, violence
Published: 23/05/2017
Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling.
Chapter Fifty-Four
"You take my breath away. You always have."
Thorfinn was in the wine cellar when he heard the door open behind him.
"I thought I'd find you hiding down here," Einar said, hands on his hips.
"I'm just double-checking the wine list," Thorfinn said. "Cadfyn's only got six bottles of the Karthauserhoff 'twenty-one chilling, so I thought I'd bring up a few more."
Brushing his hand across one of the dusty racks, he added, "There are only two more bottles here; we may have to substitute the 'thirty-seven."
"Da, there are only, what, thirteen guests, including us? And you're going to be giving them claret and champagne in addition to the Riesling. Your guests are going to be too squiffy to walk, much less hold on to their Portkeys home."
"Thirteen, aye. Ye don't suppose Reverend Dunbar will refuse to sit down with us?"
"No, why on earth should he?"
"I thought thirteen at table was meant to be ill luck for his people."
Einar laughed. "That's an old superstition. And if he does think it bad luck, we'll just bring down one of the babies from the nursery to join us."
He clapped a hand on his father's shoulder. "Come now, Da. No reason to be nervous. Your daughter is just marrying the most famous wizard in Britain in an hour. That's all." Seeing the look on Thorfinn's face, he added, "Don't worry. This wedding is much smaller than mine. You managed to entertain more than a hundred guests then, and I don't remember anyone complaining that there wasn't enough wine."
Thorfinn closed the cellar book and placed it back in its spot on the tasting table with the quill. "Och, you're right. I am nervous. A man can't help it when his only daughter's about to be married."
As they stepped out of the cellar and began to ascend the stone staircase, Einar said, "You weren't this nervous at my getting married."
"Aye, but it's different when it's a daughter. It shouldn't be, I know, but there it is."
"Are you worried about the two of them together? That they won't be happy?"
"No. They're well matched, I think."
They climbed in silence for a few seconds, then Einar said, "It's funny, though."
"What is?"
"To think of Minerva marrying him."
"How so?"
"Well, for one thing, he was our teacher. And he's so much older than she is."
"I imagine she took that into account when she accepted him."
"He was my hero. Hell, he was a hero to all of us, going out to fight Grindelwald, on top of everything else. It's almost as if a character from an epic novel had stepped off the page and said, 'Hello, there, I'm here to marry your sister.' Sometimes I wonder … ah, never mind."
"What do ye wonder?"
"Just if she knows what she's getting into."
"Do any of us?"
"No, I suppose not," said Einar, laughing. His face darkened. "He's got enemies, though."
"All great men do."
"Yes, but …"
Thorfinn put a hand on his arm. "What is it you're trying to say?"
Einar sighed and turned to face his father. "I hear things around the office, Da. And what I hear is troubling. We've been busy lately. Too busy. Things are heating up again. I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but five of our calls in the past six months haven't exactly been accidents."
"Muggle-baiting?" said Thorfinn, his brows knitting.
"Looks like it. And worse. The last one—just a few weeks ago—it went way beyond a prank. A couple of Muggles were seriously injured. I had to visit their families and charm all the Muggle paperwork for the cover story because one of them is still in hospital and will likely never fully recover. I have to tell you, I considered having his wife and children Obliviated so they'd forget they ever had a father."
When he saw the look on Thorfinn's face, he quickly added, "Don't worry, I didn't do it in the end. Among other things, there were too many other people that we'd have had to do too. But I'm still not sure it wouldn't have been the kindest thing."
"That's tragic, of course," said Thorfinn, "but I'm not sure what it has to do with Minerva's marriage."
"Nothing. Not precisely. But there's Darkness gathering out there. I don't think it entirely went away after Grindelwald fell—it just went dormant. Something's stirring it up."
"And you think Dumbledore will need to get involved again."
"I don't know. But I do know that there are still powerful people out there who hate him for bringing Grindelwald down. They're mostly quiet about it, but it doesn't take a Seer to predict that they'll come out of the woodwork if another leader comes along. And they'll be looking for ways to get at Dumbledore."
"Aye," said Thorfinn. "It's something he and Minerva will have to live with. So will we."
He was quiet and pensive for a few seconds before adding, "Love is the riskiest thing we do in this life." He looked at his son. "Ye have a child now. Tell me ye don't worry about her every moment of every day, that something will happen to her, that you'll do something that hurts her without meaning to. But ye wouldn't not have her, worry and all, would ye?"
Einar shook his head.
Thorfinn continued, "And I wouldn't give up any of the pain I felt at your mother's death if it meant I had to give up a second of the time I had with her. So I can't ask my daughter to throw away a chance at happiness because of fear." He put a hand on Einar's shoulder. "I know you're worried. I am too, especially after what you've told me. But Dumbledore's no fool, and neither is your sister. They know the risks, and they'll do what they can to manage them."
"By not registering their marriage with the Ministry."
"Among other things."
"I don't understand why he didn't want to have the guests take Fidelius Oaths, though," said Einar.
"Minerva said she didn't like the idea of telling her friends and family that she didn't trust them to keep a secret."
"She has more faith in people than I do, I guess."
"She's always been leery of those kinds of charms. You know that."
"Yes, I remember." His natural good humour reasserting itself, he added, "Anyway, I suppose she can always have me Obliviate anyone who hears of it by accident."
"Cheeky bugger," retorted Thorfinn. "Now let me alone, I've got to see to the glassware. And you," he said, eyeing Einar up and down, "need to have a wash and get dressed. The Portkeys will start arriving in less than an hour."
"Yes, Da."
~oOo~
When Albus arrived at Castle Isleif, the head elf—Cadfyn, Albus reminded himself—took his cloak and offered him a glass of champagne.
"No, thank you. I think I'd best keep my wits about me. I'm getting married today, you know," Albus said, winking at the elf.
"I knows that, sir," said Cadfyn. "And on behalf of all the McGonagall and MacLaughlin elves, I wishes you and Mistress Minerva every happiness." Cadfyn snapped his fingers, and a second elf appeared.
"Take Albus Dumbledore's things to the Green Bedroom," Cadfyn instructed the younger elf, who bobbed his head, took Albus's bag, then Disapparated.
Cadfyn told Albus, "Mistress Morna said you is to use the Green Bedroom, sir, to get ready. I will ensure your things are sent to Mistress Minerva's room after the wedding."
"Thank you. And would you be good enough to tell me where the Green Bedroom is?"
A voice from the main staircase said, "Third floor, second room to the left of the staircase." Thorfinn trotted down the steps and went up to Albus, holding out his hand. "Albus, ye look splendid!"
Albus shook Thorfinn's hand. "Thank you, Thorfinn. You look most dashing yourself. Minerva didn't mention that you'd be wearing Highland dress. I didn't think to ask if I should—"
"No, no. It'll only be me and Einar in the Kenmore and kilt. Everyone else will likely be in dress robes. Besides, you're the groom—ye should wear what pleases ye. The robe is beautiful—such a wonderful colour!"
"Thank you. I had it made for the occasion. I took the liberty of having Monsieur Malkin charm the fabric to match the colour of the crimson stripe in your family tartan. I thought it might please Minerva."
"And she'll be delighted. The sash will look well with it." Thorfinn clapped Albus on the shoulder. "Well, I expect you'll want to freshen up before everyone starts arriving. Quistric will show ye up to the Green Bedroom. Minerva's still dressing. Quistric!"
The elf who had taken Albus's bags appeared a second later, and Thorfinn said: "Quistric, please show Professor Dumbledore to the Green Bedroom." To Albus he said, "We'll be serving drinks in the Music Room until it's time to start the ceremony. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a few last-minute things to attend to."
"Thank you."
When Albus was alone in the bedroom, he opened his bag and withdrew a small parcel that was wrapped in green felt. He opened it and looked carefully over the contents. It wasn't much of a gift, he thought, but selecting presents for Minerva was always difficult—her taste ran to the simple, if not to say spartan. A good thing, he supposed. They wouldn't be wealthy—although Minerva likely would be herself, once her father passed on—and most of their time would, of necessity, be spent in and around Hogsmeade.
He hoped the surprises he'd planned for their short honeymoon would make up for anything lacking in his wedding gift to her. He was eager to show her some of the delights that he'd discovered in Italy during his travels.
In less than two hours' time, she'll be my wife.
He still had trouble believing it. He'd lain awake the previous night, certain that something would arise to prevent it, that he'd get up in the morning to find a McGonagall-family owl bearing a message telling him that she'd changed her mind.
When he had stopped by his office, Fawkes trilled at him insistently, and Albus saw that he had a parchment in his talons. His mouth had gone dry when he took it, recognising the seal as Minerva's.
Thinking of it now, he took the parchment from his bag, and, spreading it out across the emerald-coloured coverlet of bed, he reread it, his heart pounding as it had that morning, but for a different reason.
Albus's fingers played gently over the parchment, tracing the words written in Minerva's familiar, spiky, hand:
I imagine you're having all sorts of doubts this morning.
Every little whisper that suggests that I cannot not love you, should not love you, that you do not deserve happiness, that you will harm me—get them all out of the way right now, this minute.
…
There. Have you done it?
I hope so, my darling, because I may be many things, but one thing I am not is a liar. I will not swear to love and keep you—not to Dunbar's God, not to the gods of my fathers, not to my family, not to my friends, and most of all, not to you—if I do not mean it with every fibre of my being.
And rest assured that I intend to marry you at half past five o'clock today. Do not doubt that by six, you'll be mine, body, soul, and spirit, and I yours. But it has always been so, hasn't it? We don't need a few words from a Muggle book nor a few drops of blood in a wizarding ritual to tell us that. The world, however, likes it to be spelt out, very tidy, in everlasting ink, and so we shall, before God, as the Reverend Dunbar would have it. I shall declare it to gods and men alike, and to any other creature who cares to know: I love you. I am yours, my beloved.
Always,
Minerva
Albus conjured a handkerchief and dabbed at the tears that had once again formed in his eyes.
Yes, he thought, it had always been so. Since the first day he'd really met her, all elbows and big eyes, her hair in two long plaits, her pointed chin set in determination as she'd taken the matchstick from his hand, aimed her wand at it, and Transfigured it into a needle as easily as if she'd been doing it all her life. He'd smiled approvingly down at her, and she'd attempted to hand the needle back to him, pricking his thumb in the process. She'd ignored the snickering of the other students and apologised with a dignity that most eleven-year-olds didn't possess, taking his thumb between her fingers and dabbing at the bead of blood with her tartan handkerchief. He thought he remembered seeing her eyes widen slightly when he'd put the thumb to his mouth and sucked away at the tiny wound—but he had to admit that it was possible his memory was playing tricks on him.
Either way, he had been hers. He'd loved the child she had been, loved her inquisitiveness, her unwillingness to cede any ground when she thought she was in the right—which she had been more often than any young girl had a right to be—and her desire to know everything, immediately and without abridgement. She had disquieted him, too, more than once in her early years. She'd seemed far too comfortable with him—always polite and respectful, but warm and animated in a way that she clearly wasn't with others. And he with her. It hadn't been until she'd become a woman, and he'd fallen in love, adult love, with her that he'd realised that he was more at ease with her than he was with anyone else he knew, and had been almost since the slightly strange beginning of their acquaintance.
He didn't believe in fate, not precisely, but there had to be a reason, he thought, that they'd been thrown together—two of the most powerful mages in the world. He had thought that about Gellert, but he'd never felt comfortable or right with him. Their connection had been born of something outside themselves—the thirst for power, in Gellert's case, and the desire to avenge the wrongs done to his family in Albus's—and their passion buoyed along by anger at the world. But with Minerva … it had always felt intimate, as if they existed primarily for one another. He'd allowed the outside world to intervene—he'd had no choice, really—and while it hadn't destroyed either of them, his existence afterwards had been as if in shadow, a half-life. She'd felt it too, he thought; it was why she had returned to Hogwarts and to him.
He rolled up the parchment and put it back in his bag. Removing a comb, he attended to his beard and hair, adding a charm to keep them tidy during the proceedings.
He summoned the young elf who'd seen to his bag.
The elf popped in, saying, "How can Quistric be of assistance to Albus Dumbledore?"
Albus handed him the felt-wrapped parcel.
"Will you deliver this to Mistress Minerva for me?"
"Right away, sir," Quistric replied, taking the parcel and popping away before Albus could thank him.
After checking his appearance in the mirror one last time, Albus left the bedroom and headed down the stairs to marry the woman he loved.
~oOo~
Morna was just pinning the tartan rosette to Minerva's dress when there was a knock at the door.
"Come in," called Minerva, and her grandmother hurriedly added, "Unless it's Albus!"
The door opened, and Thorfinn peeked around it. "All right to—" He stopped when Minerva turned to face him. "My gods," he breathed.
"What's the matter?" Minerva asked, turning quickly back to the mirror. "Is there something wrong?"
"No, lass," her father answered, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him. He approached her and put his hands on her shoulders, regarding her over them in the mirror. "Ye look just as your mother did the day I married her. Which is to say, beautiful."
"Thank you, Da. We made a few small alterations to Mother's dress—shortened it a bit and took some of the extra lace off the sleeves—I hope you don't mind."
"Mind? Why should I? It's your wedding dress now. And I know your mother would have approved. She'd have loved to be here, "he said, removing a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his eyes.
Morna said quietly, "She is here."
"Of course she is," said Minerva.
"Yes," said Thorfinn. He withdrew a small box from his pocket and held it out to Minerva. "I wanted to give you these," he said. "They were your mother's. I gave them to her on our wedding day, and I've always meant for ye to have them. They were your grandmother's originally."
The box contained a pair of earrings: round-cut emeralds, about the size of the nail on Minerva's little finger, beneath which dangled a pair of teardrop-shaped pearls. The design was simple, but very beautiful, in Minerva's estimation.
She asked, "They're the ones in Grandmother's portrait, aren't they? The one in the library?"
"Yes," Thorfinn said.
"They are exquisite," Minerva said as she held them up to the light from the candelabra that hung from the ceiling. Thank you so much, Da," she said, hugging her father tightly. She turned back to the mirror and put them on.
"Lovely," said Morna.
"So, do you think you're ready to see your handsome lad?" Thorfinn asked.
Minerva laughed. "Well, I agree that he's handsome, but 'lad' is pushing it a bit, don't you think?"
"Nonsense. He's two years younger than I am, and I'm like a spring lamb myself," Thorfinn said patting his hands over a midsection that somewhat belied his words.
"You are very, very handsome," Minerva said. She hooked her arm in his and said, "Let's go."
They had only taken a step towards the door when a knock stopped them.
"It is Quistric, Mistress Minerva," a voice called from the hall. "I has a package for you from Albus Dumbledore."
"You may bring it in, Quistric," Minerva said.
The elf entered and held out the parcel to Minerva.
"Thank you."
The elf bobbed his head and said, "If I may say so, Mistress Minerva, you is looking very pretty. Very happy."
"Thank you, Quistric. I am."
Quistric nodded again and Disapparated.
Minerva unwrapped the felt and withdrew a spoon of intricately carved wood, its handle in the shape of a pair of griffins, back to back, hind-claws joined, wings meeting at the top to form a sort of heart shape. When she turned it over, she saw that there were runes carved all along the back.
"What is it?" Thorfinn asked.
"It seems to be a spoon," Minerva said. "I'm not quite sure—"
"I know what it is," said Morna, joining the other two, looking at the mysterious object. "It's a Welsh love spoon. I think that's what they're called."
At Minerva's questioning look, she continued: "Elisabeth told me about them when I was helping her pack up the Lancashire house. She had a collection of them from her father's family."
"The Cadwalladers," said Thorfinn.
"Yes," said Morna. "Edgar or Amelia would have them now. They're an old Welsh tradition. A young man would present his intended with a carved spoon when he made his offer of marriage."
"Yes, that's what Albus's note says," said Minerva, squinting to read the parchment. "He writes that Muggles picked up the tradition sometime in the seventeenth century, but it goes back much further among the wizarding Welsh." She read a bit more and gave a laugh. "Oh, dear!"
"What," asked Thorfinn.
"He says that the spoon is charmed to detect common poisons. Here …" she handed him the note.
Thorfinn took a pair of round-framed spectacles from his Quintaped-fur sporran and read aloud:
"During the eleventh century, the Dinefwr family attempted to wrest control of Gwynedd from the Aberffraws, from whom the Dumbledores are descended (although not directly) by poisoning young women pregnant with Aberffraw heirs. The wizarding branch of the Aberffraws attempted to protect their family's progeny by charming the spoons used by the wives of the princes. The bowl of the spoon would reportedly disintegrate if it touched food containing any of the known poisons."
"Dashed clever of them, I say," said Thorfinn. Looking at the parchment once again, he continued:
"This spoon was passed down from my father's family and held a place of honour in our home in Mould-on-the-Wold. I don't know precisely how old it is; I have only been able to trace its provenance back to my great-great grandmother Dumbledore. The original charms have, of course, worn off with time, but I have added some of my own devising. Do not worry: I do not expect you to use the spoon; the charms are more symbolic than practical, but I hope you take this in the spirit in which it is intended, my love, because—
"Well, I think I'll let you finish it yourself," Thorfinn said, handing the note back to Minerva and removing his spectacles.
She read the rest of it, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.
Folding the note and putting it in the top drawer of her dressing table along with the spoon, she turned and said, "I'm ready."
~oOo~
Albus was introducing the Flamels, whose Portkey had been the first to arrive, to Einar and Katherine McGonagall when Nicolas broke into a large grin at something behind him. Albus turned and saw Minerva, flanked by her father and grandmother, standing just inside the doorway to the Music Room.
He hoped his face had not given away his shock. She looked about sixteen, in an ivory gown with tiny white flowers woven through her hair. But no, when he looked more closely, it was clear that she was no child. The ecru of the under-dress that peeked out from under the lighter-coloured lace at the rounded neckline emphasised her bosom, while the tartan sash and rosette around her waist made it look impossibly tiny. The lace over-dress flared slightly at her hips to create a distinctly female—distinctly adult female—shape.
He went to her and leant down to kiss her cheek. As she kissed his, he whispered in her ear, "You take my breath away. You always have."
"Thank you. And thank you for the spoon. It was a lovely surprise."
"It isn't much of a wedding gift."
"It was very thoughtful. A nice way to include your family in the day, I think."
"I'm glad you think so."
Nicolas and Perenelle came over to greet the bride.
"Madam McGonagall, how lovely you look," said Nicolas, taking her hands and standing on tiptoe to kiss each of her cheeks, right and left, then right and left again.
"Thank you, but please do call me 'Minerva'."
Perenelle said, "Such a beautiful gown! I wondered what a modern bride would wear, and now I know."
"We have not been to a wedding since … when was it ma chére?" Nicolas asked his wife. "Ah, yes! The Strindbergs." In a loud whisper, he added, "Of course, Siri was un petit peu …" He made a gesture in front of his belly to indicate the bride's advanced state of pregnancy. "So sad what happened—"
Perenelle interrupted, "Albus, my boy, you also look marvellous!"
"Yes, you do, Albus," said Minerva, taking the lapel of his over-robe between her thumb and forefinger. This colour suits you so well."
"Thank you, my dear, I'm glad you approve," Albus said, taking her hand and kissing it. Turning to Thorfinn, he said, "Thorfinn McGonagall, I don't believe you've met my friends, Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel."
"'Tis a great pleasure," said Thorfinn. "I've read all your work, Mr Flamel. I can't claim to have understood it, though."
"That's quite all right, Mr McGonagall, neither does he," said Perenelle, and the group laughed.
As Thorfinn was introducing the Flamels to Morna, Cadfyn stepped in and announced the arrival of the Reverend Dunbar, who shook everyone's hands, proclaiming himself "gey chuffed tae be here."
Another elf entered the room bearing a tray with glasses of champagne and circulated among the guests, who continued to arrive approximately five minutes apart.
Everyone cooed over Edgar and Evelyn Bones's baby, also named Edgar, who had been born three weeks earlier. That done, Cadfyn made a show of taking the baby up to the nursery to be looked after, along with baby Morrigan, by Llyndie, Katherine and Einar's nursery elf.
Amelia Bones arrived, sans Marlene, and made her apologies.
"Marlene's absolutely buggered that she couldn't come," Amelia told Minerva. "She sends her love. But there was a werewolf incident in Kent, and she has to stay at Mungo's."
"How awful!" said Morna.
Albus took Amelia aside, and Minerva followed.
"How serious was it?" he asked Amelia
She replied hesitantly, "Well … I saw the report at the office. There were a bunch of injuries, and apparently, a couple was killed. Only one survivor was bitten, though. A kid. They don't know if he'll live."
"Was the child one of our students?" asked Albus.
"I don't know," said Amelia. "The name is Greyback—ring any bells?"
"I believe I had a Hildolf Greyback several years ago. But no one now," Albus said.
"I hate to mention it on such a happy occasion," said Amelia.
"No, it's fine," said Minerva, glancing at Albus. "I'm sorry it happened, and I'm sorry Marlene can't be here, but we certainly understand."
"Anyway, she said to give you a kiss and pinch your bum for her," said Amelia, doing the former but skipping the latter, to Minerva's relief. "Minerva, you look good enough to eat," Amelia said. Then she slapped her hand over her mouth. "Gods! That was an awful thing to say right after … I didn't mean …"
"No, of course not," said Minerva. Leading Amelia over to where Filius was talking with Reverend Dunbar, she said, "Amelia, you may remember Filius Flitwick from the Hogwarts duelling championships. And this is the reverend David Dunbar."
At three minutes past five, Minerva was talking with Evelyn Bones when she heard Cadfyn announce, "Mr Aberforth Dumbledore …"
Her eyes immediately went to Albus, who seemed frozen in place.
Aberforth stood in the doorway, a scowl fixed on his face. When Cadfyn attempted to relieve him of his hat, he pulled it away and stuffed it into his pocket.
Minerva went to him and said, "Aberforth. I'm so glad you came. Albus will be, too. He's over here."
She hesitated before taking Aberforth's elbow and leading him over to where Albus was standing with Einar and Katherine. Neither brother spoke.
"Albus," Minerva said, "here's Aberforth." She felt foolish, stating the obvious, but she didn't know what else to do.
Albus seemed to recover his wits. He held out his hand, saying only, "Abe."
Aberforth eyed his brother's hand, and Minerva was afraid he would refuse to take it. But after a moment, he grasped it, gave it one rough shake, and dropped it immediately.
"Minerva asked me," he said. "Can't stay long. Got a bar to look after."
"I know," said Albus. "Thank you for coming."
"Mother would have wanted it."
"Yes."
Albus didn't move, so Minerva introduced Aberforth to her family and the other guests. Shaking Aberforth's hand, her father said, "I'm so glad ye could make it, Mr Dumbledore." He added conspiratorially, "Among other things, I was afraid the reverend would refuse to sit down with thirteen of us at table. But now, ye make fourteen, so all's well!"
Aberforth gave a non-committal grunt.
When the elf offered him a glass of champagne, he asked her, "Got any beer?"
"No, sir."
"Thought elves made beer"
"Yes, sir. If sir likes, Eira could get you some Firewhisky. Or—"
"Nah," said Aberforth, taking the glass of champagne. "This'll go down right enough."
Minerva, who had witnessed the exchange, gave Eira an encouraging nod. She noticed that Aberforth didn't drink the wine; he just held the stem of the glass awkwardly between his thumb and three fingers.
A few minutes later, Reverend Dunbar approached Minerva and Albus, saying. "It's gane twenty past five. Shall we gae gi' started?"
Albus looked at Minerva and said, "Yes. Definitely."
With Thorfinn's help, Dunbar herded the guests into the salon—rarely used, but dusted and decorated in purple heather for the occasion—and after the guests were settled, he gestured Albus and Minerva to come forward.
"Are ye ready?" he asked quietly.
"Very," said Albus.
"Guid on ye," said Dunbar. And he began.
Minerva wondered later if anyone other than her family had understood much of the ceremony. Dunbar's accent was heavy, and Minerva could have sworn that he lapsed now and then into Scots.
She was a bit nervous when Dunbar gave Albus the words to the vow, but either he understood Dunbar's instructions, or he had learnt them himself beforehand—which would not have surprised her—because his voice was clear and confident as slipped his mother's ring onto her finger and repeated the words:
"With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee honour, and all my worldly goods with thee I share, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."
She was glad she didn't have to make the same vow, as she wasn't at all certain her voice would work at that moment.
Then Dunbar pronounced them man and wife, and Albus was kissing her, and her father was pinning a McGonagall-tartan sash on Albus.
Later, Minerva would have to use Albus's Pensieve to remember the rest of the evening, which seemed to pass in a blur of kisses on the cheek, toasts, and songs, and the only thing she could recall clearly was the feeling of Albus's hand squeezing hers.