With hints about this piece
Hogwarts was, quite literally, buried under snow – thick, pristine snow that shone gently where rays of candlelight passed through the castle’s windows, then vanished into the dark winter night. Inside, the few remaining students had gone back to their dorms, stomachs full and giggling, still, at Peeves’ latest prank. The poltergeist had made a dashing entrance during dinner with a good three dozen Christmas bubbles hanging from his ghostly fingers, toes, and ears. They had all been stolen from the Great Hall’s tree: it looked terribly bare as a result.
McGonagall had looked everything but pleased. Her nostrils had flared in a characteristic manner, her lips were tight - but just as she was about to say something, Dumbledore had started chuckling. Very quietly, at first, in an attempt to pass it off as a caught - he could see Minerva’s expression from the corner of his eye - then he had given in, the students had followed along, and Minerva’s face had relaxed too, eventually. She could never remain cross when Albus started laughing.
“I reckon the view from your tower must be rather exceptional, Minerva – I need to go to the owlery to see the frozen lake. I saw a few deer walking over the ice two years ago, and have hoped to see them again ever since.”
Albus was standing next to his office’s tallest window, just beside his desk. As for Minerva, a frown was creasing her eyebrows, and she was sitting on a nearby couch. She was unknitting the bottom half of a sock the headmaster meant to gift Filius: the pattern had been slightly mishandled. Albus was, after all, a complete beginner; he had been teaching himself to knit for two weeks only.
“Do come by tomorrow for lunch, Albus. The lake is particularly beautiful at this time of day, and I believe it will be sunny.”
Albus turned away from the window. Her eyes were still fixed on the sock in her hand, and his gaze lingered on her face; she looked up, and he looked away, clearing his throat.
“Where did you learn to knit so well?” he asked, picking up his coffee mug from the side of his desk. He sat down in front of her, nodding in the direction of the blue sock in her hand.
Minerva eyed him for a few seconds, then looked down and smiled.
“My mother. My brothers were not exactly sticklers for cleanliness. ‘Cho salach ris a’ pholl’, she used to say – as dirty as mud.”
“My own brother never wore socks”, Albus lamented.
“I see where your lacunas come from, then. Would you like me to show you where you made a mistake?”
“Do you promise to be patient?”
“I am always patient”, Minerva said drily, though she was grinning slightly.
Albus raised an eyebrow. “Ah! I did not believe you to be disingenuous, my dear professor. Need I remind you of the waltz? The piano? The baking? The -”
“You almost burnt the castle down. And left your wand on the counter!”
“That is but a minor detail in the history of my many accomplishments.”
“What about my foot? My poor foot – the one who will restore it to its original size is not born yet.”
“What about my foot?” Albus retorted, though his outrage was slightly undermined by the lemon drop he was munching on.
“It was not supposed to be there in the first place, Albus. That is precisely the issue.”
The headmaster looked somewhat apologetic.
“But I did progress, did I not?”
Minerva turned the sock over on her lap. She sighed affectionately.
“You did. I am rather proud, I must admit it - but you still cannot venture in public.”
“You make me blush, my dear.”
“Did you hear the second part of the sentence?”
“I am a great believer in selective hearing.”
Minerva graced this reply with another sigh, a bigger and rather ironic one. Then, unexpectedly, silence fell over the room, as if the usual pleasantries and bickering had overstayed their welcome. This had been happening more and more frequently as of late, and none of them could pinpoint the exact reason why.
Snow fell beside the window, disturbed in its route by strong gusts of wind that made it swirl continuously. Albus looked at it, and Minerva looked at him.
She was quiet for a short moment, looking as though she was considering her options. She opened her mouth tentatively, and closed it; then, finally, she moved over to her left.
“Will you sit next to me, Albus?” she asked abruptly. “I will show you how to finish the Christmas tree pattern – you got confused halfway.”
Her tone was queer, an uneven mixture of confidence, teacherly strictness, and out-of-place timidity. Clearly, the result was not what she had expected, and the headmaster seemed to pick on it as well. He looked hesitant for a few seconds.
“Certainly”, he replied at last, putting down his cup of coffee.
He sat right next to her, and she handed him the sock and knitters, pointing to a small part of the knitting pattern.
“Like this, yes, exactly. Knit stitch, purl stitch, but you must not go all the way to the end of the row – yes, like this – be careful to keep the same number of stitches here – yes -”
Albus managed the end of the dark green row, but the following steps proved to be more complicated. Twice, he avoided miscounting rows thanks to Minerva’s expert eye; but his main difficulty was not losing track of which was the visible side of the sock, inevitably leading to inconsistencies.
“Here, Albus, let me help you. I just need -”
Her hand touched Albus’, which had not been removed quickly enough.
And here they were, these formidable wizards, eloquent speakers and charismatic professors, staring awkwardly at a sock, half on Albus' lap and half on hers; they looked perfectly stupid, and rather flushed.
Minerva cleared her throat.
“You may start the next row.”
But silence lingered, yet again.
“Now?” Minerva ventured, nudging towards the sock.
And, in no more than three minutes, he finished the knitting with remarkable ease, as if possessed by some kind of yarn-adoring entity. Surprised, Minerva grew closer, nodding approvingly. Clearly, his problem had been with the practicalities of visible and invisible sides, and that mistake was behind him already.
“Why is it that the waltz still puzzles you when you have picked this up so quickly?” she exclaimed, bewildered.
Albus turned the sock over, his eyes twinkling: he admired his work with unconcealed pride, and Minerva could not help but remark he looked genuinely prouder of this sock than of his many intellectual prowesses and historical achievements, for whatever reason.
“You have been particularly patient with me tonight, Minerva”, he said serenely, relieved that his voice did not waver, especially when she blushed. “And I listened with the utmost attention. I am sure I will make a good waltzer if I am to take my next lesson in the same circumstances… so to speak.”
That, of course, was untrue. But after that evening, Minerva found that she could never muster the courage to tell him. Only one Severus Snape, years later, would have the courage to say it out-loud: Albus Dumbledore just had terrible coordination.
