The Perils Of Domestic Bliss
The problem with regaining consciousness in a hospital is that they all look very much like one another. The only thing that distinguishes the Hogwarts hospital wing from St'Mungos or the accident room at the old Holyhead Harpies training ground is Madam Pomfrey bustling around the empty beds fussing with the sheets. I'm reassured that the surrounding beds are empty, it seems that I succeeded in being the only one injured. In fact the hospital wing appears empty other than myself, Poppy Pomfrey, and...oh yes, sitting on a chair next to my bed, angrily flicking her tail back and forth is a rather small, very cross looking cat. I turn my head to the side and attempt a winning smile, which causes a burst of pain in the side o my head. It's a futile gesture anyway; this particular cat stopped being impressed with my attempts at charm sometime in the early seventies.
I sigh, giving up on appeasement, "Hello, Minerva."
The cat narrows her eyes at me, the square shaped markings seeming to contract around bright green eyes. Then with a small pop the cat is gone, replaced by the equally cross looking Professor Minerva McGonagall, salt and pepper hair scraped severely back from her face, robes bristling shades of green and black.
"Good morning, Madam Hooch," she offers. On the down side I'm clearly still in her bad books. On the up side I can't be dying, even Minerva's sense of propriety would not insist on this level of formality if I were about to drop dead in front of her.
When I first retired from Quidditch and began working at Hogwarts Minerva's insistence on maintaining professional appearances caused some blazing rows between us. I had assumed that one of the perks of working alongside her would be lunchtime quickies in the broom closet, and I was rather miffed when she wouldn't even call me by first name while we at work. I eventually got used to it. It was just Minerva's way, keeping the professor part of her life away from her private life. The repeated reminders that we had a perfectly serviceable broom closet at home, in addition to a perfectly serviceable bed encouraged my acceptance.
"Do you remember what happened?" Minerva's question brings me back to the present. I had been refereeing the Quidditch cup final. Gryffindor Vs. Slytherin, always a tough game. Potter had looked about to catch the snitch when someone in the crowd had released a third bludger which had headed straight for Potter, I vaguely remembered trying to get to the bludger before it got to Potter.
"Potter, is he..?"
"Fine." Minerva's lips are thin and she's giving one-word answers, this is not good.
Ignoring the pain in my head I sit up, giving charm another attempt, "so, someone really is trying to kill him."
"Yes. The rest of us noticed that some time ago."
"Well it's the sort of thing you have to see to believe, like the Chudley Cannons winning the cup," this earns me a brief smile that is quickly smothered.
"You could have been killed, you're not the star beater for the Holyhead Harpies anymore." I bite back my first response; that I saved the life of the boy who lived as would have any other witch or wizard who'd been there, including Minerva.
"You co-," I stop myself before I remind her of all the nights I lie awake worrying that she'll be killed while trying to gather intelligence on you know who's cronies for Albus and the order. I don't want to have this fight with her right now, I'm tired and my head hurts. One of these days we are going to have that fight and it's going to change everything. We've been married for nearly forty years and this is our routine, she worries about me getting hurt doing silly things like refereeing Quidditch or taking down the Halloween decorations from the great hall and I pretend that I don't worry about her part in the upcoming war. "I know, love, I'm sorry."
She brushes her fingers against the side of my head, it doesn't help the thudding pain in my skull but I turn my face into the touch anyway. "There are plenty of people I could have married who wouldn't try to stop rogue bludgers with their heads."
"Like Grubbly-Plank," I tease. Uh oh, and I was so close to being out of trouble with her.