It was in that precise moment that Minerva’s transfigurations, done under the strain of grief and guilt and pain, had failed her. Instead of a black smock, buttons all the way to the neck, she had suddenly found herself wearing a faded yellow sundress, worn thin at the elbows and with a threadbare hem. Her black silk ribbon had reverted to a simple piece of string, and her hair had come undone, loose across her shoulders. (And for all the world, Minerva had felt like the girl in the muggle-fairytale, the one who sat by the fireplace with cinders on her face, the one who only had until the clock chimed midnight.)
She’d reached for her wand but Dumbledore had caught her hand, exposed and naked without her gloves, between the two of his.
“Leave it like this,” he’d said, and bent for the first time to kiss her bare fingers.
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It was in that precise moment that Minerva’s transfigurations, done under the strain of grief and guilt and pain, had failed her. Instead of a black smock, buttons all the way to the neck, she had suddenly found herself wearing a faded yellow sundress, worn thin at the elbows and with a threadbare hem. Her black silk ribbon had reverted to a simple piece of string, and her hair had come undone, loose across her shoulders. (And for all the world, Minerva had felt like the girl in the muggle-fairytale, the one who sat by the fireplace with cinders on her face, the one who only had until the clock chimed midnight.)
She’d reached for her wand but Dumbledore had caught her hand, exposed and naked without her gloves, between the two of his.
“Leave it like this,” he’d said, and bent for the first time to kiss her bare fingers.
Wonderful.