Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match...
Aug. 9th, 2007 07:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
girlyswotHere's my contribution to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stmargarets's challenge.
Um... crack pairing? Huge age difference. Nothing untoward.
Intrigued?
The cloth in Aberforth's hand slowed, but continued to smear the glass in lazy circles. He frowned, peering at his fuzzy reflection in the mirror behind the spirits bottles. He could pass for 145, couldn't he? He still had plenty of hair, after all. Fun and friendship. Huh. Still, she claimed to have a sense of humour. Whoever this woman was, she'd certainly need that.
Minerva pursed her lips. She knew she should never have bothered. It wasn't as if she didn't know all the eligible wizards in Britain, for heaven's sake. She'd taught most of them. Not Aberforth, though. She raised an eyebrow as she read through his scrawled note again. 50-150, she'd said. And some, Minerva thought huffily.
Dancing? Well, that wasn't too bad. Minerva had even been contemplating reinstating the Yule Ball on an annual basis simply to give her an opportunity enjoy one of her favourite activities. There weren't too many chances for 80-something single witches to let their hair down even a little.
Aberforth surveyed his wardrobe gloomily. No hope that the stains would come out of the purple robes he'd inherited from Albus. Nor that Minerva McGonagall would consider the lush yellow and green swirling velvet suitable attire for a tea dance. Nor that standing here staring would make a set of drab formal robes appear miraculously out of nowhere. He'd have to go shopping.
Minerva twisted her hair up into a neat bun and secured it firmly with a handful of pins, just as she had done every day for over fifty years. She was not, however, accustomed to pinching her cheeks in an attempt to give them colour, nor to spraying Lily of the Valley toilet water on her wrists, but she did both today, even while mocking herself for such ridiculous frivolity at her age. Finally, she threw her plaid over her shoulder and pinned it in place with her grandmother's pearl brooch. Over the plain dark green robes she thought it looked rather well.
Aberforth waited while Minerva paid the wizard at the front desk and collected their dance cards. He'd wondered if he should have offered to pay his half but the ferocious look she'd been wearing when she walked down the lane to meet him had quelled any desire to argue with her. He glanced down at the revolting pink programme she was handing him now. Aberforth grimaced and sneaked a glance at Minerva. Her lips were tight shut but he could see a twinkle in her eye that hadn't been there before. Right then. He grasped the dance card out of her hand, looked for somewhere to dump her bag and then swept her masterfully into the centre of the floor.
For an instant, he thought she was going to protest. Then her lips twitched and she sank into a remarkably graceful curtsey. Aberforth bowed solemnly, then reached to place one hand firmly on her waist and pull her towards him meaningfully. He was the wizard, and he was going to lead.
Nineteen years later...
Minerva clipped the obituary carefully out of the Daily Prophet. She reached into her desk drawer for a small cardboard box. Inside were a handful of scrawled notes, dance cards, restaurant bills and other silly scraps that she'd never dream of admitting to Aberforth that she'd kept. Gently, she laid the newspaper cutting on top of the small pile and replaced the lid.
The funeral was the day after tomorrow. On the third Thursday of the month. She wondered if anyone at Madame Lightfoot's would notice their absence.
stmargarets's challenge. Um... crack pairing? Huge age difference. Nothing untoward.
Intrigued?
The cloth in Aberforth's hand slowed, but continued to smear the glass in lazy circles. He frowned, peering at his fuzzy reflection in the mirror behind the spirits bottles. He could pass for 145, couldn't he? He still had plenty of hair, after all. Fun and friendship. Huh. Still, she claimed to have a sense of humour. Whoever this woman was, she'd certainly need that.
Minerva pursed her lips. She knew she should never have bothered. It wasn't as if she didn't know all the eligible wizards in Britain, for heaven's sake. She'd taught most of them. Not Aberforth, though. She raised an eyebrow as she read through his scrawled note again. 50-150, she'd said. And some, Minerva thought huffily.
Dancing? Well, that wasn't too bad. Minerva had even been contemplating reinstating the Yule Ball on an annual basis simply to give her an opportunity enjoy one of her favourite activities. There weren't too many chances for 80-something single witches to let their hair down even a little.
Aberforth surveyed his wardrobe gloomily. No hope that the stains would come out of the purple robes he'd inherited from Albus. Nor that Minerva McGonagall would consider the lush yellow and green swirling velvet suitable attire for a tea dance. Nor that standing here staring would make a set of drab formal robes appear miraculously out of nowhere. He'd have to go shopping.
Minerva twisted her hair up into a neat bun and secured it firmly with a handful of pins, just as she had done every day for over fifty years. She was not, however, accustomed to pinching her cheeks in an attempt to give them colour, nor to spraying Lily of the Valley toilet water on her wrists, but she did both today, even while mocking herself for such ridiculous frivolity at her age. Finally, she threw her plaid over her shoulder and pinned it in place with her grandmother's pearl brooch. Over the plain dark green robes she thought it looked rather well.
Aberforth waited while Minerva paid the wizard at the front desk and collected their dance cards. He'd wondered if he should have offered to pay his half but the ferocious look she'd been wearing when she walked down the lane to meet him had quelled any desire to argue with her. He glanced down at the revolting pink programme she was handing him now. Aberforth grimaced and sneaked a glance at Minerva. Her lips were tight shut but he could see a twinkle in her eye that hadn't been there before. Right then. He grasped the dance card out of her hand, looked for somewhere to dump her bag and then swept her masterfully into the centre of the floor.
For an instant, he thought she was going to protest. Then her lips twitched and she sank into a remarkably graceful curtsey. Aberforth bowed solemnly, then reached to place one hand firmly on her waist and pull her towards him meaningfully. He was the wizard, and he was going to lead.
Nineteen years later...
Minerva clipped the obituary carefully out of the Daily Prophet. She reached into her desk drawer for a small cardboard box. Inside were a handful of scrawled notes, dance cards, restaurant bills and other silly scraps that she'd never dream of admitting to Aberforth that she'd kept. Gently, she laid the newspaper cutting on top of the small pile and replaced the lid.
The funeral was the day after tomorrow. On the third Thursday of the month. She wondered if anyone at Madame Lightfoot's would notice their absence.