milliways_bar | (no subject)

There's a jet-haired older woman in wizarding robes sitting near the door; she's sipping elm bark tea as she contemplates another Master Potter's latest attempt at Transfiguration homework. The ideas are there, all right, but so is the disorganisation of said ideas.

Albus might recognise a younger Minerva McGonagall. And she might, in a way, recognise him.

:O

Albus knows an older Minerva McGonagall, at least from his first year at Hogwarts before she retired.

But the fact that she's younger is startling, to be sure. This can't be another part of Hogwarts.

Can it?

In any case, McGonagall's presence forces the young boy to move forward, rather than remain glued to the walls.

"U-um. Excuse me, Professor?"

Younger, but not young: this is the McGonagall Albus's father would recognise from his first year at Hogwarts.

She looks up, at the request, and ... well. Minerva McGonagall is not the sort of woman who doubletakes in public, but it's a close call.

Pause.

"...A Potter descendent, I presume?"

She has already met a much older Draco Malfoy -- and his wife. This helps.

He nods dumbly before it occurs to him that Professor McGonagall should, by all rights, know his name.

Even if he didn't end up being sorted into Gryffindor, his family alone would have made his name a more memorable one. (And he took Transfiguration during his first year and struggled rather magnificently in the first half.)

"It's Albus, Professor," he prompts, but he is beginning to realize something about this whole situation feels a little off. It keeps him from adding the useless, 'Remember?'

"...Ah. New, too, I imagine."

She looks him up and down consideringly - mainly, trying to gauge if she's taught his mother as well. Perhaps not yet.

"Welcome to Milliways, Mr. Potter. Close the door, please, there's a draft."

He does so.

Promptly, like.

"Milliways?" he repeats, when he comes to stand by her side again.

She gestures to the viewing window with her hand.

"The bar at the end of the universe. It is capable of appearing at all times and in all places, and thus contains an astonishing variety of people - including but not limited to our variety of witches and wizards, so don't hesitate to use magic here. You appear to recognise me, but I'm afraid I don't know you yet."

A piercing look. "Let me guess. Harry's son?"

"Oh - um. Yes," he answers, pushing aside the mental notes he'd been making about the things she just described to him. "I suppose it's obvious. Everyone says I look like him."

And now is the time to get a proper look at that window.

He squints.

"... that can't be real?" Beat. "And how is it that you're not the same Professor McGonagall I know? I mean, you must be her if you know my dad, but you're not the exact one I know because you don't recognize me."

When anxious, Albus rambles a bit.

"I don't recognise you yet," she reminds him. "Different times as well as places, remember? In my time, I'm still teaching your father."

She holds up the piece of parchment by way of evidence: it's covered in Harry's characteristic scrawl.

"And no, all evidence to the contrary, the window appears to be as real as you and I."

The first remark gets one of her unexpected smiles, however, as she answers it. "Everyone always says the same thing about your father and your grandfather, in my time. You've your grandmother's eyes, I note."