Minerva's First Owl
There was no escape. You could not be called Minerva when you were the daughter of a Presbyterian minister without causing a few tongues to cluck in respectable circles.
It had begun with an uncomfortable feeling, when little Minerva had been too young to make sense of it. Disapproval.
Minerva had tried very hard to be a good girl, as if this could make the disapproval go away. At best, she had succeeded in shifting it onto her father.
"Such a good girl (cluck), what a pity."
People pretended Minerva's name was too long to say. They'd shorten it to Minna, or worse, Minnie.
Why didn't Millicent, Winifred and Euphemia become Millie, Winnie and Euphie as easily?
People didn't like her name, Minerva understood, after a few years of clucks.
"Why don't people like my name?" she had asked her parents. "Isn't it nicer than Euphemia?"
"Much nicer," Mother had said. "It suits you."
Minerva had agreed that her name suited her. It was a disturbing thought. It meant she was suited to an unpopular name.
And most uncommon. She had never met anyone else called Minerva.
But it wasn't only her things happened around Minerva: dolls walked by themselves, brooms flew, unwanted milk evaporated out of her cup.
"You mustn't do that," Father said. He sounded ashamed, as if Minerva had done a terrible thing, such as pick her nose, or say "bloody".
Minerva suspected that was because Father couldn't do the things Minerva did. He couldn't even Summon the book he wanted from the highest shelf. He had to climb on a chair to get it.
Mother wasn't ashamed, because she could do the things Minerva did. The evaporated milk returned to the cup with the admonition, "Say, 'no, thank you.'"
Mother explained to Minerva and her younger brothers, who could do these things too, that most people were not magical.
Minerva liked this word. She repeated it to herself. Magical. Magical. Ma-djji-cul. A soft buzz ending in a liquid click.
People who weren't magical claimed magic didn't exist. Or they called the most unexpected things magic, such as music, or a cup of tea. The Gift was rare and precious, Mother said. Those who possessed the Gift were envied and feared. The Gift had to be hidden.
Father never mentioned the Gift. He spoke of God, Jesus, faith, the Holy Spirit. His mission was to share with the non-magical people of his congregation - the Muggles, as Mother secretly called them - a taste of something beyond their understanding.
ooo
In the summer of 1947, Minerva was almost twelve. She was still a good girl, determined to show the world that one could be called Minerva and still be a good person. She was also an intelligent and perceptive girl, her head full of unanswered questions. One day, she would look for answers. One day...
During that summer, Mother had become strangely nervous and distracted, starting at the slightest noise. She would often lose herself in silent contemplation of the sky, even though the war was over and there had been no bombings for the last three years.
Father looked at mother gazing at the sky and frowned. Something was about to happen. Not another war, Minerva hoped.
What came was not a war. It was an owl. It swooped downwards one morning when the McGonagalls were sitting at breakfast, casting a shadow on Minerva's porridge.
Mother gasped, broke a cup, said "Rep-...", covered her mouth with her hands and looked at Father, who was frowning more than ever.
Robbie was jumping up and down excitedly.
"An owl! An owl!"
"Be quiet, Robert," said Father.
"I'm sorry," said Mother. "Minerva, please clean this up, whilst I..."
Instead of ending her sentence, she opened the window and picked up the owl, with no fear of its beak and talons, as casually as if it had been the cat.
"Sit down, boys," said Father, as Malcolm and Robbie were trying to take a good look at the owl.
Mother was detaching an envelope that had been tied to one of its legs.
"Don't owls sleep during the day?" piped up Robbie.
"Usually, they do," sighed Father.
The owl spread out its wings, soared upwards and disappeared.
"Minerva, this is for you," said Mother in a funny voice.
Minerva looked up, over the pieces of broken cup that she had gathered in a dustpan.
"For me?"
But instead of giving the letter to Minerva, Mother handed it to Father, who took it with the tip of his fingers, as if it were about to explode, and hastily put it down on the table.
Minerva emptied the dustpan and mopped the floor. When she returned to the table, Mother had left the room and the boys were exchanging looks of consternation.
Father gave a little cough. His face was serious, but Father's face was serious most of the time.
"Ahem. This is not bad news. You may read your letter, Minerva."
Minerva picked up the thick yellow envelope. It was made of parchment and addressed to Minerva McGonagall, in letters of blue ink. Minerva could feel the eyes of her father and brothers watching her, as she carefully pulled out two sheets of parchment.
"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she read.
Father winced. Malcolm's spoon fell to the floor with a clank. Robbie stared, open-mouthed.
"I am a witch," said Minerva.
"We know that," said Father, though he had never pronounced that word in Minerva's presence.
"Is it... bad?"
"Is it bad to be a witch?" repeated Father. He took a gulp of his tea, that was getting cold.
"It depends. It depends what one means when one uses the word 'witch'. In your case, Minerva, it is not bad at all."
Minerva's fingers relaxed their grip on the parchment.
"Magic is a gift. Who could have given you this gift, but God?"
Minerva braced herself.
"You know what people say, Father. You know what the Bible says."
"What does the Bible say?"
Minerva took a deep breath.
"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."
"The Bible says that?" gasped Malcolm. "But..."
"What? What does the Bible say?" said Robbie.
"Shush," said Malcolm.
Reverend McGonagall looked at his three children in turn. Robbie, who was trying to make sense of what was going on, Malcolm, confused and upset, and Minerva. The time had come. He closed his eyes in a short prayer.
For a few minutes, the clock's ticking was the only sound in the room. And... Minerva hoped her brothers couldn't hear what she thought were muffled sobs, coming from outside.
"Sit down, Minerva."
Minerva obeyed.
"Nobody could ever call you bad, Minerva."
"Nobody knows I am a witch."
"As I said, the word 'witch' means different things to different people."
"Then why can't we use different words?" grumbled Malcolm.
"It would be easier if we did, but we must live in the world as it is and use the words it uses."
"That makes everything so confusing."
"The issue of magic is a confusing one."
"Is magic bad?" said Robbie.
"Does magic mean different things to different people?" asked Malcolm suspiciously.
Reverend McGonagall smiled patiently.
"It does, but few people know the true meaning of the word. Magic as you know it, can be used either for good or for bad. God has given everyone free choice. What you choose to do with magic is your responsibility."
"Then why are witches condemned to death, Father?"
"There is little understanding of magic among non-magical people. I myself did not understand what magic was, ah, for a long time."
"Did you believe witches were bad?" asked Malcolm.
"I did, because this is what we, ah, Muggles are taught."
Minerva had definitely never heard that word in her father's mouth. It sounded strange.
"I knew no better. This is an error that has been perpetuated for centuries."
"Has been what?" said Malcolm.
"Has been, ah, repeated over and over for centuries."
"People have been believing something wrong for centuries?!" Malcolm was indignant.
Reverend McGonagall seemed ill at ease.
"It's a misunderstanding."
"I don't get it," said Malcolm.
"Nor do I", said Robbie.
"Either witches are bad or they're not," continued Malcolm, mindless of the interruption. " Why do people say they're bad if they're not?"
"Well, you must understand that there is such a thing as bad witches."
"Not Minerva," said Robbie confidently.
"That's why we mustn't say she's a witch," explained Malcolm in a superior tone, "so people won't say she's bad."
"But she isn't!"
"No," said Minerva. "But some people say magic isn't given by God. They say it comes from, well, the other side."
"What other side?" said Robbie twisting around in his chair.
Malcolm tut-tutted impatiently.
"There is no other side, really," said Reverend McGonagall. "If evil forces exist, they exist only because God allows them to exist. All is ultimately from God. Ah, experience has taught me not all witches are bad. Actually, the only witches I know are good."
He smiled.
"To understand why some people claim witchcraft is from the devil..."
Malcolm gasped.
"... we have to go back to the early days, when Christianity first arrived here. Before Christianity, people had sought explanations to things that happened, such as diseases and natural disasters. They believed supernatural forces were the cause of these events. They had many gods."
"They were pagans," said Malcolm, proud of his knowledge.
"They were. The first Christians were taught not to believe in these gods, but they had difficulty renouncing... I mean, giving up their belief. As they were forbidden gods, people came to see them as enemies of God, as demons."
"They're not?" asked Malcolm hopefully.
"No," said Reverend McGonagall.
"I see why people don't like my name. They think I was named after a demon."
"Never!" Reverend McGonagall had turned pale. "Your mother and I would never..."
"Of course not, Father!" said Minerva quickly.
"Listen, Minerva. When your mother chose your name, I was not yet aware that she was a witch. You were named after your grandmother. Your mother assured me that nowadays, no one actually believed in a goddess called Minerva, that your name had a purely symbolic and poetic value. I accepted this, though I must say I was not overjoyed by the idea."
"But pagan gods and goddesses don't exist!" said Malcolm.
"That's what I also believed then."
"They do?"
"I believe... My belief may be unconventional... I mean unusual... I believe the pagan gods were just a different understanding of God. Where we see one god, with different aspects, they saw the different aspects as different gods. I'll give you an example. Your mother takes care of you, she is your mother. She is also my wife. She cleans and cooks, as well. There are many aspects to her."
"She's more than that!" exclaimed Minerva. "She is a person."
"She is a soul," said Reverend McGonagall.
"And she's a witch!" added Malcolm.
"She is all of these. Just as she is all of these, God is the God of the home, of the sea, of the land, the God of war and the God of peace, the God of fire and the God of water... Now to come back to the subject of witches and wizards, among the pagans, there were wise people, called wizards and witches, who were believed to have received their wisdom and power from the gods."
"Were they magical people?"
"Many must have been. As these people claimed to have received their wisdom from the gods, the early Christians believed it had come from demons."
"But that's not true, is it?" said Malcolm.
"No. Only God can give power and wisdom, no matter what name you give him."
"So that's why witches were killed? But Father, wasn't the Bible written long before Christianity reached Scotland?"
"Certainly, it was. But there have always been wizards and witches, everywhere."
"And they have always been scapegoats." Minerva thinned her lips in a way that made her look very like Father. Robbie suppressed a giggle.
"What's a scapegoat?" said Malcolm.
"When bad things happen that cannot be explained, people look for someone to blame."
"That's not fair!" shouted Malcolm.
"And it's witches, more than wizards, isn't it, Father? Why are women always blamed?"
"Women..." Reverend McGonagall brushed back his thinning hair. "A lot of men have difficulty understanding women's power and wisdom, Minerva. They fear them, I think."
Minerva grinned. Malcolm and Robbie certainly feared her. Then another thought struck her.
"Do you fear women, Father?"
"I fear only God."
"Yes, Father. Because you know God is the one who allows natural disasters."
"Only God understands the reason for these things."
"I have another question, Father. Isn't the Bible a holy book?"
"Of course the Bible is a holy book."
"So how can it contain... well, things that are not...?"
"That aren't true!" shouted Malcolm.
"Malcolm! The Bible is a holy book, written by inspired men. However, their understanding, and the words they used to convey it were limited."
"They didn't know what witches were?"
"Couldn't God tell them, if they were inspired?" said Malcolm.
"Things would have been much easier if wizards and witches had proclaimed outright that their magic came from God."
"So why didn't they?"
"They might not have known it themselves. I don't know. Sometimes I believe God has put me in my position, so that I can fight prejudice..."
"You can't change the Bible, Father," said Minerva.
"Well, I don't understand why God waited so long! He should've-..."
"Malcolm! No one knows the intentions of God."
"I'm sure I don't," muttered Malcolm.
"You are still a child. You will acquire wisdom as you grow up. You will learn more about God and about magic."
"Oh, " exclaimed Malcolm, suddenly excited. "Shall I go to wizards' school? Is Minerva going to magic school?"
Minerva stood completely still, her heart pounding wildly. She didn't dare look up at her father, aware that her whole life depended on his next words.
"Magic can be dangerous," said Father.
Minerva's heart seemed to sink slightly.
"This is why those who possess the Gift must be taught to control it. I, obviously, cannot teach you this. Your mother might."
The clock ticked away, in time with Minerva's heartbeat.
"However, I believe it would be good for you to meet youngsters like yourself. In this school, you will learn more than your mother could ever teach you."
Now it seemed as if Minerva's heart had burst inside of her, flooding her with joy and gratefulness such as she had never known. Father had given permission. She could allow herself to want this learning more than anything else in the world.
"I see you are happy," said Father.
As Minerva looked up to thank her father, she saw Mother had come back into the room. Her eyes were red.
"When you are at Hogwarts," said Father, "promise you will read a chapter of the Bible every day."
"I promise, Father."
"When you come across a mention of magic, remember to thank God for the blessing he has bestowed on you, and ask him for the wisdom to use it in the right way."
ooo
This, of course, is fan fiction, a fan's attempt to gain a deeper understanding of Minerva McGonagall. But it is this author's belief that Reverend McGonagall would have reason to be proud of his daughter.