1 - Lost And Found
Rain pounded heavily on the cobbled street, torrents gushing in gutters and waterfalls cascading from the rooves of houses. Minerva ran, the rain lashing at her face and plastering her thick, brown curls to her skin. She could hear the dogs barking, not far off; hear the shouts of the men. Panic blinded her and she pushed herself harder, the tears on her cheeks washed away by the relentless downpour. Was it just the fear curdling in her gut that was causing her insides to writhe with pain? She prayed it was. As she ran, she glanced desperately and longingly at the gaps beneath fences, but she dared not, not in her present, delicate condition.
A savage, determined howl sounded, very close, and Minerva's panic reached a crescendo. She turned her head to look over her shoulder as she ran, feet blindly pounding the pavement. Her toe caught and she fell sprawling onto the cobbled street, landing heavily on both knees. Pain lanced up through her bones, but it was nothing, a mere pinprick next to the horrible twisting in her gut, as though she was being torn apart from the inside. She doubled up, wrapped her arms about herself and rocked on her injured knees. She could go no further. Red spots clouded her vision, or was it just the blood gushing from between her legs, staining her flimsy gown a deep shade of burgundy? The torrent of rain rushing along the street carried a stream of her blood back down the street towards her pursuers, a beseeching tentacle of her scent for the dogs to fasten on. She couldn't go on. With the strength one could only muster in the most dire of circumstances, she dragged her prostrate self over to the nearest doorstep and fell upon it, and then, watching as the life ebbed slowly down the street - the life, it's life, her life, all life, she played the final, desperate card.
The dog howled again, and its master's heavy boots sloshed through the wet street to where it stood. He stopped for a moment, leant on his knees, hung his head, took a deep breath. "Where is she?" he growled at his dog, and it let out a yip and set off again. He followed; this time at a slow jog, for the dog's pace had lost its sense of urgency. Dogs had a sixth sense about these things - it smelt her weakness. It trotted, nose to the ground, sniffing. Suddenly, its huge head looked up and it barked once, loudly, and dashed off. He dragged himself up the alleyway it had lead him into, rounded the corner into the street, and stopped. The dog had frozen, eyes fixed on the doorstep of a small, shabby house. It's paw was raised, curled under in it's uncertainty, and it's whipcord tail that had been thrashing wildly in the excitement of the chase had faltered and was slowly drooping, a flag that had lost the wind that kept it sailing. It was like watching a triumphant smile fade to a look of confusion on a person's face. Slowly, scenting the air in front of it, it laid down the paw it held aloft, and approached the step.
A silver and black tabby cat lay sprawled on the hard concrete, eyes closed and mouth hanging open, tongue lolling onto the ground. There was blood trickling from somewhere near its tail. The dog growled.
"Back, boy!" The man growled, grabbing the dog by the collar. "Leave it!" He had no idea how the dog had managed to confuse the scent of the cat with the scent of the girl, but he wasn't about to let his dog vent it's frustration upon the poor, defenceless creature before him. For all his other faults, he professed quite a weakness for animals, and he didn't want to see the poor thing hurt anymore than it already was.
"Come on, boy." He murmured resignedly. "We lost her." Fighting the furious anger as well as the deep fear that tried to overtake him, he gave the dog's collar a tug and turned around, turning his own collar up and pulling his coat around him for warmth as the rain pounded down on him, and he splashed away into the darkness of the night.
Minerva was distantly aware of bright light, of the front door of the house she had collapsed upon being opened, and of warm, gentle hands lifting her and carrying her inside. She was so cold, so sleepy, the world around her seemed to expand and contract with her consciousness. The warm crackling of a fire reached her ears, and then blessed, blessed warmth as she was laid down beside it. She had not the strength to lift her head, and so could see naught of the person who had rescued her bar long, masculine fingers. The pain had dulled now.
The man laid the cat down by the fire, gazed down upon the silvery sheen of its wet fur. He ran a gentle hand over its back, scratched it behind the ears. It opened it's tired, green eyes and gazed at him lethargically. He could see that it was bleeding, but he knew he could do naught about that. There were some things that even magic could not repair.
He leant close to the cat, his long nose almost touching her, and he noticed a curious pattern around her eyes, like a pair of square glasses.
"Curious," he murmured in his soft, quiet tones. He recognised that this was no ordinary cat. He reached across to the mantle over the fireplace, wrapped his fingers around a long, thin, piece of wood, and twirled it between them as he considered.
He tapped the wand against his palm, and smiled. She was never going to show herself otherwise. He pointed the wand at the cat, tapped her side gently and muttered some words. The room glowed with a faint blue light that grew steadily brighter until he had to look away. When next he looked to where the cat lay, it was no longer a cat, but a woman of about twenty years.
It was the strangest sensation Minerva had ever felt, being forced to transform, feeling her limbs elongate and change against her furious will that tried to force them back into their cat form. She felt like an elastic band being stretched; her reflexes the rubbery resistance. Then she found herself back in her own skin, huddled in a small ball. She let out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a wail and drew back, only to realise that the fire was directly behind her, and there was nowhere to hide. Drawing herself painfully to her bruised knees, she wrapped her arms about herself and hunched over, conscious of the fact that the thin, white night dress that she wore had gone rather transparent in the rain. She felt very exposed, and didn't know what he wanted of her, but Minerva had never been short of courage, and so she raised her head and looked at her captor and rescuer.
She placed his age as somewhere in his thirties, probably about halfway, though it was hard to tell because of the enormous amount of auburn hair that hung, long, down his back and obscured his face in a long but fine beard. He had a kind face, and watery, pale blue eyes that held a twinkle of humour in them. He held her gaze with a benign sort of confidence, and his eyes did not once travel lower than her face.
"Who are you?" she whispered. "What do you want of me?"
"I wanted to see you, that is all." His voice was gentle and kind as well, and he spoke simply and honestly. But many people who had seemed honest had proved to her before that they were exactly the opposite. She eyed him warily.
"How did you know?" Her curiosity got the better of her, like it always had done. Perhaps that was why she had such an affinity with the form of a cat.
"Those marks around your eyes," his mouth showed the ghost of a smile. "I suspect that you will, one day, need glasses." When she didn't smile or even acknowledge that he had said anything interesting, the smile faded. She was, like a cat, very wary of strangers.
The fire at her back was making her uncomfortably warm; she could feel her hair drying out and springing back up into the large ringlet type curls that it usually formed. She shifted forward ever so slightly on her knees, away from the fire, but still didn't take her eyes from his.
He wanted to offer her a dry robe, and the chance to sit down, but he didn't want to make any sudden movements. So he stayed on his knees before her, and held the gaze of her eyes. "I didn't bring you in off the doorstep because I wanted to hurt you, I assure you."
"Who are you?" she asked, "That you bring in strays off the street?" For the first time he heard in her voice the lilt of an accent that he placed as from somewhere in Scotland.
"My name is Albus Dumbledore," he said softly, "And what kind of person would I be if I found a bleeding cat on my doorstep and left it for dead?" At those words she looked down upon herself and tears filled her eyes. He wished he had been more tactful.
"The kind of person I was running from, I suppose." She murmured quietly, fingers tracing the bloody outline on her gown.
"Who were you running from?" he asked gently, reaching out to lift her chin and her eyes back to hers. She flinched slightly at his touch, but her grief had numbed her, and the fear with which she had regarded him seemed to be gone.
"Muggles." She said it as though she believed that it could be nobody else, as if she didn't think any wizard would have been capable of the ill that she had been done.
"What did they do to you?" he asked, as if his words were an incantation that would induce her to tell her deepest secrets. And perhaps they were, for there was such magic in his quiet, confident, kind voice.
"They snapped my wand."
The pain in her voice rang in his ears, but she didn't elaborate, obviously believing that said it all.
"Muggles snapped your wand?" Albus Dumbledore didn't often sound surprised, but on this occasion he was thunderstruck.
"Yes." She looked away from him again, as if by looking into her eyes she thought he might see the horrible memories flitting behind them, as if he would reach deep into her soul with his piercing blue gaze and touch at the shame that had coiled itself around her mind.
"What is your story?." he trailed off, realising that he still did not know her name.
"Minerva," she answered his unspoken question, her turn to read his mind, "Minerva McGonagall."
"What is your story, Minerva?"
She bowed her head, looking down upon her blood stained gown, and something inside her prompted her, some part of her wanted to share the burden with someone. She gestured at the burgundy marred garment, for the first time drawing his eyes away from her face. It was, in essence, the beginning and the end of her story.
"A witch, without a wand, is just a woman."
Rain pounded heavily on the cobbled street, torrents gushing in gutters and waterfalls cascading from the rooves of houses. Minerva ran, the rain lashing at her face and plastering her thick, brown curls to her skin. She could hear the dogs barking, not far off; hear the shouts of the men. Panic blinded her and she pushed herself harder, the tears on her cheeks washed away by the relentless downpour. Was it just the fear curdling in her gut that was causing her insides to writhe with pain? She prayed it was. As she ran, she glanced desperately and longingly at the gaps beneath fences, but she dared not, not in her present, delicate condition.
A savage, determined howl sounded, very close, and Minerva's panic reached a crescendo. She turned her head to look over her shoulder as she ran, feet blindly pounding the pavement. Her toe caught and she fell sprawling onto the cobbled street, landing heavily on both knees. Pain lanced up through her bones, but it was nothing, a mere pinprick next to the horrible twisting in her gut, as though she was being torn apart from the inside. She doubled up, wrapped her arms about herself and rocked on her injured knees. She could go no further. Red spots clouded her vision, or was it just the blood gushing from between her legs, staining her flimsy gown a deep shade of burgundy? The torrent of rain rushing along the street carried a stream of her blood back down the street towards her pursuers, a beseeching tentacle of her scent for the dogs to fasten on. She couldn't go on. With the strength one could only muster in the most dire of circumstances, she dragged her prostrate self over to the nearest doorstep and fell upon it, and then, watching as the life ebbed slowly down the street - the life, it's life, her life, all life, she played the final, desperate card.
The dog howled again, and its master's heavy boots sloshed through the wet street to where it stood. He stopped for a moment, leant on his knees, hung his head, took a deep breath. "Where is she?" he growled at his dog, and it let out a yip and set off again. He followed; this time at a slow jog, for the dog's pace had lost its sense of urgency. Dogs had a sixth sense about these things - it smelt her weakness. It trotted, nose to the ground, sniffing. Suddenly, its huge head looked up and it barked once, loudly, and dashed off. He dragged himself up the alleyway it had lead him into, rounded the corner into the street, and stopped. The dog had frozen, eyes fixed on the doorstep of a small, shabby house. It's paw was raised, curled under in it's uncertainty, and it's whipcord tail that had been thrashing wildly in the excitement of the chase had faltered and was slowly drooping, a flag that had lost the wind that kept it sailing. It was like watching a triumphant smile fade to a look of confusion on a person's face. Slowly, scenting the air in front of it, it laid down the paw it held aloft, and approached the step.
A silver and black tabby cat lay sprawled on the hard concrete, eyes closed and mouth hanging open, tongue lolling onto the ground. There was blood trickling from somewhere near its tail. The dog growled.
"Back, boy!" The man growled, grabbing the dog by the collar. "Leave it!" He had no idea how the dog had managed to confuse the scent of the cat with the scent of the girl, but he wasn't about to let his dog vent it's frustration upon the poor, defenceless creature before him. For all his other faults, he professed quite a weakness for animals, and he didn't want to see the poor thing hurt anymore than it already was.
"Come on, boy." He murmured resignedly. "We lost her." Fighting the furious anger as well as the deep fear that tried to overtake him, he gave the dog's collar a tug and turned around, turning his own collar up and pulling his coat around him for warmth as the rain pounded down on him, and he splashed away into the darkness of the night.
Minerva was distantly aware of bright light, of the front door of the house she had collapsed upon being opened, and of warm, gentle hands lifting her and carrying her inside. She was so cold, so sleepy, the world around her seemed to expand and contract with her consciousness. The warm crackling of a fire reached her ears, and then blessed, blessed warmth as she was laid down beside it. She had not the strength to lift her head, and so could see naught of the person who had rescued her bar long, masculine fingers. The pain had dulled now.
The man laid the cat down by the fire, gazed down upon the silvery sheen of its wet fur. He ran a gentle hand over its back, scratched it behind the ears. It opened it's tired, green eyes and gazed at him lethargically. He could see that it was bleeding, but he knew he could do naught about that. There were some things that even magic could not repair.
He leant close to the cat, his long nose almost touching her, and he noticed a curious pattern around her eyes, like a pair of square glasses.
"Curious," he murmured in his soft, quiet tones. He recognised that this was no ordinary cat. He reached across to the mantle over the fireplace, wrapped his fingers around a long, thin, piece of wood, and twirled it between them as he considered.
He tapped the wand against his palm, and smiled. She was never going to show herself otherwise. He pointed the wand at the cat, tapped her side gently and muttered some words. The room glowed with a faint blue light that grew steadily brighter until he had to look away. When next he looked to where the cat lay, it was no longer a cat, but a woman of about twenty years.
It was the strangest sensation Minerva had ever felt, being forced to transform, feeling her limbs elongate and change against her furious will that tried to force them back into their cat form. She felt like an elastic band being stretched; her reflexes the rubbery resistance. Then she found herself back in her own skin, huddled in a small ball. She let out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a wail and drew back, only to realise that the fire was directly behind her, and there was nowhere to hide. Drawing herself painfully to her bruised knees, she wrapped her arms about herself and hunched over, conscious of the fact that the thin, white night dress that she wore had gone rather transparent in the rain. She felt very exposed, and didn't know what he wanted of her, but Minerva had never been short of courage, and so she raised her head and looked at her captor and rescuer.
She placed his age as somewhere in his thirties, probably about halfway, though it was hard to tell because of the enormous amount of auburn hair that hung, long, down his back and obscured his face in a long but fine beard. He had a kind face, and watery, pale blue eyes that held a twinkle of humour in them. He held her gaze with a benign sort of confidence, and his eyes did not once travel lower than her face.
"Who are you?" she whispered. "What do you want of me?"
"I wanted to see you, that is all." His voice was gentle and kind as well, and he spoke simply and honestly. But many people who had seemed honest had proved to her before that they were exactly the opposite. She eyed him warily.
"How did you know?" Her curiosity got the better of her, like it always had done. Perhaps that was why she had such an affinity with the form of a cat.
"Those marks around your eyes," his mouth showed the ghost of a smile. "I suspect that you will, one day, need glasses." When she didn't smile or even acknowledge that he had said anything interesting, the smile faded. She was, like a cat, very wary of strangers.
The fire at her back was making her uncomfortably warm; she could feel her hair drying out and springing back up into the large ringlet type curls that it usually formed. She shifted forward ever so slightly on her knees, away from the fire, but still didn't take her eyes from his.
He wanted to offer her a dry robe, and the chance to sit down, but he didn't want to make any sudden movements. So he stayed on his knees before her, and held the gaze of her eyes. "I didn't bring you in off the doorstep because I wanted to hurt you, I assure you."
"Who are you?" she asked, "That you bring in strays off the street?" For the first time he heard in her voice the lilt of an accent that he placed as from somewhere in Scotland.
"My name is Albus Dumbledore," he said softly, "And what kind of person would I be if I found a bleeding cat on my doorstep and left it for dead?" At those words she looked down upon herself and tears filled her eyes. He wished he had been more tactful.
"The kind of person I was running from, I suppose." She murmured quietly, fingers tracing the bloody outline on her gown.
"Who were you running from?" he asked gently, reaching out to lift her chin and her eyes back to hers. She flinched slightly at his touch, but her grief had numbed her, and the fear with which she had regarded him seemed to be gone.
"Muggles." She said it as though she believed that it could be nobody else, as if she didn't think any wizard would have been capable of the ill that she had been done.
"What did they do to you?" he asked, as if his words were an incantation that would induce her to tell her deepest secrets. And perhaps they were, for there was such magic in his quiet, confident, kind voice.
"They snapped my wand."
The pain in her voice rang in his ears, but she didn't elaborate, obviously believing that said it all.
"Muggles snapped your wand?" Albus Dumbledore didn't often sound surprised, but on this occasion he was thunderstruck.
"Yes." She looked away from him again, as if by looking into her eyes she thought he might see the horrible memories flitting behind them, as if he would reach deep into her soul with his piercing blue gaze and touch at the shame that had coiled itself around her mind.
"What is your story?." he trailed off, realising that he still did not know her name.
"Minerva," she answered his unspoken question, her turn to read his mind, "Minerva McGonagall."
"What is your story, Minerva?"
She bowed her head, looking down upon her blood stained gown, and something inside her prompted her, some part of her wanted to share the burden with someone. She gestured at the burgundy marred garment, for the first time drawing his eyes away from her face. It was, in essence, the beginning and the end of her story.
"A witch, without a wand, is just a woman."