AN:

Okay, so I was watching Philosopher's/Sorcerer's Stone this morning. I'd noticed it before but today it struck me anew and I wanted to write something. You know when Hermione leads Harry and Ron into the trophy room and points out James Potter's little plaque thing? Well, there's an MG McGonagall next to it. Now, Chris Columbus was very big on asking JK for extra details for set dressing, so I thought this must refer to an actual real person (in the HP universe obviously). So, anyway, this is who I think MG McGonagall was.

During the night, in the hours after the discovery of the three-headed dog, very awake and lying in bed, Harry heard Ron turn and sigh. Seemed he wasn't the only one who couldn't get to sleep.

'Ron?' Harry questioned quietly, peeking through his curtains at the next bed. Ron's curtains twitched too and then his redhead stuck out and he rolled his eyes.

'Can't you sleep either?' Ron asked.

'Nope. Wanna go downstairs? Sit in the common room?'

'As long as we don't have to talk about that bloody…' Here Ron glanced around conspiratorially, but all the other boys were asleep, 'dog.' He whispered anyway.

They crept down the spiralling flight in their pyjamas, wincing at the cold feel of the stone on bare feet. The fire had long since died and Harry didn't trust Ron to magically light a candle. So he fished for a dusty box of matches in a drawer. Retrieving them, lighting it and bringing it to a table seemed to drain all the energy the friends possessed and they sagged into the plush armchairs, yawning:

'Still think this was a good idea? Think I could sleep for England now.' Harry moaned, yawning halfway through his sentence. The infection spread and Ron's mouth opened, but, not wanting to go to bed just yet, he stifled it.

'Nah, let's talk. We won't be able to get off once we get up there.'

'So,' Harry began, rather awkwardly, 'what do you want to talk about?'

'The Quidditch match?'

Harry wrinkled his nose as worry, sinking dread, formed in the pit of his stomach.

'No.'

'Well what then?'

Harry thought back on the day, carefully and fuzzily and remembered his dad's shield.

'Were any of your family in the Quidditch teams? Before Fred and George, I mean?'

'Yeah. My brother Charlie was Quidditch captain. But don't mention him to Wood, or McGonagall. He's like the lost saviour to Gryffindors.' Harry felt momentarily sorry for Ron. He knew he felt weighed down by all his brothers' prior achievements. But McGonagall's name echoed in his ears and his brow furrowed.

'Ron…do you know who that McGonagall was…in the trophy case with my dad? M.G?'

'No. Well, McGonagall's first name's Minerva. I heard Dumbledore talking to her when I got down early for breakfast last week.'

Harry stopped himself, barely, from rolling his eyes. The amount of food Ron could eat was insane.

'But it can't have been her. It was a plaque for Quidditch players, students. It said '1971'. McGonagall wasn't a student then.'

'Obviously not. Probably in the 40s, maybe 50s. Not the 70s. No way.'

'Well, it was probably a relative. A brother, sister?'

'With that big an age gap? Probably more likely a niece. Nephew?'

'Maybe.'

'Anyway, Harry, never mind. If we ask Hermione she'll find out before we can say Quidditch. I'm gonna go up. More tired than I thought.'

True to form, Ron mentioned it to Hermione over breakfast. Ever a sucker for a mystery (and for being the one to solve it), Hermione set out at once for the library, with a slice of toast her only ally. When she returned just an hour later, Ron was still stuffing his face. They'd gotten up early to have an 'ease in' to the day as Ron had put it. Code for: we'll get all the good bacon.

'So,' Ron said, mouth full of hash brown, 'wha'cha fine?'

'It's find Ronald. Chew before you talk.' Ron pulled a face at her and Harry smiled. Ron gulped:

'Forgive me, Your Majesty. What did you find?'

'This.' She held up a yellowing, leather-bound book. Typical library fare. The binding of which read: Scottish Wizarding Families 1500 – The end was left blank.

'It's a compilation of every Scottish wizard or witch born since 1500. Their name, their parents, where they were born. It's like little mini birth certificates. They're added in magically when a birth is registered at the Scottish Ministry Department.'

Hermione was obviously overjoyed with her discovery, but Harry and Ron were just waiting to hear who the hell M.G was.

'Anyway,' she flicked to a page recording children born in Autumn 1925, 'I found McGonagall.'

'M.G?'

'Minerva. Here it is: Minerva I. McGonagall, born October 4th 1935 in Caithness, Scotland to Robert and Isobel McGonagall – half blood.'

Both Harry and Ron perked up a bit at this additional information and cast a nervous eye to the staff table, where their McGonagall was in deep conversation with Madam Pomfrey.

'So, our McGonagall is M.I. so she's not the one.'

'As we already knew,' Ron interjected, to which Hermione shot him a glare.

'I looked for other McGonagalls' over the next few years. Then I found this: two years after Minerva, there's another entry. Malcolm McGonagall, born 1937 – same everything else as the Professor.'

'He could be M.G, maybe his middle name wasn't registered, added later or something.' Ron said.

'Too old,' Harry and Hermione said together.

'He'd have attended Hogwarts, if he did, in the 40s and 50s. It's the same with the next entry I found – Robert McGonagall Jr, born 1940.'

'So, are we thinking niece, nephew?'

Hermione nodded.

'I looked. If M.G attended school here in 1971, and she/he, was more than a first year then…'

'Which she was, because Harry here is the youngest Quidditch player in - '

'A century,' Hermione finished abruptly. 'We know. Now, chances are we're looking in the late 1950s for a birth date. I went through and I found - ' she twisted the book around, ' – this.' She jabbed a finger at the writing and Harry and Ron squinted down together. Harry read aloud, but quietly:

'Minerva Gaia McGonagall,' Harry looked up, 'named after the Professor?'

'It was common - still is. McGonagall's one of the most powerful witches, well, ever, not to be too melodramatic. Makes sense.'

Harry nodded and continued.

'Born 1958, blah, blah, blah, same thing – daughter of Malcolm - Wait. There's something else.' Harry traced his finger across the line, 'Oh.'

'I know.' Hermione said.

'What?' Ron exclaimed and his friends hushed him, 'What?' he asked again, quieter.

'Minerva Gaia McGonagall,' Harry read, 'born May 10th 1958 in Caithness, Scotland to Malcolm and Catherine McGonagall. Died - April 6th 1971 – Quidditch injury.'

'Oh,' Ron breathed, paling. In unison, all three of them cast pitying glances at their Minerva, who was now speaking with Dumbledore.

'That explains it then. The plaque.' Hermione said, almost reverently, and the boys nodded.

'Explains why she's always so worried about Quidditch injures too. Fred and George told me, when Charlie got knocked off his broom in his last year, she ran onto the pitch. Said she's like that every match. Lee always looks at her when someone gets fouled. Says her lips get thinner than he's ever seen.'

'Maybe we're reading too much into it,' Hermione said. 'After all, McGonagall had her own injury.'

The boys looked at her blankly.

'Honestly, don't you two listen? She was talking about in Transfiguration last week. In her seventh year she was fouled by a Slytherin in the cup match. Concussion, broken ribs. That's why she's always so determined to beat Slytherin.'

Harry and Ron grinned. They had often thought their stern-faced professor a bit of a hard egg to crack, but learning about her life as a student seemed to dim that opinion. At eleven, they might just be coming to terms with the fact that teachers, though they sat on their powerful pedestals, were as human as anyone else. Hearing it from Hermione's lips was an altogether different thing:

'No wonder she snapped you up as Seeker, Harry. With the match today being against Slytherin. Bet she's thrilled.'

'Yeah, bet she is. But that puts a lot of pressure on me too, doesn't it?'

'Oh, Harry! You'll be great!' Hermione exclaimed. 'Just remember what I said: it's in your blood.'

Hermione snapped shut the tome on Scottish witches and wizards and lugged it into her bag as Harry fiddled with his bacon.

'So, that's all we know about M.G?' Harry asked, desperate to change the subject. Thinking about Quidditch was making his stomach churn.

'No. Of course she was named after her aunt. I looked her up in the old student records, the ones you can't check out. They're filed away in the back of the library. She was sorted into Gryffindor,' Ron made to say 'of course' but Hermione kept talking, 'Had a talent for Transfiguration and Charms, from what I could see of her grade sheet. Generally, a top student.'

'Reminds me of someone.' Ron mumbled and Harry smirked.

'Are her parents still alive?' Harry ventured, hoping not to hear more bad news. He was beginning to feel sorry for his Professor, who, to his knowledge, had never been married. He had the feeling that her niece's death would have hit her as hard as the death of a daughter.

'I don't know. They were then. I pulled up the article from the Prophet. As much as Fred and George joke, it's not that common for people to die in Quidditch matches. It said she was McGonagall's niece and all that, top student, black haired, blue-eyed. And it had a comment at the bottom – oh, what was it?' Hermione furrowed her brow and Harry waited, while Ron shovelled scrambled eggs into his mouth. 'Oh! It said: Miss McGonagall's parents, Mr and Mrs Malcolm McGonagall said of their loss: 'We are taking each day as it comes.'

That was it. Why?'

'Just – just curious I guess,' he murmured, looking up again at the table, where a rosy-cheeked McGonagall was chattering away, excited for the morning's match. He might have only known her for a few short weeks, but he had a feeling he was going to like her. In the face of adversity (no doubt more than they now knew) she'd been strong. She might seem stony-faced, but from what he'd seen she was strict but fair, kind and considerate, which was more than he could say for some teachers. When she'd come in on them with the troll the night before, she'd looked genuinely terrified, aghast. She obviously cared deeply about her students, even if she wasn't afraid to wither them with a glare or a well-placed remark. She'd been more than generous in her help with the broom and the team position. He was suddenly horrified that he might let her down. There was a silence and as Harry looked back at her, Hermione seemed to understand. She softly smiled at him, until she noticed he wasn't eating.

'Harry, you need to eat.'

In a rare moment of being food-free, Ron urged:

'Take a bit of toast, mate, go on.'

'Ron's right, Harry. You're gonna need your strength today.'

Speaking of some teachers…here Snape was now.

Watching Quidditch still sent a shiver down her spine, despite the excitement. Before 1971, she had been able to watch it with only minor discomfort, remembering her own bad luck. After then, she watched every fall and hit with dread in her heart. Before her eyes, each of them could be on the crashing plummet to death. It was silly she knew. Quidditch deaths hardly ever occurred. Never, really, here at Hogwarts. But it had happened once, not just to one of her cubs, but to her niece, to Malcolm's girl. The girl named for her that, with her hatred of the nicknames, had been called Min and Minnie in her place. It had torn a hole in her heart that still ached whenever one of them, no matter what house they were in, fell or hurt themselves.

The mistreatment of the Chasers - Miss Johnson, Miss Bell and Miss Spinnet - set her teeth on edge. But it was the blatant hitting of a Bludger at Oliver Wood, which sent him careering to the floor, that had her nervous. She watched him, uncharacteristically ignoring the game, until he was taken away carefully by Poppy and some Gryffindor helpers. She saw him move and breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't two minutes before Miss Johnson too was sent tumbling and she stood and breathed heavily, panicked, until she too was taken care of. Yet, she had not seen her move, and she sat, fidgeting and shaken, for the next few moments.

And then came the strangest occurrence: Potter's broom, Harry's broom, spiralling out of control, sending him this way and that, bucking and trying to throw him. Her hand went to her heart, her mouth was agape and as she watched him fall, in that half a second she was cursing herself for ever letting him play. But he grabbed hold of his broom and she sat with crossed fingers and anxious eyes, waiting for it, the broom she had had bought for him – oh Lord – to stop trying to dislodge him. Something was happening, someone had jinxed it, but at that moment she didn't care who. She just wanted him on the broom, she wanted him out of the game, if it meant her heart could stop doing somersaults in her chest. Suddenly he was back on, it had stopped and he was bolting after the Snitch. Her lips were still pursed, she was still trembling, but he was safe, they all were – for the moment.

They were ramming against one another and she watched with baited breath as they tore after the unseen object like the wind, grappling away. All of a sudden they were storming towards the ground and she would have cried out, had she not stopped herself at the last moment.

'Pull up, Potter! Pull up!' she thought to herself, shrieking at him in her mind while everyone in the stand stared on. There was a gasp – he was straight – he was standing on the broom – he was reaching out – he tumbled to the ground and through her concern she eagerly wondered if he'd caught it…if she could have a triumph over Slytherin. Oh, how she'd love to sneer in Severus' face, just once after these years of defeat. The boy was wretching and it threw her to her feet. This time she did exclaim aloud and thought: Please, God, don't let him have hurt himself…

Then, there it was, the Snitch! Rolanda was announcing and Lee was announcing and the scarlet and gold crowd were cheering…there was applause and shouting and chants. He'd done it, he was okay and so were the others. She'd made it through another match, they all had. And by Lord, they'd won, they'd actually won! She beamed widely, watching with barely covered glee the disappointment of the Slytherins. Clasping her hands she giggled (she rarely giggled) and shot a look of victory at Jordan who smiled back.

It was over, no-one was hurt. She could be at peace again and swim in the delight of it all.

Gryffindor won! We did it Min, we did it!

AN:

Well, what did you think? Random and a bit angsty I know, but I was watching the Quidditch match after and McGonagall just looked terrified every time something happened to one of the players. Review if you like it x