Hello! I'm back. This is my new story about the same Minerva McGonagall and her life in Middle-Earth. I hope you'll enjoy, because I still don't have the full idea of what I should do with this... Anyway, enjoy!
P.S. Flashbacks are written in italics.
Forest of the Gods
Silence anew gently lulled her back to the deep slumber she had yet to awake from. Blades of grass gently brushed against her fingertips, warmth and energy flooded her body, numb and cold. The soothing chirp of birds, the light breeze of wind and the contrasting shrill whispers — all to drill through her prone skull.
Minerva McGonagall idly opened her emerald eyes. Crystal blue sky, blinding sun… Neither white ceiling, nor her silk sheets were among the objects of her sightings, seemingly.
These weren't the grounds of Hogwarts. And when she gathered herself to her feet and turned in full circle, Minerva knew that this wasn't anything even close to Scotland.
It was spring. She stood among the golden grass, in the depths of wavering meadow. It was warm, too warm for a morning such as this one. And there were mountains, range of snowy peaks rolled across the horizon and she could only gaze at them in wonder.
It was supposed to be late autumn.
Minerva let her gaze slide across her own arms. She held her wand, but stranger still, she wore a ring of gold with a burning stone of ruby. Her confusion only deepened as she traced the fabric of her cloak, obsidian and heavy as never, for hidden under was her attire — a tunic.
Minerva took a deep breath of the lukewarm air. She couldn't tell where the hell she was. Minerva McGonagall, the supposedly esteemed headmistress of Hogwarts, didn't know where she was, nor why she was here. Was this a dream? An illusion? Perhaps a trap? Unfortunately, she couldn't remember anything from last night; not a single fragment that could help her lay out the whole image crossed her mind.
With a sigh Minerva closed her eyes and thought of Hogwarts. A frown crossed her features for she was still here, in the golden meadow.
Damn it.
She tried to apparate again. No such luck.
"Do not move."
Minerva froze in place. She could sense them, all three of the group. But why hadn't she heard them approach?
"Drop your stick." Stick?
"That's my wand," she said. Her voice dropped dangerously low. Minerva spun on her heel in a sudden movement and cried out, "Stupefy!"
The tall, shaggy, dark-haired man fell to the ground, unconscious. "Expelliarmus!" A red bolt of light disarmed the seemingly small, red-head dwarf before he could even swing his axe. Within a second she turned to the blonde stranger and cast a shield of protection; the emerald arrow bounced off of it and sunk into the ground.
"Tell me, is there any particular reason why such an aberrant trio would attack a stranger?" Minerva questioned calmly, never lowering her wand from the chest of the blonde man. Neither did he lower his bow.
"Because you own what was never yours to possess," he said, drawing the string of his weapon tighter.
"Ay, lass," the dwarf said to her left, "the sword you have isn't yours."
Minerva cautiously turned her gaze to the object she hadn't noticed before. Indeed, not too far to her right lay a sword, its deep blue handle glistening in the middle of the golden meadow.
"Accio," she called and followed the weapon with her gaze. Her fingers softly brushed against the unfamiliar writing, carved into the depths of silver. Minerva couldn't tell how, but it seemingly wasn't the first time she held this sword in particular. "I may have given it to you if you hadn't ambushed me but a moment ago," she said, turning her gaze to the blue-eyed man. "Whom does it belong to?"
"It is none of your concern."
Minerva raised the sword to point at the slowly approaching dwarf. "The only way you may get this sword is if you are the owner."
"None of us are," the voice behind her said. "He's dead."
Minerva could sense the undeniable anguish among the trio; shadows of grief danced in their dim eyes as they gazed at her, defeated and weary.
"And his name?"
"Gandalf," the dark man said, inching to her right. "Gandalf the Grey. And the sword belongs to him."
Gandalf. Gandalf the… White?
"Whiskey with ice, if you may."
Minerva lowered her dim gaze to the half-empty glass of her scotch, neglecting the silvery voice to her right. Perhaps the Three Broomsticks wasn't the ideal place to spend an evening in for the Headmistress of Hogwarts, but everything could beat the empty and cold castle. Besides, it had some pretty good drinks.
"A lovely night, isn't it?"
Minerva downed the last of her drink. "Especially when you enjoy it in silence," she said, not bothering to meet his figure.
She could feel his smile that had risen after her words; light and soft, the kind that reached the eyes. And perhaps it didn't make any sense, but only because of that Minerva turned her head to her right.
Minerva was captivated by his gaze, to say the least. His silver eyes, kind and deep, burned under the dim lights of the bar as the brightest of flames. White hair framed his features, softened by the smile she could only imagine to be as mysterious; a neatly trimmed beard could only enrich the final picture. He wore a perfectly fitting three piece suit with a tie, impeccably white, admirably tailored. Plainly stunning.
"May I ask for your name?" he questioned lightly, reaching for her free hand.
"Minerva. Minerva McGonagall."
The merit behind his eyes was now as evident as the interest behind her own. "Gandalf the White," he said, bringing her hand to his lips. "A pleasure."
"I beg your pardon?" Minerva asked, gripping her wand tighter.
"This sword belongs to Gandalf the Grey," the man repeated.
She could feel her own bewilderment grow as she heard the words. Gandalf the Grey?
To add to Minerva's rising tumult, her thoughts and sentences under structure were cut off by the alarming galloping of horses. Who even rode horses these days?
"Come," the man behind her said. "We do not know who rides."
The four of them hid behind a large boulder, lurking in the shadows, waiting. Minerva still held the silver sword tight between her fingers.
All of this was just unbelievable.
The company of riders flew past them, golden banters billowing in the light breeze of morning. Surely, the leader of the trio Minerva had just met was already calling out his 'greetings' and third of a second after the four of them were surrounded from every side. So much for the hope of hospitality, Minerva mused, eyeing the drawn spears.
"What business does an elf, a man, a dwarf, and a woman have in the Riddermark?" the leader inquired audaciously. Ridder- what? "Speak quickly!"
Honestly, this day only got stranger and stranger.
"Give me your name, horse-master, and I shall give you mine," the dwarf replied. Minerva watched with interest how the man dismounted his horse and came to stand before the red-head dwarf.
"I would cut off your head, Dwarf," he sneered, "if it stood but a little higher from the ground."
The blonde, fast and with hair bright as lightning, drew an arrow, aiming at the chest of the one threatening. "You would die before your stroke fell."
Minerva inwardly raised an eyebrow. The dramatic scene that was unfolding before her very eyes could undoubtedly outmatch the ones of those soapy romance novels.
The shaggy man held back the hand of the archer. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn," he said. "This is Gimli, son of Gloin, and Legolas of the Woodland Realm. And this is…" he hesitated and turned his questioning gaze to her, waiting an answer to the unpleasant pause.
"Minerva McGonagall."
"Minerva McGonagall," the man continued. "We are friends of Rohan and of Théoden, your king." Oh, yes. The monarch ruler of England, Queen Elizabeth II, must have had changed her name. And gender, in kind.
"Théoden no longer recognizes friend from foe," the leader of the company of riders answered, taking his helmet off. "Not even his own kin." The rest of the group raised their spears. "Saruman has poisoned the mind of the king and claimed lordship over these lands. My company are those loyal to Rohan. And for that, we are banished. The White Wizard is cunning. He walks here and there, they say, as an old man, hooded and cloaked. And everywhere, his spies slip past our nets."
"We are no spies," Aragorn said. "We track a party of Uruk-hai westward across the plain. They have taken two of our friends captive."
Minerva felt a light pang of her heart. Perhaps she should had just given the sword back, avoiding the fight.
"The Uruks are destroyed. We slaughtered them during the night."
"But there were two Hobbits!" Gimli cried out. "Did you see two Hobbits with them?"
"They would be small," Aragorn added. "Only children to your eyes." Children?
The armored man shook his head. "We left none alive. We piled the carcasses and burned them."
Grief. Sadness. Death. All of what Minerva had tried to escape for months from came back to invade her senses.
"Dead?" the dwarf asked in disbelief.
The rider only solemnly nodded. "I am sorry," he said and whistled after a moment. Three horses were lead into the center of the gathering. "May these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters. Farewell." The man put on his helmet and swiftly mounted his horse. "Look for your friends. But do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands," he said to the four of them. "We ride north!"
And with those words the men rode away. To north, apparently.
Minerva hid her wand; the trio was as much of a threat to her as the golden leaf beside her feet.
"What did you mean by 'Gandalf the Grey'?" she questioned, handing Aragorn the sword. "I thought he called himself 'White'?"
"You can keep it. We don't have any use for it," the man told her, mounting his horse. "And no, I am most certain he had always been grey. Perhaps you've met Saruman."
"Dismiss my words," Minerva said. The light pain behind her eyes was one the many proofs that she should, too. "But I might still be in need of directions."
"Ride with us," Legolas interjected, holding the rein of his and Gimli's horse. "We could use your tricks in search of our friends." So now Minerva was but a magician, with the ability to pull a bloody rabbit out of a hat?
"Then you shall get your directions," Aragorn added. "And answers."
Not if your friends are dead, no.
"Very well," she said after a minute of battling her own thoughts. "Do not make me regret this." Minerva walked to the obsidian black horse who looked threateningly wild — wait.
How did one ride a horse?
Death had been following Minerva McGonagall long before she was even born. Even at a time like this, her emerald eyes gazed at the trails of dark crimson, splattered on the wilted grass and bodies that lay everywhere. She couldn't escape it. Not even here.
When Minerva very carefully dismounted her wild horse, the odd trio were already sprinting towards the gloomy forest ahead; fortunately, their friends seemedto be alive. She didn't have to use her tricks yet, but her heightened senses told that she might — the wood didn't look very inviting and rather reminded of the Forbidden one. And although without any wish, Minerva still followed the company into it.
"Fangorn forest," Aragorn spoke as she neared them.
"What madness drove them in here?" Gimli threw a rhetorical question. His fingers brushed against one of the dark, splattered leaves and the dwarf tasted the crimson liquid. "Orc blood." He spat in disgust.
Minerva cautiously looked around, wandering under the tall, silver trees and their mysterious shadows. They were speaking.
"This forest is old. Very old," Legolas said ahead of her. "Full of memory and anger."
"I would be angry as well if someone threatened me with an axe," Minerva answered, eyeing Gimli's slightly furious expression.
"Gimli!" Aragorn called. "Lower it." The dwarf slowly obeyed.
The blonde cried out a few incomprehensible words — Latin? Spanish? French?
"The white wizard approaches," he said normally. Finally, a fellow wizard. On the other hand, for all she had already seen it might have been a magician for children's birthdays.
Aragorn shifted, his body tensed in sudden awareness. "Do not let him speak. He will put a spell on us."
Minerva sighed inwardly, pulling out her trustworthy wand. "He won't," she murmured, focusing her powers for a sensible duel.
The trio drew their weapons — the same ones that they had tried to murder her with.
Aragorn gave an inessential hand gesture. "We must be quick."
Bright light blinded Minerva's eyesight as she whipped her wand for a spell of attack. The others dropped their weapons in alarm; they were all left defenseless. Except for her wand, still up for the task of destroying the one before her.
"You are tracking the footsteps of two young Hobbits," the possible enemy said.
Aragorn clenched his fists in fury. "Where are they?!"
"They passed this way the day before yesterday. They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?" Not a single one of their company, apparently.
"Who are you? Show yourself!" Aragorn called once again.
The light faded and the three beside Minerva gasped.
Surprise, surprise.
A.N. So, what do you think? Should I go on with this story, or no?