Title: Toujours Pur
By: The Courtezan
Rating: Mildly spicy. One chili pepper, tops.
Summary: Second gen. HP, spoilers through DH. I'm going with semi-canonical second-gen. Starting at the point of the epilogue of DH. Enjoy. I've tried my best.
"My Lord…my Lord…"
It was Bellatrix's voice, and she spoke as if to a lover."
--Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, American edition, page 724
"Thinks she summat special, don't she, with her little churchy rosary, all prettied up with jet and silver, eh, Maudie?"
"Right you are, Gretchen. Bit too snooty for my taste. Bet it's a fake one, too. Who ever heard of some little, dirty nubbin girl getting real jewelry?"
"If you could call it jewelry, Maudie, 'cause you can't even wear a rosary."
The two rather muscular girls, dressed in cast off clothing that was neat, if not fashionable, grinned at each other, then down at the rather peaky, pale 11 year old between them. Gretchen smirked as she rattled a slightly worn, black rosary over the smaller girl, and asked her, "Well, shrimp? Think this rosary makes you specialer than the rest of us orphans? Think it makes you higher than everyone else?"
"Give it back, Gretchen, please," she begged, "I didn't, I mean I wasn't trying to be uppity or nothin,' just showing it to Lizzie when she wanted to see…"
"Shut your trap, Morgan," snapped Maud, "We'll give it back when we're good and ready. After say, we try it on, perhaps?"
What little color Morgan had drained immediately. "Give it BACK!" She screamed, jumping up and down futilely, "It's mine!"
Gretchen smirked again, this time with malice, "Nothing here is yours, you twerp, or didn't you remember you're in a convent orphanage, and everything belongs to everyone? Innit that right, Maud?"
Maud grinned, "At least we say so, and who're you to argue, right milk-face?"
Morgan screamed and leapt towards an amused Gretchen in what should have been a useless attempt to get her rosary back. Instead, Morgan seemed to fly two feet up and slammed into the bigger girl's face. Gretchen yelled in pain as, with a sickening crunch, her nose gave way. Blood gushed everywhere as Morgan struggled to free her rosary from Gretchen's balled fist. Maud shrieked in rage as Morgan's foot accidentally clipped her knee and forced her to the ground, kicking and screaming as she tried to punch Morgan's stomach.
"I imagine you three would be willing to stop your brawling to direct me to Morgan Strangle, as well as the Mother Superior's office?"
As if by magic, the three girls immediately stopped fighting and rolled to face the stranger who addressed them. They were greeted by the sight of a tall, austere woman, dressed in tartan and carrying a narrow, black clutch in her right hand.
Gretchen slowly stood up and pointed at Morgan, who had somehow managed to grab the rosary. "Dat's Borgad Strangle, and she's broked by dose."
The woman leaned forward to examine Gretchen's face, wiggling her purse slightly with her fingers. "Nonsense. Your nose isn't broken. It's just fine, if a bit bloodied. Queen Elizabeth believed losing a bit of blood was healthy, now and again."
Gretchen opened her mouth to protest and was rudely interrupted by Maud.
"Gretch…your nose isn't broken at all…" Maud smiled dreamily, "'smatter of fact, nothing's broken, and nobody's hurt. We were just having a bit of fun…"
Gretchen narrowed her eyes and placed a hand on her nose, eager to point out the wrongs that had been committed against her. Much to her consternation, her nose was not only whole, but un-bloodied, and she could only vaguely recall why she was checking her nostrils in the first place. "I…I…"
"You were about to go fetch the Mother Superior," the austere woman reminded her, "And while you're at it, do please tie your hair ribbons."
Gretchen and Maud promptly ran off, slightly, and inexplicably disconcerted by the tartan-clad tigress.
"Miss?"
Professor McGonagall looked down at the rather mousy specimen of witchling standing in front of her. "Yes, my dear?"
"Why were you wanting to see me?"
McGonagall smiled, and placed one strong, thin arm upon the girl-child's shoulder. "Why don't we take a turn 'round the yard, hrmm?"
Morgan automatically complied. 11 years of Gretchen's bullying and Maud's shoving had taught her to comply when possible.
As the two traveled around the rather grubby lawn, Minerva took a deep breath and asked, "Morgan, dear, how long have you been at the abbey?"
Morgan blinked. She had been expecting something less blunt, something more along the lines of "My name is," or "How do you do?" Then again, nothing about this austere woman indicted normalcy, so Morgan supposed she had merely been lulled into a false sense of the ordinary.
"11 years, ma'am, since I was born. My mum left me on the front steps of the orphanage, wrapped up in a basket with nothing but this rosary and my name pinned to my blanket."
McGonagall nodded. "And that was it? No other note as to where your parents were from?"
Morgan shook her head. "No, miss. Nothing. Just the name and the rosary. Why?"
At this Minerva took a deep breath and paused, as if she was trying to figure out exactly what to say (which, in fact, she was). "Morgan…" she began, "do you believe in magic?"
Morgan looked at the woman in consternation. For someone who seemed so no-nonsense, that was a very nonsensical question. Then again…
"Well, ma'am, I suppose just as much as the next girl in this orphanage does. You have to believe in something around here. Some girls believe in God. I guess I do to…but I just…"
Minerva McGonagall looked over her spectacles at the small specimen of the girl before her. "You just what, Miss Strangle?"
Morgan glanced at her dusty, boot-clad toes before whispering, almost inaudibly, "I just wish being strange meant that there was something special about me."
McGonagall's eyes smiled, as she nodded in satisfaction. "Oh yes, m'dear. There is something special about you." Without another word, she handed Morgan a parchment letter with the Hogwarts crest on it. "Signed, sealed and delivered, I'm sure. You're a witch. Classes begin on September 1st."