A/N: written for the first week of The Whodunit Elimination Competition on HPFC
Prompt: Write about your character being forced to lie to cover something up that they did not do.
Minerva's life was like a piece of dry parchment, filled neatly with clear handwriting of some common Ministry worker– it was planned out, logical and predictable to the tiniest detail. And she was quite fond of it. Everything that went beyond the limits and threatened to disturb the usual flow of events caused her irritation. MacGonagall would frown, purse up her mouth into the thin line and try to rebuild the familiar order as fast as she possibly could. But she didn't always succeed. And today was one of those days when almost everything went beyond her control.
The situation was bizarre. Today was the day the former Order of the Phoenix grieved over the death of the talented witch and brilliant teacher, one of the first victims of the Second Wizarding War. Over the death of noble Charity Burbage. Today, 10 years since the date of her official death, she also actually died in Minerva's kitchen.
As usual, Minerva woke up with the dawn – she always believed it was due to the fact that her Animagus form was a cat (somehow, from the very childhood she considered cats to be morning animals). It was a cold and gloomy daybreak, and the weather suited her mood perfectly, for MacGonagall was going to be bitter and dull for the rest of the day. It was who Minerva was – a planner. And even her melancholy was planned down to a certain deadline. There was a time for joy, and there was a time for sadness, as an ancient proverb went, and the woman preferred those times to be structured.
The Ministry was about to hold pompous and rather pointless, if Minerva dared say to herself, celebration in honor of the War victims in two days. The speeches would be given and the stomachs would be filled with food, and at the end of the night the room would be full of drunken wizards. Why it was meant to be a celebration was beyond her comprehension.
But today, however, their small group – the leftovers from the Order, as Mr. Ronald Weasley once said – was going to hold their very own and private commemoration. She herself was the foundress of this event – after all, Charity was her close friend from the first year of Hogwarts, and it was only right to glorify her name in 10 years anniversary. Minerva needed to check out everything once again – Miss Granger volunteered to help her with the organization, but MacGonagall still preferred to rely on herself rather than someone else. Double-check never caused any harm anyway.
With that in mind, she crossed her living-room and entered the kitchen only to find someone, who was meant to be lying in the grave, on the floor of her cuisine. Minerva froze up with her hand on her hip, searching unconsciously for the wand she left in her bedroom.
But… But it couldn't be!
Charity – oh God, no, it couldn't be her, did she go insane eventually? - was sitting on the floor, the mud all over her. She was whispering something to herself in a strange husky voice; it sounded broken, as if her vocal cords could not work properly anymore. It seemed she didn't even notice Minerva's presence. The woman bit her lower lip, cursing silently about forgetting her wand. She was hardly guilty though – how could she have possibly foreseen something like that? She wasn't bloody Trelawney, for Merlin's sake!
The… the creature –no living being was supposed to look like that - slowly raised its head. There was almost to no hair on her balding scalp. Her clothes were dark from the dirt and torn in some places; Minerva couldn't even decide whether they were Muggle styled or Wizarding. Her nails, she noticed, were black with mud under them, gnawed and scratchy. She was inhumanly thin, and yet her eyes were the scariest part of her appearance. Mad and wide, they reminded her strongly of the eyes of those, tortured with Cruciatus almost to death. Those were the eyes of someone sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss. Minerva then forced herself not to wrinkle when the terrific odor finally reached her nose. This woman was probably made to live on streets, hiding from something… or rather someone.
Inhaling deeply, MacGonagall straightened her posture. She wondered briefly about the fact that her Fidelius charm didn't alert her that someone was demanding entrance in her house, though if that was really Burbage, which she doubted, it wouldn't have worked anyway – Charity was the first Secret Keeper, and even though after her 'death' Minerva passed the position to Severus, if the woman was still alive, she would go through the charm easily. But it couldn't be. MacGonagall frowned, a deep wrinkle on her forehead. Had she gone psychotic? Had she missed the alert? Had she…
"Minnie?" the woman on the floor – Minerva didn't want to acknowledge it was her dead friend – said tentatively. "Is that you?"
"Yes," she replied hesitantly, never leaving the doors. "What are you doing here, Char?"
Burbage beamed at her friend happily.
"I was searching for you, of course. It's bargain sale at Flourish and Blotts. Did you forget? How could you?" she was angry suddenly, saliva spit on her chin, eyes mad. "We go there every month since the third year, and yet you always forget!"
Minerva was scared suddenly. She was wandless, and there was a crazy witch in her kitchen. The situation felt unrealistic. For a second she thought that her bones became as cold as the weather outside. Today she was about to grieve over the death of her former best friend, and now that very friend was sitting in her kitchen. In her bloody kitchen! Her hand twitched for the wand, an unconscious gesture of self-defense. MacGonagall didn't understand what was going on, and when she didn't understand something, she was either frightened or angry.
It was indeed Charity. It had to be, for only the two of them knew about this affair over the bookstore. And yet she couldn't believe it. She wanted to grab the woman on her floor, throw her through the front doors of her house and forget that this incident ever took place. It couldn't be. It shouldn't be. Yet here she was, facing the dead person.
Burbage suddenly sobbed, grabbing a fistful of her thin hair, tears mixed with dirt rolling down her cheeks.
"It was me, you know," she murmured quietly after some time passed. Minerva eyed her warily – it wasn't the witch she once knew as her friend, and she couldn't let herself behave carelessly in her presence. The war instincts kicked in – she didn't outlive both Wizarding Wars because she had pretty eyes, after all. While watching the figure on the floor cautiously, she calmly started to analyze the possible outputs of this situation. For a whole minute, they both fell silent. The woman was trembling and sobbing heavily. Minerva fought the impulse to comfort her – it was too dangerous to step anywhere near her. Who knew what she was hiding under those castoffs? Minerva couldn't think of anything to help their case. There was nothing. Zero. Zip. Dead end. There was no possible explanation as to why Burbage was in there. She was dead. She must've been dead.
A spark of doubt flashed through Minerva's mind. The Order, after all, never really found the body. They just assumed Charity Burbage was dead; considering the times they were living in, it was the most logical guess. They picked the date of her death themselves. But they never really found the body. The thought circulated through her brains over and over again.
Charity began speaking though faintly, once again, when a wave of crying finally weakened enough for her to be able to pronounce coherent words. Her murmuring was in times so hushed Minerva couldn't quite part the words, but what she did catch didn't make any sense at all:
"When the Dark Lord tried to catch me… I… I was so scared… I didn't mean to… Minnie, I swear! I didn't mean to harm him."
"What did you do, Char?" she asked, her voice calm and soothing. MacGonagall figured out Burbage was talking about the time when Death Eaters tried to trap her. They obviously failed though. And if Charity did something to a Death Eater, she sure as hell wasn't going to sympathize with him.
"I… I…" she started mumbling anew, and it was threatening to explode into yet another wave of weeping.
MacGonagall started to loose her patience. Nothing was making sense, and she felt herself exposed and defenseless. If it really was Charity, and if she did escape the trap, why the hell did she pop up in her kitchen only in 10 bloody years?
"What did you do?" she demanded harshly.
Burbage covered her mouth with her hands.
"I… I…"
"What. Did. You. DO?" Minerva was practically screaming, her body trembling with rage. It wasn't exactly her idea of a perfect meeting with an old friend she didn't see for many years, but she couldn't help herself.
"I transfigurated him!" Charity squeaked.
"You did what?" Minerva asked, thinking she might've misheard the woman.
"I transfigurated him," she shook her head. "He was just a Muggle, - just a Muggle - never knew what was coming on him…"
Minerva shut her eyes tightly. Human transfiguration was the biggest challenge about the subject. And the most dangerous one, for it was irrevocable. In Hogwarts years, they experimented frequently on magical matters, and that was one of the reasons Charity was stuck with the pink hair color for the rest of her life, though she genuinely liked it. If Charity transfigurated a man, he was never going to look the same ever again. MacGonagall didn't want to know what exactly she changed about his appearance, for the process was definitely painful for that Muggle, and she certainly didn't want to know the details. The conversation was becoming more chaotic with every passing second, and it felt as if her brain was on fire.
Meanwhile, the woman continued to talk more evenly now, as if admitting her crime made the burden ease from her shoulders. Minerva never opened her eyes. She thought she could predict what Burbage was going to say next, and though it didn't disgust her, it did leave her shaken.
"They were following me… I was so scared, Minerva. So scared…" she made a pause. "You can't even imagine - " MacGonagall laughed bitterly on that one. She most certainly could imagine. Charity looked at her but didn't comment. "So… I figured… I figured they didn't know how I looked like – I'm a Muggleborn, after all – and there were little of no photos with me, and every one of them was in your possession… So… I…"
"You saw a Muggle and decided that handing him to the Dark Lord would save you," Minerva finished coldly.
"I didn't mean to!" Charity cried loudly. "Oh, I hated you so much because if this… This… You and your immediate judging! As if you yourself are so clear and innocent! Ha!"
"Calm down, Char," she tried peacefully but was almost instantly cut down.
"No, I won't calm down!" she shouted, rising slowly from the floor. Minerva backed down a bit. "All those years… All those fucking years… Do you even know what I was through? Did you even try to imagine what I was through?" she didn't give her time for answering. "No, you didn't! You're always so right and perfect and disdainful… After all those years, I came to you. You! And what did you do?" Minerva sobbed, hot tears streaming down her cheeks because of the harsh words. Because of the truth behind them. "You shouted at me! You looked down on me! Or do you think I didn't notice those scornful looks of yours? Do you think I'm that insane?" she laughed madly, and Minerva's blood went cold. She could run to her bedroom for the wand but figured out it was too late, for the witch was now slowly – predatory – approaching her, stains of dirt covering the kitchen floor after her. "Always like that… I was always beneath you… Always inferior…"
"Char…" MacGonagall whispered weakly.
"Don't you 'Char' on me!" the woman barked, fetching the wand from her clothes and waving it threateningly. Minerva eyed the piece of wood guardedly, everything in her head spinning on blur. "I thought you would finally – finally – listen to me! But nooo, you're just as selfish now as you were in school. And you know what? I won't tell you anything."
She smiled wickedly and then whispered breathily, stopping only a foot away from the place Minerva was currently standing,
"I won't tell you, and that would be the best torture for you. You won't know. Doesn't it sound terrible? You won't bloody know! Just picture that – High and Mighty Minerva MacGonagall not knowing something, not knowing something important and vital. Poor you," she tapped her chin with the tip of her wand thoughtfully. "Yeah. That would be the best solution. You didn't want to listen to me, so you won't ever hear me at all."
With that said, she pointed her wand at Minerva's chest – God, she was helpless, she was completely and utterly helpless; no wand, no aid coming, nothing – and then, while muttering an incantation, she swiftly moved the wand to point at her own torso. It took six seconds – six bloody seconds – for her self-invented Electricity Charm (the one she worked on so painstakingly and lovingly over the years) to stop working, for there was no caster left anymore. Charity's body shook and trembled violently, and several electric discharges made contact with Minerva's skin. Six seconds passed. She stared at the body on her floor, black with burns - they never found the body – and smelling like cooked meat.
"Minerva?" she heard the voice spreading from the hall – Merlin, what was going on, a body on her floor, on her kitchen floor, Charity…
That was probably Miss Granger. She recalled she should've come to her. MacGonagall stepped over the corpse and closed the doors to the kitchen.
"I…" she figured she must say something in response. "I..."
Hermione Granger looked at her curiously, switching the keys to her house.
"Are you cooking something?" she asked, rising her nose. "Smells good."
"Yes. Sort of," she lied. Miss Granger narrowed her eyes at her, taking in her trembling figure – no, she couldn't know, how could she know, it was impossible – and then smiled sympathetically.
"Minerva, you shouldn't let yourself worry so much," Hermione embraced her shoulders gently and walked her to the living-room. "I understand that Professor Burbage was your best friend, and it's an important day for you, but in your age…"
Miss Granger left in two hours after everything about the commemoration was discussed and arranged. She mentioned how wonderful of a Professor Charity was several times, and Minerva fought hard not to scream.
Why was Charity hiding for 10 years? What happened with the Muggle? How come no one ever registered the springs of her magic in 10 years? Did Voldemort figure he killed the wrong person? – They were all studying in Hogwarts at the same time, after all. How did Charity break in her house? Why didn't Fidelius let her know someone was in her home? Questions, questions, questions. And no answers.
Maybe Charity wasn't so wrong, after all.
Minerva didn't enter the kitchen for three hours, trying to understand what had happened and failing constantly. She was afraid to go to her cuisine, afraid to deal with what was waiting her there.
In three days, she would be hysterical, and in a week Severus would force her to admit to St. Mungo. In six months she'd go insane, her mind not able to digest all her memories from both Wizarding Wars and post-war events anymore, stuck in some horrific sort of a nightmare. She would be quite old in six months – she already was, so the Healers wouldn't doubt that her brain crashed because of age and emotional traumas she endured during her life. They probably would be right.
There was one thing for sure though –
They would never really find the body…
A/N: took from hpwikia on Charity Burbage: Sometime before 27 July, Charity Burbage's alleged resignation from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was briefly mentioned of the front page of the Daily Prophet. However, members of the Order of the Phoenix did not believe it, as they were unable to locate her anywhere after the summer. It is unknown whether Burbage's true fate was ever uncovered and revealed to the wizarding world after the Second Wizarding War.
Beta-reading required. Any volunteers? *hopeful puppy eyes*