Copyright: What elements of this story that I own, and are not the property of anyone else, are licensed CC-BY-NC-SA. That means that you can take anything in this story, up to and including the whole thing, and use it however you like, as long as you promise me three things:
1. You will link back to me (preferably to my author page)
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3. You will share your work under these same conditions

Two admin notes: First off, I uploaded an old version of the prologue, which contained an element that had been changed in a recent revision. I'll spare you the effort of going back, because it's a small thing: Alastor was born in 1932, not 1933. Secondly, this is the only chapter that I have pre-written, so don't get used to this six-hour update cycle.

This chapter's got some more meat to it than the last one, so hopefully it'll get a little more attention. Don't forget to leave a comment telling me what you think. Enjoy!


Chapter 1: The Hogwarts Express

1 September, 1944

"Honestly mother, is this really necessary?"

"Of course it is dear; you want to look your best on your first day. First impressions are everything, you know."

Minerva McGonagall grimaced, but held back the biting reply that danced on the tip of her tongue. There was no use arguing with her mother, the woman was from an older, more stubborn generation. The older woman tutted softly to herself, clearly formulating some silent grievance against the insolence of youth today, as she deftly twirled her wand about her daughter's hair. Such cheek would not have been tolerated in her day, no sir.

Minerva, despite her mother's overbearing ministrations and overwhelming application of makeup, was by no means an unattractive young woman, even at the tender age of 11. Her hair, which was typically kept in a severe bun and not the flirtatious ringlets it had recently been coerced into, was a most uncommon shade of brown, and her bright green eyes, well-set in an aristocratically angular face, peered keenly from behind sharp square spectacles. Her figure was larger than she would have liked and remained undeveloped, despite the best efforts of the ludicrous corset forced upon her by her mother. While neither of these things were surprising in an eleven-year-old witch, Minerva often mused privately that it infuriated her mother and her plans to marry her off to some aristocratic pure-blood. As can well be imagined, this was hardly a source of guilt for the wilful young woman.

Nevertheless, it was an exciting day: her first day of school. As was the custom among all the best pure-blood families in Britain, the only child of the McGonagall line was being sent to the finest (and most expensive) institution in the entire magical world, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, to be taught the intricacies of magic by a host of the finest sorcerers in the British Isles. Alternately, as her mother saw it, it was a 6200-galleon-per-year investment in match-making. Alas that was the common thinking of the day: women should be seen more than they should be heard, and school for them was a place of social growth; form some friendships with other women, find yourself a husband, and possibly learn a little bit about the way the world is made, if you can find the time; become a society wife: arm candy for a rich pureblood, with nothing substantial going on between your ears, and be set for life.

But that would not be Minerva's fate, not while there was breath in her body. Males were the farthest thing from her mind, except for when her single-minded mother would take her for "playdates" with young boys with old money. Even then, she had little interest. Her mother expected her to watch primly and politely as fat, snot-nosed children shoved mud into their mouths, but as soon as the old woman had her back turned, little Minerva was off like a shot, either to the library or outside to the woods. Either was preferable to abetting the kind of gluttony promoted by the old pureblood houses.

No, Minerva would make something of her life. Like Galatea Merrythought, the first female Hogwarts professor since the school's founding, or Bathilda Bagshot, the first widely-published female historian, Minerva McGonagall had vowed for as long as she could remember that she would put her education to use, rather than becoming an empty-headed baby factory.

"Minerva!" Her mother's sharp reprimand brought the young lady back to Earth. "Stand up straight for your Father."

For all her professed independence, she complied instantly to this command as Robert McGonagall strode purposefully into the room. It was for this man, her model of masculinity, that all of Minerva's ambition was directed towards impressing.

Major Robert McGonagall, recipient of no less than seven medals for bravery and gallantry in military service, was one of only a handful of wizards who enlisted with the British Army at the very beginning of the Great War. In three years of service, he led a massive percentage of a 150-man company to their heroic deaths against the Germans, and returned having left one of his hands in the French countryside. Since then, he fulfilled many typical activities of a wealthy pureblood: serving on the Wizengamot, the Board of Governors for both Hogwarts and St. Mungo's, and a great deal of time smoking and drinking at gentleman's clubs. To get his approval was considered a rare distinction in British pureblood society, one Minerva herself had never received, and in forty years no one could recall seeing him smile.

Now, even on the morning of his only child's very first day of formal magical education, was no different. Minerva watched his dark eyes scan her, taking in the results of her mother's ministrations and the way the elegant, bottle-green dress skimmed her usually-full frame, now tightened by the corset, watched his thin mouth grow still thinner as she curtsied, and heard his low voice utter nothing more than "Passable" before he turned on his heel and was gone again.

She had no time to dwell on her disappointment, however, as the ancient grandfather clock in the corner chimed 10:45, sending Isobel McGonagall into a state of utter panic for the lateness of the hour. Nevertheless, the elder woman took her daughter in one hand and her daughter's heavy trunk in the other, and apparated to King's Cross Station, Platform nine-and-three-quarters with better than ten minutes to spare.

The platform, needless to say, was a cacophonous riot of bustle and noise. The process of getting three hundred students, plus luggage, onto a single train in time for a prompt departure, all the while with concerned parents, well-wishers, owls, rats, toads, cats, dogs, and house elves milling about is destined to be some manner of chaos, as indeed it was, made little better by the perpetual fear of attack by Grindewald's Magische Vereinigten army. Even in the heart of London there was no safety from the raids.

"Now Minerva," the elderly woman cautioned as the pair wove expertly through the crowd, a technique honed by years of attending Ministry functions, "If you hear the sirens, find a secured place and take cover. Let the Aurors handle the raid; you're much too young for that sort of thing."

Minerva nodded absently; all of the safety measures had been outlined in her letter of admission. The decision to keep Hogwarts open despite the Blitz by the muggle armies and the raids by the magical ones had been controversial enough that Headmaster Dippet had been forced to implement certain policies: in the event Hogwarts was breached, warded raid shelters would be made available and all students were to make their way to the nearest one and lay low. A contingent of Aurors assigned to the castle would then spring into action to combat the dark wizards.

Minerva personally was none too concerned; Hogwarts had among the best defences in the Magical world, rivalling those of the Ministry itself, and second only to Gringott's in strength. Barring Grindewald himself, she doubted there was any force in the world that could breach the castle.

"I certainly hope nothing happens," her mother continued, "But if it does, just remember that you have the finest wizards in the land guarding you. You'll be quite safe."

With that nugget of wisdom firmly in mind, Minerva had her trunk loaded onto the scarlet train, and had time for a stiff and uncomfortable hug before she boarded. Eager to be away from her overly-worried mother, and well ahead of both the crowd of boarding students and the 11:00 departure, Minerva had no difficulty in finding an empty compartment, pulled a thick leather-bound book from the small valise of intimately personal effects that had accompanied her, and promptly drifted away from the world.

In what seemed like no time at all, a long blast of the train's horn and a sharp jerk signified the beginning of her trip, and hardly any time after that, the door to her compartment opened most unexpectedly.

Startled, Minerva looked up from her book to witness the most singular individual entering, closing the door, and taking a seat without so much as a "how-do-you-do." The individual was a boy, which was surprising enough in itself, and the most awkward and uncouth boy Minerva had ever seen. A tartan carpet bag was clasped in his hands, rough from labour and far too large from his thin frame, which was alternately straining out of or drowning within well-worn and filth-encrusted wool clothes.

Had he kept his back straight he would have stood some inches higher than Minerva, but his slouch and arched back ensured they would remain at eye-level. His hair, which was an admittedly not-unattractive rusty auburn, had clearly been most recently cut by pruning shears, no earlier than six months prior, and didn't appear to have been washed since well before that. Despite his filthy appearance, which caused Minerva to unconsciously draw back her feet as he slumped past her, his broad shoulders hinted that he would be an imposing figure at full height, and he was not wholly unattractive.

She would have liked to get a glimpse of the stranger's eyes, but they never once so much as flicked towards her, remaining fixated out the window, watching the world go by. In fact this mysterious boy gave no indication that he even realized he was sharing the compartment.

"I beg your pardon," Minerva finally broke the uncomfortable (to her) silence. Her companion didn't even twitch. "But is it common, where you're from, to barge into a lady's compartment unannounced, seat yourself without her invitation, and not even acknowledge her very presence?" She winced internally; she sounded like her mother.

The boy was silent for a moment. "Seemed quiet." He finally grunted. His voice was quiet, and more gruff than an eleven-year-olds had any right to be, and hinted of Ireland.

Taken aback by his brusqueness, Minerva pressed on. "It doesn't strike you as rude, at all?"

"Nowhere else to sit." He replied simply, still not looking at her.

"Nowhere?"

He didn't answer, just shook his head slightly.

Minerva was about to huff, as her mother often did, but she checked herself. It her first day, and his as well by the looks of it; she had never much cared for her mother's etiquette anyway. "Very well, but I would at least like to know your name." A beat. Two. Three. "My name is Minerva. McGonagall." She supplied.

He finally turned to look at her. His face was flat and square, as though it had been carved from a particularly stubborn bock of granite. He wasn't exactly unattractive, for his age, but nor was he a heartbreaker. His eyes, though small and black, were diminished by dark circles and the beginnings of wrinkles, but there was a light to them, a fire of passion that hinted at the man behind the filth. "Alastor." He replied shortly.

A thousand questions burned in Minerva's mind. Where was he from, who were his parents, was he excited to begin Hogwarts, and others, but before they could leave her tongue, the compartment door opened once more.

No new face appeared in the entranceway, merely a folded piece of parchment floating in the air. It flapped into the compartment, looked about, and landed neatly in Minerva's lap. Curious, the young lady opened it and began to read:

Dear Miss McGonagall,

It would do me great honour if you were to attend a little get-together today, on the way to the castle. I have read the most extraordinary things about your father, and I am positive that you are an equally remarkable young lady. I and my similarly remarkable acquaintances, some of your fellow students, will be holding a little party in Compartment C until shortly before arrival. I do hope you will consider attending; I promise you will not regret it.

Regards,

Professor Horace Slughorn, Master of Potions

She considered a moment, but her complete lack of friends, indeed of any acquaintances beyond the mysterious Alastor, won over. Indeed, she was halfway out the door before etiquette stopped her. "Would you care to accompany me?" She inquired of her companion. He gave no reply, continuing to stare out the window at the passing trees. Giving up, she turned away and hadn't gone more than a half dozen steps before the truly noxious odour of unwashed man indicated that she was being followed. "I didn't think you were interested."

"Changed me mind." Alastor responded simply, and that was that.

The "party", such as it was, was less than remarkable. Professor Slughorn, a short, fat man with the most ludicrously oversized handlebar moustache Minerva had ever seen, had set the compartment up with a great quantity of hors d'oeuvres, and was currently attempting to navigate his enormous stomach around the fifteen or twenty other students he had gathered. Minerva recognized some of them: Amelia Bones, a fellow first-year, and her brother Edgar, a fourth-year, whose father was a decorated Hit Wizard; several old purebloods with fathers in high places, including Jonathan Avery, a fifth-year, the unfortunately-named Lewis Lestrange, a seventh-year, William Nott, a fourth-year, and Gabriel Mulciber, another first-year. Two of the Black children, seventh-years Alphard and Dora, were also in attendance, with seventh-year Charlus Potter hanging off of Dorea's arm.

There were also many she didn't recognize, particularly an aristocratically handsome Slytherin with dark hair and darker eyes standing out against his pale skin, surrounded by the four non-Black purebloods Minerva had noticed earlier. It was to him that the professor was currently speaking, and the easy manner of conversation between them suggested that this boy was one of Slughorn's favourites. But then the fat man turned, saw his newest arrivals, and bustled towards them quickly.

"Minerva McGonagall!" He exclaimed, his moustache quivering in delight, "I'm so glad you decided to join my little soiree. Tell me dear, how is your father these days?"

Minerva bristled at being referred to as 'dear,' but opted not to comment. "Father is well; keeping busy, of course." Slughorn nodded his understanding. The way his moustache flopped a few seconds behind the rest of him was distracting. "I would like to thank you for the invitation. You seem to surround yourself with impressive people; I am honoured to be considered their equal."

The moustache twitched impressively, likely indicating that its owner was beaming with pride at her compliments. "You absolutely are, my dear." Minerva bristled again. "Your father was one of my first students, a great wizard, one of the best in England to be sure." He gestured to the table behind them. "Please, help yourself to yourself to some snacks. It appears as though your…servant…has already discovered them." The moustache fell with that comment, and Minerva turned to see why.

Alastor had, indeed, found the food. He already looked as though he didn't belong, his filthy, common clothes standing in stark contrast to the well-dressed and high-born witches and wizards around him, but he was not making himself look any better by devouring everything he could reach, which was indeed what he had done. Minerva had turned just in time to see him closely inspect a small canapé, sniff it as a dog would sniff an unfamiliar treat, and then swallow it whole.

Minerva bit back a grimace. "He's not my servant. He's my…friend." What exactly was Alastor to her? Friend seemed close enough, but unexpected companion was closer to the mark. Eager to change the subject, Minerva turned back around and gestured discretely towards the pale boy. "Tell me Professor, to whom were you speaking when I first arrived?"

Slughorn's eyes lit up. "I'm so glad you asked, my dear. Come, come, you must meet him. Tom!" The boy turned as the portly professor led Minerva in his direction. "Tom, I'd like you to meet Miss Minerva McGonagall. Her father, Robert, was a student when I first started at Hogwarts, and one of the finest wizards I've ever met."

The pale boy inclined ever so slightly in greeting. "Tom Riddle. I'm delighted to make your acquaintance. Any friend of the professor's is someone worth knowing, in my opinion." Tom had a pleasant, fluid voice and a familiar manner that made it easy to like him, and he wasn't bad-looking either, but the longer she was around him, the less comfortable Minerva felt. His smiles, though warm and frequently given, never seemed completely genuine, and there was always an edge behind his eyes, betraying the fact that his warmth was merely a front.

And then Tom's eyes flicked over her shoulder, and the smile slipped from his face. Suddenly he was no longer the suave gentleman, but a coiled serpent. "And what," he spat, almost venomously, "Is that?"

Slughorn tapped the boy on the shoulder. "Manners, Tom. This is Miss McGonagall's…er, friend. Mr.…"

"Alastor." Alastor broke in from behind Minerva, offering his hand for Riddle to shake.

The older boy did no such thing. "Charmed." He was clearly nothing of the sort, but in a moment the façade returned, and he was charismatic Tom Riddle once more. "If you'll excuse me, professor, I believe that Mr. Potter and Miss Black are departing for the prefect's meeting, and they will not be pleased if I am late." With a firm shake of the professor's hand, a passing smile at Minerva, and a scathing glance at Alastor, he was gone, his entourage following from a short distance.

"What a boy." Slughorn seemed oblivious to the animosity shown by Riddle. "He'll be Head Boy next year, dare I say it, and who knows what after that? That boy will do great things, I swear it to you."

Minerva was forced to agree, but after seeing the merest glimpse of what was behind his public face, she had to wonder what manner of great he would be.