Chapter 2: June
June 1st
Minerva had always done her best thinking as a cat. The theory was inconclusive, and experiences varied amongst animagi, but for Minerva, existing in her animal form gave her a clarity she could never quite experience as a human. Not to mention, no one thought to bother a cat.
She wandered the Hogwarts grounds, the grass wet with dew beneath her paws. Pieces of stone were strewn over the lawn, along with the remnants of the suits of armor Minerva had animated during the battle. Minerva paused at each one, sniffing it.
For some reason, this mess reminded Minerva of her mother. Isobel Ross, from everything she had heard from the age of eleven, had been a remarkable witch. But Minerva didn't have those memories - memories of her mother's experimental charms, her aptitude for healing potions. Instead, the only memories she possessed were of her mother bent double, hair tied back with a rag, scrubbing the kitchen floor by hand. If her cloth had moved a little quicker than normal, if her bucket of soapy water never seemed to run out, her husband, Robert Sr., never noticed.
Minerva had been holding the family cat, a gray tabby that looked much like she did now (minus the spectacles) when her father found out. Minerva had received her Hogwarts letter and her brothers Rob and Malcolm had begun to show their own magical aptitude. It was no longer possible to hide.
From her spot in the hallway, through a crack in the door to her parents' bedroom, Minerva saw Isobel reach under the bed and pull out a long, narrow box. It was the first wand Minerva ever saw - and certainly the first for her father.
What ensued hadn't been a row - not really - but it did mark a change in the McGonagall household. Robert Sr. had stood dumbfounded, his mouth slack, as she explained, then sputtered a "Since when?" as if Isobel had become a witch that morning.
"Since always," her mother whispered.
"Minerva? Rob? Malcolm?" Her father asked, the half-spoken question hanging in the air.
"Yes."
Her father hung his head, opened his mouth as if to speak, then walked out of the room, not noticing Minerva crouched in the hall on his way out.
Her mother emerged a moment later, her face streaked with tears. She knelt beside Minerva, patted the cat on the head, and said, "Let's go to Diagon Alley."
Thinking back to that time, Minerva understood the sacrifice her mother had made - not only to hide her magical abilities for the sake of her marriage, but to reveal them in order to allow Minerva to board the Hogwarts Express at age eleven.
The night before she left for Hogwarts, August 31st it must have been, her mother was once again knelt on the kitchen floor, scrubbing at the stains left by cooking for an entire family.
Minerva was in the next room, packing her trunk, deciding which of her books were to accompany her to Hogwarts.
Robert Sr. came in through the front door, twisting his hat around in his hands. "I'd like to accompany you to London tomorrow," he said. Though he was looking at Minerva, Isobel raised her head.
"Really?" Isobel asked.
"She's my daughter. Of course." Her father's speech was stiff, formal. He looked about the room at all of the magical implements - wand, spellbooks, robes - then back at his wife. "What are you doing?" he asked suddenly.
"What do you mean?"
"Why are you washing the floor like that?"
"I do it every week."
They stared at each other, then Robert cleared his throat. "Isobel, if you think I've made you live a life you don't want…" He broke off, then started again. "I don't know anything about…" He paused, as if unsure whether he could say the word. "...Magic, but I'm sure you don't have to clean the floor like that."
Isobel dropped her rag, hanging her head, and it took a moment for Minerva to realize she was weeping. Robert knelt beside her, crying too. "You could have told me," he sputtered. "I'm not a tyrant. I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry, Robert, I'm sorry." Isobel wiped at her face. "I actually don't mind it," she said, indicating the floor. "Over the years, I've come to find it...satisfying. We're not so different, you and I."
At the time, Minerva had assumed it to be a lie, had assumed that her mother was trying to smooth things over for the sake of Minerva and her brothers, for the sake of peace. But now her view was more complex. She could see what her mother meant, in a way. Isn't that what they had fought for, after all? To prove that magic wasn't always might, that wizards weren't superior to muggles, or even all that different?
And wasn't that who Minerva had become? Not just the daughter of Isobel and the great-granddaughter of another Minerva, two brilliant witches who excelled in charms, but the daughter of Robert McGonagall, a Presbyterian minister who was able to look past his strict upbringing, to love his three children who were destined for lives so different from his own.
As much as she was a witch, she was a muggle as well. And like her mother, Minerva knew that sometimes the muggle way worked where the magical way didn't.
Eventually, she realized, they would figure out how to repair the castle to its former glory. But for now, they'd have to use what they had. They'd have to restore it to function the muggle way while they looked for a way to restore it to beauty the wizarding way. Spells didn't seem to be working, but if there was one thing Hogwarts had, it was the wizarding world's support.
June 3rd
"We need to take out an ad in the Prophet," Minerva said without ceremony, bursting into Flitwick's office.
"Who's we?" Flitwick answered without looking up from a piece of parchment.
"You. Media relations are a Deputy Headmaster duty."
"Exactly." He carefully folded the parchment, then his hands. Then he looked up at her. "They aren't an interim Deputy Headmaster duty."
"Are you going to nitpick that all year?" Minerva asked, sure she already knew the answer.
"Probably. You weren't sorted into Ravenclaw, but I was. I can nitpick even better than I can retain useless information."
Minerva snorted at the old argument. "I can see why you weren't brave enough to be sorted into Gryffindor. I can withstand nitpicking with the heart of a lion."
"Do you ever think about what would have happened?" Flitwick asked. "If your hatstall had gone the other way?"
Minerva didn't love to be reminded of her hatstall. Even after two wars, she could safely say that the six minutes the hat had rested atop her head, debating whether to place her in Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, had been the longest of her life. And Flitwick's four-and-a-half minutes of the same decision must have felt similarly. "I'd probably be here. Having this same stupid argument."
"Too true." Flitwick sighed. "Fine. I'll place the ad. What's it for?"
"Manual labor to clean up the school." She produced the parchment from a pocket in her robes. "I took the liberty of writing it. Make sure we get good billing. And they'd better not charge us."
"Damn right." Flitwick perused the ad for a moment, then said, "You made a grammatical error."
"You just can't help yourself, can you?"
June 4th
"I know you may not want to, Minerva, but it's a matter of necessity," Slughorn said.
"Who said anything about not wanting to?" Minerva overdid the retort a little, and it came out nearly rude. While she felt bad about it, she did nothing to correct herself, though if she were honest, Slughorn was right.
"What passwords have you tried?" Slughorn asked as if she hadn't just snapped at him.
"Everything I could think of. Dumbledore always used a candy, and I've tried about every sweet known to magical Britain." She glared at the Griffin guarding the entrance to the Headmaster's office. "And Snape…Did you ever hear him use a password?"
"No." Slughorn considered the Griffin himself. "Though judging by how paranoid he was, my guess it's some Latin name for a rare potions ingredient." He tried a few without success.
"Any luck?" Both Minerva and Slughorn turned toward Aurors Shacklebolt and Quintin, who stepped up beside them, staring at the Griffin.
"None," Minerva said. "What do you suggest?"
"If the other efforts tell us anything," Shacklebolt said, "it's that we're not going to be able to enter through use of force. Quintin."
"Yes, sir."
"Try out one of the probes."
Quintin stepped forward, holding out a thin golden rod, which she slowly moved up and down in front of the Griffin, ear cocked to the side as if it would speak to her. Minerva watched for about five minutes, until Quintin shook her head, replaced the probe into her belt and pulled out something that vaguely resembled a telescope. She looked through that for a while, then said, "Nothing."
"What do you think, Quintin?" Shacklebolt asked.
"I think we're going to need a cursebreaker."
June 13th
Minerva had expected a good turnout – but the turnout was better than she had expected. Current students and their parents she was anticipating, along with a coalition from Hogsmeade, but it seemed as if every organization in the wizarding world had sent a delegation as a matter of good faith – what was left of the Ministry and the Wizengamot, the combined Quidditch leagues of Britain and Ireland, and the shopkeepers of Diagon Alley. Representatives from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang had even flooed over to help.
One group had headed inside under Filch's supervision, while Minerva and the other half of the volunteers were outside, being directed by Hagrid. Minerva watched as a group of Quidditch players, led by Cormack McLeod of the Montrose Magpies, lifted fallen debris on the Quidditch pitch. "Better get this cleaned up," Cormack shouted Minerva's way. "We've got our eye on Ginny Weasley, and we can't recruit if there's no games."
"Correction." Across the pitch, Gwenog Jones, captain of the Holyhead Harpies, balanced a large rock against her hip. "We've got our eye on Ginny Weasley."
Minerva smiled as the two captains fell into a banter about their rivalry. Quidditch recruiters were exactly what she needed to imbue the school with hope. And this would be a showdown worth watching – of course, being from Caithness, Minerva had always been partial to the Montrose Magpies, but there were no bridges Gwenog Jones wouldn't cross to get what she wanted.
"Professor McGonagall." Minerva turned to see Olympe Maxime walking toward her – nearly unrecognizable without the feathers or sequins, dressed in drab work clothes.
"Madame Maxime," Minerva answered. "Thank you for being here, and for bringing - "
Olympe cut her off with a wave of her manicured hand. "It is the least we could do. Hogwarts was our home for a year, and I can only imagine if Beauxbatons…" she shuddered at the thought. "I am sorry for…" she trailed off again, as if unable to settle on any one tragedy. "For everything you have been through these past years."
"Thank you."
"How is the progress out here?" Minerva looked up in time to see Hagrid appear on the pitch, taking stock of the surroundings.
"It's coming along, Hagrid," Minerva replied, watching Hagrid's clear sense of pride at overseeing this operation. She made a note to give him more opportunities like this in the future.
"Thanks, uh…" Hagrid trailed off and Minerva tried to give him a bracing smile. "Thank you for being here, Olympe."
"Of course."
Hagrid and Olympe looked at one another for a moment, and Minerva knew she was no longer needed. She retreated to the castle to find Filch.
June 14th
After two back-breaking days of physical labor, Minerva toured the grounds with Filch and Hagrid. The rubble was removed from the Quidditch pitch and the grounds, the broken glass removed from the greenhouse. The stained glass windows had been replaced by clear sheets of glass in the Great Hall, and the house tables had been sanded and put back in place. The classrooms and hallways were clear of debris, and the remnants of the artwork and suits of armor were packed away in a store closet.
The castle was functional, ready to take students in September. But that's all it was. Without the armor, without all of the portraits, without the stained glass windows, Hogwarts looked like the ruins of a muggle castle that were beginning to be restored. Minerva doubted the first-years arriving in September would be as enchanted by the castle as she had been for the first time, when she had seen its full opulence and splendor. What would they think when they came into the Great Hall and see simple, unadorned stone walls and a ceiling that no longer reflected the night sky?
She kept her sadness to herself – it would be ungrateful not to celebrate all they had accomplished in forty-eight hours. "Thank you, Hagrid, Mr. Filch," she said instead. "It looks wonderful."
Hagrid beamed with pride and teared up a little. Filch even cracked what could almost be mistaken for a smile. She would research what needed to come next. She would find out how to restore the castle eventually. But for now, as Dumbledore would say, it was enough to be getting on with.
Hogwarts and its guests celebrated the completion of the clean-up with a simple meal in the Great Hall. Minerva looked around the room, watching Filius Flitwick talking with Fleur Delacour and Olympe Maxime in animated French, Pomona Sprout sitting with a large group of Hufflepuffs of varying ages, and Horace Slughorn embracing Calliope Quintin.
Hearing someone clear their throat, Minerva looked up in time to see Kingsley Shacklebolt sit down next to her.
"Kingsley," Minerva greeted.
"Professor McGonagall," Kingsley said. "I wanted to let you know that I'm placing Auror Quintin in charge of security for the school. She's going to have a team here for all of your major events – first day of school, Quidditch matches, the like. You need anything, you call her. Day or night."
"Are we worried?" Minerva asked, trying to sound nonchalant. "About an issue?"
"Well," Kingsley said, tilting his head to the side and gazing just past her. "Let's put it this way. We're not not worried."
"Ah."
June 16th
Minerva stood, once again, in front of the Griffin guarding the way to the Headmaster's office.
"Professor McGonagall." Minerva turned to see Calliope Quintin taking the stairs several at a time, strange objects swinging off her belt as she did. "Still nothing?"
"Still nothing," she confirmed.
"Hopefully, the cursebreaker will be able to figure it out." Minerva nodded but didn't say anything, and Quintin mercifully waited in silence until two men came up the staircase. "Rathburn," Quintin said forcefully. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Marcus Rathburn just gave one of his nonchalant smiles. "The cursebreaker requested an MLE escort and Shack asked me to do it."
"God knows you weren't doing anything else."
Minerva snorted. "Mr. Rathburn, good to see you." She hadn't seen Marcus Rathburn since he had graduated from Hogwarts and didn't mention to him that her clearest memory of him would always be the image of Calliope Quintin lobbing a well-aimed bludger that splintered his broom, then hitting him with 'arresto momentum' as he fell from his keeper's post, allowing Slytherin to win the championship game. As loathe as she was to admit it, the play had been spectacular.
"Professor McGonagall," Rathburn said. "You know the cursebreaker, I'm sure."
"Mr. Weasley," Minerva said. "How is your family?"
"Getting by." Bill Weasley, always ready with a charming smile and a story, just nodded, knelt on the floor, and started pulling books and parchment out of a canvas shoulder bag. He looked exhausted, with circles under his eyes and his long hair tied up haphazardly, his trademark fang earring nowhere in sight. "Professor Babbling here?" he mumbled.
"No, I'm afraid she's left for the summer," Minerva said.
Bill grunted in response, chose one of his books, and handed it to Rathburn. "Hold this up for me?"
"You don't want me to just levitate it?"
"No, that'll interfere," Bill said with no other explanation. He stayed kneeling on the floor, taking a quill out of his bag and drawing a complex set of runes on the parchment in front of him. After reviewing it for a while, he stood and, glancing between the book, the parchment, and the door, started tracing shapes in the air with his wand. The other three watched him in silence.
This scene reminded Minerva of another, in this very spot. It was after a head of house meeting in Dumbledore's office. Flitwick and Sprout had remained to speak with Dumbledore further – presumably to ask for additional funding for Charms Club or the Hufflepuff Hug Society or something – and she and Snape rode the moving staircase together in silence.
Snape was still new at that time – in his second or third year, perhaps – and to Minerva he looked painfully young. Though he had to have been twenty-two or twenty-three, near to the age she had started teaching at Hogwarts. She had known him as a student, of course, but he hadn't made a connection with anyone, students or teachers. Even Slughorn, who should have been a natural kindred spirit, had never taken Snape under his wing. But Dumbledore knew something. Dumbledore trusted him, and that had to be enough.
They reached the door without a word spoken and stepped through it, prepared to go their separate ways. But before either of them could take a step, something streaked through their vision – a flesh-colored blur. Minerva turned her head as Snape shot off a wandless freezing charm. She had heard about his command of wandless, non-verbal magic, but Minerva found it quite ironic that the first time she saw it in action was to stop a naked, streaking student dead in his tracks.
"Mr. Weasley," Minerva said, carefully averting her eyes. "Just what do you think you're doing?" She glanced at Snape, who flicked his hand. Bill Weasley tumbled to the floor then scrambled into a seated position, thankfully covering himself.
Bill was in his second year and had already attempted to establish himself as something of a hellion, an effort that only sort of worked. "I was -" Bill sputtered. "I was trying – trying to run past – past Ravenclaw Tower… And the stairs -"
"And you neglected to wear clothes because of the weather? Or is this an ill-advised attempt to impress the Ravenclaw girls?"
Bill didn't say anything.
Snape was the one who broke the silence. "Twenty points from Gryffindor."
"Make it thirty," Minerva said. "Now get back to Gryffindor Tower and don't subject us to another incident like this. Merlin knows it will take us long enough to recover from this one."
Bill staggered to his feet, still trying to keep himself covered, and turned to run.
Minerva waved her wand at Bill's retreating back. It would be improper to allow him to run through the castle naked, but allowing him to run through the castle in a Slytherin Quidditch uniform? Now she wouldn't have to put herself through supervising a detention – the reception he would receive in Gryffindor Tower would be punishment enough.
As Bill sped up and disappeared from view, Minerva heard a snort. She turned and found Snape with a hand covering his mouth. She had never seen him laugh – not as a student, not as a professor. It took him a moment to regain control of himself, and when he did, he said, "That was masterful."
"Years of practice," she said in response. "Now -" she stared at Snape for another minute, finally seeing a small part of his façade finally crumble away. "I could certainly use a drink. Severus?"
"Shit," Bill said, breaking her connection with the past.
"What?" Minerva dared to ask, dreading the worst - an impenetrable set of wards, a curse that was spreading throughout the castle.
"There aren't any wards up," Bill said.
"None?" Quintin asked.
"No, Auror Quintin. Just the password."
"The password?" Minerva asked. "You have the password?" Bill nodded. "What is it?"
"You're not going to like this, Professor McGonagall," Bill said, glancing at her. She saw very little of her former Head Boy, of the intelligent and confident young man he used to be.
"What is it, Bill? There is nothing that could surprise me at this point."
"It's your name."
She had been wrong. "What?" she said. "My name?" Bill nodded. "My name?" she repeated. "Minerva McGonagall?"
The Griffin rotated, revealing the staircase. "Oh my god," Quintin muttered. Minerva reached out her hand as if to steady herself before realizing there was nothing to grab on to. The staircase remained open, taunting her, and somewhere behind her, she saw Rathburn put his arm around Bill and gesture with his head toward Quintin. The three left with little noise.
Minerva stood at the entrance to the Headmaster's office for several minutes, but after a few attempts to make herself enter the spiral staircase, she found she couldn't do it. She thought she had prepared herself for anything - the Griffin to burst into flames, the Dark Mark to emanate from its mouth, but this...this was unbearable. Snape would have needed a good reason to abandon his practice of multiple wards, of impossible passwords. He had known he was going to die.
June 20th
Olympe Maxime was back again, Minerva observed from her tower window. She and Hagrid were taking a stroll around the lake, and Minerva found herself watching them, though she knew it was probably inappropriate to spy on something so personal. They would be seeing a lot of Olympe that year, Minerva figured. It always happened after times of war. Everyone married quickly after the first war with You-Know-Who, and Minerva was sure that the wedding invitations would start to arrive any day now.
As Hagrid and Olympe turned into the forest, no doubt to observe some dangerous creature, Minerva couldn't help but feel lonely. Thirteen years had passed since she lost her husband, but there were still days she longed for someone to take a walk with, as she had done almost daily with Elphinstone during their three year marriage.
It was too late for her, she knew that. Hogwarts had somehow become a repository for the broken-hearted, those destined to be alone. And in her sixty-two years, she had found two great loves – first Dougal McGregor, the muggle she had left immediately after their engagement, then Elphinstone Urquart, who had died all too soon. And of course, Dumbledore. It was probably because of Dumbledore that she endured the losses as well as she had. She hadn't loved him the same way as she loved them, and she hadn't loved them the same way either. But in the end, did that really matter?
She should count herself rich, she told herself. She had more than she could ever need. But still, she remained at the window for a while, looking out into the forest.
June 22nd
Though Minerva had considered and tossed aside several possibilities, she knew that there was no one other than Pomona Sprout that she would have beside her at a time like this. Pomona had never had the type of relationship with Dumbledore that Minerva did, but she had granted it the same kind of quiet acceptance that she offered everything.
Minerva was glad for Pomona's unwavering support – the kind she had given Minerva as a scared first-year who arrived at Hogwarts without knowing anyone. And Pomona had kept up the elder sister act even after she had finished at Hogwarts, attending each of Minerva's Quidditch games and seeing her off to the train each year.
So when Pomona stood beside her as the griffin rotated, taking her into Dumbledore's office at last, and she wasn't able to speak to say her thanks, she knew she didn't have to.
The inside of the office looked the same as ever, though meticulously ordered – the work of Snape, no doubt, as Dumbledore was wont to leave papers and gadgets on every available surface. Other than the uncharacteristic cleanliness, there was no indication that Snape had ever inhabited this office. Perhaps he could will himself to believe that Dumbledore would be back at any moment and that in the meantime, he could surround himself with the trappings of Dumbledore's life, Dumbledore's work. It is what Minerva would have done, under the circumstances. Snape may have been the only one, Minerva considered, who had loved Dumbledore the way she had. And Minerva hadn't loved him enough to do what Snape was asked to do.
Minerva wandered about the office, examining things at random. Pomona was more systematic, heading directly to the desk. "Minerva?" she finally said, drawing Minerva away from the Sneakoscope she had given Albus for Christmas some twenty years ago.
"Yes?"
Pomona didn't reply, just held up an envelope. Minerva crossed the office to take it. "Minerva McGonagall" was written across the front in Albus' distinct script.
The neatness of everything overwhelmed Minerva. She opened the envelope slowly, sickened by the fact that Snape and Dumbledore had carried out the end of their lives so clinically, careful to leave their affairs in order for her to step seamlessly into their roles, roles she couldn't hope to fill.
The envelope contained two pieces of parchment. The first was obviously a legal document. Minerva scanned the first few lines. "I, Albus Dumbledore, being of sound mind and body, on the date of November 1st, 1996, in the presence of these witnesses at Gringotts National Wizarding Bank, do hereby appoint Minerva McGonagall as executer of my estate in the event of my death, dismemberment, or incapacitation." She handed the parchment to Pomona, who read it thoroughly while Minerva moved on to the second.
Minerva,
It may be too much to ask your forgiveness after all that has transpired. I assume, knowing you, that if you read this, not only has Harry Potter triumphed, but you have already ascertained Severus Snape's innocence, his acting entirely upon my will.
I'm sorry, Minerva, that I did not inform you of our plans. Perhaps it is because, more than anyone else I know, you are the rational voice in my mind, the one person who could dissuade me from a harebrained scheme.
I have left my estate to you, to do entirely as you see fit. I have no instructions, no requests. You have always been the only one focused entirely on Hogwarts and its future, and I have no doubt that your judgment will be as steadfast as it ever was.
For the past forty years, it has always been the two of us. And now I am proud that it is you. I am off to the next great adventure, and again it is time for you to find a new dream.
Albus
"Merlin," Pomona said when Minerva looked up from the letter. "Executor of the estate? What are you going to do?"
Minerva sighed. "I don't know. Can you even imagine the extent of his estate?"
Pomona let out a little laugh. "I can."
"I'll need time to sort through it all. Years, perhaps." She put the letter and the will back in the envelope and set it gingerly on the desk, then climbed the stairs to the golden telescope. She had never really had a knack for astronomy, so she gazed into the nearest lens, which brought a puffy white cloud into view. She thought for a moment. "Alright," she said, "the first thing is Hogwarts."
"Of course."
Minerva pulled herself up, leaning against the telescope to face Sprout. "So we find someone to teach Muggle Studies and someone to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"Yes."
"Then we get ourselves through September 1st without incident."
"Sounds good."
"Then we figure out how the hell to fix the castle."
"Mhmhmm. And in your extensive free time, you go through all of Dumbledore's rubbish?" Sprout asked, a smile playing at her lips.
"He said Hogwarts comes first. I would never disagree."
June 28th
Minerva tossed aside another application, then turned to watch Flitwick do the same. Filius sighed and glanced over at his stack, which somehow didn't seem to be dwindling. "How is it that we're not finding anyone qualified?" he muttered. "Among this many applicants. And we haven't even started on Muggle Studies."
Minerva shrugged, gave a barely verbal response, then allowed a few moments of silence to pass as they both considered another form. Eventually, the frustration of it got to her. Three solid days of looking through Dumbledore's old candidate files and new letters of inquiry had yielded nothing. Pushing her chair back from the table, Minerva stood and wandered over to the window, taking in a deep breath of the warming summer air. "All I need is a pulse," she said. "A pulse and an 'E' in Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Flitwick looked up, removed his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "How flexible are we on pulse?"
Minerva let out a snort of laughter she wasn't expecting. She kept to herself the fact that another Binns on the faculty would be more than she could handle. Instead, she looked back out the window, watching Hagrid wander across the grounds toward the Forbidden Forest, dragging a downed tree behind him. A memory floated to the surface - herself at this window, Dumbledore at the desk, attempting to fill Kettleburn's open Care of Magical Creatures post. "Did Dumbledore ever tell you the two things all Hogwarts professors need?" she asked Filius.
"No, I don't believe I've heard that one."
"A NEWT and a broken heart."
Outside, Hagrid dropped the tree just out of sight, where it would no doubt be claimed by the forest, the one part of Hogwarts unaffected by the war. Minerva searched her mind, working her way through the significant number of people she knew with broken hearts. "Filius," she said. "I have what is perhaps a crazy idea."
