Gripes with Grammar
Quidditch season had hit Hogwarts so suddenly and with such intensity that it had sent a great number of its players reeling. Sterling had managed to fill in Gryffindor's empty places with a broad shouldered fourth year boy, Jeremy Kent, as their newest beater and Minerva had been pleasantly surprised at how adaptable Edgar Jones had become as a part of their chaser's trio. Their first game was the Sunday after Halloween and they were all feeling the strain of Sterling's intense regime. Alaine Smith had taken to random fits of tears. Porter Wentworth had collapsed at the dinner table and, though insisting he was fine, was rushed off to Madam Doufant in the hospital wing where Slytherin's seeker was already in residence. Even Minerva had developed a twitch under her left eye.
Though Ravenclaw weren't to play until the end of November; Ivy was showing similar symptoms of fatigue. She'd acquired a matching pair of dark circles under her eyes and seemed to not have enough time in the day to brush her hair anymore.
It had taken a particularly useless training session in which Jeremy was almost beaten with his own bat before Minerva put her foot down. Soaked and shivering on her broom she told her fellow chasers to go and shower before pulling Sterling aside.
"You cannot keep whipping us like this." She put out flatly, doing her best to ignore the rain streaming into her eyes. Sterling was obviously too tired to work up the amount of anger required to reprimand her.
"Porter hasn't been able to hit anything this side of Bournemouth all week!" he huffed defensively, still wielding Jeremy's bat.
"And our keeper didn't make it to his Astronomy class last night." She cut him off. "Ivy told me." She herself had been in the common room until 3am finishing off Professor Slughorn's assignment on the validity of Golpalott's Third Law of potion making and had not seen him come down from the boy's dorm.
"I fell asleep." He confessed.
"We can't win if we can't keep our heads up." She prodded him sharply in the shoulder with each word. "We are a good team. Have a little faith and cut us some slack." She shouldered her broom and marched off to the change rooms without another word.
The next morning she was relieved to overhear Sterling explaining to Edgar and Mallory that he would be cutting Wednesday's training entirely and shortening Monday and Friday's sessions to an hour a piece. She skipped breakfast to read over her potions essay one last time and hurried down to the dungeons, wrapping up her unruly hair as she went into a bun on the top of her head, rushing headlong into Professor Dumbledore and knocking the stack of books he was carrying to the floor.
She blurted a frantic apology, an embarrassed blush creeping under her collar, and immediately began collecting the tomes from the stairs.
"I'm so sorry Professor!" she implored but Dumbledore ceased her scrambling with a weighed hand on her shoulder. He was studying her face very intensely.
"I did hope you would have paid at least a little attention to my advice Miss McGonagall." His tone was that of pleasantly veiled concern and she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of his glasses. She had a distinctly frazzled appearance; her face looked lean, her cheeks gaunt and only amplified by the shadows that had begun to creep out from the corner of her eyes. Her hair, unbrushed and wild as the Scottish highlands was piled messily on top of her head save for the section she'd missed by the nape of her neck.
She tried to brush off his worry, "It's only October. I'm just finding my stride." She lied and unconvincingly too.
"The end of October." Dumbledore rebutted, gravely, "See to it that the festivities perk you up or we will be exchanging opinions in my office." He warned, summoning his fallen books wordlessly and dismissing her with a flash of his eyes. Minerva lifted her chin defiantly but left all the same.
She was late. The class was already seated though Slughorn was nowhere to be seen.
"River dancing by the lake again, McGonagall?" a Slytherin boy leered quietly as she added her essay to the stack on Professor Slughorn's desk.
"That would be the Irish." Her retort cracked like a whip despite its low volume.
An evil smirk twisted his already sneering face. "Mud is mud."
A hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her away and behind the table.
"Minerva, don't." It was Walter Longbottom's voice low in her ear, "I overheard my Aunt Callidora mention something very unsavoury about his Uncle." Minerva continued to glare over the top of her cauldron.
"Her father is a muggle after all-"
"Minerva! No!"
He didn't even have time to draw his wand.
A loud bang like a gunshot reverberated around the room quickly followed by a cacophony of shrieks, yells and what sounded like the frantic flapping of wings.
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?" Professor Slughorn was difficult to rile up, but waving his arms over his head trying to disperse the smoke that had filled his classroom, he was livid. He vanished the flock of birds furiously attacking Kenneth Parkinson who wasted no time in pointing directly at Minerva.
"She attacked me!"
"Is this true, Miss McGonagall?" he looked positively flabbergasted.
"He-" Walter and Ivy, who had heard the whole exchange, immediately puffed up to defend her but Minerva cut them short. Her empty hands clenched in fists.
"Yes." She hissed between her teeth.
"I think you'd better go to Professor Dumbledore young lady." He huffed, scribbling on a slip of parchment with an ostentatious quill. "And you will see me after class."
Minerva not so much as took rather than snatched the note he was handing her, swung her bag over her shoulder and stormed out.
…
Peeking past the doorframe she discovered the Transfiguration classroom empty and headed instead to Dumbledore's office. Her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. She was embarrassed and ashamed that she had allowed herself to be provoked like that. Control was a virtue of excellent witches and wizards and so she resolved to reel in her temper. She knocked gently on the door. Would Dumbledore be angry? Or just disappointed? She didn't know which would be worse.
"Come in."
Dumbledore looked up from his writing, surprise immediately washing his face.
"Shouldn't you be in Potions?"
"Professor Slughorn sent me." She scowled, extending the note she had crumpled in her hand. He took it from her but did not open it.
"Why?" he simply asked, leaning back in his chair. The morning sun glinting on a few silver hairs. She looked at her feet before hearing her father's words echo about her ears. If ye've done wrong Minerva, you admit it bravely lass and take your punishment with grace.
"I jinxed Kenneth Parkinson." She stated bluntly. She couldn't quite look him in the eye so settled for a patch of wall beside his left ear instead. Dumbledore frowned and opened Slughorn's detention slip.
"Professor Slughorn says that you cast Avis and Oppugno upon young Mr Parkinson wordlessly, wandless and unprovoked. Is this true?"
"Words were said." She offered up. She had no intention of elaborating.
"Oh I have no doubt," Dumbledore waved it away, "I was referring to the manner in which you cast the spells."
"Oh… well, yes, I suppose. I lost my temper." She apologised.
"That is most impressive though of course I would encourage you not to do it again."
"No, sir." She agreed.
"20 points will be taken from Gryffindor, 10 for each spell. You will serve detention with me, here, on Friday night at 8 o'clock."
"Yes, sir." She turned to leave.
"Oh and before I forget, you will find you have no need to turn in your conjuration homework." He smiled kindly and somewhat impishly. It was her turn to smile.
"Thank you but I've already finished it." She slipped out and closed the door behind her.
"Of course you have." Dumbledore chuckled to himself before returning to his letter.
…
Professor Slughorn had sighed and scolded her in a way so similar to a five year old she struggled to keep her face set in an expression of apologetic penance. Their conversation had ended with a summary of the day's lesson as homework, a further 20 points from Gryffindor and, ironically, yet another invitation to one of his dinner parties.
She spent her Thursday night in relative peace; having already summarized the entirety of Professor Slughorn's lesson plans at the beginning of the year, leisurely translating her Ancient Runes assignment beside Walter and Sterling's game of chess.
Minerva left quidditch practice early on Friday night. She knew Dumbledore had timed her detention so she would not have to miss it but she did not want to repay his generosity with tardiness. It was right on 8 when she knocked on the door to his office.
"Come in Miss McGonagall."
She sidled in nervously, she'd never been in detention before but Professor Dumbledore was as cheery as if she'd stopped by for tea.
"I thought, perhaps, you might be able to help me grade the first year's essays. Their grammar becomes punishment enough after a spell." He smiled politely over his glasses. She felt herself relax and pulled a quill and bottle of red ink from her bag. Dumbledore conjured an armchair across from himself and Minerva sat down, pulling the stack of parchment towards her. She thought she would be expected to work in silence but Professor Dumbledore seemed to be intent on helping pass the time with polite conversation. She was partway through a sentence when she stopped, scowled in frustration and scratched out an entire paragraph on the parchment in front of her and wrote quite a lengthy commentary in the margin.
"I don't recall every wording an essay so poorly," She exclaimed, "this is beyond ridiculous. Look!" she thrust the paper over his desk. Dumbledore scanned the paper and chuckled lightly.
"It doesn't inspire much hope does it?" he laced his fingers together and leaned back in his chair. "You were an exceptional student the moment you set foot in Hogwarts, some of your companions, however, started in a similar state as Mr Quinton Baxter here and all of them are now well on the way to becoming first rate witches and wizards. I recall Miss Jones in particular making a spectacular turn around."
"Ivy?" she asked incredulously. She had been firm friends with Ivy since second year and had always found her to be sporting competition both in the classroom and on the quidditch pitch.
"Oh yes. Young, anxious but bursting with talent. She only needed encouragement and a little confidence."
"Mr Baxter isn't in need of confidence but a clip about the ear." She criticized, dryly. "This is plain laziness."
Dumbledore smiled at her righteous disapproval.
"I would not like to be your student, Miss McGonagall. But I am inclined to agree with you on this count. I'm afraid Mr Baxter does not put much stock in the art of transfiguration."
"I can't imagine why. I've always found it to be a profoundly intriguing field of study." She muttered softly. Dumbledore watched her scratch away intently on the boy's essay.
"Have you ever considered teaching?" he asked after a moment.
"Not really. I'm afraid I don't have the patience."
Dumbledore couldn't help but smile at the tight schoolmarmish expression of frustration and discontent crinkling her brow as she resumed her marking; tutting away.
"There is no e in truly." She muttered to herself.