A/N: The time is out of joint. O cursèd spite, That ever I was born to set it right! Nay, come, let's go together.
"I am so confused," opines Elphinstone Urquart.
"Look, it's quite simple," Minerva begins. But before she can finish snapping off Urquart's befuddled head, Minister Tuft arrives at the Time Lab. She is accompanied by three aurors and an equal number of Ministry functionaries.
"I'm afraid it's the old imperius-slash-polyjuice-twins-thwarted-by-anchovies-in-the-boomslang trick again, Elphinstone. Wonder anyone falls for it these days, really," Dumbledore explains, after all have risen from their chairs and re-seated themselves in the presence of Minister Tuft, who looks as if she's lived ten years in as many hours.
"Right. Well. Yes. Refresh our memories, Albus, for the newcomers in the room?" Urquart replies.
A tea tray with scones and raspberry jam rests on the little Bombay chest that acts as a bedside table. Hermione groans and gradually comes to the awareness that, though injured, she's fairly comfortable.
She occupies a bed in a small stone room on what feels like a ground floor. The lamplight is low. A large man sits in shadow across the room. His ankle rests on one knee. His hand drapes casually over the arm of a chair. It holds a wand. His other hand is in shadow.
Hermione has no wand. She's been put in a nightgown and had her wounds neatly dressed.
"The house-elf won't let me kill you," says Magnus McGonagall.
"Well, I won't let you kill Flora, either, so we're even."
"Ye've got my wards. My full wards. The ones that make you heir and master of McGonagall Manor. The ones only I can give."
"I do? All that?"
"Did you steal them?"
"No, Boban, you handed them right over."
Nothing is said for a long time. The figure in the chair hasn't twitched a muscle. His face is shadowed, but Hermione can see enough to positively identify him, if the voice and context weren't enough. He is worryingly young, though. And seriously good-looking. Magnus McGonagall is hewn from Scots pine and sex, pure and simple. He is a direct and logical link between Hermione's beloved lion-hearted spinster, and the people so fierce that the Ninth Legion had to build a wall to prevent them from conquering the Roman Empire.
"Drink," he says.
Hermione sips her tea. It has a satisfying dollop of Scotch in it.
"Praise be blest," Hermione says, swallowing hard and letting her head hit the pillow again.
"Are ye' a child of mine, then?"
"By marriage," Hermione answers truthfully.
The wand tip lifts, subtly, but the threat is solid. "I want you to take off that ring and put it on the table, there."
Hermione does so, being careful not to move too quickly, or allow her hands to drop out of his line of sight. As she slips the ring from her finger, an infant's cry pierces the stone walls of this chamber.
"Oh, no," Hermione says.
"Before we go on," Minister Tuft says, "Aurors report that the prisoner is secured. He's being interrogated. My son is being treated for the effects of an imperius, but is in reasonably good health. He remembers the first part of the journey back from Siberia with the other investigators we sent to Tungaska. We believe he was compromised just before reaching Helsinki."
"Compromised?" Urquart asks.
"By Marxist Unspeakables. Their equivalent, at least. They may have destroyed their own research facility. Those nearly four-hundred witches and wizards believed dead are probably planted as spies in other Magical governments all over the world by now."
"Merlin's beard!"
"Exactly."
When the music stops and the funnel cloud forms, Minerva is looking directly at the imposter, because she has been watching him all night.
It makes no sense to her that Ignatius Tuft would try to murder a Ministry employee in a dueling match, not even for wounded pride. And confringo is deadly.
How does one approach the Minister of Magic with a half-formed theory about her son, and on no evidence, especially when the Minister is aware of all the facts Minerva herself possesses? That is why Minerva starts diluting the departmental supply of boomslang skin with preserved anchovies. Tuft's research requires that ingredient. He would have no reason to obtain a supply from anywhere else. If he is a disguised threat, then he will reveal himself to everyone through the effects of an imperfect Polyjuice potion.
It isn't revenge. She is in no way delighted at the failed experiments he suffers after attacking Jane.
Now he is revealed, and he is attacking Jane.
She lunges for them. The funnel cloud tries to pull in some things while expelling others, but Minerva's wand is out and she is snarling, fighting the need to push claws from the tips of her fingers. The finite incantatem hasn't had time to fully form before the vortex accelerates her flight and she has landed on an inert, Russian-babbling wizard of about her own age. He is wandless and badly burned over much of his body. The funnel cloud is gone. Jane is gone.
It is only the timely intervention of Ruddlesby, who throws his arms around Minerva and speaks calmly, that keeps the imposter from being quite spectacularly gone himself.
Minerva doesn't know how long she stays there, on hands and knees, on the sticky floor of that jazz club. It cannot be long. It only seems that way because it is rich in experience.
Kill him. Fail. Protect her. Fail. Save her. Fail. My fault. Fail. What was I thinking? Fail. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Fail. All for nothing. Fail. Who did I think I was fooling? Fail. This is all there is and all there will ever be and well I know it. Again and again, it will happen, and there will never be anything but kill and hide and temporary, duplicitous relief until it all becomes fail again.
"Minerva? Minerva, what is that? Are you injured? I need help," Ruddlesby is saying.
She is panting, she realizes. Ruddlesby is nearby. Ruddlesby is a good lad. Not especially powerful, but sensible, which, in Minerva's recently formed opinion on the topic, is the most useful sort of person. Bad enough the hat sorted me both Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Now I've become a Hufflepuff in my old age. Just as well. My go at Slytherin tactics was bollocks. She turns her head to look at Ruddlesby crouching there beside her. "Help?" She says.
"Tuft—the imposter—something's wrong with him. What is that?"
Minerva becomes aware that time runs normally again. The club fills up with Ministry officials. They do damage control and cast memory charms. But she is still pinning someone to the ground. She looks at him. The burns on his body describe patterns. Some of it is recognizable as writing or images, as if he has been magically branded by collisions with the odd assortment of objects scattered about. Some portion of his face is imprinted with a map. It looks like a map. There's Picadilly.
She holds his face by the chin and turns it about to get a good look.
"More," he is murmuring to her, even as pain makes his eyes lose focus, "So many more."
"I do know what this is," she tells Ruddlesby. "Notify Albus Dumbledore."
And Minerva McGonagall makes the decision to get up and get on with it.
"Aye. Tis from my own mine," Magnus McGonagall says. "Must be the last bit of ore dragged from it, too. But there's nae off about it. Except for the part where it willna' come off your finger unless you take it off."
He tosses the silver ring back to Hermione, who lets it land on the bed beside her before retrieving it. When she puts it back on her finger, the infant wail stops.
"I think," Hermione starts, then gives some thought to how much information Magnus McGonagall can safely have. The truth is, she has no idea. "I think it's a McGonagall finder, for emergencies. I think it pulls me in the direction of the one who charmed it, which is why I am here instead of lost in," she cuts off, gives Magnus an apologetic shrug, and says, "Which is why I am here. Where is here, exactly? I usually land in the library."
"Flora!" Magnus calls. The house-elf pops into the room. She carries a satchel with her, and places herself between the two humans with a resigned sort of trudge.
"None of it, Master," she tells Magnus. "Nor you as well, Master," she says to Hermione, in a baritone just short of a randy bull auditioning for Don Giovanni.
Magnus stirs from his chair. "I promised you, Flora," he says.
"So ye did," she nods.
"I'm going to take a closer look at the ring," he says. Flora scampers up onto the bed and straddles Hermione's chest in anticipation of this event.
Hermione holds her hand out for perusal.
He prods the ring with his wand. It tingles. He waves the tip of his wand about Hermione in general. Her ring finger tingles.
"I'm thinking it has no power when you're not wearing it, lass."
"Entirely sensible," Hermione replies. "Boban, I have important things to say and I don't know how much time I have."
"You have been coming and going from this bed for more than a week, now. I don't ken where you go."
"Do I move about?"
"No. You sleep in that bed. Just here, then gone, then here."
"I may be in terrible, terrible danger.
"Speak your mind."
"I think I need a place that isn't going to change, possibly for many years. The furniture can't be moved. People can't move about in it. I think I'm popping in and out of, well, existence, reality, something like that. If I can't predict when, then I have to be sure that nothing will be in the space I need to occupy when I return. Do you see? Until I find some answers, I need a place with food and water and books."
"Is this dangerous to me or mine?"
"Probably not."
"Well, Mystery McGonagall, this does appear to be your home, whether I like it or not. You keep a mountain of secrets from a man you claim as father, though."
"I'm protecting me and mine," she tells him.
The staring contest is interrupted by a mewling yowl just inches from Hermione's face. Flora's satchel stirs. She turns it out to lay a still-wet kitten on Hermione's chest. It roots for a teat. "Found it left by its mother in the pantry behind the oven," she says, "Good luck for the bairn, it is."
Hermione eyes the cat. "Could you do me a wee favor?" She asks.
"Let me see if I understand all this," Urquart says. "You, Minister, suspected something was awry with young Ignatius. Instead of coming to his department head with your misgivings, you colluded with Jane Puckle to test him for Polyjuice potion use. A test which he passed, allaying your suspicions."
"Broadly true," agrees Minister Tuft.
"But it turns out that the reason he passed is because you were testing Ignatius himself, under an imperius curse he picked up in Helsinki when an enemy agent somehow infiltrated, undetected, a cadre of experienced Ministry field operatives who were investigating an apparently counterfeit time-catastrophe that had been unknown to us until predicted by Jane Puckle."
"Again, consistent with the facts as I understand them."
"Later, Jane Puckle arranges for Unspeakables to join her in a den of jazz to gyrate wildly about, ostensibly to learn more about the nature of time. Unknown to her, however, Miss McGonagall has pursued her own investigation of Ignatius's odd behavior, with the result that the enemy agent is inadvertently revealed to his fellows. The enemy agent and Jane Puckle then conjure some sort of portkey or apparition spell—"
"I object, Elphinstone," Dumbledore interjects, "We have no evidence that either the imposter or Miss Puckle conjured the phenomenon. The maelstrom itself is consistent with theories posed some decades ago by Menlo—"
"But don't we, Albus? I know I have attended many a lively dance in my time. You and Miss McGonagall have hoochie-coochied through every social event of this season. Has any of this activity caused a destructive whirlwind to appear out of thin air and whisk us away?"
"I concede the point, Elphinstone," Dumbledore says with a slight inclination of his head, "But I maintain that there are other salient facts which may lead to other explanations."
"May I continue, Minister?" Urquart asks.
"Do go on."
"The next thing we hear is that Albus Dumbledore and others may have witnessed the result of this escape some years back, when a man, possibly one resembling the imposter, appeared under platform 9¾ accompanied by a dark-haired woman identified by reliable witnesses as an oriental. The two fought a duel with our people, during which Albus Dumbledore sustained an injury to the knee. Said injury formed a scar in the shape of a map of the London Underground. How are my facts, Albus?"
"The two who appeared from a funnel cloud on that platform in front of reliable witnesses did not fight a duel with my warding party. The male subdued the female and sought our help in restraining her. The female then called my name and reached out to me. I reacted with a defensive stunning spell, which was deflected by the female. Others of my party attempted to overcome the female. Dueling ensued."
"Dumbledore shot first. Noted. Did the female then disarm the male? Did his wand fly to her hand?"
"Yes."
"Just so. Later, Miss McGonagall recognized a similar pattern of scarring on the imposter when she overcame him at the jazz club. Jane Puckle, however, got away. We have found no sign of her. This, in spite of having traveled to our past, giving her ample opportunity to warn us of danger."
"I object," Minerva softly states.
All heads turn to her. "This is not a trial, McGonagall. But, please, share your thoughts."
"Puckle did not 'get away'. She was ripped away from me by the phenomenon."
"How do you know this?" Asks the Minister.
"I felt it," Minerva states.
"And how do you know of an intimate scar sustained by Albus Dumbledore?" Urquart demands.
"I saw it."
"How?"
"He came to my bedroom when my father was out and hiked up his kit to show me."
There is, among the assembled, a disturbance falling somewhere between kerfuffle and uproar.
Minister Wilhelmina Tuft lifts one finger from the tabletop and there is instant, respectful silence.
"McGonagall, attend to me," she says. Minerva does, "You do understand Urquart's implication that the witch you know as Jane Puckle is an enemy conspirator who may have used Polyjuice potion to infiltrate the Ministry, that the imposter now in custody is in league with her, and that their end was to commit an act of war?"
"Yes."
"And you further understand that by rejecting this theory, and by embracing your personal responsibility for the utterly irresponsible decision to act on your own to sabotage the Polyjuice potion ingredients, you have endangered the Ministry and the life of my son?"
"I should like to point out that Puckle being an enemy spy and my personal responsibility for endangering both the Ministry and Ignatius are not mutually exclusive," Minerva answers, "But, yes, to your point, I do understand. I did not refrain from confiding my suspicions to my superiors because I believed Puckle, or any of you, untrustworthy. I did it because I was afraid of reprimand and ridicule. Cowardice, in short."
Four things then happen at once.
"Miss McGonagall," Elphinstone Urquart grumps.
"My Dear," Albus Dumbledore admonishes.
"McGonagall," Wilhelmina Tuft commands.
"Minerva!" Jane Puckle cries, arriving uncharacteristically through an ordinary door, "Thank god you're all right. I'm so sorry I'm late, but I had to name a cat and the timestream keeps shoving me away from my exit point. Is Ignatius safe?"
LATER
"Jane," Minerva says. They are once again in the small Ministry flat assigned to Jane Puckle. She has been gone less than 24 hours in Minerva's perceived time. So the flat's interior is exactly the way Jane left it. It is much more heavily guarded than it was, however. Minerva knows this is the best that can be hoped for, given that the Ministry may, at any moment, indict Jane Puckle on charges of espionage. This is Jane's reward for having unlocked the first great mystery of time travel, survived untold years in dangerous circumstances, fought her way back to a time unnatural to her, all to serve a nation that may well send her to Azkaban. More accurately, she has done this to save a nation that may well send her to Azkaban.
"Minerva? Hullo? Where are you? I'm right here." Jane pipes.
"So you are," Minerva says. "Jane, there's something y'must know. Very soon, I am going to fling myself into your arms. This will be more comfortable for you if you are seated on a bed or sofa of some kind. Now," she holds up long fingers to stave off Jane's anticipated response, "I understand your objection to my suitability as a lover. However, if I do not have your arms around me within the next five minutes, I will explode into little soggy bits and you will never be able to put me back th'gither. This is fact."
Jane says nothing as she arranges pillows and cushions on the floor in one little corner of the one room that does not contain a bed or a toilet. When satisfied, she places herself upon it, leans into the cushions propped against the wall, and rests her folded hands upon her outstretched thighs. At this moment, the big streak of stubborn that has been holding up Minerva's spine does a controlled collapse on the makeshift cot. Minerva tucks her shoulder under Jane's arm, rests her cheek upon Jane's shoulder, pushes the entire length of her body as close to Jane as it can go without fusing, and trembles for five solid minutes while Jane kisses the top of her head, strokes her arms, soothes her with a soft, warm, calm, compliant, undemanding body.
Minerva breathes her in. She has never known anyone or anything that smells as good as Jane Puckle. Even now.
"Y'smell different," Minerva says after a while, "You've been gone years. How many years?"
"What do you smell?"
"Tis what I don't smell."
Jane gently squeezes Minerva's hand when it clasps hers.
"The change. When you came here, you were fertile," Minerva looks up, but can't see Jane's face from her current position, and she very much wants to stay right where she is.
"Remarkable," Jane tells her. "I sometimes forget how gifted you are, Linty."
"You think I'm a great blubbering baby."
"Well, yes and no."
"I was hoping to catch up with you soon, and here you are twice my age, at least."
"Thank you for pointing that out."
Minerva bends her knee, captures Jane's legs under her own. Jane allows this with a resigned sigh. Minerva keeps it up, even though it puts the blast furnace between her thighs so close to Jane, she can barely keep herself from rolling her hips in search of that longed-for friction. But she does keep herself from doing that, and after some moments the spike of desire falls back down to a place she can relax into.
"Tell me what's going to happen," Minerva asks.
"No."
"Tell me you will nae leave me again."
"No."
"Tell me you'll never want me."
Three seconds can be a long, long time in the right circumstances.
Some of us, Hermione thinks, have self control.
"That's all well, Jane," Minerva nestles closer, "I heard the 'no'."