"A wizard—or witch—who excels reaps the rewards."
As she was returning to her classroom from the lunch break on Wednesday, Minerva was stopped by the sound of crying from an empty classroom. As she drew nearer, she could hear a too-familiar voice saying, "If you want it back, say it!" A second, reedier voice chimed in with, "Say it, or I'll turn it into Quintaped and make it bite your prick off."
As she opened the door, she heard a treble sob, "I am Mudblood scum."
She was greeted by the sight of three boys—Lestrange, Macnair, and another boy whose back was to her but who turned out to be Lloyd Umbridge—standing menacingly over a smaller boy, wands drawn. Lestrange was Levitating a copy of Elementary Transfiguration just out of the boy's jumping, grasping reach.
"Exactly what is going on here?" Minerva asked.
The boys' heads snapped to where she was standing, and they immediately fixed their gazes on the floor, all except Rabastan Lestrange, who looked at her insolently and said, "Nothing, Professor. Just a bit of harmless fun. Stebbins here is fine, aren't you, Stebbins."
The boy, a first-year Hufflepuff, stood there wiping his eyes with his sleeve, saying nothing.
Minerva's lips thinned as she held out her hand. "Give me the book, Mr Lestrange." Rabastan handed it over, and Minerva asked the firstie, whose face was burning with the shame of having been observed in such a predicament by his favourite teacher, "Is this yours, Mr Stebbins?"
"Yes, Professor. Thank you," he said, taking it with a small sniffle.
Minerva thought it best to send the boy on his way while she dealt with his tormentors.
"If you are all right, Mr Stebbins, you may go."
The boy gave a quick nod and scurried out.
Turning to the three aggressors, Minerva said, "There was nothing harmless or fun about what you boys were doing. It was theft and bullying, and I won't stand for it. Detention for the three of you for the week, every night after dinner."
"Oh, Professor," said Umbridge, in the whiny voice that always made her itch to hex him, "Not Saturday! It's Quidditch Saturday."
"Then you'll be missing the Slytherin party, won't you, Mr Umbridge?" she said. Turning to the skinny fourth-year, she added, "A little extra work on Transfiguration will benefit you, Mr Macnair. I am quite certain you could never have made good on your threat, given that you have yet to master even the most basic trans-elemental spells that any first-year can manage."
It was unlike Minerva to attempt to humiliate a student, but she was angry, and Minerva had little patience for Walden Macnair under the best of circumstances. He was dim-witted and content to be so, and his association with the sharper Rabastan Lestrange was doing nothing to alter that, as far as Minerva could see.
Taking a leaf from Lestrange—or attempting to—Macnair gave her what he no doubt thought was a menacing look, so she said, "And that glare has just earned you and your partners in crime an extra two hundred lines of Marmion this evening."
The three boys looked at one another, obviously confused.
"Marmion,"Minerva informed them, "is a poem about the Battle of Flodden by Sir Walter Scott. Muggle."
"You're giving us lines from some poem about a Muggle battle?" asked Umbridge.
"I am," she said, giving him her stoniest stare. "Have you any other pointless questions?"
Umbridge looked at the floor again. "No, Professor."
"No, I thought not," she said. "My class will begin in three minutes. I suggest you boys be on time for it." She waited while the three Slytherins shuffled out, then she emitted an exasperated sigh.
Supervising detention every night for a week would mean getting home after ten, as well as missing her Saturday-evening chess game with Albus, but she was livid at the bullying she had witnessed and relished the opportunity to have the culprits sitting in her classroom every night. She intended to start them off with Marmion, then set them an essay on Muggle history and its contribution to wizarding society, which would necessarily send them to the library during whatever free time remained to them. She might even assign them a chapter or two of her father's book on wizarding and Muggle interaction.
The rest of the week passed uneventfully, and Minerva experienced an unusual shiver of pleasure at Slytherin's victory over Ravenclaw at Saturday's Quidditch game, knowing that her three detainees would be missing the celebration in the dungeons. Slytherin victory parties were famous or notorious, depending on whether one was a member of that House or not, for the lavish provisions, including Butterbeer, furnished by Slytherin Head Horace Slughorn.
Minerva didn't entirely approve of this sanctioned merrymaking. While she was in favour of the few school-wide celebrations that occurred over the course of the year, she didn't hold with special treatment for some students. It simply fostered additional rivalries and exactly the kind of entitled attitude that allowed bullies like Lestrange to operate with relative impunity among his fellow students.
Of course, Slughorn thrived on rivalry and one-upmanship. He had always played favourites among the students—Minerva herself had been a beneficiary of this policy—and encouraged direct competition in his classroom, offering prizes to the student who could successfully complete a complex potion fastest. Offering incentives was very well and good, Minerva thought, but the Potions master all but ignored the students who were struggling and most in need of his help.
It made him an odd choice for Head of House, in Minerva's estimation, but then again, he had been the only Slytherin on staff when the former Slytherin Head, Herbert Burke, had withdrawn in the late 'forties as his health deteriorated. Burke had, however, remained Charms master until Albus rose to the Headmaster's chair, which did not surprise anyone.
The Burkes were one among numerous genteelly impoverished pure-blood families, and Herbert's estranged-but-insistent wife expected to maintain a standard of living commensurate with the Black name to which she had been born. A post at Hogwarts was one of the few forms of employment deemed acceptable in pure-blood society—made more so by the ascent of a Black to the Headship in 1889. There had been a minor scandal when Herbert's brother, Caractacus, had gone into trade at around the same time, eventually opening a shop—the very one in which Tom Riddle had found post-graduation employment—staking it with the sale of many of the family's more interesting heirlooms.
Minerva had been pleased to find that old Professor Burke had retired when she joined the staff—he was not a bad man, but he was an abysmal teacher—less so that Horace Slughorn was now responsible for guiding the Slytherins.
The object of Minerva's musings came up to her as soon as the Slytherin Seeker had caught the Snitch and was flying a victory lap around the stands.
"Well, Professor McGonagall," said Slughorn, "a fine game, don't you agree?"
"Yes, it was, Professor Slughorn."
"It's Slytherin versus Gryffindor next week—should be quite exciting. I hope you won't be too distressed if your old House goes down in defeat," he said jovially.
"It's hardly a foregone conclusion, Professor," she said. "Johnson is once again fit and ready to play, and he's a far finer Chaser than any of Slytherin's."
"But that will not make up for Gryffindor's weakness in the Seeker department."
"I don't think Miss Kirke is especially weak."
"No," said Slughorn. "Please take no offence, dear lady. I was not referring to Miss Kirke's skill, but rather her broom. It is far inferior to Mr Belby's Silver Arrow."
Slughorn had unwittingly hit upon a sore spot that had troubled Minerva since her own Quidditch-playing days. Her first year on the Gryffindor team, they had lost the cup to Slytherin largely because the one of the other Gryffindor Chasers had ridden a broom that was on its last legs, and Minerva's perfectly serviceable Comet hadn't been fast enough to make up for it when competing with the rival team's newer, faster models.
Minerva asked, "Don't you think it rather unfair that a school Quidditch game can be won or lost on the basis of who has the best equipment?"
"It is a good illustration of the importance of getting ahead. A wizard—or witch—" he added, with a small bow in her direction, "who excels reaps the rewards. Those rewards lead, in turn, to more opportunities and more rewards."
"Yes, but in this case, it isn't Mr Belby who has excelled; it is his family's wealth that has allowed him to have the fastest and most expensive broom on the market."
"Ah, but that is life, Professor McGonagall. And the children must face it. It can be a motivating factor, I find, for those who begin at a disadvantage. It was for me, at any rate," he said, and Minerva had the impression that Slughorn had shared a confidence.
It was an uncomfortable moment. "Perhaps you would care to place a wager on the next match, then," Minerva said, hoping to engage him in some collegial rivalry.
"Oh, no, no. I could never wager with a lady." He leant slightly closer and said quietly, "However, I should be delighted if you would celebrate Slytherin's victory—or Gryffindor's—after the match with a wee libation in my chambers. I have the most marvellous bottle of 1949 bubbly I've been saving. A gift from a former student—a Mademoiselle Salon. Muggle-born, but most talented. Her family owns a vineyard in Le Mesnil."
Was he chatting her up?
"I'm afraid I have another engagement, Professor Slughorn." She hoped he'd take the message.
"Yes, quite," he said, obviously flustered, and she felt a bit sorry for him in spite of herself.
Later that evening, she stopped by Albus's quarters before going to the Transfiguration classroom to oversee the detention.
"I am sorry to stand you up," she said.
"Never mind. As Headmaster, I must applaud your devotion to the education of our students," he said. "But as a man …" He took her in his arms and kissed her.
When they broke, he said, "Stop by after, if you're not too tired. We'll have a nightcap, and I'll see you to the Apparition point."
Two hours later, they stood just at the door leading from Albus's quarters to his office, kissing like a pair of their teenaged charges, Minerva's arms around Albus's neck, his hands at her waist.
Gods, it felt good! She had to make a conscious effort to keep from moaning into his mouth, and she was fairly certain, from the way he was holding her scrupulously away from his body, that he was as aroused as she.
Going slowly had sounded all very well and good, but it was turning out to be exquisite torture. They had had dinner once and played chess on the two previous Saturdays since their first official "date", and each occasion had been punctuated by kisses of increasing ardour at the end, just before he walked her to the Apparition point.
These encounters had left her aching for more. It had been almost two years since she had been to bed with anyone, and her body was now making her acutely aware of its having been so cruelly neglected. But she held firm to her promise to herself not to push him. If he was not ready to make love, she would content herself with cool baths and her own fingers.
She broke the kiss. "I should be going. It's late, and I don't want to disturb Charity."
"Does she wait up for you?"
"No. But she knows when I come in, I think. I try to be quiet, of course, but she must hear me, and she probably feels the shift in the wards."
On the way to the Apparition point, they saw Hagrid trudging up from the direction of the stables.
"Oi, there, Perfessors!" Hagrid said.
They greeted him when he caught up with them.
"Lucky break we've had with the weather, innit?" he said, gesturing at the sky.
"Hagrid, what's happened to your arm?" Minerva exclaimed when she saw the bloody rag wrapped around his club-like forearm, which hung just at her eye-level.
"Oh, that? That weren't nothing, Perfessor. Just one of the Thestrals got shirty with me. Perferssor Kettleburn says they've been restless with the rain an' whatnot. Saturday's my night to see to the stock," he said with a hint of pride that warmed Minerva's heart.
"Let me have a look at it," she said.
"Oh, no need, Perfessor. It's just a scratch."
She eyed the rag sceptically. "It needs to be properly cleaned, if nothing else," she said, grasping the arm and beginning to untie the filthy bandage.
An amused-looking Albus said, "You'd best do as she says, Hagrid. Or our Minerva is apt to turn you into a chicken."
Hagrid gave a hearty laugh, and Minerva shot Albus a dirty look as she pulled the rag off and rolled up Hagrid's sleeve. "Give me a spot of light, will you Albus?"
He lit his wand tip and held it over where Minerva was working.
There were three deep, oozing gashes dividing the flesh of Hagrid's hairy arm. Minerva drew her wand and cast a basic wound-cleaning spell, then a Collocutis to seal the wound edges together.
"There," she said. "That should hold it for the moment, but you ought to see Madam Soranus in the morning. She may need to re-open and heal those cuts properly. You might need something against infection, too."
"Thanks, Perfessor. I'll … I'll do that," he said, and all three of them knew he would do no such thing. "Good night, then, Perfessor, Headmaster. Enjoy yer walk."
As they continued towards the gate, Minerva said, "I do wish he'd call me 'Minerva'. We were at school together, after all. That is, until … well …"
"Yes. A terrible business. That was very kind of you to heal him, Minerva. He can't do it himself, of course, and I know he hates going to Alfidia."
Minerva couldn't blame Hagrid for that. "I always suspected you were the one who convinced Headmaster Dippet to hire him on as assistant groundskeeper," she said.
"I merely floated the suggestion and helped Armando get it through the Board of Governors. He felt quite sorry for the boy."
"Then why did he allow them to snap Hagrid's wand?"
"Armando had little choice. He believed Hagrid had simply made a terrible mistake, not that he had any malign intent, but the Ministry insisted. They were under a great deal of pressure. Myrtle's parents were rather influential at the time."
Minerva had agreed with Dippet's assessment herself, but while she had thought Hagrid's expulsion was appropriate, the humiliating ceremony in which his wand had been snapped had appalled her. It never would have happened if the boy hadn't been a "half-breed", as he was called.
Albus said, "For my part, I do not believe Hagrid's spider was responsible for the girl's death."
At the time, Minerva hadn't believed that nonsense about a Chamber of Secrets, so it had not surprised her that the killer had turned out to be something more prosaic than the legendary "Monster of Slytherin". Nor had she been especially surprised that Rubeus Hagrid had brought a dangerous creature into the castle—he had already been notorious for his affinity for them—although she had been shocked that he could attempt to cover up his mistake with those strange messages. He hadn't struck her as the devious type, and something about it had always set wrong with her. The idea that there was an alternate explanation for the terrible events of 1943 now grew on her.
"An Acromantula, I thought," she said.
"Yes, but an immature one. I doubt it was yet able to kill that efficiently."
She thought for a moment, frowning. "How do you know it was immature?"
"I saw it. After Hagrid was accused, I went with him to the Forbidden Forest to see the creature for myself. It couldn't have been more than a few months old; it couldn't even speak yet. 'Aragog', Hagrid called him."
Minerva fought a sudden urge to kiss him then and there. Albus's kindness was among the things she found most attractive about him. Much later, she would realise that it was one of the weapons in his arsenal; his kindness had become such a part of his legend that when he had to be cruel, it often went unrecognised and unremarked as such.
She asked, "If it wasn't the Acromantula that killed Myrtle, what was it? And why did the attacks stop after Hagrid was expelled?"
"I am not certain."
"But you have an idea."
"I do. And I will share it with you one day. But not tonight. It's entirely too dreary a subject for a walk with a lovely witch on such a lovely night."
Minerva suppressed a sigh.
Tom Riddle made an appearance in her dreams that night, and when she woke, sweating and thrashing, she wished, not for the first time, that she were not alone.
~oOo~
Albus sat in the private room above the pub in the Hog's Head, waiting for Borgin. He had almost given him up when the door opened and the young man walked in wearing a look of foggy serenity that told Albus what had kept him.
"Sorry I'm late, Professor. I had the feeling I was being followed, so I had to stop in at an Alley pub before coming here. Make it look like I was there for the duration. I managed to slip out the back after an hour."
"It's all right, Mortimer," Albus said. "So tell me, what's been going on?"
"Not much," said Borgin. "At least, not until yesterday. They haven't met for about two weeks, but last night, everyone was there. Sounded like Voldemort had been away. I heard them talking about Nurmengard."
Albus felt a chill that had little to do with the temperature. "Nurmengard?"
"Yeah," the young man said, grasping the glass and taking a swig of Firewhisky. "I didn't hear everything, but I think Voldemort went there. They kept talking about the Blackrobes, so I assume he saw Grindelwald. Your name was mentioned."
"My name?"
"Mmm. I got the sense he was there trying to find out about you. Maybe something about the duel?"
"Likely." Albus didn't believe it for a moment. "What else?"
"One thing that might interest you: there was some talk about recruiting more followers—maybe trying to get Slughorn on board, since he had access to—what did they call it? Oh, yeah, 'right-thinking boys'. Guess 'cause he's Head of Slytherin."
Albus privately thought that they'd have little luck there. Horace, for all his faults, would find Riddle's followers and their philosophies repugnant, given his own background.
"Go on," Albus said.
"There's not much else. It always devolves into talk about Muggle-baiting and the like."
"You still have not seen this Voldemort?"
"No. And I still don't know where he's been keeping—they don't actually talk that much about him, except a few times, like what I've told you." Borgin took another swig of his drink then snorted. "I'm beginning to think they made him up. Kind of a bogeyman, you know?"
"I don't think so," said Albus, and his grave tone took all amusement off Borgin's face. "Listen, Mortimer: I want you to try to find out anything you can about Voldemort—where he's been, where he goes, whom he sees. Who, in your estimation, is the leader in the group?"
"Rufinus Lestrange does most of the talking. The others seem to follow his lead. My dad says—" Borgin stopped, obviously uncomfortable.
"It's all right, son," said Albus, laying a reassuring hand on the young man's arm. "What does he say?"
"That Rufinus leads his brothers around by the nose, even though he's younger. Says he's the one brought the others in. I think maybe he knew Voldemort before the others."
"Possibly. I want you to keep a close eye on Rufinus. He may lead us to information about Voldemort."
"Right. Will do."
The interview was clearly over. As Albus stood, Borgin hesitated for a moment, then said, "Look. It's getting more dangerous. There's more of them and some of 'em are sharp. I hate to ask but …"
This was the first time money had been brought to the table, even obliquely. The two men had thus far operated under the pleasant and wilful illusion that Mortimer Borgin had come to Albus Dumbledore out of a sense of what was right and his discomfort at his father's association with a band of thugs, but the boy's desperation had been clear enough. His father employed him and held the purse-strings, and Mortimer, as a drunkard and dropout, had little other prospect for earning the cash that would slake his thirst.
Albus felt a wave of sympathy for the young man. Addiction was a terrible curse that made one do strange things. Albus wondered if Borgin would be here if not for his need, or if, given a life free of Firewhisky, he would join his father's comrades in their Dark business. But there was little use in such speculation, and Albus abandoned the thought.
As it was, Borgin was willing to risk his life for a few bottles of cheap liquor. If he lived through this, Albus thought, he'd pay for the best private Healer he could find to help the boy with his dipsomania. Until then, Albus the Great and Good would continue to exploit his weakness.
"I'll see what I can do," he said, corking the bottle that had stood on the table and handing it to Borgin. "Would money help?"
"It might."
Albus nodded and withdrew a leather pouch from his robes. He gave Borgin what he had—two Galleons, three Sickles, and nine Knuts—and bid him take care.