Jolted awake Monday morning, McGonagall topples off the foot of her bed and lands on the hard castle floor in the privacy of her bedroom. Sweating, and on the brink of panic, she silently wills her lungs to expand and contract, to function normally.
Gerald Grindelwald's face looms above her and she knows it is not real. The image she sees, the heavy male body she feels pressing hers into the stone floor is only a byproduct of her tormented subconscious mind. This is not the first morning she has woken alone in the dark, bathed in a cold sweat with her throat clinched painfully tight, unable to breathe, or move voluntarily.
After several alarming seconds of noncompliance, she is finally able to pull in a great torrent of air, and with air, comes relief. It comes slowly, moving at a snail's pace, but it seeps in and infiltrates red blood cells and gray matter alike until her heart rate gradually begins to slow and her muscles begin to unclench.
As relaxation begins, she becomes conscious of pains associated with landing on the floor. Released from her nightmare-induced paralysis, she is finally able to open her eyes and, in doing so, banish images and thoughts that would make her scream aloud, if only she could find her voice. Feeling stiff and sluggish, as if the connection between her mind and her body is on the brink of total collapse. she rolls slowly onto her left side. For a while, she lays there on the floor with her cheek pressed into the heavy braid of the rug. Waiting for things to return to normal, she idly tries to remember the last time she cleaned the rug. It smells of dust. In moments like these, focusing on the mundane details of everyday life may be a tedious chore, but salvation is often disguised within. So, she lets her mind go where it will; wondering how many tedious chores she can get done before the day is half over and she has to leave the security of the castle. No. It's best not to think about that now. It's best to keep herself as busy as possible this morning. Thankfully, there is no shortage of things to be done. She eases onto her back and finds Wordsworth starring down at her curiously from his perch on the end of her bed. Reaching up, she touches the tip of her right index finger to the tip of his nose.
"Good morning. Are you hungry?" She asks inanely, already knowing the answer to that question.
Wordsworth does not reply. He merely continues to stare.
"Yes, I know. I should get off the floor."
Slowly, Wordsworth lowers one paw and then the other until he too is off the bed and lounging on her chest.
"Humph." She smirks into the darkness. "You know, getting off the floor would be a whole lot easier without a 15-pound cat holding me down."
Content where he is, unwilling to move, Wordsworth begins to purr; his large heavy body vibrating gently against her torso.
Aware of what she's doing, she pulls the quilt off the end of the bed, and covers both herself and the cat, knowing that he will not stay that way more than a moment or two.
Sure enough, less than a minute later, he's moving, trying to find his way out from beneath the quilt. She lets him go. Getting slowly to her feet, she tosses the quilt back onto the bed and finally realizes that she's still wearing yesterday's clothes, minus her left boot which is lying on the floor a few inches away.
After lunch, she'd gone to check on Kellan, Robbie, and Logan with a stop at the grocery store between households. Upon returning to the castle, thoughts of today's agenda had left her anxious. With no hope of sleeping, she had returned to work and made repairs until well after midnight when she found herself in the midst of one such project and swaying slightly from left to right, nearly asleep on her feet in some isolated corridor on the second floor. At which point, she had given in, trudged down the stairs, retired to her quarters, and had apparently managed to kick off only one boot. Shaking her head at this, she runs her tongue over the surface of her teeth and realizes that she hadn't managed to brush them. Nor had she taken down her hair. She had simply sat down on the end of the bed, undid the laces of her left boot, and no sooner than she had kicked it off, she had slumped backward onto the quilt and surrendered herself to sleep.
Exhausted, she had slept deeply. At least until the old familiar nightmares had returned with their darkness and their terror. She knew they would return. After Shacklebolt's visit yesterday, she simply knew. For the last 27 years, she's made a habit of avoiding triggers, but yesterday had been unavoidable. That was why she had worked so late into the night, putting off the inevitable, until her body had given her no choice. She simply had to sleep.
Awake now and trembling with residual fear, she makes her way to the bathroom, stripping off yesterday's attire as she goes. Turning on the shower, she steps into the cold flow of water without waiting for it to warm. The icy blast chases away the last remnants of nightmarish images and sensations from her mind and body. Lathering up, she tries to scrub away things that only she is aware of.
When she steps out of the shower 20 minutes later, the water has warmed sufficiently enough to turn the bathroom into her own private sauna, completely fog the mirror above her vanity, and leave her skin bright pink. Wrapping her hair in one towel and her body in another, she returns to her bedroom, picking up discarded clothing as she makes her way first, to the chest of drawers, and then the armoire where she will dress for the day.
She feeds Wordsworth, who turns his nose up in disdain at the boiled chicken and gravy in his dish. McGonagall shrugs. "Fine, don't eat it. You could stand to lose a pound or two."
At breakfast, she forces down tea and a piece of dry toast, and then she returns to work, steadfastly refusing to allow herself time to think of anything else.
At 12:30, Talbot Winger parks his Indian at the curb, kills the engine, and removes his helmet. Oblivious to the curiosity of the patrons seated at patio-style tables on the sidewalk outside of a high-priced coffee shop, he glances through the windows, and when he spots his current person of interest, he strides into the place wearing denim, leather, and boots.
When a well-dressed middle-aged woman in possession of a handbag more expensive than his bike eyes him with curiosity that borders on mild alarm, he offers her a practiced smile and, after a moment, when she shrugs and returns to rummaging for change, he steps into line.
Ten minutes later, when he makes it to the front of the line, he orders coffee and grimaces when the girl behind the counter chuckles and replies flirtatiously, "Can you be just a teensy bit more specific, handsome? We have lots of coffee."
Talbot sighs. "Coffee, black, no sugar, in an 8-ounce cup."
Not taking the hint, she continues to smile. "You're a purist, huh?"
Bored, he answers, "I'm thirsty."
"It's lunchtime. You hungry? Want a croissant or a biscuit to go with your coffee?"
Talbot glances at the sugary confections available for viewing in the display case and grimaces again.
"I'll take that as a no. One small black coffee coming up."
While he waits, he glances around discreetly, spotting a familiar face in a back booth. When he has his coffee in hand, he heads that way and slides into the seat on the opposite side of the table from a slender dark-skinned woman with a long, graceful neck and a hairstyle so short that it would make most other women look like cancer patients, but on her, it looks elegant.
Smiling, she teases. "You buy those jeans that way?"
He sips his coffee. "What way?"
"With the knee ripped out?"
He shakes his head. "Not me. I'm not paying somebody extra money to put holes in my trousers before they sell them to me."
Having expected such an answer, she nods. "So, what happened?"
Talbot lowers his voice so that only she can hear. "Apprehended Sammy this morning. Dragged him out of bed nice and early. He was not pleased."
Her dark eyes widen subtly as she lowers her own voice. "You arrested old man Gnarlack's great-grandson before breakfast? What's he smuggling this time?"
"Stardust… And he sold it. To one of them."
The woman's eyes widen dramatically this time, and she silently mouths her next question. "A muggle?"
Talbot's nod is nearly imperceptible.
She mutters beneath her breath. "Merlin's lily-white ass!"
Talbot has to work hard to return his drink to the table without sloshing it from the cup as his shoulders shake with quiet laughter.
"Tal! It's not funny!"
"I know it's not funny. I'm not laughing because the kid is in St. Mungo's on a ventilator. I'm laughing at what you said."
Wait… Back up. St. Mungo's on a ventilator, that makes no sense."
"Tell me about it. The ministry is scrambling to put together some sort of joint medical team on this. The kid's not one of us… but he OD'd on one of our drugs. The staff of Saint Vincent's in Inverness doesn't know how to combat the effects of stardust. The kid's respiratory system is trashed, and the folks at Mungo's don't know how to treat his physiology."
"How the hell did he get to Mungo's in the first place?"
Turns out one of ours works at Saint Vincent's. It's supposed to be her day off. But she got called in sometime this morning before God was awake. The boy's parents found him unresponsive on his bathroom floor and took him to Saint Vincent's. The nurse realized that what was going on with the kid wasn't treatable… At least not at Saint Vincent's. She contacted somebody at St. Mungo's. Mungo's called in the ministry. We had to make some modifications for two doctors, ½ dozen nurses, and a handful of cardio/pulmonary specialists. The kid's circling the drain. He'd already be gone if it hadn't been for the nurse. Sammy has been in trouble more times than I can count. Usually, I can't make anything stick. Nobody can. The guy's Teflon, but if I can justifiably nail him for this… especially if that kid dies… he's going down."
She nods. "The hard way. So long Sammy."
"I'm not there yet, Nelda. There's a lot of work to do. But, if he's convicted of selling one of our controlled substances to an outsider… Yeah, the ministry will punch his ticket for sure."
"Gnarlack just rolled over in his grave. Let's hope he reaches out from the beyond and bitch-slaps his punk great-grandson."
Talbot Winger nods in agreement "I miss guys like him."
About to take a sip, Nelda lowers her coffee cup. "Talbot, the guy was a mobster!"
Talbott shrugs. "Yeah, but back then mobsters had standards. They had some style, some dignity, you know? The current generation has no class…" Changing the subject, he tilts his head toward another table and the strawberry-blond retiree sitting among a group of housewives. "How's our girl?"
Nelda picks up her pocketbook and shrugs as she tucks cash beneath the napkin dispenser and prepares to leave the table "Rock solid. Out with the lady's league and nary a peep. She's all yours. If I don't get moving, I'm gonna be late for court."
"I think today is my last day. I'm about ready to close the book on her. The headmistress was right. I don't think she's going to be sinking any ships."
A soft familiar tap at his office door, and Kingsley Shacklebolt holds up a hand to pause the conversation he is having with his current visitors. "Excuse me, gentlemen." Turning his attention to the door, he calls out. Yes Julienne, what is it?"
The door opens just wide enough for her to peek through, and his senior aide says quietly, "Forgive the interruption sir, but your 2:00 is here."
Shacklebolt offers his current guests an apologetic smile. "Can we pick this up again Wednesday after lunch?"
The three visitors in the room glance around, each one of them waiting for another to nod.
Julienne offers, "Sir, she did acknowledge that she's 15 minutes early. I can ask her to wait."
Shacklebolt shakes his head. "Hers is an appointment that will not be made better by an unnecessary wait." Stepping around his desk, he gestures his three visitors to a second exit, not wanting to parade them through the small waiting area outside his office where his next appointment might be the only person waiting to be received. No sooner than the doors are closed behind them he says, "Tell the professor I will be with her momentarily."
Julienne nods and the door to his outer office closes.
Not wishing to send an interoffice memo for fear of interception, Shacklebolt bends nearly double to wedge his tall frame into the office fireplace. A dash of floo powder and an instant later he steps out of an older, slightly larger, fireplace deep within the bowels of the building.
The wiry little wizard in this subbasement office wears a black patch to hide his missing right eye and he stands a smidgen under 168 cm tall, and the Minister of Magic guesses easily that he weighs in at somewhere under 10 stone, and yet he pours himself a large mug of deep dark diesel sludge courtesy of an antiquated coffee maker that Shacklebolt knows from firsthand experience is strong enough to knock a mountain troll clean off its elephantine feet. He is old and he is gray, but he does not lift his good eye from his reading material as he says quietly, "Good afternoon, Minister. Would you like a cup?"
Shacklebolt chuckles wryly. "I'll pass. The last time you offered me a cup from that outdated beast, I couldn't sit still, much less sleep for eight days Francis."
Feeling absolutely no compulsion to kiss the boss's ass, Francis declares freely, "Lightweight."
Shacklebolt chuckles. "Frank, do you take your spirits as strong as you take your coffee?"
Frank shrugs. "I've got no use for weak coffee, whiskey, or women. The stronger the better."
"Your wife must be an Amazon."
"Nope. But only because she doesn't meet the height requirement. She's shorter than me. Which is good. Makes dancing easier."
"Does she let you lead?"
"Only on the dance floor." Finally glancing up from his paperwork, Frank flashes his grin. "I'm guessing you didn't come down here in the middle of the day to shoot the breeze."
Shacklebolt shakes his head. "My 2:00 is a few minutes early. Round up the bad guys, and have then ready and waiting outside viewing room C as quickly as possible… Case number IL72-243P
Frank flips his file folder shut, tosses it on top of the heap that is currently burying his desk and snaps off a stiff salute. "Right away."
At two minutes before 2:00 PM, McGonagall steps into a small windowless room with Shacklebolt at her side. The ministry's viewing room is little more than a closet with a dropped ceiling, of which several tiles are stained brown, courtesy of age and passed plumbing issues. its walls are stark and unadorned. A pane of glass allows the inhabitants of this dreary little room to peer into the next without fear of being seen so that they might safely identify assailants, grifters, con artists, stalkers, and any other people of the criminal ilk.
The room on McGonagall's side of the glass is stale and airless. Struggling to keep her bearing, she tries to straighten her already rigid spine and purses her lips as she mentally resists the urge to tug at the high lace collar of the blouse beneath her robes. She should've worn something less confining.
Shacklebolt is being discreet in his observations, but she is nonetheless aware that she is being watched and evaluated. Kind as he is, assessments are being silently made, and she mentally pivots from one moment to the next between appreciating this and resenting it. In an effort to still her trembling hands, she clasps them and the artist's sketch pad she holds behind her back as she clears her throat. "In my younger days, I worked for the DML. However, I never had much occasion to be here in this part of the building. How exactly does this work?"
"There are a number of different ways we can do this, Professor. Both this room and that one, have been enchanted to disallow any spell work that is verbal or unspoken. For safety's sake, there are only a select few enchantments that function normally here. An invisibility cloak can be employed, or a similar spell can be cast to secure your identity. The room they are in is divided in two by a translucent barrier that is magically enforced. You may enter the visitor's side of that room and walk among them without fear of discovery if you choose to do so."
McGonagall shakes her head. "Next option please. Seen or otherwise, I have no desire to place myself in the same room with these men regardless of what barriers lie between us."
"There's also the use of pollyjuice potion."
She vetoes this idea with greater rapidity than the first. "I'll not take the form of another. If something happens and any of these men find their way to freedom, I don't want them going after the wrong person. I won't have that on my conscience."
The Minister of Magic nods appreciatively. "That leaves us with the muggle approach."
She tilts her head toward the glass. "Although I've never personally been in this position before, I am at least vaguely familiar with that one. I'm here. I assume that they will arrive momentarily… in there."
Shacklebolt nods solemnly. "Correct. I've pulled the three men we believe we have in custody from holding. They will arrive in the room on the other side of the glass, one at a time, in the company of men who are similar in appearance. It will be up to you to identify the three of them, or not. You will be able to see them, even hear them if you wish. They, however. cannot see you. From their side, they can only see their own reflections, and we will not allow them to hear your voice."
McGonagall nods quietly, jumping slightly when the intercom box on the wall unexpectedly squawks and fills the tiny room with a momentary hiss of static.
"Minister, we're ready when you are, sir."
Shacklebolt turns the volume on the intercom down. "Sorry about that. Any more questions? Need a moment… A glass of water?"
McGonagall shakes her head dourly. "Let's get on with it. The sooner I start, the sooner it's over."
Shacklebolt presses and holds a button down as he speaks. "We're ready for the first group, Frank."
As she watches, a door opens at the far left of the room on the other side of the glass and half a dozen men enter single file; each of them in possession of a numbered card; and coming to a stop before turning to face her with eyes that are restless for want of a focal point.
Silently, McGonagall scans the group twice, just taking in general impressions before returning her eyes to the first one, this time, looking for the finite differences between them; the little things that might set one apart from the other, as opposed to the similarities that make them a group.
As the height markings on the wall behind the six of them indicates, each of the men is just a hair above or below 183 cm tall and, although the lengths vary, they each have similar shades of thinning dirty-blond hair. Additionally, whether it's just a 5:00 shadow, or a thick and well-groomed beard, five of them have some form of a goatee.
Few men have the well-defined jawlines or facial structures necessary to make the beard appealing to McGonagall. She can't recall ever liking this particular style of beard, and she wonders now if she has always felt that way, or if her dislike stems from the traumatic events that brought such a man into her life. Maybe one of these men.
Numbers two and five are clearly concerned with their appearances. Despite their being five years shy of, or passed the age of 60, they each have well developed musculature, while the remaining four men have that noticeable softening around the middle that takes hold of people the further they get from 40.
She squints, trying to get her mind too somehow apply age-regression software to the six faces before her. "Can you ask them to turn and face right?"
Shacklebolt complies, issuing the short prompt courtesy of the intercom.
She squints again, looking at each one individually for several seconds before shaking her head. "I don't know. May I look at my sketches?"
The minister seeks confirmation. "You drew them yourself? Without assistance of any kind?"
"I did. It was 27 years ago, mind you, but they are my own work."
"We don't normally allow anything that would prompt an identification, but if you're certain that you don't intend to pursue charges on your own behalf, I'll allow it."
McGonagall grapples with rationale, desperately using her mind as an anchor, a tether to harness turbulent emotions she would prefer not to put on display. She says, "Unless my understanding of the law is diminished, or out of date, it's far too late to file criminal charges on my own behalf. Muggle and magical laws don't match up exactly, but I'm well beyond the statute of limitations. Even taking the added charge of unlawful imprisonment and the aggravated nature of the assaults into account, the clock ran out at least 18, if not 22, years ago."
Shacklebolt nods. "True, but should you decide you want to allow it, information about your case can be used to establish a pattern of behavior for anyone you identify. If they have done harm to anyone within the last five years, the information can be used to define the character of these men, even if it is too late for you to pursue criminal charges of your own."
McGonagall makes a noncommittal sound as she opens her sketch pad. Flipping through several pages with stops and starts, she turns nearly to the back of the pad, carefully tears one illustration free, and then flips forward again, holding the removed drawing alongside another in the pad. In both, the same face is depicted, and she studies each one for a long moment before turning her eyes back to the men in the room.
Shacklebolt steps to a place just behind her right shoulder, eyeing her charcoal renderings with circumspect. The anguish and betrayal she still feels, but will not voice, leaps from the pages with every dark stroke she has made; alarming and impossible to ignore.
"Ask them to tilt their chins toward the light."
Shacklebolt delivers the prompt and then searches her face as she removes her glasses and steps farther away from the viewing window, putting her back against the opposite wall. "What are you looking for, Professor?"
"The tell-tale hint of a faded scar beneath the beard." She traces an index finger along the weak jawline in both images. "See… It was barely there, even 27 years ago. It must've been a childhood injury of some sort or other. I can vaguely remember thinking he must wear the beard because he was self-conscious about the scar. It certainly wasn't because the facial hair was flattering on him."
Shacklebolt nods and points as he talks. "His beard is heavier in this image than in the other."
"That doesn't matter. It's been 27 years. A man can grow a beard almost as easily as he can shave one away. It would be best to look for something unchangeable. People get haircuts. They grow beards. They lose five pounds… or gain 30, especially after all this time. Clothing styles change."
Shacklebolt offers encouragement. "You're on the right track. Most people have to be reminded of these things before making an identification, but shouldn't you wear your glasses? Wouldn't that help?"
McGonagall shakes her head. "I am farsighted. Without them I can see for a mile, but I can barely see what is right under my nose. In any case, I didn't have my spectacles much of the time that I was abducted. One of them… Not this one… One of the remaining three, deliberately broke them."
"They broke your glasses?"
She nods grimly. "Act of terrorism. I already couldn't move. Making it impossible for me to clearly see anything up close…" She sighs. "It just added to their fun. I was rarely clear-headed, or lucky enough to catch sight of any of them at a distance. If I spotted them before they entered my cell, I could see them well enough to discern one from the other. If they were…" She twitches involuntarily. "close… I… Well, for the most part I had to rely on my four remaining senses."
Shacklebolt shrugs with his face as he points at the viewing window. "So, forget about them. Close your eyes." He points to the two drawings. "Tell me what you know for certain about this man."
She trembles visibly. The last thing she wants to do is close her eyes.
Compassion moves Shacklebolt and he places a warm hand on her shoulder, wishing to comfort her.
Calmly she steps away from his touch, and he immediately regrets it.
"I'm sorry."
McGonagall shakes her head. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Just… Don't do that."
Nodding in contrition, he makes a show of tucking his hands into the pockets of his tribal robes.
Pulling in a great breath as if it will have to last her for days, McGonagall turns her back on the viewing window and closes her eyes.
Instantly, a ticker tape of horrifying flashbulb images ignites and burns through her mind.
After several long seconds, she opens her eyes, but one look, and Shacklebolt knows that his old transfiguration teacher sees nothing of him or the room in which they stand. Whatever hell her mind is revisiting, her body reacts. She goes stone still. Her thin lips are pursed so tightly that they almost disappear from sight. She stops breathing. Her face goes pale, bloodless. Then she gasps, and physically recoils.
Even after it's clear that she is cognizant of the present once again, it still takes a long time for her to speak. When she finally does, she whispers, "He smelled like patchouli oil."
Shacklebolt shrugs apologetically and shakes his head. "I've heard of it, but I'm unfamiliar."
"It was especially popular in the sixties and seventies. I believe some muggles thought it would mask the odor of cannabis, or perhaps other drug use."
"Did he seem high… Or otherwise, inebriated?"
McGonagall answers drolly. "He seemed violent. They all did. As to whether or not he was under the influence of some substance, I cannot reasonably say. After all, I myself, was under the influence of whatever they injected me with at the time. I was also in the dark, and half-blind without my spectacles. I can't make out even the outline of a scar on any of their chins. Which means either he's not there, or it has faded beyond recognition. It was very faint even then."
"It was dark, you could barely see, you couldn't move, you were drugged, you had to be beyond terrified. How are you so sure it should be there?"
"I felt it." McGonagall glares at the men beyond the glass. "It was a very fine scar, just a sliver, really. Whoever closed the wound did good work. They were all revolting but…" She points to the sketches she still holds. "This one was particularly rancid because… He kissed me… repeatedly. The others… They treated me like some nameless, faceless… receptacle. This one… I remember thinking he must've fantasized that we were a couple, or at the very least that I belonged to him. The others had no illusions, but he thought he was an Irish Casanova."
Shacklebolt swallows his own urge to gag, and marvels at the shredded composure she's clinging to. "Vivid detail but, is the man in those drawings in that room? Older? Heavier? Thinner maybe?"
She shakes her head and shrugs. "I can't say. Not without doubt. Even if you forced them all to shave, I'm still not certain I would know. Not without touching them, and that's not going to happen."
Shacklebolt nods and reaches for the intercom button again. Halfway there, he stops. "Hang on, you said Irish. Not just Casanova, but specifically Irish Casanova. Why?"
McGonagall blinks momentary confusion away, as though she made the connection years ago, without ever fully realizing that she had done it. "He spoke Gaelic. But it wasn't Scot's Gaelic. It was an Irish dialect. I couldn't understand every word he spoke, just enough to get the gist of things."
"He talked to you?"
McGonagall shrugs. "Not a lot, but certainly more than the others. He was chatty compared to them. The others basically relied on monosyllabic grunts, heavily peppered with vulgarities pertaining to my gender, and honestly, I think I preferred the lack of conversation. All his talking implied a familiarity… a closeness that sickened me. The other three came, did what they did, and left with very few words."
When words fail him, Shacklebolt simply nods.
For a moment, she stands there deliberately not looking at him, and then, after a weighted silence, she inhales shakily. "Ask for the next set, please."
Dreading the next revelations to come, Shacklebolt presses the button. "Frank, send them back to holding. Give us the next group."
They watch group one file out in silence. As the second arrives, Shacklebolt avoids looking at her, but he does detect the soft sound of a sharp inhalation.
This second set of six, are all noticeably darker in complexion than the last, and several centimeters taller. Each man is blue eyed, barrel chested, and built like an aging boxer, with long black hair that is sleek, shiny, and in most cases, going slightly gray at the temples.
McGonagall doesn't speak. As before, she waits until the last man enters the room, and they each turn to face her. Then she slowly paces the length of the viewing window. Taking in all the similarities before studying each one individually, once again, looking for the small distinguishable differences.
Barely above a whisper, she breathes, "The gypsy."
"Gypsy?"
"Romani. They don't like being referred to as gypsies. But that's how I thought of him. This one didn't speak at all. I never heard him utter a single word. He just stared at me with those clear blue eyes. He wore a necklace. A gold chain. A pendant with the all-seeing eye."
"You told me they took the boy you rescued because they were specifically looking for empathic children. A guy who believed in the evil eye probably fit right in."
"That's our perception. The evil eye. It means something different to them."
"Is the man you remember in there?"
McGonagall tilts her head to the left and speaks slowly, measuring out her words… "Number four, I think. He was the youngest of the fou…" Suddenly she swallows, her pallor going slightly green. Hesitantly, she says, "Have them remove their robes and shirts."
Shacklebolt squints but complies, making her request heard over the intercom.
This clearly surprises the men. Numbers one, two, five and six, all look uncomfortable. Number three smirks and wastes no time putting himself on display. The remaining one, number four, resists with the shake of his head until Frank steps into the room, and even without the benefit of sound, it's clear that the taller, heavier man is being told, "Either do it yourself, or I will do it for you."
As they wait for him to comply, McGonagall tells Shacklebolt, "His body was a road map of abuse. He was covered in scars. He had a…"
When she stops suddenly, Shacklebolt is shocked to see surprise clearly visible on her face.
"It's not number four. It's number two. That's him. See the burn scar on his lower abdomen? It ends just above his pubic hair. Oddly, whatever left the burn mark was perfectly rectangular, and 27 years ago the skin graft was new. Still tender. It sometimes prevented him from…" McGonagall blinks. "doing what he wanted."
"Small favor?"
"Hardly. When he couldn't function normally… he became embarrassed, humiliated, and enraged. So, he bit me instead."
"Christ!"
Quietly, McGonagall deadpans, "I'm not sure Christ was anywhere near that horrid place."
"He had to have been."
"Really? She studies Shacklebolt's broad face, offering a fleeting moment of direct eye contact. "What makes you so sure?"
"You're still here. You survived… and became my teacher in… 19… 75?"
"1974."
"You remember the exact year?"
"Of course, I do."
"You've taught how many thousands?"
"Some of you stand out from the crowd. Especially when Desmond Turnbull decided to make fun of your dashiki no sooner than you'd stepped through the front doors on your first night in the castle and Dade Tallgrass promptly shattered his nose for you."
Shacklebolt laughs. "We've been best friends ever since."
"I'm aware. Mr. Tallgrass is still a bit of a hothead. I'm sure that particular friendship doesn't come without a price for the Minister of Magic."
"It hasn't caused me any problems yet, but when the time comes, it's a price I will pay without hesitation."
"As you should."
Shacklebolt nods and takes a deep breath to steady his own restless nerves. Recognizing the moment for what it is, he once again finds himself in awe of the fortitude of the woman standing beside him. "Ready for the last one?"
Because she doesn't dare to say 'No' out loud, and because no matter how long she waits, she will never be able to say 'Yes,' she offers a simple wordless motion, rolling her wrist slightly.
Again, the minister addresses his comments to the intercom, and again, six men file out. Six men file in.
Even before they come to a complete stop and turn to face the viewing glass, Shacklebolt notices the difference in McGonagall's demeanor. Already having told her that Gerald Grindelwald was believed to be in custody, he realizes that she has at least some idea what to expect this time around, and he instantly knows it for the mistake it was. He had unintentionally given her advanced warning.
This time, she is not scanning the faces of the men, taking note of either similarities or differences. Instead, her gaze is locked somewhere above the knees of the men, and Shacklebolt's next thought is that she doesn't want to see their faces. Before he can question this, or even offer encouragement, all air explodes from McGonagall's lungs and escapes her as if she's been unexpectedly gut-punched.
As far away from these men as she can be inside the small viewing room, her back hard up against the opposite wall, she half turns, blindly pressing into it, as though hoping to step through.
Instantly reaching for her, Shacklebolt stops himself just short of touching her. Quietly, he reminds her, "They can't see you. They can't get to you. It's alright. You're safe."
Her mouth moves, but no sound escapes her.
"You're alright Professor. I promise."
She tries to speak again with no more success than the first time.
Unaware that she can't hear him for the ringing in her own ears, he moves to stand directly in front of her and tries for patience, praying he doesn't sound patronizing when he says, "You'll have to breathe first."
Struggling to hold the rising tide of hysteria inside, McGonagall's gaze slides from Shacklebolt's chest to his mouth as the edges of her field of vision begin to soften and go slightly gray.
His dark eyes are as calm as ever, despite the sudden appearance of frown lines that she's never noticed before on his previously smooth forehead. Speaking with exaggerated care, he repeats, "Breathe, please."
It takes a moment that lasts entirely too long for his liking, and when she does finally breathe, it's with the relief of a drowning woman whose head has just broken the surface of turbulent waters.
He nods. "That's it. Do it again. Slow and deep."
A smidgen of color seeps back into her pale face, and when her attention wanders to a point somewhere beyond his right shoulder, he reclaims it.
"No. Don't do that. Don't look at them. Not yet. Who cares about them? Make 'em wait. Look at me. Please Professor, just breathe."
Suddenly aware that she's perspiring in the cool room, while trembling violently, and that she has only just avoided passing out, she makes an effort to stop attempting to retreat through a solid wall. Slowly beginning to reign herself in once more, she ducks his gaze and whispers hoarsely, "Thank you."
Shocked, he raises an eyebrow. "For what? Putting you through hell?"
She points an accusatory finger and speaks as though she's determined to do it despite a seriously inflamed sore throat. "You're not responsible for that. He is."
Shacklebolt turns. "Which one?"
"Number six. That's him."
Shacklebolt rubs the back of his own neck. "How about if we just stand here until you feel strong enough to look at his face. I don't care if it takes all damn week. You stand here as long as you need to."
She makes a move that isn't quite a shake of the head. It's not a negative answer to his suggestion. It's just an attempt to shake off irritation. "I don't have to. It's his hands. Look at them. It took me a long time to stop seeing those hands on every man I encountered after him."
Shacklebolt does as directed and finds the hands of the man in question to be largely unremarkable. It's not actually the sight of his hands that repulses her so violently. It's his fingernails. He's a compulsive nail biter; a bad habit that he's obviously never broken. Every single nail is red-rimmed with blood, the tips of his fingers swollen and protruding out around the nailbeds.
"I didn't want him to touch me with those vile bloody fingers. There was nothing I could do to stop him; nothing I could do to get away from him." She finally seeks her assailant's eyes, and nods almost drunkenly. "Yes. That's him. Number six. He looks a little less like his father now than he did 27 years ago. A little shorter, a little heavier, a little less aristocratic. Less platinum, more strawberry blond. His features are softer, but they are definitely father and son."
"Okay." Shacklebolt stabs at the intercom button one last time. "We are done Frank. Take them back to lock-up. Get them out of here."
McGonagall watches them leave. He's the last one out the door and she watches it close behind him. She's not entirely conscious of the sigh of relief that escapes her until Shacklebolt speaks again.
"He's gone now. You'll never have to see him again. He's going to Azkaban. For other crimes, yes, but he'll be locked up for the rest of his life just the same."
There's an unmistakable delay before his words register in her mind, and then she meets the Minister's eyes with dread-filled curiosity in her own. "Why? What exactly has he done?"
"Aside from having a known affiliation with death eaters… Even though he doesn't have the dark mark tattooed on the anterior surface of his left wrist… He and some of his pals got together and went on a killing spree… Got caught torturing muggles."
For a moment, Shacklebolt isn't sure which she will do first; shed tears or vomit, but then, making an obvious effort, she swallows and whispers quietly, "It's on his back."
"What?"
"The dark mark. It's on his back, centered just below his shoulder blades. The wrist wasn't good enough for him. He had to have room to embellish it. It's a focal point in a larger tattoo that covers his whole back."
Shacklebolt raises an eyebrow.
"Make him take his shirt off. You'll see. He likes ink."
"I'm not doubting you. It's just news to me, that's all."
"He doesn't have tattoos in places that are obvious. Maybe it was his father's influence. Gellert was a lot of things, but he was too refined for tattoos put on full display. He would've considered that crass. Beneath his clothing, Junior is covered in them. Whoever inked him is an artist. Some of the tattoos would've been attractive, I suppose even beautiful if the subject matter hadn't been so dark. Each and every one that I saw paid homage to hate."
"That's too bad. If one is going to use their body as a living breathing canvas, a billboard... then, the least they can do is make the message worth reading."
"It's heartbreaking." She breathes deeply and then shakes her head as a new thought comes to mind. "I'm glad Dumbledore isn't here to see this."
Mildly surprised, Shacklebolt inquires, "May I ask why? He clearly wanted to see this day. He took great care to ensure that it came to pass."
McGonagall shakes her head again. "Seeing Gellert's son here, in this capacity, it would've wounded Albus deeply. It was one thing to suspect that Gerald was even partly responsible for what happened to me. It's another thing entirely to have it confirmed. Albus was ashamed of the path Gellert Grindelwald took, but that did not make capturing the man any less painful for him. Rationally, he knew all too well how children frequently take the paths their parents lay for them. Still, this would've pained him."
The silence that follows is heavy. More than a few seconds crawl by before Shacklebolt asks, "If we locate anyone resembling the man in your remaining sketch, would you like to be notified?"
McGonagall blinks and sighs, "I suppose so. It can't be any harder than this was. You may not find him. It's been 27 years, and more than a few people known to have associated with Voldemort were killed by him. For all anyone knows, the remaining man could be dead. If he is, there may be no way to prove it. It's not as if I knew his name. I don't expect you to work miracles."
Shacklebolt silently curses the helpless feeling invading his body.
"May I go now?"
He nods. "Yes ma'am, of course. I will walk you out."
McGonagall shakes her head. "That is not necessary. You have more important things to do today."
"No." Shacklebolt offers her a somber smile as he steps to the door and holds it open for her. "I don't."
Once outside, in the corridor, Shacklebolt looks left and then right.
Taking note of this, McGonagall tries to avoid smirking. "Get lost in your own house, do you?"
"Yes ma'am, but it's not my fault. Things are always changing around here. I'll get used to it one day."
"You're the man in charge. I'm fairly certain things can be arranged however you like."
Shacklebolt smiles. "I'm just trying to remember where the closest exit is… Or would you prefer the least congested."
"I would prefer not to slip quietly out through some side exit. I'm going out the front door. Besides, I have to stop at reception anyway and retrieve my wand."
The minister scowls. "They made you surrender your wand?"
McGonagall eyes him like an overly patient parent. "Those are the rules. You wouldn't want to have the place overrun by emotionally unstable crime victims facing their aggressors and bent on retaliation, would you?"
Shacklebolt concedes with the tilt of his head. "That… might be bad for business."
"It might… Indeed."
Taking a left, he escorts her to the nearest bank of lifts, and pushes the call button. When it arrives already half-filled with people, they fall silent and when they step out long minutes later in the main atrium, pedestrian traffic is too heavy to allow for much conversation.
On the way to reception, McGonagall pauses to admire the new focal point of the atrium. The old statue that was so offensive has been entirely removed and replaced by a new one. In it, two people are depicted. One of them is clearly a wizard, dressed in resplendent robes. The other is a well-dressed man in muggle business attire with a cell phone clipped to his hip. The two men smile in greeting and stand face to face, shaking hands as equals.
Shacklebolt studies her face looking for an indication of her thoughts. When he can't find even a hint, he asks, "Better?"
"Better doesn't even begin to cover it." She points at the statue. "Though, I think we've still got a long way to go before we actually get there."
"Something to shoot for, then? A goal worth reaching?"
"I'll second that."
"Let's go retrieve your wa…"
"Minna!"
Shacklebolt looks around, puzzled by the sudden call for attention and is nothing less than shocked when a tall pretty young woman wearing peach-colored scrubs and high-dollar walking shoes quick-steps across the lobby, and doesn't hesitate in the slightest before wrapping her arms around the sharp-eyed professor at his side.
Equally surprised, McGonagall wraps one arm around the girl, returning her embrace even as she places a hand against her shoulder and gently nudges, putting a small amount of space between the two of them. "Logan?"
Simultaneously, both women ask, "What are you doing here?"
Logan waves the question aside as if the answer is no big deal. "They asked me to come by."
"They?"
"The ministry. I've never been here before." In a loud stage whisper she adds conspiratorially, "This place is a little overdone. Somebody should really talk to the guy in charge about re-decorating."
The professor lightly pinches her daughter's arm. "Logan, I'd like to introduce you to Kingsley Shacklebolt."
Logan closes her eyes in embarrassment, gives her head a small shake, and has the good grace to turn a very becoming shade of pink. Holding out her hand, she says quietly, "Hello, I'm sorry sir. Logan McGonagall."
Taking her warm hand in his, Shacklebolt laughs. "The guy in charge… What would you suggest? Do you have anything specific in mind?"
"Not at all prepared for the question, Logan stalls briefly, looking around at a momentary loss. "Well, I suppose you have to keep some of the grandeur. I mean, it is the ministry building after all. People do expect a certain standard, but it wouldn't hurt if the overall color scheme was a tiny bit less eye-popping. The gold, and purple are okay, even regal, but combined with all the black granite, it's just the tiniest bit overwhelming. I do like the new statue though. It's kind of idealistic. Promotes unity, and its loads better than the one it replaced."
"I thought you said you'd never been here before?"
Relaxing a bit, she shrugs. "I haven't. But I have friends, and family. I've heard all about the monstrosity that used to stand there."
"And why were you asked here today?"
"I'm a nurse. One of my patients overdosed on Stardust."
"You work for St. Mungo's, then?"
"No sir. St Vincent's."
"In Inverness? Isn't that a muggle hospital?"
Logan smiles. "Yes sir. It is."
"Then your patient is likely not a wizard."
"No sir. He is not."
"My dear. That is not good."
"That's why I'm here on my day off, I'm supposed to be shoe shopping in London right now, but there's a 14-year-old boy hooked up to a ventilator. Your people are trying to put together some sort of panel - a joint team of doctors and healers, hoping we can come up with some sort of solution to save this kid before it's too late."
Shacklebolt begins nodding before she's through speaking. "You're that nurse?"
"You've heard about it then?
'I hear a bit about everything that goes on in this building. Thank you for your diligence."
"Don't thank me yet. The kid may not make it."
"Word is he'd already be gone if it hadn't been for you."
Logan shrugs. "All I can do is my best."
Minerva raises an eyebrow. "We should probably let you get back to work."
"We're waiting on test results. I was just stretching my legs when I felt…" She tosses a look at Shacklebolt before asking, "Are you okay, Minna?"
Minerva places reassuring hands on both of Logan's forearms and squeezes gently. "I am going to be fine. It's nothing for you to fret over. Your patient needs your full focus right now. Do not waste time or energy worrying about me."
Still concerned, Logan lowers her voice. "But why are you here? I feel y…" She trails off for the sake of discretion.
"It's alright. Minister Shacklebolt knows."
Logan looks confused. "He knows?" She filters, separating her own emotions from the others she's aware of. What? Oh…" She frowns. "You told him?"
"Only because it was necessary. He came to see me yesterday. He asked me to come in today and make some identifications."
"Identifications? For what?"
"They have some men in custody."
"From two weeks ago… the battle?"
"No."
Logan searches Minerva's face. She squints and after a heavy pause she asks quietly, "Those men?"
Minerva nods. "Definitely two of them. Possibly three, I couldn't be certain. Not after all this time."
Logan goes perfectly still for a moment, unsure what else to do. Then, quietly she asks, "Do they finally have him?"
Again, Minerva nods. "He's here."
Logan's eyes widen. "Here?"
"He's in holding. He can't hurt anybody. There's nothing for you to be afraid of."
Logan scoffs. "I am not afraid of him. He's pathetic." Her voice quivers. "He can't even take on a woman less than half his size without injecting her with paralytic drugs first."
Minerva raises an eyebrow in uncertainty. "Do you…" Her eyes narrow. "Logan, do you want to see him?"
"See him?" Her face pales and she hisses violently, "No. I don't want to see the bastard! If I have to be in the same room with him, if I have to look at him, I'll probably have the mother of all emotional overloads and bring the roof down on top of his maggot-infested head!"
Minerva smirks and tilts her head to one side. "You think his skull is full of worms?"
"It has to be, doesn't it? His brain is obviously rotten! It's a smorgasbord for maggots! How else do you explain choosing to be so bloody evil!"
Logan turns to Shacklebolt. "Do me a favor. Lock them all up in Azkaban, throw away the key, then set the infernal place on fire!"
"Would that I could. I'm not certain the wizarding community would let me get away with that." Shacklebolt intones with compassion.
Logan shrugs. "Fine then, just take a broomstick and shove it up …"
"Logan Elizabeth McGonagall!"
Shacklebolt flinches under the weight of the steely glare that passes from mother to daughter, but Logan is unrepentant.
"What? A few hundred splinters up the tailpipe might make him think twice. Don't tell me it wouldn't make you feel better."
"No. Actually, it wouldn't. I would never do that to anyone. Not even him. It's okay to be angry. It is, most certainly, not okay to sink to his level."
Instantly wide-eyed with contrition, Logan breathes quietly, "I didn't mean to do that."
"I know."
"I just… Well I…"
"I know." Minerva repeats softly.
"Where are you going now?"
"I'm going back to the castle. I'm going to put in a few hours work. Then, I'm going to have supper and a meeting with my staff. After that, I'm taking the night off and going to the cottage."
"Want me to come spend the night with you?"
Minerva shakes her head.
"I don't mind."
"I want you to take all of the energy you're feeling, and roll it into finding a way to help that boy… In whatever way you can. Do good with it."
Nodding, Logan sighs. "While I am down here stretching, I'm supposed to be trying to find some auror named Talbot Winger."
Minerva offers her a slight smile. "His office is on the fifth floor down, the east wing. When you get off the lift, take a left and hug the wall all the way down the first corridor to the right. Two offices before you get to the lavatory. If you get there, you've gone too far. His office is a timeworn closet, but there's an absolutely gorgeous bearded orchid in the window."
Logan raises an eyebrow. "How do you know that?"
"He was a student of mine."
"So is everybody else in this building who happens to be under the age of what? 52? 53 tops?"
"Not everyone."
Shacklebolt laughs. "Just nearly everyone."
"And if he's not in his office with the gorgeous orchid? How do I know when I've found him? What does he look like?"
Shacklebolt answers again. "Just look for an unusually quiet fellow in street clothes, three or four years older than yourself with the eyes of an eagle."
Logan nods matter of factly. "Right, eagle eyes and the last name Winger, because that makes perfect sense."
Stepping into the conversation with uncanny timing, a man clad in denim and leather, who does indeed have the eyes of a hunter, smiles and asks, "Who's looking for me?"
Momentarily surprised, she shakes his hand eagerly. "Logan McGonagall."
Giving her the once over, taking in her attire and her visitors pass, he asks, "You're the nurse with the kid who has the chemically compromised respiratory system?"
She chuckles. "Yep, that's me. We're waiting for test results. They asked me to come find you."
He offers her his arm. Mission accomplished. Shall we?"
Nodding, Logan offers, "Excuse me, please. It was nice meeting you Minister Shacklebolt."
"The pleasure was mine." He nods in farewell.
Glancing over his shoulder as they step away, Talbot says quietly, "I'm nearly ready to close Mrs. Fairley's file, Professor. I sent an owl to your office."
Minerva smiles at Logan in silent farewell. "Thank you, Mr. Winger. I'm sure that will do."
Shacklebolt waits for the two younger adults to be well out of hearing range before he quietly acknowledges, "She's lovely."
"You could tell?"
He chuckles. "But of course. She's bright and energetic, and she's nearly as devoted to her patients as she is to you."
"She's a good girl."
"And clearly, she knows about your abduction."
"I would have loved to have been able to avoid telling her. It was never an option."
"She knows what other people feel. Something that is far more telling than anything they do or say."
Minerva nods grimly. "She must've been aware of my presence long before she ever spotted me today. She wasn't just stretching her legs. She was looking for me… Because I didn't know she was in the building."
"Does it matter?"
Minerva frowns. "She would've had to be told either way."
Sir hours later, she's using her bare feet to drag a towel across the teak flooring of her cottage living room. Drying up what is left of wet footprints that began at the back door and marked her path all the way to the Jacuzzi tub in the master bath.
When a loud knock sounds at the front door, she jumps, nearly half out of her skin and digs the fingernails of her left hand painfully into her palm on reflex. Forcing herself to inhale deeply and relax her fist, she releases the breath, and silently reminds herself that would-be assailants do not go to the trouble of knocking before entering. Taking another deep breath, she tosses the pair of socks in her right hand onto the sofa, and steps into the hall, moving slowly, unable to make herself hurry.
Pausing at the doorway to her tiny dining room, she sidesteps into the archway and places her back firmly against wall, wondering who's come to call, and if it's truly necessary for her to answer the door. If she's quiet, maybe whoever's standing on her front porch will assume no one is home and leave. After all, the place is usually empty.
Another knock sounds, and she jumps again. Although, this time not as badly as before.
"Minerva! Open the door."
She groans inwardly. Bloody Scot!
"Come on, woman! It's cold out here!"
She can't leave him standing on the doorstep indefinitely. Sighing in surrender, she pushes away from the dining room door frame and walks the remaining distance to the front door. Unlocking it, and opening it just three inches, she peers out at the man waiting there.
"Laird, what are you doing here?"
"I might ask ye the same."
Realizing she left her spectacles on the bathroom vanity, she flips on the porch light as she says crisply, "I live here."
The graying redheaded Scotsman on her front porch scoffs comically. "Barely."
"Nevertheless…"
"I drove out to the castle. That woman who looks like she belongs in a potting shed, said ye were takin' the night off. Whut's the matter, Minerva?"
Minerva smirks. "Her name is Pomona. She's a very good friend of mine. You should call her Professor Sprout. Who said anything was wrong? Did she tell you that?"
"She didnae have to tell me that. I called ye yesterday. I ken I have tae wait fir ye tae stop working. Yer calls might come late, but it's no like ye to forget to return me calls. Ah was concerned. When Ah realized ye'd left the castle, Ah got worried."
"You do understand that what I'm dealing with right now is not my normal 'busy.' She asks tersely.
"Of course, Ah dae. I also ken how important that place is tae ye. Fir ye tae pack up and leave on a Monday night… Well …are ye goin' tae let me in, or no?"
She almost refuses. She almost tells him to go home; but that would only worry him more. He'll dig in his heels and refuse to leave without answers. Knowing this, she steps back, opening the door wide enough for him to come inside." It's not as though I left for good. I just need a night away."
He stomps his feet on the welcome mat, shaking loose any grass or sand that may be on the soles of his boots before stepping into the cottage's chilly vestibule. Once inside, he locks the door behind himself, and stands there in the dimly lit entryway taking in the sight of the floor-length green and yellow caftan she wears, her bare feet, and the hair that has rarely been seen loose and flowing over her right shoulder, and long enough to reach her waist. She looks exhausted, and despite her best efforts to appear otherwise, grim.
"Fir wye?"
"It's been a rough couple of days."
"Minerva, it's cold in here."
Leading him back down the hallway and into her living room, she nods. "I haven't been here long, less than an hour. I was just about to open the damper on the fireplace."
He shrugs out of his jacket on his way to the fireplace, and tosses it over the back of the sofa, like a man comfortable with his surroundings, noticing the pair of socks tossed onto the center cushion, he declares, "I'll do it fir ye."
Nodding, without comment, she picks up the damp towel from the floor and uses it to discreetly scoop up the small pile of wet undergarments that she had peeled off earlier and tossed into the nearest corner where they wouldn't leave a puddle on the rug. Quietly, she carries it all to the utility closet just off the kitchen and drapes the towel over a drying rack before dropping her slip, bra, and panties first, into a garment bag and then into the washing machine, before quickly setting the delicate cycle. Back in the living room, she retrieves the dark brown tartan throw blanket from the back of Phin's favorite chair and drapes it loosely around herself before settling on the sofa and unfolding her socks. When her feet are covered, she pulls the blanket up around her shoulders and watches Laird as he places the last of the kindling for the fire, lights it, and tosses on a few logs to feed the flames. Once the fire in the grate is sufficiently poked and crackling nicely, he traverses the living space and opens shutters, cracking two windows on opposite sides of the room before joining her on the sofa.
Briefly, Minerva glances at Elphinstone's recliner, wishing she had chosen to sit there, so that Laird wouldn't have the option to sit so close, but then he wouldn't be near enough for the scent of his cologne to reach her. For a fleeting instant she fears that her mind is on the brink of some irrevocable collapse. How is it possible to want to be near someone at the same moment that you experience a nearly irrepressible urge to move away from them? Annoyed with herself, she scowls with the effort to stay where she is and pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
Misinterpreting her reason for doing so, McKinnon offers, "It'll be warmer in a bit. Wye did ye not start a fire as soon as ye got home?"
Minerva sighs. "I went for a swim first."
Confused, he squints as he turns to look out the picture windows on either side of the back door. "Ye went for a swim?"
Minerva nods.
Hiking his thumb over his shoulder, he points through the windows at the leaden gray sky, and the choppy surf that is currently pounding the beach that is less than 20 meters beyond her back door. "Out there?"
Again, she nods.
McKinnon glances at the inhospitable beach again. "Have ye lost yer sense, woman?"
She assures plainly "I have not.".
"It's six degrees above freezing out there today."
"Aye. And I wasn't out there for more than five minutes. It was really more of a dip than a swim."
"With water temperatures 6° above freezing, you can be hypothermic in under five minutes and dead in less than 15!"
Minerva nods. "Which is why it was only a quick dip. Afterward, I came inside and went straight to the Jacuzzi where I ran cool water that I warmed up gradually as soon as I was comfortable enough to tolerate the higher temperatures. By the time I got out, 15 minutes ago, the bathroom was steamy and, as you can see, I'm perfectly fine."
"Ah'm not at all certain of that! Wye would ye pick today, of all days, ta go fir a swim?"
"Call it an unquiet mind. I needed a distraction."
For a long moment he simply stares at her in incredulity. "Did it work?"
"It certainly did."
His short bark of laughter is devoid of humor. "Minerva, Ah understand trying unusual things ta silence the mind, but self-induced hypothermia sounds a wee bit extreme. Besides, no matter what the temperature is, ye should never swim in the ocean alone. She's beautiful, captivating… and deadly. Ye get yerself caught in a riptide, and I never see ye again.… At least not in this lifetime."
"I'm a strong swimmer."
"Aye, but I've and seen more than one braw swimmer get swallowed up by the sea. I'd prefer that ye no be ane of them Minerva. Whut's got ye so bothered? Did the battle finally catch up wi ye?"
"No. That's not it. Well… It probably doesn't help." Before she has too much time to think about it, she adds, "Shacklebolt came to see me yesterday."
He raises an eyebrow. "Tall fella. Sedate. Dresses like African royalty?"
Minerva nods. "That's him."
"Whut's the minister need now? That coward Malfoy still givin' him grief?"
"No… Well… Yes, probably so. But that's not why he came to see… Hang on, have you ever met Lucius Malfoy?"
"Never laid eyes on him, far as I know."
"Then how do you know he's a coward?"
"I was standing in yer office when Shacklebolt explained that Malfoy had turned on all his pals jus ta save his own sorry skin. If that's true, the man's got no integrity. Ah dinnae ken how he shaves his face in the morning."
In order to be shamed by the sight of your own reflection in the mirror, you have to first be a good man and then, you have to know that you've done wrong. I do not think his lack of integrity bothers him in the slightest."
"And he's raising children?"
"One child."
"Who is attending your school?"
"He was. He just finished his final year. All he has to do is take his NEWT exam."
"Someone needs to pray for that lad."
The corners of her mouth lift a fraction of an inch, but she doesn't quite smile. "Someone does, on a regular basis."
McKinnon nods, not the least bit surprised. "So… What was on Shacklebolt's mind yesterday?"
"The ministry has some men in custody, bound for Azkaban. He asked me to come in and make some identifications."
McKinnon senses the intentional blandness in her speech. He recognizes the way she responds to his questions without engaging in the conversation, and he wonders what unspeakable thing is lurking below the surface of her words. "What are they charged with?"
"Quite a number of things. God only knows how many more things they can't be charged with."
"How many more things?" He stresses the appropriate word. "Whut can't they be charged with?"
She answers flatly. "At the very least… a couple of abductions and the subsequent assaults related to those abductions."
"Minerva?"
"It happened a long time ago Laird, and when Shacklebolt showed up in my office yesterday to tell me that at least some of them were in custody… Well, I wasn't expecting it. It hit me like a runaway train. I feel like I've been knocked out of my boots and I'm still reeling. I might be for a while."
He's quiet for a moment, thinking before he asks, "Is there a time limit on filing charges for abduction?"
"No, but the child in question had his memory modified so that he wouldn't have to live with the horror of what had been done to him. He cannot testify on his own behalf because he has no memory of it."
"But you do?"
She nods. "I do, but I cannot testify on his behalf either. Everything I know about his abduction, other than the fact that he was taken; it's all hearsay. It came to me secondhand."
McKinnon squints. "But you know he was taken?"
"I saw it happen."
He shakes his head. "Ye saw a child… being snatched?"
"I was spying on them." She says dryly.
He raises an eyebrow. "That doesnae sound like you."
"I was working for the Order… voluntarily."
"The Order? What Order?"
He watches her study him for a moment. He knows she's silently making a decision.
"The Order of the Phoenix."
He shakes his head and shrugs apologetically. It means nothing to him. He has no frame of reference.
Again, she pauses.
He waits.
"A group of witches and wizards who stood in opposition to Voldemort's rise to power during the first Wizarding War and, more recently, the second. The role I played during the second war was passive in comparison to my work during the first. I actively used my feline form to monitor the activities of Voldemort's followers from early 1970 until December of 1971.
"What happened in December?"
Shaking her head, she closes her eyes. For a long moment, she says nothing and then, when she begins to tremble, she forces her eyes open again. "I exposed my presence when I saw the abduction. I knew there were too many of them to fight. I couldn't manage all of them single-handedly, but I could not let that boy go wherever they were taking him alone. If I had lost sight of them, I knew I would not find them again… Not in time to help the boy."
McKinnon sucks air through his teeth. "Death eaters where snatching children in the 1970s?"
She laughs bitterly. "We should've considered it a precursor for what happened at the school two weeks ago. It shouldn't have been a surprise."
He rubs the back of his own neck. "Dinnae be so hard on yerself Minerva. Hindsight is the undisciplined bastard child of dread and intuition."
The wisp of laughter that escapes her morphs into a strangled sob, but refusing surrender, she bites into her lower lip and falls silent once again.
"How bad was it?"
She whispers hoarsely, "It doesn't get any worse for a woman" Hearing her own words, she adds, "or for a man either, I suppose."
He wraps his left arm around her shoulders, and she stares at the hand resting against her upper arm numbly, as though she had never seen it before, surprising herself when she neither flinches nor retreats from his touch.
"They held me prisoner for three weeks before I could get to the boy and escape. I went to the ministry today. I couldn't make the first identification. It's been too long, and my memory is full of gaps. I saw two of them for sure."
"Today?"
She nods without speaking.
Gently, he pulls her close, tucking her in beneath his arm, right up against his rib cage.
When his prosthetic arm comes to rest against her lower abdomen, she studies it as if it's something she's never encountered or associated with him before.
Watching her expression, he offers softly, "Ah can take it off."
Squinting, she makes eye contact with him for the first time in several minutes. "Why would you do that?"
He shrugs. "If it bothers you."
She frowns in confusion. "It's your arm. Why should it bother me if you don't. Don't take it off. You need it."
McKinnon raises an eyebrow, indicating his own confusion. "It takes most people a wee bit of time tae get this comfortable wi me… and my arm."
Minerva shrugs. "Laird, I've known you for more than 18 years. The first time I ever saw you, you were holding your first grand baby with your left arm and feeding her with a baby bottle you held in this contraption. She didn't seem to mind in the least. So, why should I."
"It took Riona several months to get right wi it. Actually, pretty much all of the first year."
Minerva shrugs. "That was different. She knew you before. She was accustomed to the way things were before you got the prosthetic. I can see why she needed an adjustment period. I'm sure you did too. One day, you've got two arms, just like most of the other people on the planet. The next, you wake up with this gadget. And I'm guessing, no frame of reference for how to make it work properly."
He nods comically. "Oh aye, but Ah dinnae remember ye ever being uncomfortable with it afore, at least not that Ah saw."
She shrugs again. "It's the only way I've ever known you to be Laird."
"Okay, so wye after 18 years, are ye just now lookin' at it like it's a foreign object?"
"That's not because of your arm. It's me. For the last two days, I have jumped half out of my skin every time somebody gets close enough to touch me. And you're handling this conversation in a very peculiar fashion."
"Am I?"
"Not that I go around telling everybody I meet about what happened to me, but on the rare occasion that I do tell someone, most people take an involuntary step backward. Even if they don't, I can see the mental retreat in their eyes. Most of them don't wrap their arms around me and pull me close. Which is a good thing, because If they did, I'd probably have some sort of posttraumatic meltdown. The strangest part of all is that I'm sitting here, actually resisting the urge to flee."
"Do ye want ta flee?"
"Yes. I do. Please don't take offense, though. it is not you. It's just…"
"Shacklebolt opened a can of big ugly worms, some dark memories have resurfaced, and your sense of self-preservation is stuck in overdrive?"
"Yes. It is, and I'm sorry. That's not fair to you."
He shakes his head. "Minerva, ye never have to apologize fir that… Not ta me."
Sighing, she rests her head against his shoulder.
"Ye can talk ta me if ye want. Ye can tell me about it."
"Talking is overrated, Laird."
"Usually yes, but Ah have heard it helps some people."
McGonagall groans softly. "I tried… once."
Worried, he frowns. "Ye tried ta talk… ta me?"
"No. Not you. Just… It was about three months after it happened. Albus signed me up to join one of those support groups specifically for women who have been raped…" She inhales deeply. "He did it without discussing it with me first. I was furious with him."
McKinnon winces as if he's suffering with a bad toothache. "Bet ye were! Ah dinnae envy the man. Ye probably gave him hell. Though, Ah'm sure he thought he was helping."
He feels her nod against his shoulder before admitting tiredly. "That's why I went… angry as I was. He wasn't actively trying to hurt me."
"No. I'm sure not. If ye only tried once, I'm guessing it didnae go well."
She scoffs. "That's an understatement of monolithic proportion."
He squeezes her shoulder affectionately. "Like something out of a bad after-school special? A bunch of women in a hospital board room, or maybe a poorly decorated church basement that smells of mothballs, sitting in a circle on metal folding chairs, drinking weak coffee, and pouring their hearts and souls out to complete strangers?"
She laughs. "It was the local VFW hall, behind that rundown building where the beauty supply place used to be; but everything else you said was spot on! Even the mothballs. Well, mothballs and burnt coffee."
He cringes. "It wasn't just weak, it had to be burnt, too?"
"Scorched is more like it. Like it had been sitting on the heat for two days."
"It's not bad enough you went through hell on earth, they couldn't at least make you a fresh pot of coffee?"
"They probably did it on purpose so we wouldn't drink the coffee. It's not like any of us needed a stimulant. They did very thoughtfully provide us with a dozen boxes of cheap bargain-basement Kleenex in case any of us wanted to cry our eyes out."
"A heavy bag and some boxing gloves probably would've been a healthier choice."
She raises an eyebrow. "The thought didn't occur to me at the time, but you're probably right."
"So, whut happened?"
"Well, one of the women introduced herself. She never said so, or at least I don't think she did, but she seemed to be in charge. Since I was new, she wanted me to tell everybody my name. Just the thought of doing that made me want to run for the door. Beyond that, I wasn't ready to talk. I didn't know any of these women from Eve. So, she moved on, decided to pick on someone else. I was sitting there listening to a total stranger tell me the most intimate details of her relationship with an abusive boyfriend, and it's not that I couldn't find any similarities to my own situation. The agony and the horror were the same for both of us, but she couldn't get 15 words out of her mouth before she was sobbing uncontrollably. I remember thinking that her assault must have happened more recently than my own. Then, somebody else started talking. It was a different story with the same brutality. I tuned out. We took a break. I got up and poured a cup of coffee just to have something to do. One of the other women who hadn't spoken yet started talking to me and I asked her about the first one to speak… The one who dissolved into a hysterical puddle. She told me that it had been 6 ½ years since her last contact with the abusive boyfriend, and that she'd been a member of the group ever since. I suppose it helps some people, and when it happens that way, it's good, but from where I was sitting, it didn't look like progress. It didn't look like she was healing. It looked like she was punishing herself. All I could think was, 'I cannot do this. I will not do this to myself! Six years from now I am not going to be sitting in this same room, drinking this same horrible coffee, and figuratively eviscerating myself with the telling of the same vile story week after week." She shrugs. "I walked away and didn't look back."
"What did Dumbledore have to say about that?"
"Me not going back? He wasn't happy, but he didn't push. I went back to work too soon, and a few weeks later, a transfiguration class went badly. A group of boys overturned one of the desks, and somehow in the commotion, the shutters over the windows slammed shut, the room went dark, and I…. Well… It wasn't pretty. I had to leave the castle. I didn't have any idea where I was going, I just had to get out. Somehow, I managed to go through the nearest exit with Madame Pomphrey trailing behind me and screaming for Dumbledore."
"The woman who runs the hospital wing?"
"Yes."
"Was she in class with you?"
"No. I'm not sure where she came from. Probably the hospital wing. I probably ran past on my way out. The two of them were a few feet behind me, and as they cleared the exit, Dumbledore must've stopped running because she was yelling at him to go after me. I didn't turn back, but I heard his tone, if not every word he spoke. It was the same tone he always used when he wished other people would calm down. 'Poppy dear, Professor McGonagall is running from something.' To which she responded irascibly, 'I have eyes, don't I?' and he continued just as calmly, as if she hadn't spoken at all. 'I think, under the circumstances, perhaps now is not the best moment to chase after her. Nearly everything she owns, and several of the people she cares for are inside this castle. Therefore, I am fairly certain she will return."
McKinnon's shoulders shake with quiet laughter. "I've met her. I'm guessing she didnae care fir his calm demeanor at that moment."
"She shouted at him. "When?" and he muttered something I could only half hear for the sound of the wind in my ears, but I think it was something along the lines of, 'Probably when her legs get tired.'"
McKinnon gives up and laughs aloud. "Ah'm sorry Minerva. I know it wasn't funny, but…"
"It's okay. You can laugh. I don't mind. Poor Madame Pomphrey was incensed! She might have used some very coarse language with him if only she could've stopped stammering before Dumbledore turned and walked back into the castle to go and tend to my class."
"I take it she knew what you were going through?"
"Not really. No. The staff knew something bad had happened. I asked Dumbledore not to give them too many details. I didn't want them hovering around me."
"Well, obviously you found your own way to cope."
"Aileen, my sister-in-law, signed me up to take a water aerobics class with her. At the time, I could barely manage it, but the first year after was rather grueling. The next year, she browbeat me into signing up for a triathlon with her, and then she bailed halfway through training. I didn't seek out the physical exertion deliberately. I'm not opposed to exercise, but I wouldn't call myself an enthusiast either. It seemed to help though. I guess maybe because I was too tired to obsess."
McKinnon shrugs. "If ye put yer body where it needs ta be, sometimes the heart and mind will follow."
McGonagall nods. "It certainly wasn't my intent, but it seemed to work out that way. Two months after the triathlon, my paternal grandmother died of complications brought on by Multiple Sclerosis. I signed up to ride in the MS-150 and spent the next year training for that."
"Ah've heard of it, but I dinnae ken what it entails."
"It's a three-day, 150-mile bicycle ride."
He squirms uncomfortably. "Hard on the backside."
"You definitely need a proper seat, and the proper attire too. When it was over… After I finally crossed the finish line, I told my brother he could give my bicycle to charity."
"I dinnae blame ye."
McGonagall scoffs. "Two weeks later I had to go out and buy a new one. I'd spent a solid year training for that ride. If I wasn't in class, I was on a bicycle. My body had gotten used to it, thought that was where it was supposed to be. Without the exercise, my joints started to ache." She squints. "Come to think of it, I haven't taken a ride for a few weeks. Maybe I should. It used to help. Maybe it will again."
"Ye can worry about that tomorrow. Ye do look exhausted, my friend. Ye need some sleep."
"I can go to sleep, alright. The trouble is I can't stay asleep."
McKinnon nods. "Tomorrow evening, get some fresh air after supper. Take a bike ride. Ye can swim too, if you must. But no alone. If ye decide to do that again, ye call me, first. Actually, call me no matter what ye decide to do. Ah will go wi ye."
She squints. "Don't you have a lighthouse you're supposed to be rebuilding?"
"Oh aye!" He grins. "Maybe ye can help me wi that. That'll certainly give ye a reason ta sleep at night."
She scowls at him. "Yer oof yer nut!"
"Am I, now?"
"Laird, I don't know the first thing about lighthouses, or how to rebuild them!"
"Ye seem to be doin' a fair job with that castle."
She laughs at him. "You do understand that particular project has never once required me to pick up a hammer and nails? I barely know a drill bit from a spanner!"
"So, then ye'll learn."
"You have a deadline. A little less than a year, Laird. Do you have time to take on a completely uninitiated trainee? I'm assuming you do want the lighthouse to still be standing a year from now?"
He lifts his arm from around her shoulders and rises to his feet. "Stop that! Ye'll do just fine."
She pushes away from the back of the sofa, sitting up straight. "Where are you going?"
"To yer kitchen."
"Why?"
"Because yer stomach is growling. Don't those elves in that ruddy shack feed ye?"