Chapter Two: Minerva McGonagall part 1

I finished an apple and tossed it into the bin on the street in front of my home. A wind blew in and I clutched my coat closer to me. Snow seeped through a hole in my boot and my foot felt cold.

A two-story house stood before Alice and me; our childhood home. Gray and made of stone, big blocks formed the walls. Green trim peeled away from the windows. The front door was the same color, but thankfully not peeling. The doorknob was bronze, blackened by time, and always cold no matter the weather.

Three big steps lead up to the front door. Inside, the walls were made of plaster, except for the center of the house, where one wall was made of stone and contained a fireplace at the bottom of it. The living room had floral wallpaper, a rose and vine themed design, the rest were painted cream. The bottom floor had four rooms plus a bathroom—kitchen; two offices, one for my dad who was never home to use it, an office for my mom; and a living room with a big dining room table.

Alice and I walked up the steps and opened the door. I could feel the cold on the nob through my glove. The mudroom—the small space where we could hang our coats and take off our shoes, was dark as normal. Mother never had that light on. The sun had just set—being early January—but the living room lights were on.

A woman sat in one of the two upholstered chairs by the fire. She wore green robes, with black lace on the bodice, and black leather boots—very clean for having walked through the winter weather. Too clean. Cleaned by magic. She wore a large black hat, with a wide brim and craggily sort of point; glasses, square; and a large ring with four stones set in a diamond shape.

The woman's face contained wrinkles on almost every part except her cheeks, which looked smooth except for when she smiled. Her lips were pursed—a formation that her wrinkles seemed accustomed too—as her eyes focused on a piece of parchment that floated in front of her.

A small cup lifted from the table next to her and rose to her lips. She took hold and sipped, then let go. The cup returned to the coaster unassisted. The golden liquid never wavered. The cup was made of porcelain and had a small handle. It was white, with small green stems with roses circling round the outside. This was the good china—the one my mother brought out for special guests.

"Sit."

The woman did not look up from the parchment. She indicated the couch across from her—upholstered in the same cream, green, and pink upholstery as the chair she sat in. I did not move. Neither did Alice—who stood a step behind me, the door to our house still open letting all the cold air in.

We were still in our boots, snow and sleet clinging to the bottoms. There was snow on my shoulder I had yet to brush off. My bookbag lay on my shoulders, my winter cap still in my hands.

"Christine," the woman called, "the children are home." I did not see her produce her wand, but there it was in her hand. She swished it and both my and Alice's scarves pulled us through the entryway into the living room and in front of the couch. The front door shut. "Sit."

We obeyed.

"Stay there."

It registered only then that her accent seemed normal, local, and I wondered if she lived in town, though I'd never seen her. Her wand was gone, and she took the parchment from midair. I saw a second ring, on the pinky. It was silver and had a silver and black crest in the center of a magpie.

"Do you support the Magpies?"

Her lip twitched upwards—I'm not sure if she kept herself from smiling or if her muscles couldn't handle the shape due to lack of practice. "I do Mr. Husher."

"Did you see the last match? I heard Wood was the hero of the game. I thought it was odd we picked him up mid-season. But the manager was never keen on old Howard for keeper. Can you believe we're leading the league, I—"

But my mother entered the room and put one finger to her lips. My mother had brown hair, pulled into a tight circular bun from three different angles atop her head. She was very thin still, which even at my age, I understood to be an accomplishment for human beings. She wore an apron—the same pattern of roses on the fabric as on the tea cup—and had a tray of scones, steam rising from them.

My mother commanded me to make a fire and I sprung to my feet. But the woman insisted she do it. Her wand was out again, and six logs zoomed into our home from the shed outside—bringing a cold draft with it. They piled themselves on the grate and erupted into flames.

My mother then told Alice and I to take off our jackets and boots then return to the living room. I basically ran to the mudroom and sneaked a glance up the stairs to where my room was. I then turned back to the living room, took a breath and walked in.

My mother sat in the other chair by the fire. She leaned on one hip, closer to the woman, her legs crossed, her eyes following me. They must've known.

"Children"—not a good sign, children, too formal, and too distant—"this is Headmistress McGonagall."

"Of Hogwarts!" Alice practically squealed. I winced.

"Of course, you dolt," I said. "Where else—"

"Raven." A verbal slap from mother.

"I mean, obviously she—"

"Raven."

"Sorry mother, I just mean that she doesn't sound French or American, she's Scottish, she must be from Hogwarts."

"You could be nicer about it," Alice snapped.

And you could be less of a dolt, I thought.

My mother fidgeted with her skirt. "Yes, this is the Headmistress and she um, they, well I'll just let you explain it Professor—Headmistress."

McGonagall looked at Alice first. She looked at her for a long time. Alice sat looking between our mother and the Headmistress. But McGonagall's gaze turned to me without a comment. Her eyes—encapsulated by wrinkles—were surrounded by thick eyelashes, long and dark. The eyes themselves were blue, a sharp blue—not a faded blue I'd come to expect by the elderly.

"Mr. Husher," she addressed me first, then added in Alice, "Ms. Husher, are either of you aware that at twelve forty-two this afternoon there was a break in on the Hogwarts Express?"

Alice quickly said no, but I could feel her eyes wanting to bore into my skull. I could hear her thoughts too—or at least what I thought they'd be. Told you so! Told you so! I told you you'd be in trouble.

I looked to my mother—her I could fool, I could lie, say I was in class, and if Alice remained quiet, I'd get away with it. I looked back to the blue eyes, but I knew she already knew.

I nodded.

Headmistress McGonagall nodded back.

"Raven Alexander H—"

But the Headmistress's words cut through mum's. "Who brought you?"

I don't think Alice, or my mother understood the question, but I did. "No one. I did it myself."

The Headmistress pursed her lips again. "Show me."

She did not have to ask again. With a large crack I Apparated from the couch to kitchen doorway. Both my mother and the Headmistress swiveled in their seats to look at me. The smell of the scones was strong by the kitchen and my stomach rumbled. I think my mother put extra butter in them that day—it smelled as such. I took a good whiff of it before I walked back to the couch and sat again.

My mother's mouth remained opened the whole stretch from doorway to couch. Alice's arms went from beside her to crossed, as she glowered at me. I searched the Headmistresses face for a sign that she was impressed, from my understanding, I was the youngest to Apparate ever, at least in recorded history. I found none. I only saw her eyes follow me to the couch, and watched her hands fold in her lap.

"You ought to be glad, Mr. Husher, that you are not in more trouble," she said.

I didn't look at Alice, but I could feel her smile encroach upon me.

"Underage Apparition is illegal, and the penalty for it is one most families cannot afford. As is the penalty for breaking onto the Hogwarts Express." She leaned forward towards me. "I've caught two students Apparating underage, and each have lost their respective houses fifty points. And if any student ever tried to break in or out of the train, I'd expel them. Let this be a warning to you Mr. Husher. Another attempt at Apparating, and you will not be invited to attend Hogwarts."

I felt very empty in my chest at that moment. And my lip started to tremble.

"Do you understand?"

I couldn't stop myself from bawling. It was an ugly cry, lots of liquid spewing from my nose and mouth and eyes. The Headmistress leaned back, and her eyes softened. I hopped off the couch, and to the protests of my mother, ran up the stairs, into my room, and jumped on my bed. My door slammed shut and locked as I cried into the scratchy tan blanket sprawled on my mattress.