Photographs
Professor McGonagall dropped into her chair, covering her face with her hands. She agreed with Dumbledore that the students should be told about Voldemort. But Dumbledore didn't have to deal with the students afterwards. He didn't have to reassure hysterical children. He didn't have to pretend to be calm and strong.
The students were gone for the summer, sent off on the train, home to their families. She would leave in a few days, after she finished some paperwork. Home to a small flat with faded paint and worn furniture and an old pumpkin juice stain on the carpet, unchanged from when she had moved in so many years ago.
McGonagall muttered a complicated opening charm, tapping a small lock on the bottom drawer of her desk. The drawer stuck, since she rarely opened it. As a professor, head of Gryffindor house, and deputy headmistress, she could not afford the weakness and self-indulgence represented by the drawer's contents.
Two photographs. That was all. There were more at her flat; photo albums, pictures hung on the wall and displayed on the tables. But she only allowed herself to bring these two with her to Hogwarts. They were enough.
One was unframed, its colors faded and grainy, the edges worn, one corner creased. The teenaged boy in the photo was dressed casually in dark shorts and a white striped shirt. His light brown hair was tousled and overdue for a haircut. His skin was tanned and he held a broomstick in one hand. He was waving at the camera, blowing kisses, and winking with a slight smirk.
Professor McGonagall turned the picture over and read the short note on the back.
"Minnie-
Yes, I know you hate that nickname. I like how you glare whenever someone uses it. But it's better then Nerva. Plus, you can't hex me right now, so I can call you anything I like, my little kitten.
Just a quick note to tell you I miss you and love you. You not being here makes this whole vacation seem like torture, and the thought of seeing you in a month makes school seem like the Promised Land. A thousand kisses,
Patrick."
McGonagall laid the picture on the desk, face up, looking at the young man who was now mouthing "I love you." After a few moments, she pulled out the second picture.
This one was framed and better preserved, although the silver frame was tarnished. There were two people in this picture; the young man from the other picture, now several years older, and a young woman. Patrick's hair was neatly combed, and he wore formal black velvet robes with white borders along the sleeves, and a top hat. The woman was wearing white robes, half her dark hair framing her face, the rest pulled back and hidden under the veil trailing from a small tiara down her back.
The two had their arms around each other and were laughing. Every now and then, Patrick's hand would wander down from her hip, making the woman blush and laugh as she shoved his hand away. As Professor McGonagall watched, Patrick pulled his young bride into a dance. It looked like an attempt at waltz by someone who had never learned the dance. They waltzed out of the picture, and Professor McGonagall laid it down, wiping tears from her eyes.
Two months after that picture was taken, a week after they'd finished moving into their tiny new flat, she had come home from grocery shopping to find Patrick sprawled on the floor, vacant eyes staring up at the ceiling, the Death Mark glowing in the air above his body.
She heard the sound of the glass bottle breaking as she dropped the groceries and fell to her knees beside his body, shaking and crying as she took his cold hand and with her other hand, shut his eyes.
Professor McGonagall returned the pictures to the desk drawer, wiping her eyes with a small handkerchief as she locked the drawer.
Professor McGonagall dropped into her chair, covering her face with her hands. She agreed with Dumbledore that the students should be told about Voldemort. But Dumbledore didn't have to deal with the students afterwards. He didn't have to reassure hysterical children. He didn't have to pretend to be calm and strong.
The students were gone for the summer, sent off on the train, home to their families. She would leave in a few days, after she finished some paperwork. Home to a small flat with faded paint and worn furniture and an old pumpkin juice stain on the carpet, unchanged from when she had moved in so many years ago.
McGonagall muttered a complicated opening charm, tapping a small lock on the bottom drawer of her desk. The drawer stuck, since she rarely opened it. As a professor, head of Gryffindor house, and deputy headmistress, she could not afford the weakness and self-indulgence represented by the drawer's contents.
Two photographs. That was all. There were more at her flat; photo albums, pictures hung on the wall and displayed on the tables. But she only allowed herself to bring these two with her to Hogwarts. They were enough.
One was unframed, its colors faded and grainy, the edges worn, one corner creased. The teenaged boy in the photo was dressed casually in dark shorts and a white striped shirt. His light brown hair was tousled and overdue for a haircut. His skin was tanned and he held a broomstick in one hand. He was waving at the camera, blowing kisses, and winking with a slight smirk.
Professor McGonagall turned the picture over and read the short note on the back.
"Minnie-
Yes, I know you hate that nickname. I like how you glare whenever someone uses it. But it's better then Nerva. Plus, you can't hex me right now, so I can call you anything I like, my little kitten.
Just a quick note to tell you I miss you and love you. You not being here makes this whole vacation seem like torture, and the thought of seeing you in a month makes school seem like the Promised Land. A thousand kisses,
Patrick."
McGonagall laid the picture on the desk, face up, looking at the young man who was now mouthing "I love you." After a few moments, she pulled out the second picture.
This one was framed and better preserved, although the silver frame was tarnished. There were two people in this picture; the young man from the other picture, now several years older, and a young woman. Patrick's hair was neatly combed, and he wore formal black velvet robes with white borders along the sleeves, and a top hat. The woman was wearing white robes, half her dark hair framing her face, the rest pulled back and hidden under the veil trailing from a small tiara down her back.
The two had their arms around each other and were laughing. Every now and then, Patrick's hand would wander down from her hip, making the woman blush and laugh as she shoved his hand away. As Professor McGonagall watched, Patrick pulled his young bride into a dance. It looked like an attempt at waltz by someone who had never learned the dance. They waltzed out of the picture, and Professor McGonagall laid it down, wiping tears from her eyes.
Two months after that picture was taken, a week after they'd finished moving into their tiny new flat, she had come home from grocery shopping to find Patrick sprawled on the floor, vacant eyes staring up at the ceiling, the Death Mark glowing in the air above his body.
She heard the sound of the glass bottle breaking as she dropped the groceries and fell to her knees beside his body, shaking and crying as she took his cold hand and with her other hand, shut his eyes.
Professor McGonagall returned the pictures to the desk drawer, wiping her eyes with a small handkerchief as she locked the drawer.