Four ~ Sorrow and Secrets

I came back to Hogwarts feeling frazzled and tired and hopeless.

I had expected our farm to be housing people forced out of their homes by the Muggle bombings, but I hadn't expected so many people. There must have been three dozen people stuffed into the various crevices of our slapdash house and into the lofts and stacks of the barn. There were children I didn't recognize running around everywhere, from little moppets to surly teenagers. I wasn't allowed to talk about my magic – my mum pulled me aside right away – so I spent much of the holiday explaining things away to the visitors. The wizarding sweets were from a very exclusive candy shop in Glasgow, my school itself was a private girls' academy for those entering nunneries (which was a complicated and regrettable lie because one of the visitors was a former theology teacher who kept quizzing me about the lives of the prophets), and the like.

Christmas Day itself was lovely; we woke up early and there were a dozen stockings up, each one filled with peppermints and oranges for every child at the farm, and Kitty and I smiled knowingly and told fibs about Father Christmas knowing where they were, even in the war (it is a little-known fact, even among wizards, that the real Father Christmas, also known as Nicholas the Benevolent, was a once-kind wizard who got irritated and quit forever in 1879 when he realised that over ninety percent of the world's children were naughty). These were the days before all the restrictions against underage wizardry, so I hid in the pantry and transfigured old blocks and things into dolls and toy trains, then hid them beneath our tree when no one was looking. My mum was appreciative of this and proclaimed Father Christmas a most generous gift-giver. We went to Mass and lit candles, and ate stuffed turkey and dressing and puddings until we all felt very sick.

But the worst news, the absolute worst news, came whispered to me on Christmas night, when I was already half-asleep. Kitty had crept over to my bed when everyone else was stuffed and asleep and shook me gently. "Minerva?" she'd whispered.

"Mmph," was my coherent reply.

"Minerva, wake up, I've got something to tell you."

"Kitty," I mumbled. "Kitty, did you have another nightmare?" When we were very young, Kitty would sometimes wake and crawl into bed with me, having dreamed of monsters or ghosts or of the farm burning down. I suppose I wasn't quite aware of the year because this was my first instinct; I reached up to her to cradle her as I had once done.

"No, wake up all the way, come on now." She slapped my face lightly. "Come on."

I blinked and rolled over, my hand splayed in front of me on the pillow as I drifted up into consciousness. "What is it?"

Kitty's face was wide and anxious in the dim light, and her eyes fairly shone with gloom. She lay her head down on my pillow, across from me, looking directly at me, and she took a long, slow breath, as though to summon up some well of courage. "Listen, Minerva, don't be mad at Mum and Dad, they wanted you to have a good Christmas and not tell you until you're back at your school, but we're leaving in summer. Mum's scared about the war – it's gone on too long with no real end in sight, she says – and all the bombings down in London – and they think we ought to go to America or Canada – there are wizard schools for you over there, aren't there?"

Of course there were wizard schools other than Hogwarts, but I didn't know that then. I cannot describe the state of my mind at that moment. It was simply – frenetic. It couldn't comprehend what my ears had just heard; it refused to process the information. "What? Kitty?"

"I told Mum and Dad not to, but they wouldn't listen, and I'm sorry because I know you won't want to go and I'm sorry because I know you love it there." When I said nothing back – I believe I was quite dumbstruck – she curled her hand around mine in the dark and we lay together, listening to the other breathe.

She was asleep long before I was.

Truthfully, I was devising ways I could get them to stay in Scotland. It wasn't that I would miss my friends; except for Professor Dumbledore, there really wasn't anyone I would long to see – I hadn't known any of the Gryffindor girls that long, nor anyone else. It was that I could not bear the thought of being apart from Hogwarts itself. It was something I loved above all over things, like a prized possession kept in a coffer, only larger and more intricate and far more wonderful. I didn't think I could live without having the paintings shout greetings at me and without dodging poltergeists in the hallways, without watching Quidditch in the brisk, clear autumn and eating every meal under an enchanted ceiling. I buried my face into my pillow and willed myself not to cry that Christmas night, and I didn't. I lay silently, until the sound of Kitty and the other children sleeping finally lulled me into rest.

By morning I had decided that, if worst came to worst, I would stay at Hogwarts and let them go. I didn't know how to say this to Mum and Dad, and especially to Kitty, so I spent the rest of the holiday mulling it over myself and saying nothing. Even to Kitty, who gave me concerned looks at least twice a day and squeezed my hand reassuringly whenever she could. It was as though she had taken the role of elder sister. I knew I was being selfish – childish, even. There were people all around whose lives had been torn to pieces, and I could not stop thinking about how I did not wish to leave my school. It was insensitive and wrong, but I couldn't help it. I played rounders with the children, visited people in the village, helped my mum do the washing (I asked to help her with magic but she was adamantly against it in case someone walked by), and all the while I felt very numb and unlike myself .

Before I left to go back to Hogwarts, Kitty took me aside at the train station. "I love you, Minerva, you ought to know that." She gave me a cheeky little grin before the moment could get too serious. "You're the only sister I've got – who brings me dangerous sweets."

"I do know that," I replied, ignoring the joke. I kissed her on the cheek and I think I clenched the handle of my trunk so hard that I nearly snapped it off. "I love you, too."

The train ride was uneventful. When I stepped back into the common room, I wanted nothing more than to curl up with a large book about advanced Animagi, to lose myself in study, but I was immediately set upon by Myrtle, who had, apparently, just realized that we were to write the OWLs at the end of the year. Her books were spread all over near the fireplace. Cora and Cliona were watching with amusement, for no one but Myrtle cared about exams just after Christmas. "Minerva," she howled, "you've just got to help me with Transfiguration! Oh, I'm so dreadfully behind in everything!"

"Oh, Myrtle," I said. "Of course I will. I'm a bit tired, though. Er – just let me go and grab the rest of my suitcases, all right?" I ducked out, presumably to retrieve the non-existent suitcases, and went to the Transfiguration classroom instead. Surprisingly, Professor Dumbledore was waiting for me.

"I knew you'd be here." He was sitting at the desk looking very satisfied. "Did you have a Happy Christmas, Miss McGonagall?" he asked excitedly.

"Er – yes, Professor." And it was suddenly as though some reservoir had overflowed inside of me, because I started to cry; I hadn't cried over the fact that I would have to leave yet, and I could bear it no longer. It was the worst possible time to choose for an emotional outburst, as I hated crying in front of other people, especially people I respected. "No," I said quietly through the tears welling up in my eyes. "That's a lie."

His brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"

The whole situation came flooding out. I was powerless to stop it. It was like I had stepped outside of myself and was watching Minerva uncharacteristically run her mouth off and allow words to fall out in disorganized, impassioned heaps. After I was finished, Professor Dumbledore only looked at me for a long time, wise and impassive. He seemed to be thinking of what to say, and he let an awkward silence creep between us before he spoke. "They are your family, Miss McGonagall," he said softly.

"But Hogwarts is my home," I replied, my voice small and pathetic-sounding.

I expected a lecture, but instead he rose out of his chair and hugged me loosely. "Miss McGonagall," he said kindly. "You cannot help how you feel. Admittedly, the training you are doing here would be discontinued should you go to America." He ignored my stifled cry. "Unless, of course, there is need for a young Animagus there, which I very highly doubt. You should know this. But you should also think on your family. Think of your mother and father and sister, how you grew up, and how much you love them, and how often you will miss them. I cannot make the choice for you," he finished. "It will be no object once you can Apparate your way home, but that is not for two and a half years. I don't know if anyone can go without family for that long."

"Can't we set up a Floo in the house in America? I mean, I know my family are Muggles, but they know all about magic; I'm certain that the Ministry would allow it if we only asked them."

He stepped back. "I do not think so, Miss McGonagall. The Ministry's policy dictates that you should go to the wizarding schools in America – the ones you will be closest to. The Floo Network Authority will not set up Floo stations in the Muggle world if it can be avoided, and I'm afraid they will not take your personal attachment to Hogwarts into account. "

I knew this was true, but to hear it aloud was hurtful. "I just – I just don't know what to do." I spat these words out. It has always been difficult for me to admit such things. "Bloody Muggle war – wizards can get along fine but they're always fighting each other like wild animals."

"Miss McGonagall, do not assume that wizards—" He paused, and then seemed to change his mind about what he was going to say. "I believe," he sighed, "that you need to allow yourself time to think. Perhaps you should continue trying to contact your true Animagus form – things might look different or easier through a foreign set of eyes."

I took this advice to heart, and didn't even notice him slip out behind me. My books weren't with me, but I knew the incantations word for word. I whispered them softly, tears still sticky and drying on my cheeks, and I felt the expected connection open up – now sweetly familiar – but it was interrupted by a high, wailing sound. I sighed, bit my lip, and tried again, but the noise persisted, and I listened harder. It was a faint keening, not unlike the howl of a banshee.

Someone besides myself, apparently, had chosen the day to cry.

I couldn't hold my concentration. It was, quite possibly, the most horrible crying I had ever heard, even defeating Myrtle's very admirable skills. Thinking that I would never find my proper beast, I gathered up my senses and stepped out of the Transfiguration room, locking the door carefully behind me. I had to find the source of the weeping. It was echoing and it was hard to follow, but I tracked it down a few flights of stairs, into a dingy part of Hogwarts I had never been into before. It seemed wilder than the other bits, as though I were stepping through ruins. There was a low wooden door at the end of one corridor, and I pushed it open with all my might. It took several tries. And there, tucked into a small room I would have thought it impossible for him to fit into, was the source of the sound – Hagrid.

"Hagrid?" I ventured. He didn't seem to hear me; he was still keening and rocking like a small child. Abruptly I felt very foolish for using formalities at a moment like this. "Rubeus?" I asked again, trying to make my voice as gentle as possible. Hagrid was a curious kind of boy, extremely large yet absolutely childlike.

"M-Minerva," he gasped out. Apparently I wasn't the only one to drop politeness; he had never addressed me before without Miss as a preface. "Don' tell anyone I'm down here."

"I think the whole school might be able to hear you," I whispered kindly.

He sniffed and looked up at me, his eyes wide with horror. "D'yeh think so?"

It was only then I realized he was cradling something in his arms. It was an animal, but he held it as preciously as if it were his child. It was not the type of beast that he would inflict on his poor students decades later, but a relatively harmless Crup, which sort of resembled an overlarge, babyish dog, with a forked tail. It wasn't moving. "Is – is it dead? Is that why you're crying?"

"Yeah," he said brusquely, and I could tell from the unnatural glittering in his eyes that he was about to start sobbing again. "Dunno what happened, just came down ter feed 'er and she was dead. Poor little baby."

I stared at the thing, stricken. It was admittedly an unpleasant breed of beast, with a reputation for biting, but I felt awful all the same, for Hagrid must have loved it. I felt as if I were intruding on something intensely personal, and I shifted around uncomfortably. "Do you want me to go?"

He didn't seem to hear me. "Dozens of 'em, all dead. An' this one!" He sniffled, gently set down the dead Crup, stroking one massive thumb over its still ears, and showed me what appeared to be a stone figurine of a Bluebottle, which is like a very large and furry housefly, with huge, prismatic eyes. One can find them in the Forbidden Forest. "Petrified, looks like," he said in a small voice. "How could that've happened?"

"Well," I said, "there are lots of ways something can become petrified. I don't know them all, of course – loads of Dark Magic, there – but there are hexes and such." I couldn't think of anyone who would bother using them on Hagrid's creatures – Myrtle was most vocal about it, but I couldn't see her going on a creature-slaughtering rampage – but this was not my primary concern, for behind Hagrid's prone form was a crate, and the lid of this crate was slowly being lifted off by something with extremely hairy legs. "And drinking a – Hagrid, what is that thing? It's escaping!" The creature in the box was dangling its long appendages over the side of its prison.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, and pushed the thing back into the box. He lifted up a lid a little and peered inside. "I told yeh a hunnerd times that yer not ter try escapin'!" Hagrid whispered ferociously. "You mighta bin seen!"

"I wanted to see your companion," came a strange, inhuman voice from inside the box. "Her voice woke me from my slumber, and I was intrigued. She sounds – delicious."

"Hagrid!" I screeched, darting towards the door.

"Ah, he's just kiddin' yeh. Harmless as anythin'." Hagrid smiled broadly for a moment, then seemed to remember the gravity of situation at hand. "Listen, Miss Minerva, I ain't s'posed to be keepin' some of these creatures down here – Headmaster Dippet thinks I oughta stick ter less dangerous ones – so could yeh keep it a secret? I might be expelled. That Slytherin says if Dippet knows, I'll—"

"What Slytherin?" I asked sharply.

He turned a faint pink. "Er – never you mind. Jus' please don' tell anyone about this. I'm gonna figure this out on m'own. Maybe one of the ghosts—"

I know now that a great deal of problems would have been solved or indeed would have never come to pass had I done what I should have done – taking my position as a Prefect seriously and going to Dippet about this violation of the rules. Yet, instead, I made a mistake. There was something about Rubeus Hagrid, even then, that made it seem reasonable to exempt him from some things. It could have been his genuine concern for beasts that most would consider frightening and vile, or the grief he was obviously feeling, or even just the quiet depth to his gigantic coal-black eyes, but, at that moment, it was impossible to refuse him. "All right, then, Hagrid," I agreed. I eyed the box with the mysterious monster inside. "But keep it contained."

He leaned forward and hugged me, a gentle third-year boy twice my size, and started to cry again. I patted him on the back – or on the shoulder, as I couldn't quite reach around to his back – and said, "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll find other beasts in the Forbidden Forest."

"'T'won't be the same."

"I know, but it'll be close to the same."

Hagrid smiled again. "Thank yeh."

I was certain I'd made the right choice. "You're welcome." I gave the odd crate a final wary glare, thinking that its occupant was most likely responsible for the deaths of the other creatures. Hagrid wasn't the wisest when it came to judging a creature's viciousness. "Don't pick up anything too dangerous, understand? I don't need Myrtle Markels screaming at me even more."

He laughed. "That one's got a bit o' a problem with me, she has."

And I went. I have thought about this moment every day since Harry Potter came tumbling out of the Chamber of Secrets to tell the world about how Hagrid was innocent, and all I could think about was how I could have got rid of that bloody spider, right there, and everything would've been worked out properly. And the future really is axiomatic; who knows what could have happened if we knew the truth at the end of that year rather than accusing the wrong man for half a century? But it chills me to think of it, and I won't dwell on it any longer. Absolution never comes from simply sitting and blaming oneself, and I find myself speaking as an old woman again – I will return to young Minerva.

At dinner that night I saw something very strange while Cora was raving about the wizarding New Year's party she'd been to in London. Tom Riddle slunk over to the end of the Gryffindor table, and whispered into Hagrid's ear. I stared in surprise – they were the two people I would have least expected to get along – until Riddle looked up and saw me. I hastily looked away and tuned Cora back in. "Champagne that made you float in the air? Really?" I asked falsely.

"Oh yes, it was like flying, and they had the most wonderful noisemakers. They didn't just hoot and honk, they played songs and shouted and spoke to one another." She giggled and turned faintly red. "My blasted noisemaker kept flirting with the one belonging to this cute fellow who'd been in Ravenclaw when he was here – not that I minded so much, he was rather nice. Well, he was once the noisemakers stopped making lewd suggestions to us."

Myrtle leaned forward eagerly to hear this juicy bit of the story; Cliona rolled her eyes and looked at me for support. "Big match against Slytherin tomorrow," she crowed. "My favourite thing is beating those idiot serpents – you coming to watch?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

"I practiced some great moves over the holiday. There's this awesome one with a double fake – a feint is what the book you gave me called it, how bloody technical of them – and then a hit that ricochets from the stands and absolutely decimates the target's broom. I think I'll try it on one of their slimy old Chasers – Harvey's got a new Comet; I bet if I blasted it he'd be too thick to cast Reparo."

"I can't wait," I said dully. Normally, this would have been an exciting conversation, but I could not put my heart into it. I looked at Hagrid again, but Riddle was already gone and Hagrid was quite blithely eating a slab of fudge. Probably just some Prefect thing, I thought, but there was an icy feeling in my stomach that wouldn't go away, even as I tried to sleep that night. I had taken in so much that day, it's a wonder I slept at all – but reading over my History of Magic notes did the trick.