Six ~ Unwelcome News
At breakfast, the Great Hall was abuzz with gossip and whispers about the ball, but I couldn't bring myself to care very much about it. I highly doubted that anyone would bother asking me – or Cliona, Cora, and Myrtle, for that matter. But Cora and Myrtle were utterly aglow with excitement.
"I hope nobody asks Olive Hornby," Myrtle whispered fiercely.
"Nobody will," Cora assured her. "Look at all the pimples she's got now! She must have had too many sweets over Christmas break."
Cliona had both hands clamped to her ears. "Am I going to be hearing this for the next two weeks? Please don't tell me I'll be hearing this for the next two weeks, because I'll have to stick wands in my ears, which will hopefully render me deaf and therefore save me from this intolerable nonsense."
"Don't be such a spoilsport," Cora said. "I just bet, deep down, that you're excited."
Cliona made a dismissive noise and dug into her porridge.
The owls came flying into the Great Hall, signifying the morning's post. An owl swooped down in front of me with a letter round its legs; I untied it, recognizing Kitty's untidy hand, and fed the owl a slice of orange before it went on its way.
"Who's it from?" Myrtle asked.
"My sister." I tore it open.
Dear Minerva,
I'm afraid what I warned you about at Christmas has come to pass. Mum and Dad have decided that we're leaving for America at the end of June. Most of the people at our farmhouse have already left, and, the way the news is going, it looks like matters are only getting worse. All the boys in town have gone off into the army. Mum and Dad decided that they wouldn't tell you until after the Easter holiday, but I thought you should know now because that'll give you more time to think about.
You know I love you, Minerva, but I also know you love that school, and I will not be hurt if you decide to stay. I've already decided that I'm coming back to Scotland once this blasted war is done, and I hope Mum and Dad do the same, so, God willing, we won't be separated for long. I know that you live in a world very different than my own, and, at present, I envy you this (and not just because of the dangerous sweets, mind). I'm afraid. Mum says Angus McFie died last week in battle – do you remember when we climbed the oak with him and he fell and broke his ankle? He whinged about that for weeks. Well, now he's gone, he's dead, and Mum says that's just the start of it. I think she thinks that Dad might have to go soon – Dad's only thirty-nine, remember, and that's not terribly old, especially if all the young men cark it over in France.
I sound terribly morbid. I'm sorry. I don't want to go to America, either, but Mum and Dad won't hear a word of protest, and I need someone to talk to. Please write back as soon as you can, and I'll see you at Easter, and you must remind me that I owe you a very large hug.
Always your sister,
Kitty McGonagall
My hand fell to the table, and I sat there numbly. Cora was the first to notice. "Minerva? Minerva! What's wrong? You've gone all white!"
My throat felt parched, like I hadn't had a drink in a thousand years. "My mum – and my dad, and my sister—" I couldn't finish. Silently, I passed the letter to her, and she read it with Cliona and Myrtle leaning over each of her shoulders. A good five minutes passed before anyone said anything, but I barely noticed. I could think only of Kitty as she had been when I'd seen her last, laughing and saying goodbye.
Cliona was the first to speak up. "Minerva – I'm sorry."
"You're not going, too, are you?" Myrtle blubbered. "You just can't go! I heard some of the wizarding schools in America don't even teach Transfiguration! You couldn't deal with that, you just couldn't!"
"Shut up, you insensitive nit!" Cliona growled.
"I don't know, Myrtle," I said dazedly. I snatched the letter and stuffed it into my schoolbag. "I just – don't know." All of a sudden, I couldn't bear to be there anymore. I grabbed my bag and books and walked out of the Great Hall, mid-breakfast.
I sat through Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology that day with nary an inclination to care about what was going on in class. Cora, who was in Herbology, had to poke me into paying attention more than once; ordinarily, it was the other way around. A few times during the day I took out a bit of parchment – I had to write back to my sister – but I couldn't think of what to say. Everything I could think of seemed false and uncertain, and I wound up deciding to leave it alone for a few days, so I could think about it.
But it was always there, in the back in my mind. When I attempted a second transformation with Professor Dumbledore, I simply couldn't do it. My mind wouldn't clear itself enough to allow the entry of my Animagus form. "Is there something troubling you, Miss McGonagall?" Professor Dumbledore asked after my failed attempt.
"No – yes – well, I'm preoccupied."
"Ah," he said, and winked knowingly at me. "The Valentine's Day Ball. I can't teach my classes properly, for fear of being hit by all the hormones."
"Er – yes, that's it, sir." I rushed out of the room; I wasn't eager to have a repeat crying spate in front of the man I respected most. I was content to let him think I was being some vapid, silly girl. He left me alone in the Transfiguration classroom, and I lay on that stone floor where I had been a cat a few short days ago, and thought about Muggles and war. I didn't really understand any it – The Daily Prophet only mentioned the war in passing, but, at Christmas, it had seemed as though the world was ready to fall down. Why was there such a vast difference between the two worlds?
A most surprising thing happened at supper later that week; I was talking with Myrtle, or rather listening to her sound off about her grievances, when I heard the creak of heavy, masculine footsteps behind me.
"Excuse me."
I turned around from my conversation with Myrtle and was stunned to see Emmet Fawcett, the revered Hufflepuff Beater himself, standing there. He had a few flowers clenched in one hand, and his hair was tousled handsomely, as if he'd just finished a Quidditch practice. "What – what would you like?" I stammered, taking off my glasses to polish.
"Could I have a word with you, Miss Markels?" he asked, looking intently at Myrtle.
Myrtle nodded wordlessly, and he extended his hand to her, leading her right out of the Great Hall. I watched them suspiciously, and I wasn't alone – Cliona and Cora wore identical looks of shock.
Five minutes later, Myrtle came back into the Great Hall looking happier than I'd ever seen her, bright and excited. "He asked me to the Ball!" she cried, and nearly danced on the spot. "Oh, Emmet Fawcett asked me to the Ball – I can't believe my luck! Oh, this is incredible!"
Cliona blanched. "I thought you were holding out for that Slytherin Tom Riddle."
Myrtle snorted. "I'm off Tom Riddle, and back on Emmet Fawcett," she announced. "I asked him why he was laughing at me when I fought with Olive, and he told me he wasn't laughing at me at all, but at that great stupid Olive! Can you imagine? Isn't it the loveliest thing?"
"Congratulations," Cora breathed. Her eyes were positively glowing.
"I just can't believe it," Myrtle declared.
"Now all that has to happen is Niall MacDougal asking Minerva, and then that'll be two great miracles," Cliona crowed.
I sank down into my chair. I've always fancied myself above having silly things like schoolgirl crushes, and I didn't think anyone had noticed. I suppose I must have quite moony-eyed whenever I saw him; I can always tell when girls in my classes have a thing for the boys at their desks.
It seemed that the Hufflepuff boys were coming out in full force. Later at dinner, we witnessed Freddie Hull, the team's Keeper, pulling the same trick with Olive Hornby, who came back looking just as exuberant as Myrtle had. The same evening, Cora came back to the Gryffindor common in an excited flush. "Charles St. Clair asked me to go to the ball with him! Isn't it wonderful?" She spun around the common room laughing, with her arms out. "Oh, we've definitely got to go to Gladrags now – isn't it convenient that this is a Hogsmeade weekend?" Charles St. Clair was a Chaser on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team.
"Oh, that's wonderful!" Myrtle exclaimed.
"Smashing," Cliona said sarcastically.
Cora shot her a dirty look. "I don't see you going with anyone, Cliona."
"Right." Cliona rolled her eyes, then walked over to Hagrid, who was murmuring sweetly to Snappers, feeding it bits of apple, which Snappers seemed to have a great liking for. He often requested that I bring the plant down to the common room. "Hagrid," Cliona said commandingly, "I reckon we should go to the ball together."
Hagrid looked at her as if she'd gone mad. "Really, Miss Cliona?"
"Why not? I like a man who looks like he can withstand a Bludger."
Hagrid broke into a silly grin and nodded, while Cliona instructed him solemnly, "Don't go off getting any of that rubbish like corsages and Valentine cards, I don't like any of that soppy stuff. Er – and don't bring anything with fangs. Or claws, or wings – actually, just leave the creatures altogether, right, Hagrid? Oh, should I call you Rubeus?"
He turned an odd, greenish colour. "Nah – never liked people who called me that much. Jus' Hagrid's fine."
"Right, Hagrid, but you'd better stop calling me Miss Cliona."
"Jus' Cliona, then?"
"Precisely. Or Queen Brocklehurst, whichever you prefer, really." She gave him a quick hug and peck on the cheek (to which he blushed furiously) and returned to where Cora and Myrtle were standing. Both girls wore identical expressions of disdain. Cliona responded to them with an air-kiss. "Love you, girls!" she cried in a high falsetto.
"That was very kind of you," I whispered to her later.
She shrugged. "I like him. Not that way, of course, but he's the only male in the building who's not completely full of himself. And he is very sweet, even if his snowballs are like missiles of death."
That night, I tried to write my reply to Kitty again, but I wound up just crumpling up piece after piece of parchment. I wanted to tell her so many things, but I didn't know myself what I was going to do. I wanted to reassure her, to tell her I'd always be with her like I used to when she would crawl under my covers, but that wasn't true, so I could not write it to her. I wanted to tell her I loved her, which was certainly true, but then I began to think that if I truly loved her, I would leave Hogwarts to be with her and my mum and dad. It wasn't that I didn't love them, and I certainly wanted to be with them – there were so many times I wished they were magical, too, so they could live with me all the time, so Kitty could come to Hogsmeade (I just knew she'd buy out Zonko's if she could) – but, at the same time, I could not stand the thought of leaving Hogwarts, of leaving my Animagus training unfinished, of leaving my friends and Professor Dumbledore and Hagrid.
I ended up breaking my quill on my twenty-eighth try at a letter and going to bed with a heavy heart. Most of the letters hadn't got much further than Dearest Kitty. I lay awake most of that night, trying to picture myself in America. It was hopeless. I'd only just begun to find friends at Hogwarts, and I didn't want to start over. I wasn't good at fitting in.
On Friday morning before Potions, I was in a foul mood, not only because I still couldn't get Kitty's letter out of my mind, and not only because I'd had to take points off the Gryffindor second-years for using magic in the halls, but because I was the only one who hadn't been asked to the ball. Well, technically, Cliona hadn't been asked, but she had a date, all the same.
But, before I got into the dungeon, I was stopped in my tracks by none other than Niall MacDougal, the seventh-year Hufflepuff Seeker whom I'd been admiring from afar. His mouth was stretched into a wide, lazy grin. "Hey, little prefect," he said warmly. "Tell me your name?"
I pressed my books up against my chest in a vain effort to disguise the rapidity of my breathing. "Er – it's Minerva. Minerva McGonagall."
"Well, Minerva McGonagall, she of the long name, do you want to go to the ball with me?" His face was open, genuine, and quizzical; it was like he'd only asked me if I had the notes for that day's Herbology class.
My mouth dropped open; hastily, I controlled it. "Er – yes – yes, I do," I managed to squeak out.
"Brilliant." He flashed me a smile. "I've seen you – you watch all the Quidditch games, even the ones where Gryffindor isn't playing. I'll meet you outside the Great Hall at seven-thirty, all right?"
"Sure," I choked out. I noticed I was fiddling with my glasses. "Er – yes. Sure." I mentally kicked myself; he probably thought I was a babbling fool.
"Well, Minerva McGonagall, I don't want you to be late for class." He beamed at me one last time, then strode off smoothly and effortlessly. For a minute, I could only stare open-mouthed at his retreating form, and then my mouth split into a huge smile. Niall MacDougal had just asked me to the Valentine's Day Ball! Everything that had been troubling me – Kitty's letter, keeping Hagrid's secret, OWLs, my failure to transform – all of it was swept away in an instant.
As soon as I slid into my seat at the Potions desk, Riddle took one short look at me and scoffed. "What's the idiot grin for, McGonagall?"
"Not that it's any of your business, Riddle, but I've been asked to the ball." I was so anxious to tell Myrtle and Cora (and even Cliona, who would undoubtedly make a snide comment) that I was even glad to tell Riddle, who only gave a derisive snort and went back to his usual routine of giving me the silent treatment.
I slammed my books down and was perfectly content to do the same. Even Riddle couldn't ruin my good mood. Predictably, when I returned to the dormitory and told Myrtle, she got off her bed and jumped up and down with excitement. "Oh, this'll be the best thing ever!"
On Saturday, the four of us trekked into Hogsmeade with the sole intention of purchasing dress robes. Only Cora actually owned a set, but she'd worn them at the Christmas party she'd been to, the one with the impolite noisemakers, and couldn't bear that some of the same people would be in attendance. When we went into Gladrags, the store was utterly packed with Hogwarts girls (and a few boys) clamouring to buy, so we waited patiently (Cora, ever-impatient, went on a run to Honeydukes so we'd at least have sweets to pass the time with).
When it was finally our turn, most of the students had cleared out, so we were able to shop at relative leisure. Cora and Myrtle wasted no time in choosing their new dress robes (pink and mauve, respectively), and even Cliona finally settled on a rather elegant set of dark burgundy, but I had never done such a thing before, and I lingered through the aisles, wondering what Niall would like, wondering if what I chose would clash terribly, berating myself for not knowing to ask the colour of his robes, and, indeed, wondering what in the world to do.
Myrtle, seeing my distress, yanked on my arm and dumped five or six sets of robes into my arms. "Try these ones," she advised. "You're not near as thick as me; you'll look good enough in anything."
And, in spite of her shortcomings, Myrtle did have a solid fashion sense. The first sets of robes fit fine, and looked fair, but when I came out wearing the last set – a shimmery pure black – all three of my friends clucked their approval.
"That's the one!" Myrtle announced. "Oh, Minerva, that's got to be it."
"Say, don't you look nice," Cliona grinned. "Never knew you had it in you."
I looked down at myself. "I like them," I said hesitantly, "but aren't they awfully thick and roomy on me? I feel like I'd be dragged down by the weight all night."
"Not a problem," Cora said smugly.
She drew out her wand, and, with a quick charm, altered the fabric to fit me perfectly. I had to lift my hands over my head to allow it to wind its way around myself, and watched as it settled neatly around my body, like it had been a perfect size all along. I raised an eyebrow at her. "You need to apply that skill to your actual classes."
"Don't I know it! And now you've got to buy them; the witch at the counter just gave me a dirty look." She looked at the saleswitch and waved sheepishly.
"I think I will buy them," I said thoughtfully. For a moment, I allowed myself some vanity, and twirled in front of the mirror. They really were very flattering robes, with no shoulders, and wide, long sleeves. I moved a little and marvelled at how graceful I felt, even skirting the somewhat dingy carpet in Gladrags. It was the first time I can remember that I felt beautiful, and it was a new and wondrous feeling, a pleasant twist in my stomach.
"Now if only we could be rid of our wretched glasses," Myrtle moaned at me.
"Well," I reasoned, "we could always do an Ocular Charm – I don't like them myself, they always make my eyes itch too much to pay attention in lessons – but, then again, I don't see why we shouldn't on a special occasion."
Myrtle's eyes were shining as we strode up to the counter. "You mean – such a charm exists?"
"Of course," I said slowly. "It's right in The Standard Book of Spells – I can't recall which of the volumes, but don't tell me that all this time you've been wearing your glasses and bemoaning their existence, not knowing there was a charm you could do to prevent having to wear them?"
"Er—" Myrtle looked down at her hands with sudden interest. "I think we all ought to get a Butterbeer, don't you?"
We clapped her on the back and laughed.