Something about the afternoon light slanting into the room made Minerva McGonagall think, as she woke from her nap, "I need to write the letters this afternoon." After a moment, she laughed at herself. The letters were Headmaster Hatcher's responsibility, now. Minerva patted the table beside her, searching for her glasses, then muttered, "Accio spectacles." They slid down from the top of her head, over her eyes, and Minerva sighed at herself. She was becoming as bad as Keaton, she thought with a smile.
Professor Keaton had been Languages Master when Minerva came to teach at Hogwarts. "Language," he had said, more than once, "is the basis of magic. You must be able to express what you want; if you are doing transformation, you must begin by describing what a thing is, and end by describing what you wish it to be. If you are not precise in your language, how can your results be precise?"
Keaton's language was precise. It was, perhaps, the only thing about the big Irish polyglot which was precise. In virtually everything else, the man was a slob. Minerva smiled as she thought of the way he would read as he ate, with the inevitable result that he would end up with food stains on his robes. His room in the castle had been full of books, quills and scraps of parchment used as bookmarks, but not a single page dog-eared, not a single spine cracked. The books had been piled in seemingly careless piles, but he knew where everything was; he could put out his hand and touch anything he wished.
They had gone on a picnic once, on a late spring afternoon, down by the lake, where they'd watched the students splashing around in the water, with the giant squid standing off and watching protectively. She had half-hoped it would turn out to be romantic, for Keaton seemed the sort who might burst into romance at any moment, but he'd seemed somewhat distracted. Later, she'd found the book he'd hidden in the basket, and realized that his mind had been on it the whole time.
Eventually, Minerva came to realize that books, words, and language were Keaton's true love, and that there was no room in his life for a second romance. He'd disappeared, a few years later. Many people suspected that he'd simply flown into the side of a tree while reading a book, until his body had been found, his insides carefully pulled out and pinned to the turf, each labeled with a bit of parchment. The handwriting, Minerva recalled, had been exceptionally precise.
It was the first time Minerva had heard the name "Lord Voldemort" whispered. The Ministry investigator, however, ruled that it was an accident, a spell Keaton had horribly mis-handled. "Everyone knows he never used a wand," the investigator had said, superciliously. Looking back, Minerva wished the investigator been correct.
