It wasn't a heavy rain, just a persistent one. It was, in fact, barely more than a mist, really, but it had been going on and on for days, and Minerva McGonagall found it easier to sit inside, by the fire, and read her novel, than to venture outside. From the other room, Minerva could hear the sound of Mrs. Hudson's crystal ball, currently tuned to the Gnome Gnews Gnetwork. In dry, received standard English devoid of regional inflection, a voice droned on about low pressure systems and hydrographic loading.
In Minerva's novel, an Old West Gun Wizard looked down on the corpse of the man he'd been pursuing for three hundred pages. As he holstered his ensorcelled six shooter, he looked at the bar tender, and spoke the first words he'd said in over a hundred pages: "He needed killing." It was rubbish, Minerva knew. As much as American schoolboys idolized the strong, silent type, so few of them seemed to grow up to embrace the archetype. And, really... when had a wizard ever used any weapon other than a wand?
Well, Minerva was forced to admit, there was von Ravenstein, but he was widely acknowledged to have been a bit of a nutter. And Goderic Gryffindor, founder of Minerva's own House at Hogwarts, had carried a sword... but in those days, most Gentlemen did.
Still turning over the idea of a Gun Wizard, Minerva reread the line. "He needed killing." Wouldn't it be nice, Minerva thought with a sigh, slipping a finger in between pages to mark her place, if that were a defense. Dolores Umbridge came to her mind, the witch's toad-like face smiling unpleasantly. From the day Umbridge had arrived at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she had needed killing. Minerva laughed, remembering how, for years afterward, anyone trying to derail Umbridge at the ministry had needed only to make hoof-sounds with their tongue.
After a moment, though, Minerva sighed. Yes, she thought, Umbridge had needed killing. Minerva could have done it; she knew the unforgivable curses, could feel the hate required to perform them, every time she looked at the toady little witch. On the other hand, Minerva, left to her own devices, would have killed Severus Snape early on. How she would have loved to watch him squirming in pain, sometimes. The man was a bully, abusing his position and tormenting those with no power to fight back. He was also, Minerva admitted, highly gifted at potions, and had been instrumental in Voldemort's eventual downfall.
It was possible, Minerva admitted, that one could not judge the worth of a life until it was over. Peter Pettigrew, for example... Minerva laughed to herself, remembering the career counseling session where young Mr. Pettigrew had described his life's ambition as becoming a chef... based upon his skill in preparing toast. He had been such a nobody his whole life, right up to the end... but then, in the last minute, how he had made up for it! Peter Pettigrew, Minerva thought, and Draco Malfoy.
Minerva had another laugh, remembering when the impostor Professor Moody had transfigured Malfoy into a ferret and treated him like a rubber ball. She had been indignant at the time, but looking back on it, maybe it was no less than the boy deserved. After all, he was the one who... Minerva shook her head. No matter, she said to herself sternly. This was what divided the Dark Wizards from the rest of them, she thought. Yes, it would have been simple enough to kill Umbridge. It would have been simple enough to turn her into the toad she so resembled, and let her, over time, slowly lose the woman's mind, let it be engulfed in the animal mind, let her develop a taste for flies and other crawling insects.
It would have been simple, but it would not have been right. Admittedly, Umbridge had done nothing of any great worth with the balance of her life, but she might have. If Peter Pettigrew had been killed in the street by Sirius Black on that terrible night, he could never have turned hero in the last act.
Albus, Minerva recalled, was a great believer in second chances. Voldemort was not. Albus had let other people make choices; had informed and guided, and hoped for the right choice. Voldemort had forced choices; had decreed and punished, intimidated and controlled. Perhaps, Minerva thought, that was the base of being a Dark wizard... not trusting anyone else to see as clearly as one did, oneself; making that one, fateful decision to force others to behave according to one's own standards.
Perhaps it was in that one decision, the one that led to the declaration, "he needed killing."
