Chapter One
1943
Minerva McGonagall heard her own footsteps, echoing and echoing through the near-empty corridors of Hogwarts and, with a short shiver and a quick turn of her head, quickened her pace. Her late-evening patrol through the castle- one of her Head Girl duties- was nearly completed, and if she was entirely honest with herself, she knew she was glad because of it. The mere sight of Hogwarts' corridors emptied always somewhat frightened her- she did not know why. Usually, she wasn't really unappreciative of a little loneliness, now and then. Especially at Hogwarts, being alone for a moment was a rare luxury, but even before Hogwarts, when she had still lived in France with her parents, peace and quiet had always proved to be almost an impossibility. With two little sisters- Tosia had been nine when she had left, Elisabet- or Betty- six- and a couple of grandparents, all living together in one house, Minerva had learnt to appreciate being alone as a rarity.
And yet there was one person whose company she preferred to being alone. One person whom she could be alone with- whom she could share moments of thoughts and ponderings with, one person in the entire world who understood.
It was not much, Minerva almost ironically thought, but it was something. Or better- it was someone. Their mutual worries about Minerva's parents had brought Albus Dumbledore and the young girl who was his student even closer together than their many mutual interests and a sense of unusual closeness had ever done during the years before.
As Minerva found herself- the way she did almost every night- knocking on the heavy door leading to her Transfiguration teacher's private quarters, she could not but reflect on the contents of the latest letter her mother had sent her, about three days earlier. Albus- for she'd grown to call him by his first name now- would certainly want to know what was in it, and honestly Minerva had not the faintest idea as for how she would reply to that question. Of course her mother had written that everything was okay- that they were all safe and sound, that there was not the slightest reason for Minerva to be worried, but the girl merely shook her head at those lines.
She knew her relatives too well- and she could read the shadow of the constant threat in every single word her mother wrote. Minerva had heard stories about what was happening in continental Europe- and though every story was vague and without the slightest hint of accuracy, it was not exactly reassuring stories. Even Minerva's mother could not but, from time to time, mention things like how an old acquaintance of hers, whose children had been Minerva's friends when she'd been a little kid, had been arrested and carried away to an unknown destination- or had all of a sudden disappeared, gone into hiding, or run off to Switzerland or England. Or how Minerva'- Roman Catholic- father had done an attempt to have his children scratched off the list of Jews in the community- and had failed horribly.
Minerva had begged her parents, many times, to come back to Scotland, but always had they decided against it. Of course it was very hard for Muggles, Minerva knew, to transport themselves across the carefully guarded Channel, but with a little help- and yet she knew that even that little help was impossible. Her maternal grandmother, namely, was ill and close to her death, thus impossible to transport. It was only logical that Minerva's mother did not want to leave her mother behind, and thus they stayed, hoping that the mixed family would escape the eye of the new government.
It was vain hope, Minerva knew, and many times had she cried over the danger her family lived in- but she knew just as well that she couldn't change it anyway, so she cried- in private.
There was only one man who had ever seen her break, who had ever watched her crack- and that was why she was, this night like all other nights, knocking on his door once more. She loved visiting him, talking to him, playing a fierce game of chess with him- just being with him, for the very simply reason that it was the one place where she did not have to be strong- where she could worry, where she didn't have to cope with the constant pity written across the faces of almost all her fellow students and teachers.
And pity, Minerva reflected, was such a damn empty concept after all.
And yet the look in her teacher's eyes was not an empty one as he looked up from the piece of parchment which he had obviously been reading. It was still filled with pity, but it was not empty.
Minerva stood frozen for multiple seconds, then fled- for fleeing it was- into the opened arms of her Transfiguration teacher- and did not say a word.