20 October 1935
Thorfinn McGonagall encouraged his daughter to read anything that interested her, whether or not it was intended for children, and she took good advantage of it. More often than not, Minerva could be found curled up in any spot of warmth the Highlands weather afforded, nose buried in a thick book.
He liked to talk to his children about the things they read, and he found that Minerva understood far more than the average child her age. As she grew older, they would sit in the library discussing the fine points of this or that novel, or the faults of the latest history of the Goblin wars. A man of scholarly bent, Thorfinn took great pleasure in their talks. Minerva, he was proud to say, was a prodigious thinker, with an ability to dissect ideas with the critical eye of a scholar twice her age.
That's why he was shocked when, one day in the library, he heard her use the term "mudblood" while talking to her brother about one of the Muggle boys from the nearby village of John o' Groats he liked to play with.
"Minerva!"
She turned to look at Thorfinn questioningly. He rarely raised his voice to either of his children, so it was an event when it happened.
"Come here, please."
She dutifully came over to stand by his chair, biting her lip in anxiety.
Thorfinn took care to keep his voice at its usual steady volume. "Einar, please go find Llyndie and ask her to give you your bath."
"But we haven't had dinner yet," Einar said.
"It's only a little early, and if you take it now, we'll have time for a story or a game before bed."
"All right." Einar skipped out happily in search of the nursery elf.
When he was out of earshot, Thorfinn asked Minerva, "Where did you hear that word?"
Her forehead crinkled. "Which word?"
"'Mudblood.'"
"From Great Uncle Thomas."
Thorfinn bit back a groan. Thomas MacLaughlin was far from his favourite among his late wife's family, but Thorfinn felt that Minerva and Einar should see their mother's kin—even the objectionable ones—at least once in a while, and Thomas and his son, Maxwell, had been over from Mull to visit for a weekend during the summer. Thorfinn had gritted his teeth every moment in Thomas's annoying company.
"And in what context did he use it?" Thorfinn asked.
"We were talking about duelling, and he said the mudbloods could never compete with purebloods in the world championship."
"Do you know what the word means?"
"Of course," she answered huffily, as if the idea that she would use a word without knowing its meaning was a terrible insult. "It means a witch or wizard with one or two Muggle parents."
"Correct, although it is a very rude term. The proper term, Minerva, is 'Muggle-born', which is what I want you always to use."
The sternness of his voice made the intended impression. Her eyes were wide as she said, "Yes, Da. I'm sorry."
"I'm not angry, as long as you promise never to use that other word again."
"No, Da, I won't."
"Good. Now, do you think Uncle Thomas was right about what he said? About Muggle-borns not being able to compete with purebloods?"
Minerva considered for a moment, the frown easing from her face at the challenge of her father's question.
"Well, it makes sense, doesn't it? The genes for magic would have been passed down from parent to offspring. Muggle traits would have been subject to . . . what is it called? Where bad things get bred out?"
She twisted the end of her plait as she struggled to find the right words.
"Negative selection?" Thorfinn offered.
"Negative selection. Anyone from a family with lots of wizards and witches would be more likely to have their magical genes . . . crowd out the Muggle genes. The stronger the magical bloodline, the stronger the magic."
She smiled, looking pleased with herself for getting through the explanation.
Thorfinn sighed. Clearly, he would need to go over genetics and the theory of natural selection with her more thoroughly. She was only ten, he reminded himself.
"It's more complex than that," he said.
"Yes, Da," she said dutifully. "But Uncle Thomas says Muggles—"
"Great Medea's ghost, lass, have I not taught ye to think for yourself?" he shouted, shocking the pink into her cheeks.
He wondered for a moment if she would cry—something she never did. Although yelling at his children was something Thorfinn never did either.
He put a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have shouted. It's just that your Great Uncle Thomas has some terrible ideas about a lot of things."
"Like Muggles?" she asked timidly.
"Like Muggles," he confirmed. "He thinks wizards are better than Muggles. That's a dangerous and wicked idea that leads to no good."
"But . . ." Minerva blinked several times. "Never mind."
"No, what were you going to say?"
"Just . . . isn't it better? To be a witch or wizard?"
"No, Minerva. One person isn't inherently better than another because he or she was born with a certain collection of genes."
"But witches and wizards can do things that Muggles can't."
"That's true. But it only means that some things are easier for us to do and harder for Muggles. Just as cats can do things we humans can't, like see in the dark. At least not without help. Does that make being a cat better than being a human?"
Minerva giggled. "No." She grew serious again. "Would you want to be a Muggle, Da?"
"I have never wanted to be anything but what I am. But I have never been a Muggle, so I can't say whether I'd want to be one."
"I like being a witch."
"And I'm glad, because that's what you are. And a good one. It's fine to be happy with what you are. But you shouldn't look down on or feel sorry for someone else just because he's not the same as you."
"Then why does Uncle Thomas think witches and wizards are better?"
"Because people like Uncle Thomas are always looking for ways to make themselves feel better about who they are."
"Does Uncle Thomas feel bad?"
"I think he does. He didn't get as far in life as he wanted. Sometimes that happens because the person doesn't do what he needs to, but sometimes it happens because of bad luck. Or a combination of both. I don't know which it is for Uncle Thomas, but it's had the unfortunate effect of making him bitter and unhappy, and he spreads his feelings of misery and powerlessness through pureblood prejudice. Words like the one you said make him feel powerful, but in truth, it diminishes whatever power he does have because it makes the intelligent people around him see him as a fool."
Minerva looked at her shoes, then up under her lashes at Thorfinn, as if embarrassed to speak.
"Do you think I'm a fool, Da?" she asked quietly.
"Minerva, you are the furthest thing from a fool that there is. But you're only ten, and you haven't yet seen enough of life—of people—to always know who is a fool and not worth your listening to."
"How do I learn that?"
"Listen. Think. Take nothing anyone says—even your old Da—as gospel truth. Look at the evidence before you believe something."
"I will, Da. I promise."
"Good lass. You've an excellent brain, and it's usually connected to your tongue. So I know you'll figure things out, and I know I'll not hear you repeat foolishness from the likes of Thomas MacLaughlin, or anyone else, again. Especially around your brother."
"No, Da."
He gave her a reassuring smile.
"I think there's time for a quick game of chess before dinner, if you like."
"Yes, please."
"Wonderful. You can set up the board this time. But mind the white knight. He bites."