Death came for Minerva McGonagall
Minerva McGonagall would later say she knew she was a cat before her Animagus training. Some things are just meant to be. Climbing trees as a child, higher and higher, but then the fear of falling requiring her to get help down every time. Her mother finding her sleeping in a patch of sunlight in her bedroom instead of on the bed, while the family mouser seemed particularly fond of the child. Minerva's balance and quick reaction time on the football field as a child, later on the quidditch pitch as a student at Hogwarts would also allude to the feline living within her.
Death first came to Minerva McGonagall after a Quidditch foul in her seventh year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Her Animagus training, led at the time by Albus Dumbledore, had recently been successful in a full transformation, revealing her feline, tabby form. As she hovered outside of her body, which lay in a stupor on the field, watching the Matron of the Hospital Wing run diagnostic spells over her limp and battered form, Death approached.
"Minerva McGonagall, you have a choice."
"A choice?" she responded, "what do you mean, a choice? I can't be dead."
"You can choose to carry on, and live 9 lives in solidation with the form that has chosen you. Or you can choose to live a mortal, human life, and come with me now."
Minerva's jaw dropped. It was not even that bad of a hit, she didn't think, but the landing couldn't have been helpful. She was only just 17, had never been in love, had never seen anything other than Hogwarts and home.
Death raised an eyebrow, or at least, that's the feeling she got from the spectral shape. If Death had a face, an eyebrow was raised.
"You have made your choice. Consider this your first life, Minerva."
Death came to visit Minerva McGonagall again in January, 1919. Minerva believed in fairness, and this found the free spirited, newly graduated witch in muggle Glasgow rioting against rent levels. Curious as to why the muggles were so angry, she had attended several rallies, and found that this cause spoke to her. To this day, Minerva never knew who pushed her into the oncoming lorry, but once again she found herself hovering above her still, beaten body as rioters gathered around, stepping on her linen skirts and screaming,for help or for justice, she isn't sure.
This time, Minerva was expecting him. Just under a year past Death's last visit, she glanced at the shadowy figure, wondering if it had any words for her.
"Curiosity is a deadly force, Minerva McGonagall. We will call this number 2".
Death came for Minerva McGonagall a third time.
She had been teaching at Hogwarts for several years, and was finally moving forward with her life. She had accepted a proposal of marriage from a man who would make her happy and safe, but bring her no children, or so she thought.
One night, Minerva woke to find herself hovering above the soft feather bed she slept in with Elphinstone, confused and sleepy. Not prepared, she jumped and if she had been in her feline form, her tail would have raised and she would have hissed at Death as it appeared beside her.
"What are you doing here? What's happening? I don't understand, I'm asleep?"
"Minerva McGonagall, we will call this number 3."
"No! Wait!" She called, confused and scared. She had went to sleep with a small pain in her stomach but dismissed it as nothing that a little ginger tea couldn't fix. "You have to explain, I am fine! I haven't died!"
"The child you carry is dying, and is taking your life force with it. I came for the child, to spare you." Death said, unfeeling.
Suddenly, as though she blinked and the scene changed, she saw the small, impossibly tiny bundle in Death's arms. Her heart felt as though it was being crushed by the lorry at the riot again. Tears welled in her eyes, and she looked at Death.
"I did not think I could have children. I am old, too old to carry. Are you sure that it's gone? I would love a child and care for it. Please, don't do this. Let me raise this child."
"No. Number 3, Minerva McGonagall."
Death came for Minerva McGonagall a fourth time. This time, for the first time, Minerva wished she had turned down Death's offer in her seventh year. This time, she wished she truly was dead. Elphinstone, her lovely, kind, humorous husband, was dead. Dougal, his wife, and their grandchildren had been killed by Death Eaters. And the wizarding world she knew and loved was at war. The familiar scene, Minerva hovering above a lifeless body, with Death opposing her, did not surprise her. But for the first time, Minerva spoke before Death.
"Do not send me back to a world that is empty of all the things I love. Childless, my husband dead, the world at war. Children dying. Innocents dying. Take me with you. I cannot do this anymore!" Minerva spoke in a whisper, watching the wind ruffle the whiskers of her feline form on the ground below. Her voice was ragged, broken. The man she loved as a teen was dead, her husband was dead. Everyone was leaving her and "I am CURSED TO STAY!" she screamed. Death did not flinch. Her breathing was fast and ragged, and she slowly looked up at Death, tears rolling down her cheeks.
"We will call this number 4, Minerva McGonagall."
Death came for Minerva McGonagall a fifth time.
Minerva was furious. 4 stunners! To the back! What a fool, a complete and utter waste of a witch, a low, underhanded thing to do. She was not surprised, however. Umbridge was a foul, loathsome, ugly, feindish little toad and Merlín willing Minerva would have her revenge!
If Death had a face, it would have been smirking at the pure fury emanating from Minerva. If Minerva was in her feline form, her tail would have been lashing, hackles raised and claws extended.
"Satisfaction is often overlooked. We will call this number 5, Minerva McGonagall."
If there had been more time, perhaps Death and Minerva would have conspired over a plot to bring revenge to that wicked excuse for a witch.
Death came for Minerva McGonagall a sixth time.
Covered in dust, and blood, with singed robes and her normally severe French twist in complete disarray, Minerva was pacing impatiently above her bruised and broken form on the flagstone floors of the 4th floor corridor. Spell light, screams, echoing bangs and guttural war cries echoed around her. She was nervous. What if she had miscounted? What if this was it? Death was normally waiting for her, or that's how it seemed. She blinked, and gasped, a spectral hand covering her mouth. Death had arrived, but he was not alone. He was surrounded by faces that she knew, and recognized. Before Death could get a word out, a cry broke out behind him.
"Minnie McG! Not you too!"
Remus Lupin. Nymphadora Tonks. One of the Weasley Twins. Lavender Brown. They all looked so scared, so proud, so fierce. Her brave little lions, and one fierce little Hufflepuff.
Death looked at her.
"Shall we call this number 6?"
Minerva could feel the ghostly stares of the students she had lost that night looking at her as realization dawned. She straightened her shoulders, and made eye contact with one special little boy, one who came to Hogwarts and made friends worthy of legend. She nodded, and felt, more than heard, the rallying cry of dozens of children forced to fight a war, too young to be lost but so proud to be remembered, a fierce, strong war cry behind her as she rejoined the Battle of Hogwarts.
Death came for Minerva a seventh time.
Contrary to popular belief, cats don't completely loathe water. Or at least, Minerva McGonagall didn't. She quite enjoyed a bath after a night of grading papers, or a swim in a cool stream on a hot summer day. Disillusioned, of course. However, one thing that all cats hate, including Minerva McGonagall, is getting wet unexpectedly. Which is why it was so shocking to fall off the bridge into the River Thames. Which is why she wasn't expecting the current to be that strong. Which is why, she found herself floating above the bank while her lifeless, blue, wet body bobbed against a rock.
"Seriously?" she asked aloud, not expecting a response, "this is so cliché."
A deep chuckle echoed behind her, and she turned. Death stared at her, and she could sense the smirk on Death's nonexistent face.
"Careful of heights, especially when you don't have a tail. We will call this number 7, Minerva McGonagall."
Death came for Minerva McGonagall an eight time.
A quidditch game that got a little out of hand at the Burrow, with Weasleys, Potters, a Lupin, and strangely enough, Malfoys everywhere. A sudden rainstorm, hail, a little thunder and lightning, and there she was. Again. Hovering over her bruised, battered, aging body on a quidditch pitch. Except this time, she was surrounded by love. A boy with Potter hair and brilliant green eyes was knelt at her side, taking her pulse like the muggle raised child he still was inside. A bushy haired, knowledge thirsty, driven woman was beside him, hand on his shoulder. Many, many redheads were there as well, hands linked and concerned faces waiting for her to blink.
Minerva sighed, peaceful. She didn't turn to the side, or look up from the scene of love below her. She knew Death was waiting for her acknowledgment, but she wanted to drink in the love and family for just a moment longer.
"What greater gift, than the love of a cat? We will call this number 8, Minerva McGonagall."
Death came for Minerva McGonagall, as it came for her husband. Death came for Minerva McGonagall, as it came for her first love, her comrades in one war, then a second. It came for her as it came for her headmaster and friend, the price of his ambition, then repentance. It came for bright students, dim students, students that left legacies and students that left children. Death came for Minerva McGonagall as it came for so many children that she loved, so many friends that she cherished, and so many enemies that she respected.
Death came for Minerva McGonagall a ninth time, and like so many before, she was held above her aging, wrinkled, worn body. She felt something brush her spectral leg, and looked down to see a pearly, solid feline that resembled her Patronus, but she knew-deep down-that it was not. She glanced down at her mortal body once more, seeing the age fade to the youthful beauty, and back again. Looking up, as she had so eight previous times, she locked eyes with Death. If Death had eyes, that is. A small, peaceful smile graced her face, and she reached out a hand, allowing Death to lead her and her feline counterpart away, not looking back to a life lived well nine times over.