[MINERVA MCGONAGALL]
Albus finally releases the young lady from his spell. As he is quite the accomplished Legilimens, Minerva McGonagall did not envy the girl one bit.
Unease continues to dominate her emotions. If what this woman says is true, they are doing her a great disservice by separating her from her timeline. 'From her family,' her conscience whispers to her, unbidden.
Mister Potter needs us to do all we can. Surely this girl will understand. We cannot allow the children to lose this war.
But her gut continues to churn while her moral code scrambles for secure footing.
The poor girl looks more disheveled than ever. Her long, wild, pale blonde locks hang in disarray from her coif, dust and grime coats her hands and knees from her time on the floor. She staggers backward, away from Alastor and Albus, her breathing more like gasping, and her head and gaze is pointed resolutely at the floor – so do avoid having her mind delved into once more.
But it's her bright green eyes which capture Minerva's attention. They dart up to Dumbledore with a fury that McGonagall had never before seen directed at Albus from anyone less than a Death Eater. Her unease triples as it becomes compounded with guilt and sadness at what this war has made of them.
Albus Dumbledore just performed magic on a muggle.
As if reaching the same conclusion, Kingsley begins to splutter in his low baritone, "Albus, what on earth-!"
But the young muggle was not going to wait her turn. With fury radiating from her very being she shouts at Albus, "HOW DARE YOU? YOU…YOU…"
Albus holds his ground, and says in a firm tone which brooks no argument, "I did what needed to be done." His gaze is piercing. It was a wonder the girl did not flinch away, "You were hiding your abilities from us, and as you have been chosen to turn the tide of the wizarding war, I cannot abide your childish sense of pride any longer."
The muggle girl seems to find her second wind, "WHAT I DO AND DON'T SHARE IS NONE OF YOUR GODDAMN BUSINESS. YOU HAD NO FUCKING RIGHT-"
"I HAVE EVERY RIGHT," Albus Dumbledore booms, shaking Minerva down to her core. She feels herself cower slightly closer to the edge of the fireplace while Kingsley and Moody take instinctive steps backward from the pair of furious figures. The air of the basement bedroom at the Order of Phoenix headquarters now feels thin and charged with animosity.
But Albus is not finished, "YOU HAVE A GIFT, AND YOU HAVE BEEN DELIVERED TO OUR DOORSTEP TO ASSIST IN THE WAR EFFORTS WHICH WILL SAVE MANKIND, WIZARD AND MUGGLE ALIKE. HOW DARE YOU SHY AWAY FROM YOUR RESPONSIBILITY?"
Minerva stifles a gasp. She had not realized just how desperate their side's circumstances have become, if Albus was allowing his frustrations, fears, and temper to dominate his judgement in regards to this lone muggle girl. His resolve is fierce to behold, and while his methods are making her fearful in this moment, she is still yet thankful that he's on their side. Minerva McGonagall will stand with Albus Dumbledore until her last breath, and if he truly believes that this is the tact to be taken in this moment, she will not interfere.
I will not interfere, but what has become of us?
She closes her eyes, for just a moment, sadly.
Kingsley Shacklebolt is not so quick to agree, however. He angrily rounds Moody to get close to Albus again, facing him while Dumbledore continues to square off with the girl.
His words are harsh, but almost pleading, "Albus, no. This is not us. We do not draft unwilling soldiers. To do so would make us no better than the Death Eaters, and if we are no better than they, what are we even fighting for?"
Moody looks pensive from his spot a few paces behind them, and with both eyes fixed on the girl, he asks, "What abilities, exactly?"
Albus's eyes glaze over just slightly as he turns his mind back to what he had seen in the girl's memories. With a deceivingly calm voice, he explains, "She is a product of her world's science. Experimented on and tortured, she is the first surviving test subject for a military biological tool which not only cured her of her family's fatal ailments, but turned her into something much more powerful than the average human – powerful in agility and ability, but not in magic."
Silence falls. Minerva directs her gaze back to the girl, surprised that she has managed to stall her foul mouth for this long. Her heart breaks just a tad at the sight of her: eyes downcast, fists clenched in her jumper sleeves, her body held rigid in a defiant sort of defeat.
Moody continues to consider her as a general would a potential new recruit, "Tha' is interesting. Could be a spot valuable as well. She'd be able to wander unnoticed as a muggle, all the while equipped with wha' you describe…could be dead useful."
The girl finally speaks. Her voice is soft, but numb-sounding, "You're not the first to think so."
It is as if ice were injected into Minerva's veins. The girl's eyes are dead as she lifts her head and regards them all in turn.
"They did everything they did to me without my permission save for the first injection. All the tests, all of the pain, it was to collect data on a subject that was no better than a prisoner. You're asking me-," she stops, and her face twists into a sneer, "No, I'm sorry, you're fucking telling me, to help you save your families for the sake of my own, but I won't do it. They are all I have left and if you think you can just tear me away from them you'll have to fucking kill me before I'd help you."
No words follow this pronouncement, and despite his earlier anger, even Albus keeps his silence. Even so, he is scrutinizing the young lady closely.
As though as an afterthought, the girl adds, "Assholes."
Minerva barely holds back the sudden urge for the ends of her mouth to tip upward. This girl has got to be one of the most reckless, courageous people she has ever met. Wizard or not.
She would be in my house.
The thought comes almost proudly.
Kingsley looks ready to argue with Dumbledore again, but Albus beats him to it. Striding forward, he stands nose-to-nose with the dusty muggle girl (or, in this case, nose-to-chest). The young lady does not move back or flinch, but meets his eyes with a defiant fierceness which backs up her previous words.
Deliberately, Albus holds her gaze and gently takes her forearm in his long-fingered hand. Minerva had not before noticed that the sleeve of the girl's green jumper was mangled, or that the skin of her arm beneath it was torn and bleeding from her acquaintance with Fawkes the phoenix.
Dumbledore raises his wand in his other hand and begins to quietly sing a healing spell, which at once knits the shredded skin back together. When it is clear that she isn't going to lash out or run, he drops the newly healed arm, and slowly lifts his hand to grasp the girl's chin softly between his thumb and forefinger.
"I believe we can come to an agreement, my dear."
[FINNIE]
I look into the Headmaster's oddly mesmerizing blue eyes for only one more millisecond before my brain's question bubbles off my lips.
"A what?"
Dumbledore smirks. The suffocating tension of the room seems to dissipate slightly, and everyone relaxes their knickers just a smidge.
You're so intelligent and intimidating. It's no wonder they're fucking ignoring every goddamn thing you say.
But rather than immediately respond, Dumbledore simply removes himself a step or two from my personal bubble, then says in an almost businesslike tone, "Let us sit, shall we? Minerva, if you would please acquire a tea service? I'm afraid our hospitality has been severely lacking." At this, he conjures two very plush, red and white striped armchairs, with blue and red paisley pillows stuffed into their corners. Between the chairs he draws up (literally, as in, with his wand draws) a basic, square cherry-wood table.
My brain blanks in blatant rejection at this demonstration of magic, but I take a deep breath to steel myself and get over it. Dumbledore has seated himself comfortably in one of the plush armchairs, and is gazing at me expectantly while gesturing to the second.
Does this mean he's going to stop tearing me a new asshole?
Seeing no alternative course of action outside of continued combativeness – and I'll be honest, that shit is getting old – I proceed to walk over and lower myself onto the holy-shit-comfy-chair.
My eyes have grown accustomed to the firelight-lit room at this point, and it occurs to me that there are no windows. Before I can ruminate on this much longer, McGonagall finally leaves her post against the wall and makes short work of arriving at my elbow. With several quick flicks of the wand in her hand, she transfigures a very basic white china tea set onto the cherry table, equipped with a steaming teapot, five cups and their saucers, and an assortment of cookies.
I fight through the brain-rejection of magic yet again, and sit quietly while she and Dumbledore begin making themselves each a cup of tea. As an afterthought, McGonagall conjures a small stool made of the same cherry wood as the table, so that she may perch and sit with us. As Dumbledore begins to load his small plate with several oatmeal cookies, she looks imploringly at me and asks, "How do you take it, dear?"
Un-fucking-real. Wanting to roll with the punches, I look at her squarely and say, "Uh, just plain, please." She nods, pours a quick dose of hot tea into a cup, and hands it to me with an efficient nod.
She glances up briefly at Moody and Shacklebolt, but they both give almost imperceptible shakes of their heads and stay standing on either side of the back of Dumbledore's chair. I suddenly feel grateful that she chose to sit close to me, for I feel just a touch less outnumbered, even if it's an illusion.
Everyone stays quiet as we enjoy the break in festivities. I take one sip, then another.
Fuck tea.
"Would you care for a biscuit," McGonagall asks me, gesturing to the tray. I don't recognize a single cookie on there, and there are definitely zero oreos. I shake my head, "No, thank you."
A solid two minutes goes by. I can feel the ants in my pants begin to make themselves known. Shacklebolt and Moody haven't taken their eyes off of me, like I might flip the table and make a run for it.
Rather than allow this to go much further, I set my cup down on its saucer and look into Dumbledore's face. I find that he, too, has been gazing at me. So with that in mind, I venture forth.
"What did you mean by an agreement?"
Dumbledore nods, as if I've made an excellent point. But explains himself after a quick swallow of tea, "I realize now, child, that in all this discussion of your supporting us, we have not at all allowed for the possibility of a quid pro quo – I believe it's called." His eyes narrow slightly, and I see the ghost of the bat shit angry wizard he was ten minutes ago, "Naturally, I did not anticipate receiving someone so reluctant to be of assistance."
I do not find this to be a fair statement. They completely tore me away, did not fucking ask, and are not exactly offering to send me back to where I belong. I open my mouth haughtily to tell him so, but he anticipates this and interrupts.
"Of course, of course, I understand you feel that our method has been a rather grave injustice to you and the family we would be making you leave behind. We have been rather short-minded in that regard, you would be correct."
Well. That ALMOST captures the level of fucked we're at.
The rest of the room's occupants seem just as anxious to understand where this is going, what the bottom line is. And not one to disappoint, Dumbledore continues, "I would like to, if I may, make a promise to you in exchange for your complete and total service to our cause." My curiosity is piqued, and he leans forward to accent the gravity of his offer, "I would like to promise you that I will do everything in my considerable power to restore your ailing family members to full health, should you agree to stay here, and do everything in your power, to win the war against Voldemort and his Death Eaters."
I barely notice that next to me, McGonagall has relaxed so much she's practically slumped on her stool, and Kingsley has issued a great sigh behind Dumbledore – as though in relief.
Holy fuck. Holy shit.
Is what he saying even possible?
"Can you do that?" I blurt out, not even bothering to keep my tone relaxed or even. This is huge, "Can you really cure them?"
He regards me calmly still, his blue eyes focused and determined. Determined, I realize, to keep me here willingly. "Based on what I witnessed within your memories, yes I believe I can," he says with a soft confidence, "It may take a moment to research the exact context of their diseases, but with that knowledge I am practically sure that I can make them healthy and whole."
I feel weak, and I realize with a start that thank fuck I'm sitting. My eyes are round in my head as I stare at him. "Holy shit," I say on a whisper.
Mad-Eye Moody takes this moment to clump around to my side of the table and stands facing me, looking down with a hard expression that I'm not getting. "Don't misunderstand him, girl," he growls, "This is no boon. You're ours until we say otherwise if you agree."
Ah, yes.
Kingsley makes a small noise of protest, but Dumbledore raises a hand before he can speak.
Lowering the hand, Dumbledore relaxes with his fingers steepled in front of his face, but there is a coldness, an inflexible threat, to the way he is regarding me now. "He's quite right, child," the Headmaster says quietly, "There will be no negotiating after this. If I agree to heal them, you will stay and fight. You will put your life on the line as every single other member of the Order does, and you will not rest until Voldemort is finished."
The warmth that had before pooled in my chest begins to creep across my breastbone as icy fingers of dread instead. I drop my gaze down to my hands hidden in their sleeves in order to consider what it is I'm hearing.
Still a fucking prisoner. Always a fucking prisoner. Used for the talented, murderous creature living in me, but never again to have a life of my own, of my choosing.
But wouldn't it be worth it? For them?
My brothers, mother, father, and extended family emerge in my mind's eye. A strange hodge-podge of mixed colors and faces, all-American mutts with their heritage, but loving and complete in each other. Unbidden, the hot sting of tears hit the backs of my eyes. Would they resent me for leaving them now? Would they hate these people for making me choose? But also, wouldn't they understand? Wouldn't they make the same choice if given the opportunity?
Yes.
That is the answer. Yes they would. They would be so unbelievably pissed at me, at Dumbledore, but they would understand. They may resent me for leaving, but they'd know that they too wouldn't have hesitated.
Bile surges up into my throat before I can stop it, and a horrible, selfish part of me screams, 'If you say no, at least you'll be there for them when they die. That's more than what you'll get, trapped in a world that manipulates you and hates you.'
I beat down the thought forcefully.
Do what's right, Finnie.
Not realizing that the tears have actually fallen from my eyelashes and onto my cheeks, I look up at Dumbledore, and before I can think too much harder, I say, "Yes. Yes, of course. Please help them."
The air around Dumbledore and I goes static yet again, and it feels as though a breeze flows around only the two of us, raising the tips of my disheveled hair, and the tips of his beard. I know then, that the bargain has been struck for real.