Chapter Two

29 April 1944

The following weekend, Minerva found herself in her bedroom in Moray listening to her mother attempting to explain sex to her.

After several excruciating minutes, Minerva couldn't take any more. She interrupted Glenna's discourse on "the joys and sorrows of the wedding night", saying, "Mother, if you're trying to tell me that it's going to hurt the first time, it's all right. I know."

"Oh. Well . . . there it is, then."

"Quite." Minerva managed a weak smile at her mother. She was doing her best, Minerva knew, but Glenna McGonagall had what her daughter considered to be an untidy mind and what devotees of Muggle literature would have recognised as a Victorian sensibility about certain matters.

Suddenly, Glenna exclaimed, "Minerva, you don't mean you . . . you've . . . you've not . . . spoilt yourself?"

"No, Mother. Don't worry. It's just that, well . . . the other girls, they talk. And some of them have . . . you know . . ."

Glenna sniffed. She had not been terribly enthusiastic about sending her daughter back to school after her O.W.L.s–Hogwarts was altogether full of the wrong sort, she had argued...but Magnus had insisted, to Minerva's profound relief.

"Well, is there anything else you'd like to ask? That the other girls have not expounded upon . . ." Glenna asked.

"No, Mother. But thank you."

Actually, there was quite a bit Minerva would have liked to ask, but her mother was not her first choice of informant on the matter. In point of fact, her first choice of informant on many forbidden topics was Tom Riddle. He was one of the few students Minerva could have a real conversation with, and he was a veritable fount of information on select subjects extraneous to the Hogwarts curriculum. But of course, Minerva wasn't about to ask a boy anything about sex...even if she did have the suspicion that Tom Riddle would be as informative on that subject as on anything else...and anyway, he had become rather distant after the Chamber of Secrets affair the previous year.

When she thought about sex...specifically about having sex with Gerald...she felt a bit dizzy. He was attractive enough, she supposed, but she couldn't imagine herself lying beneath him while he puffed and sweated over her. She felt desire in the abstract way of many adolescents, but only recently had she considered the notion of thinking about a specific person when she touched herself. However, there was no one who ignited her fantasies or desires. And Gerald . . . well, she just didn't know him, and what she did know wasn't exactly arousing.

She thought she might have time to remedy that. She was to spend every weekend at home, preparing for her wedding and getting acquainted with her bridegroom-to-be (under the eye of her mother or father, of course) and, more importantly to Minerva, revising for her upcoming N.E.W.T.s. It was slightly surreal, she thought, to go from reading about the special considerations in trans-elemental Transfiguration one moment to listening to her mother drone on about Goblin silver patterns the next. She kept finding herself musing on how she might go about changing an asparagus fork into a goblet of Firewhisky and back again without spilling any of the liquor.

As it turned out, her meetings with Gerald Macnair did little to ignite Minerva's passions. Just as she had feared, he was dull as dishwater and could talk of little but his winged horses and gossip about the people he knew, most of whom she didn't. The few deeper conversations they had when they were left more or less to their own devices in the parlour or the library of the McGonagall home...no doubt to encourage the young people to "get acquainted" in the form of a bit of the traditional snogging and petting that could be interrupted should it grow too serious...didn't reassure Minerva of the wisdom of her decision to marry him.

Gerald had sheepishly confessed that he had not, at first, wanted to marry her. It was his father's idea, he said, and when his father decided something . . . well, it was decided. Gerald said he was happy it turned out that Minerva was the girl his father had settled on; she was, as he put it, "nice to look at" and "sweet-natured" to go with it. Minerva suppressed a snort at this assessment of her charms.

That was all well and good, but over the days and weeks, Gerald revealed more about his family than Minerva wanted to know. Kenneth Macnair, it turned out, was more than just a supporter of Gellert Grindelwald. Much more. He was, quite simply, a sadist, and probably mad to boot. Gerald matter-of-factly described beatings and punishments that made Minerva's flesh seem to shrink on her frame. The context of these discussions was Gerald's insistence that he didn't hold with his father's methods and intended to "do things differently" with his own family, a statement at which Minerva gave a deep sigh of relief. Still, it was troubling to Minerva that Gerald seemed to accept his father's brutality as a matter of course, even if he didn't intend to perpetrate it himself.

And there was more. Gerald's uncle, he confessed sotto voce, was in Azkaban...quietly tucked away there without a trial, thanks to the greasing of many a Ministry palm...for crimes Gerald only hinted at, and at which Minerva could only shudder to guess. And Gerald's grandfather had been killed by two of the volunteer Dark-wizard-eradication brigade that had predated the organisation of the official Auror department. Gerald didn't elaborate on why; he only said that it had been "a blessing to everyone" that the man had died at the age of forty-seven.

Minerva was slowly piecing together a horrifying portrait of madness that ran through the Macnair family like a cancer. It didn't seem to strike everyone in the family...Gerald's aunt and his older cousins seemed to be relatively upstanding members of society...but the presence of three demonstrated sadists on his recent family tree kept Minerva awake nights. Even if Gerald turned out to be all right...and he seemed sane enough at the moment...what of his children?

The more Minerva thought about it, the more certain she became that she did not want to bring more Macnairs into the world.

2 June 1944

"Time! Quills down, please."

Minerva gave a sigh of happy relief as she laid her quill neatly at the side of her desk. She thought she had acquitted herself fairly well in all her N.E.W.T.s. In any event, she was quite certain she had garnered an "Outstanding" in the one exam that really counted for her. At the end of her Transfiguration practical, Madam Marchbanks had smiled and said, "I'll look forward to seeing you in July, Miss McGonagall." Minerva rightly took this to mean that she had earned the top marks Marchbanks required of a potential apprentice.

Which left her free to focus on her next problem.

In two weeks, she would be Madam Minerva Macnair.

As she walked down the Transfiguration corridor, she went over again in her mind what she intended to say when she got to Professor Dumbledore's office. He would agree; he had to agree. And he had to do it in the next few days, or all would be for nought.

Minerva screwed her courage to the sticking place and knocked.

"Enter," he called as the door creaked open. "Ah, Minerva! I thought I might see you today. Finished with your exams, are you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, that calls for a bit of celebration, don't you think?"

"If you say so, sir . . ."

"Oh, I do, I do. What would you say to a small glass of champagne in my quarters?"

"I would say that sounds lovely."

They adjourned to his sitting room, and Albus Summoned a bottle of Salon 1937, which uncorked and poured itself into the two glasses that materialised, hovering just in front of the two celebrants.

"To the no-doubt successful completion of your N.E.W.T.s," he said, raising his glass.

They both took a sip, and Minerva said, "This is really lovely, Professor. We haven't had champagne at home since the Muggle war began."

"I've had this squirreled away for a special occasion," he replied.

"And you've chosen to waste it on a student?"

"I assure you, Minerva, it is not wasted. And you aren't just any student, you know. You are very special."

She felt the heat rise to stain her cheeks.

"Besides, my dear, the end of your school year also marks another important stage in your life."

"You mean my marriage."

"Actually, I was referring to your apprenticeship with Griselda. Oh, yes . . . she came to see me after your exam to let me know you had performed as brilliantly as we all knew you would."

Minerva gave him the first truly wide smile he'd seen from her in months. It faded all too quickly.

"Professor, when you said I could come to you for anything, did you mean it?"

"Yes, of course."

She hesitated, and he prodded her.

"Is there something on your mind, Minerva? Something I might be able to help you with?"

"There is. But it's hard to tell you."

"Well, perhaps another sip of this miraculous elixir, and we can have a seat, then maybe you can tell me, hmm?"

She nodded.

They sipped and sat for a few minutes before she gathered her courage. "Professor, would you consider going to bed with me?"

Her nerves turned to dismay when he choked on his champagne for a few moments. When he caught his breath again, he said hoarsely, "Minerva, I'm not sure I've apprehended you correctly. I..."

"I asked if you would consider going to bed with me. Having relations with me, I mean. Sexual relations. Because I would very much appreciate it if you would consider it." It had come out in a bit of a jumble, and much too quickly, but he certainly understood her meaning this time.

However, he said, "I'm still not sure I understand." When she opened her mouth, he put a hand up and said, "I believe I understand the request; what I do not understand is why you are making it."

"Because I would rather not have my first experience be with Gerald Macnair."

Her professor didn't say anything for a few seconds. He just peered at her with an odd expression on his face.

"He will be your husband. You will be expected to have relations with him, Minerva."

"I'm aware of that. But we've already established that I don't love him. The fact of the matter is that neither do I find him attractive in that way. Maybe it's a foolish notion, but I had rather hoped that the first time I was with a man, it would be someone I actually liked and found . . . desirable."

"Minerva, I am your professor. And I am more than three times your age."

"Yes, but you're kind, and I know you, and I know you care about me . . . and you are attractive to me . . . physically. Probably because of those other things."

"That's most flattering, my dear, but I..."

"And you wouldn't hurt me."

Neither of them spoke for a few moments, then he asked, "Are you afraid Macnair will be rough with you?"

"I don't think he will try to hurt me, if that's what you mean," she answered. "But I doubt he'll be at pains to be gentle."

She felt a prick of guilt at this small falsehood; Gerald might be self-absorbed and dull, but she doubted he'd be completely insensitive to her physical pain on their wedding night. However, appealing to Dumbledore's sense of masculine honour and his protectiveness was, she thought, the swiftest way to victory in this.

Her feelings of guilt increased as she watched him struggle with this information and what to do with it. But she consciously set aside her feelings and concentrated on maintaining her air of calm.

"I just would rather not have to worry about that aspect of things," she continued. "I can bear whatever I must during the marriage, but it would be very nice to have some control over this one thing. To have it be my choice."

"I see," was his only comment.

"Of course, Professor, I'll understand if you don't want to. It's awkward, I realise, and I know I'm not the prettiest witch at Hogwarts . . ."

He shook his head, saying, "Please, Minerva. You know it has nothing to do with your attractiveness. You are a lovely young woman, and any man would have to be blind not to find you so . . ."

"Or if there's a physical reason you can't . . . you prefer not to . . . I understand . . ."

He surprised her by laughing suddenly. "Well, you certainly know which strings to pull to get what you want, I'll give you that. You were doing quite well until you impugned my manhood. That was a bit ham-fisted."

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean..."

"It's all right, Minerva. No offence taken . . . either at your implication or your methodology," he said. "But your other reasons for making your request...were those genuine?"

"Yes, sir, "she answered. "I really would prefer to be with you than with Gerald my first time. It's that simple. If you don't want to, I will understand, but if you do, I'd have one more reason to be exceedingly grateful to you."

"You say that now, but you may think differently afterwards," he said softly. "It has been many years since I've been with a witch. And while I recall the basic procedure, I'm somewhat out of practice with the subtleties. You might find me a disappointment."

Her surprise dumbfounded her for a moment. "You mean you'll do it?" she asked finally.

"If it is what you truly wish."

"Yes, I do."

"Very well. Did you have a particular timeframe in mind?"

"Um . . . the sooner the better, I should think. Tomorrow?" she asked hopefully. Right now would be fine with her...she was a girl who liked to get difficult things over with...but she had a potion to take, and it needed time to work.

"Tomorrow, then. Why don't you come to my office after dinner. Then we can adjourn to my private quarters. All right?"

"Yes, fine, thank you, sir." She hesitated a moment, then asked, "Is there anything you'd like me to do? I mean, should I wear something special?"

She saw the smile he suppressed as he said, "No, my dear. As you are will be just fine. Except . . . leave your school robes behind, if you would."

"Of course."

"And I needn't mention, of course, that you can tell no one about this."

"No, of course not. Besides, I've no one to tell," she said.

He looked at her for a few moments, then said, "Until tomorrow, then."

"Yes, Professor. Thank you, sir."

As soon as she got back to her dormitory, which was blessedly empty...all the others were out, presumably celebrating the end of N.E.W.T.s...Minerva retrieved the phial she had hidden in her trunk. She hurried down to the dungeons and gave the password to the Potions classroom. It was lucky, she thought, that Professor Slughorn was too lazy to supervise private brewing hours for his N.E.W.T. students. He just gave them the password to the classroom and storeroom and let them come and go as they pleased.

Even so, Minerva hadn't used the classroom to brew this particular potion. She didn't want anyone to see the book she was using and make inconvenient enquiries.

She slipped into the storeroom and searched among the untidy stacks of boxes and jars until she found the final ingredient she needed for her potion.

The girls' lavatory on the second floor was deserted, as it had been since the terrible events of the previous June. Minerva slipped in and conjured a small fire.

"Hello, Minerva."

Almost deserted.

"Hello, Myrtle. How have you been keeping?" Minerva didn't particularly want to engage the ghost in conversation, but previous visits had taught her that it was just as well to keep Myrtle happy. Or as happy as Myrtle ever was, at any rate.

"Dreadfully, thank you. Nobody ever comes to see me," Myrtle sniffed. "Except you. You always were one of the only people who was nice to me, Minerva."

Minerva didn't think she had ever been especially "nice" to the living Myrtle, but given the viciousness with which many of the other students had treated the admittedly annoying Ravenclaw, Minerva supposed indifference might have seemed pleasant enough by comparison.

"I'm sorry people were unkind to you," said Minerva.

"They're sorry now, though," Myrtle said, giggling. "Last week, I gave Olive such a fright that she ran out of the girls' dormitory wearing only her knickers."

"I'm sure Olive regrets the way she treated you," said Minerva.

"I'd never do anything like that to you, though, Minerva," said Myrtle earnestly.

"I'm glad to hear it, Myrtle," Minerva said, crossing to a cabinet and withdrawing a small rack and beaker she had stored there.

"What are you working on? The same thing as the other times?" asked Myrtle, floating over to hover above where Minerva was crouched over her flames.

"Yes. It's just a potion."

"Why aren't you in the Potions lab, then?" asked Myrtle with a knowing smirk. "Is it something forbidden?"

"No, not forbidden, exactly. Just something . . . personal." Minerva was beginning to worry that Myrtle might tell someone about her clandestine visits to the second-floor bathroom and what she had been doing there for the past several nights.

She decided to try to enlist Myrtle as an ally. If the lonely ghost felt she was part of the secret, she would be unlikely to reveal it to anyone.

"Would you like to help me, Myrtle?" Minerva asked.

"Depends. Will you tell me what it is?"

"Of course. But it will have to be our secret. Just between us friends."

Myrtle's grey eyes seemed almost to sparkle at that.

"Between us friends, yes."

"Well, it's sort of like a love potion," Minerva lied. "But not one of the ones from the regular books. It's from the Restricted Section," she added conspiratorially. "It's supposed to be stronger than the regular ones."

"Ooooh, Minerva," squealed Myrtle, "who do you want to give it to?"

"Um . . . Tom Riddle," said Minerva, giving the first name that came into her head.

"Oh, he's dreamy," said Myrtle. "I wish . . . oh, well," she sighed.

Minerva almost felt sorry for Myrtle. She would be caught in an eternal state of stasis, never growing, never changing. Ghostly Myrtle would never have the chance to fall in love, experience being loved in return . . .

Like me, thought Minerva fleetingly, but threw off the feeling. It was of no use to her.

"Will you be my lookout? Make sure nobody comes in?" Minerva asked.

"All right," Myrtle replied and floated over toward the door. "I'll let you know if I see anyone. I can scare them and chase them away for you," she added happily.

"That would be very helpful, thank you, Myrtle."

Minerva opened the moth-eaten copy of Moste Potente Potions to the page she wanted and unstoppered the phial, adding the nearly finished potion to the beaker, which she placed over the low flames. Peering at the instructions for a moment, she next took a small silver spoon from her pocket and made three clockwise stirs. She then took the small envelope of chasteberry extract she had taken from Professor Slughorn's stores and added it in four tiny pinches. Following the instructions, Minerva waited until the potion had taken on a purplish hue and stirred it clockwise the seventeen prescribed rotations. She then performed a Tempus Charm, setting the ethereal timer for seven minutes. When the time had elapsed, Minerva gave the potion three more clockwise stirs, then put out the flames.

She waited a few minutes for the potion to cool and stabilise, then used her wand to carefully siphon the liquid back into the phial. She stoppered it and Vanished the remaining equipment.

"All done!" she called to Myrtle, who floated back over to inspect her newfound friend's work.

"Is it supposed to be that colour?" said Myrtle, wrinkling her misty nose.

"Yes, I think so."

"Oh. Well, that's all right then."

"Thank you for your help, Myrtle," said Minerva, slipping the phial in her pocket.

"That's what friends are for." Myrtle was actually smiling.

Just as Minerva was about to open the door to leave, Myrtle called to her, "Minerva?"

"Yes, Myrtle?" she said, turning.

"Will you come visit me again?"

"Of course," said Minerva, intending to keep that promise. "But you know I'm leaving soon."

"Oh, right," said the ghost sadly.

"I'm not sure when I'll have the chance to visit Hogwarts again," said Minerva. "But when I do, I'll make sure to stop in to see you."

"I'll be here," Myrtle replied.

Yes, I know.

As soon as the bathroom door had closed behind Minerva, she gave a furtive look down the corridor. Seeing nobody, she took the phial from her pocket, unstoppered it, and downed the vile liquid in a single gulp.

That's that, then.

Please, sweet Nimue, let this work, she thought, placing her palms against her lower abdomen.

Please.