Chapter Twenty-Two

24 December 1962

While Albus Dumbledore was discovering the truth about Malcolm Macnair's paternity, Minerva sat in the Hogwarts library trying to learn a bit more about Invisibility. Apollyon Pringle had been kind enough to let her in during Madam Pince's absence, and she sat at a corner table, several books of magical history and theory stacked next to her.

There was precious little information in any of them about invisibility, probably because it was apparently so rare. After paging through six books that barely made mention of it, Minerva had finally found a book outlining what little was known about the phenomenon:

Idiogenic invisibility is defined as the ability to become invisible at will. Other magical methods of self-concealment are well-described...Disillusionment Charms, objects enchanted to conceal the wearer to give the impression of invisibility are the best-known...but an organic method for achieving true invisibility has eluded wizardkind, despite the efforts of a number of noted scientists to develop such spells (see pp. 245-246).

Nevertheless, the magical literature has described several cases of idiogenic invisibility, and these reports range from anecdotal and barely credible to a very few well-documented experiments by subjects reported to have the ability.

The first formally recorded report appeared in Historia Magica Gentis Britannicum (1723) and concerns a wizard from the Lincolnshire region who was reputed to have become invisible during an encounter with a Boggart. Following this incident, the wizard allegedly plagued the county's villages, absconding with sheep and accosting young women, for several weeks in the final decade of the late seventeenth century, until he suddenly Reappeared and was immediately set upon by the villagers, who reportedly beat him to death with sticks and stones.

The wizard's name is lost to us, but the reported location of the anecdote is intriguing.

Three of the four best-documented cases of idiogenic invisibility occurred in a family known to have inhabited the Lincolnshire region for several centuries before the final remaining branch of its direct descendents left to settle in Dorset at the end of the nineteenth century. Members of this family, the Dumbledores, were the first to document their rare talent with any degree of credibility.

The first of these was Alaric Dumbledore (ca. 1702-1789), who meticulously recorded each occurrence of invisibility in a diary that he subsequently published¹. The published version also contains accounts by eyewitnesses who claimed to have both seen Dumbledore become invisible and witnessed the experiments he conducted while in that condition. These accounts describe an ability that was not under the control of its subject, and Dumbledore reported spending weeks in the invisible state before gradually reverting to visible form. Seven separate episodes of invisibility are documented in Dumbledore's diary.

Alaric's great-nephew, Wulfric Dumbledore (1823-1902), was the first to attempt to control the phenomenon, and with his son Talfryn (1845-1914), who shared his father's unusual ability, he reportedly developed methods that eventually allowed the pair to Disappear and Reappear at will. Unfortunately, neither Wulfric nor Talfryn made any formal publication of their work, and what we know of it comes from secondary sources².

The most recent member of the family reported to share what must be deemed the invisibility trait, Oswin Dumbledore (b. 1858), published several accounts of his experiences in the popular press³ and subsequently vanished from the public eye. His last known appearance was in London in 1894. His remaining family claims no knowledge of his current whereabouts or fate. No subsequent occurrence of idiogenic invisibility has been reported among the Dumbledore family, although the two remaining individuals known to possess the trait are distantly related.

Minerva closed the book with a thump, her heart echoing the sound.

So this was why Albus was so certain about what had happened to Malcolm.

He knows now.

The thought reverberated through her as she sat frozen in place, a tide of paralysing dread washing over her.

Of course he knew. How could he not?

Sweet Circe, he knows. He's with Malcolm right now, and he knows.

She forced herself to stand, and without further thought, she flew from the library, her feet carrying her swiftly and almost against her conscious will to the Headmaster's tower. She gave the password, and when the gargoyle opened for her, she didn't wait to be conveyed by the swirling stones of the staircase, but propelled herself upward as if pursued by a banshee. The moment she reached the inner door to his office, she pounded on it with one hand.

A few moments later, it opened, and the look on his face told her all she needed to know.

He said, "I cannot talk to you," and shut the door shut in her face.

She stood shaking, wishing he had hexed her, cursed her, anything . . . anything was better than the coldness in his eyes as he had regarded her. She didn't knock again, but she stood at the door, both hoping and fearing that he would change his mind and admit her to his office and his presence.

When it became clear that no such thing was going to happen, she transformed into her feline form and raced to Gryffindor Tower. Changing back into her human form, she asked the Fat Lady if she had seen Malcolm.

"Yes, Professor. He came back through several minutes ago. Do you wish to enter?"

"No. No, thank you."

Slightly relieved, she headed quickly to her quarters, but once inside, she was at a loss as to what to do next. She wandered aimlessly through the small apartment, moving items from one place to another...a stack of essays from desk to table and back, a book from her bedside to the chair by the fireplace, a photo frame from one side of the mantel to the other...and rubbing off bits of dust that weren't there from things that Elgar had cleaned only that morning.

When the ebony king from whom she was wiping an imaginary bit of grit with her conjured handkerchief stabbed her with his sword, she dropped it with a slight shriek, realising that it was the second time she'd polished her chess pieces in the space of five minutes.

No wonder he was a bit cross, she thought absently, sucking off the blood that had beaded on her thumb and reaching down to grasp the thing carefully by the back of his gorget as he flailed madly at her. He settled as soon as she placed him back in file, but she noted that the pieces with mouths were growling at her softly, and she backed away from the table where the board sat.

Stupid. Stupid, she chastised herself as she blinked back the tears from her eyes.

Where is your Gryffindor courage, Minerva?

She employed her old self-calming trick as she went to her desk, withdrew two pieces of parchment, took up her quill, and began to write. She didn't want to think or to feel as she composed the first letter.

An hour later, when she had finished writing, she had one short piece of parchment and another that measured nearly thirty-six inches in length. She used her wand to dry and fix the ink, and then read over each page methodically, keeping up the carefully-erected shield between thought and feeling whenever it threatened to crack by re-reciting another of the exceptions to Gamp's Law. The almost-forgotten habit served her well.

Which to send?

After thinking for a few moments, she added a few lines to the shorter letter, then rolled and sealed both.

"Elgar!"

A moment later, the elf appeared with a pop.

"Yes, mistress?"

Handing him the rolls of parchment, Minerva said, "Please take these to the Headmaster. I'd like you to see that he gets them, so please hand them to him personally. If he is not . . . in a position to receive them immediately, I'd like you to wait until he is."

Elgar eyed his mistress warily. "Yes, mistress. Is Elgar to wait for a reply?"

"No. Not unless the Headmaster requires it."

The elf took the letters, but instead of Disapparating immediately, he stood looking at Minerva for a few moments.

"Is Mistress Minerva unwell?" he enquired.

"No. I'm . . . I'm fine, Elgar."

"Forgive me, mistress, but you is looking very pale. Elgar is fetching you some Pepperup Potion from the infirmary as soon as the letters is delivered," he said decisively and Disapparated before Minerva could order him not to bother.

When he was gone, Minerva crossed to the window and gazed out across the east courtyard, blanketed by the snow that had been falling steadily since the prior evening. It would be a white Christmas at Hogwarts.

She burst into tears.

A few minutes later, she heard the pop of house-elf Apparition but didn't turn to acknowledge Elgar's presence.

"Does the Headmaster have the letters?" she asked.

"Yes, mistress."

That's that, then.

She felt a warm hand on hers and looked down to see the elf looking back up at her, deep concern etched in his dear, wrinkled face.

"Is there something Elgar can do to soothe Mistress Minerva's pain?" he asked.

"No," she said, barely able to get the words out. "Thank you, Elgar."

"I brought tea. The Pepperup Potion is with it."

"Thank you," she repeated.

Elgar released her hand and snapped his fingers, startling her. He beckoned with his long fingers for Minerva to bend down, and he used the handkerchief he had conjured to wipe the tears from her face. Minerva took it with a nod of thanks and dabbed at her running nose.

Elgar said, "Mistress is to have the tea and eat something. You will be feeling better." He added, "Potion is optional."

Minerva gave him a watery smile. "You're right, of course," she said. "You always are."

The elf smiled back at his mistress and asked, "Elgar would offer to stay with you, but I is thinking Mistress Minerva is preferring to be let alone"

How well he knew her.

"Yes, I'd like to be alone now, please, Elgar. But thank you."

Elgar nodded and said, "Elgar is coming back to check on you later. Almost as an afterthought, he said, "With mistress' permission."

"Of course."

The elf nodded again and Disapparated.

Minerva went to the table and poured herself a cup of tea. She sat poking at the scone Elgar had brought for a moment before standing again and going back to the window, leaving the tea untouched.

She sat in the window seat and pressed her forehead to the cold glass, closing her eyes.

And that's how Alastor found her twenty minutes later.

/***/

Albus was at his desk, once again attempting to finish his conference paper, when there was another knock at the inner door to his office.

He ignored it, and a moment later, it sounded again.

Rising from his desk, he went to the door and called through it, "Please go away, Minerva. Have I not said I don't wish to see you right now?"

A small voice answered, "It is Elgar, Headmaster, sir. I has some letters for you."

"Leave them with the gargoyle."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I is to give them to you directly. If you is not ready to receive them, Elgar is to wait until you is."

Albus sighed. She'd told the elf to wait, and no doubt the creature would sit on the Headmaster's doorstep until he died of thirst unless Albus relieved him of his burden. Albus opened the door and held out his hand.

"I will take the letters. Thank you, Elgar."

The elf handed him two rolls of parchment, bowed his head, and Disapparated again immediately.

Albus carried them to his desk and laid them on the corner, trying to ignore them as he continued to work. After a few moments, he swept them into a drawer and closed it with a bang.

Ninety minutes later, he dried and sealed the ink on his paper, rolling several sheets of parchment and sealing them with his wand. These he placed in a bag on the table near the door to his office, along with several Shrunken books and a set of reports he had gathered earlier in the day.

He considered pouring himself another drink, but then thought the better of it. He took the letters out of the drawer and laid them on his desk, eyeing them as if they were a pair of Ashwinder eggs.

Why two?

He decided to read the shorter letter first. Snatching it up, he broke the seal and unrolled it.

24 December 1961

Dear Headmaster Dumbledore,

Please accept my resignation from my post as Transfiguration mistress and Head of Gryffindor House.

As my contract runs through the end of the spring term, I am prepared to remain in place until that time, but if you wish it, I am willing to terminate the contract effective immediately, or at any time you are able to engage my replacement. I am likewise prepared to vacate my quarters at a time of your choosing; I ask only for a day's notice in order to secure alternate lodgings.

I also ask that you permit my son to remain at Hogwarts through the end of the coming term. If, at the end of that time, you would prefer he transfer to another school, I will make the appropriate arrangements if you would be kind enough to provide an appropriate letter of recommendation for him.

I know that I have no right to beg any further kindness from you, but I must ask, not on my own behalf, but on behalf of one who is blameless: Please do not let my faults colour your behaviour toward Malcolm. He knows nothing of the reason for my loss of your regard, and I should prefer it to remain so. You have been so very good to him, and while I cannot help but imagine your feelings for him are not as they were, I know that you are wise enough and kind enough to conceal from him any animosity you may feel toward either myself or an innocent boy.

I shall, of course, write a more official letter of resignation to the Board of Governors upon your direction.

Regretfully,

Minerva McGonagall

Albus placed the letter back on the desk and took up the second, longer one.

24 December 1961

Dear Albus,

I do not know if you will ever read this letter; I can hardly blame you if you decide to cast it into the fire, but before you do, please know that whatever happens to me from this point on, I shall always be grateful to you for the kindnesses you have shown me. I am terribly, terribly sorry for the wrong I have done you, but I cannot bring myself to regret my actions, at least as they pertain to Malcolm and the circumstances of his birth.

There. Now you may have done with me.

If, perchance, you have determined to read further, I will confess to you all I have done...all that can safely be committed to parchment, that is...and the reasons, holding no hope that you can ever forgive me, but for your own dear sake. You are a man who needs to know things, and I can only imagine that any speculation in which you may engage as to my motives will prove unsatisfactory without confirmation of the truth.

The truth . . . such heavy words.

I have lied for so long. No, not lied. I have concealed the truth for so long that it is nearly impossible for me to determine exactly in what it consists.

This much I know to be true: I didn't think of your feelings when I set out to ensure that you would be the father of my child.

I thought only of the child.

When my father contracted with the late Kenneth Macnair for my marriage, I knew...and I believe he knew...only the superficial facts about that family: They were wealthy; they were politically conservative; they had a few skeletons in their familial closet. I thought at the time...and I must believe that my father thought...that the latter consisted of the source of their wealth (Muggle railroads) and the fact that the uncle of my betrothed was serving a life sentence in Azkaban for violent crimes of an "unspecified" nature. At the time, I could discover no more about Findlach Macnair, as the records were apparently sealed upon his imprisonment.

I subsequently discovered much more about the Macnairs. Gerald and I spent some time together in the weeks prior to our marriage (but after the contract had been signed and sealed), and it was through him that I discovered the true extent of the madness that runs through that family like a cancer.

Gerald himself was not mad; I believe this firmly. But he had been so tainted by the madness of his father that he was utterly unable to comprehend the true horror of his family situation. Had he been mad, I might have persuaded my father to break the contract and damn the consequences, or perhaps I would have found the courage to make my escape, whatever might have subsequently become of me.

As it was, I believed...perhaps with the overconfidence of youth...that I could reap the benefits of the contract for my family while mitigating the drawbacks to myself. I believed that Gerald, with the settlement that would be conferred upon him at our marriage, would secure a home for us, and that I could begin my Transfiguration apprenticeship relatively unfettered.

I also knew that I would be expected to make good on "my part of the bargain," as I put it those years ago. Thus, I faced a dilemma, and it was there, my dearest Albus, that I fell into the great sin of selfishness.

You see, I had already determined, upon learning of the Macnair family curse, to prevent myself from bearing yet another in that unfortunate line of mad, dangerous men.

I had found in the Hogwarts library...and here again, I must confess to having abused your trust in securing under false pretences permission to access the Restricted Section...a book that contained the description of a potion that would ensure I could never become pregnant.

And yet, I could not bring myself to use it just then. I was selfish, Albus. I wanted a child of my own. And I wanted to be left in peace after providing the all-important heir. I believed that once he had a son, Gerald might grow tired enough of me to stop coming to my bed, especially once it became clear that no further offspring would be forthcoming. Had I not produced at least one child, the Macnair family could have voided the contract, and although my father would have been permitted to keep the money he had earned at our betrothal, the remaining terms would have been nullified. And, of course, that would have ended any further prospects of marriage. While the idea of such a fate did not make me entirely unhappy, it would also have put paid to my ambitions to become a mistress of Transfiguration, and thus, my dreams of relative independence.

All I needed was one child...one male child...but I could not take the chance that my child would fall victim to the inheritance that plagues the Macnair men. So I devised my plan.

I can hardly expect you to be flattered by my confession, Albus, but I selected you as the putative father of my child because I loved you. You were the kindest person I knew . . . and the wisest . . . and the most powerful. And I felt that you loved me. Not as a man loves a woman...I was not that deluded...but as a friend and perhaps as a kindred spirit. Amidst all the lies...or rather, half-truths...I told, one thing was absolutely true: I was attracted to you because of those qualities.

And so I had made my plan, and selected my unwitting co-conspirator. I next endeavoured to ensure that that it had the maximum chance of success. From the same book in which I found the potion to ensure I would never have a child, I was able to make one that would greatly enhance the likelihood I would conceive during my next period of fertility.

You know the rest.

Again, I do not expect you to take any pleasure in it, but you should know that I carried in my heart the memory of the brief time we spent together, and it sustained me in the difficult years that followed. The knowledge of what an intimate act between a man and a woman could be made what was more bearable. And it was that, I believe, which made it possible, once my circumstances were so drastically changed, for me to find joy in loving and being beloved of another. It is yet another debt of gratitude I owe you, my benefactor many times over.

And there is Malcolm.

When I despair of all I have done, all the harm I have, however unwillingly, caused, I need only look at him to know I would do it all again.

And that is why I cannot ask, nor ever expect, your forgiveness.

Now you know most of it. Not all...there is more to tell, and I must not hope you will permit me to confess to you that which I do not dare here...but you now possess the truth of what pertains most intimately to yourself.

I do hope, Albus, that having read this will, in some way, bring you peace.

Know that I will ever love and respect you, and that whatever your feelings about me and what I have done, I remain

Your friend,

Minerva

Albus stood with the letter in his hand for some minutes. Most of what she had written, he had already surmised, but she was right: it was a comfort to have confirmation of his suspicions. Her confession ensured that they would not keep him awake at night.

It was also a relief...a great relief...to know that Malcolm knew none of this . . . strange history of how he came to be. Albus wondered suddenly if the boy would find it comforting to know that he was not the product of a long line of murderers; he had to be aware of the Macnair family legacy. But Albus put that thought out of his mind. Perhaps Malcolm would never know the full truth of his heritage.

Unless, of course, the young man took it upon himself to research his new talent and drew the same inferences Minerva had done. If and when that came to pass, he would have to be told . . . something. Perhaps the truth, perhaps part of it, perhaps none.

Albus' head ached with the combination of the day's shocks and the liquor he had taken to fortify himself against them. He could not sort this out now.

He felt . . . empty. His initial anger had waned, and nothing else had rushed in to fill the void. It would, no doubt . . . tomorrow.

There were discussions to be had . . . steps to be taken . . . but he could not think about them now.

Albus opened a drawer and took out a piece of parchment. On it, he wrote:

Minerva,

Your resignation is not accepted.

We shall speak tomorrow.

Albus

He summoned Bilby and told him to take the note to Professor McGonagall.

Then he went to prepare himself to face dinner in the Great Hall.