Fic: "The Lost Country" (HP; Minerva McGonagall, OFC)
Title: The Lost Country
Author: miss_morland
Fandom: Harry Potter
Prompt: Minerva and her mother
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~ 6,000
Characters: Minerva McGonagall, OFC, various canon and original characters
Summary: Farewells can be both beautiful and despicable.
Warnings: Non-graphic sexual acts between a 19-year-old and a 16-year-old.
Disclaimer: The HP universe was created by J.K. Rowling. I don't own anything.
Notes: According to the HP lexicon, there is a wizarding community on the Isle of Skye. Written for kellychambliss at the 2010 Minerva Fest, originally posted here. Many thanks to therealsnape for her invaluable help, and to the mods for being patient with me. <3
"Farewells can be both beautiful and despicable. Saying farewell to one who is loved is very complicated." -- Sei Shonagon
She stood on a cliff above the harbour, the wind whipping about her. The same wind, the same cliffs, the same grey skies and sea -- as if nothing had changed at all, as if she'd only been away for a couple of days.
And everything was different. She was different: an elderly witch, a stern Professor, a seasoned warrior. Her eyes were so unlike those of the child she once had been, and yet the landscape was familiar, as if it had shaped itself according to her memories, as if it wanted to greet her, to whisper with a voice of a thousand waves, Welcome home, Minerva McGonagall.
The lingering dizziness from the Apparition was almost gone. Minerva threw a last glance at the harbour, then turned around and briskly started along the narrow track that led away from the cliffs and the sea.
The track rose steeply at first, then reached the top of the hill, where it flattened, winding through heather and windswept grass. High above her a bird soared, too far away for her to identify it, making its way to the far skerries where the merpeople lived.
As she walked, she briefly considered Apparating directly to the spot and get it over with, then rejected the thought immediately. She'd save her energy for going home tonight. Besides, the walk from the cliffs was quite lovely, and she appreciated the exercise; and if there was some part of her that relished the thought of wandering through the land of her childhood just one last time -- well, she trusted herself not to be overwhelmed by sentimentality.
"Don't waste your time," she muttered to herself in Morven's voice, smiling a little. "You know why you are here."
Soon she reached the point where the track turned downwards. From there, she could see a small, white cottage nestling against the foot of the hill. Minerva could feel the magic vibrating around the chalky walls, and her heart beat faster as she descended, slightly anticipant, slightly scared.
Just as she debated with herself whether to stop here or to keep going, getting her business done with and returning to Hogwarts before dinner, the door opened. A witch, old enough to be Minerva's mother, stepped outside, wand in hand. Her hair had once been red; now it was light-grey and tucked into a bun. When she saw Minerva, who'd stopped right in front of the cottage, the old woman stiffened, clinging to the door frame with one hand and covering her mouth with the other. The wand fell from her fingers to the floor with a clatter.
"Hello, Fiona," said Minerva, noting how calm she sounded, though inside she was anything but.
"Minerva McGonagall!" Fiona exclaimed. "Oh, my dear... After all this time, I never thought I'd see you again."
Minerva winced a little. "Neither did I, what with one thing and another -- but here I am."
"Aye," said Fiona, and now she was smiling, that kind, motherly smile which had made her so beloved by children both other people's and her own. "I'm so glad. Won't you come inside and have a cup of tea?"
*
The small kitchen, with its old furniture and bits and pieces, again made her feel as if nothing and everything had changed. Minerva sat down on one of the stools, forcing herself to remember the difference between then and now, while Fiona put the kettle on.
"I don't get many visitors these days," she said, summoning a tray of biscuits with a flick of her wand. "Malcolm lives in London with his family, you know."
Minerva didn't know, but still nodded politely. "Doesn't he have an Apparating licence?"
"That he does, but it's hard for him to find the time -- you young people are always so busy," said Fiona with an affectionate smile, as if she'd forgotten that both her son and Minerva were more than old enough to be grandparents themselves. "He sends me beautiful letters, though."
Minerva opened her mouth to reply, but shut it again. After a little while, she said, "That's more than one could say about me, I suppose."
The kettle whistled. Minerva rose to take care of it, but Fiona ushered her down again and went to retrieve the tea herself. After they'd both had helped themselves to sugar and milk, she cocked her head and gave Minerva a thoughtful look.
"But you're here to visit your mother now, aren't you?"
Minerva felt her cheeks heat -- with shame, or possibly defiance, she couldn't say for sure. "Indeed I am."
Fiona nodded, taking a sip of tea. "I'm glad you're ready."
And this simple acceptance -- this lack of it's about time, or, that's the least you can do, or even, don't you wish you'd come sooner? -- made her insides scatter into a thousand pieces. Minerva put the mug down and buried her face in her hands.
"There, there, my lass," Fiona murmured, reaching over and stroking her hair, as if Minerva wasn't a grown witch of seventy-three who had fought three wars and pestered students for decades. "There, there. I'm so glad you came. She was always so proud. But she was proud of you, too. She loved you."
*
Two hours later, Minerva was once again outside, walking with slow but determined steps along the track that led towards the heart of the island.
Her earlier tears had felt strangely purifying, as if the grime had been washed away from her memories and she was able to see them in a more reconciling light. Tears were useful that way, letting the body speak for itself, instead of trying to clean one's mind and soul through endless strings of words. Poppy always wanted her to talk about her feelings; she couldn't, or wouldn't, understand that Minerva's feelings were an unpredictable terrain, in which a cartographer could easily get lost.
Her mother had told her once that she'd do better to use her mind in intellectual pursuits. Feelings were by their very nature evasive and impossible to grasp, even to those who experienced them, and so there was little point in trying to understand one's sentiments, let alone discuss them with others. She'd said this with a stern look over her glasses, and Minerva had nodded, accepting the message for what it was: an admission that one should not chase after that which one could not ever have.
The track made a gentle curve where a rock jutted out from a small hill. Minerva stopped, glancing around. Yes. It should be around here, somewhere.
She'd asked Fiona if she would like to come along, but the old witch had declined, and Minerva was secretly relieved. She left the path, climbing up towards the top of the hill. When she'd reached the point where the sea was visible in the distance, she saw the grave: a stark, grey stone, no more than two feet high and seven inches wide, with the name Morven McGonagall in simple but elegant letters.
Minerva almost smiled then, at the sheer Scottishness of it. She went to the stone and stretched out a hand, feeling the lichen-covered granite.
"Here I am, Mother," she said softly. A cry lurked in the bottom of her voice. "Just as wrong in your eyes as I ever was, and much older and more set in my ways. Will you accept me now?"
Her robes rustled in the wind; far away, there were the screams of seagulls. Everything else was quiet.
*
Minerva had never known her grandparents. She'd asked her mother about them a few times, after learning that the McKinnon children had grandparents who lived in Glasgow and whom they visited every holiday, but Morven's reply had always been the same: "They're dead."
"But where did they live?" Minerva had asked, for she knew they had no relatives on the island.
"Far from here," Morven had said, and that was that. And if Minerva asked about her father, she'd get a similar response: "He was a French wizard of Scottish descent, very handsome, very clever, but he's dead."
If anything, Minerva thought, she'd learned at an early age that there was nothing wrong with being dead; most people were. And she'd been quite happy, all in all, helping her mother in her work and reading her way through the bookshelves, experimenting with magic -- as soon as she was old enough to feel the first sparks -- and playing with Marlene, who was three years younger and very lovely. It had not been a bad childhood.
Once, before she'd been old enough to go to Hogwarts, she'd come across what looked like a very old book for making Potions. The book had fallen open by itself to a certain page; obviously someone had studied the recipe in question quite a bit -- and apparently cried over it, too, for the parchment was blotted with what looked like stains of tears. Minerva hadn't understood it at the time. Later, when she was older and more aware of the facts of life, she'd leafed through the same shelf looking for the book, to see if the recipe had been what she thought it was. The book was nowhere to be found.
Now Morven's only child, the daughter she'd named after a wise and chaste Roman goddess, who'd left the island a long time ago and carved out a place for herself among the most powerful of British wizards, had returned to see her mother's grave. It probably was as it should be.
Minerva crouched down and brushed the heather away from where it covered the lower part of the stone. A small carving of a dove, that was all. According to Fiona, Morven had given specific instructions as to which sort of tombstone she wanted. She'd also asked specifically to be buried in a lonely place, looking over the sea.
"I should have brought Poppy," Minerva said into the air. "You would have liked her." But then she smiled ruefully, for in all honesty she doubted Morven would have liked Poppy very much at all. The fact that Poppy was a Healer would not have helped, quite to the contrary: Morven had often been quite scornful when talking about her former colleagues. Sentimental little sillies with a martyr complex, she'd called them.
*
Poppy had asked Minerva about her mother, more than once. Mostly innocent questions that Minerva had evaded quite easily, but occasionally they would hit a nerve, and she'd have to close herself off, or otherwise risk saying something she would regret. The questions had ceased during the last year, because they had so much on their minds already, and because Poppy had seemed determined not to bother Minerva more than necessary. Some weeks after the battle of Hogwarts, the subject had come up again, though.
"You never see your mother, do you?" Poppy had asked out of nowhere, late one night when the lights were out and Minerva was almost asleep.
She could feel herself stiffen; she couldn't help it. "I don't," she said, hoping her tone would convey a suitable amount of leave me alone, I don't want to talk about it.
But apparently it didn't, or perhaps Poppy just wouldn't be stopped this time. "You never write her, either?"
Hands curling into fists, swift thoughts of escaping into cat form. "No."
Poppy hesitated, as if knowing that she was treading dangerous ground. "Is it... because of me?"
And Minerva sighed, suddenly hopelessly tired. No, it's because of me, always has been... "She's dead," she said simply, hearing Poppy draw in her breath in a quick oh of compassion.
"I'm so sorry," Poppy whispered. "Was it a long time ago?"
Minerva rolled over onto her side, closing her eyes. "This winter."
"But..."
"We didn't talk," said Minerva, still keeping her eyes closed. "We hadn't talked for years. She never wanted to see me again. She said so herself."
Another oh, shocked this time. And then, "But how --"
"An owl from a neighbour. She'd been sick for a long time, apparently."
Poppy placed a hand on her shoulder, tentatively; then Minerva felt the warm, familiar smell of herbs and potions as Poppy leaned in to kiss her neck. "I'll come with you, if you like," she said against Minerva's neck, her voice warm and full of love.
Minerva didn't respond for some seconds. Then she sighed again. "I know you would," she muttered, placing her hand over Poppy's. "But if I went, I think I'd have to do it on my own."
Of course, Minerva hadn't intended to go anywhere, on her own or not. But the war was over, the students were dealt with, there was nothing in particular for her to do, no good reason to put it off, this last goodbye. "You need it," Poppy kept insisting. "You need closure."
She'd agreed to go, in the end; had looked forward to it, even, though she was reluctant to admit as much. A whole day had been set aside for the visit, even though Minerva had been sure she wouldn't want to spend much time on the island. Her life there was gone, she'd told herself, it belonged to the lost country of her youth. Surely it would be fruitless -- and painful -- to linger there, trying to remember.
*
For a witch who didn't have any family, who lived alone with a child and who took little part in what social life existed in the wizarding community on the island, Morven had enjoyed quite an amount of respect. A skilled Healer in an area where most people hadn't got an education beyond OWL levels, she'd always been addressed as 'Mrs McGonagall' and men had taken their hats off for her. On Sundays, she attended the Quidditch games as the official Healer. Sometimes she'd leave her daughter with the McKinnons, but most often Minerva came with her, sitting well-manneredly beside her mother on the designated bench, cheering under her breath at the Pride of Portree's every goal.
If Morven preferred to keep to herself, she did have one friend in Fiona McKinnon, Marlene's mother. The McKinnons lived in a cottage not far from that of Minerva and her mother, and although Fiona had many friends among the witches on the island, she and Morven were particularly close. "She was the first one to welcome me when I came here and you were but a tiny lump," Morven always said.
"Why doesn't your mother remarry?" Marlene asked one of the last nights before Minerva was due for Hogwarts.
They were sitting on a large stone not far from Morven's cottage, looking at the stars and sharing a bottle of Butterbeer. Minerva had forgotten her cloak, but she did not feel cold: instead, she felt dizzy and happy from the Butterbeer, and the prospect of Hogwarts, and the sound of Marlene's lilting voice.
"I don't know," she said, shrugging. The thought of Morven with a man seemed strange; Minerva often had enough problems applying what she knew about reproduction -- there were many sheep on the island -- to her mother, though she knew it must have happened. "Should she?"
"Some of Ma's friends think so," Marlene said, taking a sip of the bottle. "She's still young, they said. Could have got any single wizard around here, they told my Ma."
"What did she say, then?" Minerva asked, a little anxiously. She didn't like the idea of kind Fiona gossiping about her mother.
A toothy grin in the darkness, and Marlene laughed. "She told them to mind their own business."
Minerva grinned back, the comforting warmth of friendship and safety filling her. It was so nice sitting here like this with Marlene, no matter how much she longed for Hogwarts -- she'd long since read all of her mother's books, and she couldn't wait to get her own wand and learn about Charms and Transfiguration -- but they could at least write each other, often.
"Oh!" said Marlene, flinging her arms about her, as if she knew what Minerva had been thinking. "I'll miss you so much, Minnie."
She was the only one in the world who was allowed to call Minerva that. "I'll miss you, too," Minerva whispered, joy and sorrow mingling in her throat.
*
The landscape was lonely here, the wind relentless. Minerva cast a warming charm upon herself and squinted against the sky. Very soon it would rain.
It had rained the day after her evening with Marlene. The day when her mother had told her about her father: that he had not been a French wizard, that they had never been married, that he had been a Muggle working at a restaurant in London while Morven had been at St. Mungo's, and that she had met him late one night when trying to take the tube home for the first time -- an 'experiment', she called it.
"But why..." Minerva had been unsure of how to give tongue to the disappointment and confusion inside her. She'd always considered herself to be just as much of a witch as the other wizarding children on the island, and as far as she knew, none of them had Muggles in their families. "Why did you have to tell me now?"
"You are almost eleven years old," Morven said, handing her a mortar full of herbs. "About to go to Hogwarts, you are. You should know where you came from. And remember this..." She'd paused, looking up from her heap of chopped Mandrakes and fixed Minerva with her most serious stare. "There is nothing wrong with being a half-blood. Absolutely nothing."
"Why did you lie about it, then?" Minerva asked, hearing how petulant she sounded, and despising herself for it. She was a big girl now, old enough to help her mother make Potions and take care of the house. Her mother relied on her, trusted her, and Minerva wanted to be good, but she couldn't quite keep back the anger and feeling of deceit. "I thought you said it was important to be honest."
"People will judge you," Morven said, returning to her work. If Minerva's tone displeased her, she did not show it. "People would judge me. There is a reason I moved here where nobody knew who I was."
Thinking back now, Minerva assumed her mother had been right. For someone who had professed an utter disinterest in politics, Morven had been quite astute -- or perhaps it had only been her own sense of decorum guiding her, for Minerva couldn't remember hearing her say that there was nothing wrong with being born out of wedlock.
But at least she'd always encouraged Minerva to do her best, to prove herself, to show the world just exactly how clever she was. Nobody had been prouder than Morven McGonagall when her daughter received five Outstanding on her OWLs, not even Minerva herself. And she'd saved her money to buy Minerva the finest schoolgear and textbooks: Minerva could still remember their trips to Diagon Alley, the long sessions at Madam Malkin's, the hunting through Flourish and Blotts.
They'd always go to the Leaky Cauldron afterwards, where Morven would by a rare pint of ale for herself, and Gillywater for her daughter. Even now, the taste of it always reminded Minerva of those times, when she and her mother had sat by the window, bags at their feet, and strands of Morven's dark hair had come loose, and the way she'd smiled, so much at her ease here where nobody knew her, and reached out to stroke Minerva's cheek.
But these trips were rare, and mostly reserved for the late August days before the schoolyear started, and when Minerva had been old enough to go by herself, they'd ceased altogether. What Morven needed of supplies for her Potions and other remedies, she ordered by owl. Once, however, when Minerva had been a small child, she'd gone to London to buy something in Diagon Alley -- Minerva had no idea what. In fact, the only thing she remembered was standing outside a window while her mother went inside for a minute, quietly trying to keep away from the masses of people hurrying past, not that any of them took any notice.
That is, not until an elderly wizard stopped right in front of her, crouching down to study her face.
"Hello," the wizard said, smiling, his voice kind.
Minerva nodded, reluctant to disobey her mother's orders of not talking to strangers.
"What's your name?" he continued.
This was worse, trying to avoid a direct question. Minerva fidgeted, but only for a moment. Then she drew herself up and said, meeting his gaze, "Minerva McGonagall."
Something funny happened: the wizard's mouth trembled a little, his eyes watered, and he nodded almost imperceptibly, almost as if to himself. "How old are you?" he asked.
"Perhaps you ought to leave it, Gilbert," a voice said.
Minerva looked up. A witch was standing behind the crouching wizard; tall and thin, she looked a lot like Minerva's own mother, only much older. There were traces of silver in her hair, and the eyes behind her glasses were clear and sharp. She placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "Come," she said, not looking at Minerva at all.
"How can you say that?" he asked, craning his neck to stare at her. Then, turning back to Minerva, his voice almost pleading, "Where is your mother?"
Minerva opened her mouth to say that she was just inside the shop, but then a door slammed and a hand gripped her own shoulder, none too gently.
"I told you not to talk to strangers," Morven's voice hissed in her ear. Then louder, to the people in front of them, "What do you think you are doing?"
"Morven," said the man, who was now rising to his feet, the same pleading tone in his voice, the same trembling about his mouth. "Please, dearest, won't you --"
"Dear, am I?" said Morven, whose wary gaze moved between the man and the woman. "I thought I was unwelcome in your home for the rest of my days."
"Watch your tone," said the woman, her voice very cool. "No one forced you to make the choices you did."
"Come," said Morven curtly, and she seized Minerva's hand and turned away.
"Wait!" the man called, his voice desperate. Morven's grip tightened, as did her lips; the next second, there was the horrible swirl and spin of Apparition.
"Who were they?" Minerva asked as soon as they were back outside their own cottage and she had grass under her feet once more.
"Never you mind," Morven bit her off, taking her bag and heading for the door. "Stay outside and play for a moment; I need some time to work in peace."
But Minerva had nevertheless snuck inside to find her doll a little later, and she'd caught a glimpse of something very upsetting: her mother's face, cradled in her arms that rested on the table of Potions, and her shoulders shaking as if she were crying. Minerva had stood there, torn between the desire to comfort her mother and the feeling that Morven most of all wanted to be left alone. In the end, she'd grabbed her doll and silently left the cottage, setting out for the McKinnons' home instead.
How very foreboding it seemed to her now, and how terribly ironic. Minerva sighed, wondering what would have happened if she'd not been such a discreet and dutiful child: if, oblivious to any desire for privacy, she'd have been able to run over to comfort her mother that day, winning her over by sheer buffoonish charm.
Perhaps everything would have been different. But in the end, it was a fruitless experiment of thought. Minerva had never been anything but Minerva, and she was her mother's daughter, and that had been the disaster for both of them.
*
When Minerva was eighteen, she graduated from Hogwarts with excellent N.E.W.T.s. Morven had saved money to send her to an exclusive Transfiguration school in Cornwall, and Professor Dumbledore had written the letter of recommendation himself. Minerva left a girl, still used to obedience and other people's rules; she returned, one year later, with experience and insight and a core-deep feeling that there was no future for her on the island.
Morven had known as much, of course. After all, she had not meant for Minerva to become a Healer and take over her practice some day -- if so, she'd never have wasted her money on such an expensive education. Morven had come to the island as a refugee, but her daughter was to leave it in triumph. At least it had made sense, Minerva supposed. Logic was indisputable, if unforgiving.
She'd returned, nineteen years old and a new-sprung woman, to an island which was cold and wet, even in June, but still green and lovely, and to Marlene McKinnon, who was sixteen years old and lovelier still. One night, when Morven had been to see a patient on the other side of the island, Minerva had asked her friend over, the way she so often had when they both were younger. Marlene brought a bottle of Firewhisky she'd nicked from her brother, and they huddled together on the sofa in Morven's study, which also served as living room, giggling and sharing stories of the last year when they'd seen so little of each other.
"Not that I saw you much during the last years you went to Hogwarts," Marlene laughed, grabbing one of Minerva's dark braids and shaking it. "You were so busy with your prefect duties and your study. Not even a boyfriend, from what I heard!"
"Don't believe any rumours they tell in Hufflepuff House," Minerva chided, though she was smiling -- she liked the feeling of Marlene's hand, so close. "But no, there were no boys." She laughed. "No use for them!"
"Of course you'll say that." Marlene's laugh, a hot puff of breath against her neck. "Your mother is a widow, you're not used to having men around."
Even after all these years, the widow story still felt like a camel in Minerva's throat. She swallowed it with another laugh. "But why would I need one?"
"Well..." And Marlene's body felt very close now. "There are things boys and girls can do together." A tentative hand, seeking her own. "Have you ever done it, Minnie?"
Was this a good occasion to tell Marlene about Laetitia from the Transfiguration school? Who'd dragged Minerva into her room one drunken night and shown her just how much use she didn't have for boys? She swallowed. "It depends on what you mean, I suppose."
"So you have..." A gasp in the darkness of the room, a hand that moved, still tentatively, up her arm. "I've done nothing, nothing at all... But I don't like any of them, Minnie. Not nearly as much as I liked you. I've always known you... Can't you show me?"
Minerva's reserve burst then, with happiness and tenderness and a willingness to teach Marlene everything she herself had learned these last, joyful months. She seized Marlene's face between her hands and kissed her. "Did you like that?" she murmured after they'd both got their breath back.
"Yes -- yes!" Marlene's breathing was quick and eager now. "But can we -- I mean, here? What if your mother comes back?"
"She won't --" And Minerva was already loosening Marlene's robes, trying to do so quickly, but without using her wand. "She went to help some woman who's giving birth, she won't be coming home tonight."
What if she'd been correct? Minerva mused, still contemplating the stone. What if Morven had never known? Or would she have found out, sooner or later? Was everything that happened simply inevitable?
At any rate, the door had opened just as Minerva's head moved between Marlene's thighs, and Morven had come in just in time to find her only friend's daughter with her legs spread wide on the sofa, moaning at the things done to her by Morven's own child. It must have been quite a shock to anyone, Minerva thought, smiling sardonically. Although that of course didn't excuse what happened later -- she still couldn't bring herself to think so.
What happened later had been a fight fought with words more dangerous than spells, more lethal than poison. After Morven had sent home a shaking Marlene with some stony, simple words -- "Your mother is waiting for you" -- she'd simply stared at her daughter for a long time, her eyes cold. Minerva had winced under that gaze, even as she adjusted her robes and smoothed down her hair with partly-feigned defiance. In the end, she couldn't take it anymore, and simply burst out, "Well?"
"How long has this been going on?" Morven asked, voice still stony.
"What -- oh, it's not what you think!" Minerva exclaimed. "Tonight was the first time."
"Really."
Morven's eyes were horribly clear, even in the dimmed light of the cottage, and she suddenly reminded Minerva immensely of that half-forgotten woman from long ago. "It didn't look like the first time to me. You seemed to have -- " and her lips curled a little "-- a remarkable amount of expertise."
Minerva scowled, her cheeks burning.
"Is that what they taught you at the school, then?" Morven asked, slamming her hand against the table with a loud and sudden whack. "Is that what my money went to? To encourage your unnatural tendencies? Under my very roof!"
"For Merlin's sake, Mother," Minerva hissed, both shameful and desperate. "You know that's not true."
But Morven's face, still calm and stony, was containing more than rage now. "Do you know how much I have sacrificed for you, girl? So you could have a respectable life outside of this godforsaken place?" She slammed her hand against the table again. "Do you know what they will say about us? That I raised a creature who goes about perverting young girls, that's what!"
Minerva's shame turned to fury, and she sprung to her feet, staring her mother in the eye. "Is that all you care about? Your own respectability? Perhaps you shouldn't have brought a bastard child to life, then!"
The hand that had slammed against the table hit her cheek with a loud slap. "Not another word," Morven warned her.
But Minerva wouldn't be stopped. "That's it, isn't it?" she cried, holding a hand to her stinging face. "I must look good for you, so you can stop regretting having me in the first place? But I am what I am! What would you have me do? Go out and let a man bed me, just to prove that I can?"
"Get out," Morven said, her voice soft and deadly. "Get out. Don't come back."
Minerva had been too furious and hurt to think clearly. She'd Summoned her trunk and slammed some clothes and personal belongings into it, then Apparated to her friend Wilhelmina's home the same night. She'd stayed there for weeks, torn between the urge to apologise to her mother, and her wounded feelings and pride. She'd written to Marlene instead, letter upon letter begging her to come and live with her after Hogwarts, but she'd never got a letter in return.
Minerva had blamed her mother for that, too. Surely her mother must have somehow convinced Fiona not to let Marlene write her. Surely it all must be Morven's fault. Even after Minerva had run into Marlene in Hogsmeade many years later, and Marlene had pretended not to remember her -- a horrible shame and a horrible pride, but who could possibly be behind it all, other than Minerva's own mother?
*
The wind was getting worse.
Droplets of water were starting to fall: one here, another there, a third right on her nose. It would only take a minute, at the most, before the rain would set in.
Minerva took off her glasses and pressed a hand to her eyes. The wetness was salt; it had nothing to do with rain. It had to do with the fact that she'd never known her grandparents, and that when she'd finally tried to seek them out, after having seen her mother for the last time, she'd discovered that they'd both died only a couple of years before. It had to do with the fact that Marlene had never wanted to see her again, that she'd met a Muggleborn wizard two years her junior and moved to England to live with him, and that she'd died with him one warm night in ninety-eighty-one. It had to do with the fact that Minerva had kept blaming her mother for this, and kept waiting for a letter with an apology, and that the letter had never come.
Minerva had written one letter herself: to Fiona, with condolences for her daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren's tragic and untimely death. And Fiona had replied, kind as ever, and urged her to write her mother, who was more reclusive and less talkative than ever. Minerva never did.
Now Morven McGonagall was gone, dead from a disease more common amongst Muggles, which could perhaps have been cured if she'd sought out one of their Healers early enough. She never wanted to do that, Fiona had written in her owl this winter. She wanted to manage on her own. She thought that if she couldn't cure it herself, there was no point in living. But the sickness was horrible. It ate her up from within.
"She loved you, didn't she?" Minerva had asked this afternoon. She wanted to hear it, that her mother had not been completely alone -- that she, too, had had companionship and affection. "I think she felt you were the only one who knew her."
"Aye," said Fiona in her soft voice, placing a hand on Minerva's hand. "And I was very fond of her. But I never said as much, and neither did she. It was not in her nature to talk about such things, no matter how much she cared for someone. But I knew she cared for me. And she loved you, too."
Her smile was sad. "She wouldn't tell me why you'd left, not until I asked her if it had something to do with Marlene. I tried to make Marlene reply to your letters, too, but she was too ashamed, I think. They were both such stubborn women."
Putting her glasses back on, Minerva squinted westward. Beyond the large hill, not far from the McKinnon cottage, she had lived with her mother. According to Fiona, the cottage was still in decent shape. She very much wanted Minerva to come there during holidays, and to bring her friend with her.
Perhaps she would, after all.
Morven had come here, the child still an invisible lump in her stomach. She'd made a living for herself, doing her best to be seen as acceptable and respectable, crying over the old recipes in her Potions textbook that taught women how to free themselves of unwanted life. She'd chosen the child, the lie, and her respectable loneliness. Minerva had chosen the fight, the fame, and her woman.
Yes, she would return. The fight was over, and she herself was not young anymore. She could afford it, now.
She would return to the island, if not to the grave. She'd leave her mother to her final loneliness. Or perhaps not -- perhaps Poppy would make her change her mind about that, too.
"Farewell, then, Mother," Minerva murmured, bending down to touch the soil in front of the stone with the tip of her wand. A bouquet of lilies and thistles appeared, white and purple against the grey background. As a combination it was unusual -- some might call it bizarre -- but Minerva knew it was the right one. She gave it one last, long, look, then closed her eyes and turned away.
Author: miss_morland
Fandom: Harry Potter
Prompt: Minerva and her mother
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~ 6,000
Characters: Minerva McGonagall, OFC, various canon and original characters
Summary: Farewells can be both beautiful and despicable.
Warnings: Non-graphic sexual acts between a 19-year-old and a 16-year-old.
Disclaimer: The HP universe was created by J.K. Rowling. I don't own anything.
Notes: According to the HP lexicon, there is a wizarding community on the Isle of Skye. Written for kellychambliss at the 2010 Minerva Fest, originally posted here. Many thanks to therealsnape for her invaluable help, and to the mods for being patient with me. <3
"Farewells can be both beautiful and despicable. Saying farewell to one who is loved is very complicated." -- Sei Shonagon
She stood on a cliff above the harbour, the wind whipping about her. The same wind, the same cliffs, the same grey skies and sea -- as if nothing had changed at all, as if she'd only been away for a couple of days.
And everything was different. She was different: an elderly witch, a stern Professor, a seasoned warrior. Her eyes were so unlike those of the child she once had been, and yet the landscape was familiar, as if it had shaped itself according to her memories, as if it wanted to greet her, to whisper with a voice of a thousand waves, Welcome home, Minerva McGonagall.
The lingering dizziness from the Apparition was almost gone. Minerva threw a last glance at the harbour, then turned around and briskly started along the narrow track that led away from the cliffs and the sea.
The track rose steeply at first, then reached the top of the hill, where it flattened, winding through heather and windswept grass. High above her a bird soared, too far away for her to identify it, making its way to the far skerries where the merpeople lived.
As she walked, she briefly considered Apparating directly to the spot and get it over with, then rejected the thought immediately. She'd save her energy for going home tonight. Besides, the walk from the cliffs was quite lovely, and she appreciated the exercise; and if there was some part of her that relished the thought of wandering through the land of her childhood just one last time -- well, she trusted herself not to be overwhelmed by sentimentality.
"Don't waste your time," she muttered to herself in Morven's voice, smiling a little. "You know why you are here."
Soon she reached the point where the track turned downwards. From there, she could see a small, white cottage nestling against the foot of the hill. Minerva could feel the magic vibrating around the chalky walls, and her heart beat faster as she descended, slightly anticipant, slightly scared.
Just as she debated with herself whether to stop here or to keep going, getting her business done with and returning to Hogwarts before dinner, the door opened. A witch, old enough to be Minerva's mother, stepped outside, wand in hand. Her hair had once been red; now it was light-grey and tucked into a bun. When she saw Minerva, who'd stopped right in front of the cottage, the old woman stiffened, clinging to the door frame with one hand and covering her mouth with the other. The wand fell from her fingers to the floor with a clatter.
"Hello, Fiona," said Minerva, noting how calm she sounded, though inside she was anything but.
"Minerva McGonagall!" Fiona exclaimed. "Oh, my dear... After all this time, I never thought I'd see you again."
Minerva winced a little. "Neither did I, what with one thing and another -- but here I am."
"Aye," said Fiona, and now she was smiling, that kind, motherly smile which had made her so beloved by children both other people's and her own. "I'm so glad. Won't you come inside and have a cup of tea?"
*
The small kitchen, with its old furniture and bits and pieces, again made her feel as if nothing and everything had changed. Minerva sat down on one of the stools, forcing herself to remember the difference between then and now, while Fiona put the kettle on.
"I don't get many visitors these days," she said, summoning a tray of biscuits with a flick of her wand. "Malcolm lives in London with his family, you know."
Minerva didn't know, but still nodded politely. "Doesn't he have an Apparating licence?"
"That he does, but it's hard for him to find the time -- you young people are always so busy," said Fiona with an affectionate smile, as if she'd forgotten that both her son and Minerva were more than old enough to be grandparents themselves. "He sends me beautiful letters, though."
Minerva opened her mouth to reply, but shut it again. After a little while, she said, "That's more than one could say about me, I suppose."
The kettle whistled. Minerva rose to take care of it, but Fiona ushered her down again and went to retrieve the tea herself. After they'd both had helped themselves to sugar and milk, she cocked her head and gave Minerva a thoughtful look.
"But you're here to visit your mother now, aren't you?"
Minerva felt her cheeks heat -- with shame, or possibly defiance, she couldn't say for sure. "Indeed I am."
Fiona nodded, taking a sip of tea. "I'm glad you're ready."
And this simple acceptance -- this lack of it's about time, or, that's the least you can do, or even, don't you wish you'd come sooner? -- made her insides scatter into a thousand pieces. Minerva put the mug down and buried her face in her hands.
"There, there, my lass," Fiona murmured, reaching over and stroking her hair, as if Minerva wasn't a grown witch of seventy-three who had fought three wars and pestered students for decades. "There, there. I'm so glad you came. She was always so proud. But she was proud of you, too. She loved you."
*
Two hours later, Minerva was once again outside, walking with slow but determined steps along the track that led towards the heart of the island.
Her earlier tears had felt strangely purifying, as if the grime had been washed away from her memories and she was able to see them in a more reconciling light. Tears were useful that way, letting the body speak for itself, instead of trying to clean one's mind and soul through endless strings of words. Poppy always wanted her to talk about her feelings; she couldn't, or wouldn't, understand that Minerva's feelings were an unpredictable terrain, in which a cartographer could easily get lost.
Her mother had told her once that she'd do better to use her mind in intellectual pursuits. Feelings were by their very nature evasive and impossible to grasp, even to those who experienced them, and so there was little point in trying to understand one's sentiments, let alone discuss them with others. She'd said this with a stern look over her glasses, and Minerva had nodded, accepting the message for what it was: an admission that one should not chase after that which one could not ever have.
The track made a gentle curve where a rock jutted out from a small hill. Minerva stopped, glancing around. Yes. It should be around here, somewhere.
She'd asked Fiona if she would like to come along, but the old witch had declined, and Minerva was secretly relieved. She left the path, climbing up towards the top of the hill. When she'd reached the point where the sea was visible in the distance, she saw the grave: a stark, grey stone, no more than two feet high and seven inches wide, with the name Morven McGonagall in simple but elegant letters.
Minerva almost smiled then, at the sheer Scottishness of it. She went to the stone and stretched out a hand, feeling the lichen-covered granite.
"Here I am, Mother," she said softly. A cry lurked in the bottom of her voice. "Just as wrong in your eyes as I ever was, and much older and more set in my ways. Will you accept me now?"
Her robes rustled in the wind; far away, there were the screams of seagulls. Everything else was quiet.
*
Minerva had never known her grandparents. She'd asked her mother about them a few times, after learning that the McKinnon children had grandparents who lived in Glasgow and whom they visited every holiday, but Morven's reply had always been the same: "They're dead."
"But where did they live?" Minerva had asked, for she knew they had no relatives on the island.
"Far from here," Morven had said, and that was that. And if Minerva asked about her father, she'd get a similar response: "He was a French wizard of Scottish descent, very handsome, very clever, but he's dead."
If anything, Minerva thought, she'd learned at an early age that there was nothing wrong with being dead; most people were. And she'd been quite happy, all in all, helping her mother in her work and reading her way through the bookshelves, experimenting with magic -- as soon as she was old enough to feel the first sparks -- and playing with Marlene, who was three years younger and very lovely. It had not been a bad childhood.
Once, before she'd been old enough to go to Hogwarts, she'd come across what looked like a very old book for making Potions. The book had fallen open by itself to a certain page; obviously someone had studied the recipe in question quite a bit -- and apparently cried over it, too, for the parchment was blotted with what looked like stains of tears. Minerva hadn't understood it at the time. Later, when she was older and more aware of the facts of life, she'd leafed through the same shelf looking for the book, to see if the recipe had been what she thought it was. The book was nowhere to be found.
Now Morven's only child, the daughter she'd named after a wise and chaste Roman goddess, who'd left the island a long time ago and carved out a place for herself among the most powerful of British wizards, had returned to see her mother's grave. It probably was as it should be.
Minerva crouched down and brushed the heather away from where it covered the lower part of the stone. A small carving of a dove, that was all. According to Fiona, Morven had given specific instructions as to which sort of tombstone she wanted. She'd also asked specifically to be buried in a lonely place, looking over the sea.
"I should have brought Poppy," Minerva said into the air. "You would have liked her." But then she smiled ruefully, for in all honesty she doubted Morven would have liked Poppy very much at all. The fact that Poppy was a Healer would not have helped, quite to the contrary: Morven had often been quite scornful when talking about her former colleagues. Sentimental little sillies with a martyr complex, she'd called them.
*
Poppy had asked Minerva about her mother, more than once. Mostly innocent questions that Minerva had evaded quite easily, but occasionally they would hit a nerve, and she'd have to close herself off, or otherwise risk saying something she would regret. The questions had ceased during the last year, because they had so much on their minds already, and because Poppy had seemed determined not to bother Minerva more than necessary. Some weeks after the battle of Hogwarts, the subject had come up again, though.
"You never see your mother, do you?" Poppy had asked out of nowhere, late one night when the lights were out and Minerva was almost asleep.
She could feel herself stiffen; she couldn't help it. "I don't," she said, hoping her tone would convey a suitable amount of leave me alone, I don't want to talk about it.
But apparently it didn't, or perhaps Poppy just wouldn't be stopped this time. "You never write her, either?"
Hands curling into fists, swift thoughts of escaping into cat form. "No."
Poppy hesitated, as if knowing that she was treading dangerous ground. "Is it... because of me?"
And Minerva sighed, suddenly hopelessly tired. No, it's because of me, always has been... "She's dead," she said simply, hearing Poppy draw in her breath in a quick oh of compassion.
"I'm so sorry," Poppy whispered. "Was it a long time ago?"
Minerva rolled over onto her side, closing her eyes. "This winter."
"But..."
"We didn't talk," said Minerva, still keeping her eyes closed. "We hadn't talked for years. She never wanted to see me again. She said so herself."
Another oh, shocked this time. And then, "But how --"
"An owl from a neighbour. She'd been sick for a long time, apparently."
Poppy placed a hand on her shoulder, tentatively; then Minerva felt the warm, familiar smell of herbs and potions as Poppy leaned in to kiss her neck. "I'll come with you, if you like," she said against Minerva's neck, her voice warm and full of love.
Minerva didn't respond for some seconds. Then she sighed again. "I know you would," she muttered, placing her hand over Poppy's. "But if I went, I think I'd have to do it on my own."
Of course, Minerva hadn't intended to go anywhere, on her own or not. But the war was over, the students were dealt with, there was nothing in particular for her to do, no good reason to put it off, this last goodbye. "You need it," Poppy kept insisting. "You need closure."
She'd agreed to go, in the end; had looked forward to it, even, though she was reluctant to admit as much. A whole day had been set aside for the visit, even though Minerva had been sure she wouldn't want to spend much time on the island. Her life there was gone, she'd told herself, it belonged to the lost country of her youth. Surely it would be fruitless -- and painful -- to linger there, trying to remember.
*
For a witch who didn't have any family, who lived alone with a child and who took little part in what social life existed in the wizarding community on the island, Morven had enjoyed quite an amount of respect. A skilled Healer in an area where most people hadn't got an education beyond OWL levels, she'd always been addressed as 'Mrs McGonagall' and men had taken their hats off for her. On Sundays, she attended the Quidditch games as the official Healer. Sometimes she'd leave her daughter with the McKinnons, but most often Minerva came with her, sitting well-manneredly beside her mother on the designated bench, cheering under her breath at the Pride of Portree's every goal.
If Morven preferred to keep to herself, she did have one friend in Fiona McKinnon, Marlene's mother. The McKinnons lived in a cottage not far from that of Minerva and her mother, and although Fiona had many friends among the witches on the island, she and Morven were particularly close. "She was the first one to welcome me when I came here and you were but a tiny lump," Morven always said.
"Why doesn't your mother remarry?" Marlene asked one of the last nights before Minerva was due for Hogwarts.
They were sitting on a large stone not far from Morven's cottage, looking at the stars and sharing a bottle of Butterbeer. Minerva had forgotten her cloak, but she did not feel cold: instead, she felt dizzy and happy from the Butterbeer, and the prospect of Hogwarts, and the sound of Marlene's lilting voice.
"I don't know," she said, shrugging. The thought of Morven with a man seemed strange; Minerva often had enough problems applying what she knew about reproduction -- there were many sheep on the island -- to her mother, though she knew it must have happened. "Should she?"
"Some of Ma's friends think so," Marlene said, taking a sip of the bottle. "She's still young, they said. Could have got any single wizard around here, they told my Ma."
"What did she say, then?" Minerva asked, a little anxiously. She didn't like the idea of kind Fiona gossiping about her mother.
A toothy grin in the darkness, and Marlene laughed. "She told them to mind their own business."
Minerva grinned back, the comforting warmth of friendship and safety filling her. It was so nice sitting here like this with Marlene, no matter how much she longed for Hogwarts -- she'd long since read all of her mother's books, and she couldn't wait to get her own wand and learn about Charms and Transfiguration -- but they could at least write each other, often.
"Oh!" said Marlene, flinging her arms about her, as if she knew what Minerva had been thinking. "I'll miss you so much, Minnie."
She was the only one in the world who was allowed to call Minerva that. "I'll miss you, too," Minerva whispered, joy and sorrow mingling in her throat.
*
The landscape was lonely here, the wind relentless. Minerva cast a warming charm upon herself and squinted against the sky. Very soon it would rain.
It had rained the day after her evening with Marlene. The day when her mother had told her about her father: that he had not been a French wizard, that they had never been married, that he had been a Muggle working at a restaurant in London while Morven had been at St. Mungo's, and that she had met him late one night when trying to take the tube home for the first time -- an 'experiment', she called it.
"But why..." Minerva had been unsure of how to give tongue to the disappointment and confusion inside her. She'd always considered herself to be just as much of a witch as the other wizarding children on the island, and as far as she knew, none of them had Muggles in their families. "Why did you have to tell me now?"
"You are almost eleven years old," Morven said, handing her a mortar full of herbs. "About to go to Hogwarts, you are. You should know where you came from. And remember this..." She'd paused, looking up from her heap of chopped Mandrakes and fixed Minerva with her most serious stare. "There is nothing wrong with being a half-blood. Absolutely nothing."
"Why did you lie about it, then?" Minerva asked, hearing how petulant she sounded, and despising herself for it. She was a big girl now, old enough to help her mother make Potions and take care of the house. Her mother relied on her, trusted her, and Minerva wanted to be good, but she couldn't quite keep back the anger and feeling of deceit. "I thought you said it was important to be honest."
"People will judge you," Morven said, returning to her work. If Minerva's tone displeased her, she did not show it. "People would judge me. There is a reason I moved here where nobody knew who I was."
Thinking back now, Minerva assumed her mother had been right. For someone who had professed an utter disinterest in politics, Morven had been quite astute -- or perhaps it had only been her own sense of decorum guiding her, for Minerva couldn't remember hearing her say that there was nothing wrong with being born out of wedlock.
But at least she'd always encouraged Minerva to do her best, to prove herself, to show the world just exactly how clever she was. Nobody had been prouder than Morven McGonagall when her daughter received five Outstanding on her OWLs, not even Minerva herself. And she'd saved her money to buy Minerva the finest schoolgear and textbooks: Minerva could still remember their trips to Diagon Alley, the long sessions at Madam Malkin's, the hunting through Flourish and Blotts.
They'd always go to the Leaky Cauldron afterwards, where Morven would by a rare pint of ale for herself, and Gillywater for her daughter. Even now, the taste of it always reminded Minerva of those times, when she and her mother had sat by the window, bags at their feet, and strands of Morven's dark hair had come loose, and the way she'd smiled, so much at her ease here where nobody knew her, and reached out to stroke Minerva's cheek.
But these trips were rare, and mostly reserved for the late August days before the schoolyear started, and when Minerva had been old enough to go by herself, they'd ceased altogether. What Morven needed of supplies for her Potions and other remedies, she ordered by owl. Once, however, when Minerva had been a small child, she'd gone to London to buy something in Diagon Alley -- Minerva had no idea what. In fact, the only thing she remembered was standing outside a window while her mother went inside for a minute, quietly trying to keep away from the masses of people hurrying past, not that any of them took any notice.
That is, not until an elderly wizard stopped right in front of her, crouching down to study her face.
"Hello," the wizard said, smiling, his voice kind.
Minerva nodded, reluctant to disobey her mother's orders of not talking to strangers.
"What's your name?" he continued.
This was worse, trying to avoid a direct question. Minerva fidgeted, but only for a moment. Then she drew herself up and said, meeting his gaze, "Minerva McGonagall."
Something funny happened: the wizard's mouth trembled a little, his eyes watered, and he nodded almost imperceptibly, almost as if to himself. "How old are you?" he asked.
"Perhaps you ought to leave it, Gilbert," a voice said.
Minerva looked up. A witch was standing behind the crouching wizard; tall and thin, she looked a lot like Minerva's own mother, only much older. There were traces of silver in her hair, and the eyes behind her glasses were clear and sharp. She placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "Come," she said, not looking at Minerva at all.
"How can you say that?" he asked, craning his neck to stare at her. Then, turning back to Minerva, his voice almost pleading, "Where is your mother?"
Minerva opened her mouth to say that she was just inside the shop, but then a door slammed and a hand gripped her own shoulder, none too gently.
"I told you not to talk to strangers," Morven's voice hissed in her ear. Then louder, to the people in front of them, "What do you think you are doing?"
"Morven," said the man, who was now rising to his feet, the same pleading tone in his voice, the same trembling about his mouth. "Please, dearest, won't you --"
"Dear, am I?" said Morven, whose wary gaze moved between the man and the woman. "I thought I was unwelcome in your home for the rest of my days."
"Watch your tone," said the woman, her voice very cool. "No one forced you to make the choices you did."
"Come," said Morven curtly, and she seized Minerva's hand and turned away.
"Wait!" the man called, his voice desperate. Morven's grip tightened, as did her lips; the next second, there was the horrible swirl and spin of Apparition.
"Who were they?" Minerva asked as soon as they were back outside their own cottage and she had grass under her feet once more.
"Never you mind," Morven bit her off, taking her bag and heading for the door. "Stay outside and play for a moment; I need some time to work in peace."
But Minerva had nevertheless snuck inside to find her doll a little later, and she'd caught a glimpse of something very upsetting: her mother's face, cradled in her arms that rested on the table of Potions, and her shoulders shaking as if she were crying. Minerva had stood there, torn between the desire to comfort her mother and the feeling that Morven most of all wanted to be left alone. In the end, she'd grabbed her doll and silently left the cottage, setting out for the McKinnons' home instead.
How very foreboding it seemed to her now, and how terribly ironic. Minerva sighed, wondering what would have happened if she'd not been such a discreet and dutiful child: if, oblivious to any desire for privacy, she'd have been able to run over to comfort her mother that day, winning her over by sheer buffoonish charm.
Perhaps everything would have been different. But in the end, it was a fruitless experiment of thought. Minerva had never been anything but Minerva, and she was her mother's daughter, and that had been the disaster for both of them.
*
When Minerva was eighteen, she graduated from Hogwarts with excellent N.E.W.T.s. Morven had saved money to send her to an exclusive Transfiguration school in Cornwall, and Professor Dumbledore had written the letter of recommendation himself. Minerva left a girl, still used to obedience and other people's rules; she returned, one year later, with experience and insight and a core-deep feeling that there was no future for her on the island.
Morven had known as much, of course. After all, she had not meant for Minerva to become a Healer and take over her practice some day -- if so, she'd never have wasted her money on such an expensive education. Morven had come to the island as a refugee, but her daughter was to leave it in triumph. At least it had made sense, Minerva supposed. Logic was indisputable, if unforgiving.
She'd returned, nineteen years old and a new-sprung woman, to an island which was cold and wet, even in June, but still green and lovely, and to Marlene McKinnon, who was sixteen years old and lovelier still. One night, when Morven had been to see a patient on the other side of the island, Minerva had asked her friend over, the way she so often had when they both were younger. Marlene brought a bottle of Firewhisky she'd nicked from her brother, and they huddled together on the sofa in Morven's study, which also served as living room, giggling and sharing stories of the last year when they'd seen so little of each other.
"Not that I saw you much during the last years you went to Hogwarts," Marlene laughed, grabbing one of Minerva's dark braids and shaking it. "You were so busy with your prefect duties and your study. Not even a boyfriend, from what I heard!"
"Don't believe any rumours they tell in Hufflepuff House," Minerva chided, though she was smiling -- she liked the feeling of Marlene's hand, so close. "But no, there were no boys." She laughed. "No use for them!"
"Of course you'll say that." Marlene's laugh, a hot puff of breath against her neck. "Your mother is a widow, you're not used to having men around."
Even after all these years, the widow story still felt like a camel in Minerva's throat. She swallowed it with another laugh. "But why would I need one?"
"Well..." And Marlene's body felt very close now. "There are things boys and girls can do together." A tentative hand, seeking her own. "Have you ever done it, Minnie?"
Was this a good occasion to tell Marlene about Laetitia from the Transfiguration school? Who'd dragged Minerva into her room one drunken night and shown her just how much use she didn't have for boys? She swallowed. "It depends on what you mean, I suppose."
"So you have..." A gasp in the darkness of the room, a hand that moved, still tentatively, up her arm. "I've done nothing, nothing at all... But I don't like any of them, Minnie. Not nearly as much as I liked you. I've always known you... Can't you show me?"
Minerva's reserve burst then, with happiness and tenderness and a willingness to teach Marlene everything she herself had learned these last, joyful months. She seized Marlene's face between her hands and kissed her. "Did you like that?" she murmured after they'd both got their breath back.
"Yes -- yes!" Marlene's breathing was quick and eager now. "But can we -- I mean, here? What if your mother comes back?"
"She won't --" And Minerva was already loosening Marlene's robes, trying to do so quickly, but without using her wand. "She went to help some woman who's giving birth, she won't be coming home tonight."
What if she'd been correct? Minerva mused, still contemplating the stone. What if Morven had never known? Or would she have found out, sooner or later? Was everything that happened simply inevitable?
At any rate, the door had opened just as Minerva's head moved between Marlene's thighs, and Morven had come in just in time to find her only friend's daughter with her legs spread wide on the sofa, moaning at the things done to her by Morven's own child. It must have been quite a shock to anyone, Minerva thought, smiling sardonically. Although that of course didn't excuse what happened later -- she still couldn't bring herself to think so.
What happened later had been a fight fought with words more dangerous than spells, more lethal than poison. After Morven had sent home a shaking Marlene with some stony, simple words -- "Your mother is waiting for you" -- she'd simply stared at her daughter for a long time, her eyes cold. Minerva had winced under that gaze, even as she adjusted her robes and smoothed down her hair with partly-feigned defiance. In the end, she couldn't take it anymore, and simply burst out, "Well?"
"How long has this been going on?" Morven asked, voice still stony.
"What -- oh, it's not what you think!" Minerva exclaimed. "Tonight was the first time."
"Really."
Morven's eyes were horribly clear, even in the dimmed light of the cottage, and she suddenly reminded Minerva immensely of that half-forgotten woman from long ago. "It didn't look like the first time to me. You seemed to have -- " and her lips curled a little "-- a remarkable amount of expertise."
Minerva scowled, her cheeks burning.
"Is that what they taught you at the school, then?" Morven asked, slamming her hand against the table with a loud and sudden whack. "Is that what my money went to? To encourage your unnatural tendencies? Under my very roof!"
"For Merlin's sake, Mother," Minerva hissed, both shameful and desperate. "You know that's not true."
But Morven's face, still calm and stony, was containing more than rage now. "Do you know how much I have sacrificed for you, girl? So you could have a respectable life outside of this godforsaken place?" She slammed her hand against the table again. "Do you know what they will say about us? That I raised a creature who goes about perverting young girls, that's what!"
Minerva's shame turned to fury, and she sprung to her feet, staring her mother in the eye. "Is that all you care about? Your own respectability? Perhaps you shouldn't have brought a bastard child to life, then!"
The hand that had slammed against the table hit her cheek with a loud slap. "Not another word," Morven warned her.
But Minerva wouldn't be stopped. "That's it, isn't it?" she cried, holding a hand to her stinging face. "I must look good for you, so you can stop regretting having me in the first place? But I am what I am! What would you have me do? Go out and let a man bed me, just to prove that I can?"
"Get out," Morven said, her voice soft and deadly. "Get out. Don't come back."
Minerva had been too furious and hurt to think clearly. She'd Summoned her trunk and slammed some clothes and personal belongings into it, then Apparated to her friend Wilhelmina's home the same night. She'd stayed there for weeks, torn between the urge to apologise to her mother, and her wounded feelings and pride. She'd written to Marlene instead, letter upon letter begging her to come and live with her after Hogwarts, but she'd never got a letter in return.
Minerva had blamed her mother for that, too. Surely her mother must have somehow convinced Fiona not to let Marlene write her. Surely it all must be Morven's fault. Even after Minerva had run into Marlene in Hogsmeade many years later, and Marlene had pretended not to remember her -- a horrible shame and a horrible pride, but who could possibly be behind it all, other than Minerva's own mother?
*
The wind was getting worse.
Droplets of water were starting to fall: one here, another there, a third right on her nose. It would only take a minute, at the most, before the rain would set in.
Minerva took off her glasses and pressed a hand to her eyes. The wetness was salt; it had nothing to do with rain. It had to do with the fact that she'd never known her grandparents, and that when she'd finally tried to seek them out, after having seen her mother for the last time, she'd discovered that they'd both died only a couple of years before. It had to do with the fact that Marlene had never wanted to see her again, that she'd met a Muggleborn wizard two years her junior and moved to England to live with him, and that she'd died with him one warm night in ninety-eighty-one. It had to do with the fact that Minerva had kept blaming her mother for this, and kept waiting for a letter with an apology, and that the letter had never come.
Minerva had written one letter herself: to Fiona, with condolences for her daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren's tragic and untimely death. And Fiona had replied, kind as ever, and urged her to write her mother, who was more reclusive and less talkative than ever. Minerva never did.
Now Morven McGonagall was gone, dead from a disease more common amongst Muggles, which could perhaps have been cured if she'd sought out one of their Healers early enough. She never wanted to do that, Fiona had written in her owl this winter. She wanted to manage on her own. She thought that if she couldn't cure it herself, there was no point in living. But the sickness was horrible. It ate her up from within.
"She loved you, didn't she?" Minerva had asked this afternoon. She wanted to hear it, that her mother had not been completely alone -- that she, too, had had companionship and affection. "I think she felt you were the only one who knew her."
"Aye," said Fiona in her soft voice, placing a hand on Minerva's hand. "And I was very fond of her. But I never said as much, and neither did she. It was not in her nature to talk about such things, no matter how much she cared for someone. But I knew she cared for me. And she loved you, too."
Her smile was sad. "She wouldn't tell me why you'd left, not until I asked her if it had something to do with Marlene. I tried to make Marlene reply to your letters, too, but she was too ashamed, I think. They were both such stubborn women."
Putting her glasses back on, Minerva squinted westward. Beyond the large hill, not far from the McKinnon cottage, she had lived with her mother. According to Fiona, the cottage was still in decent shape. She very much wanted Minerva to come there during holidays, and to bring her friend with her.
Perhaps she would, after all.
Morven had come here, the child still an invisible lump in her stomach. She'd made a living for herself, doing her best to be seen as acceptable and respectable, crying over the old recipes in her Potions textbook that taught women how to free themselves of unwanted life. She'd chosen the child, the lie, and her respectable loneliness. Minerva had chosen the fight, the fame, and her woman.
Yes, she would return. The fight was over, and she herself was not young anymore. She could afford it, now.
She would return to the island, if not to the grave. She'd leave her mother to her final loneliness. Or perhaps not -- perhaps Poppy would make her change her mind about that, too.
"Farewell, then, Mother," Minerva murmured, bending down to touch the soil in front of the stone with the tip of her wand. A bouquet of lilies and thistles appeared, white and purple against the grey background. As a combination it was unusual -- some might call it bizarre -- but Minerva knew it was the right one. She gave it one last, long, look, then closed her eyes and turned away.