A Nine Lives Long Tale [SUSPENDED]

Minerva McGonagall was a liar. Normally, she considered herself a professional, not because of how skilled she was at it, but because lying was part of her job. Circumstances had required that she learn early how to successfully fool grown adults, and so, after a long and challenging field training, encouraged by the great importance of the job and the absolute tragedy that failure would have led to, she had managed to develop a rather satisfying level of dexterity. Truth to be told, many of those she deceived weren’t exactly the sharpest tools in the shed. The people who lived in her town were simple people, mostly seamen or distillery workers; they were nosey, but trusting; most of them were good people forgotten by life and time, eager to put their hands on anything that could distract them from themselves. The previous years had been harsh: many had lost some family, out in the sea, high on a plane, under a bomb. All of them had something to forget; all of them needed something to rely on. That something would often be the reverend and his family: humble, honest, ordinary people, whose ordinary life was voted to the community. Or at least, that was what the community had to believe, and Minerva’s job was to keep things that way, covering for her brothers’ mistakes and accidents, keeping the secret of her family. Lies after lies after lies.

“Liar” is a strong word. Minerva’s father, Reverend Robert McGonagall, had made that very clear. To him, words were sacred and had to be used carefully. His words and his voice were his power. His voice was deep and vigorous but gentle; it was the voice of a preacher. When he spoke from the pulpit, it was breath-taking; when he made words for the right and the wrong, for salvation and sin, his voice didn’t crack, didn’t shake, not even once. He had the voice of a preacher; most of the days, he hadn’t the voice of a father. In the manse, silence reigned over him. As the sky in the middle of the night, his face was darker, his lips quiet; but from time to time, unexpectedly, words fell over like thunders. Sometimes they inspired, sometimes they scarred. “Liar” is a scarring word.

Minerva often thought that if her father could forget what he knew and let himself be lied to, he would. He had never told such a thing, but it was obvious to her. All he wanted was an honest and ordinary family (that he often said); it was almost hilarious how far from that definition they had placed themselves. “At least, let’s be ordinary on the outside!” he used to say before Sunday functions. There it was: the honest man asking them to lie. But Minerva was glad to oblige. For her family, she would have lied to the whole world. However, she had never lied to her family. Not until now. If she hadn't been a liar before, she surely was now.

“Dear Ms. McGonagall,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Minerva was reading her letter for the thousandth time, locked in her small room. The owl had come three weeks before in the early hours of the day. She had seen her mother receive mail via the wizarding system before (mostly the Daily Prophet, and only a couple of letters a year), but she'd never received a letter herself. The owl was quite large, with grey feathers and big, inquisitive, yellow eyes. He remained perfectly still in his regal pose while Minerva fumbled to open the window. She managed eventually, but right before she could reach out to grab the letter, she froze. The owl stared at her with his big yellow eyes for another moment before he closed them, bending his head and encouraging her. She moved her trembling hand closer until the letter was there, between her fingers, thick and rough parchment. After three whole weeks, it felt less rough, probably because of all the time it had been kept between her fingers or under her pillow. Now, after her mother’s goodnight, she had pulled it out and read it once again. She had to tell them. Her mother was becoming suspicious, maybe even worried that her daughter hadn’t been accepted; and if she ever found out that her daughter had lied, that would be a real mess. She had to tell them, but for a little more, for that night at least, she wanted to keep the secret; she wanted to preserve the fragile balance she had been tiptoeing around since she could remember. Even if that made her a liar.

Minerva wasn’t sure she wanted to be a witch. Well, she couldn’t decide what to be: that had been clear since the day she was born. Nevertheless, she could decide what to become.

Her mother didn’t talk often about the magical world, so Minerva didn’t understand what she was getting into. She did know some things about Hogwarts, like about the living paintings and Quidditch and Houses. Not much more than this, though. She surely knew about the war. She might not have lived it, as she had done with the muggle war, but she knew it was there. The other kids in town, when they played or read stories of fairies and wizards, imagined that other, inaccessible world as a peaceful, wonderful place. She never had that chance: in the newspapers, she had read of bombing as much as of unforgivable curses, and so she had learned that people, muggles or wizards, were all built the same; all of them felt the right to drag innocent people into wars. So, was it truly good news, being accepted to Hogwarts? Being called into a world that had managed to restore peace barely a couple of years before? Being dragged away from her troublemaker brothers, unable to help them and cover for them? Unable to be the liar they needed?

These thoughts and maybe more buzzed in her head every night since the letter. They were so many, so loud and chaotic that they were drowning out the rational part. That was it: she had to tell them before she grew insane. She slipped the letter back under her pillow and closed her eyes. It would all be fine.

***

“Finally!” her mother yelped, jumping up from her chair and hurrying to hug her. Her auburn hair smelled of the oranges she had cut for their breakfast. After a few seconds she shyly withdrew, taking back her seat.

They were eating in their little kitchen. From the other side of the table, her father had gone pale; his broad shoulders had tightened, his slim lips disappeared into a thin white line.

“Well done, Minerva,” her mother said, with a much more controlled voice, bending her head down and staring guiltily at her plate. Still, she had a small, uncontrollable smile.

“What’s that, mum?” asked Rabbie, scratching his tiny head beneath his messy black hair.

“That’s the letter from Hogwarts, you idiot!”

“Malcom!” Isobel tutted. “Don’t call your brother that!”

Malcom couldn’t care less - he had already grown deaf to his mother's reproaches. He turned to Minerva, with eyes wide with excitement. “It’s that, innit?”

She nodded and offered the letter to him.

“Wow!” Rabbie exclaimed, carefully watching as his brother opened it. The two boys stared at the letter for a while (after all, they were nine and six years old, they could barely read). Malcom was the first to finish, leaving the piece of parchment to his brother, who in the meantime had squinted his eyes and poked his tongue, concentrating.

“In which House do you want to end up? When are you going to buy the stuff? We could all go together!”

While Malcom had turned back at his sister with a burst of questions, throwing his short arms in the air, Rabbie had admitted defeat and had turned to his father, placing the letter in his hands, and asking what it said.

“Oh, and we have to all go to Kings Cross!” Malcom continued. “Let’s see, it is on September the 1^st, so… wait, you’re leaving in two weeks?!” he asked, alarmed.

Minerva swallowed hard and looked at her dad. He was staring at her, with an unreadable expression, holding the letter in his big hands. Was he angry? Was he disappointed? Was he about to rip the letter in two? From across the table, they stared at each other, while the others fell silent. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he gave her a soft smile.

“She is,” he simply said.

***

Even if apparating all the way from the Highlands to London wasn't Minerva's favourite experience, it was worth it. Diagon Alley was incredible, foreign and yet familiar at the same time. People in robes that swished on the cobblestone; voices over voices, words she had heard only a few times before, words completely new; cauldrons and toads and pointed hats. Rabbie and Malcom had had every right to be envious, Minerva thought: it was amazing. The boys had to stay at home, because Isobel couldn’t possibly take care of two impossible children on her own while shopping in a so crowded place. It wasn't necessary for her father to verbally decline the invite, of course.

Isobel had decided to apparate in front of a little old-looking shop, Ollivander’s.

“I reckon the first thing you’d like to own is a wand,” she trilled, before taking her daughter’s hand, “it was what I wanted when I was your age.”

She guided her inside the shop, where Minerva was measured, and looked at, and handed wand after wand.

“It was easier for you, eh, Isobel?” the shop owner chuckled coming from the back with yet another narrow box. “Ten inches, cherry, unicorn hair, I seem to remember.”

“Exactly,” Isobel nodded. “I don’t use it much these days, though.”

Ollivander frowned a bit, while carefully opening the box. “I see. Can’t say it is not a waste.” He slowly picked up the wand and offered it to Minerva. “Fir wood, stiff, nine and a half inches, dragon heartstring.”

In the very moment her fingertips met the wood, a strange warmth spread up her arm. She looked up at Ollivander, astounded.

He grinned maniacally in return. “You’re feeling it, don’t you? Come on, wave it!”

And she did so. A few red sparks poured from the tip, falling lazily to the floor. She couldn’t help but smile.

“The wand has chosen you,” he declared. Then he added, winking at her, “Planning to get the top marks in Transfiguration, dear?”

Minerva must have looked very confused (she really was) because, as he placed the wand back in the box, Mr. Ollivander let out a chuckle and went ahead to explain. “I’m sure you know that every wand is unique. However, some characteristics and their combinations are known to be best suited for this or that kind of magic… if their owner is too, of course.”

They paid and left the store, proceeding to purchase every other item listed in the admission letter. Minerva was ecstatic, turning her head left to right to look at every showcase, to read every shop sign, to catch every face, every spell that flew around. Her mother was almost as enthusiastic as her. Minerva couldn't recall ever seeing her so happy and at ease, so placid. Her grey eyes, usually puffy and full of worry, were now shiny and relaxed, framed with beautiful little wrinkles from smiling. Her voice was lit up by a twinkle of joy, as she explained to her daughter how she will be using her new shiny cauldron, or why she couldn’t have a broom yet – a real pity, in Minerva’s opinion.

“Would you like being on the Quidditch team, dear?” her mother asked while they waited in line to pay for the textbooks.

Minerva shrugged unceremoniously. “I don’t even know the game.”

“I’m sure you will. And I can already say you’ll love it.”

One of the best things about the whole experience was the other people, and particularly the kids. Some of them were obviously older than her, walking perfectly at ease and without any parent trotting behind them. Some were about her age, but their familiarity with the shops and the street, and the way they waved at each other among the crowd made it very clear that they weren’t first years. However, Minerva had spotted a few children with eyes as wide as hers, a few holding brand new robes or eyeing eagerly at the broomsticks on display, exactly as she had done moments before. No one seemed to notice her staring, except for one boy.

Minerva had been halfway through her list of requested items, when her mother had shown the first hint of poorly hidden concern since they had arrived at Diagon Alley. They were about to enter Madam Malkin's shop to buy her uniform. However, Isobel had stopped right before the entrance, a hand clenched around the small green pouch in which she kept the money.

“I- I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she stuttered, “first I need to check something at the Gringotts – that’s the bank, dear.”

So, Minerva had been dragged a few steps down the street to find herself alone in front of the huge, white-marbled building to wait for her mother. She used that time to look around even more. Her eyes were quickly caught by the most beautiful eagle owl she had ever seen, sitting majestically in a golden cage just a few feet away; but after a few moments, she felt a prickling feeling on her skin. Awkwardly looking upwards, she was met by a pair of dark piercing eyes gazing at her. Those eyes and that owl belonged to one of the most handsome boys she had ever seen. His high cheekbones and his pale skin made him look like some royalty. His elegant posture, his long neck and the small waves of silky black hair neatly combed on the side cleared every doubt: he had to be a prince. Then, as he raised his perfect eyebrows and stretched his lips in a subtle wicked smirk, his whole royal appearance fell, revealing something far more dangerous.

“What are you waiting for, boy?” a strident female voice called from behind him.

The boy kept his gaze on Minerva for a few seconds more before turning his head to face the woman that voice belonged to, abandoning those devilish features in favour of a blank expression. “Nothing, mother.”

“What were you looking at?”

When the woman made a step toward the boy, Minerva was able to see her. She was tall and stout, with the same black eyes and raven hair, falling long and wavy just above her shoulders. Like the boy, she was wearing a fine black robe and around her neck hung a precious silver chain with an emerald pendant.

“Nothing, mother,” the boy repeated, tamely bending his head. They both had an incredibly controlled pronunciation, which Minerva had only heard before on the radio.

The woman eyed him suspiciously before looking around; her eyes fell almost immediately on Minerva. She looked down at her, a disgusted twist forming in her mouth, and for the first time, Minerva became aware of how she must look like in her modest muggle clothes and with the bag of second-hand books in her hands. Instinctively, she raised a hand to her chest to touch the brass cross necklace she was wearing. It was nothing compared to emerald.

The boy was looking at her as well, but his eyes lacked that same judgment. His chin was still down, and he looked almost… embarrassed? How could he be the one embarrassed? But then she also thought, why should she be embarrassed? She had nothing to be ashamed of. She was a proud girl after all. So, she raised her chin, defiantly looking back at the woman.

After a few seconds, without breaking eye contact, she grabbed her son's arm. “Come along, Alphard. Your father and your brother are already waiting for us inside.”

But before they could go, something caught the woman's eyes from behind Minerva. She turned her head to find that she was looking at her mother coming down the stairs of the bank.

“Here I am, dear. That’s all taken care of, so when…” Isobel trailed off, squinting her eyes at the woman in front of them. “Irma?”

“Isobel Ross?” They both looked surprised by the encounter.

Also, to Minerva’s surprise, Isobel didn’t correct her. “How have you been?” she asked instead, politely – too politely, forcing down all the Scottish accent she might have picked up during the years. She obviously didn’t like the woman too.

“Splendidly, thank you,” she answered with a haughty tone. “Is that your daughter?”

“Yes. Her name is Minerva. She will be entering Hogwarts in September.”

“Ah, I see. Alphard will too,” Irma said, placing a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Another Slytherin to make the Black family proud.” The way she had emphasized the family name almost made Minerva grimace.

Isobel evidently didn't love it either, because her politeness was replaced by that wryness she allowed way too rarely. “Oh, I’m sure he will.”

While the two women exchanged some other sarcastic remarks disguised as pleasantries, the two kids looked at each other. Minerva was a bit confused by the whole interaction, but Alphard clearly wasn’t, and he had regained his devilish smirk. She wasn’t sure if he was trying to be funny or mocking her. Either way, she didn’t care. If his mother was such a snob, he must be too, and Minerva couldn’t stand snobbery.

“Isobel darling,” Irma started, her face opening in a strained smile that poorly hid her annoyance, “it has been a pleasure to see you again after all this time, but we have to go now.”

“Sure, sure,” Isobel replied, clearly relieved, “I’ll see you on the Platform then. Goodbye, Irma.”

“Goodbye, ma’am” Minerva muttered, and saluted the boy with a small nod.

His smirk widened. “See you on the train, ma’am.”

No, he wasn’t being funny. He was most definitely mocking her.