Before she was Professor McGonagall, she was Minerva Macnair. After an arranged marriage forces her into an impossible situation, Minerva does what she must to survive. When she makes a new life for herself, her secrets follow and threaten everythin...
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"The past is past. It's forgotten."
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10 June 1979
Albus hesitated for a second before stepping into the open arms of a beaming Malcolm. As they embraced, he glanced at Minerva over Malcolm's shoulder. Her face would have been inscrutable had he not known her so well. The way her lips pressed tightly together, combined with the hint of pink in her cheeks, told him that she was trying to keep her emotions in check.
And why shouldn't she be emotional? This was her son's wedding, after all.
Their son's wedding.
He still didn't allow himself to think of it too often. Since Minerva's confession, he'd spent considerable time examining his feelings, looking for the requisite emotions. Not finding them, he had been both disappointed and relieved. The concept of having a child remained as abstract as the idea of having a tail, even after Malcolm had confronted him with his newfound knowledge.
"Why?" Malcolm had asked.
Albus's answers—something about caring for Minerva, wanting to give her control over one thing in the obscenity that was her betrothal and marriage, as well as an admission that her request had appealed to his unforgiveable vanity—had been carefully prepared against just this eventuality, and they utterly failed to satisfy Malcolm, who had shaken his head in irritation.
"No. I mean, why did you never tell me?"
"By the time I found out, you were a teenager ... nearly grown. I didn't think you—or your mother—would appreciate my trying to insinuate myself into your lives in that way at that point."
"You might have asked."
"Perhaps. But by then, you had Alastor. My interference might have soured that for you all. At the very least, it would have complicated things between your mother and him."
"Those are facile answers, Albus," Malcolm had said, his steady gaze penetrating, searching for a deeper truth in Albus's face.
And there it was. Yet another moment at which Albus had to decide if the truth about his ... peculiarity ... was a better or worser angel. His persona had been meticulously constructed over the years, his frequent musings on the importance of love adding to his legend. How could he say aloud that he, the great and mighty Albus Dumbledore, lacked the ability to wield this most human and powerful of all magics?
