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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"His name is Professor Dumbledore."
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15 April 1960
Malcolm was sitting in the kitchen with Elgar, who was teaching him how to make a proper custard.
"It is crucial, Master Malcolm, to keep stirring the pot gently," the elf said, indicating the wooden spoon that was revolving in a steaming pot. "You can do it by hand or by magic—once you is of age, of course—but you must do it, or the custard will curdle. Here," said Elgar, stopping the spoon and urging the boy to step to the stove. "Master Malcolm should try it."
Malcolm did as he was bid and took the spoon, gingerly stirring the pot.
He had been so disappointed when Elgar had arrived without his mother. She was delayed at the school, Elgar said, and would be along as soon as she could. Malcolm's last visit was at Christmas, and he was aching to see her, but at fifteen, he wasn't about to let anyone know, so he affected what he hoped was a world-weary nonchalance on the subject.
He knew he wasn't fooling Elgar. Malcolm couldn't keep his eyes from glancing towards the entry hall every few seconds, and finally, Elgar had suggested it was time Master Malcolm learnt to cook a little—why didn't young Master come to the kitchen to assist Elgar in making the ginger-lemon curd he so loved with his scones? Gran and Granddad had given their blessing to the arrangement, and off he went with Elgar.
So here he was, standing over a hot stove, stirring the curd as if he weren't a wizard with a wand to help him do manual tasks like this. Ah, well, he reminded himself, one has to stir potions by hand too. And he liked being with Elgar. It reminded him of when they were all together in France, a proper family. Before his dad had come over funny and ran off.
Because that's what had happened, Malcolm was sure of it. When he was young, he had believed what his mum had said about Father disappearing and nobody knowing what had happened. Then, when he got older, he heard stories about fathers who left mothers to go off with other women—it had happened to a classmate, who came home from one summer hol groaning about having two mothers after his dad had married the woman he'd left for. Malcolm supposed that might be why his dad had drunk so much those last months; he was in love with someone else, and it had torn him apart not to be with her.
