A Slant-Told Tale | Minerva McGonagall

Chapter Fifteen

"Yes and no," Albus said. "The Sorting Hat will also take into account your personal preference."

"So ... if I tell it I'd rather not be in Slytherin, it won't put me there?"

"I daresay it will not put you where you don't want to be, but you should be assured that there is nothing at all wrong with Slytherin House. Many fine witches and wizards—like Professor Slughorn—have come through Slytherin. I believe it was your father's House as well."

"Yes, sir. And I meant no disrespect. It's just that ... well, I've done a bit of reading, and it doesn't seem it would be a good fit for me," said Malcolm.

"I see. Well, you may be correct, although I advise you not to believe everything you read about Slytherin. Books and articles tend only to report the bad and none of the good of that noble House. In any event, it is just as likely you will be sorted into your mother's House. The sorting tends to fall along family lines, although there are, of course, many exceptions. Shall we find out?" Albus asked holding the hat aloft.

"Yes, sir."

Minerva closed her eyes along with Malcolm as Albus lowered the hat onto his head. In the brief silence that followed, she opened them and saw the hat scrunch up its already-wrinkled face before crying, "Gryffindor!"

Malcolm opened his eyes, obviously relieved, and grinned at his mother, who smiled back.

"Congratulations, my boy!" said Albus, removing the hat and placing it back on its shelf. "Are you pleased?"

"Oh, yes, sir," Malcolm said.

Albus glanced at Minerva. "I must warn you, you have a very strict Head of House."

"Yes, I've heard as much," said Malcolm.

"I should let you two get on with your afternoon, then," Albus said. "Minerva, would you mind coming by later? I have one or two questions about the timetables."

"Certainly, Albus," she said. "I'll come by here when we're back from Hogsmeade, if that's all right?"

"Fine, fine. Enjoy your day." Albus extended his hand to Malcolm. "Again, Welcome to Hogwarts, Mr Macnair."

Malcolm took the offered hand and shook it.

"Thank you, sir."

Minerva's belly clenched as their hands made contact, and she had to remind herself to breathe.

~oOo~

As Malcolm browsed the stacks at Tomes and Scrolls, Minerva took surreptitious inventory of her son. Malcolm was tall—easily two or more inches taller than the fifth-year boys in her classes—and thin without being bony. The hair on his head was medium brown and wavy, while his incipient beard had a reddish tint. His eyes were the blue of sea-polished glass, and he moved with a lanky grace that Minerva recognised. His high cheekbones and thin lips were hers, but that was all. There was nothing like Gerald in him.

Did he notice?

Albus had certainly not reacted as if he suspected anything about Malcolm's paternity. The boy's height alone should have been enough to suggest to a careful observer that Gerald Macnair was not involved in his siring. Though it was likely, Minerva thought, that Albus didn't recall what Gerald had looked like—medium height, golden blonde, with deep-blue eyes and a square jaw—but she wondered if Albus could see how much Malcolm was growing into a man that resembled himself.

Of course he doesn't. He isn't looking for it. As long as I don't give anything away, he won't be looking for it, either, she told herself firmly.