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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"So, Malcolm's got himself a little French girlfriend."
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16 August 1963
Alastor fisted the tears from his eyes while Minerva silently conjured a handkerchief so he could wipe his mouth.
Gods, how he hated to puke!
Apparition had always made him sick to his stomach, but he'd learnt not to show it for fear of being seen as weak in front of his Auror mates, and he could usually manage to keep his lunch safely inside him, even for long hops around Britain. But Apparating across a large body of water was an entirely different matter. He had a trans-Channel licence, of course, but he hadn't used it much. He let those other sods—the ones who were panting to move up in Magical Law Enforcement—take the occasional international assignments. Alastor Moody was content to fight Dark wizards in his own backyard; Merlin knew there were enough of 'em about, even without a fearless leader to get them riled up and organised.
Yet here he was, depositing his morning kippers into the Cherbourg dust.
Minerva Vanished the mess he had made.
"Are you feeling better?" she asked.
"Yeah. It always affects me like this," he admitted. "I'll be good as new in a minute."
Minerva looked no worse for the long hop, and Alastor tried not to feel resentful that a woman who couldn't weigh any more than eight stone soaking wet had a stronger stomach than an Auror who tipped the scales at almost thirteen.
When he felt more in control of his upper digestive system, he said, "I reckon I'm ready now," and Minerva gave him a small smile.
Offering her arm, she said, "I'll just take us to an alley I know in Paris. Malcolm's going to meet us there."
Sure enough, as soon as Alastor got his bearings, Minerva's son was there, clapping Alastor warmly on the back and directing them to a bistro in the Quartier des Mages, Paris's larger equivalent of Diagon Alley.
"My flat isn't too big," Malcolm said apologetically, "so I thought we'd lunch here."
Alastor didn't care much for French food—a bit too nancy for his taste, he found—but Minerva ate with a gusto he'd rarely seen back home.
