Love
It seems like only yesterday
You were just a child at play
The Scottish Highlands were so very gorgeous in the autumn. Minerva McGonagall could remember a time where she had stared at it through the attic window in awe for hours. She had been eighteen years old, and beautiful. Her hair was long and lustrous, black as the ink which flowed steadily from her quill. The glint in her large green eyes was always visible, and the wire rimmed glasses that balanced on her nose only heightened the air of intelligence that seemed to float about her. She had been poetic then, had seen the world in a different light.
There had been not a worry in her world, no threat of war or murder. Her life was so simple, so marvelous and full of hope. She had been so content to creep stealthily up to the attic and sit in the little white window seat, watching the sky glow gold in the evening light, admiring the black outlines of the majestic mountains of Caithnesse that jutted out over the distant horizon. She dreamed of visiting the mountains then, of flying on her broomstick to the very peaks and breathing in the earth and the trees and the clouds.
It seemed to her then as if her life would stretch endlessly in front of her, the hours and days and years passing as slowly and repeatedly as the little waves that lapped at the shores of the loch near her village.
And then she had met Dougal. Dear, sweet, humorous Dougal. Muggle Dougal. He had held her hand and told her she was all those things too.
He told her to let her hair down from its usual severe bun, and watched in wonder as her dark locks tumbled down about her shoulders.
He introduced her to the animals of his farm, beamed when she didn’t shy away from a birthing cow. She gazed in admiration as Dougal ran about with little Malcolm and Robert Jr., listened to their laughter as if it was life itself.
And then one day, Dougal proposed to her. She had rushed at him, losing any dignity she possessed. She held him to her so tightly, and yelled “Yes!” at the top of her lungs, only now realizing what Dougal had meant when he told her to let her hair down. He had spun her around, and Minerva had felt as though she was in one of those silly Muggle romance novels that Dougal’s lovely mother had lent her to read. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world.
As she walked home that night, she twisted the pretty silver ring around her finger. She hadn’t been certain if it was real silver, as she was fairly sure Dougal’s family didn’t have very much money. To Minerva, that made it even more special. But as she walked through the squeaky front door, and saw her mother on her hands and knees scrubbing the dusty floorboards, and her Muggle father at the kitchen table penning a letter, the spark in her chest seemed to diminish.
Solemnly, she had ventured to her mother’s wooden cabinet in the attic. With a flick of her wand, she unlocked it. It was crammed with dusty spell books, a threadbare pointed hat, a long-forgotten broomstick, small piles of galleons. On one shelf sat her mother’s folded up Hogwarts uniform. Chocolate Frog cards and empty potions bottles littered the bottom of the cabinet, and lying in pride of place lay a long royal blue box. Minerva had lifted the lid, to find exactly what she had expected. Her mother’s wand rested on a grimy blue cushion, gathering dust. Locked up for years.
Minerva McGonagall had been so very young then, so very naive. Some little part of her had thought that maybe Dougal was different, maybe he wouldn’t care. He didn’t seem the type to be frightened of her magic. But still, she slipped the simple little ring from her finger and placed it in the box with her mother’s old wand. She shut the cabinet door, and locked it once more.
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50 Song Challenge- Harry Potter
Fanfiction50 short stories about the characters of Harry Potter, all based on songs.
