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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Are you happy, Minerva?"
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
24 December 1998
"I thought I saw young Mr Weasley here," Horace said as he led Minerva to the dance floor. "Has he decided to return to school after all?"
"No, I believe he's Miss Granger's escort," Minerva said.
They settled into the rhythm of the music, Minerva easily following Horace's strong lead.
"I would have thought Harry more to her taste," he said.
"No, I think it's always been Ronald. Those two have been dancing around one another for several years. It's nice to see they've figured things out. I was beginning to despair of them."
Horace spun Minerva in a dizzying twirl. His meaty hand reconnected with her waist and manoeuvred her expertly around the couple to their right. "They're fortunate to have found love so young. Some of us don't manage it until much later in life. If at all," he said.
His eyes misted over, and she looked away.
They danced without speaking for several minutes before the song ended. Strings swelled and swooped, and Ella Fitzgerald's sultry contralto filled the room. Minerva had intended to excuse herself from Horace's embrace at the song change, but instead she just adjusted her steps and took pleasure in his fine sense of rhythm and sure hand at her waist.
He said, "I'm glad the students deigned to include some music in the line-up that we old codgers could dance to."
"Indeed. I was afraid my eardrums would burst when that band started up. This is a blessed relief."
"Well, the young will have their fun. We can't begrudge them that after all they've been through. Besides," he said, "I recall that my father thought Celestina Warbeck an atrocity when I started listening to her on the wireless back in the '30s."
Minerva privately thought that Horace's father had a point. Although almost anything was better than the noise made by the quartet calling themselves "The Pure Mudbloods," which Minerva thought was almost as tasteless as their music. She sincerely hoped they had finished for good and not just buggered off for a smoke or a nosh.
