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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"What's your hurry, madam?"
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2 May 1946
"Will you shut that brat up?" Kenneth Macnair roared. He slammed the door to his study and stalked back to his desk.
Walden's mewling was adding to the throbbing in his temples, and images of himself throttling the boy and his sorry house-elf excuse for a nursemaid were beginning to tramp ominously through his head.
Everything's going pear-shaped. Why is everything going pear-shaped? he thought, looking at his papers and charting the steady decline of his investment income.
Ever since that meddling, half-blood bastard had sent Grindelwald to prison, the special, select markets into which Kenneth had poured much of his ready cash had been skittish at best. And the Swiss and Austrian Magical Exchanges had nearly collapsed, taking a good part of his portfolio with them.
Things weren't dire—not yet. Kenneth hadn't been so foolish as to sink all his liquid assets into vehicles that disappeared when Grindelwald fell, as some of his acquaintances had done. But the reduction in his assets was a definite worry.
Gods! His head ached. Maybe after lunch he would pop down to London for a short spree. The exercise always did him good, and he usually felt more settled in his head after a session at Pluto's Lair.
He frowned. It would cost him, though. Probably extra after that last time. They always jacked up the price after you'd put someone in St Mungo's. If his investments didn't turn around, he'd have to find a cheaper house in which to indulge his fantasies. It might even be more economical to buy whores right off the street, but, then again, there was no guarantee they'd be any good, and eventually someone might notice if too many went missing.
There were always Muggle brothels; it was easy enough to charm some worthless paper into Muggle pound notes, and by the time the charm wore off, he'd be long gone. And if he slipped and killed one ... well, it would be harder for the Muggle authorities to trace it back to him. Of course, that hadn't helped his father, but really, the man was hardly careful, was he? Absolutely no control of himself, he'd had, Kenneth thought with a sneer. It had been good riddance to bad rubbish, as far as Kenneth-the-Younger was concerned, and the same went for his worthless brother. Arranging things for Finn had cost him dearly, and there was money he'd never see again.
