From Jupiter's Head | Epithalamium #0.75 | Minerva McGonagall

Chapter One

5 February 1930

Thorfinn McGonagall sat in his study answering some of the many letters of condolence that continued to pour in two months after his wife's death, when a shriek from somewhere on a floor above pulled him out of his chair. He shot out the door, up the stairs, and down the hall, moving faster than anyone would have believed the large man could.

He arrived in the doorway to the nursery to find his mother-in-law, Morna, frantically casting Aguamenti spells at the curtains and tapestries that had once depicted scenes from Tales of Beadle the Bard but were now blackening and curling as flames consumed them.

"They keep lighting up," Morna told Thorfinn when he joined her to shoot water at the conflagration. Together, they doused the flames within a few minutes.

Wiping his sweaty brow with his sleeve, Thorfinn looked over at his wee daughter.

Minerva was scowling at the baby, who gurgled happily in his cot, evidently enormously entertained by the antics of the grownups.

"She was having a strop," Morna whispered to Thorfinn. "I don't think she even knows what she did."

"Was anyone hurt?"

"No, I don't think so."

Thorfinn checked baby Einar, who appeared to be perfectly intact.

"Are you all right, lass?" he asked his daughter.

Minerva's little arms were crossed tightly over her chest. She nodded, her brows drawn together like black caterpillars in a fierce and furious confrontation.

With a few efficient swipes of Morna's wand, the soaked and blackened wall hangings were Vanished and the water siphoned neatly from the floor.

"I'll go ask one of the house-elves to organise some new curtains for that window while you sort the children," she said, giving Thorfinn a meaningful look.

Thorfinn sighed and turned to his older child.

"What happened, Minerva?"

"Einar ruint it." Tears clung to the corners of her eyes, and Thorfinn had the impression she was refusing to let them fall out of sheer will.

"What did he ruin?"

"That."

She pointed a chubby finger at a crumpled bit of parchment on the floor next to the baby's cot.

Thorfinn picked it up and flattened it out. It was a carefully sketched picture of a woman with big green eyes and long black hair. The drawing was childish, but Thorfinn recognised its subject and blinked back his own tears.

"Did you draw this?" he asked.

Minerva nodded, her eyes red but dry now.

"I was showing it to him, and he grabbed it, and it tore, and now it's ruint, all because of him!"

She stamped her foot, and an electric zing of magic buzzed past Thorfinn's shoulder. The edge of the parchment caught fire in his hand, and he quickly blew out the small flame.

"I'm sorry, Da! I didn't mean to!"

Minerva's lip trembled, and she pulled up her pinafore to hide her tears.

Thorfinn knelt down to his daughter and gently took her pinny from her hands, smoothing it down over her blue woollen dress.

"I know that. But I need you to calm yourself. Try breathing deeply."

He waited, stroking her plaited head while she drew a few shuddering breaths.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yes."

"That's my braw lassie."

Glancing at Einar, who had fallen asleep after all the excitement of the morning, Thorfinn drew Minerva over to a rocking chair and hoisted her onto his lap.

"This is a lovely picture," he said. "And it's nae ruined at all. I can mend it, with your permission."

Minerva nodded, looking up at him earnestly.

With a reassuring smile at his child, he drew his wand and pointed it at the parchment.

"Papyrum emendo!"

The jagged tear that bisected Morrigan's sketched face disappeared.

If only I could have healed her so easily, Thorfinn thought, but pushed it away. His daughter needed him now, and he couldn't fall apart.

"It's Mother," Minerva said. "I made it for you. To make you smile again."

A lump clogged the words in Thorfinn's throat.

Somehow, he croaked out, "It's beautiful. Thank you."

"I miss her," Minerva said.

"So do I." Thorfinn took a handkerchief from his robe pocket and dabbed at his leaking eyes. "But she's still here with us, even if we can't see her," he said. "She's in our hearts and in our memories, and nothing will ever change that. I see her in you, my darling girl. You have her hair and her eyes, you know."

"I do?"

"Aye. And I'm beginning to think you have her strong magic."

"Did she make things go on fire?"

Thorfinn chuckled. "No, but she was fiery enough when she was angry, just like you. She learned to control her magic as she grew up. That's something you'll need to learn to do too. Gran and I will help you."

"Will it be hard?"

"Sometimes. But I know you can do it. You've already started. Your magic escaped when you got angry, but you didn't light your brother on fire, no matter how fiadhaich he made you. And just now, you didn't burn my hand when you sparked the picture. As upset as you were, you didn't let your magic hurt anyone. I'm proud of you."

She wriggled around in his arms and buried her face against his chest.

"I love you, Da. I would never hurt you."

Fierce love for his small, serious girl welled up in him, and he kissed the top of her head.

"I love you, Minerva. Now, do you think you could forgive your baby brother for tearing your beautiful picture?"

"I s'pose."

"Good. Because I'll need your help with him. Babies don't know anything. You know so many things. How to ride a toy broom. How to read stories. And you're beginning to know how to use magic, and, more importantly, how not to use it. Will you help me teach Einar?"

"Yes, Da." The brown-flecked green eyes sparkled up at him, just as her mother's used to, and he swallowed past the pain it gave him.

"Thank you."

She hopped off his lap and went over to the cot where Einar slept.

Thorfinn came up beside her and looked at his tiny son, so nearly taken from him during the birth that ultimately took his wife. How strange that such beauty could come from such violence, he thought. He offered a silent thanks to Morrigan for bringing these children into his world.

"He's bonny," Minerva said. "When he's asleep."

"That he is."

He took her small hand in his.

"Let's take advantage of his nap. How would you like to come read some stories to me?"

"Yes. But not Beedle the Bard. I want 'The Little Mermaid'."

"'The Little Mermaid' it is."