Chapter Text
Author’s Note: Thank you for your support.
Ache is part of a series. In fact, it is the story that launched the series.
When I initially started writing Ache, it was planned as a oneshot exclusive to the first chapter of this fic.
The story wouldn’t let me be. My vision for the backstory that led to this first chapter consumed my mind. I fell hard.
Please note that I write for a number of fandoms. I also write for a living. As such, Harry Potter has largely fallen to the backburner. Thank you for patience as I work to complete & post this series.
“Grave Concoctions” is an homage to The Elder Scrolls. I love the name, and it seemed so fitting for a pub.
Some wounds ache. Some wounds fester.
You know how it ends—a duel.
Now see the beginning.
Ache is just one part of a series—eleven stories that encompass how Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape came to Hogwarts, their time during two wars, and their complicated dynamic.
Ache: Halloween 1981 - Spring 1995 - Available now/complete
Soak: Summer 1995 – Available now/complete
Ignite: Fall 1995 - Spring 1996
Damp: Summer 1996
Flare: Fall 1996 - Spring 1997
Burn: The story of how Minerva received her Dark Mark
Glow: The Minister's Inauguration
Wet: Summer 1997
Ash: Minerva, post battle of Hogwarts
Brand: The story of how Severus received his Dark Mark – Available now/WIP
Chill: Fall 1997 - Spring 1998
31 October | 1981
Minerva McGonagall smoothed her cloak as she stepped silently through the door into Grave Concoctions. It was a large pub frequented by members of the Order and was located in Wizarding London. Minerva slipped in quickly and snagged a single glass and a bottle of special reserve elf-made whisky.
It had been little over an hour earlier when she'd watched Dumbledore drop off young Harry Potter at his Aunt's doorstep.
Minerva was still heated about the arrangement.
The pub was toasting the infant, his parents, Dumbledore, lost friends and family, and even the Ministry. The mood was celebratory—not that Minerva could blame them. Everyone in that room had lost someone dear. War did that.
Minerva noticed Mundungus Fletcher passed out at a nearby table. Sturgis Podmore was getting cheeky with a cocktail waitress near the bar. Across the room, Algie Longbottom was leading a group in song.
“I’ve been telling old stories, singing songs that make me think about where I came from!”
The crowd was in full force, swaying along as they belted out the tune.
Minerva was in no mood to sing.
She simply wanted to be alone.
Her head was pounding. Her back ached. Above all else, she felt a horrible sense of dissatisfaction that she couldn't shake.
Minerva quickly made her way from the bar to the stairwell that led to the upper floors. There was a small window that led to the roof of the building. Minerva planned to sneak outside, sit on the roof, and enjoy her solitude.
As she made her way upstairs, she nodded to Guy Martin, the French ambassador. He was a long-time supporter of Dumbledore. Minerva also passed several other Order members and supporters, including three members of her staff—Pomona Sprout, Filius Flitwick, and Rolanda Hooch—who were supposed to be at Hogwarts.
Pomona’s tone was apologetic.
"The feast was done. And besides, you're here,” she said with a knowing look.
Pomona’s air of authority vanished as she hiccupped. Flitwick hid a grin. Hooch elbowed her in the ribs.
“Told you to go easy on that stuff,” she teased.
Minerva gave her colleagues a small nod and went on her way. She was a woman on a mission to find a sliver of solitude.
A woman that felt utterly alone in a packed pub.
Minerva emerged from the smoky, smelly pub into the crisp night air.
At last.
Minerva breathed a sigh of relief. She settled down on the rooftop and poured herself a large dose of her favourite medicine. Minerva brought the glass to her lips and paused as she gazed out at the London skyline.
The bright lights off in the distance contrasted sharply with the darkness of Diagon Alley.
It reminded Minerva of her time living in London—but that was many years earlier.
Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. Minerva’s vision blurred. She squeezed her eyes shut and slammed her whisky, desperate to banish the memory of that time.
Voldemort was dead. He was gone.
She should feel relieved.
Instead, all Minerva felt was the bitter taste of disgust.
She poured another drink and slammed that second one too.
Minerva had spent the better part of the last thirty years trying to bring down the Dark Lord. She'd aided Dumbledore in every aspect of the war against Voldemort.
Now that he was gone, she didn't know what to do with herself.
She'd lost everything fighting Voldemort. She had accepted the job at Hogwarts because of the Order—giving up her dreams, her plans, her career at the Ministry. It was all for the greater good.
Now that the war was done, Minerva wasn't sure she wanted to stay. She had never imagined a life beyond the war. She never expected to live to see the end of it.
As Minerva poured another drink, she caught sight of the wet spots on the rooftop. She realised that she was, in fact, crying.
"It gets better," a familiar voice said.
Minerva straightened her posture and wiped her eyes in an effort to preserve some of her dignity.
Albus Dumbledore emerged from the pub and sat down next to her on the roof.
"There's a whole room full of friends and like-minded, high-spirited people down there celebrating. Perhaps you should join them?"
Dumbledore offered her a warm smile.
Minerva dismissed his suggestion and insisted she was fine. She had her denial routine down pat.
They sat in comfortable silence for a time, staring blankly out into the night, lost in their own thoughts.
Minerva didn’t have to voice her feelings aloud—Dumbledore knew where her thoughts lay.
"We never truly know the depth of our love until we face the reality of separation," Dumbledore said solemnly.
Minerva sniffled.
"You can drink away your headache or the stiffness in your back," he went on, "but you cannot drink away the memories or the pain in your heart."
"What makes you think that has anything to do with this?" Minerva demanded angrily.
She choked, overcome by a fresh wave of emotion.
“We… we lost a lot of people,” she sobbed.
Dumbledore turned to Minerva and put a hand on her shoulder.
“I know,” he acknowledged. “I know because twenty-five years ago I saw that same look in your eyes when you accepted my offer to join the Order."
Minerva closed her eyes. She let her mind wander back to that day.
She’d been young then. It was 1956. Minerva had only just learned the horrible truth about how harsh the reality of love could be.
She was alone.
Defeated.
Determined to bring down Voldemort—the man that had taken everything from her.
Dumbledore offered Minerva a position at Hogwarts and the rest was history.
Minerva tried not to dwell on the past. But there were nights when it consumed her.
Tonight was one of those nights.
"He took everything. He ruined everything,” Minerva wept.
Tonight wasn’t just the defeat of Voldemort and his forces—it was an anniversary.
Halloween 1956 was the night when Voldemort had taken Minerva’s home, her lover, her passion for life.
"Time and whisky won't heal your heartache, Minerva," Dumbledore said. "But with time, you'll learn to act like you're better. You might even start to believe it yourself."
Minerva glanced up and studied his face.
"Did you ever get better?" she asked.
“Yes but—”
Dumbledore hesitated.
“But sometimes I still think about him,” Albus confessed.
Dumbledore briefly allowed his mind to drift to thoughts of Gellert Grindelwald.
He’d invested so much of himself into bringing Grindelwald down. Albus felt no satisfaction in ending Gellert’s reign of terror. He only felt remorse.
At one time, Gellert had been a wonderful man. He was full of life. He filled Albus’s life with light. Happiness.
And sorrow.
“I’m so angry,” Minerva confessed.
Her shoulders slumped. She paused to thumb away her tears.
“And ashamed,” she added.
“Why?” Dumbledore asked.
Minerva pursed her lips and shot him a look.
“You cannot simply tell your heart to stop loving someone,” Albus said.
Minerva dropped her gaze to her lap. She picked at her fingernails.
“You’re grieving,” Albus said. “There’s no shame in that, Minerva.”
“No. There is. I feel equally ashamed and guilty,” she admitted.
Minerva knew that she wasn’t supposed to feel that way.
“I felt guilty for so long about helping Gellert study advanced magic, for failing to see the signs sooner. But I couldn’t have known what he would become,” Dumbledore continued.
“You warned me,” Minerva said. “You warned me, and I ignored you.”
She would never forgive herself.
“People make their own choices. Gellert Grindelwald chose his crimes. No one forced his hand. Tom Riddle made his choices. You couldn’t have changed him,” Dumbledore said.
Minerva shook her head as she recalled that day.
“Tom Riddle is not the man you think he is, Miss McGonagall,” she said, echoing Dumbledore’s warning from her youth.
Minerva had been in her final year at Hogwarts. She’d secured a job at the Ministry. She’d been making plans for a life with Tom Riddle.
“You had the courage to believe in hope. Love. That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Dumbledore said.
He conjured a glass for himself, and Minerva poured him a dram of whisky.
"I was only trying to save you a little heartache," Dumbledore mused. "Having been there and done that."
Minerva laughed.
“But how does it happen?”
Her question hung in the air.
“I mean… we’re smart. We’re confident. We should have known better. I’d like to think we could do better,” Minerva remarked.
Dumbledore sighed.
“That’s the thing. There wasn’t any ‘better.’ There was no one but Gellert.”
He had a charming smile—and an affect that Albus just couldn’t forget. Dumbledore still fondly remembered their first intimate moment together. It had been a stolen kiss behind his Aunt Bathilda’s home when the boys were supposed to be fetching firewood.
“Even now, a part of me still loves him. And a part of me always will.”
“Including the part that hates him?” Minerva asked.
She stared down at her whisky, watching the amber liquid as it swirled around the glass.
“I tell a lie,” Minerva added. “I don’t hate him. I just… he makes me so angry. And sad.”
“Oh, there’s that too,” Dumbledore agreed.
He reached over and clutched Minerva’s hand. Albus gave it a small, reassuring squeeze.
“It’s not a sin. You have a big heart. You’re smart enough to recognise how complicated your feelings are. Grief isn’t linear,” Dumbledore said.
“No, no it’s not,” Minerva replied.
She chuckled and raised her glass in the air to propose a toast.
“Here’s to us. To the Dark Wizards we cannot love.”
“We cannot help but love,” Dumbledore said, correcting her.
He paused, reflecting on his own complex knot of emotion before adding an addendum to Minerva’s toast.
“And to them—two stars that burned too brightly for this world.”
“To the lives we’ll never have and the memories we can’t let go,” Minerva concluded with a smile.
They toasted and downed their drinks. Minerva poured them both another belt and used the opportunity to inform Dumbledore of her resignation.
He was stunned.
"I think my time at Hogwarts is done," she said, resigned.
"I’d like you to reconsider," Dumbledore insisted.
“It’s over,” Minerva said.
She wasn’t bitter. In fact, she felt relieved.
"And what about that nice man from the Ministry? Hmm? Aren't you planning a holiday with him?"
Minerva snorted.
“Elphinstone?”
She shook her head.
“He’s kind. Too kind for someone like me. I’m all washed up, Albus. Merlin knows a man like Urquart doesn’t need to burden himself with my broken soul.”
That was how she felt—washed up, unworthy of ever finding love again.
Sure, Minerva had enjoyed liaisons. She had dear friends and her share of lovers. But she never got too close. She always put up an emotional drawbridge to keep herself at a safe distance.
Elphinstone Urquart was a decent man with a kind heart. Minerva knew that he deserved better.
“Go on holiday with him. See where it goes,” Dumbledore suggested.
“And then what? I could never love him the way he deserves to be loved,” Minerva admitted.
She was never one to dance around a fact.
“I’m ready to be done, Albus. With all of it,” Minerva said.
“I’m sorry, Minerva. I cannot accept your resignation,” Dumbledore said.
Minerva baulked.
“It’s not really up to you, is it?”
“I have an assignment for you. If you want to give up on yourself after that, I won’t stand in your way. But before you go, I have one last assignment,” Dumbledore explained.
Minerva’s face soured. She stewed as she listened to Dumbledore, fearing the only reason he had come with arms open was to beg another favour.
“You have others. You’ll find someone else,” she said, adamant that she would not cave. Not this time.
“There isn’t another option. I need you on this, Minerva. I’m afraid I must insist,” Dumbledore said.
“No,” she answered with a nonchalant shrug.
Albus Dumbledore was never good at taking ‘no’ for an answer.
“It’s not for me,” Dumbledore said, hoping to sway her. “I need you to save someone.”
Minerva raised an eyebrow.
“Someone that defected. Someone that made a great personal sacrifice to save a child. Two children actually. Two little boys,” Dumbledore shared.
Minerva’s brow furrowed as she eyed Dumbledore carefully.
She knew there was a defector—a person that had turned from Voldemort that shared vital information about his plan to murder the Potter and Longbottom families.
Dumbledore had always maintained the utmost secrecy, guarding the identity of the defector from everyone in the Order.
“Now, there’s another boy that needs your help. I can’t do it. He needs someone to connect with, someone to guide him, to show him that redemption is possible.”
Minerva scoffed.
“I’m the last person—”
“You’re the only person that can get through to him,” Dumbledore interjected.
Minerva was at a loss. She didn’t immediately reject the idea. Dumbledore took that as confirmation that she’d accepted the job.
"You are responsible for ensuring the protection, emotional support, and rehabilitation of one Severus Snape.”
Minerva blinked in disbelief.
“Severus Snape.”
She was stunned.
She had taught Severus. He was one of her most promising students. And it broke Minerva’s heart when she learned he’d joined the Death Eaters.
A decade had passed since Snape left Hogwarts. Minerva had run into time—more than once—during the course of the war.
Always on the opposite end of a drawn wand.
“He’s just a boy,” Minerva remarked.
“He’s joining our staff over the break,” Dumbledore informed her.
Snape had nowhere to go and Slughorn was keen to retire.
“Why me?” Minerva asked.
“He needs a firm hand,” Dumbledore said.
In truth, he thought Minerva might also benefit from such an arrangement. If she could get through to young Severus, show him that there was always hope for renewal, then Minerva might start to believe it herself.
Dumbledore offered Minerva a wan smile. He squeezed her shoulder and then left.
Minerva stayed out on the rooftop as the wee hours of the morning dragged on.
She sat in silence, sipping her whisky and mulling over her new assignment.
A firm hand.
A connection.
Dumbledore’s words weren’t for nothing.
Minerva reached into her robe. Her hand found the mark above her left breast.
It had been twenty-five years, and the tattoo still hurt.
Hours earlier it had burned with such intensity that it brought Minerva to her knees. She thought her flesh itself had seared from her body.
It was then that she knew Tom Riddle was dead.
The mark still hurt. The pain had settled into a dull ache.
Minerva stood up and stretched. It would be dawn soon.
She made her way back down through the pub. It was considerably less crowded than before. Mundungus Fletcher was still asleep, facedown on a dirty table.
Minerva thanked the barkeep and paid her bill before she made her way outside.
It was just starting to grow light. The shops on Diagon Alley wouldn’t open for a few more hours. The bricks were riddled with debris and confetti from the night’s festivities.
Minerva rounded the corner and apparated out of Diagon Alley. The loud ‘crack’ from the spell echoed down the empty street.
Minerva reappeared in a small, dingy alley in the town of Cokeworth. Before his departure, Dumbledore provided Minerva with an address where she could locate Mr Snape.
Minerva walked down three blocks before she found the right home.
She stopped outside to study the house. It was one more rowhouse situated in amongst a sea of brick council houses. They all had dirty windows. The pavement was cracked and uneven. Even the weeds seemed to struggle in Cokeworth.
No wonder. Minerva thought.
The air was choked with the acrid, industrial smell. Minerva could see tall smokestacks in the distance. Long chains of smoke filled the air with the foul stench of Muggle industrialisation.
Cokeworth was just one more city suffering from the austere Muggle economic conditions and fuel shortages. Minerva didn’t pretend to fully comprehend the complexity of the Muggle government. She had grown up in poverty in the Highlands—her family always at the precipice of total ruin.
Her Muggle father had barely been able to eke out a living as a Presbyterian minister. There was never money for anything—even before the war and rationing that characterised her formative years.
Minerva had always suspected that Severus Snape grew up in similar conditions.
As she studied this place, Minerva realised it had to be his childhood home. Minerva also recognised the poignancy of Dumbledore’s request.
Minerva and Severus shared more than just an affiliation with Voldemort and an economically disadvantaged childhood.
They were both half-bloods with a witch mother that gave up her ties to the magical community to run off with a Muggle man.
Robert McGonagall was certainly never cruel like Tobias Snape. But both men struggled to understand their wives and, by extension, their magically gifted children.
Minerva knocked sharply.
Severus answered the door after a minute. He was dishevelled. Unshaven. His eyes were red and swollen. Minerva could smell the whisky on his breath.
She waited in the doorway for him to say something, anything.
Snape stood there. He took a swig from a bottle of cheap Muggle whisky as he looked Minerva up and down.
Minerva recalled Dumbledore’s warning. Snape needed a firm hand. She snatched the bottle of whisky away from him.
“When you come to Hogwarts, you’ll need to avoid the all-night benders,” Minerva said.
“You think I’m a drunk,” Snape said.
“I don’t think that. But you are drunk at the moment. And we can’t have a drunk in a classroom full of students and their potions.”
To Minerva’s surprise, Snape stepped aside and allowed her to enter. Minerva surveyed the home. Severus didn’t own much. Minerva suspected that he didn’t spend much time in this place.
“Can’t have a drunk in front of the students,” Snape said, echoing her comment.
“That’s correct,” Minerva agreed.
“What do you call old Slughorn?” Snape asked without missing a beat.
Minerva had to suppress her smile as Severus led her through to the sitting room.
“So, you’re my probation officer then?” Snape questioned. “Dumbledore sent you to check up on me?”
Snape reached for a nearby glass and sniffed at the contents. He crinkled his nose and put the glass aside.
“Not exactly,” Minerva answered.
Snape offered her a chair. Minerva thought better of it after seeing the grimy upholstery.
“Dumbledore wants to redeem me then,” Snape said.
Minerva hesitated.
“No,” she began slowly.
“Oh, come off it, Professor!” Severus snapped.
He shook his head in disbelief and began to pace around the room.
“Listen, I ‘ve got news for you, Professor.” Snape’s voice dripped with sarcasm, mocking her title to drive home his disdain for her arrival. “I’ve seen and done things that you can’t imagine.”
He stopped and whipped around, marching right up to Minerva in an attempt to intimidate her.
“Your pure little mind can’t begin to wrap itself around the destruction I’ve caused. I’m a murderer. I was there when Frank and Alice Longbottom were tortured. I watched them scream in agony as their bodies and minds were torn apart,” Snape continued.
Minerva didn’t flinch.
“I once forced a Muggle to strangle his own family before I offed him. I—”
Severus paused. His chest heaved as he frantically pointed at the armchair.
“I killed my own father in that very chair. My own fucking dad,” Snape raved wildly.
He turned on Minerva, shoving his hand in her face.
“I am not about to be babysat by some do-goody spinster lapdog for that bearded fairy!” Snape snarled.
Minerva nodded slowly. She watched Severus for a moment, studying his face. There were changes in his physical appearance. He’d aged more in the last decade than Minerva would have anticipated. There were changes too in his affect.
He was a man traumatised by war, grappling with the things he’d seen and done in the name of pure hatred.
Severus Snape was broken, so broken that he didn’t believe he could pick up the shattered pieces of himself to begin the process of redemption.
“There’s no coming back,” Snape declared.
He rolled up his sleeve and shoved his Dark Mark in Minerva’s face.
“I’m stained forever by what I’ve done. What I am,” Snape said.
Minerva realised that he was terrified of going to Hogwarts. She could feel the fear radiating off Severus. He knew there would be whispers. They would follow him forever.
Minerva unbuttoned the top of her robe. She pulled back the fabric just far enough to reveal her own Dark Mark.
“I’ve seen things that would make you sick, boy,” she said in a cold voice.
Severus was too stunned to speak. She had a Dark Mark tattoo on her chest. Severus couldn’t see the whole thing—but he could see enough of it to know.
It was a mark alright, and unlike any Severus had seen before.
“You think you’ve sinned. You think you’ve submerged yourself in darkness, blackened your soul,” Minerva continued.
Severus remained fixated on Minerva’s tattoo.
“You’ve only tasted it. I was there when it was born,” Minerva declared.
She was the ‘White Queen.’ That was what Severus and his friends called her.
The White Queen of all that is Good and Gryffindor.
Incorruptible. Steadfast in her pursuit of justice and fairness. Minerva McGonagall was the very embodiment of integrity.
It shook Severus to his core to see her now.
“I came as a friend, not a babysitter. My office is located on the first floor now if you change your mind,” Minerva said, addressing Snape in a stern voice.
Without another word, she turned on her heel and left.
Severus Snape arrived at Hogwarts three days later—sober, shaved, and sweating.
He went to Minerva’s office first, even before announcing his arrival to Dumbledore.
Minerva offered him whisky and ginger biscuits. Severus had a difficult time relaxing. He was still nervous about teaching. Severus was directly responsible for losses some of those students had experienced.
Feelings were raw and Snape knew his behaviour was under a microscope. Even the other staff didn’t trust him.
It was not the homecoming Severus wanted or the welcome atmosphere he’d felt before when returning to Hogwarts as a boy.
Minerva and Severus spent several hours talking. They didn’t discuss the Dark Lord or politics. There was no talk of Hogwarts or lesson plans, job expectations, or salary.
They spoke of Quidditch.
Minerva found it refreshing. Severus had a sharp wit and a dark sense of humour. And it was a relief to have someone to share Quidditch banter that wasn’t a diehard Puddlemere fanatic like Rolanda Hooch.
Severus discovered it was comfortable to talk with Minerva. Conversation came easy.
By the time Snape left, he found that he was actually looking forward to returning to Hogwarts in a month’s time.
Severus Snape was reluctant to call anyone a friend—but he could tolerate Minerva McGonagall.