Work Text:
Beautiful artwork by ZorakTwentyThree
Minerva sat firmly upright in her chair. Her long, ebony hair pulled back in a tidy French plait, Hogwarts uniform neat and her hands rested in her lap. The only indication of any nerves her absent picking at the dry skin around her nails. She was in her final year and had come to Professor Dumbledore for guidance on her plans after graduation. She had found him in his office off the Transfiguration classroom. When she indicated an interest in visiting the United States he was amenable, if curious, about her proposed path. He expressed concern that a trip abroad would be a hindrance to her long-term goals. After a little prying on his part, she had confided in him that there was someone that she wished to meet. She was unsure how the subject came around to that of her vivid dreams in which a bubbly blonde witch appeared. The moment that she mentioned the name Queenie Goldstein to Professor Dumbledore, his demeanor had changed completely. Sitting across from him her blue eyes watched him sharply. She surveyed him uncertainly as he opened the top drawer of his desk. He then removed something delicately before handing it to her.
“I am sorry, my dear,” said the soothing voice of her mentor. “She was quite a remarkable witch in her youth. Newt always spoke very fondly of her,” he added. Perplexity overwhelmed the young woman. Why did he mention Newt Scamander? And why was he talking about the other girl in the past tense? He gestured lightly with her hand to look at the small piece of paper in her hand. Minerva could not tear her gaze away from the scrap of paper. She could not believe what she was seeing. It was a clipping from the Daily Prophet reporting on the final battle between the Professor and Gellert Grindlewald eight years prior. It was one she had seen many times since she started at Hogwarts. The photograph showed a triumphant Albus Dumbledore looking tiredly into the camera while Grindlewald was dragged away in manacles. What she had not noticed before was the head of curly blonde hair in the background, the same curly blonde hair she had seen in her dreams for years now. Nor the chains around the wrists of the slender woman.
The moment Minerva saw the photograph she was heartbroken. There, in all her elegance, and poise, and youth, was the only person to ever capture her heart completely.
Taking several breaths to calm herself, she looked up at the Transfiguration Professor’s familiar blue eyes. “Perhaps I could look at something in the Ministry?”
A look of something bordering on empathy crossed the man’s face, “Of course. What did you have in mind?”
The dreams of Queenie always started the same. The corridor of a small Bed and Breakfast on the outskirts of Inverness she had visited with her family every summer in her childhood. It was always eerily perfect. Flawless white doors with perfectly polished brass door knobs that shone so bright she could see her own reflection. The cream wallpaper with large pink roses was distractingly immaculate. The crystal gaslights lining the walls lit the corridor with radiance. It never quite felt like a dream but was too pristine for reality.
As soon as she found herself there, Minerva knew she should walk away. She should turn back and never see the woman again. She should not go to the last door on the right. She could hear her father’s voice in her head talking about temptation, the devil and sin. She knew all of these things and yet her feet moved of their own accord, down the path she had walked a thousand times. Taking a deep breath, she grasped the cool, cold brass handle and turned her wrist sharply.
“Hey, Kitten,” the blonde greeted as she entered the room. Minerva always thought her voice sounded like the tinkling of fairy bells. Sweet, soft, soothing. That night, she flinched at the feeling. How could she take such joy, such comfort, in someone so wrong for her? Someone who had a hand in such evil? She set her shoulders and practised her best imitation of her father’s disapproving look. She thought of his face whenever she talked about school.
The room was the same as every other time. Small, only just big enough for the double bed that occupied it. Much like the corridor, the room was strangely perfect. The sheets were spotless. The duvet was full and warm. The pillows were invitingly plumped. Matching bedside lamps of frosted glass and brass were attached to the wall, with a matching light hanging from the ceiling. It was quaint and quiet and Minerva’s happy place.
She would always find Queenie there, waiting for her, never the other way around. She absently wondered why. Drawing the last of her strength, Minerva looked up at the petite witch. She was all pink and softness, and faultless blonde curls. The yellow glow from the light in the room always seemed to give her an ethereal glow. Michelangelo’s angels could not compare. She was on her customary perch on the edge of the bed facing the door. Her white cotton nightgown hinted at the soft curves beneath. Her wide green eyes looked up at Minerva in concern. Minerva was always astonished at how expressive the other witch’s face could be. Having grown up in a household where displays of emotion or affection were few, she had admired the curly haired woman’s ability to wear her heart on her sleeve.
Minerva knew from the look on the American’s face that she was trying very hard to understand what was upsetting her. Queenie had told her a long time ago about her natural ability for Legilimency. Minerva, she explained, was the only person she had met that she could not use her skill on.
“Being here, with you, it’s the quietest my mind has ever been,” she said.
The dreams of each other had begun during her first year. She had walked the length of the corridor and opened the bedroom door to find a small blonde witch with a Brooklyn accent. It had confused her. It became clearer and clearer in that first meeting that the other girl was a witch. A real, living witch. Not a figment of her overactive imagination. From that moment, their friendship bloomed, blossomed like a flower in the sun. They would talk and laugh and share secrets. Their relationship was a strange one. Beyond Queenie’s skills not working with Minerva, there had been further oddities. Where Minerva saw a Bed and Breakfast, Queenie saw an orphanage. One visit, when Queenie had been upset, Minerva had reached for her hand only for it to pass through.
Queenie shifted on the bed, breaking her out of her reflections. With her back to the door, she watched the fair haired witch before smiling stiffly. She hoped that it was reassurance enough. She prayed that the fact that Queenie could not read her the way she could others would not lead to unwanted questions. She was not sure she had the strength, the energy, to explain. She need not have worried as the young woman in front of her beamed. Queenie’s smile was dazzling. It always had been. All resolve for this to be their final meeting melted away when she saw that smile. She knew at that moment that she could never walk away. The radiant person in front of her had stolen her heart, and mind, and soul many years before. And Minerva was not ready to leave, knowing that she would always leave a piece of her in that room. She was only whole when she was there. With her.
Then the realisation hit her like a freight train. They would never meet outside of that realm. Never see each other in the waking world. She had always known that their relationship was beyond anything she could comprehend, that they were on different planes. Separated by dreaming. What she didn’t think of, however, was that they could be from different times. Years, decades apart.
They were ghosts to each other.
Her heart stuttered in her chest at the thought. “What year were you born?” she asked, never knowing that the question was one that was needed.
A crease appeared between the other witch’s perfectly manicured eyebrows, “What’s this about, Minnie?”
“I-I have a theory,” Minerva said, averting her sharp blue eyes. “It’s something that I’ve been wondering for a while.”
Queenie’s frown deepened, “Why are you asking now?”
“I’m about to finish my education. I won’t have access to the information at Hogwarts about these… meetings… for much longer.” Minerva evaded, not yet ready to tell the truth. Ever the curious student, Minerva had taken the opportunity in her third year to learn Divination. She wanted to understand why she would end up in the small room with the other girl. She needed answers and hoped that Divination would help to provide them. Instead, she found a disdain for the subject. It was clear that Professor Nightly was a fraud and nothing he taught in his classes was of any use. The latest revelation from Professor Dumbledore that they were on different timelines was more enlightening than anything had learned in class. The missing puzzle piece falling into place.
Minerva watched as her eyes narrowed at her suspiciously, “That ain’t it. There’s something on your mind.”
Minerva avoided the young woman’s gaze for a moment longer, before another revelation hit her. This Queenie was not the woman in the photograph earlier that evening. She was still at Ilvermorny, studying, dreaming about her future. She was a hopeful young witch, with ambitions and a brilliant mind and all the kindness in her that her small body could hold. Minerva was not sure what happened to Queenie throughout the years. How she would move from the vivacious, loving young woman before her to the one in the photograph in Professor Dumbledore’s desk drawer. The person in front of her was pure and light and full of hope. The one in the clipping was haunted and sad and defeated. With that, Minerva knew she could not judge the person in front of her for the actions she took in her future.
“It’s nothing,” she said eventually. And it was true.
When Minerva woke the next morning, she felt dried tear tracks on her cheeks.
For the following months, Minerva could not find rest. The stress of her final year at Hogwarts was something that she knew she would be facing, but the nights were just as fitful. Where she had been able to find an escape and solace in her dreamscape with Queenie in previous years, that no longer existed. There was uncomfortable anticipation in her gut with every meeting. Her implicit trust in the other witch had vanished. She was constantly on edge, expecting some sign that the American would go down the path of darkness she was destined for.
As though the magic of their meeting place absorbed Minerva’s doubts, it changed. Where the lights in the small room felt warm and inviting before, they felt harsh and cold. The bedsheets were no longer spotless but had large yellow stains across them. The pillows were thin, quilts flimsy. Where everything had been immaculate, it was soiled and unkempt. The corridor, once welcoming, was repellant. Dark and dank and dusty.
Every night her feet touched the threadbare carpet and peeling wallpaper materialised she took a deep breath. Every time she saw the grimy crystal chandeliers above her head, she resolved to turn around. Every moment she found herself in front of the grubby white door that led to their meeting place she straightened her spine and steeled herself. But somehow, she would find herself opening the door to the small musty room. And there Queenie would be with a beautiful and open and warm smile. And her heart would skip a beat at the sight of the witch from New York. The one who had long since enchanted her completely.
Every time she would say, “Hey Kitten,” and Minerva would lose any resistance. The nights would pass in each other’s company. Queenie would never mention the chill in the room and Minerva would never mention her sadness. She wondered if the blonde witch even knew that anything had changed, but she supposed that it was not likely. It would only be when she woke that she would feel the stickiness on her eyelashes that told her that she was crying in her sleep.
To attempt to ease her mind, she researched. The first topic she delved into was time travel. Much of what she found was unhelpful. She knew from her experience with the time-turner she had been gifted on her sixteenth birthday, that time was fickle. And no matter how hard she wished, she could not change the past. The decisions the blonde witch from her dreams made were set in stone. There was more than one occasion when Minerva wanted to warn Queenie, beg her, not to follow Grindelwald. To stay away from him. But she knew she could not, that doing so could have disastrous effects. Terrible things could happen to those who meddled in time.
When no answers came after her study of time, she looked into dreamscapes. Everything on the subject was, excuse her language, hogwash. None of it related to what she had experienced since arriving at Hogwarts. She had read every book she could find on the subject that the vast library could offer. And still, there were no answers. She could find nothing on how two people, from different continents, different schools, different timelines could enter each other’s dreams. She had expanded her research from the books on dreams in the divination section and looked at the magic surrounding the castle. She hoped that by understanding the magic around her, she may learn what connected her to the other witch. Still, nothing. The only discovery she made was that her visits to the Bed and Breakfast would end once she returned home. As soon as she left the powerful magic of Hogwarts, she would not see Queenie again. She wondered if staying on as a teacher would delay the inevitable. She supposed not. Ilvermorny had magic of its own and was likely fuelling the dreams, at least in part.
On her final night in the castle, Minerva was unwilling to sleep. She kept her eyes open for as long as possible because, despite everything, she did not want to say goodbye. She could not say goodbye. Regardless of her efforts, her eyelids drooped and slumber stole her away. And just as she had expected, she stood in the familiar corridor. Her feet moved of their own accord, and her body drifted toward the door for one more time. She knew it was unavoidable, but she also knew she could not be the one to walk away. The night passed like any other before then. Talking about Minerva’s brothers and Queenie’s sister, discussing what they would be doing when they woke up and left school. Planning for the future. Later in the night, they lay next to one another on the bed, unable to touch. Minerva’s sea blue eyes met Queenie’s jade green ones. “Why do you think we meet like this?”
Queenie searched her face, “Why does it matter?”
Minerva propped herself on one elbow, passing her hand over the other witch’s silhouette, “Do you not think it’s important?”
The blonde shrugged, “We’re here, what does it matter why?”
Like every other morning after spending time in the American’s company, Minerva could feel salty tracks on her face.
Three weeks after that night, that last meeting, she found herself standing in front of the pathway to a cottage in Dorset. She wanted answers on her final subject of research. Queenie Goldstein. She hoped she could find peace in knowing what happened to the witch and had come to the only place that would hold answers. As was becoming a habit, Minerva rolled her shoulders back, took a clarifying breath, and walked forward. Standing in front of the bright blue door she rocked back on her heels slightly. Reaching up, she grasped the chrome Niffler shaped knocker and rapped it firmly twice. The woman who opened the door was average height and slender, somewhere in her mid-fifties. Her dark hair was short and had streaks of grey around her temples. She was dressed in a modest grey blouse and navy blue cigarette trousers that fit her slightly looser than was fashionable. The woman was holding her wand in one hand and a pair of children’s shoes in the other. Her dark brown eyes met Minerva’s deep blue as her brows twitched in confusion. Minerva’s breath hitched slightly. The look was a familiar one, having seen it on the woman’s sister.
“Tina Goldstein?” Minerva asked, hesitantly. The older witch’s frown deepened but she nodded in answer. “My name is Minerva McGonagall and-”
Minerva was cut off by the thud of the shoes the woman was holding hitting the doormat, and the look of utter shock on her face, “You’re real?” She stared for a moment, wide eyed, before coughing and shaking her head. “Come in, please,” she said, stepping back. “Go on through to the front room,” she gestured toward a doorway that was open at the end of the corridor. “‘Scuse the mess, we’ve got two children under ten causing chaos.” Minerva smiled in understanding, “I’ll be back with tea,” she added turning in the opposite direction to the one she had gestured towards.
Minerva made her way quietly down the corridor, absently picking at the dry skin around her nails. The house was warm and inviting. With walls painted a pale yellow and exposed beams overhead, she could feel the love emanating from the home. Framed photographs lined the walls of the Scamander’s life together. One of their wedding day, and another of Mr Scamander hunched over a desk, with papers surrounding him and a bowtruckle on his shoulder. There were pictures of babies, and a bakery, and a dark skinned, dark haired woman stood next to a man who resembled Mr Scamander. She found a noticeable absence of a blonde, curly haired witch with a smile that could light the sun.
When she reached the open door, Minerva saw that their living room was quaint and quirky. Much like the corridor she had just walked down, there was a cosiness to the room. A large, old fashioned fireplace dominated one wall. Two large windows allowed light to flood the room and bathe it in the soft summer sunshine. Children’s toys, magical and muggle, littered the hardwood floor, making it difficult to maneuver to the large cream sofas.
After taking her seat, she heard the telltale rattle of a tea set on a tray. The tray floated onto the coffee table in front of her. Mrs Scamander took a seat opposite Minerva and began pouring them each a cup.
“Sorry about back there,” she said once she had settled with her cup. “Queenie mentioned you a couple times but I never believed her.” A look of sadness crossed her face. “There were a lot of things I never understood about her.”
Taking a breath, Minerva asked the question she did not want to be answered, “What happened to her?”
“She fell in love with a No-Maj,” at Minerva’s confused look she corrected herself. “Ah, sorry, a Muggle.” She took a sip before continuing. “Her last year at Ilvermorny, she got a job at MACUSA in the Wand Permit office. She told me about you a year after.” Minerva’s eyebrows rose in shock. “Oh yeah, told me all about the British witch in her dreams whose mind she couldn’t read,” the older woman shook her head as though she had a private joke. “She went lookin’ for you just before the war and couldn’t find a trace. She came back she was different. Sadder. Less focussed. I think you were the first person who ever saw her for her. She met Jacob a few years later, but that was complicated too.”
Minerva was speechless, but something hit her in the gut. Past tense. “What happened to her?” she asked again. Tina Scamander averted her eyes. The pain on her face looked raw. Minerva could not help but compare it to a similar one she had seen on Queenie’s face once when she was talking about her parents’ deaths.
“I think she loved you,” she answered, still evading the question. “I think whatever happened in those dreams of yours changed her. Made her want to fight harder for who she loved. She had lost one love and wasn’t going to lose another one. When she fell for a No-Maj, she wanted to be open. Wanted to marry him. Lovin’ you had always been a secret. She didn’t want that a second time ‘round. When she was arrested, she told me that she realised why you were meant to meet.”
Tina looked up at her, meeting her inquisitive gaze. “She said you were two sides of the same coin. That you would know her as the darkness and that she would be your regret.” Minerva opened her mouth to speak, “No, no, nothin’ like that. I think she meant that she knew you were supposed to walk a better path than her. She was your cautionary tale. She said there was a night in her last year when you asked when she was born. She thought that was strange ‘til she went lookin’ for you. I visited her once in prison and that was the first time in almost two decades she spoke about you. She told me that when she realised who you were she didn’t understand why you stayed.”
“I couldn’t be the one to walk away.”
They sat in silence for a while as they finished their tea before the younger witch gathered herself to leave. With a polite goodbye, Minerva left the little cottage. She felt like there was a wound under her ribs that would never heal. She was not sure if knowing the fate of her childhood companion made it better or worse. Knowing that because of her Queenie chose her darkness. Her father’s voice came to her again. The road to hell is paved with good intentions .
The sun was already setting as she turned on her heel and apparated to her family’s small manse in Caithness. Minerva paused, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Despite being almost August, the air in the North of the Scottish Highland was much brusker than in Dorset. She let the sea air fill her lungs to the point of burning. She opened her eyes and took a purposeful stride up the path to her childhood home. She was not sure if the wetness on her face and stinging in her eyes were from the wind or her heartbreak.