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1997
“The Dark Lord is coming for an inspection,” the headmaster tells the gathered faculty members in the staff room. “Please don’t do anything to embarrass me.” Severus, such a shockingly different sort of headmaster from Albus (he’s never offered sweets once), glowers in Minerva’s general direction.
“I’d never do such a thing,” she says, glaring back.
“Good. I do not, after all, have any say in what the consequences will be if you do.” The Carrows both look hopeful, leaning forward in their chairs, their eyes glinting.
Slughorn is trembling, and Minerva is concerned for his health, or that he’ll drop the mug of tea he’s clutching. “What will the inspection entail, Severus?”
“The Dark Lord has not given me specifics beyond ensuring there are no secret…students that should not be here. I would advise you not to do or say anything you may regret.” Minerva nods at him, but she would much rather throttle him. “Are there any more questions?” When everyone shakes their heads, Snape dismisses them with a sweep of his hand, then billows off before either Carrow can quite catch up.
“What a wanker,” Pomona says with feeling as soon as Severus and the Carrows are gone.
“I’m sure he’s trying his best,” Filius says, then amends, “that absolute sack of bat dung.”
They all high-five. Minerva bids Pomona and Filius good night and trudges back to her rooms. She had been dreading this very thing for months, ever since Albus died and she’d been recommended for his job permanently, then never quite managing to take it because the Ministry fell and everything went to hell.
None of her Gryffindors are out tonight, at least as far as she can see. Good. If she can’t, then the Carrows and Snape won’t, either. Entering her rooms and settling down with a bottle of her favorite whiskey, Minerva remembers many regrets.
1956
Minerva slams back a celebratory drink with Amelia Bones in the crowded, pleasantly warm Three Broomsticks. “But you said he hardly even asked you any questions,” Amelia said for probably the dozenth time, amazed. “You just walked in!”
“I was one of his favorite students. That job was mine.” She’d been so unfulfilled at her Ministry job—much as she enjoyed the ‘freedom to experiment according to your own whims’ that being an Unspeakable had afforded—that she’d been surprised how much she wanted Dumbledore’s vacated Transfiguration teaching post. She’d applied, and here she was.
“Do you even like children?” Amelia asked, dubious. “Are you sure?”
“Remains to be seen,” Minerva admitted. “I tutored First and Second-years, and it wasn’t so bad. But Dumbledore also said I’d be a shoo-in for publication in Transfiguration Today, should I be so inclined—"
It was at this precise moment that a figure strode through the front door with snow clinging to the hem of her robes, looking thunderous. She approached Minerva and Amelia’s table and pulled out a chair without offering a greeting. Minerva did a double-take. She recognized her.
“Riddle,” Minerva said blankly. It had been a decade since she’d seen her, but she was unaccountably pleased by it. Mary Riddle, Muggle-born Slytherin, who’d seemingly saved the school. And was, naturally, very much Minerva’s sort.
“McGonagall,” Riddle replied shortly, shaking her head as the serving girl approached. “You got a job at Hogwarts, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Why? Did you apply for one, too?” This Minerva couldn’t imagine. In all their years at school together, teaching was the very last thing she could see Riddle doing.
“I did. Our dear mutual friend told me he might consider my application if I had an impeccable reference. And then he wished me a good evening and offered me a toffee, which I refused.”
“That was your mistake,” Amelia said, a tad strained. “He might have hired you on the spot if you’d only taken the toffee.”
“Hmm.” Riddle gave Amelia a narrow-eyed look, then turned back to Minerva. “Would you act as a reference for me? He’ll give me a second interview if I can find one.”
Perhaps she shouldn’t have been as flattered as she was, but she couldn’t help it. Riddle’s gaze was so intent and her expression so earnest. Minerva took a self-conscious sip of her drink. “I don’t know very much about you, you know,” she said. “I might need to spend some time with you in order to be more convincing.”
Beside her, Amelia spluttered. Riddle merely considered her, thoughtful. “That can be arranged. What do you have in mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Tea? Taking a walk? Perhaps sharing a bottle of wine?”
“This sounds rather a lot like courting,” Riddle said. She smiled, her oddly bloodshot eyes bright. “I’ll do it. Are you available tomorrow?”
“Of course! I look forward to it.” Minerva sat back in her chair, feeling as satisfied as the proverbial cat. Riddle rose, gave a friendly farewell to Minerva and a terse one to Amelia, and swept away.
“Are you mad?” Amelia asked as soon as Riddle was out of sight. “Mary Riddle is not your friend, or your girl. I’ve heard things about her that are hardly fit to repeat in a public place like this.”
“Like what?” Minerva asked, putting up a Silencing Charm. “You won’t be overheard now. Tell me.”
“Do you remember all those attacks on Muggle-borns while we were in school? Like when Phoebe Smyth was nearly Cursed to death? Or the time Bobby Leech had ‘Mudblood’ carved into his arm? Or that poor girl Myrtle Warren that died? People say she was behind them.” Amelia drained the rest of her glass of fire whiskey and set it down with a loud thump.
“But Hogwarts students from all Houses have been cursing Muggle-borns for years.” As a prefect, she'd tried her best to get detentions and more for known perpetrators, but had almost always been rebuffed. Amelia was right about one thing, at least. Attacks had peaked during her last years there. “How do people know she was behind those ones? And I thought she was Muggle-born….” Minerva had heard rumors like this before, but she’d never put any stock in them. “Whatever she did stopped the Chamber of Secrets nastiness in my sixth year, even if she got the wrong person.”
“Of course,” Amelia said, “Unless she was responsible for it all along.”
Minerva shook her head several times. “I’m not committing to give her that reference yet. All I’m doing is spending time with her. If I don’t like what I see, I won’t give it.”
“Fine. You do that.” Amelia pushed her chair back and stood. She put a hand on Minerva’s shoulder as she walked past. “Please be careful.”
“I will be,” Minerva assured her. “But if I die, you may avenge my death.”
“You’re so gracious,” Amelia said with a faint chuckle, but her smile was tremulous.
1997
The Dark Lord arrives the next evening as promised. Minerva and the rest of the staff are assembled in a ragged line outside the staffroom to greet her. She swishes past them, giving cursory nods. Pomona cringes away. Poppy inhales through clenched teeth. There is something so cold about her presence now, so heavy and almost Dementor-like. Minerva wonders if it has always been like that, or if she’s only just begun to notice.
Minerva thinks she’s made it through this half-arsed inspection without drawing attention, but the Dark Lord stops when she reaches her, and studies her minutely from head to toe. She still has to look up at Minerva, even with all the other alterations to her appearance, but this in no way lessens Minerva’s fear. Voldemort’s eyes are the red of fresh blood, and Minerva cannot turn away, no matter how much she wishes to.
“It’s been a while, Minerva McGonagall,” Voldemort says. “How have you been? I heard you’d lost people that were quite dear to you recently.”
Minerva’s hands do not shake. Her voice is impossibly steady as she replies, “Yes. I’m sure you know all about it.”
“Oh, I doubt it’s quite what you think,” Voldemort says, her mouth twisted into what might have passed for a smile, if her eyes weren’t so cold. “They died bravely, credits to both their Houses.”
Sweat trickles down Minerva’s back. She stands straight and stiff and wonders if she will ever move again. “Maybe you and I should catch up,” she says, and cannot begin to guess what possessed her to say it.
Pomona steps on Minerva’s foot. Poppy mutters what distinctly sounds like “fuck”. The Carrows look as though they’ve just won front-row seats to a Muggle-born torture extravaganza; Alecto may even lick her lips.
“Why ever not?” Voldemort agrees. “Excellent idea.”
“Mer—Merlin’s beard, Minerva!” Pomona hisses as they walk away. “Please don’t die.”
1956
What did two witches do together when they were, hmm, getting to know each other better? Minerva thought taking a stroll, complete with Warming Charms and a couple pints of hot chocolate was a fine start. Riddle agreed readily. The snow was fresh upon the ground, and their feet crunched pleasantly.
If Riddle hated small talk, she didn’t show it. They talked about the weather. They bickered briefly over which of them could cast the superior Warming Charm. It all felt like old times, like shared prefect patrols, like that rare and coveted shared study session. “What have you been doing with yourself for the past decade?” Riddle asked. “I’d thought you would try professional Quidditch after the war, but I clearly misjudged you.”
“Ah, well.” Minerva smiled, rueful. “I was good at Quidditch. Not quite good enough for the Harpies.”
“Pity. And then?”
“I was an Auror for a couple years, before I joined an unspeakable department. No, I’m still not allowed to talk about it.”
Riddle nodded. From this angle, Minerva could study her out of the corner of her eye. She was more or less exactly how Minerva remembered her. Same dark hair to her shoulders. Same preference for dark robes. Same curl to her nose when she smiled. And yet…there was a new pallor to her skin and an almost stretched look to her face. Minerva had noticed the new bloody tinge to her eyes before, but after more scrutiny they were even stranger than she’d thought.
“Where have you been?” Minerva asked. “Where did you go?”
“Everywhere,” Riddle replied. “I have seen more magic than you can possibly imagine, learned more than I ever thought there was to know.” She stopped and grasped Minerva’s hands, turning to face her directly. A curl of hair had fallen across her forehead, and Minerva didn’t resist the temptation to brush it away. Riddle’s skin felt waxy beneath her fingers. “I could tell you so many things…” She caught Minerva’s hand and held it against her cheek. “But that seems a bit much for a first date.”
And to Minerva’s disappointment, Riddle released her hand and stepped away.
1997
Voldemort walks down the corridor with long, slow strides. She trails a hand over a tapestry as they pass, stops for a moment to exchange glowers with a portrait, and gazes what Minerva could almost read as longing down a second-floor corridor. Minerva remembers with a jolt that the girls’ bathroom with the entrance to the Chamber is down that way, and increases her pace to get away from it.
“I’ve always liked you, Minerva,” Voldemort says as they reach the smaller room off the Great Hall, where Minerva conjures a table and chairs. “You have nothing personally to fear from me.”
“Be that as it may, I’d rather be somewhere I can easily run.” She’s no fool. It won’t make a difference where they are should Voldemort change her mind.
“Admirable sentiment. I’m sure Amelia would be proud. She was always wary of me.”
“Far wiser than me,” Minerva agrees. “What do you want?”
“What do I want? Only to spend time with an old friend, who so kindly offered me the opportunity.” Voldemort pushes back her black hood, revealing her pale, hairless scalp. She pours herself a cup of wine from the bottle Minerva Summoned and swirls it with relish. “This is very good. You have excellent taste, as ever.”
“I’ve always wondered,” Minerva says as she pours wine for herself, “what it is you’re really doing all this for. Is it merely unbridled ambition? Revenge? A burning thirst to prove yourself?” This hardly covers it, of course.
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that.” Voldemort smiles again, and her teeth are far sharper than they ought to be. “I’m indulging you, Minerva. I could lie and say all your theories are true, but the truth is that I wanted to. It’s hardly more complicated than that.”
“And murder is simple?” Why is she bothering? This won’t bring Amelia or Dumbledore back, or any of her old students.
“As easy as breathing,” Voldemort replies.
1956
Their next dates followed a similar trajectory. They met up, talked about everything and nothing, shared a meal or drinks or both, and then went their separate ways. It wasn’t until the third date that Riddle kissed her goodnight, but Minerva wasn’t about to complain.
“You are much better company than I usually have,” Riddle said as she drew slowly away, her hand at the small of Minerva’s back.
“That’s high praise.” Minerva felt flushed, her heart thudding percussively in her ears.
“It is, I promise. Now, about that reference?”
Even this wasn’t enough to lessen Minerva’s good mood. “I’m owling it tomorrow,” she said.
The next evening, she received an owl from Dumbledore himself, thanking her for her interest and would she like to discuss it more? She replied in the affirmative, and found herself seated across from him in his portrait- and silvery instrument-filled office far sooner than she’d expected to return there.
“So, you’ve been spending time with Mary Riddle,” Dumbledore said, and for once, he wasn’t smiling.
“A bit,” she agreed. “She’s a fine dinner partner.”
“I’m sure. And you think I should hire her?” He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them.
“I would enjoy having her as a colleague,” she admitted, and felt herself blush. “We seem to get on well.”
At this, Dumbledore looked at her with a sad, heavy sort of expression. “Ah,” he said. And then, “We’ll see, I suppose. I’ve scheduled her for tomorrow night. Would you like a toffee?”
She took the toffee.
Minerva didn’t hear from Riddle until around nine the next evening, when she knocked urgently upon Minerva's door.
“How did it go?” Minerva asked, drawing her in with a quick kiss on the cheek in greeting.
“Not well.” For a moment, there was something horrifying and wild in her eyes…and then it was gone so quickly that Minerva wasn’t sure she’d seen it. “You, however, were perfect. Thank you.”
“Did he say why he didn’t hire you?” Minerva led her by the hand to the sofa, where they sat pressed close.
“He is Albus Dumbledore, whose reasoning is inscrutable to the best of us.” Riddle kissed her with more fierceness than she ever had before. Minerva reveled in the scent of her in the deftness of her fingers; in short, she reveled in Mary Riddle.
When they lay together on Minerva’s bed afterword, Minerva felt Mary tracing something on her wrist, but she was far too tired to work out what it was. “I wish you were mine,” she thought she heard Mary say, and then fell asleep.
Mary was gone in the morning. Minerva never heard from her again.
It would be later, much later, when she learned about the gathering in the Hog’s Head that Aberforth Dumbledore overheard, about the curse on the Defense position, about Mary Riddle’s new name. Albus would tell her kindly that many had been entranced by the charms of Lord Voldemort, and she had nothing of which to be ashamed. But until then, she wished things could have gone another way, and that Mary had come back.
Amelia never did say “I told you so”, or anything of the like. She just sighed and said, “I suppose this means our work is cut out for us” to which Minerva agreed.
One of them died for it.
1997
“But why Amelia?” Minerva asks, gulping her wine. “Why not me?” The question sounds plaintive and almost childish in her ears.
“You are formidable, Minerva, never doubt that. But she was a far worthier opponent.” Voldemort stands, approaching Minerva’s chair. “But if it is any consolation, I knew I could never have recruited you to my way of thinking. You have always been too kind, if rather susceptible to flattery and a pretty girl.”
“Go to hell,” Minerva snaps.
“Now, now, we don’t want this to get ugly, so I think it’s time I took my leave.” Minerva shivers as Voldemort leans uncomfortably close, her hand like ice on Minerva’s shoulder. Her lips brush Minerva’s ear as she whispers, “You are far more interesting to me alive and in pain than you ever could be dead. I did say you had nothing to fear from me.”
Minerva stumbles to her feet and away. Voldemort follows. She looks nothing like Mary Riddle had, but now Minerva can spot a resemblance: that wild, terrible expression that she once thought she hadn’t seen. “Goodbye, Minerva. I don’t believe I told you that before.”
“You didn’t.” Minerva wants to go for her wand, but something—perhaps Voldemort’s magic, perhaps her own fear—keeps her still.
“How rude of me.” Voldemort kisses her then, one quick peck on the cheek. Minerva’s skin crawls. “I’ll be seeing you around, I expect. Be careful, Minerva. Do not test me.” And with that, Voldemort sweeps away.
When she’s gone, Minerva falls back into her chair and squeezes her eyes shut, feeling the hot drip of tears. She misses Amelia. She misses Albus.
“She’s gone. She says she has no plans to return anytime soon.” Severus looks in on her. If she didn’t know better, she’d almost think he was trying to be kind. But she knows better.
“Thank you,” she replies, and goes off to bed.