Work Text:
The transfiguration section of Flourish and Blotts was possibly her third favourite place in the world. Not just because of the books, though she had always been enamoured by them, but for the memories also. Standing in these aisles with her friends, with her husband, with the other Hogwarts professors. Her friends had tapped toes impatiently as they watched her run her finger along each spine; her husband had asked for his allowance to go to Florean Fortesque’s Ice Cream Parlour and he’d meet her in an hour for her to expound excitably over each volume she’d bought; her fellow teachers had dispersed for their own sections of interest but would always return before she was finished building her pile of purchases.
It was always a challenge to buy a new book on transfiguration. The flashier authors, with more style than good sense, would publish books with mutating covers, or that would transform into goblets or mugs, or that dispensed practise objects depending on the spell you were learning. Professor McGonagall had always felt these features unnecessary. A good transfiguration student would always have their own supply of miscellaneous objects to practise on and any reader worth their salt knew that the book should be accompanied by a goblet of wine or mug of tea, never in itself become the accompaniment.
Her selection thus far consisted of a modest pile of five books. One small and leather bound by Gerald the Clandestine about his own personal and unprofessional forays into small mammal transfiguration, it was always good to have a greater knowledge of unsterile experiments as well as the more thorough approaches. Then there was a set of two volumes by the one author, one volume for before they achieved their historic transformation into a muggle motorbike. The other to explain the aftermath: their theft by a muggle robber, their six month tracking and rescue by the ministry, and their subsequent recovery period. A tad more fluffy and less technical than Minerva McGonagall’s usual reading but the side effects of leaking oil and having a strange compulsion to sip gasoline sounded fascinating. Her final two selections were authors of whom she read the findings and new teachings of regularly, Agatha Bappleby had mastered transfiguring meals into different flavours, and Harrietta Murdoch had several new incantations for producing furniture out of thin air.
It was with a satisfying thump that the headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry added one last book to her collection, Offensive Flowers: How to use wildlife in your defence by Howard Babbarage. One was never too old to master something new.
She hefted the pile with her wand so that it hovered in front of her, and made for the front desk.
She was only a few aisles over when she stopped at a familiar sound.
“Oh really Ronald!”
Most familiar indeed.
“You’ve read a million books telling you the exact same thing already Hermione. Now is the time to think about what we’re actually gonna read her.”
“We’ve got the Tales of Beedle the Bard at home Ron.”
“We’ve got an old, written in runes version at home. This one- this has a cute cover and when she’s learning to read for herself she can pick up without having to study an ancient language for seven years.”
“I still think we should hear what Javier Hinkleglop has to say about breathing techniques.”
“Well I’m sure that’ll be a good one to put her to sleep but I was thinking something more fun loving.”
There was a pause were Professor McGonagall could almost picture the looks on each persons face. Ronald Weasley would be looking imploring but smiling somewhat goofily. Hermione Granger would have her brow furrowed while pressing her lips together in an attempt to contain her smile.
The sound of the bickering couple moved closer until they emerged from the mouth of the aisle, Miss Granger carrying a stack of books before a prominent baby bump, Mr Weasley following with a couple of thinner, pastel coloured books under one arm and wielding another in his outstretched hand. Professor McGonagall corrected herself mentally, the pair were Mr and Mrs Granger-Weasley now, she should know, she was at their wedding after all.
It was as Hermione opened her mouth to retort that her eyes settled on the tall headmistress. She stopped in her tracks and Ron had to perform a quick side step to prevent himself walking into her.
“Professor McGonagall?!” Hermione half-cried, a smile settling on her face. Ron started before letting his gaze follow his wife’s. His response was much more that of a Hogwarts teen being caught in the act of some mischief before he seemed to ping back to the present and remind himself he wasn’t a student any more and he’d happened upon an old friend. An old, stern friend perhaps but nonetheless a positive acquaintance.
“Mrs Granger-Weasley, Mr Granger-Weasley,” she nodded to them in turn. They grinned like lovestruck teenagers for a moment, quite taken with their old teacher using their married names. She almost rolled her eyes, they’d been married for nearly five years already, they should really be used to it by now!
“I had heard reports of your good news from the Prophet, whether or not I approve of their headlines I must offer my sincerest congratulations,” Professor McGonagall smiled. Their grins only spread wider and Hermione’s face developed a flush.
“Thank you professor,” said Ron possibly unconsciously stepping closer to his wife.
They exchanged pleasantries for a while, how Hogwarts was doing, how many Weasleys there were at last count. They spoke easily and a sense of peace rested over McGonagall’s heart, happy that two wonderful students were, not only succeeding in their careers, but were happy in their lives following their harrowing experiences throughout their school years.
They had been chatting idly for some time when Hermione nearly upset her stack of books trying to check her watch. Ron prevented them from falling to the floor before swooping them up with his wand, “You should really use a levitation charm for these, love.” Hermione responded with a well practised eyebrow and a smirk.
“I am sorry professor,” she said as she managed to study her watch, “But we’ve got an appointment this afternoon that we need to get to. It’d be lovely to chat more though, there’s especially some parts of Hogwarts’ education system that I wanted to explore in depth and it would be ever so helpful to have your input. Would you like to come over to ours for tea some time?”
Ron was rolling his eyes, “Baby’s eyes aren’t even open to learn to read Hermione, let alone start studying transfiguration,” but he smiled shaking his head softly and shrugging at his old teacher.
“That sounds most pleasant,” Professor McGonagall responded nodding, “Just send me an owl to sort some details and I’ll get back to you.”
Hermione nodded happily before herding Ron physically and verbally towards the front of Flourish and Blotts.
A week passed before Professor McGonagall was greeted by the happy twitterings of an aged Pigwidgeon outside her window. The letter attached to his leg was written in Hermione’s elegant hand and apologised for the delay in writing her and further for the busy schedules of the sender which meant that their plans to meet again would be significantly more delayed than they would have liked. Hermione had written this was partly Ron’s fault for insisting that she not fill all her days with meetings but instead rested. Smirking gently to herself, Professor McGonagall accepted their proposal for meeting at their cottage in a months time.
It was a much shorter, terser note that arrived a month later on the very morning she was preparing to arrive. Written in big letters and the scrawl of handwriting that the headmistress remembered as young Mr Weasley’s, Gotta reschedule, Ron.
Concerned, she attached a response enquiring if everything was well and sent Pigwidgeon on his way. She didn’t receive a response for several days.
“Ron, what’s this note from Professor McGonagall?”
“Hmm?”
“This note Ron, it was on Pigwidgeon’s leg.”
A look on confusion passed over his face, then realisation, then just a hint of embarrassment.
Professor McGonagall received another letter, just hours after this conversation, via Hermione’s business owl humorously named Crowe by Ron. She opened the note and gasped, covering her mouth and looking around her office as if someone might witness her emotional state succumbing to the joy that welled within her.
My sincerest apologies professor, in our haste we didn’t realise that Pigwidgeon had retuned with a letter attached. We were rather distracted you see, as our daughter was born just hours after Ron sent you a note that we needed to reschedule. Despite my vested interest in Hogwarts’ education system, I don’t think even I would have been able to hold a discussion about it on that particular day! If you’d like to meet the new addition to our family then I think it would be best if we arranged a date a little later this month as the house is currently swarmed with Weasley’s coming and going with advice and treatments and all sorts of gifts (some questionable ones from George I might add). Is it too late to cast a Fidelius Charm on our house? Anyway, you’re more than welcome…
The letter continued offering a date and time but Professor McGonagall let the news sink in before she continued. What wonderful, beautiful news this was. She could feel her eyes beginning to water but tried desperately hard to contain herself. It didn’t work very well and before she knew it she was sitting at her desk with big, fat tears running down her ageing cheeks. All the trouble those three had gotten into, all they’d been through, all the glances she’d caught those two hard-headed teens giving each other and the arguments she’d heard, she laughed to herself at the memories. Now, all these years later, a baby, their very own flesh and blood. She’d been the same when she heard the news about James Sirius Potter, though the name did cause her to shiver and consider retiring before she’d originally intended… She took a moment to collect herself, wiping under her eyes with a handkerchief she conjured. She responded eagerly, glad that the time was convenient as she didn’t think she could wait any longer than already suggested.
Professor McGonagall’s tall frame strode down the lane as per the directions she’d been given, pointed hat bobbing up and down over the hedgerows as she walked. The Granger-Weasley house was a quaint, old farm house a short way outside a small muggle town. As she came to stand in front of the garden gate she saw the house in its full sweet splendour. It was brick painted white with an old slate roof. The door was an inviting and Gryfindoresque red and a patch of roses bloomed in a flower bed out front. The garden was well kept in a way that McGonagall would expect from Miss Granger but had the used and played in feel of the Weasley family, as if nieces and nephews had recently tumbled over the lawn. It seemed a perfect home to start a family in.
Approaching the door, she observed that it truly did bear testament to their Gryfindor heritage with a small lions head door knocker. Nodding appreciatively, she applied it to its purpose and waited on the step.
She was there long enough that she was starting to inspect the rose blooming to her right when the door swung open. Ronald Weasley’s lanky frame took up most of the door frame and he was grinning as if he’d just heard the Chudley Cannons had won the league.
“Professor McGonagall! Hi! Come in, come in, let me take your cloak.”
Depositing her cloak and hat on the rack by the door he led her into the living room, “I’d yell that you’re here but I think Rose is asleep so probably best not to raise our voices.” Their living room was spacious and had a familial clutter about it, smiling photos donned the mantelpiece, the sofa had a hand knit blanket spread across its back, there was a toy chest that seemed to be overflowing with new additions to one side.
“Professor!” came Hermione’s voice from the door to the side, she briefly saw a cosy kitchen beyond before her gaze snapped to the bundle in Hermione’s arms, “I’m so glad you could make it.” Professor McGonagall observed the beaming smile on her once student’s face as she moved the bundle up so that it rested against one shoulder. Precious package suitably arranged in this way and Hermione was able to offer one arm so that the women could exchange a brief embrace.
“Congratulations, both of you,” said Professor McGonagall softly, a smile spreading over her face as Hermione resettled the baby.
“Thank you Professor,” she smiled, “This is Rose.”
Professor McGonagall had to consciously constrict her tear ducts as she gazed upon the face of the newest Weasley child. She was serenely settled in her mother’s embrace, eyes closed and emitting gentle squeaks intermittently. Her head was crowned with red hair, surprisingly thick for one so young. She was still at the age where her neck wasn’t strong enough to support her head so Hermione’s arm acted as her head rest. The Professor briefly contemplated whether the great weight of her possibly inherited brains might make the activity of lifting her head harder in future.
“She’s beautiful.”
Both parents flushed with pride, maybe it felt different to them, hearing such approval from their former teacher as opposed to their parents and loved ones. Essentially bequeathing them an O grade in the middle of their lives. Hermione’s expression really did resemble the time she got an O with stars around it from Professor Flitwick.
As Ron went to prepare them tea, the ladies settled on the sofa chins wagging about how the last month had progressed, Professor McGonagall politely extracting every inch of detail about Rose’s life so far. Inside her heart was squeezed tight with pride and love for her former students. She often silently confessed that one of the wonders of being a teacher was watching people grow and move on to greater things. The growth of these two students in particular warmed her heart.
As they sat, words flowing naturally between them, she was reminded of conversations she’d had in her first year of being headmistress of Hogwarts. Hermione having returned for her seventh year and instantly being awarded the title of head girl, they had had regular meetings with the prefects and often times ended up idly sitting in the classroom after it emptied chatting like old friends. After all, not everyone read Traditional Transfiguration and Modern Metamorphosis monthly magazine release.
Ron had just returned with tea and cake when a clacking sound came from the window. He let in an owl with an official ministry letter cylinder tied to its leg. He removed the letter and read it aloud. It was a brief note, written in the nervous hand of one of the junior members of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures who had apparently misplaced an important, “filly- no that must be file…” and was hoping Hermione still had a copy at her home office. With a sigh and an apology Hermione excused herself, passing little Rose to her father who accepted her with a big grin plastered on his face.
Ron settled in the armchair across from his old teacher gently bobbing his daughter in his arms, soothing the baby as she stirred following her transfer. Against his tall frame she looked even tinier, little arms and little legs dwarfed when compared to his lanky frame. Professor McGonagall had never seen the second youngest Weasley look so content, she wondered whether in becoming a father, Ron had something that drove him to achieve betterment in in a way school had never managed to compel him.
He spoke easily about his daughter. His telling of her life so far was decorated with anecdotes and moments that he’d had with her as if they’d already had full fledged conversations. He promised to teach her chess and when she got to Hogwarts maybe Professor McGonagall could redeem herself, she gave him a look but smirked all the same.
Baby Rose began to stir gurgling softly. Her father grinned down at her, greeting her and enquiring about her sleep, she flapped her little arms in response. His head seemed to jerk to the headmistress quite suddenly and he asked, “Would you like to hold her?”
It had been many years since Professor McGonagall last held a baby, she’d met newborns but something in her stern demeanour seemed to put the parents off from extending this intimate experience to her. She accepted Mr Weasley’s manhandling of her arm positioning mostly to put him at ease giving him some control over his daughter’s safety but partly because she wondered if she might really have forgotten how to cradle a babe. It was no matter, the instinct to hold and protect a child didn’t leave one easily apparently. Hermione re-entered the room just as Ron was making introductions,
“Rose, this is Professor McGonagall,” a pair of brilliant blue eyes gazed up at her unblinkingly, “She’s gonna be your headmistress,” Hermione stood next to his seated form on the sofa, resting her hand on his shoulder, “She looks scary but she’s very kind.” Hermione huffed next to him, Professor McGonagall held back a smile and arched an eyebrow, Ron simply watched his baby, and Rose waggled her hand in the air close to McGonagall’s chin. The aged professor placed a single, thin finger to the baby’s plump, little hand which immediately wrapped its fingers around the digit. She sat for a moment shaking hands with the baby. She couldn’t possibly put into words the emotions whirling through her right at that moment. She saw their little faces before her eyes: Ronald Weasley, eleven years old, sixth Weasley child to pass through the halls of Hogwarts this generation, with all the self-esteem of a particularly blue flubberworm; Hermione Granger, eleven years old, muggleborn, excelling in all her of classes unlike any witch or wizard she’d ever taught before and to balance out all that greatness was her loneliness. Years of trying to protect them, keep them from harm, dozens of hospital wing admissions, what felt like hundreds of detentions before finally, finally, peace.
The tear came unbidden but unstopped to her eye and rolled down her cheek. In her blurred peripheral vision she saw Ron start and glance, stupefied at his wife. She couldn’t see Miss Granger’s face but whatever passed between the couple settled the grown man down again.
She rocked the baby gently as her happy tears continued to fall.
“You never ended up talking to McGonagall about the Hogwarts education system. That’s a shame, that’s what she came for after all!”
“Oh… I never really needed to talk to her about that…”
Hermione was met with a raised eyebrow, “Then why invite her?”
She was quiet for a moment, folding laundry in the muggle way like her mother had taught her.
“After everything, I think I wanted to give something back to her. No gifts or words could possibly describe my gratitude for all she ever did for us, but the sharing of such hope and wonder and life… that might say it all and more. That we’re okay, better than okay, and that’s partly because of her.”