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Some people would say that Minerva Mcgonagall had no children. Lets face it; some people, even amongst wizards, are idiots. Some of Minerva's children were more obvious, so to speak, than others.
Loud, sometimes arrogant James Potter, who hid his huge heart, endless loyalty, burning courage and sparkling talent behind silly jokes.
Perpetually angry, reflexively sophisticated Sirius Black, who was stubborn and kind, who had been taught that the instinctive, natural tenderness he possessed was actually a weakness.
Constantly bleeding, overly silent, soft-spoken Remus Lupin, who thought the only wounds he had to deal with were those outside his soul.
Snappy, laughing, smart as a pin, Lily Evans, who was always in the middle of a huge circle of friends, and only Minerva knew that she was using her friendships as a shield against a sister who hadn't spoken to her in four long years.
They were clearly Minerva's children, and she was perhaps a little ashamed that they were so clearly her favourites.
She consoled herself by treating everyone fairly, regardless of which house they were put in, and tried not to think about the failures. Because there were children whom Minerva considered her own, and yet she could not help them.
The plump, nice, blue-eyed Peter Petegrew, for example, a member of her own house, always considered by everyone to be less than, but Minerva saw in him the dry, interesting humour, the rarely flashy but brilliant ideas.
He was hers; how could she not see that what she thought was ambition was in fact an inferiority complex? How could she not see that what she thought was healthy caution was in fact cowardly self-centredness? Forty years of teaching and how could she not see the signs? How could she not improve the boy's personality? Why couldn't she help him?
What is she good for, if she can’t even help her own kids?
And let's leave those who belonged to her own house; perhaps we can say that if we look too closely at something, we miss the big picture. What about those who were given a different colour, not ruby red, and Minerva could not help them?
What about the wild, intelligent, fiercely loyal Bellatrix Balck, who Minerva saw something in - something that moved her heart and in the end couldn't help her. The witch never forgot Bella walking up the school steps for the first time.
’Why, hello there, Miss Black’ said Minerva, and she couldn’t say why, if you asked. It wasn’t her usual style; singleing out somebody the first night.
’How do you know who I am?’ Bella asked, who wasn’t egotisical just yet, dispite Cygnus Black’s best efforts.
’Well, this is my job, is it not? To know things.’ Minerva didn't mention that Bella had the classic Black features; a symmetrical, pretty face, jet black, curly hair, and distinctive grey-blue eyes that were more grey than blue.
'And what is my job?' asked Bella, with the instinctive curiosity of an eleven-year-old.
'That remains to be decided' Minerva said calmly, and Bella laughed.
And in the end, Bella's decisions were made by a raving madman, and Minerva's heart bled every time she thought about it.
Or lets just remember the strong, tough Rodolphus Lestrange, who reminded Minerva of a bear, when the witch caught him in a fight at the age of thirteen, in the courtyard, and, illogically, immediately felt for him. There was something helpless about the boy as he panted and lowered his head, and Minerva immediately wanted to help him.
'We need to do something about your temper, Mr Lestrange,' the professor observed, somewhat frostily.
’Yeah?’ Rodolphus looked up, a bit stubbornly, but Minerva sensed slight desperation in his voice. As if his theepramentum was some kind of monster he was afraid of. ’Like what?’
'What do you think of boxing, Rodolphus?' the witch wondered aloud.'There are several elite boxing clubs in England, popular with pure-blooded magicians, so your father should have no objections.'
He looked up at her from under his dark, long, beautiful lashes and gave her a genuine, sincere smile, and she considered him her kid, from then on, forget the snake on his tie.
Minerva was present at the Lastrange trial, which fell on a Friday afternoon; the professor pulled down so many wishkys that weekend that her mouth was still bitter on monday after the verdict.
Her bear was lost.
Oh, and what about Rabastan?
Minerva found the boy in the transfiguration classroom on a sunny late July afternoon, even though the room was empty. There was something strange about the boy's posture as he sat motionless by one of the windows and stared out. The frozen immobility made Minerva pause, and she placed her book on one of the tables.
'Are you all right Mr. Lastrange?' she asked, with some caution.
This boy was not as brutally strong as his brother: he was graceful and fair-faced, and his features were lit from the side by the sunlight; but his expression was blank, and it made Minerva's throat tighten.
’Rabastan?’ she tried, in a kind voice, even tho she rarley used anybodys first name. Nothing.
The teacher approached the boy and touched his shoulder; Rabastan's entire body convulsed and he cried out in terror.
’Don’t let the fire tuch me!’ He saw things nobody else did.
'All is well, Mr. Lastrange, I can assure you' Minerva was quick to comfort him; she felt a throbbing, worried tenderness as she gently squeezed Rabastan's shoulder and stayed with him until the boy's eyes cleared.
And just like that, Rabastan Lestrange became her child.
'What do you mean Romulus Lestrange doesn't believe in the existence of mental health?' she screamed half a year later in Dumbledore's office. ’It’s not a question of faith, its not a religion, its a fact! His son needs help!’
'I completely agree' Albus replied sadly. 'But there is nothing I can do.'
Minerva stared at the headmaster and hated the world a little.
Rabastan Lestrange tried to shake off the guards who led him away after the trial and tried to stay by his brother's side; Minerva cried silently, while drinking.
'You know, sometimes I feel that the teaching, the rasing never ends,' Dumbledore told her, one evening, in his office. 'They will always be your children. It doesn't matter how many mistakes you make, and it doesn't matter how many mistakes they make; they remain yours.'
She looked at him; perhaps all professors had children. Minerva swallowed her tea, stood up, and went to find Severus. That boy hasn't spoken in hours.
She found him in the Great Hall; Snape was pale, his lips strangely held.
'Would you like to play a round of chess, Severus?' asked the witch as she settled down next to the other.
The cool, strange expression disappeared from the man's face, and the edge of his lips curled up barely perceptibly.
'Why not,' he replied, curtly, but not angryly.
Minerva smiled very faintly; sometimes the smallest victories were enough.