Archive of Our Own

29th August, 1996

It was not unusual for Minerva to find herself within the castle walls at the height of summer. The days when she might have enjoyed the warm August sun while relaxing by the seaside with her nose buried in a book were long gone. In fact, she could hardly remember when she last had the luxury of indulging in a hobby. She could have, of course, if she had asked. Dumbledore would have agreed with a smile and a quiet nod. But Minerva didn’t feel she could allow herself that distraction. Not with the ongoing war and everything that came with it. So, while the rest of the castle’s inhabitants were busy enjoying their holidays, she found herself walking at her usual brisk pace through Hogwarts’ corridors.

Not a soul was to be found in the castle that day. Well, technically, a few souls were about. She watched the Fat Friar let out a self-satisfied laugh as he floated along, accompanied by a rather gloomy-looking Grey Lady.

She caught a glimpse of Filch down a staircase, muttering curses at nobody in particular, given that there weren’t any students around. Perhaps, she thought, he was keeping up his practice for when they returned.

She spotted Hagrid emerging from the Forbidden Forest, limping slightly and sporting a few more bruises than the last time she had spoken to him. He must have been visiting the half-brother he believed he was keeping secret from her and the Headmaster.

She was also fairly positive that Severus was lurking in some dark corner of the dungeons, but she couldn’t be certain. He spent so much time in utter seclusion that he could have been anywhere and no one would have noticed.

There was one person she was certain was at Hogwarts that day, though: Albus Dumbledore. Not only because she knew he was busy studying and predicting Lord Voldemort’s next moves, but also because she had received an owl from him the previous day, inviting her to meet him in his office.

She climbed the stairs briskly, her face set in a stern expression that she rarely softened, even when she knew no one was looking. She reached the statue of the gargoyle, stopped in front of it and said, “Sherbet Lemon.”

She stood and waited, watching as the statue slowly shifted aside to reveal the familiar spiral staircase. She climbed quickly up the stairs, reached the office door and gave it a firm knock.

“Come in,” said the Headmaster calmly.

Minerva opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind her.

Albus was standing with his back to her in front of the cabinet behind his desk. Minerva lingered for a moment, taking in the various items scattered across the desk’s surface. Every time she set foot in the room, she felt an overwhelming urge to tidy it up.

“You wanted to see me, Albus?”

The Headmaster turned slightly. He glanced at her over his half-moon glasses and smiled.

“How are you, Minerva?” he asked.

She hesitated for a moment. It had been quite some time since the two of them had indulged in pleasantries. It wasn’t because she didn’t enjoy it—quite the contrary. The fondest memories Minerva had within those walls, at least in her adult life, nearly all involved Albus. It was simply that there hadn’t been the opportunity or the right mood for it in at least a couple of years. She was so caught off guard that replying with a polite lie, such as a simple ‘fine’, proved impossible. She settled for a more honest, “Busy.”

Albus nodded slowly and turned his gaze back to his cabinet.

“So I’ve heard,” he remarked. He cast a long, silent look out of the window in front of him, then laced his fingers behind his back. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, you should be heading to St Mungo’s in a couple of hours.”

Minerva frowned. She opened her mouth to question him, but soon gave up. She was so accustomed to the man knowing things about her and everyone else’s lives that she no longer wondered how he did it. She simply sighed.

“Indeed,” she confirmed.

The Headmaster turned and nodded at her. He reached his desk, sat down and gestured for her to take the seat opposite.

“Please.”

Minerva nodded in return and took the chair on the other side of the table. Albus offered her a warm smile, picked up a silver bowl nearby, and held it out to her.

“Licorice Snaps?”

“No, thank you,” she replied briskly. “Is there a reason I’m here, Albus? Is it about… You-Know-Who?”

Albus put the bowl aside and shook his head. “Nothing to do with Riddle,” he replied.

Minerva frowned. “Then what?”

“Can’t an old man wish to spend some time with a friend?” he asked.

The words were enough to give her pause. She returned his penetrating gaze and, as was customary, felt those sky-blue eyes reaching into parts of her soul that she would rather remain unscrutinised. Nevertheless, she found herself offering him a genuine smile.

“He can,” she replied. She adjusted her glasses and looked away in mock indulgence. “But the old man I know rarely receives friends in his office in the middle of summer without ulterior motives.”

He conceded the point with a guilty look and a brief nod.

“Truth be told, the old man I know rarely does anything without ulterior motives these days,” she added, her tone carrying a clear note of sarcasm.

Albus chuckled but didn’t argue. He reached for his wand on the desk, gave it a flick, and levitated two full glasses of Gillywater towards them.

“This has been a rather intense summer,” he murmured.

Although he spoke with his usual calm, his words betrayed a profound weariness. He brought the glass to his lips and took a long sip.

“Filled with predictions I would rather not have had to make. Revelations I would rather not have had to experience. And memories I would rather not have had to exhume.”

“Hmm…” she replied softly. She took a sip herself and swallowed it with a soft sound of satisfaction. “Anything you care to share?”

The question was mostly ironic. She had known the man for decades, yet he had never once chosen to share any of the myriad thoughts that undoubtedly crowded his mind.

“Yes,” replied Albus.

Minerva paused, her glass hovering above the table’s surface.

“Yes?” she repeated incredulously.

He nodded.

With her eyebrows raised and her lips parted, Minerva finally set down her glass, leaned forward and gestured for him to continue. Albus took a second sip of Gillywater, then gave her another of his warm smiles. He, too, leaned forward, his long white beard cascading onto the desk.

“Do you remember my visit to the Wool’s Orphanage?” he whispered.

She frowned. “The Wool’s Orphanage?”

He nodded.

“Of course I remember it,” she replied. “It’s not something one forgets. Especially when you’re shown images of it in a Pensieve one ordinary afternoon after a class.”

Albus chuckled.

“So it is indeed about Him,” she noted. “Are you dwelling on the mistakes you believe you’ve made?”

The Headmaster took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together on his lap.

“That is undoubtedly one of the memories I would rather not have had to exhume,” he mumbled to himself.

Minerva immediately sensed, quite rightly, that there was more to the seemingly spontaneous sharing than met the eye. She narrowed her eyes and studied him for a while; predictably, she couldn’t make sense of it. She sighed with resignation, took her glass and resumed sipping.

“It’s not your fault, Albus,” she said, her familiar austerity creeping back into her voice. “You couldn’t have known. He was just a child, for Merlin’s sake! An orphan! You couldn’t have predicted who or… what he would become.”

“I couldn’t, indeed,” he nodded. “And yet, the signs were there, Minerva. All of them. It’s not as though I didn’t sense them. I did. But I chose to ignore them.”

He paused. Suddenly, he fixed his eyes on her and gave her one of his most penetrating stares.

“All I hope is that it serves as a cautionary tale.”

Minerva, who had just taken another sip of Gillywater, nearly choked on it. She coughed, brought a hand to her chest and put her glass down on the table less gracefully than she would have liked.

“Is that what this is about?” she asked, her voice still a little hoarse. “My visit to St Mungo’s? You believe… you believe that he—”

“I do not believe that,” he hastened to clarify. “Not at all.”

He looked away for a moment. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she could detect a hint of guilt in his eyes.

“He’s just a boy, Albus!” she gasped.

“He’s an orphan,” he observed. “Abandoned at a tender age. Extraordinarily intelligent. With magical abilities far above average. Raised in an environment entirely devoid of familial warmth.”

“He’s a sick child!” she exclaimed. “It’s not the same situation at all. The boy grew up in a hospital. He’s believed he wouldn’t live to see his next birthday every year since he learned to think. He’s still convinced he won’t! The least we can do, in case the Healers are right, is to offer him the opportunity to experience something different from what he’s had so far.”

Albus was silent for a while. He met her words with a tender smile and a look that held great affection. He moved his hands from his lap to the desk and leaned forward again.

“It’s a gift I greatly admire—the quality of showing empathy without it tipping into pity,” he said softly. “One I envy, too.”

Minerva barely listened. Her gaze had fallen upon the tightly wrapped bandage around one of his hands and the dark stain visible beneath it.

“What happened to your hand?” she asked.

Albus looked down, quickly hid his hand under the desk and let out a chuckle.

“The misfortunes of aging, Minerva,” he sighed. “I’m losing my touch. I can’t even enjoy a match of Wizard’s Chess anymore without the pawns turning against me.”

Minerva shot him a sceptical look. She considered probing further, but knew it would get her nowhere. She sighed with resignation.

“What do you suggest?” she finally asked. “That I leave him there? Not deliver his letter?”

“No,” he replied promptly. “Definitely not. My only suggestion is that you exercise caution, Minerva. And be prepared for whatever consequences such a responsibility may bring.”

She let out a humourless laugh. “The boy will arrive at the school in the middle of a war,” she observed. “Even assuming it ends before he finishes his studies, I doubt he’ll find the time to go around committing murders and terrorising the Wizarding World.”

Albus lowered his head. He hid a smile and a barely suppressed laugh that seemed to conceal more than they revealed. Minerva would definitely have liked to probe further at that point, but she didn’t get the chance. Someone knocked at the office door.

They both turned. The Headmaster rose with a sigh and she followed his lead.

“Forgive me,” he said quietly. “I’m afraid I can’t postpone this any longer.”

Minerva didn’t object. She frowned slightly and gave a nod. The Headmaster reached the door somewhat hesitantly, sighed once more and opened it.

On the other side of the threshold stood Severus Snape, as gloomy and sullen as ever, his black cloak billowing behind him.

“You wanted to see me, Headmaster?” he asked in an oily tone.

Albus nodded. “Do come in.”

Severus stepped forward. He met Minerva’s gaze, regarding her impassively from beneath his brow.

“Minerva,” he greeted her.

“Severus,” she replied.

He ran his dark eyes from her to the Headmaster several times. “Is there some sort of meeting I haven’t been informed of?”

“Nothing of the sort,” replied Albus, offering him a smile that wasn’t returned. “Minerva was just about to leave. She must ensure that another brilliant young mind crosses our school’s thresholds this September. Isn’t that right?”

Severus seemed to be making a great effort not to roll his eyes. He didn’t quite manage it.

“Oh, come now…” Albus said softly. “Perhaps you’ll like this one.”

Severus raised an eyebrow and shot him such a sarcastic look that it almost took on a physical form and slapped him.

“Certainly,” he grumbled.

Albus burst into quiet laughter.

The three of them exchanged a couple of cordial farewells, then Minerva left them and made her way down the spiral staircase.

She headed for St Mungo’s in the late morning—she had just enough time to enjoy a pumpkin juice from Madam Rosmerta before setting off. She reached it automatically, without paying too much attention to the surrounding streets. She had been there several times over the past few months. After taking a full barrage of Stunning Spells in the chest during the recently concluded school year, thanks to Umbridge, she had spent some time in the Janus Thickey Ward: the one for long-term patients.

It had been during her stay that Minerva had met the boy. He was a permanent resident of St Mungo’s, just a few rooms away from the one she had been assigned. He had caught her attention; not just because of his unusual appearance or the aura of mystery surrounding his inexplicable illness. Minerva had been teaching for decades, and by then she could detect talent at a glance.

Magical qualities in children that young manifested always the same way. It was an age of raw, uncontrolled magic. In the years before they started their education, children performed involuntary magical feats constantly. Some showed weak signs, such as levitating objects or suddenly changing their hair colour. Others, who would later demonstrate above-average powers, were much more exuberant. One child had frightened his Muggle parents half to death by bringing an entire army of toy soldiers to life. Another had made it snow in her garden for a whole week in the middle of August. Yet another, she’d been told, had made a whole glass pane disappear in a reptile house and fed his cousin to a boa constrictor. To each their own.

But there was something different about that particular boy. She had seen him wandering the ward corridors almost every day during her stay. He floated on his enchanted wheelchair, his head tilted to one side as though his body couldn’t support its weight. He had never displayed any signs of involuntary magic. At first, Minerva had assumed it was due to his condition. She had asked one of his Healers—Zachary, a plump man of gentle manners—about it.

With great sadness in his words, he had confessed to her that nobody knew exactly what had happened to the boy. He had been abandoned at St Mungo’s when he was little more than a newborn. Despite the extensive research conducted by Zachary and his colleagues, all they had managed to establish was that the boy existed in a bizarre state of perpetual death. He wasn’t alive—there was no heartbeat. Yet blood flowed through his veins. The boy had no need to eat, as his worrying thinness evidenced, nor to sleep. He could do both, but his body received no sustenance, didn’t rest and didn’t tire. Zachary, as well as the other two Healers assigned to his case, were confident that sooner or later he would simply stop functioning. In their opinion, it was a miracle it hadn’t happened yet.

Minerva had come to care for him. She wasn’t the type to get carried away by feelings; but those feelings were there nevertheless. From that day onwards, she had observed the boy more carefully. She had looked for any sign of involuntary magic, however small: a light going out by itself, perhaps, or a sudden lurch of his wheelchair. Anything that might have given her a good reason to rescue the boy from that place and let him spend at least a couple of years at Hogwarts before his inevitable fate caught up with him. But she had found nothing.

All the boy did was float along the corridors. Every now and then he would stop outside a patient’s room—strictly only if the patient was asleep and couldn’t reciprocate his gaze. He would study them for a while. He would pull out a notebook, scribble something in it, put it back in his pocket and move on.

Then one night, shortly before she was due to be discharged and finally return home, Minerva had passed by the boy’s room. She hadn’t been able to sleep that day. Too many disturbing thoughts had been racing through her mind—most of them concerning a certain Dark Lord who had been haunting her nightmares for a good four years. She craved a distraction.

Thus, she, too, had set off walking along the ward. As soon as she had turned the first corner, she had heard a sweet piano melody coming from one of the rooms. Curious, with her hair loose and wearing a Scottish tartan dressing gown that had been brought directly from her home, she had walked along the sterile corridor of St Mungo’s. She had seen him. He was in his usual wheelchair, with his black hair falling over his forehead, and his head tilted to one side. He was at a piano, pressing the keys with such gentleness that he seemed to be caressing them. The rest of his body was paralysed; only his fingers moved along the keyboard.

She had watched him for a while, her gaze distant and a soft smile on her lips—something she rarely allowed herself in front of students. But that boy wasn’t a student, after all. He never would be. Unless…

Her eyes had fallen upon the piano pedals. They were moving. Of course, he wasn’t pressing them down; that would have been impossible. Yet they moved slowly up and down in time. Intrigued, Minerva had opened the door absentmindedly.

The boy had turned. He had fixed her with a pair of dark eyes, barely visible in the dimly lit room, but he hadn’t stopped playing. He’d continued without looking at the keyboard.

Minerva had taken a few steps towards him and examined the pedals more closely; they were definitely moving of their own accord.

“Good evening,” the boy had greeted her, his voice faint and devoid of inflection.

As if awakening, Minerva had shaken her head and returned her gaze to his face.

“Good evening.”

No one had said a word for a while. The notes had remained the only sweet sound filling the room.

“What’s your name?” Minerva had asked.

The boy had offered her another quiet look. “Nodens. Gad. And yours?”

“I’m Professor McGonagall.”

At that, the boy had pressed the wrong note, then stopped abruptly. His hands had hovered motionless over the keys for a moment. Finally, he had lowered them to his lap and slowly turned his wheelchair towards her. He had raised his head as far as his condition would allow, and his eyes had sparkled in the darkness.

“You’re a… a professor?” he had asked, his voice even fainter than before.

Minerva had nodded.

The boy had stared at her speechlessly—there had been something almost reverential in that look. She had returned it with a hint of her restored authority. Nodding towards the piano pedals, she had returned to scrutinising him with interest.

“Did you enchant them?”

“Yes,” he had confirmed.

“How?”

“I don’t know. One of my Healers taught me to play, but I couldn’t use the pedals. I wanted to use them, and they started working.”

Minerva had paused for a long moment.

“It’s called ‘accidental magic’. It happens to children your age.”

“I know,” he had said. “It used to happen to me all the time before. It took me a while to learn how to decide when to use it.”

Minerva’s eyes had snapped to him. “You can decide?”

Gad had nodded.

“You have… learned to control accidental magic?”

The boy had thought about it for a while. “I think so.”

Minerva would have liked to ask how. Yet all she had managed to do was stare at him with her mouth open. It was a foolish question, she had told herself. How could he possibly know how? He had just done it. So she had opted for a quiet, “Why?”

Any child that age capable of such a thing would have boasted about it. They would have shown it to anyone who lingered nearby long enough to hold a conversation.

“I didn’t want it to disturb people,” Gad had replied.

That had been the moment Minerva had decided. It didn’t matter what Albus said. That boy had to come to Hogwarts.

She was almost excited as she stepped into the lift that would take her to the fourth floor, clutching the letter in her hand and wearing a faint smile. The doors opened, and Minerva took her first step into the Janus Thickey Ward with a strange, quiet trepidation that quickened her pulse slightly. In all those years, she had never delivered a Hogwarts letter in person. Certainly not to a boy who had never received a single piece of good news since the day he was born.

She turned the same corner as she had a few months before, but this time there was no sweet melody to brighten up the corridor. Gad was floating in front of the room adjacent to his own. His eyes were fixed beyond the pane of glass; he was holding his notebook, but he wasn’t writing. He was motionless, even more so than usual. Minerva approached him at a brisk pace, her brow slightly furrowed, and stopped beside him. She followed the trajectory of his gaze into the room and, this time, her heart quickened considerably.

There was a man lying on the bed. He was young and sturdy with a thick mane of blonde hair that reached past his shoulders. A series of spells held his arms and legs in place, and his face was contorted in a grimace that would haunt Minerva in many subsequent sleepless nights. It was pure, unadulterated agony. Despite the obvious spell that had been cast on him to silence him, the man was screaming with such desperation that his cries could almost be heard.

Minerva gasped and clutched her chest. She adjusted her glasses in the vain hope that she had seen incorrectly. She managed to keep her gaze on the man for no more than ten seconds before she was forced to turn away.

“What…” she breathed. “What in Merlin’s name—”

“He arrived this morning,” explained Gad, his voice low and monotone. “The Healers say it’s the Cruciatus Curse. I heard them talking outside my room. They said he’s a Muggle-born and that the Death Eaters attacked him.”

Minerva flinched again. She fixed her gaze on the floor beneath her feet and was unable to lift it for several moments.

“But it’s not just the Cruciatus Curse,” the boy continued. “The Healers say he hasn’t gone mad like the Longbottoms. It’s that the curse isn’t over yet. It’s as if they’re still casting it on him. But they can’t figure out how. They had to tie him to stop him from hurting himself.”

Gad turned his chair towards the Professor, and she finally lifted her head again. She met the boy’s gaze. All the joyful anticipation she had felt on arriving vanished in an instant.

There was nothing on that face. No fear, no horror, no compassion. Only an eerie emptiness, and worse still, a great deal of interest.

“That shouldn’t be possible, should it, Professor?” he insisted. “No one is casting curses on him.”

He turned his chair back towards the room and resumed watching the man with impassive scrutiny.

“The Death Eaters must know a lot of things…”

Minerva grew furious. She did so before her reason could stop her and make her realise that what she was observing was merely childish curiosity. She did so because Albus’ words, and the memory he had shown her months before, had echoed in her mind for far too long and clouded her judgement.

“Now you listen to me, Nodens,” she admonished, a finger pointed and all her severity back in place. “Such displays of interest in the Dark Arts are not tolerated at Hogwarts. Nor are they tolerated in the rest of the Wizarding World, at least among civilised people. You best be aware of it and keep it in mind if you truly have a wish to leave this place.”

Gad turned his chair once more and listened to the telling-off in silence. He didn’t reply, look down, or seem worried or even remotely unsettled. Only measurably surprised. He devoted a few moments of quiet reflection to her words.

“Professor,” he said quietly. “If people aren’t allowed to be interested, how will they understand what happened to him and help him?”

Minerva paused. She searched the boy’s gaze for a sign of sincere concern for the man’s wellbeing. Once again, she found nothing.

“That’s not the point, Nodens,” she said categorically. “It’s only natural that his Healers will show interest. That doesn’t mean they’ll want to do it. They’ll only do it because they have to.”

“But Professor,” he objected. “The Healers aren’t showing any interest. They hardly ever go into the room.”

“Of course they hardly go in!” she exclaimed. “Look at the man!”

She turned around, but could only bear to look at him for a couple of seconds.

“Who… who on earth would want to go in?”

Gad reflected further. He returned to watching the patient in silence.

“So,” he said softly, “you can show an interest, but only if you pretend not to want to?”

Minerva’s eyes widened and her nostrils flared suddenly as her gaze darted back to the boy.

“Pretend?” she repeated breathlessly. “They are not pretending! They are feeling!”

She realised that she had been shouting. She caught her breath and lowered her voice, though her tone remained harsh.

“Horror. Compassion. Anger,” she said firmly. “There’s a man in pain, Nodens. Those are the feelings a proper wizard should have.”

A long silence followed. Minerva kept her severe gaze fixed on the boy, who, unperturbed, continued to stare at the screaming man.

“Ah,” Gad finally murmured. “I see.”

He hesitated for a moment, then turned his chair towards her.

“What if someone doesn’t feel them?”

Minerva’s gaze shifted quickly from stiff to adamant.

“Then that someone would have a very serious problem,” she declared.

The boy finally lowered his gaze. His neck seemed to give way a little more under the weight of his head. He mumbled another faint “I see…” and didn’t say another word.

Minerva didn’t give him the letter that morning. She held it tightly in her hand as she made her way to the hospital’s refreshment area. She sat at a table with an unappetising meal on one side and the letter on the other. Her eyes kept sliding from the plate to the envelope and back again, but she couldn’t muster the strength to interact with either of them. She sighed and finally accepted that the knot in her stomach wouldn’t allow her to have lunch.

She put the food to one side and took the envelope back into her hands. She ran a slender finger over the scarlet wax seal and gave it a melancholic smile. She remembered the day she had received hers as if it were yesterday. She remembered the way her hands had trembled over the white paper. She remembered how her eyes had raced across the ink, skipping words here and there from sheer excitement, until her mother had to gently take it from her and read it aloud. Minerva had slept with that letter. She had kept it beside her during meals, as if it were granted a place at the table. When it had been time to leave home, she had reluctantly left it alone in her room, only because she had been afraid of losing it had she taken it with her.

She still had it. She kept the yellowing envelope in a locked drawer in her bedside table. Every now and then, she would take it out just to look at it and relive a faint echo of the greatest joy she had ever known.

Perhaps that was the problem, she thought. How could she expect a boy who had never experienced that kind of happiness to understand its opposite? How could she expect a soul that had never known excitement, hope or love to understand their absence? What had she expected from an eleven-year-old boy who had spent his whole life in a hospital? That he would be shocked by pain? Outraged by injustice?

Minerva sighed again. What had she hoped to achieve with that reprimand? She had been unfair, she told herself. Unfair and irrational. She should have called him into his room, sat down in front of him, and explained. That was her role. She was an educator, for Merlin’s sake. Not his mother.

Some time passed before Minerva’s gaze settled on the large clock hanging on the wall. She had noticed other visitors to St Mungo’s getting up from their tables, then others coming and getting up again, but she hadn’t really paid attention. She hadn’t realised that she had been alone with her thoughts throughout the afternoon.

She decided to wait a little longer before getting up. The hospital was much quieter in the evening, and the boy didn’t have any designated visiting hours anyway. He wasn’t exactly a patient; he was more of an adopted member of the Healers’ family. She waited until seven, when she knew most of the Healers and patients would be busy enjoying a dinner that Gad wouldn’t need to partake in. Then she got up, paid for a long-forgotten lunch and made her way down the staircase.

As soon as she turned the corner, Minerva heard the sweet melody of the piano again. But this time, the corridor wasn’t empty. Right next to Gad’s room, in front of the screaming man’s door, Zachary the Healer was standing with his arms crossed, his usual kind gaze and a smile on his lips. Minerva frowned and hurried over to him. As soon as she caught a glimpse of the room, her jaw dropped.

The screaming man wasn’t screaming anymore. He was sitting on his bed, with one arm extended towards a Healer carefully bandaging it. There was tiredness on his face, as well as a great deal of distress, but also immense relief. No more pain.

“Is he…” murmured Minerva. “Is he healed?”

Zachary’s smile widened. “Yes,” he replied. “Well, not exactly ‘healed’ yet, but better, without a doubt.”

He turned towards her and she returned his warm gaze with one of amazement.

“Did you understand what happened to him?”

Zachary nodded. “Apparently, the Death Eaters had been experimenting,” he explained. He nodded towards the room and directed a meaningful glance at the bandaged arm. “A tattoo. Similar to the Dark Mark, but cursed so that it functioned as a kind of… endless Cruciatus.”

Minerva gasped. “Goodness… that’s terrible!”

“Terrible indeed,” the other agreed. He shook his head grimly. “None of us had realised. We thought he was trying to hurt himself, but he was trying to… scratch the tattoo off his arm. He could barely speak…”

She observed the scene again in silent disbelief.

“How… how did you work that out?” she finally asked.

“It wasn’t us,” replied Zachary. “It was Gad.” He nodded towards the room from which the piano sound came and gave it a faint smile. “He was the only one who could look at him for long enough to notice the tattoo on his arm. A few more hours of the Cruciatus Curse and he would have met the same fate as the Longbottoms. Poor souls…”

He sighed deeply and shook his head again.

“We owe that boy a great deal,” he added. “If only we could find a way to return the favour…”

He hesitated for another moment, his eyes fixed on Gad’s room and his lips curved in a mournful grimace. He turned to Minerva once more, placed a hand on her shoulder and took his leave with one last polite smile.

Minerva could barely move for quite some time. She stood still, listening to the piano and watching what little she could see of the boy in the dark. She reached for the door handle hesitantly. She had to take a deep breath to regain some composure.

She entered the room. Gad, as he had done months before, turned but didn’t stop playing.

“Good evening, Professor,” he greeted her, his tone as faint as ever.

Minerva swallowed silently. “Good evening, Gad.”

She quickly reached the foot of the bed, sat down and stiffened her posture.

“Would you mind stopping and coming here?”

He obeyed immediately. He gently closed the keyboard cover, spun his chair around, and floated over to sit directly opposite her.

Minerva lingered for a moment on the boy’s face. Gad looked at her, waiting, without saying a word or betraying the slightest hint of what was going through his mind. Minerva had encountered hundreds, if not thousands, of young faces over the course of her career. Some had shown her respect. Others had shown her fear, especially when they were this young. Gad offered her an empty look that held something unsettling.

But Minerva decided to ignore that thought. She had already let Albus’ words cloud her judgement once; this was not the time. She cleared her throat and took another deep breath.

“I must apologise to you, Gad,” she said, her tone both severe and earnest.

The boy seemed surprised. He tilted his head to one side even further and narrowed his eyes.

“Apologise to me, Professor?” he echoed faintly.

She nodded.

“Why?” he asked.

Minerva looked away and hesitated. “I wasn’t fair to you,” she stated. “My reprimand wasn’t appropriate. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Gad remained silent for a long moment, deep in reflection as he often was.

“I showed interest, Professor,” he said. “I thought that was wrong.”

“It isn’t,” she replied. She looked him in the eye and gave him a hint of a smile. “You helped that man.”

He nodded weakly. “Yes, of course,” he replied.

Minerva nodded back. “You did well.”

Gad’s eyes lit up like never before. It wasn’t exactly happiness. It was interest, just as it had been before that room. It was as if he were on the verge of pulling out his notebook and taking notes.

“I did?” he asked softly.

“Of course,” she replied firmly. “You showed compassion and intelligence. That’s what a proper wizard does.”

The boy paused again. He opened his mouth to say somethinng, but quickly thought better of it.

Minerva waited for him to speak. When she realised he wouldn’t, she straightened her back and allowed a veil of the emotion with which she had entered St Mungo’s that morning to escape her composure.

“I have something for you,” she said gently.

She cast a furtive glance at the envelope she was still holding tightly in her hand. She couldn’t quite hide the impatient smile that curled her lips as she handed it to him.

Gad moved his gaze from her face to her hand. Slowly and with some difficulty, he reached for it and brought it into his lap. He studied the seal that kept it closed for a long time and ran a finger over it; then he raised his head slightly and looked back at the Professor.

“May I open it?” he asked.

“Of course!” she replied, showing more enthusiasm than she usually allowed herself. “What do you think I brought it for?”

Gad let out a heavy breath. Without hesitating any further, he lowered his head to the envelope again, broke the seal bearing the Hogwarts crest and pulled out the letter.

Minerva watched him carefully as he read the words on the page. She wasn’t sure what she expected to see. Certainly not tears of joy. She watched him read calmly and attentively, not missing a single comma. When he had finished, he gently replaced the parchment in the envelope, closed it and put it back on his lap. He raised his head and gave the Professor a look brimming with something—not excitement, nor surprise, nor even happiness. He seemed hungry.

“Am I… am I a student?” he whispered.

Minerva smiled at him. “Yes, you are,” she confirmed. “Well, you will be in a few days.”

“Will you be there?” the boy asked eagerly.

“Of course,” she replied. “It’ll be my duty to greet you at the entrance and escort you to the Great Hall for the Sorting Ceremony.”

Gad’s eyes darted to her. “The Sorting Ceremony?”

She nodded. “Students are sorted into one of four houses,” she explained. “Each house welcomes students with different predominant qualities. Every house has a Head of House among the teaching staff.”

She adjusted her glasses and allowed a small, proud smile to escape.

“I am the Head of Gryffindor.”

The boy listened attentively. He fell silent for a moment, then whispered, “Do you think you will be my Head of House?”

Minerva looked at him. The one she formulated wasn’t a considered opinion based on observation and reason. It was automatic, more instinct than anything else. She thought there wasn’t even the slightest chance that the boy would end up in Gryffindor. But she chose not to tell him.

“We’ll see,” she said vaguely, shifting in her seat.

He nodded.

There was a silence longer than the others. Minerva studied him once more, searching for something beyond his obvious thirst for knowledge. Eventually, she decided to simply ask him.

“Are you…” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Are you happy?”

Gad, who had been staring at the envelope in his lap, raised his head again. Twice he parted his lips and took a breath, but he didn’t speak. He shifted in his chair in a rigid, almost imperceptible movement.

“Is it… is it what a proper wizard would feel?” he asked.

Minerva didn’t reply for a while. She held his gaze, unsure whether what he was stirring in her at that moment was sympathy or genuine unease.

“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, it is.”

Gad blinked a couple of times. Then, slowly, he offered her the first authentic smile he had ever given anyone.

“Then yes, Professor,” he whispered. “I am happy.”

That evening, Minerva returned home with the quiet hope that he wouldn't be sorted into Slytherin in a few days' time. She knew there was nothing sensible about that wish. After all, there had been dark wizards and witches in other houses, as well as excellent ones who had been Slytherins. Nevertheless, she hoped for it deep down as she put her own old letter back into the drawer, turned off the bedside lamp and settled into her pillow that night.

Minerva had no idea that, on September 1st, she would accompany the boy to take his place on the stool designated for the Sorting Ceremony, and that, before it had even touched his head, the Sorting Hat would proclaim, “Ravenclaw!”

She had no idea how often she would think back to that day and that conversation. She couldn't have imagined how often she would dwell on it in the days, months and years to come. Nor could she have imagined that she would think about it until the day she peacefully passed away in that same bed, decades later—especially since that very same boy would be there, holding her hand with a smile.

For now, all Minerva knew was that the boy was happy. And no matter what Albus might say, that was enough.

The End