About a Kitten: Prelude

[Alexannah]

Hi everyone, I'm posting another fic. *clears throat* Announcing the beginning of a series I've wanted to post for ages ... It is Albus/Minerva but also has a bit of Tom/Minerva, Harry/Ron (Slash warning, turn back now if you don't like it at all) and a couple of other less major ships. Albus and Minerva are both main characters but the ship, while critical to the plot, is not really the main focus of the story. I should also warn that the series contains some disturbing topics eg self-harm and abuse. If you can't take it turn back now.

Title: About a Kitten: Prelude

Summary: Sometimes Fate makes us learn the hard way.

Rating: 15/16+

Chapter One: Revenge is a Dish ... (Part I)

This isn't really me, I try to hide my colours
They've been turned to black and white by so many others
There’s nothing wrong, but something’s
Happening, I’m falling
- Kym Marsh

My name is Minerva Caitlyn McGonagall.

You can’t tell much from a name, can you? Most that know me, or know of me, will probably describe me as the strict Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, and stubborn Gryffindor.

Others that know me better see me as a loyal friend, dedicated teacher, and only really close friends will describe the relationship between Albus and I, as it shapes a large part of who I am.

But even my closest friends do not know the real me; they see only the shell, one I created for myself goodness knows when. It is a front I hide behind, too scared to show the world my true face. Even I do not truly know what it looks like.

Only Albus has ever looked upon it, and even he cannot see it as a whole, because I do not let him. We have shared a lot of things in our lives together, and one of them is pain. Pain was the main factor that caused me to be who I am, and I cannot bring myself to let others see, not even Albus.

He knows me better than anyone. He was always there for me, and still is. Our relationship has frayed in the past, and sometimes I can’t confide in him, but those times are rare. He knows what I have been through, because he was there almost all the way, but he cannot understand the permanent effects it had on me. No one can ever understand.

I was born to Malachi and Athena Chester, in October 1924. My parents were both Muggleborn and had been in the same year at Hogwarts. I think they had been lovers for years, but it wasn’t till Mother found out I was going to be born that they actually got married. I was a big surprise to both of them, as my mother was nearly ninety when she had me; which is old, even for a witch.

For the first few years of my life, I was happy. I was an only child, but I did not long for siblings. My parents hardly spoiled me, but I had all that I wanted.

I loved my mother dearly. Everyone said to me how much I looked like her, and I had a desperate desire to be like her when I was older. She was fairly well-known, and most who knew her, even if only vaguely, liked her.

She was wonderful, my mother. One of my earliest memories is of her and myself — I think my father was away — on the beach in the summer. I must have been about three or four years old.

It was a very new experience for me. Both my parents were Muggleborn, but I’d never really been in Muggle public before then — not that I recall, anyway. It was the first time I’d seen the sea up close, and I remember my mouth falling open when I saw it. I couldn’t believe how big it was! Mother laughed and mopped up the ice-cream that had fallen out of my mouth onto my dress.

“It’s so big,” I exclaimed. “Does it go on forever, Mummy?”

She laughed again. “Not forever, dear, but it is very big, isn’t it? Can you see any land on the other side?”

I squinted. “No.”

“Well, it is there. I can’t see it either. Maybe if we come back on a clear day we will.”

“Really?” I said eagerly. “We can come back?”

“I don’t see why not,” she smiled. “Shall we go and get you another ice-cream?”

I looked down at the large, half-melted, and now very dirty scoop of ice-cream that had fallen on to the pavement without me even realising. I’d never really had much of a sweet tooth, which my parents always thought was strange, but I adored, and still adore, ice-cream. That day was the first time I’d ever tried it.

“Oh,” I said, staring at the blob. “Yes, please.”

Mother took me by the hand and we went back to the ice-cream cart. Before I’d just chosen a plain vanilla, not having tried it before, but after realising, how nice it was I decided to be adventurous and chose chocolate flavour. The second ice-cream was bigger, nicer and colder than the first. My first lick deposited a smear of it on my nose. Passers-by stopped and grinned at me until Mother wiped it off with her handkerchief. She took me down to the sea with me licking it vigorously, trying not to drop it again. A difficult feat, as it was a very hot day and kept dripping, sometimes on my feet. I was wearing open-toed sandals, which made it rather uncomfortable.

When I finally crunched the last of the cornet, Mother suggested I dangle my feet in the sea to wash the ice-cream off. As I couldn’t reach them to lick it off, as I wanted to do, I agreed. She led me over to the rocks, sat me down and I stuck my feet in the water.

I should have learned from my experience with the ice-cream that things that don’t look cold can be very cold. I squealed and pulled them out sharply, causing others around us to laugh.

However unpleasant it may have been at the time, that was one of my favourite memories of my childhood.

My life was pretty much carefree back in those days. I envy my younger self now. At that age, I could not recognise that my father, Malachi, was not a particularly nice person. Mother did her best to shield this fact from me, and it worked. I was too naïve to recognise the signs when she failed to hide them. I loved both my parents, and I thought naturally, as most children do, that they loved me.

My father certainly acted as though he did most of the time. It was necessary in public. As he was Muggleborn, he had to try harder to be accepted into higher class, and not seeming like a loving father could have damaged his reputation. It worked: he became quite an important wizard, high in the Ministry. Now I compare him to Cornelius Fudge, although there are definite differences in their personalities.

Because of Malachi’s status, my mother and I were sometimes dragged out to important parties and dinners. I found them all rather boring, but Mother and I had a giggle about them afterwards. The first time I met Albus Dumbledore was at one of these very occasions: a formal dinner. Mother knew him through a friend at work, although not particularly well, and my father was desperate to please him, as he was so well known and respected, even then, before the days of Grindlewald.

I remember every detail of that day. I was dressed in a light, cotton emerald-green frock, that I adored back then and often wore to these occasions. Mother had tied part of my hair back in plaits with a matching silk ribbon, but the rest hung loose. She said the green made my eyes stand out. She would know, as I had inherited my eyes from her, just like her long, raven-black waves. Mother wore the same colour, but in an entirely different, much more grown-up style. I remember gazing at her, longing to look just like her when I was a grown-up. Everyone said Athena Chester was beautiful, and they were right.

When Albus — or Mr Dumbledore as he was to me back then — arrived, I saw the crowd whispering and parting for him, and I knew he must be someone important. He greeted my father, though not very enthusiastically. I think he was perhaps put off by Malachi’s clear desperation to please him. He smiled genuinely when he saw Mother and me. I felt my cheeks turn a little pink. Even at that age, I could recognise him as a rather handsome grown-up. He was taller even than my father, with sparkling blue eyes that I instantly adored, and long, sweeping auburn hair and beard. He had a moustache too. He kissed my mother’s hand, and then to my great surprise, did the same to me. It tickled and I giggled.

“Hello, Mr Dumbledore,” I said shyly. My father hissed, “Professor!” in my ear. I hastily corrected my mistake, to get a smile from my parents. Dumbledore chuckled and said hello to me too, then leaned in and whispered in my ear.

“Please Miss Chester, I prefer ‘Mister’. ‘Professor’ makes me feel old.” Then he winked at me, kissed my hand again, and moved on to the next couple.

I was far too shy to say anything else to him, but I watched him for the rest of the night — for some reason, he fascinated me.

By this time I was six years old. Around the time of the dinner, I started being tutored at home, like most wizard-bred children. My tutor’s name was Adelaide Zeller, and she and I did not get on. She acted as if I were a stupid child who could never learn anything, and she was wasting her time with me. I was brighter than most children my age, but she treated me the same as them. I wished for a different tutor, someone who understood me and wasn’t quite so patronising, but I didn’t make a fuss.

Occasionally we would disagree over something and it would end up in an argument. Once after a particularly bad one, after which I heard her threatening to resign to my father, I pretended I was ill the next day so I did not have to see her. Mother found out I was pretending, and told me off. I felt ashamed afterwards, and my tutor had this little smile on her face the next day, as if I had proved how much of a child I was.

Two weeks after this incident, we had another disagreement. It ended much the same as it had done the previous time, only I didn’t pretend I was ill. I had learned my lesson the first time round.

Unfortunately, bad timing is something that I am all too familiar with. A few days after our last row, I began to feel genuinely ill.

Of course, when I said so, Malachi immediately told me off for trying it on again. I tried to tell him it was for real this time, but he didn’t believe me. Neither did my tutor, or even my mother. I can’t honestly blame them. I did ask for it by pretending the first time.

I had to put up with my tutor. I continually complained of tummy-aches, nausea and dizziness, but no-one took me seriously for another two weeks, by which time Mother was getting suspicious that it perhaps wasn’t an act. I heard her and Malachi arguing about it.

He wouldn’t call a Healer to have them look at me; he said there was nothing wrong and it would be a waste of money. Mother wasn’t very happy with this, and neither was I. I think it was around this time that I began to see my father wasn’t all I thought he was.

A few days after their row, I woke up in the night with a bad pain in my stomach. Malachi refused to believe it was real, but when I was sick Mother began to really worry. My father still insisted that there were a million things that could have caused it, that I could easily be faking it, and if there was something wrong at all it was just a simple bug, and I’d be fine in a few days. I knew better, and I know my mother believed it was more than that.

The next day my father went out of the country for a year for work. Mother came to me and asked me to tell her honestly exactly how I felt. I told her, and she took my temperature, which was higher than it should be.

She called a Healer, but no-one was available to come over for a few days unless it was an emergency. I was grateful that Mother believed me in the first place, so I wasn’t about to complain about having to wait.

Two days afterwards was a bad day. I woke up in a coughing fit, and when I drew my hands away from my mouth I saw blood on them. Mother panicked and asked a Healer to come immediately. They said it would have to wait a few hours, but someone would be there as soon as possible.

The pain was much worse, and I threw up several times, each time blood coming up too. I had a bad fever and could barely sit up without my vision going fuzzy. Mother stayed with me, muttering some very bad things about Malachi as she did so. I remember hearing and privately agreeing. When the Healer saw me, she said I should be taken to St Mungo’s immediately.

It was horrible. I think I mentally blocked out a large part of that time in the hospital, but I remember feeling almost constantly sick, and I grew very tired. It didn’t take long for the Healers to find out what was wrong with me. Within hours of my arrival, I was diagnosed with wizarding cancer.

I didn’t understand what cancer was. How could I? I was only six. I’m not very familiar with the Muggle version of cancer, but the wizarding one can be either very slow or very fast-moving, and I had the fast one. The Healers tried every treatment they had, but I had been diagnosed too late, and the cancer was too far gone, for there to be much hope it would work. They warned Mother and I about that before even trying, so as not to get our hopes up too much.

When they broke the news to me that the cancer would most likely claim my life, I could not understand. People got ill every day, and they got better, didn’t they? I was just taking longer than others.

By the end of the week, they had tried everything they could. I was bed-bound, and sleeping most of the day. Mother never left my side. In the end, she took me out of hospital. There was nothing more the Healers could do for me, and I wanted to be at home.

I had not seen home for so long, and I relaxed much more once we arrived. The moment we set foot indoors Mother gave a chair wheels and took me out into the garden in it so I could see the outdoors and smell the fresh air after being cooped up in a ward for so long.

She never gave up. While I slept, she hunted and hunted for something, anything, that the Healers hadn’t tried that could help, and in the end came across a spell that had been outlawed almost immediately after it had been invented — not because it was necessarily Dark, but because it didn’t destroy the cancer, it merely transferred it to another person.

I know if it had been me in her position, I would have performed it.

Mother must have spent ages learning it; the incantation was very complicated. Finally, she came to me and told me about the spell … but not about all the effects.

“Minerva, sweetheart … I have found something. It is a spell that will take away your cancer.”

My eyes lit up, I could see the reflection in her glasses.

“There is only a small chance it will work, but if it does, it will be worth it.”

“Will I stop feeling so tired and ill?” I asked, hope rising inside me.

“If it works, yes, poppet. But … I need to warn you, it will hurt a bit. You will need to be a big brave girl and bear it, all right?”

I knew a few moments of pain had to be better than what I was going through. “Will it hurt you, too?”

I saw her bite her lip. “Yes, Minerva, it will. But it will be better in the end … you’ll see. I promise.”

I nodded. I wanted it.

Mother propped me up in bed and arranged cushions behind her, in case she passed out. Then she began to chant the spell.

I could feel the cancer being dragged out of me, and it was agony. The force felt white-hot, and I was sure my insides were being melted; I writhed in pain, but bit my lip to prevent anything more than whimpers from escaping. I could not see Mother during the process. Was she pleased? Afraid? Upset? I did not know. I passed out.

I don’t know how long I was unconscious for, but when I woke I felt different — sore, but my fever had gone down, and I no longer felt sick. Mother was crumpled on the floor, her face white. I didn’t want to test the strength of my legs just yet, so I called to her until she woke. When she did, she hugged me hard and burst into tears.

She didn’t see any need to contact my father. She hadn’t while I was ill, and there was no point now I no longer had the cancer. For a while we both celebrated, while I recovered my strength, but then I noticed Mother began to look ill. I asked her about it, but she said she was fine. She said it was just an after-effect of the spell and it wouldn’t last long.

I believed her.

Mere weeks before my father was due home, my mother became too ill to get out of bed. I acted immediately, finally recognising that it was serious, and she was taken to St Mungo’s. An owl was sent to my father. He did not come home at once.

Shortly after my seventh birthday, my mother died.

My father returned that same day. I had been kept in a private office while they waited for him to show up — they thought I would need him there when they broke the news to us. When he turned up they told us both what my mother had done.

My childhood was lost in that moment. For a moment I couldn’t breathe, and they had to sit me down and give me a glass of water to stop my head spinning.

I was young and did not understand the concept of death, but I knew that after you died, you didn’t come back. I didn’t want Mother to die. She had always been there for me; she had to stay. I burst into tears in the waiting area.

Malachi did not cry, or shout, or even react. I think he was in too much shock. Later I learned he was angry, although then I could not understand why.

He took her passing very hard. He completely changed; I no longer recognised him. He seemed to be furious all the time. I, young as I was, could not understand him.

I had inherited my mother’s love of reading and, when I wasn’t being tutored, spent most of my day, curled up with a book. By the time I was eight I had read the entire first-year curriculum. I read only partly because I wanted to — I learned that Malachi rarely disturbed me when I was doing something ‘constructive’, so I used it as an excuse to get away from him.

It did not always work. Often, he would lose his temper and yell at me, or just yell in general. I learned how unfair he thought life was. Malachi may not have been a nice person, but he did love my mother. More than he loved me — if he loved me at all. He still often acted as though he did, as if there had been no change, in private as well as in public, but he was so changeable, I knew not to believe it would last. I was terribly afraid of him.

He said terrible things to me. I don’t mean swearwords (although he used them alarmingly often), but the meanings behind his words. I won’t repeat most of it, but the few facts I learned from him, that I had drummed into my head, was that Mother was better than me, that I could never be as good as her, and that I should have been the one to die, not her.

That last one was the worst. It had a huge impact on my self-esteem. I grew to believe it, and every day I felt guilty that I was alive when Mother should have been in my place. It hurt me deeply, especially as the words were coming from my own father, whom I had always loved, and thought loved me.

Occasionally he would throw things. They never hit me, but I was so afraid of him. I repeatedly made excuses to leave his presence. Even when we were with others, I never felt safe. I’m not sure what our visitors thought of my continual need to go to the bathroom, or to fetch something I’d left in my room. They must have thought I had a serious bladder problem and was extremely forgetful. I never enlightened anyone. It was preferable to the truth.

He used to be back from work late in the evenings, and it was up to me to cook dinner. It was not really a problem as such, as Mother had taught me when I was younger, and I was good at it. But Malachi always picked holes in my efforts, and when he couldn’t find something specific to complain about, he simply said “Athena would have done better”. That was more hurtful than you could imagine.

I was shy and never got on with other children my age. They teased me for being so withdrawn and for my love of books. I could never relate to them. How could they be so happy and carefree? I was alone, miserably lonely, and I pined for someone I could talk to.

When I was nine or ten he hired a house-elf. I was both hurt, as I took it to mean he didn’t want to put up with my cooking anymore (I knew it anyway, but the fact that he had done something about it stung me more), and relieved, as I thought it meant there would be a living being in the house that I didn’t have to be afraid of, and could even be a friend.

Blinky was a sweet thing, and I felt comfortable confiding in her. I knew she couldn’t do anything about it, but I felt a weight lift for a while when she actually listened to me. But it didn’t last. Malachi found out I’d been saying things behind his back, and Blinky was forbidden to even be in my presence.

Then he hit me.

An hour later, when I was still sitting in my room in numb disbelief, he came and broke down, saying he was sorry and it would never happen again. I didn’t believe him, and I was right not to. I learned then that promises are often broken. In that moment I lost most of what trust in people I had left.

It happened again. And again. No matter how many times he did it, I was always left feeling shaken afterwards. I was terrified of him.

I can remember the first — and last — time I ever answered back. I woke up in the middle of the night thirsty, and crept downstairs to get a drink and a biscuit. I poured out a glass of milk from the fridge and then stood on a stool to reach the cupboard. But the old tin Mother always kept full of Ginger Newts for me was missing. She used to keep it as treats, and to get some energy into me, as I didn’t really eat much sweet foods. I felt a pang when I discovered it was not there.

As I closed the cupboard, my foot slipped, and I fell off the stool backwards, landing on the stack of saucepans on the bench. The clanging was enough to wake everyone in the neighbourhood. I hurried to empty my glass into the sink and put it away, as I knew Malachi wouldn’t like me helping myself to the milk, but in my panic I dropped it. My father walked into the kitchen just at that moment, furious.

“MINERVA CHESTER, WHAT IN THE NAME OF MERLIN ARE YOU DOING?”

I froze, shaking madly.

He scoured the kitchen, frowning deeply. “Look at this mess! Glass everywhere! Milk all over the floor! What have I told you about helping yourself to milk? If you’re thirsty between meals, you have water!”

“Mummy let me have it,” I answered back, amazed at my own daring.

“You have always been spoiled rotten, Minerva,” he snarled. “It’s about time you learnt some discipline. Athena didn’t know what was good for you.”

I hated when he did that — refer to Mother by her first name in front of me, as if I was nothing to do with her. I found a surge of anger rising inside me.

“Obviously she didn’t, or she wouldn’t have married you!”

The kitchen fell deathly silent. I was suddenly terrified; I knew I’d crossed the line. Again.

Malachi grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me vigorously. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again, do you hear? Never!”

I nodded, shaking like mad. He was still for a minute, and then he suddenly hit me across the face, throwing me backwards into the table. I yelled as I hit my head hard, and when I fell to the floor I landed in the shattered glass.

“Get this cleared up,” he whispered. “I don’t care how long it takes, just get it all off the floor. Now.” With that, he stormed out of the kitchen, locking me in. I crouched on the floor, my arms over my face, sobbing madly into them.

“Stop that pathetic whimpering!” he yelled through the door as a final departure, before I heard him storming up the stairs. I scrabbled around in the milk puddle and the glass, trying to get it up by hand — I couldn’t use the dustpan and brush, as they were kept in a cupboard in the pantry, which was locked. The glass got into my hands and my knees and feet and under my nails. The floor was smeared with blood by the time I had all the glass removed, or what I could pick up. For the next week or so, we kept stepping in tiny fragments, too small for me to see in that light. Every time my father found one he pinched my arm, digging his nails into the skin.

Whenever he was violent, it was mostly a slap round the face, or occasionally he would grab my hair. I learnt to stay well out of his way as much as possible, and dreamed of the day I could get away from the hell-hole I called home.

All wizard-bred children long for the day when they can attend Hogwarts, and I awaited it more hopefully than the rest. I would be away from my father, at least during term-time, I could make a fresh start with people my own age who, hopefully would be more mature than the hateful kids I grew up around who called me a bookworm, and the best of all, I would be with my childhood hero, Albus Dumbledore.

The time dragged by, but finally, one glorious morning, I came down to breakfast and found an envelope addressed to me in my place.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Armando Dippet
(Order of Merlin, Third Class; Member of Wizengamot)

Dear Miss Chester,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term starts on September first. We await your owl no longer than 31st July.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore
Deputy Headmaster

TBC …

[mininerva]

Wow, this is a great story so far! Poor Minerva. I hope you continue it soon!
~MiniNerva

[mmadcrazyfan]

awwww !
this is really really good, but i feel so badly for litl min. ='[
update SOON please!

[Alexannah]

Author's note: I'm so sorry, I completely forgot that I had this fic posted here as well! Here's the next part.

Chapter One: Revenge is a Dish … (Part Two)

By Alexannah

I tried my hardest just to forget everything
… I don't know how to let anyone else in
… I'm ashamed of my life because it's empty
- Kelly Clarkson

I was to go to Hogwarts on my own. Malachi dropped me off outside King’s Cross station, and I had to find my way to the platform myself. I couldn’t work out how to get onto the platform, and began to panic, until I spotted a woman with a girl around my age, and an owl.

“Excuse me,” I said nervously, hurrying up to them.

The woman turned and smiled at me. “Hogwarts too, dear?”

I nodded, and she took me by the arm and kindly showed me how to get onto the platform. I thanked her and I went through the ticket barrier together with her daughter – my future best friend, Poppy Pomfrey.

“Are you Malachi Chester’s daughter?” she asked when I told her my name.

I was tempted for a moment to say, “Who?” I wanted a fresh start without having to think about my father, but there wasn’t much point in lying; it would only raise curious questions when it got out I was. So I replied, “Yes.”

“My mother works with him. She says he’s quite charming … Shall we get a seat?”

Glad she had changed the subject almost as soon as it had come, I agreed and we went hunting for an empty compartment.

Poppy and I turned out to have a lot in common. We were both a bit shy, and considered strange for our love of books. We also both had an interest in Healing.

Mine was sparked, naturally, from the incident with the cancer. I had an idea that when I was older, I would be a Healer and dedicate my life to helping others. Maybe I just felt I had to repay what I had taken from the world with my mother’s death.

“What House do you think you’ll be in?” I asked Poppy.

“I don’t really know. My family’s a mixture, but my mother thinks I’ll be in Ravenclaw. What about you?”

“My mother was in Ravenclaw,” I said, swallowing at the memory. “I hope I will be, too.”

I didn’t just hope to be in Ravenclaw, I longed for it badly. My father had commented that I should be, because Mother had been. He didn’t expect me to be. I knew he’d be disappointed in me if I was put anywhere else. I wanted to prove to him that I was good enough.

Halfway to Hogwarts, Poppy and I were joined by two other first-year girls: Rolanda Hooch and Pomona Sprout. They lived near each other and had been best friends for several years, and the four of us bonded immediately. Funnily, Poppy and I were so similar we could have been twins, and yet Rolanda and Pomona were complete opposites.

It was Rolanda who brought up the subject of our deputy headmaster first, when she was naming all the teachers she knew. I had always had a fascination with Transfiguration, and I brightened up when I heard he was teaching the subject. When the others heard I had met the great Dumbledore, they started clamouring for details.

“I was only about six!” I said in exasperation, but it didn’t sway them. Rolanda wanted to know if he was as good-looking as in the pictures, Poppy wanted to know what he’d spoken to me about, and Pomona wanted to know if he was as kind and friendly as everyone made him out to be. I told the tale of our brief meeting, and Poppy was a little disappointed that I hadn’t been able to talk to him about the Hogwarts subjects, but Rolanda and Pomona were both satisfied. When I recounted the hand-kissing (rather boastfully, I admit), all three groaned and told me millions of female witches around the globe would have died to be in my shoes then – especially when I added that he’d done it twice.

I had to fight down a surge of excitement when I caught sight of him. Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to have changed much in six years. His eyes twinkled as he gave us all the talk on the different Houses, the points, and so forth. Once I caught his eye and went pink, and my heart beat just a little bit faster. The beginning of a crush that was to last.

He led us into the Great Hall, and up to the High Table. I looked everywhere but at him as he lined us up and placed the stool and the Sorting Hat down.

The Hat, as I learned it did every year, sang of its job of Sorting students into the correct Houses, the Founders, and the basic qualities of each House: how Gryffindor was brave, Ravenclaw was smart, Hufflepuff was loyal, and Slytherin was ambitious. I felt my mouth go dry. Everyone always said how clever I was, and that I was sure to go into Ravenclaw when I got to Hogwarts. I wanted so desperately to live up to their expectations, to be like my mother, whom I had always adored and admired … I couldn’t let her down by being put in another House. What was more, I wanted to prove my worth to my father.

“Chester, Minerva!”

I stepped forward, and saw Professor Dumbledore smile at me as I dropped the Hat on my head. For a few blissful moments, I wondered idly if he remembered me, or whether he was just being friendly, before the Hat spoke, making me start out of my daydream.

“I hate to interrupt, but might I jerk your mind back to the present, young lady?”

Feeling rather small and foolish, I snapped back to reality as the Hat began to mutter aloud in my ear.

“Hmm.” It seemed to speak to itself rather than me. “Yes, there’s certainly talent … and intelligence beyond your years … you’ll go far, Miss Chester. A touch of ambition; oh now, that’s interesting … and such a thirst to prove yourself – to your father, am I correct?”

I swallowed, wondering how it knew.

“I see everything,” it answered. “Your deepest fears, your most precious secrets … they all form part of who you are. I see you’re desperate for Ravenclaw.”

Please, I pleaded. My mother was in Ravenclaw. I want to be like her.

“So I see. This desire you have is not so much to be like your mother, but to impress your father.” It was a statement; one I could not argue with. “You certainly have intelligence … perhaps more than some Ravenclaws … but it is not your most outstanding trait – I think you would be better suited to Gryffindor.”

What?! No, please! I have to be in Ravenclaw! I wouldn’t be happy anywhere else!

“On the contrary, Miss Chester; I think you would be very unhappy in Ravenclaw,” the Hat said gravely. I was just wondering how on earth it could believe that, when it continued, “I do not normally Sort students into Houses that they are strongly opposed to, but I think in this case, it is best for you.”

No, please!

“You are falling into a trap many fall into: a desperate need to prove your worth turns into an attempt to be someone you are not. You are not your mother, Minerva. You are a lot like her, but you are still an individual in your own right.”

I barely heard the last sentence – I felt like the Hat had slapped me around the face.

“You can try to gain your father’s love and acceptance, but only by stifling who you really are. I will not encourage you. If I put you in Ravenclaw, it will not be good enough – you will continue to try and please him in the wrong ways, and you will never be happy. Your father needs to learn to love you for who you are.”

I was fighting tears by now.

“Child, listen to me. This is what is best. In time you will understand, and you will be grateful I made this choice, I promise you. GRYFFINDOR!”

I was numbly aware of the table on the far left breaking into applause, and I stood and took the Hat off my head, feeling rather ashamed that I had lost an argument with a hat, and still bleeding from the effects its words had had on me. The hall was rather blurred – I had tears in my eyes. I blinked furiously as I placed the Hat back down, hoping no-one noticed. As I straightened up, I saw Professor Dumbledore looking at me in concern, but I gave a weak smile and walked to the Gryffindor table. My new housemates seemed to be discussing why my Sorting had taken so long, as they all broke off as I sat down. I turned back to see the rest of the first-years. Poppy looked slightly disappointed that I hadn’t made the House we were both hoping to get into, but she gave me the thumbs-up all the same.

Rolanda was the next to be sorted. Even only having known her a few hours, I wasn’t very surprised when the Hat shouted “SLYTHERIN!”, although I was a bit disappointed that she hadn’t been put in my House.

Poppy was then placed in Ravenclaw. I felt a twinge of annoyance and jealousy, but it passed. I didn’t want to lose my first real friend over what House she’d been put in.

Pomona was the last of us to be Sorted, and she was placed in Hufflepuff. At least we were all in the same boat – if two of us had been placed together, it wouldn’t have been very fair on the other two. But looking back, I know that we were all put in the Houses we were meant for. Poppy was a true Ravenclaw, Pomona a true Hufflepuff, and Rolanda a true Slytherin.

I didn’t join in much with the talking as the feast started, just listened; my head still full of what the Hat had said about Malachi. If any of the other students tried to engage in conversation with me, I merely nodded or shook my head, my mind elsewhere. On the rare occasion I looked up, my gaze was drawn to the teacher’s table. Once I caught Professor Dumbledore looking my way and caught his eye, and I blushed and quickly turned back to my dinner.

The rest of the evening wasn’t anything exiting, other than being shown to the dormitories and a lecture from the prefects, at which point I began to focus again, not wanting to miss anything important. I was relieved when we were dismissed to our beds.

I’ve always loved Gryffindor Tower. Even nowadays I sometimes visit it during the night, in cat form of course, if I can’t sleep. I enjoy watching the students sleep, and wonder what they dream of.

Going back to my story, the day after the Sorting I was nervous as hell that I would get a Howler or something equally as unpleasant for not meeting my father’s expectations with the Houses. To my part relief and part hurt, I didn’t receive a thing. He made no response to my letter. Although I appreciated the fact that I wouldn’t have to endure his shouting on my first day, it actually hurt more that he couldn’t even be bothered for that. My self-esteem sank, if possible, even lower.

My first, and favourite, subject was Transfiguration (naturally). To this day, I cannot figure whether I liked it for the subject, or because I had a crush on the man who taught it. I wasn’t the only one: behind his back, Albus Dumbledore was officially student-labelled as the most charming male teacher. When I say charming, I mean both in manner and appearance. He was both exceedingly friendly and understanding with the students (and a bit of a flirt with the female staff, I admit) and exquisitely handsome. I was a natural in Transfiguration, and he took a shine to me. Within a few months I was labelled by both staff and students as his star pupil.

I could barely concentrate through the first lesson, and he seemed to notice, because he called me back afterwards to see if I was all right. It being the first time I had ever been in the same room with him with no-one else there, it is unnecessary to point out that it distracted me slightly from the point of our conversation (or, rather, the conversation he was trying to have with me if I wasn’t so distracted by him).

My recollection of that ‘conversation’ isn’t brilliant, but I think in the end my inattentiveness was passed off as homesickness. Far from it, but he didn’t know that at the time.

I’d been right in my assessment that he was nervous when I had my Sorting: he asked if anything had upset me. That brought me back down to earth. I mumbled something about having wanted to be in Ravenclaw – I’m not sure why I did, as he was the Head of my House and surely he would have been disappointed in me for wanting to belong to another - but he smiled sympathetically and said that the Hat knew what it was doing and wouldn’t have put me into Gryffindor if it thought I would be really unhappy in it. I was miserable then when I was reminded of the Hat’s assurances that I would be unhappy in Ravenclaw, but nodded and he let me go. I have never asked him if he was using Legilimency at that point. I’m not sure I want to know.

Term moved fast, and to my surprise I found myself settling into Gryffindor. I still wished I could have been in my mother’s House, but I didn’t long for it bitterly as I had done at the start. When Malachi finally wrote, several weeks after the beginning of term, I took it and opened it in the deserted dormitory with trembling hands. It was brief and, to an outsider, would not have looked very out of the ordinary, but the words he chose were cruel. They reminded me that he had wanted me to be ‘happy in Ravenclaw’, and although it did not say outright, implied that he was disappointed in me, and that Mother would also have been. I hid the letter under my mattress and cried for an hour. One of my housemates came looking for me when I didn’t turn up for Charms, and when she saw my red eyes I said I had a cold. I think she also thought I was homesick and offered to help with my homework later, and at night let me borrow her teddy bear, as I didn’t have anything. Marian never said anything about homesickness, but she was kind to me for a long time. She wasn’t as close a friend as Poppy, Pommie and Ro, but I felt comfortable with her when I was upset.

The first year positively flew by. I rarely had letters from my father, but when I did I was inevitably miserable for a long while after. My friends noticed I sometimes had moods, but then they didn’t associate it with receiving mail. For the most part we didn’t really talk about families. Looking back, I think we talked about just about everything but. I couldn’t help but feel happier when I was with them – always the sign of a true friend.

We were all outcasts, in our own way. Poppy and I, best friends forever, were complete bookworms and somewhat shunned for it by the other students. Pomona was shy and quiet and obsessed with nature, to the point that she was considered a bit odd, and Rolanda, bless her, was a complete tomboy. She was rather loud, very sly, and had a temper too.

We were all incredibly different, save for our sense of fun, and formed a tight bond of friendship that was destined to last. From this I gained confidence, but only on the outside. On the inside I was still a little girl, pining for the warmth and love of a mother’s arms – one thing I would never have again.

But I still believed, despite the Hat’s warning, that if I was good enough and worked hard enough, I could gain love from my father. I was determined to impress him and make him proud of me, and made a decision to work as hard as I could.

My resolution held, despite my conflicting character trait. I was a mischief-maker at heart, but surprisingly I managed to keep a balance between work and play. Those couple of years were the best I had had in a long time. I had my three wonderful friends, and we stuck together like glue.

I never went home for the holidays, except the summer. Being on his own wasn’t good for Malachi, and he shouted a lot more the times when I was home. I hated it. I hated him. I came to dread the holidays, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone what was going on with my father.

It never went any further than slapping or occasionally a fist or a kick, but it was too much to handle. It was around then I began the cutting. I found that hurting myself gave me relief somehow, and I used it. Deep inside, I knew it was wrong, but it was like a drug – once I started, I couldn’t stop. Whenever I felt particularly low or deprived, I used my wand to make a shallow slit in my arm, and let the blood flow for a few minutes before covering it up. I never made them very deep, and I never healed them by magic. For some reason, I didn’t want them healed. I couldn’t explain it, even to myself. The scars were easily hidden by long sleeves, and I never told anyone what I was doing.

I’m not entirely sure when or how thoughts of suicide first cropped into my mind. I think I may have read about someone taking their own life in the Daily Prophet or something. But after a while I found myself contemplating the idea more and more.
Whenever the depressing thoughts entered my head, I pushed them away, thinking of all the reasons why I shouldn’t. There weren’t very many, I realised with a sinking heart. I tried to count my blessings, but about all I could come up with was my friends, my books, and the fact that Albus Dumbledore seemed to like me more than the others (although he worked very hard not to show it!). I told myself it was wrong, but reasoning that didn’t last long, as I knew that neither was the cutting.

In my fourth year the school closed for the Christmas holidays to work on the wards. I had originally arranged to stay with the Pomfreys over the holidays, but it was cancelled at the last minute and I didn’t have time to make other arrangements. I had to go back to Malachi.

I didn’t go without a fight. I practically begged Professor Dumbledore to let me stay, just me. I promised to keep out of trouble and that they wouldn’t even know I was there. He wanted to know why I was so reluctant to go home, and I spun him a story about winter being a bad time for my father because it’s when my mother died, but I could see he didn’t really believe me. I remembered later that he probably knew perfectly well, being a friend of hers, that she had died in the summer. Damn.

He was sympathetic but said that he couldn’t make allowances. He asked if any of my friends could take me, and I told him that Poppy couldn’t and it was too late for anyone else to write home and ask. I didn’t want to just turn up. It wouldn’t be fair. He definitely knew that there was something amiss in my reasoning. He asked me if I was alright. I told him I was. I knew he could see straight through it but I couldn’t tell him the truth. I wanted him to know, but I couldn’t say it. My throat tightened when he asked seriously about me and my father. I wanted so badly to tell him. Instead I said “We’re fine,” although it was obviously a lie.

“Minerva,” he said quietly, “if there’s anything you want to tell me, anything at all, my door is always open to you.”

He hates me! I wanted to yell. He’s cruel and he hates me and he hurts me and NO-ONE CAN SEE IT!

“Thanks Professor; I’ll remember,” I answered.

“If there’s something wrong, you need to tell someone, Minerva. You can’t just bottle it up -”

“I said I’ll remember,” I cut him off. “Sir,” I added. Then, for good measure, “There’s nothing wrong.”

He stared at me. It was painfully obvious that something was wrong, but I didn’t try to cover it up. I hoped that he would ask more precise questions, but it seemed he decided not to press the matter any more. It gave a blow to my already sensitive self-esteem and I blinked back tears as a nasty voice in my head told me that he wasn’t bothered enough to press any more.

“Can I go now, Professor?” I asked in a whisper, wanting to get away from him before I completely broke down.

He dismissed me and I fled.

The Christmas holiday was only two weeks. I told myself I could survive that. My aunt lived abroad, but she always came over for Christmas, so I wouldn’t be alone with my father.

When I stepped into the house, a feeling of dread came over me. There were no decorations up. Not even a tree. Aunt Des always put them up on the first of December.

“Why aren’t the decorations up?” I asked without thinking. Malachi scowled.

“I have better things to do with my time than run around making the house fit for your expectations, Minerva. December is a busy time.”

“Why hasn’t Aunt Des done it?” I asked, puzzled.

“Desdemona isn’t here; she passed away three months ago.”

“What?” I yelped. “She’s dead?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” he said irritably. I quickly ducked out of his reach. Normally I wouldn’t push him like this, but I needed to know.

“How did she die?” I asked, the reality sinking in, a feeling of loss clutching my insides, restricting my breathing.

Malachi glared at me and I stepped backwards. I could tell he was irritated with all the questions. “Cancer.” He spat the word as if it was the vilest swearword, looking such daggers at me that if looks could kill, I would be a pile of ash.

For a long moment I couldn’t speak. That one word had brought all the guilt I’d ever felt rising up to the surface. I couldn’t see how my father could blame this one on me – he never even liked Aunt Des – but I knew he’d find a way.

“Why -” I began. He gave me a warning look and I hesitated, but in the end said, “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“You never asked.” I barely had time to register the unfairness of that statement before he continued, “Go to your room and unpack. Now!”

I knew I’d pushed my luck and fled. Once I was safely in my old room I pulled out my night things and sat on my bed, watching the sunset out of the window. I couldn’t believe Aunt Des – the only other relative I had – was gone. Another part of me realised that if I hadn’t been home for the holidays I wouldn’t even know till the summer at the earliest, unless I happened to ask how she was in my letters – which wouldn’t be likely, as Aunt Des only ever visited to see me. She was my mother’s sister and had never liked Malachi. She never had problems expressing her views to him, and I’d heard her say on more than one occasion that ‘Athena should never have married the man’. I wholeheartedly agreed and wished that I’d been illegitimate. It seemed a small price to pay, even in those days when it was so heavily frowned upon. But my mother wouldn’t have heard of it. Sometimes I wonder if she ever saw him for who he was before they married. Maybe she thought she could change him. I’ll never know.

The one thing that I was so mad about at that moment was that Malachi hadn’t even bothered to tell me my aunt – my only living relation, apart from him– was even ill, let alone dead. I’d have thought he would rub it in my face that she was ill with the same thing that Mother had died of, but he wrote so little in his letters – maybe he considered it a waste of parchment. Maybe he wanted to wait and tell me face to face to see my reaction.

I’d missed Aunt Des’ funeral, but I cut the best flowers from the garden – it had been allowed to run wild since Mother had died; I could hardly move for weeds, but there were some beautiful white roses still growing – and took them to her grave, where I said goodbye. I didn’t ask Malachi where she was buried, but it wasn’t too hard to find out. When I arrived I found Mother’s grave a few headstones away. I hadn’t known where she was buried before. I separated the flowers in two, laid them on both graves, and cried for a long time. It was almost dark before I promised to come back again and left.

Malachi was furious that I’d stayed out so late. I didn’t dare tell him where I’d been, not after our conversation when I’d come home. I’d been out since late morning, missing both lunch and dinner, and he was mad at me. Guilt – a very familiar feeling – filled me again when I saw Blinky limping and realised he’d been taking it out on her while I’d been out. I only caught a glimpse of her, as she was still forbidden to be near me, but it was enough.

I huddled in a corner of my room and once again made several cuts, but it wasn’t enough. For once I wasn’t just mad at myself; I was mad at him. I’d stayed out all day, but that was no reason for him to hurt sweet, innocent Blinky who’d never done anything.

I couldn’t go and see her, not without breaking her order, but I was so mad I took a huge risk. I took my best socks and left them with a note in a drawer in the kitchen when she wasn’t there. Malachi never went in the kitchen after breakfast, so it was fairly safe that he wouldn’t find them. In the note I told her to come to me when she found them.

She turned up in my room an hour later. I was shocked how badly Malachi had hurt her – she had several broken bones and a huge mass of bruises. In the Christmas holidays it’s so hard to keep track of all the magic going on that the Ministry gives permission for underage wizards to use magic over the holidays, so I used what knowledge I could to heal her. Ever since I had expressed an interest in Healing, the school matron had been giving me private tutoring. I had never tried on a house-elf, but I did a good job. Blinky was happy that she was free from the Chester household, but worried that she wouldn’t be able to get another placement. I told her the Pomfreys were nice people and wrote to Poppy asking her to take Blinky on. I was so happy when Blinky came back and hugged me, saying thank you. She promised to write.

I was happy for her, but I was also scared stiff of my father’s reaction when he found out Blinky had vanished. When she didn’t turn up to serve lunch the next day, I told him what I had done. I also told him why. I rarely stood up to him like that, but this was about Blinky, not me, which made all the difference.

I paid for it dearly.

He didn’t do anything physical then. I could tell he was livid, but he ordered me to fix lunch myself. I thought miserably that it would be back to the old methods when I was practically his servant. It wasn’t till then I realised he could easily hire another house-elf. I wondered how many I could send to the Pomfreys until either he got the message that I wasn’t going to let him enslave any, or they started turning them away because they had more than enough.

I was so immersed in my thoughts that I made a mess of lunch. Malachi seemed to have been waiting for me to do something else wrong before punishing me properly. I didn’t even realise he was behind me before he grabbed both my arms and twisted them back, pain shooting up them. I thought I felt one crack.

I won’t go into details. Let’s just say it was the hardest punishment he’d given me. I didn’t fight back. Maybe I should have done, but then he would have been worse.

When he was apparently finally done I was locked in the attic and told I could stay there out of the way until school started again.

I didn’t know how much time passed. It was cold, dark and draughty, and I was in so much pain I could barely move. I focused on trying to stay conscious: it wouldn’t do for him to creep up on me while I was asleep. I think I slipped in and out of a conscious state.

Eventually – it could have been hours later, it could have been a week – I heard voices from below. I didn’t know Malachi was expecting visitors. I strained my ears, fighting the blackness trying to take me, trying to make out who it was. They drew nearer – I could hear footfalls on the stairs. A moment later I realised who it was.

“I thought I told you Minerva isn’t here?”

“I’m not leaving till I see her, Mr Chester.”

“Albus,” came the voice of Professor Dippet, “come on. We’ve bothered the poor man enough. It’s obvious Miss Chester isn’t here.”

“I said I’m not leaving till I see Minerva.”

“Now look here -” Malachi started, but was cut off. I had picked up a heavy book with difficulty with my better arm and let it fall on to the floor.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, probably the house-elf -”

“That came from the up there,” said Dippet.

I struggled to pick the book up again and banged it on the floor.

“There’s something up there!”

“I really don’t think -” Malachi began. There was a bang as the trapdoor opened and the ladder slid out. I blinked in the sudden light. “Hey! Now look here, Professor -”

“Mr Chester, I only wish to look in your attic.”

“You can’t just barge into my house, demanding to go where you want, and there’s nothing up there -”

He certainly seemed to have changed his tune from the dinner party.

“If there is nothing up there you will not mind me taking a look around.”

“Oh no you d -”

Professor Dumbledore’s head appeared in the attic.

I had never been more relived to see someone in my entire life. “Professor?” I enquired groggily.

“Minerva,” he breathed.

There was a shout and a scuffle from below, and Malachi’s shout of “Get that wand out of my face!”

Albus quickly heaved himself into the attic and rushed to my side. “Minerva? … What happened?”

I simply let out a moan of pain. Albus carefully eased his arms underneath me and lifted me. I wound my good one around his neck and leaned against his chest.

It sounded like Malachi was putting up a fight downstairs. Professor Dumbledore carefully carried me back down the ladder to the landing. Malachi froze when he saw me and Dippet exclaimed, “Sweet Merlin!”

I suppose I must have looked a sight. Albus glared at Malachi in a way I had never seen him look before, and Malachi cowered back.

“You disgust me,” he spat at him, taking even me by surprise.

“I did nothing,” Malachi insisted.

“We’ll see what the Wizengamot has to say about that,” Dippet spoke up. He seemed horrified at the revelation, but kept his cool. “Albus, give her to me, I’ll take her up to the school -”

I shook my head in panic, jarring my shoulder. The word ‘Wizengamot’ frightened me. I wanted to be away from Malachi but I didn’t want anything like that. And I didn’t want Professor Dumbledore to leave me.

“It’s all right,” Albus murmured in my ear. “Professor Dippet will take you to the Hospital Wing; you’ll be safe there and get you Healed -”

“No,” I moaned.

“Oh for crying out loud,” Dippet muttered. I clung to Albus as he tried to take me from him.

“Minerva, it’s all right -”

Malachi took advantage of the distraction to make a break for it.

“HEY!” Professor Dumbledore pulled my hand gently off of him. “Armando, get her out of here; I’ll go after him.”

Before I could protest Dippet had Apparated with me to the edge of the Hogwarts grounds. I was going drowsy again and I felt him half-jogging up to the school. I wasn’t aware of much for a while after that, until we arrived in the Hospital Wing.

The matron was away, so Dippet Healed my injuries himself, only pausing when he saw my lower arms.

“Miss Chester,” he said slowly, “what is this?”

I tried to tug my sleeves down in a hurry. I felt so ashamed of my scars; I didn’t want him to see them. But he did.

“Stay here. I need to go and help make an arrest. Professor Dumbledore and I will be back soon, all right?”

I nodded shakily and he swept out of the Hospital Wing. Dippet had good intentions but sometimes he wasn’t very sensitive.

I felt nauseous. I hadn’t eaten in several days, and not properly since school had ended. My injuries had gone but my broken bones were still aching. I knew they did for a time afterwards – the longer the breaks were left for, the more so.

I didn’t want to do this. I knew Dippet would come back and question me, and I couldn’t talk about it. As well as shame I also felt guilt. In all honest truth I felt I deserved all I had got. I still do, sometimes. I can’t help it.

There was no way I could talk about my father. Not to anyone, not even to Professor Dumbledore. He would be kind and understanding, but that wasn’t enough. How could I possibly explain all I had gone through – what I still go through? And even if I could, they would put him on trial. Even if I could talk to Albus, there was no way I could possibly stand to testify against Malachi. And what if he got off even after that? He’d kill me …

I swallowed as that thought crossed my mind. If I was going to die I didn’t want it to be at his hand. He hadn’t robbed me of all my pride yet.

Scary thoughts whirled inside my head, all colliding into one another. I buried my head in my hands and tried to calm it down. I could feel the scars on my wrists.

My decision finally made, I slid off the bed and reached for a piece of parchment and a quill. My self-esteem had run out. I couldn’t take it.

Dear Mr Dumbledore,

You were right. I can’t do this. Thank you for everything.

I didn’t sign it. He would know.

TBC …