Fields of Gold

[Nerweniel]

Hi ADMMers all!

It is I, one of your two founders/headmistresses, returned after an incredibly long absence and hoping to do an effort to be on here a little more. I recently started this fic on fanfiction.net and figured I would post it here, too. Hope you enjoy! I've been away from writing ADMM for a long time, so I appreciate your input.

I'll post the story below.

Love,

Lies

[Nerweniel]

Title: Fields of Gold

Summary: A story focusing on Minerva McGonagall set during the Grindelwald era of the early 1940s. AD/MM, with plenty of divided loyalties to go round.

Rating: So far, suitable for all.

JUNE 1942

On her seventeenth birthday, Minerva McGonagall looked her mirrored self square in the eye, took a pair of scissors, cut off her long plaits and decided to become an Auror.

"You look like a man."

Minerva scowled and turned her head a little to the side, making the abandoned tresses on the floor disappear with a small flick of her wand.

"Shut up, Rolanda."

Rolanda Hooch grinned. She was, in fact, the last person to say anything at all about haircuts, Minerva thought, considering she most likely had not had one since she was six years old – Lord knew how she even played Quidditch with that on her head.

The two witches – the Head Girl and the Quidditch champion – were due to graduate Hogwarts the next week, and although Rolanda had long declared her wishes to try out for the national team – a feat she would no doubt achieve – Minerva had never discussed her own ambitions with anyone.

They had, truth be told, not been her ambitions for a long time: but times were tough and this was 1942, and she had to go.

"I'm going to train to be an Auror."

Rolanda's silver eyebrows shot up.

"Dangerous games, McGonagall! You're sure?"

Minerva nodded, combing what remained of her thick, black hair to one side, then the other. Although she would never admit it to Rolanda, she was not without vanity.

"It looks better with a side parting."

Rolanda casually waved her wand.

"Like so. You may be the brilliant scholar, Minerva, but I've always had a knack for the fashionable."

"Cheers."

Her hair fixed to satisfaction, Minerva sat down on the bed beside her friend. Rolanda's yellow eyes – the result, as she fondly recalled, of exactly such a fashionable spell gone wrong – looked at her searchingly, and she felt the blood rush to her face.

Rolanda's blood was pure, which perhaps in a way contributed to the carelessness with which she had always approached life, but Minerva's father was a Muggle. The idea of war was not as alien to her as it was to her friend or many others.

"I have an aunt who lost a husband and two children in London last year, to Nazi bombing. I thought of joining the army - "

"The Muggle army?"

Minerva almost smiled at the horror in Rolanda's eyes. Once again, like many purebloods, Minerva knew that Quidditch champion or no, her friend found the concept of Muggle organization and technology an entirely alien and slightly scary one.

"Yes. They're not helpless, you know. But Mama said, and I agree with her, that with these rumours of Gellert Grindelwald, I may better serve as an Auror. They have abbreviated the training to two years instead of three and with a bit of luck and the right recommendations, I may be in the field even before then."

"Right."

Rolanda pensively popped a chocolate frog into her mouth and took a brief glance at the glossy card that came with it. She snorted and threw it at Minerva.

"Catch! Here's a good sign!"

One of the problems with Ro was, Minerva pondered, that she imagined everyone's reflexes to be as good as her own. The tiny, bearded wizard on the card waved his hands wildly as he headed toward the floor – still Minerva, who had been a decent Chaser until her Head Girl duties had interfered with her Quidditch schedule, managed to catch it just before it hit the floor. A tiny, familiar face gazed up at her, and she smiled.

"Godric Gryffindor. Let's hope so."

Stealing a chocolate frog from Rolanda, she sat back against the cushions and waved her wand, removing the last of the family pictures and Quidditch posters from her bedroom walls. The room looked bare, but that was only right: soon it would no longer be her own, and another girl, a year younger, would be Hogwarts' Head Girl.

Suddenly, even Rolanda looked a little sad.

"It's serious now, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Have you told Tom?"

Minerva shook her head and bit her bottom lip. Of all the people she had to tell of her future plans, perhaps Tom would be the hardest.

"I have not."

[Nerweniel]

NOVEMBER 1943

Rolanda Hooch would have been surprised had she seen her friend that day.

It had been about a year since the two witches had parted company: their last meeting had been a quick drink at The Three Broomsticks for old time's sake – gillywater for Minerva, red currant rum for Ro, the way things had always been. Rolanda had told Minerva she'd been disappointed Auror training was not teaching her filthier habits; Minerva had quipped, in return, that surely the British national team wanted their brand new Keeper on her broom, rather than passed out on the field below.

A year later, much had changed, although Minerva's filthier habits were still reserved for the rare occasions she allowed her guard to slip. She flattered herself she had always been intelligent, but the training had sharpened her senses and expanded her mind – she had taken specialized lessons in Charms and Potions, Defense Against (a great variety of) the Dark Arts and – naturally – her favourite, Transfigurations.

"Rolanda," she wrote to her friend that day. "I'm running out of patience."

Although she had tried virtuously and insistently, modesty and patience had never been two of Minerva's main virtues. She knew she was astute, more so even than the others she was training with, and she knew that – at least in some fields – there was none of her generation who could surpass her. Not even, perhaps, Tom.

She had always believed, too, in eagerness rather than patience, and it was precisely that belief she was about to put to the test.

The witch pinned her hair back and put on her most professional-looking robes: green, for she had always preferred that colour even to her House's red and gold. She then balled her fist, did not hesitate, and knocked.

"Enter!"

She entered. He was not alone, but she'd known that; maps were strewn out over a couple of tables, small arrows moving in what looked like barely organized chaos across them. Here and there, a name moved – some of which she recognized, but many of which she didn't.

He was easy to recognize, and she turned to face him.

"Permission to speak, Sir."

Minerva had often seen Albus Dumbledore from afar, of course, but she was still surprised as he turned his head to look her in the eye. His eyes were sky blue, a curious colour; his hair and beard a thick auburn brown. He looked all-knowing, but somehow not as unapproachable as she had feared. Perhaps that, however, was an illusion.

"Granted, Miss - "

"McGonagall, Sir. We have met."

For a moment, she feared she had overstepped a line, but as his brow furrowed, she knew he was trying to recall the time and place. She wanted to reassure him, but didn't.

"Ah! Of course - "

His eyes twinkled and he nodded at her.

"But you're not playing fair, Miss McGonagall. You were at least a foot shorter then, and you looked a great deal less earnest! Transfigurations, 1935 through to 1937."

She was impressed by his memory.

"Correct, Sir. But I have always looked earnest."

She was aware of the disturbed stares of the other men in the room, but she stood her ground, levelly eyeing Dumbledore without a sparkle of humour in her green eyes.

He grinned and spread his hands in defeat.

"I could not argue with a young woman of great skill whose first name is Minerva – or am I mistaken?"

"You are not."

She allowed herself a little smile as he realized she had contradicted neither his statement about her name nor that about her skill.

"We are friends, then. What can I do for you, Minerva McGonagall?"

She took a deep breath and pulled back her shoulders. She was a tall girl but still had to tilt up her chin slightly to look him in the eye.

"I think you should take me with you to Germany."

It left her mouth before she could think twice about it. She could tell Dumbledore had not expected this question from her, and she sincerely hoped he was not one of those men who – as though they were Muggles! – seemed to believe females had to stay far away from the battlefield. If he was, and she narrowed her eyes at the thought, she would teach him a thing or two using her trusted wand, and she could not promise all those things would involve actual spells.

He merely raised his eyebrows, however – otherwise wholly unperturbed.

"You do. I see. If I remember correctly - "

She spoke up rapidly, once again not one for patience.

"You do remember correctly, Professor. I am not yet nineteen, and I've only completed the first year of my training, but I - "

It was his turn to interrupt. In the background, the other Ministry wizards had resumed their discussion, acting as though the young witch was no longer in the room. She had a fleeting suspicion she wouldn't be for much longer, either.

"That was not," Dumbledore said, "what I was going to say, Miss McGonagall. Would you like a lemon drop?"

It was no time for sweets, but she was hardly in the position to tell him that. She took a lemon drop and immediately regretted that decision as the sticky little thing attached itself firmly to the back of her front teeth. Had Dumbledore been anyone but the person he was… but he wasn't, and she opened her mouth to speak. He was faster, however.

"But now you did interpret what I said in such a way, I wonder if you could tell me how you were planning to finish your sentence. But you…?"

"But I am extraordinarily talented and I believe I could be of use to you!"

Even to Minerva's standards, the statement reeked of arrogance even if it were true. She had the good grace to blush, no doubt causing a particularly unflattering effect that made her resemble her tobacco-chewing grandfather.

He chewed his own lemon drop pensively, looking her in the eye. For one who looked, she believed, kind and fairly approachable – considering his position – his eyes were surprisingly unreadable. Perhaps, however, he was just weary of her.

"Show me."

In another man, it would have meant a pass, but he, she sensed, was not that type of man. She took a deep breath and focused on doing precisely that.

As she felt her body alter and shrink, she was faintly aware of the fact that she had, quite suddenly, managed to grasp once again the attention of every witch and wizard in the room. It gave her a vague sense of satisfaction, and when she sensed the transfiguration had come to an end, she turned to face Dumbledore and meowed faintly.

Albus Dumbledore was peering at a silvery tabby cat over the rims of his glasses.

"Impressive, Miss McGonagall," he said, as he knelt down to her level.

"You must be one of the youngest witches to successfully become an Animagus. The youngest, perhaps."

Minerva changed back quickly, towering over him for a moment. She smiled.

"In recent memory."

"I did believe so."

He was an Animagus, too, of course, but everyone knew that – or at least, everyone who had bothered to look up the records. Her own transfiguration, on the other hand, had taken a great deal of effort and more sleepless nights than the young witch cared to admit.

Still, it set her apart, especially since she was only the third registered Animagus of the twentieth century. She had hoped it would give her an edge, at least – or even a little more than an edge.

He turned away briefly to scribble something in the corner of one of the huge sheets of parchment on the table. She waited until his attention was fixed on her again, her hands tingling with nervousness.

"Miss McGonagall."

"Yes, Sir?"

"What colour socks are you wearing at this moment?"

[Nerweniel]

DECEMBER 1943

She'd stared at him as though he'd sprouted three extra heads at the flick of a wand, but she had responded immediately.

"Red and gold."

He had nodded approvingly, his eyes twinkling above his glasses.

"Excellent, excellent. Never trust a wizard whose socks match his robes, Minerva."

Although she had coolly informed him that she was no wizard and that she had most certainly not given him permission to call her by her first name, he had agreed, then – after showing her his own, bright purple socks – to take Minerva along as his assistant. She was aware of the honour and faced, on a daily basis, the jealous looks of a number of witches and, especially, wizards whose training was advanced much further – but Minerva had never cared about such things.

On the fifteenth of December, she woke up long before sunrise. It was the day of their departure, and having written a short, cryptic message to her mother – 'won't be home for Christmas' – to her sister and to Rolanda, she took a piece of parchment to write to Tom.

It was tough on her, and in a sense it was risky – Dumbledore was unlikely to allow her to accompany him if he knew about their close connection, if the latest she had heard about Tom was the truth – but she had to do it because, despite everything, she missed him.

Minerva had known Tom Riddle since her first year: he was sorted shortly after she was, and she remembered him faintly as a scrawny little thing who had looked, perhaps, just a little less terrified than the other children around him. They'd interacted very little, until the year they had both become prefects; since the other Slytherin prefects had been intolerably dense, he had been her usual contact point for the occasional complaint or healthy dose of house rivalry. She was a true Gryffindor in that she did not usually socialize with Slytherins but, at fifteen, she had surprised herself when she realized she found him attractive.

They had created quite a stir at the Yule Ball when Minerva had appeared on his arm. After the very first dance, Minerva had been pulled aside by her friend Isabel, who happened to have plenty of opinions and no fear of sharing them.

"Have you gone insane?"

Minerva looked at the shorter girl coolly. Isabel and Rolanda Hooch did not get along – never had, and it was no-one's fault in particular – but she felt as though this would be one matter on which both girls would agree.

"I'm not aware that I have, why?"

"He's a slimeball, and he's not even rich. At least when Elizabeth Bennet first met Mr Darcy, she knew he had ten thousand a year. I would excuse a lot for ten thousand a year and an estate like Pemberley, but Tom Riddle doesn't have character OR money!"

Minerva turned her head a little to look at the young man Isabel had accepted as her Yule Ball partner. When she turned to face her friend again, one thin eyebrow was raised in contempt.

"Clearly you chose Mr Fitzwilliam Weasley for his character and his money. What is sillier – to choose a date because he's intelligent and amusing, or to choose a date for his first name?"

Isabel was not quite sure what to say to that.

The memory made Minerva smile to herself. Tom was charming, and he certainly was intelligent – she had sometimes felt, even before he was made Head Boy the year she was made Head Girl, that he was the only young wizard at Hogwarts who understood her ambitions and shared them.

They had been inseparable, until their final year.

She couldn't, of course, tell him what she was doing or where she was going; even to her mother or sister, she hadn't said a word - but she could send him word that even in these desperate times, he could have a friend if he wanted one.

And so my training is going well. I've been told I'm talented, and I have to admit it is nice taking lessons that are really challenging in the most literal meaning of the word. I'm still not much good at Potions, but Charms are going well and you know of my passion for Transfigurations. We take lessons in dueling and also in stealth; all this is classified, of course, so I won't go into more detail, but I just wanted to tell you that I believe this would be something you'd enjoy, as well. Thomas, I think I know you well enough to say that I wish you'd drop that silly school moniker and get your life together.

Become an Auror and join us. You wouldn't find the training very hard and even if you did, you always did love a challenge. You must – after all, you went out with me for over a year, and I've been called a trial and a challenge by my dearest friends, so Merlin knows how my enemies feel about me!

She smiled a little at those lines and hoped he would, too.

Only as she re-read her letter, ready to Levitate her trunk and walk out to meet Dumbledore, did she realize she had omitted all mention of her having recently become an Animagus. Perhaps her subconscious had been taking precautions she, herself, hadn't been aware of.

But she didn't alter the letter one word before sending it off.

Minerva McGonagall was no silly little girl, and she was not naïve.

[Nerweniel]

DECEMBER 1943, cont.

A Ministry Owl – silvery white, tiny and fast – was dispatched carrying her message.

Minerva's sharp green eyes watched it disappear against the horizon where the sun was starting to rise, casting a reddish glow over London roofs that had grown familiar to her over the course of the past year. Upon closer inspection, however, the witch notes some slight changes yet again – a void where once a house had stood, a damaged roof that had once possessed a chimney. There would be dead among the rubble, she knew all too well – Muggle and wizard alike.

It was a curious thing how, Minerva pondered, for so many years the Muggle and wizarding world had grown almost into two separate universes, yet this war had united in suffering both those Muggles who had never even suspected the existence of a magical world and those Purebloods who had always eschewed the Muggle world at all costs.

The International State for Wizarding Secrecy was, as she very well knew, little more than a joke in higher Ministry circles; once, a few months before, she had all but collided with the Muggle Prime Minister, Mr Churchill, in a Ministry of Magic hallway. She had stared and he had guffawed; she had suspected the Minister had once again been sharing a glass of firewhiskey with his Muggle counterpart.

Feeling the tension in her shoulders subside just a little, Minerva walked down the winding staircase. A glance at the watch she wore around her neck told her it was only half past seven – still about an hour before the meeting time they had agreed on. Dumbledore, it appeared, believed in full nights of sleep, which seemed an odd creed for a man in his position!

"Minerva."

Dumbledore was waiting for her as she arrived downstairs. She was about to remind him, once again, that at no point had she given him permission to use her first name – but one glance at him taught her that this was not the time for matters of etiquette. He was wearing robes in what she considered an obnoxious colour of sky blue – certainly not the best camouflage, if she was any judge! – but his eyes were unusually serious.

She nodded briskly.

"Good morning, Sir. I will - "

"The Portkey has been contaminated," he said, with a brusqueness she wasn't used to hearing from him. "I hope you can fly a broom."

A familiar, insistent tingle ran up Minerva's spine as she pressed her fingernails into the skin of her hand palm. They would leave a row of angry red crescents for awhile – but the exercise helped and she felt the hot flash of temper subside. Always a star pupil, Minerva ad had to learn to bear criticism and even rudeness throughout her year of Auror training, but that didn't mean that it came to her easily.

"I can, Sir," she said, and then, unable to resist –"I played Chaser for Gryffindor in fifth and sixth year."

Already half turned away, he swung around to face her again.

"Love, if you think this is going to resemble a match of Hogwarts Quidditch in any way imaginary, you've got another thing coming. I will expect you here in fifteen minutes with your broom and your trunk. Dismissed."

Minerva opened and closed her mouth repeatedly, then stalked off. She had learned to take orders, sure, but she didn't like them – perhaps that, more than anything else, was what had convinced the Sorting Hat in her first year that Gryffindor, not Ravenclaw, had been the correct House for her.

Of course, Dumbledore had been a Gryffindor, too, or so his Chocolate Frog card said.

Once up in her room, Minerva looked through her trunk one last time, then shrunk it and slipped it carefully into her pocket. She was wearing Muggle clothing underneath her loose-flowing robes: the practical skirt didn't feel all that practical, all of a sudden, but that could not be helped.

Less than ten minutes later, she walked down the stairs again, her broom – a trusty Tinderblast 42, decent, predictable, standard Auror issue – in hand.

"Awaiting orders, Sir."

[dianahawthorne]

I love love love it, Lies! It's been forever since I've read a young Minerva fic, and I've always loved yours. Please update SOON!

[furandfeathers]

Love this story, please continue! I've just returned to reading ADMM fic after apparently two years, according to the unread messages in my inbox, and your stories are wonderful. I will definitely keep an eye out for more!

[Nerweniel]

Thanks! Here's the next part.

DECEMBER 1943, cont.

They Apparated to a location just outside of the bustling city center – a suburban home, standing side by side in a row with more, identical homes, decorated in middle-class Muggle fashion. When the telephone rang, Minerva almost threw an Unforgivable in its direction on pure reflexes alone; Dumbledore, however, had clearly expected this and picked up the receiver.

"We're here. Give us ten."

As he put the phone down again, Minerva eyed him curiously. She was stubborn and didn't appreciate the way he'd talked to her – but she was also curious.

"What's the plan, Sir?" she asked succinctly.

He turned to look at her as though he'd forgotten she was in the room and for a moment, both witch and wizard were silent. Dumbledore's eyes seemed to study her face quietly. He was, she sensed, a man who did his best work alone. Minerva knew that feeling, because she essentially operated the same way, but just as she had to put aside her natural urge for insubordination aside, he could adjust, as well.

She didn't look away, and suddenly he sighed.

"You're right. Sit down. Do you want a cup of Muggle coffee? I believe Bridget left us some."

Minerva hadn't had coffee in a long time. She nodded.

"Who's Bridget? Whose house is this? When are we leaving?"

She should've felt contrite, but didn't. Dumbledore smiled as he made a valiant attempt to operate the Muggle coffeemaker – he was Pureblooded, she remembered.

"Ingenious devices, these. Always remember, Minerva – we can learn a lot from our non-magical friends. They are not to be underestimated. Ouch!"

Minerva smiled faintly and rose to her feet to help him.

"I know, Sir. My father is a Muggle."

As she handed him a cup of coffee – strong, black, the way she liked it best – he raised an eyebrow and took a sip, no doubt, Minerva thought, burning his tongue.

"He is, is he? Well, that only proves what I told you. Muggles can't do magic, but they're highly resourceful – and sometimes, they have the most powerful magical children. I have great hopes for Ted and Bridget's eldest, for example."

"Who are - "

"Of course, of course!"

As his blue eyes twinkled in her direction over the rim of his coffee cup, Minerva felt herself almost forgiving his earlier behaviour. He was surprisingly charismatic for a man without political ambition, and even though her Auror training had taught her to distrust overly charismatic people as potential demagogues, she felt the attraction he could work on people if he wanted to. It was something she would have to remember.

"This is the home of Ted and Bridget Stark. Bridget is a Muggle – Ted is one of the Starks of Hogsmeade, but he was sadly born a Squib and is currently in the Muggle army. Bridget lives here with their two daughters. They're obviously aware of what is going on in our world and allow the Ministry to use the house as a safe house – it's under a number of strong protection charms."

Minerva nodded. Using the house of a non-magical family as a safe house was unusual, but it wasn't unheard of.

"I see. But - "

"We're waiting for the signal that it's safe to fly, which may not come for a few hours, so we'll have the dark on our side once we reach the continent. I brought you here, however, to tell you a little more about our mission."

"Yes, Sir."

His eyes were serious again.

"You must realize this is a dangerous venture. We may have to stay hidden for a long time, and our ultimate objective is to end this war once and for all. We will be interacting with Muggle resistance members, and for that purpose, two members of the Muggle armed forces will be working with us."

"They will – what?"

Dumbledore couldn't help laughing.

"I thought you said your father was a Muggle, Minerva! There are certain dangers to having these people with us, but there are also advantages. They're much more aware of the intricacies of their world than even you are, and the young lady, I've been told, is a fluent speaker of German. They will be parachuting in at our location once we have the necessary charms put up."

"I understand."

She didn't quite understand, to be honest. Even despite all her training, Minerva suddenly keenly felt her young age, and the amount of information she had been shielded from as an Auror-in-Training, but she would not give that away – not while there was still a chance he'd hold her back.

She rose to her feet and pushed a curtain aside, looking out of the window. A little boy walked by on the pavement, his hands pushed deep into his pockets against the cold. She thought briefly, fondly, of her little brother back in Scotland.

"Why are you so eager to come, Minerva?"

She felt Dumbledore's eyes burn holes into her back, but she didn't turn around, focusing her eyes on the child outside as he kicked an old tin into the gutter.

"Wouldn't everyone be, Sir?"

"No."

It was the obvious answer to a flippant question. Minerva turned around, unsure of precisely the answer she wanted to give him.

"Well, Sir... Muggles have taken to calling this war the People's War, because it is a total war in ways that are completely different from the wars that have gone before. They call it that because it involves all classes, all ages, both sexes, but they don't realize how thoroughly that applies even to our society and theirs. There are connections between the Muggle war and ours that tie the two together – that erase all divisions between who they are and who we are."

He was watching her closely, his face unmoving. Minerva looked him straight in the eye as she tried, as best she could, to explain.

"I haven't been tortured or wounded. I haven't lost a parent or a lover to – to this situation. But you yourself have said so before – us and the Muggles are not so different. My father's blood is Muggle and my mother's blood is magical, and if people like me don't care… then who will?"