Post by HappyReader on Aug 16, 2004 23:31:57 GMT -5
New spin on an old thing, in particular the premise of Albus and Minerva keeping their relationship and their children secret from everyone, including their kids. Please be warned, this is uber-angst with some coarse language. It’s not always fluff and games you know…
‘Indifference and neglect
often do much more damage
than outright dislike…’
- ALBUS DUMBLEDORE; ‘Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix’
'Present love cares
not for future grief...'
- ANON
Through the closed doors the angry voices beyond filtered past it. Even if a Silencing charm was placed upon the door, he doubted if it was enough to stop the explosive argument between mother and son from being overheard.
“…then what in Merlin’s name are we to him? His side family?!”
SLAP
“How dare you say that, you thoughtless boy! Your father loves us all!” came the shrieking voice of his wife.
For a time the young man was silent after his mother struck him. “You’re right, we aren’t his side family. We aren’t even his. At least men with side families have the balls to claim them as theirs.”
There was no answer from Minerva’s part.
“I can’t believe this Mum. You see the world in black or white, never in shades of grey. Whatever task you set yourself to do, it’s always all or nothing. How could you settle for something that’s in between?”
Weariness and sorrow was evident in Minerva’s words. “There will come a point in your life when you must compromise Hector. Where it is the only way you can move forward.”
“Since I’m yet to experience that point in my life, I can’t understand what you’re saying. And even if I did, I wouldn’t accept it as an answer especially since what you compromise is your family.”
Again, no answer from Minerva’s part.
“He doesn’t even care for us at all, does he?” asked the young man in a heartbreaking way.
Enough. He had to stop this. He had anticipated a backlash against him but this…this incensed fury at Minerva was not what he expected. He strode into the room.
Minerva sat on a divan, her face stricken and hand over her heaving chest. She was in shock from the combination of stress from the disclosure of the real identity of her children’s father to her eldest and Hector's unreceptive response. Furthermore, she had struck their child. Both he and Minerva did not believe in disciplining a child with force; it was barbaric and did not teach the child anything but fear. Having lived in a time when the slightest disrespect was punished with a stroke of a cane, he did not wish the same experience upon his own children. In his infinite experience children respond better to reason: the acknowledgement of the offence, the understanding that there are consequences to their actions and trust that the child will try not to do it again. It was the technique used upon children under their care in their line of work and thus applied to their own children.
He looked to the young man standing over her. At only sixteen years old, Hector Brogan McGonagall already stood at an impressive 6’4’’. His body was lean and muscular due to the many hard years spent in brawls and duels. The intense training for the brutal contact sport of rugby union, his sport of choice, also added to his physique. He possessed an incredibly short-temper and, heated argument or not, Hector had a perpetual air of aggression around him. His blue eyes were livid and bright from tears but his face remained defiant; there was a red mark across his left cheek where Minerva’s right hand slapped him.
“You have got some nerve to look me in the eye,” was the greeting his son gave him. He clenched his jaw and strode to Minerva’s side, placing a comforting hand upon her bowed shoulders.
“Hector, we acknowledge that our decision was objectionable and believe me my dear boy it was also a painful one to make.” Albus’s tone became soft and almost ominous. “But never, never, question my regard for you all.”
“Yes and a fat lot of good your regard did for us all these years,” spat Hector bitterly at his father. “Tell me, who was it that comforted Mum whenever the flaming Daily Prophet or Witches Weekly ran rumors about her and the possible candidates who could have sired her bastard children? Who was it that practically saw to Deirdre’s upbringing because Mum was too busy with her career and because there was no one else? And who was it that had to be the man of the house by the time he was five? Tell me who it was because he sure as hell wasn’t you.”
The stunned silence that followed was only broken by the soft sobs of a crying woman.
“All these years I’ve been doing your job and you just stood nearby, watching it all. And now you want to step in and claim what isn’t yours.”
Minerva made an uncharacteristic motion: she pleaded through her tears. “Hector, please…”
“No Mum! I refuse to acknowledge that man as my father! He hasn’t earned it! If anything that title should go to Uncle Moody or Armando Dippet. Men who deserve it because they tried to act out the role!”
He stood mute in the face of his son’s outrage and resentment, partly out of amazement at the young man’s obviously pent up vehemence but mostly out of the jumble of the emotions of grief, guilt and burning shame.
‘Hector’
[/center][/u]‘Indifference and neglect
often do much more damage
than outright dislike…’
- ALBUS DUMBLEDORE; ‘Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix’
'Present love cares
not for future grief...'
- ANON
Through the closed doors the angry voices beyond filtered past it. Even if a Silencing charm was placed upon the door, he doubted if it was enough to stop the explosive argument between mother and son from being overheard.
“…then what in Merlin’s name are we to him? His side family?!”
SLAP
“How dare you say that, you thoughtless boy! Your father loves us all!” came the shrieking voice of his wife.
For a time the young man was silent after his mother struck him. “You’re right, we aren’t his side family. We aren’t even his. At least men with side families have the balls to claim them as theirs.”
There was no answer from Minerva’s part.
“I can’t believe this Mum. You see the world in black or white, never in shades of grey. Whatever task you set yourself to do, it’s always all or nothing. How could you settle for something that’s in between?”
Weariness and sorrow was evident in Minerva’s words. “There will come a point in your life when you must compromise Hector. Where it is the only way you can move forward.”
“Since I’m yet to experience that point in my life, I can’t understand what you’re saying. And even if I did, I wouldn’t accept it as an answer especially since what you compromise is your family.”
Again, no answer from Minerva’s part.
“He doesn’t even care for us at all, does he?” asked the young man in a heartbreaking way.
Enough. He had to stop this. He had anticipated a backlash against him but this…this incensed fury at Minerva was not what he expected. He strode into the room.
Minerva sat on a divan, her face stricken and hand over her heaving chest. She was in shock from the combination of stress from the disclosure of the real identity of her children’s father to her eldest and Hector's unreceptive response. Furthermore, she had struck their child. Both he and Minerva did not believe in disciplining a child with force; it was barbaric and did not teach the child anything but fear. Having lived in a time when the slightest disrespect was punished with a stroke of a cane, he did not wish the same experience upon his own children. In his infinite experience children respond better to reason: the acknowledgement of the offence, the understanding that there are consequences to their actions and trust that the child will try not to do it again. It was the technique used upon children under their care in their line of work and thus applied to their own children.
He looked to the young man standing over her. At only sixteen years old, Hector Brogan McGonagall already stood at an impressive 6’4’’. His body was lean and muscular due to the many hard years spent in brawls and duels. The intense training for the brutal contact sport of rugby union, his sport of choice, also added to his physique. He possessed an incredibly short-temper and, heated argument or not, Hector had a perpetual air of aggression around him. His blue eyes were livid and bright from tears but his face remained defiant; there was a red mark across his left cheek where Minerva’s right hand slapped him.
“You have got some nerve to look me in the eye,” was the greeting his son gave him. He clenched his jaw and strode to Minerva’s side, placing a comforting hand upon her bowed shoulders.
“Hector, we acknowledge that our decision was objectionable and believe me my dear boy it was also a painful one to make.” Albus’s tone became soft and almost ominous. “But never, never, question my regard for you all.”
“Yes and a fat lot of good your regard did for us all these years,” spat Hector bitterly at his father. “Tell me, who was it that comforted Mum whenever the flaming Daily Prophet or Witches Weekly ran rumors about her and the possible candidates who could have sired her bastard children? Who was it that practically saw to Deirdre’s upbringing because Mum was too busy with her career and because there was no one else? And who was it that had to be the man of the house by the time he was five? Tell me who it was because he sure as hell wasn’t you.”
The stunned silence that followed was only broken by the soft sobs of a crying woman.
“All these years I’ve been doing your job and you just stood nearby, watching it all. And now you want to step in and claim what isn’t yours.”
Minerva made an uncharacteristic motion: she pleaded through her tears. “Hector, please…”
“No Mum! I refuse to acknowledge that man as my father! He hasn’t earned it! If anything that title should go to Uncle Moody or Armando Dippet. Men who deserve it because they tried to act out the role!”
He stood mute in the face of his son’s outrage and resentment, partly out of amazement at the young man’s obviously pent up vehemence but mostly out of the jumble of the emotions of grief, guilt and burning shame.
Whole thing wouldn't fit in one post.
