![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
edenfallingSummary: A week after Dumbledore is removed as Headmaster, Minerva McGonagall, Pomona Sprout, and Rolanda Hooch go drinking and debate ways to solve the crisis Hogwarts is laboring under. (1,800 words)
Note: This is a sidestory for Secrets, my retelling of CoS from Ginny's perspective. I'm not sure when I started writing it -- probably early 2003 -- but I stalled out after the first 200 or so words and posted that snippet in 2004 as what I expected to be a permanently unfinished fragment. The thing is, the universe lives to make me eat my words. When I opened the file to tidy it up and post it to AO3 as part of a collection of other HP fragments, I suddenly needed to finish it. So I did, ten years late. *wry*
I suspect, based on the title, that I originally meant to have the teachers focus on the peculiarities of Ginny's behavior, but McGonagall has no reason to think Ginny's in particular trouble compared to the rest of the school, so I ended with a more general story.
[ETA: The revised and extended final version is now up on AO3!]
---------------------------------------------
A Problem Like Ginevra
---------------------------------------------
"Minerva?"
Minerva McGonagall, Professor of Transfiguration and Acting Headmistress of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, looked up from her desk. "Yes, Rolanda? Please don't tell me there's been another Petrification."
Rolanda Hooch shook her head. "Nothing like that. Pomona and I are going for a drink, is all. Come with."
Minerva sighed. "I have papers to mark," she said as she always did.
"Papers can wait. The pub closes." Rolanda grinned, her odd yellow eyes twinkling as she hauled Minerva from her chair and over to the office doorway. "Summon your cloak and we'll be off -- Pomona's waiting at the front gates. Filius knows where to find us if there's an emergency."
Somehow Minerva had lost any real desire to resist this occasional gathering over the years, though she still protested out of habit. They didn't meet every week, nor on any set schedule. But now and then, when the pressure grew too heavy or some shock disrupted the school, Rolanda or Pomona would pop into her office and drag her off to the Three Broomsticks. She'd even returned the favor once or twice -- though she'd deny any such action if accused.
She had not, however, been expecting an ambush for at least another week. She had lived through worse times, after all. The last years of Voldemort's uprising came to mind. So did Grindelwald's War, when she was a child. But this past week, since Albus had been dismissed and Hagrid hauled off to Azkaban with no explanation nor solution for the Petrifications in sight...
Minerva sighed again, summoned her cloak, and followed Rolanda down to the front entrance. The halls were eerily empty for a Saturday evening in May, the new six o'clock curfew keeping all the students shut in their house quarters. The school hadn't locked down like this for decades, not since her own student days and the previous round of Petrifications.
She'd never paid much attention to Myrtle Willoughby -- third-year Ravenclaws had little to do with seventh-year Gryffindors, after all -- but no child deserved that kind of death. Unless they found the source of the Petrifications, though, Minerva feared this year would have a similarly tragic end.
"Hello, Minerva!" Pomona Sprout's normally cheerful face was slightly dimmed from its usual beaming brilliance, but she managed a smile in her voice nonetheless. A useful talent, that, and one Minerva had never acquired.
"Hello, Pomona," Minerva said as Rolanda shoved open the doors and led them out into the slanted evening sunlight. "How are the mandrakes coming along?"
"Oh, passably, passably. I can't hurry them, that's the problem, much as I'd like to. Growing charms disrupt their own magic and turn them into nothing but inert roots." Pomona slumped a bit as they walked, even her perpetual optimism dinged and dampened by the gnawing ache of being unable to protect the students. Then she brightened. "But they should be ready a fortnight or so before the end of term -- perhaps even a touch earlier if we're lucky! There are some Muggle tricks for forcing growth, you know. My NEWT students and I have been experimenting."
"Do you have enough to risk losing some of the crop, mucking around like that?" Rolanda asked.
Pomona waved her hands. "Oh, more than! Unless more than half the students end up Petrified, that is. Or unless Severus manages to botch a dozen attempts to brew a fairly simple potion. The trick is identifying which mandrake has had what treatment, since they will insist on climbing into one another's pots when no one's around to keep them in order."
"I thought-- no, of course, the curfew," Minerva said. Obviously Pomona couldn't have students alone in the greenhouses these days.
Rolanda growled. "Fat lot of good that's been doing. Locking people up only makes them more afraid, and scared people cause trouble. I say we should petition again for an official Auror investigation squad. Albus may not like interference, but he's not here to object."
"If we give the Ministry an inch--" Minerva said, and they plunged once more into the well-worn argument over educational autonomy and the trustworthiness and efficiency (or lack thereof) displayed by the Ministry of Magic over the past two decades.
"Hold those thoughts," Pomona said as they reached the Three Broomsticks. "You can resume the debate once we have seats and drinks."
Rosmerta greeted them effusively as always, and the trio quickly found themselves ensconced in a cozy booth with a mug of butterbeer for Pomona, a bottle of Firewhiskey and two glasses for Rolanda and Minerva, and a basket of bread and a little plate of cheese cubes, since Rosmerta was of the firm opinion that people who ate while drinking stayed happier and started fewer fights. She was probably on to something, Minerva thought as she speared a piece of sharp cheddar. The quality of Hogwarts meals certainly went a long way to tamping down student and staff complaints... though obviously even the house elves' best efforts meant nothing in the face of recent events.
"If the Aurors couldn't find anything fifty years ago, I doubt they'll do much better today," she said as Rolanda filled both their glasses. "Nevertheless, if the Petrifications continue, I'll consider your request. For now, I'd prefer to speak of other things."
Rolanda rolled her hawk-like eyes, but dropped the subject.
Minerva clinked their glasses together to show she held no hard feelings, then drank. Rosmerta's Firewhiskey wasn't the highest grade, either for flavor or alcohol content, but it burned pleasantly in her mouth and down her throat. She drank another swallow and felt the tension in her shoulders ease -- the comfort of ritual rushing ahead of the alcohol's effects.
"I wish I could think of happy topics, but I'm afraid I'm stuck on our recent troubles," Pomona said, staring into the depths of her butterbeer. "All the students are on edge now. I've had three fights break out during lessons this week and none of the participants would tell me what set them off. I do my best to offer a sympathetic ear, but that only goes so far if the children aren't willing to talk."
"At least you still see the students," Rolanda grumbled. "I had a handful who used flying to get away from their worries -- obviously not something that works with a chaperone -- and I worry what else they might try with the broomshed locked up."
"Mmm," Pomona agreed. "It's the same with some of my evening Herbology club. Sally Hawkins, Renée Jackson, Helios Mulciber, Neville Longbottom, Ginny Weasley..." She trailed off and dunked a slice of bread into her butterbeer. "I see them in lessons, of course, but that isn't the same."
Minerva set down her empty glass and frowned. "Ginny Weasley? I know her brothers were worried about her health earlier this year, but I assumed she was past that. Though now that I think of it, she came to my office on Sunday in search of Albus. She didn't tell me why she wanted to see him -- though she obviously thought it important enough to rise early on a Sunday. I should have asked, but I was--"
"Distracted?" Rolanda offered as she refilled Minerva's glass and topped up her own.
"Quite."
Pomona swallowed the last of her adulterated bread and said, "Something has been troubling her for months. I think I might have managed to get through in another week or two, but after what happened to poor Hermione Granger and Penelope Clearwater, Albus's removal, and all this disruption with curfews and restrictions, I'm afraid she's clammed up again." She sighed. "Which is precisely what all the other children I mentioned have done, and I've no idea what to do for any of them. Poppy does her best, but I do wonder sometimes if we ought to hire a specialist in mental maladies -- at least on a part-time basis."
Rolanda raised her eyebrows at Minerva. "Well? You won't call in the Aurors, but what about damage control?"
Minerva shook her head. "Unfortunately I don't have the authority. I'm only Acting Headmistress -- the Board of Governors won't meet to either confirm me or appoint a replacement until the end of term -- and neither Poppy nor I have the time to review candidates in any case. It's a good thought, however, and if Albus isn't reinstated I'll look into it over the summer."
"Even if he is reinstated, we ought to make some changes," Rolanda said. "I have the greatest respect for Albus -- of course I respect him, as a wizard and a teacher -- but he's not always good at remembering the big picture is made up of small people, and people aren't chess pieces." She knocked back the dregs of her glass with a grimace.
"He has his reasons," Minerva said.
"And he gets along so well with the children," Pomona added. "But let's not keep dwelling on sad things. I shouldn't have brought it up in the first place."
"No argument from me," Rolanda said. "I tell you what, I'll go ask Rosmerta if she's willing to do us up a late supper. When I get back, I expect full reports on your summer holiday plans. If you don't have any now, make some up -- I guarantee we'll need a break this year." She shoved herself upright and out of the booth and strode toward the bar where Rosmerta was tallying receipts.
The rest of the evening passed more cheerfully, and Minerva found herself humming as she returned to her rooms. The empty castle seemed paradoxically less eerie in the dark -- empty corridors and stairways were normal and expected as midnight drew near -- and she knew her way by heart after the decades she'd lived and worked at Hogwarts.
Even so, her mind drifted back to Ginny Weasley, standing pale and shocked in Minerva's office, like a mouse trapped in an open room or a songbird grounded with a broken wing. Gryffindors should never look so alone, Minerva thought. She should take the girl aside after her next Transfiguration lesson and ask what she had wanted to tell Albus. It couldn't be anything too important -- trouble with her housemates, perhaps, or a complaint about Severus.
She should also remind her not to wander around the castle without an escort. That might be futile -- the girl was a Weasley and a Gryffindor -- but it was the least Minerva could do. Otherwise it would be all too easy for Ginny Weasley to share Myrtle Willoughby's fate.
Minerva allowed herself one shortbread biscuit and a chapter of Bathilda Bagshot's latest dreadful historical bodice-ripper, set during the second Goblin rebellion. Then she went to bed, cushioned by the warmth of Firewhiskey, friendship, and the best intentions in the world.
---------------------------------------------
End of Story
---------------------------------------------
Ha, I win.
Oh, right, some notes! Notes are useful things. McGonagall was apparently born circa 1925, which means that in 1943, she could have been a sixth-year, a seventh-year, or one year out of school. I'm assuming she was a seventh-year. Madam Hooch doesn't have a canonical first name, but is apparently called Rolanda in a video game and fandom seems to have accepted this. (I still think Xiomara would be cooler, but I will reserve my pointless last stands for other trivia.) Similarly, Moaning Myrtle doesn't have a canonical last name. The one I gave her wasn't chosen completely at random -- it's kinda-sorta a word play on weeping willows -- but it's still pretty arbitrary.
Note: This is a sidestory for Secrets, my retelling of CoS from Ginny's perspective. I'm not sure when I started writing it -- probably early 2003 -- but I stalled out after the first 200 or so words and posted that snippet in 2004 as what I expected to be a permanently unfinished fragment. The thing is, the universe lives to make me eat my words. When I opened the file to tidy it up and post it to AO3 as part of a collection of other HP fragments, I suddenly needed to finish it. So I did, ten years late. *wry*
I suspect, based on the title, that I originally meant to have the teachers focus on the peculiarities of Ginny's behavior, but McGonagall has no reason to think Ginny's in particular trouble compared to the rest of the school, so I ended with a more general story.
[ETA: The revised and extended final version is now up on AO3!]
---------------------------------------------
A Problem Like Ginevra
---------------------------------------------
"Minerva?"
Minerva McGonagall, Professor of Transfiguration and Acting Headmistress of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, looked up from her desk. "Yes, Rolanda? Please don't tell me there's been another Petrification."
Rolanda Hooch shook her head. "Nothing like that. Pomona and I are going for a drink, is all. Come with."
Minerva sighed. "I have papers to mark," she said as she always did.
"Papers can wait. The pub closes." Rolanda grinned, her odd yellow eyes twinkling as she hauled Minerva from her chair and over to the office doorway. "Summon your cloak and we'll be off -- Pomona's waiting at the front gates. Filius knows where to find us if there's an emergency."
Somehow Minerva had lost any real desire to resist this occasional gathering over the years, though she still protested out of habit. They didn't meet every week, nor on any set schedule. But now and then, when the pressure grew too heavy or some shock disrupted the school, Rolanda or Pomona would pop into her office and drag her off to the Three Broomsticks. She'd even returned the favor once or twice -- though she'd deny any such action if accused.
She had not, however, been expecting an ambush for at least another week. She had lived through worse times, after all. The last years of Voldemort's uprising came to mind. So did Grindelwald's War, when she was a child. But this past week, since Albus had been dismissed and Hagrid hauled off to Azkaban with no explanation nor solution for the Petrifications in sight...
Minerva sighed again, summoned her cloak, and followed Rolanda down to the front entrance. The halls were eerily empty for a Saturday evening in May, the new six o'clock curfew keeping all the students shut in their house quarters. The school hadn't locked down like this for decades, not since her own student days and the previous round of Petrifications.
She'd never paid much attention to Myrtle Willoughby -- third-year Ravenclaws had little to do with seventh-year Gryffindors, after all -- but no child deserved that kind of death. Unless they found the source of the Petrifications, though, Minerva feared this year would have a similarly tragic end.
"Hello, Minerva!" Pomona Sprout's normally cheerful face was slightly dimmed from its usual beaming brilliance, but she managed a smile in her voice nonetheless. A useful talent, that, and one Minerva had never acquired.
"Hello, Pomona," Minerva said as Rolanda shoved open the doors and led them out into the slanted evening sunlight. "How are the mandrakes coming along?"
"Oh, passably, passably. I can't hurry them, that's the problem, much as I'd like to. Growing charms disrupt their own magic and turn them into nothing but inert roots." Pomona slumped a bit as they walked, even her perpetual optimism dinged and dampened by the gnawing ache of being unable to protect the students. Then she brightened. "But they should be ready a fortnight or so before the end of term -- perhaps even a touch earlier if we're lucky! There are some Muggle tricks for forcing growth, you know. My NEWT students and I have been experimenting."
"Do you have enough to risk losing some of the crop, mucking around like that?" Rolanda asked.
Pomona waved her hands. "Oh, more than! Unless more than half the students end up Petrified, that is. Or unless Severus manages to botch a dozen attempts to brew a fairly simple potion. The trick is identifying which mandrake has had what treatment, since they will insist on climbing into one another's pots when no one's around to keep them in order."
"I thought-- no, of course, the curfew," Minerva said. Obviously Pomona couldn't have students alone in the greenhouses these days.
Rolanda growled. "Fat lot of good that's been doing. Locking people up only makes them more afraid, and scared people cause trouble. I say we should petition again for an official Auror investigation squad. Albus may not like interference, but he's not here to object."
"If we give the Ministry an inch--" Minerva said, and they plunged once more into the well-worn argument over educational autonomy and the trustworthiness and efficiency (or lack thereof) displayed by the Ministry of Magic over the past two decades.
"Hold those thoughts," Pomona said as they reached the Three Broomsticks. "You can resume the debate once we have seats and drinks."
Rosmerta greeted them effusively as always, and the trio quickly found themselves ensconced in a cozy booth with a mug of butterbeer for Pomona, a bottle of Firewhiskey and two glasses for Rolanda and Minerva, and a basket of bread and a little plate of cheese cubes, since Rosmerta was of the firm opinion that people who ate while drinking stayed happier and started fewer fights. She was probably on to something, Minerva thought as she speared a piece of sharp cheddar. The quality of Hogwarts meals certainly went a long way to tamping down student and staff complaints... though obviously even the house elves' best efforts meant nothing in the face of recent events.
"If the Aurors couldn't find anything fifty years ago, I doubt they'll do much better today," she said as Rolanda filled both their glasses. "Nevertheless, if the Petrifications continue, I'll consider your request. For now, I'd prefer to speak of other things."
Rolanda rolled her hawk-like eyes, but dropped the subject.
Minerva clinked their glasses together to show she held no hard feelings, then drank. Rosmerta's Firewhiskey wasn't the highest grade, either for flavor or alcohol content, but it burned pleasantly in her mouth and down her throat. She drank another swallow and felt the tension in her shoulders ease -- the comfort of ritual rushing ahead of the alcohol's effects.
"I wish I could think of happy topics, but I'm afraid I'm stuck on our recent troubles," Pomona said, staring into the depths of her butterbeer. "All the students are on edge now. I've had three fights break out during lessons this week and none of the participants would tell me what set them off. I do my best to offer a sympathetic ear, but that only goes so far if the children aren't willing to talk."
"At least you still see the students," Rolanda grumbled. "I had a handful who used flying to get away from their worries -- obviously not something that works with a chaperone -- and I worry what else they might try with the broomshed locked up."
"Mmm," Pomona agreed. "It's the same with some of my evening Herbology club. Sally Hawkins, Renée Jackson, Helios Mulciber, Neville Longbottom, Ginny Weasley..." She trailed off and dunked a slice of bread into her butterbeer. "I see them in lessons, of course, but that isn't the same."
Minerva set down her empty glass and frowned. "Ginny Weasley? I know her brothers were worried about her health earlier this year, but I assumed she was past that. Though now that I think of it, she came to my office on Sunday in search of Albus. She didn't tell me why she wanted to see him -- though she obviously thought it important enough to rise early on a Sunday. I should have asked, but I was--"
"Distracted?" Rolanda offered as she refilled Minerva's glass and topped up her own.
"Quite."
Pomona swallowed the last of her adulterated bread and said, "Something has been troubling her for months. I think I might have managed to get through in another week or two, but after what happened to poor Hermione Granger and Penelope Clearwater, Albus's removal, and all this disruption with curfews and restrictions, I'm afraid she's clammed up again." She sighed. "Which is precisely what all the other children I mentioned have done, and I've no idea what to do for any of them. Poppy does her best, but I do wonder sometimes if we ought to hire a specialist in mental maladies -- at least on a part-time basis."
Rolanda raised her eyebrows at Minerva. "Well? You won't call in the Aurors, but what about damage control?"
Minerva shook her head. "Unfortunately I don't have the authority. I'm only Acting Headmistress -- the Board of Governors won't meet to either confirm me or appoint a replacement until the end of term -- and neither Poppy nor I have the time to review candidates in any case. It's a good thought, however, and if Albus isn't reinstated I'll look into it over the summer."
"Even if he is reinstated, we ought to make some changes," Rolanda said. "I have the greatest respect for Albus -- of course I respect him, as a wizard and a teacher -- but he's not always good at remembering the big picture is made up of small people, and people aren't chess pieces." She knocked back the dregs of her glass with a grimace.
"He has his reasons," Minerva said.
"And he gets along so well with the children," Pomona added. "But let's not keep dwelling on sad things. I shouldn't have brought it up in the first place."
"No argument from me," Rolanda said. "I tell you what, I'll go ask Rosmerta if she's willing to do us up a late supper. When I get back, I expect full reports on your summer holiday plans. If you don't have any now, make some up -- I guarantee we'll need a break this year." She shoved herself upright and out of the booth and strode toward the bar where Rosmerta was tallying receipts.
The rest of the evening passed more cheerfully, and Minerva found herself humming as she returned to her rooms. The empty castle seemed paradoxically less eerie in the dark -- empty corridors and stairways were normal and expected as midnight drew near -- and she knew her way by heart after the decades she'd lived and worked at Hogwarts.
Even so, her mind drifted back to Ginny Weasley, standing pale and shocked in Minerva's office, like a mouse trapped in an open room or a songbird grounded with a broken wing. Gryffindors should never look so alone, Minerva thought. She should take the girl aside after her next Transfiguration lesson and ask what she had wanted to tell Albus. It couldn't be anything too important -- trouble with her housemates, perhaps, or a complaint about Severus.
She should also remind her not to wander around the castle without an escort. That might be futile -- the girl was a Weasley and a Gryffindor -- but it was the least Minerva could do. Otherwise it would be all too easy for Ginny Weasley to share Myrtle Willoughby's fate.
Minerva allowed herself one shortbread biscuit and a chapter of Bathilda Bagshot's latest dreadful historical bodice-ripper, set during the second Goblin rebellion. Then she went to bed, cushioned by the warmth of Firewhiskey, friendship, and the best intentions in the world.
---------------------------------------------
End of Story
---------------------------------------------
Ha, I win.
Oh, right, some notes! Notes are useful things. McGonagall was apparently born circa 1925, which means that in 1943, she could have been a sixth-year, a seventh-year, or one year out of school. I'm assuming she was a seventh-year. Madam Hooch doesn't have a canonical first name, but is apparently called Rolanda in a video game and fandom seems to have accepted this. (I still think Xiomara would be cooler, but I will reserve my pointless last stands for other trivia.) Similarly, Moaning Myrtle doesn't have a canonical last name. The one I gave her wasn't chosen completely at random -- it's kinda-sorta a word play on weeping willows -- but it's still pretty arbitrary.
