True Nature

Foreward, by Minerva McGonagall

Hogwarts, 1970

It is with some trepidation that I set quill to paper to write this foreword. With the speculation and rumour surrounding the publication of this book, I felt an obligation to speak on my behalf and on behalf of the author. To set the record straight, I say here and now that this book is not "unauthorized," nor is it a "tell-all" book. I have known the author for some time, and this work would not be in print without my express permission and explicit approval.

That having been said, a second (and more crucial in my opinion) question begs to be answered: why? Why a book of my memoirs, and why now? I will set aside the obvious reason, that being the underlying narcissism we all possess which drives us to have our stories told. So many books have been written about so many of my contemporaries, and I agree with many of the critics who say my story is not as critical to Hogwarts history as, say, Albus Dumbledore or Severus Snape or James, Lily or Harry Potter.

If this were a book about The Dark One, and the fight against him, I agree wholeheartedly that it was superfluous at best. My role in that drama was peripheral, and I am content to be a footnote in history where he and his ilk are concerned. But this book is not about him, it is about my personal history and the history of those whom I encountered on my journeys in early adulthood.

This book came to be written in a roundabout way, when an American writer contacted me whilst doing research on the Wizarding community in New York during the early 1950s. She had questions about my late husband; a flamboyant New Yorker named William Peterson she'd wanted to include in her book. During our correspondence, the author and I struck up a friendship, and eventually I felt comfortable revealing certain aspects of my past to her, which had, until that time, been known only by a trusted few. It was she who felt my story worth telling, and she who assured me it would be done in a way that left my dignity at least mostly in tact.

And now to the rumours and scandals that have plagued me since the news of this manuscript first surfaced amongst my friends, acquaintances, and would-be detractors.

First rumour, is this book pornographic? The answer to that specific rumour is a resounding no. This rumour started when a rough draft version of the text was stolen from the author's computer. Specific scenes were released on the Internet, out of context, and with extra text added in that were completely unauthorized and unassociated with the author or myself. However, this book does deal with, rather frankly, my struggles with my sexuality in my 20s and early 30s. It is true that, in my youth, I made some monstrous errors in judgment, many of which I regret to this day. I cannot change my past. When the authored approached me to write this book, we agreed that to gloss over those uncomfortable aspects of my life would be to only tell half the story. And as my former students know, I never do anything half way.

And now a scandal: Is the former Headmistress of Hogwarts a lesbian? I find it hard to believe that in this day and age the question raises even a single eyebrow. But when the story hit the rumour mill that a book was being published revealing me as a homosexual, many Hogwarts parents actually complained, even though I have been retired for over five years and only maintain an honorary position on the faculty. To think that my sexual preference, regardless of what that preference might be, would in any way influence or hamper my ability to teach the students of Hogwarts is baffling to me. To know that many otherwise reasonable people would believe such rubbish is saddening to me.

It was for this very reason that I refused the author's first request to write this book. At the time, my partner was still teaching, and I was still Headmistress at Hogwarts. We felt it might cause problems, not only for ourselves, but for the school. I'm sorry to admit that I was afraid, and sorrier to admit that I allowed that fear to determine the course of my actions for several years before I felt safe enough in my status and position to allow the author to publish. To set the matter to rest once and for all, I am bisexual, having had relationships with both men and women throughout my long life.

A few friends, having read pre-release versions of this novel, have asked me how I could bear to have my private life lay raw and vulnerable in front of strangers. To a person, they praised the book, but they were concerned that my hard-earned peace and privacy would be shattered once the truth of my not-so-pristine past was brought to light.

To them, I say that silence is the true killer of peace. It was silence, the silence that comes from fear of being rejected, from fear of being hated, which led me down so many dark and painful paths in my youth. It was silence that caused me to reject a part of myself for years, to hide myself in shame and self-loathing.

It wasn't until I spoke up, until I could tell my story to at least one person, until I could become vulnerable and naked and helpless before the truth, that I discovered the true nature of courage. There is no glory in falseness, and no shame in truth, no matter how unpleasant that truth may be. I spent the better part of fifty years trying to teach my students this lesson. How can I now cower from the truth of my own life?

And that is the final question to be asked: Is this book true? Did the events in the pages to follow really happen? For the most part, yes. Obviously, much of the dull tedium that fills so much of our lives was cut, and the letters reprinted herein were edited for space. But other than the fact that the author managed to turn my incoherent ramblings into a manageable narrative, with only a few names were changed to protect the memories of the dead who could not be contacted for permission. The events of my life in Italy, New York, and Ireland are true, as are the fears and worries and slips and falls I endured traveling through the fantastic and strange landscape of young womanhood.

This story is not really mine, though. It belongs to the Billies of the world, to the Deannas and Rogers and Demmies and Tonios, to all of us who didn't quite fit the mold society set for us. It belongs to the Minervas of the world, who struggle to match the person within to the person without, to find some common ground between what we are and what we are expected to be. And finally, this story belongs to love, which is the only real truth in nature.

My blessings to you,

Minerva McGonagall (aka, Puss)

June 4, 2036

Hogwarts, 1970

Deanna Hooch bopped up the last few steps toward the Gryffindor dormitory, all flowing black robes, scuffed boots and spiky gray hair a flutter. She felt the stairwell start to move, and with a confidence born of three decades of practice, turned on the speed. She eyed the gap, unconsciously calculating speed and distance as she leapt for the landing just outside the Gryffindor dormitory.

"Nailed it," she gasped as she skidded to a halt. "Still got it, old girl." She steadied herself, and then turned the corner to head up the Housemistress's rooms. Her fledgling truce with Minerva McGonagall might not be so fragile as to be destroyed by being fifteen minutes late for dinner, but Deanna didn't want to push her luck.

Right as she started working to another sprint, she barreled straight into the back of Argus Filch.

"There's no running in the hallways," he snarled, swiveling hard to face whatever student dared break the ruled on his watch. When he saw the brooms teacher, however, he just scowled. "Oh, it's you."

She scowled back. "Yeah, it's me."

"There's no running in the hallways," he added with less conviction. On another night, Deanna might have been amused by the man's disgust, but tonight was not another night.

"Sorry, Filch. In a bit of a hurry," she smiled quickly, hoping he wouldn't lecture. "I'll keep it to a civilized pace," she promised, turning her body towards her destination.

Fortunately, the old man just shook his head. "Can't expect the students to mind if the teachers are rowdy. No respect for rules," he continued to mutter as he returned to his rounds with only a single, appalled backward glance at Hooch. "Teachers, they call themselves...."

Deanna held her feet until he turned the corner, his horrid feline companion joining him in the search for students to torment. Then she zoomed up the last few steps to Minerva's rooms. Three raps on the door and she was called in.

"Sorry, I'm late," she exhaled as she entered the main room. "The third years kept me after; they're terrified of finals. And then Filch and that awful cat of his actually scolded me for-- Hello, what happened in here?"

Normally, the Transfigurations teacher took a Spartan approach to everything, especially her living quarters. But tonight, Minerva had set a table with a fancy linen cloth, pewter plates and crystal glasses, and candles everywhere. Zillions of candles, all sorts of candles. Not a bit of non-candle-type lighting here.

"My god, I've stumbled onto a faerie bordello."

"Are you going to stand there gawking all night?" Minerva's voice came from the door to the bedchambers. Deanna turned to look, a low whistle escaping as she laid eyes on her dinner companion.

McGonagall wore her red hair loose, the locks freed from their standard bondage to fall in large curls around her shoulders with the exception of two strands braided into a golden clasp behind her head. She had forsaken her normal school robes for a dress of stunning forest green, an old-fashioned, honest-to-goodness party dress. It cut way down in back, with a gauzy scarf draped across her bare neck and shoulders in front. Tiny sequins sparkled from deep within the dress, highlighting with form-fitting clarity the curves that nature had not yet seen fit to droop and diminish. Minerva looked like one of those Muggle actresses from the 30s, perfectly manicured, flowing and elegant, ready for a night on the town.

Hooch suddenly felt very underdressed. "If you'd said so, I could have borrowed a tux for the occasion." She shuffled uncomfortably, not sure whether to laugh or curtsey. "Or at least cleaned up after practice. Course then I'd only have been later." She was babbling and she knew it.

Minerva laughed softly, stepping into the candle light with an almost self-conscious expression. "A relic from a previous life, I'm afraid. Actually, I'm amazed it still fits."

"What's the occasion?" Hooch gestured to the room. "You didn't do all this for me, did you?"

The normally dour head of Gryffindor House winked. "I truly wish I could say it was all about you, Deanna, but I'm afraid this is in honor of a dear and departed friend."

Hooch raised an eyebrow as she headed for the small couch and plopped herself onto the cushions. "Anyone I know?" She never took her gaze from Minerva, though.

A sad expression crossed Minerva's face as she joined her friend on the sofa. "No, you never met him. He was a friend of mine from Italy. He passed on last month, and left me a lovely Sciacchetrá in his will. And we are going to enjoy it tonight, rather than just sell it and retire on the profits as common sense would suggest." She reached behind Deanna to straighten one of the cushions that had been scrunched in the landing.

"Sciacchetrá?" Deanna's eyebrows raised in mock confusion. "I'm not sure if it's legal to traffic in Sciacchetri in Great Britain."

"It's a wine, you dope," Minerva laughed. "One of the better ones."

"Your mystery man had money, then?"

"Oh, hundreds, practically. Maybe even twos of hundreds." But Minerva's humor seemed forced. Her eyes were a million miles away, and the smile on her face seemed tight and tired.

Deanna reached out to rest her hand on Minerva's shoulders, a simple gesture that would have seemed unthinkable six months earlier. "More than just a friend, eh?"

McGonagall seemed to clinch in on herself. "Remember those stories we promised tell each other? That is, after we stopped trying to destroy each other?"

"How could I forget?" Hooch reached behind her and scrunched back the pillow Minerva had just unscrunched. "He's got a story?"

"He is a story." She paused for a moment. "No, he's more than just a story," she murmured, that distant look in her eyes. She tilted her head slightly to the right, as if watching a picture come to life before her. "He was the beginning of one story, and the end of another."

"So is this going to be just a teaser, or am I going to actually hear about this man?" Hooch asked.

Minerva shook herself out of it, once again assuming the light air that she affected earlier. "Maybe later. But Tonio was very specific in his will," she said. "We are to have a lovely dinner, open the chilled wine, and the spend the rest of the evening in good company."

"You mean me?"

"Well, I wanted Cary Grant, but you'll do." For a moment, the old Minerva flashed back, a tinge of good-natured sharpness sparkling in her face, but only for a moment. Soon enough, that softer, gentler, movie-star dressed Minerva with the far away eyes returned to haunt the room. "Actually, I think Tonio would consider you a perfect choice to share his wine."

"Tonio. You're the only person I know who could inherit a bottle of overpriced booze from a guy named Tonio, and still make it seem utterly elegant." Hooch couldn't help but chuckle.

"Antonio Mauricio Fiorenza, of the Portofino Fiorenzas, if you will." Minerva smiled. "He was Tonio to his friends, though, and he had many, many friends. A more charming and warm-hearted man you'll never know. He and his wife were very kind to me during the war."

"A British witch living in Italy during the German occupation. Must've been a picnic."

"A virtual walk in the swamp," Minerva admitted. "I lived with Tonio and Gabriella and their little boy Marko at their villa in Portofino for almost three years. Tonio was a junior minister on the Italian Ministry of Magic, an actual Strega, if you can imagine."

"How very exotic."

"Oh, yes. Exotic and cosmopolitan and very much involved with the Anti-Fascist underground."

"A man after your own heart, eh?"

Minerva smiled. "I admit, our politics meshed quite nicely. Considering his wife was a Muggle, and their child half-Muggle, I think he felt compelled to have more than neutral involvement in stopping those monsters. When Italy pulled out of the war and the Germans descended en masse, they insisted I move into their guesthouse. They thought it would be safer for me there, which in essence it was. A rather lush way to sit out the war."

"I'll bet." Something inside Deanna was tugging at her mind, some internal radar that things were not as bright and cheery as they appeared to be on the surface. A fleeting sadness behind the eyes, a momentary lapse in vocal tone. She knew better than to push. Minerva McGonagall moved in her own time, and woe to anyone who would force her to go either faster or slower than her internal meter deemed appropriate.

"Gabriela, Tonio's wife," she clarified, "died before she ever saw her country free again. It was tragic, really." Before Deanna could prompt for more information, however, Minerva seemed to snap out of it. "Listen to me. Going on and on, like an old general telling war stories. You must be starved."

Hooch shrugged. "No more than usual. Your basic barbequed horse would suffice."

"Oh, not at all, my dear. Tonight we honor Senior Fiorenza with a proper Ligurian feast. Scampi and calamari in a light pesto, served over linguine so fine you can sew with it. A traditional Italian salad, with lots of olives and onions and enough garlic to asphyxiate a small moose, fresh Italian bread, all rounded off with home-made tiramisu."

"Whoa."

Minerva gestured broadly around her. "And you shall be happy to know that I've placed a barrier spell around these chambers. No one, living or dead, can get in without going through Dumbledore, and he has the strictest of orders to contact me in case of emergency only."

"Are you telling me Peeves will not be joining our little soirée?" Deanna chuckled.

"Peeves will most definitely not be joining our little soirée."

"Oh, dear. An evening of privacy at Hogwarts. What will they say back home?"

Minerva smiled. "I've alerted the media. They'll be sending round a crew tomorrow to report on the aftermath."

"Good gods and goddesses, Minerva. How will you survive such decadence?"

"No decadence, woman. I've earned this respite. Every single morsel was prepared by my own tender hands." At Deanna's raised eyebrow, she laughed and added, "With copious assistance from my wand, I admit."

Minerva pulled herself to her feet; then with a graceful tug, she assisted Hooch off the sofa, the force of the act landing them just inches apart. Her eyes caught the light for a moment, and Deanna noticed for the first time the unshed tears sparkling in the candlelight. This time Deanna didn't hold herself back as she lifted a hand to stroke one slightly graying lock from Minerva's eyes.

"You're not okay at all, are you?" she asked.

"No. No, I'm not," McGonagall admitted in a tone forced a shade lighter than it deserved to be. "But I shall be. When my tummy is full of pasta and wine and tiramisu, I will be much better." She paused, staring deeply into Hooch's eyes, as if searching for something she'd lost so long ago she could no longer even name it. "Thank you, though. For asking."

Deanna brushed away a shy blush. Silly how that woman could touch so deep a place in her after all these years. She shook off her foolish thoughts. She'd burned her bridges with McGonagall years earlier; no sense romanticizing what might otherwise become a good friendship. "I'm hungry. Let's eat those little scampies and calamaries, shall we?"

Minerva nodded, content to let the moment go as they sat down to their meal.

***

"I think I'm going to explode, now."

Minerva couldn't have asked for a nicer compliment. Even with the help of the wand, she'd been afraid of how badly her meal would come out. But now, with the taste of tiramisu still lingering on her palate, she was glad she'd done the extra work. It seemed fitting to both Tonio and Gabriela that she do this right. Marko's note had been quite explicit, and she intended to carry out Tonio's wishes to the letter. First a good meal with a good friend, then a toast of the Sciacchetrá, then she would read the poem he'd left for her. After that, music, stories, whatever muses chose to grace their path as they honored the evening and his memory.

Deanna, for what it was worth, looked as though she'd either had a religious experience or a sexual one. Not that they were that far apart, where Deanna Hooch was concerned. The woman could profane the holy and deify the profane with a single wicked look.

They sat in companionable silence on the couch. The dinner mess remained to be cleared, and Tonio's Sciacchetrá was icing in a bucket nearby, eyeing them in silent rebuke for eating so much as to have to delay the toast until their stomachs settled.

Maybe it was the wine or the melancholy or the rich food, but she couldn't help notice how lovely Deanna looked tonight. Not in a glamorous way, as that had never been Hooch's style, but in a wind-swept way, an athletic way, a brazen and world-weary way. From the first day she'd met her, Minerva had sensed an experience in her friend, a kind of knowledge that no book could teach and no person could explain who had not gone through it themselves. It was beautiful and frightening simultaneously.

At first, she'd had no knowledge of the trauma of Deanna's childhood, how she had huddled in magical silence as a band of marauders tortured and killed her father for being a True Descendant of Rowena Ravenclaw. How she'd been abandoned by her mother and forced to deny her true heritage to avoid a fate similar to her father's. How she had spent the years since a virtual prisoner of Hogwarts, first as Dumbledore's ward, then as a teacher, never going further than Hogsmeade for fear of being discovered by the group known only as The Inquisitors, a band of Dark Wizards bent on destroying all true descendants of the ancient founders.

They had once been in love, but it had been so long ago. So many experiences blocked the path to that time long ago that Minerva felt she'd almost dreamed it. But tonight, looking at Hooch, all stuffed and happy and alive on her couch, she caught a glimpse of the person she'd been before time had played havoc with her spirit. Her heart ached for Deanna. To be such a free spirit, so drawn to the new and unfamiliar, and to be forced to live in hiding for almost all of your life.

It did something to a person, those years of denying one's true nature. It didn't matter if you did it to save your life, or to save your family, or to avoid a pain far greater that that of personal pretense. The pressure of forcing your life into an unsuitable mold bent the spirit in ways that could never be repaired. This Minerva knew in a way far deeper and truer than Deanna could ever suspect.

But tonight, she would drink to Tonio's memory. She would find within her the courage to tell Deanna how she'd lived in those years following Hogwarts, the deeds she'd done, the person she'd become before Dumbledore brought her safely home. Perhaps, if anyone could understand, Deanna could.

But for now Minerva was tired, and Tonio's death and the several glasses of moderately good Chablis she'd had with dinner only intensified that exhaustion.

Hooch's voice shook her reverie. "Penny for your thoughts?"

It was as good an opening as she could hope. Minerva sighed, turning her thoughts inward. "I'm remembering the first time I saw Portofino."

***

To be continued in True Nature - Italy