True Nature

Included in this section:

Quin Village, County Clare, Ireland, December 27, 1951

Quin Village, New Years Eve, 1951

Minerva's Chambers, 1970

Letters across the Atlantic, 1952-1953

New York City, Halloween, 1953

Quin Village, County Clare, Ireland, December 27, 1951

The house seemed smaller than she remembered. It was cold and dark and raining when she and Dumbledore made their way up from the road. As they reached the pathway to the house, however, she halted in her tracks. "I can't do this," she urged. "Please, just take me back to Hogwarts. Lock me in a tower. I won't bother anyone."

"You must face them eventually, my dear." He patted her arm, and nodded toward the house. "There's a light in the parlor. They're waiting."

She felt a fresh wave of panic surge through her. "Maybe..."

His hand on her shoulder stopped her from turning back toward the village and running at full speed. At least, that was her preliminary plan. It was a step up from "panic."

"Would you like me to go in with you, child?"

She steadied herself. "No," she gulped. "No, I suppose if I'm going to go through with this, it's best I do it on my own."

"Chin up," he said with an encouraging smile. "I believe I saw a pub back a while ago. It looked quite warm and welcoming. Shall I wait for you there?"

She nodded quickly, hugging him in one brief, hard motion before turning to walk up the path to the front door. Three steps up, steady, steady. Hand to the door. Just knock.

A quick glance behind her showed no sign of Dumbledore. Of course, he made her walk in the rain, while he apparated back. She began to wonder if he didn't have some odd sense of humor about all of this.

Knock, she told herself. Just knock.

"It's either knock or freeze," she muttered, forcing herself past the rigidity of her body into a sudden burst of activity. Her knuckles hit the door hard and fast, the sound making her jump. Her stomach felt hollow as she fought down the urge to just run and let her mother find an empty step where the long-lost daughter should be.

But she hesitated too long, and the door opened with a rush of warmth. An old woman stood in the warm light, a woman too old to actually be her mother. But it was, and she stood silently for a moment, sharp dark eyes taking in every bedraggled inch of the young woman who dripped before her.

It seemed a lifetime. It seemed an eternity. But eventually, Adela McGonagall spoke to her second youngest child. "Wipe your feet," she said with an oddly choked quality to her voice. "Come in and get out of those wet things before you catch your death of cold."

Minerva jerked into motion, unable to resist the woman's abrupt command. She wiped the mud from her boots and took off her overcoat, handing it to her mother, who hung it on the rack near the fire. Without a word, she leaned over, removing her boots and placing them just outside the door. When she was done, she just stood there while she and her mother stared each other.

"Well? Are you going to stand there dripping all night, or are you going to dry yourself, child?"

"Sorry," she said quickly. Nerves played like wildfire under her skin, darting and snapping and sparking in the oddest ways. She pointed her finger, completely forgetting to use her wand, and began to dry herself.

"Minerva McGonagall! Use a wand, daughter." Her mother looked horrified. "I hope you didn't pick up bad habits over there in America or what have you. Honestly, pointing your finger like a common carnival mountebank."

Minerva couldn't help it. It just struck her funny, and she began to laugh. She held her stomach with both hands, laughing for dear life as she dripped all over her mother's worn but impeccably clean carpet. Before long, she was doubled over, her arms locked around her waist as the tears began to fall and all control was shattered.

Adela crossed the room quickly, wrapping the young woman in a hard embrace as she collapsed against her, sobbing hysterically. "Child," she whispered, kissing Minerva's soaked hair repeatedly as she struggled to calm her daughter. "Child, what did they do to you? Whatever did they do to you?"

And there, wrapped in each other's arms, huddled together in the firelight, Minerva McGonagall confessed her sins to her mother.

***

The walls were closing in fast, now, as she struggled to climb the stairs. The air was dank and stale, leaving her lungs feeling dirty and coated in slime. It was just behind her, ten steps, seven. Five steps below, reaching for her legs. She hit the top of the stairwell at a full run, heading toward the nearest doorway. A splinter nicked her finger as she struggled with the old cedar door, its tarnished knob slippery in her hand. She could feel it breathing on her leg, its cold aura pounding against her flesh.

Somehow, she managed to get past the door, into Billie's drag room. The dresses had fallen, fabric everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, piled on the floor, on the walls, in the windows. She couldn't see, couldn't get her bearings. A length of lavender gauze caught at her face, and in her panic, she became tangled in it. The fabric, which should have been light enough to breathe through, began to smother her. She grabbed at it, clawed at the sheer fabric with her hands, but it pressed tighter against her face. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe.

"I can't breathe," she gasped, sitting straight up in bed.

"Well, maybe if you stopped trying to wake the dead, I wouldn't have had to cover your mouth." A young woman, no older than her early 20s, sat on the bed next to Minerva, knees folded under her as she pulled her hand back from Minerva's mouth. Annoyance clouded her baby blue eyes as she stared at her hand in the moonlight that streamed in through the bedroom window. "I think you bit me," she added, her smartly bobbed blond curls shimmering as she shook her head.

"Sophie, you know you shouldn't sneak up on a person when they're aslee--" Minerva stopped and turned on the night-light. "Sophie?" she asked in a stunned whisper, staring at the knockout blonde masquerading as her baby sister. "Sophie??"

"In the flesh, stranger." The young woman leaned forward, rolling until she lay at Minerva's side, wrapping her in a huge hug the way they used to do as children. "Welcome home, Minnie-cakes."

She couldn't stop staring. "Sophie, you're..." She couldn't think of a word to describe her. Had she really thought nothing would change? "You're..."

"What?" The object of her astounded observation poked her in the rib. "Spit it out, woman."

"You're not eleven!" It sounded so utterly ridiculous when she said it aloud.

Sophie began to chuckle. "Haven't been for some time." Sophie hugged her again, almost fiercely. "And keep your voice down. The old bat sleeps like a feather, and I'm not supposed to be here."

"Why not?" she whispered.

"Mum wanted to see you first, so she sent me over to the convent to spend the night."

"The convent?"

Sophie rolled her eyes so far back it looked painful. "Demmie's. Our Lady of Perpetual Boredom." She reached out to examine Minerva's hair. "This is a good color for you," she observed. "Have you thought of going blonde?"

"Going blonde? What are...."? Minerva shook her head. "Why are you sneaking in my room at...." She stole a quick look at the clock on the table, "four a.m.?"

"Because come sunrise, this place is gonna be overrun with McGonagalls wanting to get a peak at the returning traveler. And, in case you've forgotten, I don't exactly have seniority around this place."

"So you snuck here from Ennis in the middle of the night?"

"Not too far if you apparate."

"Which you shouldn't be doing yet."

"Got my license five years ago," Sophie corrected. At Minerva's shocked expression, her toned softened. "You've missed some staff meetings, big sister. But you're home. And thank the G's and G's that I got to you first." She snuggled against Minerva, holding on, it seemed, for dear life. "I'm still the only person who can call you that, you know. Big Sister."

"And you're the only one I can call Baby Sister," Minerva agreed. They used to have this conversation repeatedly as children. Bottom children in a large, poor family, Minerva and Sophia had clung to what they could as their own.

Sophie yawned. "I'm glad you're home," she said. "Now shut the light."

As it appeared that her baby sister did not intend to go anywhere, Minerva shut off the light and, within minutes, fell asleep in her sister's arms.

***

Quin Village, New Years Eve, 1951

"I've been putting together New Year's dinner for longer than any of you have been alive, and I do not need you telling me how to do it now."

Minerva sat in the parlor with Persephone, playing cards while her mother and Demeter fought in the kitchen.

"Glad to be home?" Sephie asked as she trumped Minerva's queen.

"Oh, wouldn't miss it," she agreed with a laugh.

Persephone and Demeter were the only two of her married sisters still living in Ireland, but between them they had a brood of children that kept the name McGonagall alive and well in this part of County Clare. Four boys and two girls for Demeter, and three young girls for Persephone. They had scattered through the house, taking advantage of yet another dreary, rainy day to explore the hidey-holes, secret tunnels, and hidden doorways their late grandfather had designed to amuse his own children. Even though he was a Muggle, Seamus McGonagall had vision. And with his wife's magic, he had turned the house into a virtual play world for the eyes and ears and imagination of a young child.

"Do you think they'll kill each other?" Minerva asked as another pan slammed against the stove.

"Oh, no, any killing is reserved for the major holidays. You'll have to wait until Easter if you want to see that." She lay down her hand, indicating that, yes, she had indeed won yet another round. "Would you care to switch to checkers?" A flash of lightening lit the room, followed by a roll of thunder that shook the whole house. "Okay," Sephie said, staring at the ceiling as if addressing Thor himself. "No checkers."

Minerva laughed, tossing her useless cards onto the table. It felt so good to be here, just playing a simple game of cards with her older sister. After the initial hubbub, the greetings and tearful reunions and introducing of children, this normal, dull activity carried a sweetness that warmed Minerva to the core of her being. She was about to suggest a game of chess when they heard a knock on the door.

"Who could that be?" Sephie asked.

"Sophia isn't going to be back till after midnight," Minerva murmured as she stood. Another round of lightening and thunder rattled the house. "Who would be traveling on a night like this?"

Her mother came from the kitchen, a stained blue apron around her waist. "Well, is nobody going to answer that?" She crossed the room quickly, reaching the door before either of her daughters had time to react. When she opened it, a rush of cold, wet air came into the room.

Minerva and Persephone moved closer to the door, trying to see past their mother at the dripping figure in the wilted fedora who stood in the doorway. "Are you Mrs. McGonagall?" a man's voice asked.

Minerva's eyes widened in shock as she whispered, "Billie?"

"Yes, I am. And who are you, young man, to be standing on my doorstep on a night like this?"

Billie took off his hat to reveal equally drenched hair and, reaching in to his coat pocket, thrust a drowned bouquet of flowers into the older woman's hands. Then he dropped to one knee. He began to speak as if reciting a memorized speech. "Mrs. McGonagall, I am William Peterson, of the New York Petersons. And I have come on bended knee to ask, no beg, your daughter to return home with me. I know I've been a louse of a husband. But I've changed my ways. I've given up the drinking, and the gambling, and the loose women. I've given up my shiftless ways, and if you'll only allow her to return to me, I swear I will be the best husband in the world to your daughter."

Minerva stared in shock as her mother sized up this soaking madman claiming to be her son-in-law. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

The matriarchal McGonagall assessed him with one, long stern gaze. "So. You're the husband, eh?"

"That I am, Ma'am."

"And you've given up your wicked ways, you say?"

Demeter came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron as she joined her sisters. "What's going on," she whispered.

"Shh..." Persephone said. "It's just getting interesting."

"You've given up the drinking, have you?" Adela asked.

"Not a drop. Tea-drinking Bill, that's what they call me."

"And the gambling?" Rain was beginning to get into the house, but Adela seemed in no hurry to move.

"No dice or cards for this boy, ever," he assured her.

"And the women?"

"I will never touch another loose woman as long as I live," he insisted, placing his hand over his heart for emphasis. "Swear on my own mother's heart."

She pursed her lips, turning back to look at Minerva. Her daughter, however, was caught between laughter and horror. With a wink, Adela returned her attention to Billie. "And, Mr. Peterson, have you also given up homosexuality?"

With the exception of Demeter's shocked gasp, you could have heard a pin drop in that room. Billie's jaw dropped, then his head, as he began to howl with laughter. "You know?"

"Yes, Mr. Peterson, I know."

"And you let me go through all of that?" He was shaking his head, slowly at first, then quickly like a wet animal.

"You didn't really give me a chance not to, did you?"

He let out a rueful half-laugh. "Guess I didn't, did I?"

Mrs. McGonagall pulled herself to her full, imposing height. "Now, young man, do you intend to stay there on my doorstep, letting in drafts while my New Year's supper burns, or shall you come in like a civilized person and warm yourself by the fire?"

Billie stood up, putting his hat back on his head. "With your permission, ma'am, I'd prefer the latter."

"Then hand me your coat and come inside, you silly boy." She took his coat, and he was inside in a moment. "Take off your hat, Bill. This isn't a pub." She pulled the hat from his head and, drying it with a quick swish of her wand, placed it next to his coat on the rack.

It was only then that he saw Minerva standing there. "Hi, Puss," he said softly. He looked horrible, tired and wet and muddier than any self-respecting drag queen would ever permit. "Don't you people believe in taxi cabs? Or paved roads?" he asked in a voice that seemed to Minerva to come from the heavens.

She couldn't speak for a moment. Then, with a cry of sheer joy, she ran into his arms. "Billie!"

He held her there, kissing her forehead, stroking her hair, as Adela hurried the other two daughters out of the room. When they were alone, he leaned down, lifted her chin and kissed her slowly on the lips.

Minerva's breath caught in her throat by the time he pulled away.

"You scared the hell out of me, puss," he whispered, drawing her back into his embrace. "You scared the hell out of me."

"I'm sorry," was all she could say.

***

"And then the stewardess said, 'We're going to Ireland, Mr. Peterson. Not Africa.'"

The McGonagall women laughed as they sat near the fire. Billie had managed to win over every female in the house, from the matriarch right down to Persephone's toddler, Brigid, who had climbed into Billie's lap and refused to be taken away until well after her bedtime. The nephews had wanted to know all about the new American Quidditch league forming, but when they learned Billie didn't follow Quidditch, they contented themselves with his description of his airplane flight across the Atlantic. They asked lots of technical questions about the engine, the wings, was it scary? Billie answered as best he could, covering the gaps with very funny fabrications.

It was only later, after the children were put to bed, that he shared the more ribald adventures of his crossing, including the famous Muggle actor who shared the flight from New York. He was returning to Ireland after doing a movie in Los Angeles, and had given Billie his number to look him up, "should he make it to Dublin before returning to America." Demeter had been scandalized, Persephone laughed so hard tears streamed down her face, and Minerva and Adela just listened happily.

"Well, the portkeys were all booked up," Billie was explaining to Demeter. "And I found an opening on a red-eye from Idlewilde and packed my bags. Okay, I packed an overnight bag, and figured I'd deal with the other things later." He gazed over at Minerva, who was watching lazily from the sofa, firelight dancing on her hair. "Minerva and I haven't missed a New Year's together since 1948, and I wasn't going to let this be the first."

"Well, you're about to have your wish," Sephie said. "It's just round midnight."

Billie reached out and kissed her hand.

"Whatever did you do that for?" Sephie actually blushed.

"You just have the cutest accent," Billie said with a wink. "You all do. I feel like I'm at a casting call for The Quiet Man." He shrugged as the four women groaned simultaneously. "What?" he asked as Sephie reached to get the pillow Minerva offered and smacked him playfully on the head.

"Almost midnight," Demeter whispered, looking at the clock. "Fifteen seconds."

Together, they began counting down, until the clock struck and 1952 arrived. There were hugs all around, the warmest and most enduring between Billie and Minerva.

"Well, that's all then," Adela said. "Time for bed."

Billie pulled back, casting an astonished look at Mrs. McGonagall. "So soon?"

Demeter stretched, a yawn widening her features. "Well, I've got Mass in the morning," she said. "And those children won't wake up themselves." She leaned forward and, to Minerva's astonishment, gave Billie a chaste peck on the cheek. "It's been good meeting you, brother-in-law. Will you and Minerva have lunch at my home tomorrow? I'd like you to meet Drew, and maybe we can show you the town."

"Uh, that sounds," he faltered as Minerva shook her head desperately from behind her sister. "Just swell, Demmie, but Minnie-cat and I have a lot to discuss tomorrow. Perhaps another day? My return ticket isn't until Monday."

Demeter looked actually disappointed. "Oh, well then. Perhaps."

Sephie pulled Billie into a huge bear hug. "Don't fret, Demmie. He's official now. Even if Minerva is fool enough to let him go, we aren't, are we?" She kissed his cheek. "You're a McGonagall now, Billie Boy, and those are ties you can never break." With a pat on Minerva's head, she said, "And if I'm not up in bed in two minutes, I'll fall asleep standing here. Brigid had me up at four, and she'll have me up again in four hours, I'm sure of it."

The two sisters left, heading up the stairs to the bedrooms that had been theirs growing up. Adela looked from Minerva to Billie. "You'll sleep in Hestia's room, tonight, Billie," she said.

"Mother," Minerva began to argue.

"Now, children, this is my house. And I think it only right that you, Minerva, sleep in your own room and Mr. Peterson sleep in Hestia's room."

"I assure you, Mrs. McGonagall, that your daughter is safe as a kitten in my bed."

But some archaic sense of morality had struck the elder McGonagall and, in the end, the in-name-only husband and wife embraced at the top of the stairs and retired to their separate rooms.

An hour later, though, Billie felt a brush of soft fur against his cheek. He woke up to see a strikingly lovely gray tabby on the pillow next to him, rubbing her cheek against his. "Hey, puss," he murmured, rolling over to stroke the cat's back and tail. She purred loudly, reaching a single paw out to touch his face. "You're a sweetie," he said as the cat curled up next to him.

He was stroking her waist when the tabby transfigured into the shape of his wife. His hand stopped stock still on her hip as she grinned at his stunned face. "Petting is good, husband of mine," she said, the purr still echoing in her words.

Billie let out the breath he'd been holding, and then began to laugh. "You did it," he said in amazement. "You finally broke the animagus code."

Minerva put a hand against his lips. "Shhhh. Mother's a very light sleeper." She wrapped herself in his arms and laid her head against his shoulders. They'd slept like this countless times, an intimate position that never led to anything more than sweet comforting togetherness. "I'm so glad you're here," she whispered into his hair.

He stroked her back, rocking gently as they lay there together. "I had to be here," he said. "It's New Years."

"How did you afford it?" she said. They were whispering furtively, as if they were actually doing something that, if caught, would have scandalized the entire town.

"Roger loaned me some money, and the girls at the Familiar all chipped in." His hand cupped the small of her back, so gently she almost didn't notice it. "They're all worried about you, Puss. Everybody wants you to come home." He pressed his nose to her hair. "You smell good," he added.

She giggled. "You fly in an airplane all the way across the Atlantic, and all you have to say for yourself is 'you smell good?'" Her laughter faded when his expected snappy comeback didn't come. She looked into his eyes, and what she saw there was a sad, serious man. "Bill? Billie?" She brushed his cheek with the back of her fingers. "Baby?"

When he spoke, it was with the voice of a much older man. "I meant what I said, kitten. I want you back. I'll be the best husband in the world." His hands were stroking her back now, fingers playing in the satin that caressed her skin. He leaned forward and slowly kissed her neck and shoulder. With his lips, he pushed the delicate strap over her shoulder and bit gently on the smooth flesh of her bare shoulder.

"Billie...." She pushed him away, a worried look on her face. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Seducing you," he responded, trying to pull her back into his arms. "Or at least, trying to seduce you."

She sat up, turning on the light. "Why on earth are you doing that?"

He sat up next to her, frustrated. "Because if I am a real husband to you, you'll come back."

"Billie, you've never wanted a woman in your whole life. How can you possibly..."

He silenced her with a hard kiss, tongue thrusting into her mouth, hands reaching up for her breasts with lightning speed. She struggled against him, pushing him hard and moving as far as she could to the other side of the bed. "Puss, listen..." he began.

"No, you listen," she hissed. "I don't know what you're up to, Billie, but this is insane. How can you possibly think seducing me will make anything better?"

He stared at her, a defeated expression on his face. "I love you, Minerva. I had no idea how much until you went missing on me for so long. Gods, baby," he reached out plaintively for a hug, which she cautiously granted him with a "no funny stuff" warning on her face. Once there, they both relaxed into the embrace. "I never want to feel that way again," he murmured into her shoulders. "G's and G's, puss, I have never been so scared in my life. To think that I might never see you again, to think that the last conversation we had before you disappeared was a fight," he groaned, hugging her tighter. "I want to take you back to New York and never let you out of my sight. And if it means making love to you, being a real husband to you, I'll gladly do it." He looked into her eyes, pure sincerity shining from his own. "I'll make the sweetest love to you imaginable, if only you'll come home and be my Min."

She almost cried from his honesty. But they both knew it was a promise he couldn't and shouldn't keep. She leaned forward, pressing her lips and her body against his, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as the kiss deepened, stroking her fingers through his hair and pouring every ounce of love and passion she could into that one moment. When they finally broke, she gazed seriously into his eyes. "Do you know what I felt when I kissed you, sweet boy?"

He shook his head no, a dazed look on his face.

"I felt friendship. Deep and true love, as one feels for a brother, or a best friend." She leaned her head to the right, still gazing at him with that tender, serious expression. "I did not feel passion. I did not feel desire. And I did not feel..." she hesitated, looking for the right word. "Fire."

He nodded in understanding.

"Billie, my darling puppy, if you can look into my eyes and tell me, honestly, that you felt even the slightest stirrings of passion for me when I kissed you, I will pack my bags and get on that godforsaken airplane with you tomorrow, if that's what you want." There was a long silence as Billie tried, and failed, to meet that one condition. She smiled, stroking his cheek. "That, my love, is why seducing me won't make it any better."

He sighed, resigned to her logic, but still unhappy as he lay back down on his side. Minerva curled up next to him, wrapping her arms around his chest from behind. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I want this," came the soft response.

She thought she hadn't heard him correctly. "What?"

Billie rolled around until he was facing her, their eyes locked and him still wrapped in her arms. "I want this," he repeated, gesturing with a series of head movements to the building around them. "I want this. This rainy New Years at home, this long talks into the wee hours, this knowing each other's old jokes and still laughing at them because they're still so insanely funny. I want little kids calling me Uncle Billie, I want your mom worrying because I stay up too late. I want this!" His voice raised slightly, and Minerva quieted him with a "shhh" and a soft stroke of his cheek. "You don't know how lucky you are, puss. Even at their best, my family never loved each other like yours does. You women may fight like crazed Chihuahuas on mary jane, but you definitely love each other."

Minerva laughed in spite of herself, her entire body shaking against his. "You're the strangest person I've ever met," she said.

"Which is why you are going to stay married to me and come back to New York," he asked hopefully.

"Which is why, even after we sign the divorce papers, you will always be my darling boy." She soothed him with a soft, cooing sound. "And you don't really think Brigid will let me send Uncle Billie away for good, do you?"

"No," he said solemnly. "She'll scream like a girl if you try."

"So will you, I have no doubt," Minerva added. Both of them started to giggle, then to laugh. When the laughter ended, the good feelings continued. "You are now, and will always be, Uncle Billie. No matter where you live or where I live."

He nodded, somewhat pacified. "Can I at least stay here until Monday," he asked.

"Of course you can stay here till Monday, you nut."

He leaned on her shoulder, another heavy sigh escaping.

"What?" she asked.

"Now I have to find another fucking roommate," he complained.

"Go to sleep, Uncle Billie," she said, turning out the light. To hell with Mother, she thought. He's mine until the divorce papers are signed, and I'll sleep with him if I choose.

***

Minerva's Chambers, 1970

Minerva had risen, taking a moment to rest her voice as she cleared the dishes from the table. Deanna sat on the couch, fiddling with the wine bottle, trying to digest the things she'd been told. In all the time since Minerva had returned to Hogwarts, she'd given no indication that her life outside the walls of the school had been anything less than blandly successful. Upon reflection, Hooch realized she'd believed exactly what Minerva had wanted her and everyone else at Hogwarts to believe.

The years since school had been no picnic for Deanna Hooch. Her husband had been one dark piece of work, and had damned near dragged her down with him before fate had intervened. She still felt the scars of those days, on nights when the wind howled a little too loudly, when the moon cowered behind the clouds waiting for dawn.

So much of her hatred of Minerva had been fueled by that rage, that absolute disgust that, while she rotted here a prisoner of madmen on the outside who would have her dead, Minerva had traveled the globe, living the high life.

And now that she knew the truth, that the high life had been so very empty, that Minerva had gone through her own prison of sorts, Deanna struggled to place her feelings. All of her carefully-reached rock hard judgments were beginning to crumble around her, leaving her very confused.

Minerva was finishing the dishes at just about the time Deanna decided she was in no rush to figure out how she felt. She watched her, tall and proud and guarded, even here in her own quarters, and wondered how she'd ever thought she'd known this woman at all. Practical Minerva. Sensible Minerva. Steady Minerva.

She glided amidst the dying forest of candles, still wearing her age well, although fifty was beginning to push at the creases and gain ground in the slight wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, in the strands of silver gray mingled with deep auburn, almost black tresses. The gown she wore was tight in places it might have once fit loosely, and her body was growing soft in places it had once been tight.

Yet for all the ravages of time, the insulting droops and sags no exercise or vigorous living could prevent, Minerva was still a lovely woman. How much pain could have been saved them both, how different would both their lives have been, had only one of them been able to cut through their pride all those years ago? What would they have become, had they not let mistrust and misunderstanding tear them apart?

"Penny for your thoughts," Minerva said. She'd crossed the room to stand next to Deanna, a warm glow in her eyes as she absently brushed the tops of Hooch's spiked hair.

"You were going to tell me about life in Glocca Mora," she joked.

Minerva laughed. "Billie loved that song, and he refused to call Quin anything but Glocca Mora. Pretty soon I started calling it that myself." She took the hand Deanna offered, lifting it to her lips before collapsing next to her on the couch. "But you must be exhausted. I've been talking forever."

"Not tired at all," Deanna said honestly. "Where were we? Billie, having failed miserably in his attempt to cure homosexuality, contented himself to being Uncle Billie."

"He and I corresponded almost weekly once he went back to the States. In three days, he managed to insinuate himself completely into my family, and Uncle Billie was a favorite of all the McGonaguppies."

Deanna choked. "Excuse me?"

"That was Bill's word for the nieces and nephews, and they adored him." She shook her head in remembrance. "I never would have made it through those few years in Ireland without Billie's letters."

***

Letters across the Atlantic, 1952 - 1953

1952

Mr. Billie Peterson

Apt. 17B, Amsterdam Posh Estates

Greenwich Village, New York, NY

January 4, 1952

Greetings, from Glocca Mora. Well, you monster, you have completely subverted my family. I am no longer Minerva, but Uncle Billie's wife! Brigid cried for almost an hour after you left, and Colleen has spoken of nothing but the Playbills you've promised her. (If you don't come through, buddy, she will never forgive you. She's got the Broadway bug, and you've just fed the fever.)

The sisters have pronounced you perfectly wonderful. Even Demeter can understand why I married a homosexual, having spent several days being charmed by you. I'm not sure if you should be proud or scared. Of course, she went out of her way to insist that she still does not approve of "that type," but you are apparently have risen above the ranks of the average pervert. Persephone and John have already said they would do anything to help you set up if you ever decide to move to Ireland, and believe me, they mean it. Not that anybody would willingly leave New York City for this place, as I can attest.

Mother adored you, although I'm sure you wouldn't hear it from her. I used to wonder where the Hera was in our family, and now I know it's Mum. Dad was no Zeus; but trust me, she is the queen of our little pantheon. And you have the royal approval, babycakes, so rest easily.

Now, don't be a bum and ignore the number I gave you before you left. Peter may have been a lousy lover, but he is a phenomenal broker. If he weren't, I'd be looking for a job right now, rather than living off my stocks. Take a little of those tips you'd normally spend on wigs and put them into some sound investments. Trust me, baby brother, it's worth it to have a little nest egg when the weather gets rough.

Now, I must be off. I've promised to take the children off to the faerie village of Thistlebright. I should have taken you while you were here, but there just wasn't enough time. Maybe next visit?

Stay safe, my beautiful boy, and write often.

Puss

Miss Minerva McGonagall

Quin Village, County Clare

Ireland

January 11, 1952

Pussycat! I'm thrilled to know that I have the royal approval. I always knew I was too precious to be common, and having a gaggle of Irish goddesses swoon over me just thrills me no end. Demmie has no idea of my level of perversion, although I admit it's not nearly as high as I'd like.

You will note on the enclosed divorce papers I have written "Under Protest" in large letters next to my signature. Take the hint, wifey, and don't sign!

Tell Bonnie Colleen I have already snared the coveted King and I Playbill for her, complete with Yul's John Hancock. Still singing "Getting to Know You," even though I've never seen it! Roger's boyfriend works for a ticket broker and pulled a few strings. I'll try to get a Pal Joey from Lenny, the adorable chorus boy I dated last year. He was in it, and may still have a copy.

Now, as to your broker friend. He's got me, can you imagine, budgeting? I may die, and before you say a word, wigs are important! But I'm a grown-up, and I will bite the bullet and take your advice. If it doesn't pan out, you'll have to support me in my old age, but at least you won't be able to say, "I told you so," you nag. (G&Gs, I sound like a hen-pecked husband. Say you'll stay married and come back? No? Well, I tried.)

Working on an Ethel Merman for the new show. She's a little butch, even for me, but she's hot and hot's what I do. I'll have Roger take pictures and we'll get them blown up for Demmie's wall! Would she just swoon?

Okay, wifey, I have to run. Keep up the letters. It's almost like having you here with me. Who am I kidding? It's nothing like having you here with me. I miss the heck out of you, puss. Love to the goddesses and the McGonaguppies.

Billie

***

Mr. Billie Peterson

Westminster Green

Greenwich Village, New York, NY

November 19, 1952

Billie, my darling, thank you so much for the kind letter and flowers. It meant so much to my sisters and me to hear from you. I understand you couldn't be here for the funeral, so stop fretting, love. Mother would have been horrified at the thought of you feeling guilty for not being here. She would have told you to stop being a silly man and to save your energy for something worthwhile.

Her death came as a shock to all of us. Not a sick day. Not even a cough. She just went to sleep and didn't wake up. She was smiling, the most beautiful smile you can imagine. Sophie thinks she was just waiting to join Daddy, and now that I'm back in the fold, she could go to him with a peaceful heart. Demeter scolded her for being sentimental, but I don't know. Mum was a lot of things, but she was never one to leave a job undone. She simply wouldn't have allowed herself to be taken if she thought there was still work to be done.

The older goddesses arrived immediately, and it was a regular reunion. I swear, Billie, I had no idea how many people knew and loved my mum. Dumbledore attended, as did Lady Fitzpatrick and Sir Andrew Pince-Hamilton, my supervisor back in Italy. Both took a moment after the service to speak to me privately, assuring me they would put a good word in for me should I choose to return to the Ministry when I was healthier. It's nice to know they would go out on a limb for me, especially after how I acted in the last few months. You may not know that I missed quite a bit of work while with Michael; even before you found out I had taken a personal leave. If Lady Fitz knew the real cause of my "illness," she didn't let on, and I'm grateful for that. The last thing any of us needed at that moment was more drama.

Speaking of which, Demeter has already begun her campaign to acquire the family home. She claims, and rightly so, in my humble opinion, that it's wrong for her family to be crowded in that tiny house in Ennis while Sophie and I rattle about the big house. But Mum was very specific in her will. Any unmarried daughter would have the house for as long as she chose to live there. If and only if the unmarried daughter or daughters decided to leave, then it would be put to a vote among all the daughters. So Demmie has begun a lobbying campaign like you've never believe. To hear her talk, she's rescuing us from a true death trap, sacrificing her safety and that of her entire family solely on our behalf. I suppose it wouldn't be too much to trade houses with her, but Sophie refuses, and I am very reluctant to leave after only just returning.

Well, as all things do, this drama will work itself out one way or another. Take care, and enjoy the records. Mum saved them for years after Dad died, and I know she changed her will only after finding out about your sick Irish ballad fetish. Hug yourself tightly, and know that you are in the hearts of many McGonagalls tonight, especially

Your Loving Min

Miss Minerva McGonagall

Quin Village, County Clare

Ireland

December 3, 1952

Forgive the lateness of this letter, my precious puss, but I have the most splendid news--I won a pageant! Okay, first alternate, but should the winner fail to uphold her duties, Miss Betty Bottom will assume the title of Miss Gay Wizard's Cove 1953! Jon and Patrick signed me up without telling, and everybody chipped in for the entry fee. I swear, Miss America can just go home, because I am on top of the world.

Okay, the records. Your mum must be smiling from the other side, because I have been just playing them over and over. Nobody does sad songs like the Irish, and I'm a sucker for a good cry. Listening to them makes me feel closer to you and to her, and reminds me that somewhere in this big world, there are people who love me.

Oh, I got a Roz Russell for Sweet Colleen. She was filming a picture in Manhattan, and I managed to snag an autograph during a break. I tried to get her to personalize it, but there were a gaggle of Muggles fighting me to get through. She's a doll, though--prettier than she looks in the pictures. I told her it was going to Ireland, and she seemed excited. She said, and I quote, "Tell the young lady I said hello from America!" I'm in love, although I'd drop her in a second for you, pussycat!

Peter the Fink is being a regular slave driver with my funds. He won't let me sell any stock for dresses. He thinks it's an "unnecessary expenditure." Can you believe that man? But you have faith in him, and I trust you. Of course, if he invests me into poverty, it's on your head, wench.

Now tell Sister Mary Housesnatcher to just back off. You and Sophie have every right to that house, and there's no need to start with the guilt. Hold your ground, wifey.

I promise to be a good boy and write back sooner, if you'll let me. Hugs to the guppies from Uncle Billie, and a big Billie Hug to you.

Billie

Mr. Billie Peterson

Westminster Green

Greenwich Village, New York, NY

December 9, 1952

My dear Miss America,

I can't believe it! We have an actual celebrity in the family. Mother would be so proud. I told Persephone, who is thrilled for you, but given what I'm about to tell you in the next paragraph, I decided not to share the good news with Demeter.

The drama of the house has become much more complicated. Drew, Demeter's husband of almost fifteen years, has filed for divorce. He is staying through the holidays for the children, but he intends to be moved out, lock stock and barrel, by the end of January. Of course we're all shocked by this, and feel terribly for Demeter.

Last week Sophie and Demmie got into a huge fight, and Sophie suggested that, with one less person in the house, Demeter and her kids wouldn't need to move into Mum's place. It was unnecessarily bitchy, even for Sophie, but Demmie has been just unbearable lately. Ever since the news got out about the breakup, she's been very anti-men and anti-marriage. She'd made several snide remarks about a boy Sophie brought home for dinner last Sunday, and they got into it. She even said something about you, about how even Minerva couldn't find a nice man who wasn't a pervert. While I waffled over whether I should smack her or just describe in lurid detail the kind of scum I actually used to associate with, the goddesses swooped down en masse and defended your honor.

Personally, Ennis or Quin Village, it doesn't matter to me. Reality is starting to rear its ugly head, puppy, and your girl is fighting boredom with ever fiber of her being. And with Demmie on her rampages, this place is getting smaller and more claustrophobic by the moment.

But persevere I shall, or my name isn't Kitten McGillicuddy, or whatever that drag name was you gave me years back. Don't open the package until Christmas, precious. It's just little gifties from all the folks, but if you open it now, you won't have any McGonagoodies for the holiday.

Take care, and keep the letters coming. You're keeping me sane. And listen to Peter, you cad. He has your best interest in mind, and if you let him, he can make you a lot of money.

Minerva

Miss Minerva McGonagall

Quin Village, County Clare

Ireland

December 17, 1952

First of all, don't let what Demmie said about me bother you, precious. I've been called everything from fag to freak to pervert, and I just don't let it bother me anymore. I've been where Demeter is right now--okay, I haven't ever been divorced after a fifteen-year marriage, with six kids and a terrifying future staring me in the face. But I've hated men, which we both know is sooooo easy to do. I sent her a little gifty from Saks--don't get mad. It wasn't expensive, and nothing cheers me up more than scenty stuff for the tub.

Not to beat a dead horse, but if home is getting claustrophobic, you could always move back to New York with me. I've pushed out the most recent fry-cook bastard, and there is a bedroom waiting for you.

My mother is sending you a strudel. Here's a hint--don't eat it. She spells those fuckers. I'm telling you--one bite, and you become a dumpy, middle-aged pudgeball. I know--I ate three of them last month, and I'm as big as a cow.

But you still love me, right? Even if I'm shallow and fat?

Kisses,

Pudge

***

1953

Miss Minerva McGonagall

Ennis, County Clare

Ireland

June 10, 1953

Puss,

Congratulations on your move up to the big metropolis. I knew it was just a matter of time before you talked Sophie into the trade, and I'm sure you'll be much happier in the vicinity of those little extravagances, like paved roads and restaurants. It's not the Great White Way, but at least you aren't out there in the country with just your nightly prowls to amuse you. And you might even find a nice gentleman friend to shake you out of your self-imposed isolation, hint hint hint.

But, kitten, the Owlery? You took a job in the Owlery? I know damned well you are not strapped for cash--I've taken to watching both the Muggle and the Wizard stock exchanges, and you are rolling in it. What on earth would possess you to take such a boring job? You'll barely use any of your brain, pussycat, and what you do use will be bored into a coma after the first owl.

Now, listen to Uncle Billie, wifey mine, and get a real job. Something that will engage that brilliant mind of yours. If you can lecture me about money, I can lecture you about this. I know you well enough to know that you will shrivel up and die if you don't find a way to stay challenged. And you're not going to find that in the fucking Owlery!

Horrified, but still loving you,

Billie

Mr. Billie Peterson

Westminster Green

Greenwich Village, New York, NY

June 17, 1953

Billie, you cad!

How dare you send Colleen that record? Persephone is going mad with her middle daughter playing it over and over on the phonograph, and she's blaming me. Not you, mind you, but me! Sephie finally put her foot down and forbid Colleen to turn on the phonograph. Do you know what your Broadway Baby did? Sat down at the piano and started picking out "Getting to Know You" with one hand! Seph will go starkers before Colleen is off to Hogwarts this fall, and you are to blame.

Now, as for your rude comments regarding my choice of gainful employment, there is nothing wrong with working for the Owlery. I find it quite fascinating, working with the birds. Actually, it's sort of ironic, considering how much time I spend in cat form. Sometimes I don't know whether to feed them or pounce on them. But it beats staying home, and gives me a reason to get up in the morning.

I am going to ignore your comments about my social life completely, Mr. Peterson, as I believe it's hardly appropriate of an ex-husband to try to force his ex-wife to date when she is not even slightly interested in doing so.

Still, I adore you, and still you are my charming Billie.

Minerva, the Owl-Wrangler

Miss Minerva McGonagall

Ennis, County Clare

Ireland

June 28, 1953

You wretched liar, you. How can you possibly have held out on me like this? I happen to have heard from a very reliable source that you were seen going to the movies with one Mr. Connor Dougherty just this weekend, after you distinctly told me you were not seeing anyone.

Are we building our happy divorce on dishonesty, Minerva? For shame. Now spill it, tart, or I'll hop a portkey to Ireland and tickle it out of you.

Fuming,

Your Poor Misused Ex-Husband

Mr. Billie Peterson

Westminster Green

Greenwich Village, New York, NY

July 1, 1953

Misused, my ass! I have given Persephone a good scolding for ratting me out in her letters, and I will thank you to not pump my sisters for idle gossip about my personal life, or lack thereof.

To give you the actual story, I was taking three of the guppies to the cinema on the day in question, when I ran into Mr. Dougherty, a frequent customer at the Owlery. He owns a bookshop in Thistlebright, and sends out quite a few packages each week. He and I have talked frequently, and I have visited his shop on several occasions. It just so happened that he was watching the same picture that I took the kids to see, and we walked out together. That's all, you gossip.

Colleen has been begging for a trip to New York, before school starts. Persephone has refused, but I'm working on her. Maybe a few days in the city will get it out of her system, and she'll be able to concentrate on her schoolwork instead of the lyrics to Show Boat.

Now give yourself a big kiss, you rotten gossip, and write back soon.

Puss

Miss Minerva McGonagall

Ennis, County Clare

Ireland

July 4, 1953

Colleen is most welcome to stay with Uncle Billie when you finally convince her overprotective mother to send her out here. I'm watching the fireworks over Battery Park, wishing the hell you were here. I am drunk and lonely and furious with you for going away. But it's okay, because Uncle Billie is loved and that's all that matters.

Tell me about Mr. Dreamboat Dougherty. I know you're holding back. I will keep bugging you until you do. You know I will....

Billie

Mr. Billie Peterson

Westminster Green

Greenwich Village, New York, NY

September 3, 1953

Alright, alright, alright already! Enough. I can't believe you--you've talked about nothing but Connor in your letters since July 4^th. I'd swear you were seeing him, instead of me.

Yes. It's true; Connor and I had a date. We went to dinner out and saw a picture together. Are you satisfied? You've beaten it out of me. Great Gs and Gs, man, you are SUCH a mother hen.

To answer your (insufferable) questions, Connor is in his early 40s, from a Wizarding family on the western coast. He has lovely green eyes and brown wavy hair. He's masculine, but not brutish; handsome, but not pretty. He's intelligent, but not stuffy. Humorous, but not obnoxious. He's gentle, but not weak. His hands are strong and sure, and he tells the most wonderful stories.

I must admit, I found myself going to his bookshop more and more often, spending ridiculous amounts of money on books I didn't need and never intended to read, just to have a chance to talk to him. Can you imagine me, chasing a man? Finally, he refused to sell me a copy of One Woman's Vision, The Life and Times of Rowena Ravenclaw, because I'd already purchased it from him...twice! He asked me out to dinner instead. It was funny and embarrassing all at once.

The date was wonderful. We saw a showing of All About Eve (yes, I know, we're behind the times), and discussed it for hours afterward. He kissed me on the cheek and held my hand, apparently content to move slowly. Considering my last experience with a man, about which he knows nothing, I appreciate his patience.

It scares me, puppy. What I had in New York, that was one thing. But this, this "normal" dating is terrifying. There's no list of rules to guide me, and no tricks or gimmicks to fall back on. Do you realize that, until Connor, I'd never been on a real date before? I don't count my married men. That was altogether different. But honest to goodness dating? This I do not understand.

My feet are slipping, Billie, and that scares me. I don't want to fall back on my old habits, and the more nervous I get, the more they start to call to me. It's like a drug that's got me addicted, precious. I've never been with a truly nice man before. Connor kisses me gently, and I want him to bite. He holds my hand, and I imagine myself caught in an unbreakable grasp.

Am I sick, Billie darling? Have I destroyed myself, ruined any chance of a normal romance? Conner is exactly what I want in a man, but I don't know if I'm even capable of being happy.

Perplexed,

Your Min

Miss Minerva McGonagall

Ennis, County Clare

Ireland

September 11, 1953

Miss McGonagall, he sounds dreamy, but not horrible; fabulous, but not awful! Oh, darling girl, he sounds perfect for you. A bookseller? My brainy wife, he will keep you in thoughts till you're both old and gray.

Now, as for your "problem." Sister mine, you are not ruined, and you are not sick. You're just inexperienced in this type of relationship, and your mind is grasping for what is familiar. It's like being a teenager again, trying to get the feel of things as you make your way through the maze of romance. Don't be so hard on yourself, and everything will be okay.

I am anxiously awaiting every detail of every date, so don't keep my voyeuristic heart waiting for your next letter. All my love to the McGonaguppies and the goddesses!

Billie

Miss Minerva McGonagall

Ennis, County Clare

Ireland

September 27, 1953

Over two weeks and no response? What gives, precious? Write me.

Billie

Miss Minerva McGonagall

Ennis, County Clare

Ireland

October 9, 1953

Getting worried. Sephie and Demeter don't respond either. What's wrong? Somebody please tell Uncle Billie what's going on!

Billie

Miss Minerva McGonagall

Ennis, County Clare

Ireland

October 18, 1953

Okay, that is the third letter you've ignored, Minerva, and I'm two steps from hopping the next portkey to Ireland to find out what's wrong. If I said or did something wrong, at least have the decency to tell me what it was. I'm scared out of my wits, baby, thinking about the last letter you wrote and the last time you went this long without contacting me. Begging on bended knee--write back!

Billie

Mr. Billie Peterson

Westminster Green

Greenwich Village, New York, NY

October 23, 1953

Oh, Billie, I'm so sorry for worrying you. I've been turned in on myself for a long time, and I just couldn't bear to talk yet. I asked the goddesses not to write you, because there are things I need to tell you that they know nothing about.

I tried to make love to Conner, Bill. I'm afraid I wasn't completely honest in my last letter. I've been seeing Conner for much longer than I let on, and I know he was interested, but waiting. Finally, just after I sent the last letter, I broached the subject of sex with him.

Puppy, he thought I was a virgin. He had heard about my ex-husband being gay and thought I'd naively married you, not knowing what you were. I explained to him that, while you and I had never consummated the marriage, I was indeed experienced. He didn't judge me, baby, not even when I told him I'd been with married men. (Of course, I didn't go into detail...I couldn't bear to.)

We decided to meet in a nearby town where we could have at least a bit of anonymity. I planned it out to the moment, Billie, including privacy spells and champagne. I wanted it to be romantic and sweet, my first real time, if that makes any sense at all. He was charming and patient, letting it be a date instead of a scheduled fuck, if you know what I mean.

Billie, he's beautiful, just plan gorgeous. You'd be moved to tears if you saw him in his shirttails, strong and clean and fabulous, with a keen mind to match the body and face. The kind of man you want to make babies with, lots of beautiful, smart babies with eyes just like his.

But when the time came, puppy, I couldn't do it. I got cold. Not that icy cold I told you about, that slamming down wall of ice in my tummy I used to feel with the husbands. I felt empty. He was touching me with those goddamn gorgeous hands, and I felt nothing at all. I was screaming inside, pounding myself, "love him, love him, love him, you idiot," but nothing happened. I felt absolutely nothing, no passion, no fire, no nothing. I didn't even feel the physical slight pleasure I'd managed with the husbands. Nothing.

Billie, I couldn't go through with it. I stopped him at the worst possible moment, which only made me feel like more scum. He was disappointed, but remarkably understanding. I came home alone, not letting him bring me even though he tried to insist.

I've built a wall around myself. I can go so far, allow myself just so much, before that wall slams down. Until we tried to make love, all Conner had to do was smile and I went all gooey inside. But when the time came to act on it, I became hollow. There's nothing inside of me, anymore. Whatever quality exists inside to allow a woman to love a man, I've killed it. I will never be able to love again.

I've spent the last few weeks in the darkest pit, my love. The goddesses think I'm depressed because I broke it off with Conner, but that's not it at all. I dream of Michael every night, of the horrible things he used to do to me, and that's all I crave. I dream of pain and humiliation, and it frees me on a level that frightens and arouses at the same time.

I try to remember a time when I could love without someone hurting me, and I can't find it. My feet are slipping, baby brother, my feet are just slipping every time I stand. I'm lucky, I suppose, not to have an outlet for this sickness. But in my mind, I am crawling in the pit, and I don't know if I'll ever get out of it.

Forgive me, please, for worrying you. I never mean to hurt you, but it seems that's all I'm capable of doing. I adore you, ex-husband of mine.

Minerva

Urgent Owl

Miss Minerva McGonagall

Ennis, County Clare

Ireland

October 26, 1953

Minerva,

In this envelope you will find a ticket to New York City, for travel on October 29, 1953. You will not, under any circumstances, refuse this ticket. I will meet you upon arrival in New York. Don't force me to come out there to get you.

Bill

***

New York City, Halloween, 1953

In all the years she'd been frequenting the Frisky Familiar, Minerva had never come unaccompanied before. She sat at her table, unwilling to risk anything stronger than a butterbeer as she waited for Betty's show to start.

Her feet ached from the daylong sightseeing march Billie had dragged her on, making pilgrimage to all their old haunts, both Muggle and Wizard. She knew he was trying to cheer her up, and part of her--not her feet--appreciated it. But to be here at the Familiar again, after everything that had happened, make her shaky.

"Feet on ground," she whispered. "Steady. Don't slip. Feet on ground." It was a chant she whispered to herself as she watched the costumed wizards and witches partying around her. She looked down at her hands; nails buffed and polished to accentuate the glittery costume jewelry Billie had insisted she wear. She still cursed herself three kinds the fool for letting him talk her into this impossible dress. It fit like a glove and showed way too much cleavage and shoulder for her current state of uncertainty. The last thing she wanted to be was overt, yet Billie had brooked no argument as she was primped and powdered and glitzed like a faerie drag queen.

"And here is one of my favorite people," she overheard Roger saying as he led a young Pilgrim woman through the crowd of bodies directly to her table. Leaning over to kiss her cheek, the club's owner turned to the Pilgrim, whose arm was firmly held in his. "Minerva, pussycat, I'd like to introduce you to one of my newest favorite people, Miss Abigail Hogan from the fair state of," He paused for a moment, thinking. "Idaho, right?"

Abigail laughed, an amazingly gentle sound that still carried amidst the noise of the club. "Guilty as charged." She held out a slender hand to Minerva. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Pussycat," she said with a wink.

"Actually, it's McGonagall." She shook the woman's hand, amazed at how she could be so casually polite with a stranger, when on the inside she wanted nothing more than to crawl into a corner and hide. Nobody ever seemed to notice that, did they? How people could be one thing on the outside and something so very different on the inside.

"But everybody here just calls her The Girl Who Got Away."

Minerva blushed scarlet. "That was Billie's idea, you rotter, and you know it." She turned to Abigail, somehow compelled to explain. "Billie the Cad didn't even tell me it was a costume party, and when we got here, he proceeded to tell anyone who would listen that this was my costume!"

"It's a beautiful dress," Abigail offered in a conciliatory voice.

Roger's gaze darted back to the door. "Puss, darling, would you be willing to share your table with this lovely lady? It's getting too, too crowded, and she is one of my favorite new people."

"And who better to seat her with than one of your favorite old people?" Minerva winked and offered a chair to the bewildered young lady. "Be careful of this cad, Abigail. He'll toy with your affections, then break your heart for the first pretty face who catches his eyes."

Roger feigned horror, his hand over his chest. "Rumors, all rumors. Now, don't you listen to a word she says, Abby, precious. She's just bitter because she wasn't my first." He silenced Minerva's protest with a peck on the lips and a pat on the head. "I'm off."

A momentary silence hung over the table as Hurricane Roger breezed to the main entrance to greet a group of costumers just arriving. Abigail just stared at the place he'd stood for a moment. "Is he always so...?"

'Gay?" Minerva took a sip of her butterbeer. "Absolutely."

"Well, thank you anyway for letting me sit with you. My friends stood me up at the last minute. I thought I was gonna have to sit at the bar."

"Heaven forbid."

Abigail smiled, revealing, gods and goddesses, actual dimples. Did people still have dimples? Apparently, in Idaho, they did.

"Well, at least let me buy you a drink for sharing your table." When Minerva began to decline, she insisted, "It's the least I can do. What are you drinking?"

"Butterbeer."

The look on Abigail's face sent Minerva into a fit of laughter. "I'm sorry." The young woman averted her eyes, trying not to laugh as well. "It's just, I have never been able to stomach butterbeer. Too sweet, and well, I figure, if you're going to consume that many calories, you might as well get a buzz off it."

"You're not old enough for a buzz, young lady."

"I'll be twenty-seven in February," Abigail protested, blushing furiously. She turned to the waiter, who'd seemed to appear out of nowhere. "Really," she said.

"I believe you," the young man said. "Your order?"

Abigail hesitated, then turned a defiant smile at Minerva. "Butterbeer," she said. The waiter began to write it down, but she stopped him with a quick wave of her hand and a grimace. "No, no, make it a white wine."

Minerva chuckled into her glass as the waiter scratched out the order with a tired expression. When he left, Minerva swallowed quickly and said, "Just a baby."

Abigail met her gaze with a flash of...something...in her eyes. "I'm old enough," she said.

It was Minerva's turn to avert her eyes. She contemplated her butterbeer, enormously glad that the lights dimmed and the music started before she had to think of a response to that.

***

The biting air felt good on her skin. She knew she should have a wrap, but she was just out for a breath of air. No need to fight the coat check for that. She pulled her wand from her clutch, though, and created a pocket of warmth for herself in the alley behind the Familiar. She stood under the fire escape, holding on to the bottom rung of the ladder as she stretched her stiff neck.

"Hey, there," a voice said from behind her. She whirled to see her Pilgrim companion holding a lit cigarette in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. "You missed the toast."

"Roger would toast the rising sun if he had enough people around to clink glasses," she said, suddenly chilled again. She stepped around to lean against the ladder as if placing some sort of barrier between her and this new entity that invaded her seclusion.

Abigail walked to her side, heels clicking against the sidewalk that suddenly felt very deserted to Minerva. She held up the cigarette and the champagne. "Choose."

Minerva hesitated, then reached through the ladder to take the cigarette. She didn't smoke, but something told her that the last thing she needed tonight was a champagne-muddled head.

Her companion leaned back against the brick wall, contemplating the champagne before taking a long swallow. "I upset you," she said.

Minerva took a long drag from the cigarette, coughing as the fire burned straight down to her lungs. "No," she choked. "What makes you think that?"

"Well for one thing," Abigail pointed out as she took the cigarette and exchanged it for the rest of the champagne, which Minerva gratefully drank. "You don't smoke."

Minerva shook her head. "My gods and goddesses, that's awful."

"Filthy habit, one I plan to give up as soon as I find a better addiction."

"There are no better addictions," Minerva said. "They're all equally bad, once you get past the fun part."

"You sound like you're talking from experience." She peered at Minerva from under that ridiculous bonnet; her strawberry blonde curls bouncing defiantly in the cool October air.

She made Minerva uncomfortable. She made her terribly uncomfortable with her butterbeer-hating, homespun, wholesome smile and her eyes that knew without a doubt that she was old enough for anything. The modest costume, the exotic perfume she wore, everything about her was a contradiction that set Minerva's nerves on edge.

"I'm a few hours older than twenty-seven, if that's what you're asking," Minerva retorted. Her voice sounded so sharp. When had her voice gotten so sharp, she wondered.

"I did piss you off, didn't I?" Abigail stopped. "Wait, in England pissed means drunk, right? So how do you say angry in England," she asked.

"Angry," Minerva said coldly.

The hurt look on Abigail's face would have floored a lesser person, but Minerva had been stomaching ice for too many years to feel guilty now. "Oh...kay," she said, lifting herself up on her toes once, before turning to go. "Sorry I bothered you."

"Wait," Minerva said, reaching around to grasp the girl's arm. "Damn, I'm sorry. I've been just, well..."

Abigail frowned. "Look, I'm sorry if I'm not sophisticated enough for you. It's not like there are a lot of places like this in Weezer, Idaho, okay? Forgive me for being a klutz."

Whatever Minerva planned to say sort of disappeared. "Weezer, Idaho?" She chuckled. "You're not serious, are you?"

"Population seventeen. Nineteen in summer, if the winter is cold enough." Abigail began to laugh as well. "I've never tried to pick up another woman before," she admitted in a small voice. "I thought I was being so smooth."

"Weezer, Idaho," Minerva whispered. Her hand was still on Abigail's arm, her heart pounding against her ribcage. "It sounds only slightly smaller than Quin Village, Ireland." At the young woman's confused look, she said, "My home town."

"You're a dreamboat," Abigail whispered, closing the small space between them. Before Minerva could even think to scramble away, their lips were touching, smoke and champagne mingling as the kiss deepened and intensified. The burning in her throat expanded into her stomach, down through her legs, sending her hair and skin and blood into sparks of excitement.

Her heart was slamming against her ribs when they finally came up for air.

"Not so klutzy?" Abigail asked.

"Not even a bit klutzy," she agreed. Her vision blurred, her knees felt like gelatin, and the air seemed filled with fireflies. "Not klutzy at all."

"Go out with me tomorrow night?" Abigail pressed her advantage.

"Tomorrow?" Minerva's head was spinning, and she was having difficulty breathing. "What about tomorrow?"

"Are you alright?"

"No, I don't think I am." Her heart was pounding, hurting her now as she struggled for breath. "Get Billie."

"Who's Billie?"

She shook her head, trying to clear it enough for coherent speech. "Betty. The drag queen, Betty."

"Is it okay for me to go?"

She nodded, leaning against the wall, ignoring the rip in her dress as she crouched down to hug her knees. If she was going to die here in a New York alley, she was damned well going to be comfortable doing it.

She huddled there as the young girl from Weezer, Idaho, ran to tell a drag queen that his ex-wife was having a stroke in the alley. Not the best ending to a life, she thought. Her arm was tingling, and everything shivered. So this is what dying feels like, she mused. Not that bad. Could be worse. Panic, and pain, and shortness of breath. It could be worse.

"Where is she?" She heard Betty before the door slammed open. "Puss!" She was on her knees immediately, feeling Minerva's pulse.

"Thank you for not bringing the Cavalry," she whispered. "And for allowing me to die in this filthy alley in dignity, puppy." In the corner of her eye, Minerva saw Abigail watching from a distance.

"Where does it hurt?" Betty asked, placing her hand flat over Minerva's heart.

"It doesn't," she said. "Just can't stop my heart racing. Can't catch my breath."

"Do you need a doctor?"

"Oh, bloody hell no," she urged, toppling slightly as she attempted to stand. Betty caught her and held her for a long moment. "I'm already beginning to feel better. Just take me back to your place, baby. Please?"

"Are you sure, puss?"

She nodded bravely, still too dizzy to do anything but cling to the tall drag queen. "Yeah."

"Okay, anything you want."

She couldn't meet Abigail's eyes as Betty helped her up and guided her back into the club. She waited in the relative warmth of the tiny dressing room as Betty went to collect their wraps. She could hear Betty talking to Abigail in the hallway first, but couldn't make out what they were saying. It didn't matter. If she wasn't dying of a stroke, she might as well die of embarrassment.

***

"If you pour one more drop of tea down my throat, I'm going to explode." She pushed the cup away, leaning back into the pillows with a groan.

Billie, still in drag face, practically leapt onto the bed at the sound. "You okay?"

She glared at him. "I've got a boy in mascara force-feeding me tea while he futzes about like Florence bloody Nightingale. Of course, I'm brilliant!"

Billie's look was pure maternal disdain. "You didn't see yourself huddled over in that alley, young lady."

"No, I was too busy being huddled over in that alley to notice. Sorry."

He leaned over to kiss her forehead, lingering to take her temperature, apparently. "You're warm. Maybe we should call the doctor." He started to get up, but she pulled him back to lie beside her.

"I'm warm because you made me drink two pots of tea, you git." She pressed her fingers against his lips, quieting his protest. "I'm sorry I scared you, but please, please, I'm begging you, please stop hovering."

His lips curled slightly upward. "I never get to hover," he pouted, fussing with her hair. "I love hovering."

"Well, find yourself a nice young hypochondriac and hover over him, baby. I'm fine." She grasped his hand mid-fuss and kissed it. "Now stop making me nervous."

"Sorry." He grabbed the cover from her and pulled it over him, making sure he didn't take any off her. Resting his head on the pillow next to hers, he asked, "Better?"

"Much."

They lay there in silence, just soaking up the other's energy. They'd slept that way every night since she'd arrived, twin hearts recharging in the presence of a kindred spirit. Nothing sexual, nothing dirty, just warm and safe.

"What happened, puss?"

She sighed, burying her cheek deeper in the pillow. It took her several moments to answer. "Too much excitement," she ventured. "That Death March you took me on? No supper, too much smoke? I don't know, baby."

Billie pulled her into his arms. It felt so good there that she didn't protest when he started futzing with her hair again. "Abby told me..." he paused, suddenly intent on a curl that wouldn't obey his fingers. Or maybe he just didn't know how to broach the subject. In this position, he surely must have felt her go stiff in his arms at the mere mention of the name. "She told me that she made a pass at you," he continued finally. "She was scared she'd...she thought she caused your attack."

"Nonsense," Minerva tried to pull the ice down around her, but somehow the glaciers had all gone south for the winter. She had to settle for a roiling heat in her stomach, which didn't have the same effect at all.

"Sweetie, it's me you're talking to." He lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "What happened?"

She clamped down hard, hoping to force it back down inside of her. "Feet on ground," she whispered. "Not slipping, not slipping." The last was murmured into his shoulder as he pulled her into a tight embrace. "Not slipping," she repeated.

"That bad, huh?"

She nodded fiercely.

"The kiss. Hated or liked?" he asked. When she wouldn't meet his gaze, couldn't answer the question, he just nodded. "Liked. That's a tough one." He rocked her gently. "Thinking about Michael?"

She nodded again. "I want to run to it, wallow in it." She pressed her fingernails into the palm of her hand. The pain felt better, safer. "Don't let me fall, baby. Please don't let me fall." She could feel herself beginning to hyperventilate, but Billie's warm body held her close until she began to breathe normally again.

"Nobody's letting you fall, puss." He brushed the hair from her face. "I still don't know why you flipped when Abbey kissed you. Didn't you tell me you'd been with a girl in school?"

"That was a long time ago, and it was nothing. Just stupid kids fooling around." She didn't realize she was clinching her jaw until it started to hurt. She forced herself to relax it.

Billie seemed to be looking straight through her. "You know, puss, I'm putting two and two together and I'm figuring out that it wasn't nothing at all," he said. "It was very much something." She shook her head no, but he continued, as if all the wisdom of the universe were being revealed to him with each syllable. "You were in love with her, that girl from school, weren't you?"

Minerva said nothing, just letting the tears burn down her cheeks. Why was he saying these things? Why wouldn't he just let her slip and fall back into that horrible place where she didn't feel anything?

He cradled her, resting her head against his shoulder as he cooed and comforted. "Oh, baby. Oh, sweet baby. All these years, and you never told me."

"It's over," she sniffed. "It was a mistake ever being with her, and there's no way I'm going to do that again."

"So instead you spent the last fifteen years in dead end, dangerous relationships with unavailable men," he said. "And you told me you'd never heard of a shield relationship until you met me."

"Fuck you," she whispered.

"Not on a dare." There wasn't a trace of malice in his voice, only compassionate understanding. "She was the last person you could love without being hurt." He met her glare with complete composure. "Let me guess--she broke your heart."

"She married someone." The bitterness in her voice was palpable. "I found out when I was in Italy. The same someone she dumped me for."

"Ouch." He patted her hair gently. "I know it hurts, baby. But you can't just stop loving because one person broke your heart. Eventually, somebody is going to get past those barriers, and you will be able to love again. But not if you keep hiding behind married men and impossible situations." He rocked her, kissing her hair as he spoke. "You know, Abbey has been to the club several times. She's really sweet, and she would be good for you."

"No!" She pushed him away, sitting up. "Stop it, Billie. Stop trying to set me up. I told you years ago, I never intend to be with a woman again." She crossed her arms tightly across her chest. "I won't."

He stared at her, mixture of suspicion and distaste dimming his expression. "Why not?"

"Oh, please," she groaned. "You have to ask that? You of all people?"

"Oh, I get it. It's okay to hang out with homosexuals, but gods forbid you become one. Is that it?"

"You're not being fair," she protested. "You didn't have any choice in the matter."

"And you do?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Honey, how many times are you going to have hurt yourself before you face the fact that you don't have any more choice than I do? You said yourself that Conner was your ideal man, and you felt nothing with him. One kiss from Miss Idaho, and you're collapsed in an ally with your heart tearing through your ribcage. Maybe you might want to ask yourself if it's not the men who are the problem, but the gender?"

She swallowed that for a long while. "Bills, you are the best friend I've ever had. Don't make me walk out that door. I'm not like you, and I can't be like you. I can't be strong like you, and brave like you. I may feel this way, but I can't live this way. And if you try to force me..."

"Nobody's forcing you, puss."

She studied his face, etching the image of his eyes and jaw and mouth and nose into the deepest recesses of her mind. "'I can either try to hide it, or become bitter about it, or I can just accept it and go on living my life.' That's what you told me, the first day I met you." She sighed sadly. "I'm not as strong as you are, baby."

"You're stronger than you think," he said. "And if you showed yourself half the generosity and patience you show me, you'd be the happiest woman in the world."

She smiled, the first genuine smile since they'd gotten home. "You're much easier to love than I am."

He began to sing. "You'd be so easy to love, so easy to idolize all others above, so worth the yearning for, so great to keep the hearth fires burning for."

She put her hand over his mouth. "Don't quit your day job," she whispered.

The air seemed to lighten around them, as if a cloud has passed over and moved on, content only to drop a few drizzles rather than a full storm. She accepted his arms, rolling over onto her side to snuggle close into him.

"You can't kill it, pussycat," he warned. "You can shove it down inside all you want, but you can't kill your true nature."

"But it's not my true nature," she protested. "My true nature is very different, sir."

"Do tell," he whispered, leaning into her.

"I'm studious. I'm a good aunt. I'm never happier than with the guppies--the more the better. I'm intelligent. I'm organized. I'm a good sister, and a good friend. I'm good with languages, and I have superb head for facts and figures. Now tell me, why does sex have to be a part of that?"

"Because sex is part of who you are, and you can't go around stifling parts of yourself."

"So if being a mass murderer is part of me, should I just act on it?"

"Gee, gay and mass murder. So similar." He squinted. "How come I never saw it before?"

"Your mascara's running," she mentioned.

"Can't hide from yourself forever, babycakes," he insisted, ignoring her comment on his make-up.

"I can try." She wrapped herself in his arms. At that moment, she believed every word she said.

***

To be continued in True Nature - Beginning, Anew