A Stray at Your Door

A Stray at Your Door

You know how much I love to write, my darling. But are there words - will there ever be words - to tell you just how much I love you, just how much I miss you? Will there ever be words to thank you for the light and beauty and joy you have brought to my life?

If I found the words, would you want to hear them? Or would you think me sick, disgusting, not at all the innocent little Minnie you shared a room with as a schoolgirl? Or would you simply, not understanding, mock my devotion to you as something that I should long ago have outgrown? It is, perhaps, well and good for a young girl to find admiration for another, but I know full well it is not seemly or right for a grown woman to have such...feelings of admiration. Such feelings of - dare I say it, dare I even think it? - of love.

It has been so long, and I have no idea what has become of you. I am sure that you're married by now, with half-a-dozen children to love and watch over. I want to see you. I want to see who you have chosen to marry - and I hope and pray, dearest, that he is worthy of you. I want to watch your children grow up, to be part of their lives.

I could be their spinster Auntie Minnie, I suppose. Only there would be the questions, as there always are of maiden aunts, and I have never had great skill at lying to children - yet how could I tell them the truth? How could I tell innocent children that I never married because no man could ever, in my sight, equal you?

I have no idea if you have any interest in such things, but if you ever looked at the Ministry's registry of Animagi, you would see my name on it. As always, I am eager to research the applications of the arts of Transfiguration, especially self-transformation. Furthermore, being a cat has its...advantages

Perhaps it would be best, in fact, if I came to you as a cat.

As a cat, I would be unable to speak a word of what was in my heart.

As a cat, I could play with your children without corrupting them, shattering their innocence with the truth of what I am.

As a cat, I could come closer to you than I would ever dare to as a woman. I could be content, being held by you, sleeping on your bed, and nobody would think it the least bit strange.

As a cat, I could have a far happier life than I will ever know as a woman.

I won't, of course. Not yet. Just as I won't ever send you this letter, Poppy. There are things I need to do, responsibilities I still have. My research has taken me so far away for so long, and Professor Dumbledore has just sent me an owl requesting that I return as soon as I can, that there is something - urgent - we need to discuss.

It would be so much easier to ignore him, to pretend I had died, and to be reborn as a small stray kitten at your door, kept alive by the kind-heartedness of such a wonderful woman.

Why am I still writing when I know I will never send this? No more. Stop, Minerva.