A Mother's Tears

A Mother´s Tears

Notes: As if I didn´t have enough series in progress, my muse decided I needed at least two or three more, which was incredibly kind of it and this was one of them.

I had been looking at thread on FA, which was talking about the cliches of teacher-as-parent fics. The majority of those fics seem to have Sirius or Snape as parental-types, which I find incredibly odd and have yet to find a good one for either.

However, said thread also gave me an idea that wouldn´t go away. I did intend it to simply be a one-shot, but then it developed so much that I couldn´t resist and now, here´s yet another series.

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In the sheltered simplicity of the first days after a baby is born, one sees again the magical closed circle, the miraculous sense of two people existing only for each other.

- Anne Morrow Lindbergh

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February 17th 1946

The rain was lashing against the small, square panes of the windows, rattling across the glass, the sky heavy and dense outside. Wind whistled shrilly around the small house, but the Spring chill was staved off by the small fire flickering in the grate at the far end of the small bedroom, which was otherwise lit only by the gas lamps on the walls, the flames sputtering and pale.

The house was that of a witch and her muggle husband, but the room was occupied by neither of them, another young woman sobbing and panting in the bed, as her labour tore through her body.

A midwife, aggravated by her patient´s refusal to co-operate was kneeling at the end of the bed, between the woman´s upraised knees, barking out orders as the baby began to crown.

Beneath the woman, the sheets were matted with blood and natal fluids, her heavy white nightdress wadded to her body that was soaked with sweat. Dark tendrils of hair clung to her flushed face and her fists were wound into the sheets beneath her.

"If ye´d have got intae the birthin´ position sooner, ye wid have been a lot more comfor´able," the midwife growled, scowling, as her patient released an anguished cry of pain around the solid stick that was gripped between her teeth.

Green eyes that were hazy with pain stared wildly at her, tears pouring down the young witch´s face.

"Push," the midwife commanded, ignoring the pleading look, the look that begged for a release from the pain, the expression she saw on the face of nigh every mother she aided in labour.

The woman in the bed had done nothing to deserve her sympathy or understanding.

In the latter throes of her long labour, the young witch was to bear another fatherless bastard into the world already overrun by them, the painful torment of the child´s birth nothing more than her own responsibility.

A shriek of agony rent the close air, the sound of tissues tearing signifying the push of the child from the confines of its mother´s body and into the open of the world, the woman sinking back, panting.

The ragged rasp of her breathing was overshadowed by the slap of the midwife´s hand on the child´s back to clear the birthing fluids from child´s lungs and throat, then the spluttered thready wail of a newborn.

"Is... what is it?"

The midwife deposited the child on the sheets, tying off and cutting the umbilical cord then roughly scrubbing the keening babe with a towel. "A lad," she replied in a clipped tone, wrapping the child with a natural familiarity.

The young woman struggled into a sitting position, her eyes on the child. "Can I hold him?" she asked.

"No´ yet," the midwife snapped. "Yer no´ finished yet, lass. Ye´ll haud the bairn when I tell ye, an´ no´ afore."

The dark-haired young woman in the bed nodded, licking her lips, but made no reply, leaning back against the pillows.

Swiftly, the midwife picked up the swaddled child, ignoring his pitiable wail, and placed him in the makeshift crib that took up a large space on the floor of the small room, beneath the window.

Outside, the rain and wind continued to batter against side of the house, a deafening clap of thunder rocking it to its foundations as the midwife set to work on her patient once again.

***

It was strangely quiet.

The storm had screamed itself hoarse in a matter of hours, while the savage rain had been reduced to a quiet patter on the roof and the illegitimate child that now lay in his mother´s arms was fast asleep.

As soon as the midwife had departed, the witch had withdrawn her wand, to tired to clean herself up manually, brushing a cleansing spell over her body and the room, all the blood and mess of the previous hours replaced by clean sheets.

Cradling her son in her arms, Minerva McGonagall´s shaking fingertips touched the rosy cheeks of the child, tiny, stubborn fists clenched on either side of his head, which was dusted with dark tufts of hair.

He was perfect, so very tiny and so very perfect.

Reverently tracing a fingertip over the tiny button of a nose, then along the curve of the child´s lips, she could not help but stare in wonder at the accidental miracle that one night had produced.

The night, her night of madness and celebration, had come with the victory in Europe and the end of the Second World War, which was combined with the defeat of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald.

Everyone had been celebrating: some for the returns of their loved ones who had been fighting, some for the peace that would follow, some for the defeat of the dark ones, some just because they could.

Many had imbibed far more alcohol than they could handle and Minerva had been one of them, sharing many drinks with her friends in a pub in Edinburgh and agreeing to the lecherous advances of a dashing American who claimed to be a pilot.

She had woken in his bed the following morning, physically exhausted from head to foot, with a head ache the size of the England-Scotland divide and a sense of bitter regret that she had probably given herself over to a fool.

Donald O´Hara, however, was not a fool.

Far from it, in fact.

Intelligent, polite and civilised, he had charmed Minerva to remain in his bed for the full day, his wit, his gift with words and his knowledge capturing her attention and keeping her there for reasons that were far from a simple meeting of minds.

She had been convinced, in the hours they spent tangled in one another´s arms, that he was decent, respectable and that she - after giving up on the thought of ever finding love - may have found her match.

She was wrong.

When he had seen her to the door in the afternoon and she had made overtures about seeing him again, he had appeared surprised by the thought, informing her that it would be impossible and that he was leaving within days, to go home to his American wife and two children.

Minerva could remember staring at him with a combination of humiliation, anger, shock and pain, one hand rising to clutch at her chest as she backed away from him, shaking her head.

Looking back, how she wished she had whipped out her wand and shown him just why it was unwise to anger a witch, but she had been too shocked by his behaviour, the fact that he would happily acknowledge that he was married...

She had been too shocked to even perform a contraceptive charm to prevent herself from falling pregnant, the proof of which now lay in her arms, little bubbles of saliva bubbling between his small, pouted lips.

Lifting the child up, her eyes closing in pain at the memory of his father, she kissed his brow. Her child. Her secret that no one could ever know.

She knew that she could not keep the child, not if she wanted to continue in the wizarding society with any kind of reputation. As soon as she had discovered that she was expecting the infant, she had taken refuge in her sister´s home, knowing that her sister would understand.

Minerva´s elder sister, Guinevere Patterson, was ten years older than Minerva and was happily married to a quiet, unassuming muggle by the name of Angus. They had been married for fifteen years and had tried desperately to have a child, but it had proved fruitless.

When, panicked and afraid, Minerva had arrived on the doorstep of her sister´s small Highland home five months previously, sobbing out the news that she was carrying a child that she could not keep, the solution had been obvious.

However, now that she had the child, her child, in her arms, Minerva was beginning to wonder if perhaps she had made a mistake, in her desire to be rid of the child. Did her reputation matter so greatly to her?

The baby shifted, whimpering softly and Minerva quickly opened the front of her nightshirt, lifting him to her breast. Her breath hitched at the initial pain when his gummy mouth latched onto her nipple and he started to suckle, but the pain faded and the swell of affection she felt for the baby surpassed any other emotions.

Watching the pursing of the rosy pink lips as he fed, Minerva felt her eyes burn with tears, stroking the child´s cheek with her thumb.

Could she bear to part with him, even though she knew that he would have a better home and more love and care than she could provide him?

Her attention was only drawn from the child in her embrace when the door of the room squealed open and her sister´s round face peered in nervously. "Minerva? May I come in?" she asked, rubbing her hands down the front of her heavy dark blue dress.

"Of course, Gwen," Minerva replied with a forced smile, although part of her wished she could close the door and remain alone with her child. To have her son in her embrace seemed to be all that mattered to her now.

However, the moment her sister sat down on the edge of the bed, the instant she saw the wonder and desperate longing in her beloved sister´s dark green eyes, she recalled what she had begged her sister to do.

To change her mind would not only break her word, it would break Guinevere´s heart as well.

"A boy or a girl, Minerva?"

Her lips lifted in a forced smile, although Minerva could feel tears gathering in her eyes as she tried to reply without revealing the sense of anguish she felt. "You have a son, Gwen," she said softly. "A healthy little lad."

Guinevere did not lift her face, her eyes fixed on the child, but muffled a sob, a hand coming to her mouth, as she stared at the infant.

"Gwen? What is it?"

Emerald green eyes, spilling over with tears, rose to the younger of the two women, a plump hand closing around a slender one. "He´s your son, Minerva... how can you bear to part with your own son?"

Minerva looked down at the child´s face as he continued to greedily suck, then back at her sister. "Because I know that you will be able to give him a far better life than I ever could, Gwen," she replied sadly. "You have so much love to give and you have wanted this for so much longer than I ever have. You know you can not try to change my mind now. I promised you this child and you will have him."

Nodding, Guinevere hastily wiped her face with her hands and tried to smile, but it was belied by the pity that Minerva wished she could not feel. "You are a wonderful sister, Minerva."

"You deserve him so much more than I, Gwen," she whispered, withdrawing the child from her beast and awkwardly winding him. "He is yours now. I will rest for tonight and return home tomorrow."

"But..."

"No, Gwen," Minerva shook her head firmly. "If I stay any longer, I would not be able to keep my word and I could not bear to be the one to ruin a chance that this little one would have for a happy life with you. And for you to have him as your son."

Guinevere eased up the bed to sit next to her sister, sliding her arms round Minerva´s thinner, exhausted body. "You are a good woman, Minerva," she said, embracing her sister tightly.

Unable to reply, Minerva shifted her son from her arms into Guinevere´s, the wonder and awe in her sister´s face making the thought of parting with her precious son so much easier, although she could feel the pang of longing to remain.

"Do you wish to name him?"

"Me?"

"He is your son, Minerva."

Raising a hand to brush the loose strands of her hair back from her face, Minerva was a little shaken and bewildered. A name? She had never thought of a name before because she had assumed that he would simply be taken and that would be that.

"I... I would name him after his father," she replied hesitantly. "Donald."

"Donald Patterson," Guinevere murmured, studying the child. "Do you think he will be like us?"

"A wizard?" Guinevere nodded. "Who can be sure, Gwen? He may."

"And you may teach him, when he goes to Hogwarts."

The very thought of it sent a jolt of shock through Minerva. She had forgotten that the wizarding genes in her blood might pass to her child, which meant that he would inevitably end up at Hogwarts, if his parents permitted it.

"And you will be his aunt... won´t you?"

"His aunt?" Minerva echoed numbly, her head spinning. Her intention had been simple. Place the child with someone who would care enough for him to raise him as their own, then never see him again. "I..." Did she want that, though? To be parted from him forever? "Would you mind?"

"You are my sister, Minerva and I know you will want to know how he grows. To be his aunt... it would be a simple way for you to make certain of his happiness."

Minerva almost snorted at the thought. If any child could be unhappy with Gwen and Angus as its parents, then the world would surely spin off its axis and collide with the sun, both of them so generous and good-natured.

"I may visit from time to time," she agreed quietly. "But he is never to know the truth of who I am. I want him raised in a proper family with a mother and a father. He cannot know the truth of his father. Or me."

Guinevere nodded. "We will do as you wish, Minerva," she agreed quietly. "It will be between us alone until my dying day."

Resting her head against Guinevere´s shoulder, Minerva felt her sister´s arm tighten around her shoulder and pressed her eyes closed to quell a wave of tears, both of them gazing down at Donald, where he lay, small hands waving, in the blankets in his new mother´s arms.

***

Rain had started afresh by the next morning. It drizzled miserably against the glass as Minerva folded and placed her clothing into her small travelling bag, the fire crackling in the grate as she packed.

Her long hair was drawn back into a braid that hung in a rope to her waist, her eyes red-rimmed from weeping in the night. She had spent hours standing beside the empty cradle that had so briefly borne her son, silent tears streaming down her face.

Placing her journal into the top of her large carpet bag, she closed it over, fastening the brass clasp.

Behind her, she heard the door open and turned.

Guinevere stood there, little Donald asleep in her arms. "Are you leaving already?"

Nodding, her throat closing up at the sight of the natural way her child was resting in her sister´s arms, she sniffed and hastily dug out a kerchief from the cuff of her sleeve, blowing her nose.

"Yes," she replied after a moment to regain control of her breaking voice. "I really ought to get back to Albus. After all, I have missed an entire school term and it is hardly appropriate for the Transfiguration teacher to simply vanish."

"You... will come and visit?"

Wetting her dry lips, Minerva desperately wanted to cry `no!´, to run away, to avoid seeing her son being raised by someone else. "Not for some time," she said carefully, lowering her eyes. "I-I need some time to..."

"Adjust?" Guinevere suggested quietly and Minerva nodded, her lips pressing together in a thin line. "You are always welcome here, whenever you feel the need to visit, Minerva. Never forget it, my sister."

"I won´t, Gwen," she promised. Picking up her bag, she smiled wanly. "Take good care of Donald for me."

"Of course. Take care of yourself, Minerva."

Nodding, a jerky motion, Minerva disapparated out, away from her sister, the place that had been her home for so many months and, most importantly, from her son.