A Mother's Tears

A Mother´s Tears

Notes: I cannot reiterate enough just how much my muse likes this story. I´m in the process of writing the toughest chapter of Fractured Triangle, but my muse wants to play with this. I thought FT would be angsty enough to satisfy it, but no... my muse likes dear Minerva and wants to get this series done.

Oh and to explain, each chapter of the series is going to be five years apart, so this is five years after Donald was born. I don´t know why, but I just had the urge to do it this way.

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Youth fades; love droops, the leaves of friendship fall; A mother's secret hope outlives them all.

- Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)

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February 17th 1951

The air was cool, clear and crisp, a stiff breeze whipping her skirt around her legs, the sky a soft, near-white shade of blue. It was all so different from the last memory she had, when she had last visited the house that her sister inhabited.

Standing at the gate that led into the garden, Minerva McGonagall´s hand rested on the latch, her fingers trembling slightly, as she tried to find the courage to open the gate and make her way down the path in the tidy little garden.

The gloomy-looking house squatted at the far end of the winter-touched garden, not a pretty building, but functional. Two storeys, made of bleak grey stone with slate tiles on the roof, tendrils of ivy looking like they were struggling to feebly climb the walls.

The slightly rusty latch of the gate squealed as Minerva slowly lifted it, the hinges of the gate shrieking in protest as she pushed it open and stepped onto the path of cement that led to the front door.

However, at that moment a small figure ran around the side of the house, chasing a ball, laughing giddily, and Minerva felt her heart leap to her throat, one hand rising to her chest, the other clutching her bag to her side.

It could only be Donald.

Picking up the ball, the little boy looked up at her with a curious look that only very young children can perform, cocking his head to one side and staring at her. "Hello," he said bluntly. "Who are you?"

Minerva wished she could find the words to reply to him, but she couldn´t even form a coherent thought, staring at him in wonder, drinking in every feature of the beautiful little boy that her son had grown into.

Around the average height for a five-year-old, his black hair was wind-tossed and unruly around his ruddy face, green eyes that were clearly like her own: bright, wide and curious. One of his front teeth was missing and a spatter of freckles was dashed across his nose which, like his father´s, turned up slightly.

Clad in a pair of grey shorts and a dark grey jumper, with long, woollen, grey school socks tugged up to scuffed and scraped knees, he looked the perfect child and the urge to gather him in her arms almost overwhelmed her.

"Donald," a male voice called, shaking Minerva from her reverie. "Donald, whit are ye´ dain´?"

Donald looked around as his adoptive father came around the side of the house, beaming at him. "Da´," He pointed at Minerva with a small finger. "There´s a wumin here an´ she disnae know who she is."

Angus´ brown eyes met Minerva´s and she saw the surprise, then pleasure cross his face. "Minerva!" he exclaimed, hurrying to stand behind Donald, who was looking increasingly confused. "How are ye?"

"Tolerable, Angus. Yourself?"

"Well, we cannae complain," he said affably, his hands on Donald´s shoulders. "Ye should have let us know ye were comin´. Gwennie would have set a place for ye at the birthday boy´s table."

"Why?" Donald´s shrill voice piped up. "I dinnae know her."

Angus and Minerva both laughed a little, although Minerva´s laugh was tainted with sadness. "Now, son, that wisnae very polite, was it?" Bright pink spots appeared on the boy´s cheeks. "This is... well..."

"I´m your Aunt Minerva," Minerva interrupted smoothly, forcing a smile onto her lips. "Your mother is my sister."

Donald looked up at Angus in question, the dark-haired Muggle nodding and lifting his hands from the boy´s shoulders. Trotting forward, his ball gripped in his left hand, he extended a grubby little right hand. "I´m pleased to meet ye," he said formally.

Unable to hide a genuine smile, Minerva shook the extended hand. "And I´m very pleased to meet you too," she replied. "And I hear that it´s your birthday, as well. How old are you, wee man?"

"I´m five," Donald replied, puffing out his chest proudly. He studied her. "If yer mah auntie, did ye bring me a birthday present?"

"Donald!"

Minerva couldn´t help laughing at the innocent bluntness of the boy. "You´ll have to wait and see about that, my wee man," she said with a smile, unable to resist running a hand through his tangled mass of hair.

Donald beamed at her, flashing his gummy smile. "Da´," He turned to Angus, who was brushing his hands down on his heavy working trousers. "Shall I go and tell me mam that Aunt Minerva is here?"

"Aye," Angus nodded. "Ye go and do that, son."

Grinning once more at Minerva, the boy darted off, running back around the side of the house. They could hear him shouting, "Mam! Mam!"

"We didnae think ye were gonnae come back, Minerva," Angus finally said, still gazing after the boy. The witch wondered briefly if maybe she had made a mistake in returning after all. "Gwen has missed ye."

"I didnae know if I would be welcome," she replied quietly, Angus´ broad Highland accent making her own lesser one rise to the surface. "Or comfortable. I wasnae sure if I could face seeing him again. He´s grown so much."

"Aye," Angus acknowledged. "And he´s a good wee lad as well. He disnae cheek Gwen, he behaves at the school, he does what he´s told and ye´ve gifted him wi´ yer love of learnin´. He loves readin´."

A small smile reached Minerva´s lips. "Then it appears my choice of gift for him was surprisingly suitable."

"Ye brought him somethin´? Ye didnae need to do that..."

Green eyes met brown. "I did need to, Angus," Minerva said quietly, although her voice shook slightly. "After all, how often does my... your wee boy turn five? I had to bring something for him."

There was a moment of silence, then Angus smiled. "Come on," he said, motioning for her to follow him. Leading her around the side of the house, towards the back door, he continued to speak. "Gwen will be thrilled to see ye again."

***

At Donald´s birthday party, where the boy was surrounded by a laughing group of children of his own age, Minerva could not decide if her choice to visit had been a good one or bad.

Seeing her own son, so very happy, made her heart bound with joy, but to have him acknowledge her with nothing more than careful courtesy was enough to send her to the deepest pits of despair.

Just to see him smile though, his laughter breaking through the silence, made it all worthwhile, knowing that he was loved and cherished by her sister.

After the small group of friends had departed, Donald, a little drowsy from the games and all the fuss that had been made, climbed up and sat next to Minerva on the horsehair sofa that sat in front of the fire, in the parlour.

The evening had cooled and the small fire that was glowing in the grate provided a source of warmth, while Guinevere made tea in the kitchen and Angus cleared up after their guests.

"Did ye enjoy yer party?" she asked, her hands resting in her lap, uncertain how he would react if she suddenly threw her arms around him and hugged him as if he were the most precious possession she had.

Rubbing his nose on the back of his hand, Donald nodded. "It was braw," he said, flashing the broad, gummy smile up at her again. "I liked me mam´s cake! It had me name on it!"

"I saw that, Donald," Minerva smiled as he bounced up and down beside her. She bent to reach down into her large, black bag, which lay at her feet. "Now, my wee man, would you like your present?"

"Ye brought me somethin´?"

"Well, it is yer birthday, isn´t it?"

Donald beamed at her, as she handed him a package, neatly wrapped with a long gold ribbon around the red and white paper. "Can I open it now, Aunt Minerva?" he asked, his tone more that of "Let me open it! Let me! Let me!".

"Of course you may," she replied, smiling, unaware of her sister´s eyes on her as she watched her five-year-old son rip the ribbons and paper off eagerly, uncaring of how pretty they were.

"A book!" The shrill excitement in the boy´s voice made both his mother and his adoptive mother smile indulgently. "Ye got me a book!" Bending over it, he stared intently at the gold writing on the red leather of the cover. "The Hob-bit."

"I don´t know if ye´ll be able to read it yet, my wee man," Minerva said, hesitantly raising a hand to run it through his hair. "But I´ve heard that it´s very good and it all about magic and monsters in distant lands."

Donald wriggled like an excited puppy when she stroked his hair, depositing the book reverently on the couch before launching himself into her arms and flinging his arms around her neck.

"Thank you!" he exclaimed happily, settling himself quite comfortably in her lap when he relinquished the hug, which Minerva had - after a moment of hesitation - returned. Snuggling against her, he opened the book up. "I like books."

"I do too."

Green eyes looked up at her, as if pleased by this revelation. "Me mam doesn´t like reading books very much," he said in a conspiratorial tone, glancing around to make sure they weren´t being listened to.

"I´m a teacher, so I have to like books, really," Unable to stop herself, Minerva continued to stroke his unruly hair with one hand, as he examined the picture of Thror´s Map in the first pages of the book.

Donald seemed to hesitate over something, then burst out with, "Will you read this with me?"

"Me? Surely you would like your mother or father to..."

The boy shook his head, curls dancing on his forehead. "They dinnae like reading much," he said by way of explanation. "And ye are a teacher and ye´ll know all the big words I dinnae know."

Risking a glance in the direction of the kitchen, Minerva was startled to see her elder sister watching both of them from the doorway, smiling, while drying her hands on a blue and white towel. Guinevere nodded once, then returned to her tasks.

Turning back to Donald, Minerva found that the eyes that matched her own had one skill she didn´t: the ability to beg and break hearts in the same expression. "Please, Aunt Minerva?" he implored.

Even if he hadn´t spoken, Minerva knew she wouldn´t have been able to resist the enormous green eyes that were blinking hopefully up at her.

"I suppose I might read a little," she acquiesced, shifting him in her lap until they were both comfortable. "But then, you have to promise to go straight to bed when your mother tells you."

Donald looked like he was ready to start bouncing in her lap, but managed to restrain himself as he looked down at the book. "Can we start now?" he asked excitedly. "I like the map! The map is nice!"

Unable to suppress a smile, Minerva pressed a kiss to his forehead, taking the chance to inhale his scent.

While waves of carbolic reeked off him, she could still recognise his own scent, the one he had borne since he was a baby and the one she remembered even in spite of the half decade which had passed.

"Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, Aunt Minerva."

Picking up the book, one of her arms looped around Donald´s middle, Minerva turned it to the beginning of the first chapter, smoothing the page with her long, slender fingers. "Chapter one," she began to read. "An unexpected party. In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit..."

"What´s a hobbit?" Donald demanded, looking up at her. "Is it magic?"

"You know," Minerva replied with mock shock in her voice, her eyes round. "I dinnae know. Shall we read on and see if we can find out?" Donald immediately nodded, grinning from ear to ear. "Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole..."

Beyond them, in the kitchen, Angus approached the door, where Guinevere was standing once again, sliding an arm around her. "Are they all righ´ in there?" he asked in a hushed voice.

Guinevere nodded with a small smile. "She´s reading to him."

"He really is awfy like her, isn´t he, Gwennie?"

"And he seems to like her as well."

Angus smiled sadly. "I wish we could have had our own, Gwen," he murmured. "But I think our wee lad... he´s perfect enough."

"Aye," Guinevere agreed, turning to rest her head on his shoulder. "And I still love ye, Angus. For putting up wi´ me and for taking the wee one in, even though he isnae of yer blood."

Her husband kissed her gently, his smile reassuring. "Gwen, love, he´s as good as mine," he said, raising a hand to stroke her cheek. "I love him and you. I wouldnae hae it any other way."

Arms around each other, both of them looked through into the living room, where their adopted son and his mother were giggling together on the settee over the fact that hobbits had hairy feet.

***

"Will ye come and see me again, Aunt Minerva?"

Tucking Donald´s blankets over him, the witch nodded with a smile. "I would be happy to do that again, Donald," she said, smoothing his hair back from his forehead, the curls from his widow´s peak flopping back down immediately.

In the smaller of the two bedrooms in the house, the room where he was born, the five-year-old was dwarfed by the enormous bed he slept in, a small gas lamp over the bed providing a warming gold light.

With the starched, white sheets tucked up to his chest, his arms folded on top of the blankets, he yawned drowsily and smiled up at his so-called Aunt. "Will ye tell me a bed time story, Aunt Minerva?"

"A bedtime story?" she laughed. "We just read thirty pages of The Hobbit. Surely that is enough for now."

Donald grinned sleepily. "Aunt Minerva, do you have any children?"

The question made her start. "Me?"

"Aye... if ye did... I could play wi´ them." Minerva pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes stinging. Sleepy as he was, Donald appeared to notice, his small hand coming out and seeking her other one. "Why are ye cryin´?"

"Oh, I-I´m just remembering something, Donald," she replied, her voice slightly choked. "I-I had a wee boy, once, and I loved him very much, but I couldn´t keep him. I didn´t have anyone to help me look after him, like your mother has your father and I couldn´t keep him."

Green eyes studied her. "Dae ye miss him?"

"More and more every day," she admitted, Donald´s small fingers squeezing hers.

"What was he like? Would he have liked tae play wi´ me?"

Minerva choked back a half-sob, half-laugh. "He´s like you, Donald," she replied, stroking his cheek gently. "He´s so very like you... you would have liked him, if you ever met him, I think."

"Maybe I will," Donald decided firmly, beaming at her between yawns. "And we´ll play with my ball and have cake like me mam makes... and biscuits... and... and he can read wi´ me... and we... we´ll..."

Minerva smiled sadly as his head sank to the side in sleep, a contented smile on his lips, his bright green eyes closing before he could even finish his sentence. Leaning forwards, she pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Good night, my wee man," she murmured, rising to her feet and dimming the gas lamp over the bed, before withdrawing from the room, never taking her eyes off her sleeping son until she was closing the door.

Making her way down the stairs, she was unable to smother the sob that had been building and knew that she would be in no fit state to face her sister, as tears streamed down her face.

"I´m off, Gwen," she called, her voice cracking. "Write to me."

Before her sister could even voice a protest, she disapparated, apparating straight to the grounds directly outside Hogwarts. Sinking down on the night-chilled grass, the moon her only witness, she buried her face in her hands and wept, wishing in her heart of hearts that she had kept her child as her own.