Minerva McGonagall didn’t make mistakes, but realized she was incorrect in assuming that she and her classmates were invincible. The Chamber was opened; she went to each funeral, though she didn’t know every victim personally. Tom didn’t understand; he’d never had a family, never been acquainted with love, but Minerva thought it’d be wrong to avoid paying her respects, though the flowers she conjured were often quickly overtaken by the frost.
For reasons unknown to her, Tom still believed—-no, knew-—he’d live forever. She asked him once, why he was so sure the Basilisk (she hissed the word) wouldn’t be around the next corner waiting for him. He hissed back and she knew immediately; a Parselmouth. He promised her that she’d made the right decision, befriending him, that he’d keep her safe. This was the first time the sparkle in his eyes seemed to Minerva to glint like the cold silver of congealing unicorn blood.
As the killings continued, she saw Tom less and less (he told her he was getting better at Transfiguration, and no longer needed a tutor; their hallway trysts continued, but at a lesser rate), and rumors of the Ministry’s plan to shut Hogwarts down ran through the halls unchecked. Minerva caught sight of Tom shortly after that poor Ravenclaw first year was found: he seemed paler than ever. She supposed that the idea of mortality may have finally caught up with him.
Then Rubeus Hagrid was expelled.
She caught him in a dungeon hallway; he pressed her against the cold wall and kissed her with all the fervor and fiery possessiveness that a sixteen year old boy ought not to know.
“I know what you did,” she sputtered when he came up for air. “It was you, wasn’t it? Rubeus wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
Even years later, she was thankful that he counted her smart enough not to lie to her. Tom stepped back, momentarily looking as if he’d been struck. He had always been resilient; he recovered.
“No one would believe you, Minerva.” He sneered at her. It made her cheeks burn and her blood run cold. “A jilted lover, it would seem. Was it good for you?”
She balled her fists and managed to grit her teeth behind pursed lips until she was certain he was out of earshot; Minerva let the sobs overtake her for only a few minutes before drying her eyes and seeking counsel with her Transfiguration professor.
Minerva McGonagall didn’t make mistakes. She also knew when to admit she was wrong. There may have been a lesson to be had from this experience, but Minerva could only see her failure, her heartbreak, her unmistakeable mistake.
Minerva McGonagall/Tom Riddle, "Learning Curve" (2/2)
For reasons unknown to her, Tom still believed—-no, knew-—he’d live forever. She asked him once, why he was so sure the Basilisk (she hissed the word) wouldn’t be around the next corner waiting for him. He hissed back and she knew immediately; a Parselmouth. He promised her that she’d made the right decision, befriending him, that he’d keep her safe. This was the first time the sparkle in his eyes seemed to Minerva to glint like the cold silver of congealing unicorn blood.
As the killings continued, she saw Tom less and less (he told her he was getting better at Transfiguration, and no longer needed a tutor; their hallway trysts continued, but at a lesser rate), and rumors of the Ministry’s plan to shut Hogwarts down ran through the halls unchecked. Minerva caught sight of Tom shortly after that poor Ravenclaw first year was found: he seemed paler than ever. She supposed that the idea of mortality may have finally caught up with him.
Then Rubeus Hagrid was expelled.
She caught him in a dungeon hallway; he pressed her against the cold wall and kissed her with all the fervor and fiery possessiveness that a sixteen year old boy ought not to know.
“I know what you did,” she sputtered when he came up for air. “It was you, wasn’t it? Rubeus wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
Even years later, she was thankful that he counted her smart enough not to lie to her. Tom stepped back, momentarily looking as if he’d been struck. He had always been resilient; he recovered.
“No one would believe you, Minerva.” He sneered at her. It made her cheeks burn and her blood run cold. “A jilted lover, it would seem. Was it good for you?”
She balled her fists and managed to grit her teeth behind pursed lips until she was certain he was out of earshot; Minerva let the sobs overtake her for only a few minutes before drying her eyes and seeking counsel with her Transfiguration professor.
Minerva McGonagall didn’t make mistakes. She also knew when to admit she was wrong. There may have been a lesson to be had from this experience, but Minerva could only see her failure, her heartbreak, her unmistakeable mistake.