AN:

WARNING; this is a really dark chapter.

Just a note, this chapter will be pretty religion-heavy. I also played around with the POVs to give a better representation of the story. I also want to point out that while I was raised Presbyterian/Christian, it's not my forte so I had to do a little side-research on religious topics. If I messed things up or misrepresented something, please forgive me.

Trigger Warnings; religion, a not-so-great priest (not Minerva's father), and arguable torture.

"So... I grew up in rural Scotland, all the way up in Caithness. Me father was a muggle, a man of God for the Presbyterian church. Me ma'am was a witch from a very old wizarding family. They met in the same village as he and eloped for Caithness to live in a manse."

"A what?" Fred asked.

"A house for Presbyterian ministers, now stop interrupting." She snapped. "Now, where was I...?

"Ah, they had me a while after. Me ma'am had to keep my accidental magic very secret from my father. She never told him, seeing as she burned all her bridges with her family and friends to marry a muggle. What's worse, he was an ordained Reverend. 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live' and all that.

"So, she'd shut herself up with me in a room for days at a time until my magic wore itself out. Me father was a good man, but worried for her, y'see. So was the entire town, come to think on it, but he loved her very much all the same.

"Then... when I was a wee lass around five or so..."

Minerva toddled along as she carried the plates to the table. Her mummy had been feeling rather tired, so she'd hope to surprise her by setting the table all by herself.

The plates were awfully heavy. And she couldn't see the rug over the plates stacked in her arms.

She tripped over the rug's edge and the dishes fell to the floor with a loud shatter.

Horrified, she stared at all the little pieces scattered about. Mummy would be so cross with her! She had to do something and fix this.

She scrunched her face and held out her hands, wishing all her willpower to making this right again.

The plate shards flew back together and reassembled themselves into full plates which floated all the way back into the cupboard.

Feeling very proud of herself, her heart stopped when she heard a deep man's gasp and stumble from the window outside.

Mr. MacWalsh, a rather superstitious member of her father's church who would come by often to ask her papa's advice on the must mundane things, stared at her through the window to their garden.

"W-what are you?" He stammered, white-faced.

Then, he turned and fled, knocking the gate loose as he ran like the devil himself were nipping at his heels.

A pair of footsteps came thumping down the stairs as her mummy peeked in. "Minerva, what was that crash I heard? Are you alright?"

The little girl buried herself into her mother's skirts, sobbing, "I- I'm so-sorry mummy, I d-dropped the plates and- and magicked them back together a-and into the cupboard and I'm sorry I'm sorry..."

Her mother ran her fingers through her hair soothingly, "There, there, love, did you get yerself hurt? No? Well, all's well that end's well. Don't worry, my love. So long as nobody saw ya."

The girl stayed tearfully silent.

"I'm tellin' ya, Reverend! It was something most wicked!"

Robert McGonagall sighed. Here he was hoping to have a nice, hot drink at the bar (non-alcoholic, mind you) and enjoy the company of MacGregor the Barkeep, and perhaps a game of checkers in the corner with old Barty. Then, MacWalsh comes stumbling over from a table with a half-pint in one hand, a frantic light in his bleary eyes, and a tale a yard long on his lips.

"MacWalsh, you're drunk. You're very, very drunk right now," He replied, disapprovingly.

"Aye, but I got drunk after I saw what I saw!" The fisherman insisted.

"Yer daughter dropped the plates on the ground and like magic set 'em back together again! Little pieces un-broke themselves back into the whole! Saw it wit' me own eyes, I did! Then those devil-plates flew into the cupboard like doves! All on their lonesome! No hand of man on 'em!"

"Flying... plates..." Robert asked, disbelievingly. He was at least grateful the others around the bar had the good sense to tune out the drunk's ramblings.

"Aye!" The fisherman nodded, clumsily, as though everything was finally getting through to the other.

"Go home, Hamish," the Reverend commanded gently. "You'll need yer strength to handle the mother and father of all headaches in the mornin'."

"Robert, I'm tellin' ya, Isobel is bein' influenced!"

Now, the sober man straightened up, "My wife is a pure and innocent woman-"

"But the devil finds its way through the cracks, Reverend!" MacWalsh insisted. "She may not understand it, poor soul, she may be manipulated by it. I mean no disrespect to yer wife, Reverend, but she ties into this, I'm sure!

"E'rybody knows she's been a little out-of-sorts since yer daughter's birth. And with that strange name, I might add!"

"It was Isobel's grandmother's name, and it's a great honor for my daughter to have it," Robert argued.

"But since yer daughter's birth, Isobel's been secreting her away, hasn't she?" MacWalsh pointed out.

The Reverend sighed, but didn't respond, knowing truth or tale wouldn't make a difference.

"I'm tellin' ya, the devil would like nothin' more than the firstborn daughter of a fine, upstanding Man of God by his side. A spiteful spit in the Lord's face, 'tis! Satan himself is tryin' to get his hands on yer daughter, make a witch of her, yet, mark my words!"

"Goodnight, Hamish," The Reverend bit back at last, standing from the table and leaving the fisherman to his own devices.

He walked the long, rural roads back to his home in silence. The man's conversation was still clinging into his mind in that silence.

He loves his wife dearly, but she's been so mysterious and withdrawn these last few years. And he can't help but fear for his daughter, too.

"Bah", he snorted to himself and shook those thoughts from his head. Just the blathering of an old drunk fisherman too superstitious to see a rainy day as anything other than an 'ill omen'... even if said 'ill omen' happens five times a day up here in Caithness.

He strode into his house, smiling at his wife and daughter enjoying the rare clear-sky day in the gardens. Walking inside, he paused by the dish cabinet.

Giving into curiosity, he peered in at the neat stack of plates inside. Every one just as he'd known it. Every chip and crack they'd accumulated over the years accounted for. No magic, no 'devil-signs', nothing.

He chuckled to himself, lightheartedly. He shouldn't have even bothered. Nothing save glue, all the pieces, and much patience could repair a shattered plate.

No 'magicking' the shards together and whole again.

Still smiling, he thought to himself how wondrous it would be if it did happen that way?

The next morning, Isobel and Minerva had walked down to the market to pick up some supplies they'd been meaning to get. Robert was happy enough to stay at home and enjoy a nice, cup of hot tea before getting busy writing out his latest sermon.

He was just about done when a sharp knock sounded at the door. Pleasantly surprised at guests, he rose from the table to answer.

The pleasure soured immediately, seeing a grim-looking old man in black robes, a crimson sash, and a red cap standing at his door.

"Father Michaels," Robert greeted rather stonily.

The catholic bishop was stationed in their town and drew a crowd of devout followers from three towns around on Sundays. Reverend McGonagall always tried maintaining a polite, if tense, relationship with the man.

Father Michaels had a rather severe and contemptuous opinion of Protestants. Despite devotion to the same Lord and Christ, the older man was rather obstinate about the 'right way' to go about it.

"I have heard some concerning news," the bishop drawled in a crisp upper-English accent, holding a hand out behind him.

Following it, Robert frowned at seeing Hamish MacWalsh just a step behind, ashamedly looking at the ground and fiddling with a hat in his hands.

"This man has said your daughter is displaying rather unnatural signs of acts against God, and your wife, likewise, is behaving most disturbingly." The priest continued. "As such, he did the right thing in coming to me, seeing as you were unwilling, or perhaps unable to handle this yourself." He jabbed.

Robert swelled with indignation, but the bishop continued. "It is the duty of we who follow God's teachings to intervene should we feel the souls of innocents are in danger."

He smiled rather toothily, "As such, I have come to offer my services for an exorcism."

"You'll do no such thing," Robert argued. "I'm not lettin' you touch one hair on my wife or daughter."

The priest glowered, "You disappoint me, Robert. I assumed you would understand your responsibility and devotion to God outweighs all, as Abraham was tasked with his son, Isaac-"

"I know the scripture, Father," The Reverend interrupted.

"Then you know that if word gets out that your wife and daughter are witches-"

"On what grounds, do you dare make these accusations," Robert blustered, furious.

"What grounds?" The priest replied solemnly. "Explain your wife's peculiar behavior. Hiding herself away with her child for days at a time? Possibly offering her in a pact. Your daughter's peculiar intelligence? She may already be snared in the devil's hands as we speak!"

"You will leave my home!"

"You are a Man of God, you must Act!" Father Michaels spat insistently.

Robert strained to control his own, Scottish, temper, "I will do what I must as I see fit! I will not allow you to cause any harm ta my family."

The priest's snarl lowered and smoothened. "Ah... I see..." He simpered understandingly. "Reverend, I apologize if this has all devolved into a misunderstanding. I have no intention of harming your daughter or wife in any way. I am merely offering my services to cleanse any evil that may have stuck to her from... any errant practices."

The Reverend's patience was about snapped, "You come into my home and accuse my family of such despicable things and you still expect me to allow you within even three feet of my daughter. Then, I am afraid you are sorely mistaken." He snarled.

MacWalsh hunched in on himself, staring between the two men, feeling his very soul was quaking in its proverbial boots... or very likely by now, its iron shackles...

At length the priest nodded. "Very well... then you leave me no choice but to go to my higher-ups in the Church and put forth the request myself. They will likely send an expert on these things, a stranger, no doubt, with authority to continue where I cannot."

He began moving towards the door, sparing an occasional glance at the Reverend's dawning horror. "Even then, people will talk, you know. About a Reverend who cannot even save his own family's souls. And what would that mean for his denomination? I daresay you'd be run out."

He paused.

"Of course, if I am allowed to complete my duties in peace, then I see no reason to send this matter anywhere, and I can do so discretely. No one the wiser."

He slowly slunk towards the Reverend, who could barely hear much over the dreadful hammering of his heart. "And I'd allow you to be in your daughter's presence during this ordeal. A comfort to her, you see?"

There was grim silence... no one moved.

"... Wednesday..." Robert whispered, his own tongue feeling like it was on fire. "My wife will be visiting friends on Wednesday afternoon. Minerva will be with me alone..."

The Priest smiled, "Wednesday, then..."

With that, he left from the homestead, MacWalsh at his side. As the door closed, the cold Scottish wind blew through chilling the house.

Robert returned to his writing desk, staring at the sermon before him. It felt like empty words now, the light gone.

More-so, he stared at his copy of the Good Book, which flustered its pages in the breeze and lost his place, but it had stopped open to one section.

The Book of Matthew.

"I tell you the truth, one of you will betray me..."

Wednesday had arrived.

Robert watched from the window as his wife waved to him, strolling down the pathway. She'd put Minerva down for a nap in her room just a while ago.

Not long after, two figures walked up in the darkening evening. Father Michaels walked proudly up to the home with MacWalsh stumbling behind while carrying a large box.

He hesitated as he opened the latch to let the two men inside.

"Now then," Father Michaels said simply, "Let us begin."

Minerva screamed as the priest plunged her into the bathtub. Robert sobbed at the side, watching his daughter be put through this.

Father Michaels had brought several buckets of holy water with him which he filled in their home's bathtub. Then, with the apparatus MacWalsh set up, it would allow him to hold the restrained girl and plunge her into the water as necessary.

The priest chanted in Latin punctuated, with English. "We ask for guidance to cleanse evil from your child in your name... we ask to rid her of her sickness in body and soul..."

All the while, Minerva pleaded with the little air she had between dunks, "Papa, papa, please!"

Robert's face screwed with pain, seeing his daughter like this.

Then, the priest held her under for longer than the quick dunk. Her struggling continued and the bubbles erupted less from the surface.

"Stop it!" He roared, panicked, "Stop it, she can't breathe!"

"Restrain him," Father Michaels ordered MacWalsh, who held Robert down as the older man struggled to get up.

The priest lifted the poor girl out of the water, hacking and coughing horribly, barely giving her time to breathe before she was plunged in once more.

"Stop this! Stop this madness!" Robert pleaded. "You vowed you would not hurt her!"

"I vowed to cleanse the world of Evil!" The Priest retorted, bringing her out.

Minerva screamed.

The world erupted around her as the mirror spiderwebbed. Porcelain sinks shattered. The towels caught fire.

MacWalsh whimpered pathetically from where he held Robert in place. Father Michaels looked both horrified and triumphant.

"This is not natural!" He exclaimed, turning to the girl.

He continued, more fervently reciting, and holding her in longer and longer each time.

Robert roared in frustration and despair.

The door to the bathroom slammed open as Isobel appeared. "What are you doing?!"

"No, get back!" MacWalsh ordered.

"Stop it! Stop it!" Isobel shrieked, rushing at the man and slugging him right across the face. The man went down like a sack of potatoes and Robert stumbled to his feet and pushed Father Michaels aside.

He pulled his daughter out of the bathtub, grateful to hear her coughing and sputtering, but still very much alive. Removing the restraints of the infernal device, he handed her off to Isobel who hurried out of the room.

At last, he turned to the priest, shakily standing up from the floor.

"You... you interfered, Robert," He hissed, pointing around to the ruined bathroom and the smoldering ashes on the towel racks. "This is not natural. Your daughter is clearly straying from God's Light and you abandon your duty in the midst of it. There will be repercussions, mark my words!"

He stumbled out of the bathroom, sending a scathing look back before walking down the stairs to the front hall. MacWalsh scampered behind.

"I-I'm sorry, Rev'rend," He mumbled pitiably.

Robert said nothing.

He stood in the ruins of the bathroom, beside the torture device he'd allowed to be used on his own daughter...

And he wept.

"Imagine that, though." Minnie spoke softly to the Twins, eyes lost. "It's like bein' drowned over and over by yer own father. The man who's supposed to love ya, protect ya... standing beside the man tryin' ta drown a little girl..."

The twins' faces were drawn in horror and shock.

"W-we had no idea," George murmured.

"B-blimey..." the other whispered.

Minnie rubbed her eyes furiously to erase the tear tracts. "It don't matter no more... they're long gone now... muggles don't live as long as witches. And mum didn't last long after him."

Fred spoke bitterly, "Well, your father sounded awful-"

"You shut yer mouth!" she snapped.

The twins' clamped their jaws together as she sighed sadly, "He weren't a bad man... nor a bad father. He was tricked by that priest. Manipulated his fears. He tried to stop what they were doing, he really did, but they just had planned around that."

She sniffled, "He wasn't a bad man. He didn't want any of that. He was just scared.

"He was just so scared for me..." she said at last in a small voice.

...

...

At length, she got up in the silence and made her way out of the classroom, mumbling something behind her about classes tomorrow being cancelled.

Minnie sat before her vanity mirror in her quarters. It was en elegant thing, she remembered this particular one belonging to her mother. She was glad to see it still used.

Looking at her reflection, she couldn't help remembering her own bitterness for a while towards her father.

Then... it was her mother's bravery that saved them.

The Reverend sat stunned at his wife's admission.

A witch.

His wife was truly a witch. His daughter as well...

"I'm so sorry I never told ya," Isobel whispered through her tear stained handkerchief. She looked down at the intricate, wooden wand lying on their table between them. "I had given it all up when I left with you. I hadn't meant to trick you, but I was so scared of you leavin' me for it. I turned my back on that world because I wanted to be with you. I never meant for Minerva to get caught up in this, too."

The man's eyes misted over, so distraught and confused over what to do.

"In truth, Isobel, I don't know what ta do. I know you and you don't seem like the wicked witches praying on Black Sabbaths."

"No, no, my love," She chuckled. "Those fairy tales aren't true for us all. Most witches and wizards are just like you and I. Some wicked, some good, many in-between, tryin' to do the best they can with their lives."

She bit her lip, glancing thoughtfully at the wand. "My love... may I show you something? Some magic I mean?"

The man was startled and a little apprehensive, but nodded nonetheless.

His wife plucked up the wand and turned towards their open living area.

"Expecto Patronum."

A white specter erupted from the tip of her wand, forming the shape of a beautiful eagle, soaring through the living room. Instantly, it was like all the despair in the world melted away, protected by this Guardian of Light.

The figure vanished into wisps eventually, but the lingering feeling stayed.

"W-what was that?" He asked.

"It's called a 'Patronus'. It's... I suppose it's like a witch's familiar, in a sense," she replied. "A spirit animal that represents us and our magic. It's meant ta guard and protect us from a foul creature called a Dementor. It's a difficult spell, and very few can make theirs a corporeal animal instead of a mist or vapor. Witches and Wizards who are too steeped in Dark magics can't ever produce them. It's reliant on the soul being whole and sound."

"It was beautiful," He praised, quietly.

She smiled, "It's made using the happiest memory we can think of while casting."

"What memory did you use?" He asked, curious.

She gazed fondly where the Patronus dissipated, "Our wedding day... and Minerva's birthday..."

They went out into the gardens where Minerva was quietly playing with a few small spring buds on the ground. She looked up at her father a little apprehensively, then turned to her mother.

"D-does papa know?"

Isobel nodded, "Yes, he knows about magic, now."

Minerva grinned a gap-toothed smile and held up a little flower bud in her hand. "Papa! Papa, look!"

She held it up excitedly as she made the small bud bloom in her hands before him, proud to show her father her talents at last.

Robert smiled and embraced his daughter, joyous she still loved him. His wife bent down and held them both close as well.

In his mind, he reflected on a small thought of dark irony. In the end, Father Michaels and MacWalsh were right. His wife and daughter were, indeed witches.

But not like the creatures in nursery tales gobbling up lost children in the forest or cursing the wandering knights. His wife and daughter were witches, yes, but they were far from evil.

Nothing of the Devil could ever hope to bring something forth so pure and wondrous as his loving wife, and beloved daughter.

Minnie gazed thoughtfully in the mirror, remembering.

After the failed "exorcism" (if it were ever even a decent attempt), Father Michaels had followed through with his threats and tried turning the town against her father, citing MacWalsh as a witness.

But no one in town, even the Father's most devout followers, cared for his accusations. It was the 20th century, after all. Not Medieval times. Particularly since MacWalsh was his only source and the town largely ignored the fisherman's unconvincing recounting of the event. He was known for drunkenness and tall tales, so it was written off as another delirious dream from the bottom of a bottle.

Nobody thought much on the McGonagalls, even their stranger behaviors. Especially since Robert was there to help his wife conceal their magic and defend them, citing medical and logical reasons for his wife's occasional reclusive episodes.

In the end, MacWalsh died on a cold winter's night, stumbling out of the bar in a snowstorm and freezing barely a mile out of town.

As for Father Michaels, it had turned out that he was the one run out of town, caught stealing from the coffers and inappropriately coercing a young, married woman. He was never seen again.

And life went on for the rest of them.

Minnie sighed, buttoning her nightgown for the evening. The sun had set and she wasn't particularly hungry at the moment. If she did need a midnight snack, she knew Flopsy would jump at the chance to make a quick sandwich at any hour of the night, bless 'im.

She turned from the mirror, but paused.

She leaned closer to the reflection, running her hand through her head.

With a swift, little pluck, she held out a single, black hair pulled amidst the rest of her fiery, red curls.

AN: How was that, guys? I'm sorry these chapters took so long to publish, but I hit a disinterest in this story for a while. Sifting through my emails reminded me how many people were still interested in it.

I'm not sure I did justice for some characters, but I tried keeping the storyline of McGonagall's past in line with what I had in mind. I couldn't bring her father to be the one to hurt her, since he was canonically so understanding of his wife.

But I wanted a villain, so I made Father Michaels as an antagonistic mix of Judge Claude Frollo, the priest in 'The Backwater Gospel', and a smidge of this one guy in priest robes who would skulk around my college campus loudly decrying girls wearing pants, homosexuals, and... er... sounds like "mastication" (chewing).