This was written for round 10 of the Quidditch League Challenge. As a team, we had to choose a character that best represented us, and we chose Minerva McGonagall. Beater 1's were then told to write about this character during one of the wars.

I chose three prompts: dancing, perfume, "Don't Look Back" by Alex Days

Word Count: 2,853

The house was exactly as she had last seen it. The little wooden fence wound its way around the house, taking care to include the flowerbed and pond that in reality pushed the boundaries between the McGonagall property and the neighbour's. The grass was a bit overgrown and the flowerbed was in need of weeding but there really was not anything that screamed something was amiss. The little fountain her father had built was gurgling quietly in the center of his pond; the little gnomes and fairies he had set up in the flowerbed as a sort of humorous statement were still there, caught in mid-dance or mid-smile. His handiwork was littered all over her childhood home. Minerva put her hand on the top of one of the little wooden posts, fully intending to push open the makeshift gate and walk in, but found that she could not. Although the house told her everything was as it was, that nothing was missing, she could not ignore the ominous feeling she had about being back here.

When she was younger, her father used to dance her around the house. He'd place the black circular disk onto the record player, carefully dropped the needle onto its spinning surface, and turn the volume way, way up. Then he would smile and pronounce that this was music, that this was a "classic". It didn't ever matter what magical incident had occurred while he was away at work: conjure up the pearls, levitate the neighbour's flowerbeds, or hold lengthy conversations with the family cat. The moment he walked in through the front door, she was his girl. Even as he was kissing his wife, she was his girl; even after the twins were born.

Robert McGonagall was a Muggle who was deceived into marrying a witch and without informed consent had fathered a fair daughter who would develop strong magical abilities alongside a terrible case of nearsightedness and crooked teeth. That is when her mother had told him everything: how she came from a long line of wizards and witches, how he was not supposed to know of the wizarding world because of the Secrecy Law, how any child he had with her would undoubtedly be born with magical capabilities. Most Muggle fathers leave at this point; it's a nasty shock to find out that your wife and unborn child are magical, special, freaks. Children are expensive and require a lot of time and energy as it is, let alone a magical child who would have to grow up and conform to a Muggle community where her natural abilities would mark her as an oddity, a deviant, an outcast. It is a lot to take in and too much to swallow. Not for Robert McGonagall. He had kissed his pregnant wife and promised to return in three hours. He had taken a long walk to get over the shock and clear his head. Then, as promised, he returned to the house with his decision. Four months later he had gripped his wife's hand as she pushed out their first child.

There were many times when he would become angry with her. One time, when she was five, her mother had gone out to the market, and she had set the green rug in the living room on fire. There had not been any smoke because nothing had burned and everything was left untouched but her father had panicked. When her mother was finally able to undo the spell and explain it to him, he had scolded her. He could not understand it, and that made him anxious and angry. Robert was not a foul-humored or unjust man, however; once order as he knew it returned to his house, he would relax and move on. That is when he would play one of his many records. Sometimes he would let her pick, and she would thumb through the large discs, loving the feel of their ridged surface on her fingers. Once spinning on the player, the needle skating along those ridges, Robert would grab her hand and spin her around. To keep up, she would clamber onto his feet, carefully balanced on his insteps. She would grip his large weathered hands firmly in her tiny pink ones and off they would go. Round and round he would step and prance and twirl about the house so that she would shriek with laughter. Perched atop his feet, there were many times she remembered feeling thrown off, off-balanced and off-beat. It thrilled her but it also frightened her, and she would clutch at her father's forearms for a steadier grip. She could not recall a single time where he let her fall; never, in those years from learning to walk to leaving for Hogwarts, did he ever once let her fall.

Taking a deep breath, Minerva McGonagall pushed open the wooden little gate. She walked up the paved walkway, using the bridge to cross over the pond. She did not need to – she was a witch, after all – but it seemed to be fitting. The hollow sound of her boots clunking on the wooden planks resonated within her. The sky was a hazy blue, the sun shining lazily between the clouds so that things were bright but without the chance of suffocating anyone with its heat. It was a beautiful day, but she had no cause to celebrate.

She hesitated before knocking four delicate raps on the sturdy wooden door. A tall witch answered the door as if she had been waiting for a visitor. She was an older woman, with crow's feet already settling in at the corners of her eyes, her skin taking longer to fall back and forth between a smile and a frown. There were streaks of grey in her long dark hair, and the way she absent-mindedly rubbed her palm betrayed her arthritic condition. The woman was Isobel, Minerva's mother.

Isobel drew her wand and pointed it straight at Minerva's heart. She smiled wearily.

"How did I lose my first wedding ring?" she asked.

"Robbie ate it. When was my first fight?" Minerva didn't bother taking out her wand. There was no way to impersonate her mother, for all the Polyjuice Potion in the world could not capture the stern set of her mouth, the defiance in her eye, and the way she carried herself.

"You were nine, it was summer. You and that poor boy down the street." Isobel smiled fondly at the memory and stepped back to allow her in. Minerva swept into the house but didn't return the warmth; her only acknowledgment was a curt nod.

"I put some water to boil before you arrived. I'll go make us each a cuppa. Make yourself comfortable, Minerva, for goodness sakes, you are no stranger!" With a huff, she disappeared into the kitchen.

Minerva let out a long breath before turning towards the little round table. The house was warm, maybe a little too warm. The clock ticked from the foyer, and from the kitchen the kettle began a shrill whistle. There was the smell of lavender and fresh plants, just as her mother liked it, but amidst the normal smell of the house there was something old and familiar, very familiar. A musky scent mixed with something sweet – an odd scent she had not smelled in a long time.

She remembered standing beside him one morning as he got ready for work. She had been seven years old, a gap in her smile from losing one of her front teeth, and small wire glasses balanced on the bridge of her nose. She had leaned against the countertop, propping her head up with her fists and watching him quietly. She assumed that he had buttoned up a shirt, fitted a matching tie, and slipped into some shoes but she had no vivid memory of that. All she could remember was him rolling up the cuffs of his shirt to expose his wrists and reaching for the square bottle with the gold liquid inside. He had screwed off the lid, pressed his fingers to the mouth, and tipped it over. He had dabbed a bit into the insides of his wrists and then on either side of his neck, right at the pulse. One, two, three, four, just like that. The scent had been musky but sweet, too, and though she found the smell of the liquid overpowering and eye-watering, Robert made it smell just like him. She had thought that men always smelled like that because she had only ever seen her mother putting on perfume.

It had been almost noon when her mother had rushed up the stairs at the sound of a crash. She had entered her bedroom to find Minerva barefoot amongst a ring of shattered glass, the green carpet at her feet darkened and soaked through with liquid gold. Everything had been coated in this perfumed water, and everything had smelled like ten Robert's. Isobel had made quick work of the broken bottle and the droplets of musky gold. Minerva had been thrown rather unceremoniously into the tub and scrubbed and checked and double-checked for glass. All the while her mother scrubbed, she had scolded and fussed over her, repeating over and over that girls used perfume not cologne, cologne was for boys. Minerva had only scowled, silent as the grave the entire time her mother lathered and scrubbed and rubbed. Minerva had been washed until her skin no longer held the smell; the room had been aired out and the floor mopped. But try as she could, Isobel had not been able to get the smell out of the rug.

Her father, of course, had told as soon as he returned home about her mischief. He had not gotten angry, just sighed and looked a little disappointed. As it turned out, that little square bottle with the gold liquid had been one of the last sold in a discontinued line. Robert never again smelled like that musky, sweet gold but the rug always smelled like it.

"Here we are," her mother announced, a steaming mug of tea in each hand. Careful not to spill their contents, she placed them on the table, and then took a seat alongside her daughter. Minerva cupped her hands around the steaming mug. Though it was warm in the house, the heat from the tea comforted her. You could feel lonely in the cold but in the heat you were always enjoying the company of another or else wishing there weren't so many others.

"Those are your things over there." She nodded with her chin, indicating a rather large cardboard box in the corner. Observing it, Minerva instantly spotted the edge of the green rug poking out. She also noted that the record player had been sealed in its box and was stacked at the bottom.

"You don't want the record player?" she asked, quite surprised that her mother would relinquish it. Isobel took a sip before answering.

"He would have wanted you to have it."

Minerva nodded, and the two women just sat in silence for a moment, lost in memories as they gazed out at the boxes.

"I was over at Marjory's, two doors down," her mother choked suddenly. "Just two doors down. I didn't think…I never thought…Merlin, if I had just been here!" She put a hand up, hiding her features behind long, slender fingers.

"It's not your fault. You didn't know they would do this. You can't blame yourself."

From behind her fingers, Isobel nodded. But Minerva's voice was hollow and provided little conviction. As much as she tried to squelch it, a part of her did blame her mother. Why wasn't she there that day? She should have been there, she should have protected him. Robert McGonagall was a Muggle; one Muggle man against two skilled and powerful Death Eaters had odds so skewed it was laughable. It would have evened out if his witch of a wife had been there with him – if she had been there for him. Then maybe, just maybe, he would be with them there, scratched, shaken, and bruised but breathing. So although Minerva's words offered no blame, inside she was seething.

"I quit my job," Minerva announced suddenly, as much to change the subject as to inform her mother. Isobel's hand slipped onto the table, and her back straightened up to peer sternly at her daughter. Minerva gazed back, refusing to be intimidated.

"Why?" Minerva was surprised that her mother could sound so calm at such a moment.

"The Ministry is corrupted. It's not in the Prophet, no one is talking about it, but it is. You-Know-Who has taken over. I refuse to work for him. What we are asked to do – what I am being asked to do – is not something I signed up for, nor would I have."

There was a long moment of silence for which her mother just gazed at her. Finally, she asked, "What will you do?"

It was now Minerva's turn to hesitate. "I was approached…Professor Albus Dumbledore and I have been meeting quite frequently for a while. He offered me…a position at the castle."

"What would you teach?"

"Transfiguration," she answered with a smile. "Everyone knows that's my favourite subject."

Isobel frowned. "The pay is not much as a teacher. How will you pay for expenses: food, living?"

"Well that's the great thing, Mother, I won't have to pay for rent because I will have a room in the castle, and food is provided as well. Room and board is taken care of, I would only have to worry about clothes and personal items."

Her mother said nothing. Both women lifted their cups and took a sip, not quite meeting the other's eye. Minverva's stomach began to squirm. She had to tell her mother – she had to. But while she knew Isobel would never side with the Dark Lord, how could she know she would side with the rebellion? Maybe she had developed bitterness for both sides, hating the two equally.

"There is another reason why Albus and I have been meeting." She waited for Isobel's reaction but her face remained neutral. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "He has asked me several times to join the Order."

The colour drained from Isobel's face in seconds.

"Are you out of your mind?" she hissed. "Do you think I want a call of how another member of my family has been killed?"

"Join it or not, do you honestly think we can make it safely with You-Know-Who controlling the government? Our only chance is to try to overthrow him!"

They glared at each other, mother and daughter, identical pursed lips and fiery eyes.

"Oh, finish your tea! I don't want to speak anymore of politics." With that, Isobel drained her cup and rose to leave. Minerva rolled her eyes behind her mother's back but complied.

They talked for a few minutes more, making sure to avoid any topic remotely related to politics or current affairs, which did not leave much except the health and welfare of Minerva's younger brothers. Her thoughts reeled, soaking in her disappointment and resentment of her mother's reaction. How could she be so obtuse? Didn't she know that things were only going to get worse? It was too late for her father – for all the Muggles and Muggle-borns that had already been murdered or executed like criminals. All they could do now was make sure the future was not like that, that they – Robbie, Malcolm, and Minerva herself – would not be hunted down like game because of the Muggle blood that infused their name. Minerva did not have the heart or will power to look back; she could not stay living in the past. The past was gone, overturned by this horrible dream of despair, and she refused to live in it. Her father would not have wanted to. Even in death, Minerva was sure that she had her father's blessing in her decision in joining the Order, if not her mother's.

But soon it was time for her to go, her tolerance ticking away like a bomb.

Minerva pointed her wand at the two boxes and transfigured each into a marble: a solid black one for her father's record player and a giant white marble with streaks of colour running through it. The largest streak was that deep green of the rug, and Minerva thought that she could catch a faint whiff of father's cologne even in this transfigured state. With her father's records and spilled cologne tucked securely in one hand and her mother's kisses still damp on her cheeks, she made to set out passed the wooden gate where she would be able to Disapparate.

"Minerva!"

She turned back around, wondering what else, her mother could want. Isobel had an odd expression on her face but she waited patiently.

"If you do join, you know…and you catch those bastards…do let me know, will you?"

And Minerva couldn't help the grin that cracked into her face.

"You'll be the first to know."