AU where Minerva McGonagall has a little less faith in Albus Dumbledore so she does agree to leave Harry at the Dursleys.
But then proceeds to move right in next door with her wife because Albus never said that she couldn’t.
So Harry grows up with two grandmalike aunties next door, who basically finnagle him into living with them in all but name. It’s great, until he gets to Hogwarts because he keeps accidentally calling McGonagall Aunt Min instead of Professor.
The more I think about this the better it gets because suddenly a small biracial orphan appearing on the Dursley’s doorstep is less scandalous and gossip worthy in the
pasty ass white suburbia of Privet Drive, when it’s compared to the elderly lesbian interracial couple who moved in next door.
Okay this has an amazing amount of potential for Harry, but I am very filled with curiosity about Minerva’s wife.
1) Who is she? and more importantly
2) How did this marriage come to pass?
I mean I am all for Minerva McGonagall having had a wife already at this juncture in her life, but consider
1) Utter BAMF who is acknowledged to be out of everyone’s league Minerva McGonagall walking into a Ministry break room full of lady Aurors and the like and saying, “I have a child that needs looking after and a neighborhood full of prats who need scandalizing and will marry the first woman to say yes” and there is a moment’s shock and then the verbal equivalent of half a dozen bridesmaids diving for the bouquet with one clear winner who was a split second faster on the uptake and they end up in love by the time Harry is old enough to toddle properly.
2) The house next door is being sold by the daughter of its occupant who just inherited it and wants nothing to do with Little Whinging except to inflict herself on all the narrow-minded bastards long enough to get a good price for it; when Minerva walks in the door there is a mental adjustment that leaves her swooning (or maybe that’s Minerva) and after tea, dinner, and certain other activities she invites Minerva to live with her instead of selling it.
3) Minerva specifically tracks down the schoolmate she knows to be best at making stupid people regret everything, and asks her to pretend to be her wife, share a house in Little Whinging with her, and help keep an eye on Harry Potter. Both of them solidly overestimated their ability to keep the relationship fake.
“You’ve gone off the pot, Minnie,” Neith said with a laugh.
She took one of the biscuits from the tin on Minerva’s desk.
“Albus is the one who I think has cracked his pot,” Minerva
sighed. “I hate saying that, but…I don’t know. I don’t like this plan of his. Leaving
the boy with those…I’ve got nothing against muggles, but these sort are
horrendous even by muggle standards I’m certain!”
Neith hummed, chewing delicately. The woman was all about
delicate looks: her skin was smooth and rich like fine silk dyed an earthy
Ochre brown. Her hair was glossy and black with one streak of white at her
forelock swooped over her forehead and behind her ear. Her nose large but proud
and beautiful, and her lips painted a deep red that stood out against her skin.
Even the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes seemed placed with care, showing
the beauty of her experience in life rather than age.
Minerva McGonagall knew better though. She knew Neith
Elrashidy was one of the best aurors of her generation, and one would do better
to stay on her good side if they didn’t want to end up on the wrong side of her
wand.
Raynor: Do you like me?
Kerrigan: We’re not going through this again.
Raynor: But do you like me or like-like me?
Kerrigan: Jim! We’ve been married for five years!
Raynor: You didn’t answer the question.
Kerrigan: [sighs] Yes I like-like you.
Raynor: [smirks] Knew it.
Before he was reduced to one name, the gnome called Davenport had seven.
“Davenport” was, of course, his clan name. He was never called Davenport back home, for the simple reason that there were a hundred Davenport gnomes in his village.
A gnome’s names are their currency, the story of a well-lived life. Davenport’s grandfather had twelve, all given to him by important people or loved ones, all used interchangeably. Earning names was more important to the Davenport clan than earning gold, property or titles.
“Druby” was the name his mother gave him at birth: a simple gnomish name that meant springtime rain. His siblings and cousins called him Dru, with an affection that never failed to make him smile.
Before the age of ten, his father named him “Orryn” after his famous, many-named grandfather. “You come from a long line of good, strong gnomes,” he told Davenport. “Good, strong fathers. Remember that for when you have your own children.”
When he came of age, the clan elder named him Camma, the gnomish word for stone. “Your head is always in the sky, Druby Orryn Camma Davenport,” the elder said during his naming ceremony. “You need to come back down to earth. I hope this name will refocus you.”
Davenport’s friends collectively called him “Scrapton,” because it was an effortless gnomish name that suited him. And when Davenport left home to find his own way in the universe, his mother gave him yet another name: Lumin, a word that meant starlight. “I know you’ll find your way,” she told him, tears in her eyes. “Just don’t go too far away as you do. Think of us now and again.”
When Davenport made the decision to leave his clan and join the Institute, to embark on an adventure hardly imaginable, he also made the decision to shorten his name. Most other races had one or two names, and that was all. He wanted to fit in. He wanted a seamless transition to the real world.
But despite leaving, he couldn’t bear to give up his clan completely. So he decided to go by Davenport. It was his oldest name, his longest name. The name he was proudest to carry.
He introduced himself to his crew as Captain Davenport, and nobody blinked. Over their century together, his new family developed nicknames for him. They called him Dav, they called him Captain, they called him Cap’n’port, and it felt a bit like home. Like returning to who he truly was: a many-named gnome. A gnome with a well-lived life, a gnome with stories to tell.
He only told his names to one person that century: Merle. He listed them off like secrets one night, forty cycles into the mission. He wasn’t sure why that night, of all nights, he decided to share who he truly was. But Merle smiled and listened and it felt right, all the same.
When everything else was taken, the name remained.
He said “Davenport,” and the echo of a hundred gnomes answered inside him. He didn’t know what else to say.
He said “Davenport” and he saw flashes of an uncle, a grandmother, a second cousin twice removed. Their names were lost to him now. The clan as a conglomerate was all that remained. Roots, holding him down to nothing. Chaining him to a single name that echoed, and echoed, and echoed inside him.
He said “Davenport” because that’s who he had chosen to be. A one-named gnome, aboard a ship, bathed in starlight. On an adventure to nowhere, following a map he could not read.
The first thing he remembered, when the voidfish’s ichor slid down his throat, were his names. They hit him like hailstones, reverberating around his mind. Druby Dru Orryn Camma Scrapton Lumin Davenport. It was all he could do to keep from screaming them aloud. Reclaiming them once and for all.
He turned to Lucretia and asked, “What have you done?” And what he meant was: what have you done with my names? How had she hidden them, when she hadn’t even known they existed? Where had she put them?
Looking into her eyes in that moment, he knew: she didn’t understand. With all her books and observations and plans, there was still so much Lucretia couldn’t understand. He closed his eyes, listening to the approaching storm. Listening to his names, echoing; names he had only spoken aloud once in a hundred years. Then he opened his eyes, and he spoke. His voice, returned. His mind, back on the mission. His head, back in the sky.
Important thing to point out about travel by foot or horseback: if you’re traveling over mountains, you can basically cut those distances in half on a clean trail, and in thirds or quarters on a trail you have to blaze yourself. Although someone who’s been in the mountains for months or years may be able to travel at the paces listed above for several days at a clip. (For instance, it’s not uncommon for an Appalachian Trail thru-hiker, carrying about 30 pounds, to do 20 or even sometimes 25 miles a day, six days a week, once they’ve had enough time out there to build up into an endurance athlete.)
“Radar scans of the red
planet suggest that a stable reservoir of salty, liquid water measuring
some 12 miles across lies nearly a mile beneath the planet’s south pole.
What’s more, the underground lake is not likely to be alone.”
Yeah, I know!!! There’s still some reasonable doubt because the Smart Science People don’t want to jump to crazy conclusions, but there’s still a strong case for the lake actually being there!
thisacelovesheadcanons 