#minerva macgonagall

‘She will, Severus, trust me. Crannachan is her favourite dessert, remember? And since you are the one who did almost everything, I am sure she will love it.’

‘Kran-e-ken’, the boy corrected with excellent Gaelic pronunciation.

Oh, how happy she would be to see him. With a nonchalant hand movement, the headmaster cast a quick levitation spell on the dishes while a light emerald coat made its way towards Severus, floating mid-air. 

‘Now let us go to the greenhouse. I am sure Minerva is already there. Would you mind carrying the tray?’

The boy nodded with excitement.

The tray looked huge next to Severus, yet, he carried out the task with great care. Despite his shyness, he had recently started to open up, and Albus had been delighted with the discoveries he had made as a result. First, at 6 years old, the boy showed an early disposition for cooking, and that Albus had learnt in a rather curious way: while the boy had always eaten everything he and Minerva had cooked for him - despite their obvious lack of talent for the culinary art - the elves he had hired to look after the boy when they were away had informed him that Severus not only took great pleasure in cooking, but had shown remarkable talent in identifying ingredients by taste, and made helpful suggestions about which spices to add to the soup. Speaking of smell, the boy was, in fact, ever curious: the first time they had walked down to the greenhouse, he had gathered the courage to ask Minerva what scent was coming from the ground. It had just rained, and the child’s face had lightened up when she had taught him the word petrichor. That was when she had started to teach him her native language; there was no shortage of words relating to the weather and natural world in Gaelic.

At the very moment Albus opened the door to the greenhouse a familiar laughter reached his ears. He could see Minerva’s red tartan blanket from where he stood and felt a sudden breath of childlike joy overcome him, perhaps because Severus, who was standing by his side, was brimming with excitement. His face, usually remarkably pale, was flushed; his small hands, resting on the tray he was holding close to his chest, could not be kept still, and neither could his feet.

‘Would you like to carry the desserts?’, Albus asked, putting down the dishes on the tray. ‘I can cast a spell that makes them very light.’

And there was Minerva. Her black hair was pulled in her usual tight bun, and she was sitting in a wooden chair with the tartan blanket up to her chest. It was a beautiful afternoon in early spring and sunbeams fell elegantly on the ground which, as a result of the dense foliage that covered the greenhouse dome, was speckled with shadows. Filius greeted the headmaster with a smile, moving to his left so that the older man could see Minerva properly. Albus felt the urge to hug her, but, aware that she preferred to leave affectionate gestures to the private sphere, simply pressed his right hand against hers. She smiled at him.

‘I hardly think such a fuss is necessary, my dear. Pomona here makes me feel like an invalid – and Filius, I am perfectly capable of pouring my own cup of tea.’

‘It is my pleasure, Minerva’, the other man responded.

The transfiguration teacher rolled her eyes. ‘Where is Severus, Albus? I thought you said you were bringing him with you?’

Albus frowned, turning back: ‘Why, he is her- Severus?’

But the boy had not followed him. Instead, he was still standing by the door, looking up in the air with what Albus immediately realised were tears running down his face. The old man felt his heart sink. Severus never cried aloud; many times they had thought he was sleeping his back turned in the opposite direction before realising he had been crying silently, while his body and face had kept perfectly still. Every time it had happened the headmaster had felt a sort of bitter, self-directed anger build in his chest: how long would it take for him to get to know the boy? To detect even the smallest signs of distress? He was a great wizard, but being a parent was something else entirely.

He ran towards the boy, kneeling next to him. ‘Severus, what is it?’

The little boy blinked back tears and replied, in a trembling voice: ‘The plant took my desserts’.

For a second Albus stood there, puzzled; then, looking up, he understood. One of Pomona’s plants, a small shrub with gigantic branches with a mind of their own, had taken the tray away from Severus – at this very moment, the dishes were in a precarious position, some four meters above the floor, going from branch to branch towards the shrub.

‘Pomona, can you come for a minute?’, the headmaster asked, gesturing towards her. She approached. ‘It seems that your friend here borrowed something important from Severus.’

The botanic teacher, gently patting the little boy’s shoulder, folded her arms in an authoritarian manner and, in a very teacherly way, looked up at the rebellious branches.

‘RUPERT. You get these down this instant! I am warning you, if any of them wind up broken, you won’t be getting any fertilizer for a week. A WEEK, you hear me?’

Like a child caught red-handed, the plant stood perfectly still the moment Pomona entered the scene – then a kind of high-pitched squeak came from the shrug and, slowly and carefully, the tray made its way back towards Severus, though the branches’ nonchalant gestures clearly indicated that this was being done against their will. Finally, an unhappy branch presented the tray to the child who took it back quickly, scowling at the shrug. The branch, in return, ruffled Severus’ raven hair and made a strange movement that must have been, in retrospect, a plant’s grimace.

And there the rivalry between Rupert and Severus began, something that would, too, last well into his adulthood and make potion ingredients gathering a handful. Often at lunchtime Professor Snape would enter the dining hall looking like he had just swallowed a particularly strong dose of Skele-gro and completely dishevelled – that was why. Often he would get especially frustrated at his students for wasting ingredients – that was also why.

One year, Severus stopped coming, and Rupert’s branches hung miserably in the greenhouse, always beside the door.

‘Oh Severus, I’ve missed you so much!’ Minerva said, smiling at the little boy who was running towards her. And what do you have here? Is that for me? That looks delicious!’

‘Did he make these all by himself, Albus?’ professor Grubbly-Plank asked Albus as Minerva took a bite from her dish, Severus sat on her knees.

‘My dear, he is 6. Of course I helped him’, Albus replied.

‘Well, that is astounding’, Filius said, his mouth full of cream and strawberries.

‘I know. Who would have thought such a little boy could have so much talent?’

‘No, I meant, it is astounding that you helped and these still are excellent’.

‘Those biscuits weren’t that burned!’ Albus protested, vexed. ‘And it was two years ago!’

‘Filius, you’re being too hard on him’, Minerva intervened. ‘Who apart from us can say that they have tasted seasoned ashes? No one, I am sure.’ 

She paused maliciously while the old man huffed. ‘And Severus, these are the best desserts I have ever had.’

Severus’ face turned pink. He remained silent while all the grown-ups kept on talking; then, when the time came to go back to the castle, Minerva refused to let him go, carrying him in her arms all the way up to the castle. The little boy buried his face in her arms, looking as though he would soon fall asleep. Then he whispered, so that only Minerva and Albus could hear: ‘me and daddy have missed you, mum’.

For a second none of the adults could speak. They froze, looking at one another in disbelief: never before had the boy called them mum and dad.

Then, in the mild evening, they hugged him tighter than they ever had before, and Albus felt incredibly grateful – for his little boy, for Minerva who was alright, for all of them who were together; and, he added mentally as they reached the castle, for Severus’ improper use of grammar, fit for a child.

-

Yen - Yves Duteil

Yen

My little Vietnamese flower

I’ll love you no matter what, put your heart close to mine

Yen

Dry your tears forget your sorrows

You may remember that those who loved you are too far away

It has come, 

The time to live your childhood

In your great house in France, surrounded by serene love

Yen, my little Vietnamese flower

Dry your tears forget your sorrows, put your heart close to mine

Yen

May your life be also mine

As true as your parents love you, Drop all of your burdens here

Hate

Regret, Violence and Severe Punishment

May they never return, to wet your cheeks with a trickle of water

Sow 

Your laughter and clear soul

And if sometimes your heart is empty, let all your sobs burst

Love

Draw your strength from mine

And in our hearts that belong to you, find the bottom of your cradle

We’ll have to find the words - to teach you to dream higher...

Yen, my little Vietnamese flower

I’ll be there no matter what, put your heart close to mine

Yen, dry your tears forget your sorrows

You may remember that those who loved you are too far away

It has come, the time to live your childhood

In your great house in France, surrounded by serene love

Yen, my little Vietnamese flower

Dry your tears forget your sorrows, put your heart close to mine

Yen, dry your tears forget your sorrows

For no matter how far away you are coming back from, this country is already yours.

Yen, my little Vietnamese flower