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[personal profile] outflewtheweb
Title: Woman of a Thousand Faces
Word Count: 693

Rating:
G
Pairing: none!
Fandom: Harry Potter, which I don't own.
Author's Notes: Being forgotten is unpleasant, but it has its upsides. She isn't who she was, but McGonagall is pretty happy with how she lives today. But it wouldn't kill them!

Beta:[livejournal.com profile] masterofmidgets 



Minerva McGonagall was an underappreciated woman. She’d often had a sneaking sympathy for that poor child Tom Riddle – it was disappointing to have your achievements overlooked all the time, and even if you were regarded as something exceptional, other witches and wizards had no idea who you were. In fact, some people had no idea she existed.

Toughest teacher at Hogwarts. Nitpick Extraordinaire. Bloody brilliant. That weird cat lady. Those, and those alone, were her titles. It was obvious why – Dumbledore was there. And he was the Greatest Wizard of the Age.

So he’d defeated that last Dark wizard – worked to develop the Philosopher’s Stone – raised this school from a moldering wreck after Grindewald to the glory it was. She didn’t deny that was big. Academically, though, what had he done? Well, maybe the Philosopher’s Stone counted, but that was obviously more trouble than it was worth.

And she had to admit her accomplishments sounded lesser by far. Pioneer in the animagi field – what did that mean? Animagi had ben around for forever. Of course, she’d developed the entire modern process, dissecting the haphazard, deadly, easily messed up path and reducing it to its basic elements, then reconstructing a path that didn’t take years of undiverted attention and years off your life and your entire bank account and sixteen illegal ingredients. Collaborating with Snape, a fellow overshadowed talent, she’d discovered the werewolf potion – neither could’ve done it alone, one an expert Potions Master, the other an expert at shape change of every sort. She’d developed a spell to transform rotten wood into fresh planking, which never needed renewed. How… unimpressive. And then there were the fifty-three other spells, useful, tidy, simple, that wizards used every single day and never knew who invented them or cared.

In her youth she’d been a vampire hunter with thirty-three cases successfully resolved, a record unbeaten since, the rogue vampires placed in captivity or killed if they were thoroughly insane. She was the one who stood at Albus’s side when he fought Grindewald, much as Miss Granger would stand at the side of Mr. Potter when he fought Voldemort. Presumably that girl would end up exactly as she had – Transfiguration teacher, old before she was aged. Had she ever had a daughter, she would’ve wanted one like Hermione. Well, while she was at school, at least, she could pretend the girl was hers.

Tom Riddle had never been able to handle being underappreciated. He was brilliant, he was brave, he was handsome – why should Albus Dumbledore, of all people, whose time was obviously past even then, be more famous than he? That had been a disaster. And the same with all his Death Eaters – without recognition, they had faded into wraiths revenging themselves on omission. Professor Snape was one of the luckier – he escaped with his soul intact at the price of a soured temperament. And Dumbledore, like Harry, had never seen this until it was too late and never known what to do to disappear into the woodwork. He too had felt the accolades undeserved – it was, perhaps, why he mentored Harry so. She couldn’t hate him for it – it would be undeserved, and uncalled for. Albus was truly a good man, and had become much more so as he grew older and understood more about people.

In the end, though, when all things were considered, it seemed rather more satisfactory to be merely a teacher. It was quiet – people never stopped you for autographs. The only people who knew you were your students and classmates. There was only respect for your character and intelligence, none for accidents or duels or accomplishments, and having an entire school respect you completely was worthwhile. She had become who she was. All her experiences were over and done, with the sole result of herself. That was all there was to it. She was not, as she had been, Artemis the Huntress or Brigit the Wildwoman, stalking vampires in disguise, changing animal and object. Nor was she Athena the Wisewoman. She was simply Minerva.

But was it too much to ask, just to open a chocolate frog and see her face?

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August 2011

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