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Strange and Wondrous by Vivien
Rating: This chapter R for Really Angsty.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. I am simply borrowing them. No profit is made, no disrespect intended.
Summary: The last tie between Minerva and the man who was Tom Riddle is severed.

Release

Albania and McGonagall Castle, Christmas Day, 1978

The mountain was one of the highest in Albania, and its craggy peak had been shrouded in cloud and mystery for as long as anyone remembered. Wizard's Peak it was called, and it had been called this for centuries. Magic users avoided the treacherous slopes of the mountain, perceiving the malice that dwelt here amongst the slipping boulders and narrow trails. Muggles stayed clear of the mountain altogether.

If a witch or wizard tread one of the trails winding up into the treacherous heights of the peak, he or she would encounter the gaping mouth of a cave. Upon looking inside, this person might perceive a pile of rubble, a cave in. And this person would then feel a wave of palpable dread warning a hasty retreat. No one would go inside the cave. For within the depths of the cave was a highly warded, Unplottable cavern, a stronghold.

The one wizard who could access this secret place counted on the reputation and folklore of Wizard's Peak, along with his own spells, to provide him a refuge from the rest of the world. At one time, he had come here often, escaping followers and enemies alike. Behind the rock fall was a room. It was of simple brick, with one enchanted high window that would always and forever let in the silver glow of a winter moon. The room contained a four- poster bed, an armchair beside a crackling fire, and bookshelves upon bookshelves.

It had been years since Tom Marvolo Riddle had escaped here. It had been years since the wizard had even remembered who Tom Marvolo Riddle was. But he was here now, and no one knew, not even his closest minions. This interlude in his former sanctuary was not one of rest, but of torment.

He sat in the armchair, staring into the flames of the enchanted fire. Tonight he did not feel like Lord Voldemort, all-powerful Dark Wizard, master of many, pursuer of immortality. His very presence in this place proved his weakness, which he'd thought he'd purged from himself years ago. Voldemort had supplanted Tom Marvolo Riddle, or so he'd thought. And yet here he was, still tied to his past with cords of pain and longing.

Moving pictures of a dark-haired little girl with eyes like his own were strewn about the armchair, spilling out from a box on his lap. In some of the pictures was the face of a woman he'd tried to forget. She looked at him sadly from each one, even as their daughter radiated happiness. He slowly began packing away the photographs. He would not be coming here anymore, and he would not be taking these images with him. This would be the ending of this chapter in his life. This would be the ending for Tom Marvolo Riddle. Voldemort could afford him one final night.

Once the pictures had been replaced, Tom reached for a red bound book on the shelf. He opened it, shuffling through the empty pages to make sure it would be suitable. He conjured a quill and ink well, and then holding the quill and his wand in one hand, he began to write and cast an elaborate incantation.

Minerva's study was freezing, but she was too numb to notice. Even with the fortification of another shot of whiskey, she was too anesthetized by shock to feel anything. The shadows of the room suited her mood, although Mimsy had managed to light two candles earlier in the evening.

She'd been here since the previous night, hiding in this room in McGonagall Castle. It was part of her old suite of rooms, and even though she officially lived at Hogwarts most of the year, she called these rooms home. After all, the next room was where Miranda had come into the world.

All around her were moving photos of herself and Miranda. Her baby girl, gurgling and cooing in her cradle. Mother and daughter on holiday in France, Miranda beaming and showing missing front teeth. Miranda at Hogwarts in Gryffindor robes. Miranda in her robes from the Quidditch World Cup playoffs last summer, when she'd played for the English National Team. Miranda, her beautiful, intelligent, strong, and talented daughter.

The house elves had wanted to cover the pictures, but she had refused. It would have hurt her more to see the frames darkened and quiet.

Her daughter was dead, and it was her fault. She might as well have held the wand that struck her down.

Minerva cradled her head in her hands. She had never regretted her affair with Tom, because the result had been Miranda. He had made good on his promise to send money to support his daughter. Every year a scruffy barn owl came to her window with a pouch of gold, and in the early years of Miranda's life, a letter. Tom never mentioned reuniting and focused instead on his thoughts and questions about his daughter. Minerva would always respond, following his lead by sending pictures of Miranda and glowing reports of her year's accomplishments.

But as the years went by, the letters stopped, even though the gold did not. Minerva placed it into a savings vault for Miranda; it would be hers when she came of age. Minerva was saddened whenever she thought of Tom, of what they could have had. But ever did she delight in Miranda, her strange and wondrous gift.

For the most part, Minerva was content with her life. She had a career she enjoyed; teaching had not been something she'd ever considered before. Once she was in her classroom, she found she had not only talent and skill to teach the young minds before her, but she actually enjoyed it. During the holidays, she spent time with Miranda and with old friends and worked on various research projects. She had made a pleasant life for herself and her child, or so she had thought until a few years ago.

When she had first heard the name Voldemort in conjunction with rumors of Dark Rites being performed once again in England, she had held out a slight hope that it was not Tom, but some other Dark wizard. She knew that this could not be true. Immediately she had started researching the Silentium charm, in a frantic attempt to figure out some way to break its hold over her. She still felt the call of the Darkness binding the charm secretly within her brain when she thought too long about Tom or Voldemort. She even broached the subject with Albus. He could not help her, saying that as far as he knew, Silentium was unbreakable without mutual consent, and as a result, a powerful weapon that the Dark forces could use against those of the Light, and vice versa. Minerva had quailed inwardly at the thought of this. She knew secrets that would help in the fight against Darkness but she could not share them.

That Christmas, she'd tried a few different magical ways to track the owl sent to her on its annual mission. If she could pinpoint Tom's location, she might be able to let Aurors know. But her own owl was unable to follow it and returned forlornly with an unread message to Tom in its beak. It sulked in the Owlery for a week afterwards, feeling it had let her down. The Tracking Charm she'd placed on Tom's owl disintegrated once it had crossed over the English Channel. The other spells she'd attempted also came to naught. She fancied it would have been more effective to tie a thread to its talon and follow its path that way.

In no way did she want to raise Tom's suspicions or risk his ire - she did not know who he was anymore. The Darkness he'd absorbed could have changed him entirely by now. She worried not just for her own safety, but first and foremost for Miranda's. She was a teenager now, and would be a qualified witch herself soon, but Minerva still could not tell her about the danger her own father could present to her. Along with vain research into breaking the Silentium charm, Minerva once more began formulating strategies to fight the Dark Arts.

More and more unrest and atrocities linked with the name Voldemort became evident as the 1970's passed. When Albus reformed the Order of the Phoenix, he invited Minerva to join. She did so wholeheartedly, even though she could not utter the name of the wizard they had all promised to fight. She called him You Know Who, and was amazed when the name stuck, adopted by those too frightened of his growing power to speak his name. And there were many who were terrified. The tales of his power over magic and over others were chilling. Even as she banned together with the Order, she lost sleep every night over the fact that conspiring in silence with the man who would become Voldemort had made her a traitor. Rationally she told herself that she had no way of knowing what would happen, but in her heart of hearts she condemned herself for suspecting from the very first moment and not caring one whit.

Her one consolation through the darkening times had been Miranda. But yesterday all of Minerva's lies and concealments had born bitter fruit. Miranda had been in Hogsmeade to meet with friends before coming home to McGonagall Castle for the holiday. They had all gone to the Hogshead, it being a favorite haunt of theirs since school days. Lily Evans and Sirius Black had first noticed the figures in black cloaks enter. A confrontation had ensued, for Miranda had also been a member of the Order, as had all of her friends present that night. They knew Voldemort's supporters when they saw them. The two Death Eaters had been caught off guard, but quickly the curses had flown quickly and thickly. While attempting to deflect a poorly aimed Nerve Disruption curse from a group of innocent bystanders, Miranda had been struck in the heart. She had died in seconds.

The Death Eaters had escaped and the Aurors assigned to the case had not, so far, been able to track them. Alastor was the agent in charge, and if he couldn't find them, no one could. Her daughter's death had made the front page of the Daily Prophet that Christmas morning, but the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had concealed the details of her death until further investigation could be completed.

And now, Minerva was lost in the torment of her guilt. She had had the knowledge to possibly stop Voldemort years ago. If not for her traitorous heart, her daughter might be sitting beside her laughing, instead of being laid out in her finest robes in the McGonagall family crypt. How had it come to this?

A tapping on the window startled her. It was the scruffy brown owl. In its talons was a book. Minerva grabbed her wand and considered blasting it out of the sky. Finally however, she took pity on the bird, and simply opened the window. It flew into the room and dropped the book onto the desk. Then it fluttered to the windowsill and landed. Minerva's stomach balled into a sickly cold cramp. It had been instructed to wait.

Her wand at the ready, she tentatively walked to the desk and picked up the book. Sitting down because her legs would no longer hold her up, she carefully opened it. On the blank first page of the book, words slowly appeared as if being written in an invisible hand.

Words must be said, Minerva. If you would hear them, write yes.

She should take this book straight to Albus or Alastor. She should throw it into a fire or cast into the depths of the loch. She should write yes.

Somehow a quill was in her hand, and she was writing. As soon as she had written the word, a burst of bright light erupted from the book, and then came a sensation of falling as Minerva was pulled into the pages.

She was in Tom's old room at the Karkaroff mansion. The moonlight flooded through the high window, casting deep shadows. From one of those shadows stepped Tom, the Tom she had known, the Tom she had loved with a reckless passion. She sank to her knees, vaguely aware of the wand still in her hand, but her mind felt disconnected from her body.

"How?" she managed to utter.

He came to stand in front of her, a sad smile on his face. He was so young, so beautiful. Minerva closed her eyes, knowing that this could easily be the trap that would end her life.

"It's a complicated bit of magic actually," Tom said quietly. "I played about with giving my memories life in school, but this is me. Or rather an aspect of me." He reached down and touched her shoulders lightly.

Minerva looked up, tears in her eyes. "What do you want?"

Tom took her hands and raised her up to her feet. "I know our daughter is dead. Those responsible. have been taken care of." His face twisted with hatred. "They weren't supposed to. I thought I had more control over my followers. I will from now on."

"This is... this is unbelievable," she said. "Why have you done this? Seeing you is... it's agony to me. You've already murdered my daughter, what more do you want of me?"

"You were the only person I ever accepted into my life with love, Minerva. I used to cherish your memory, even if it was a weakness." He reached for her hand and cradled it gently to his chest.

"You were right, by the way, about the Darkness changing me. To create this enchantment, I had to remember who I used to be, and it wasn't easy. I may be evil, but I have the capacity to grieve. I never wanted our daughter hurt. As Voldemort I wanted to use her in some way eventually, but even then I wouldn't have purposely hurt her." He paused, and silence grew between them. She could smell candle wax and felt the warmth of the fire. "Minerva, this is the last time I'll think of my past."

"What do mean?" said Minerva. She could feel his chest rise and fall under her hand. How had he created this spell? The power involved...

"Our last connection has been severed, Minerva. We are enemies, as we should have always been."

He held out his wand. "I wish to break the Silentium charm. I will release you from your bond to me."

Minerva slowly brought her wand to cross his. She looked in his eyes, and even now, with the anger and the grief churning within her, she felt an overwhelming yearning for the memory of Tom. She closed her eyes.

"I release you, Minerva McGonagall from our pact of Silentium. Finite Incantatem." Tom caressed her cheek. "Goodbye, Minerva."

"I release you, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Finite Incantatem," Minerva whispered. She had one more glimpse of his sad smile as the world turned white and she swirled back into the coldness of her chamber. The owl hopped down from its perch and snatched the book from the floor where it had fallen. It swooped out the window, and Minerva never saw it again.

She sat frozen on the floor for a moment, as she processed what had just happened. Her heart was buried in grief, but her spirit was lighter than before. The guilt was still pressing upon her, but now she would be able to tell all she'd been forced to keep hidden. She'd tell even if it meant Azkaban. Her memories were once more her own. The tears came freely now, where before they'd been staid by her impotence.

There was a soft knocking on the door. "Minerva? May I come in?" It was Albus. Minerva struggled to her feet, conjuring a handkerchief. She would tell Albus now. He would know what to do with the information, what to do with her.

He entered the room, carefully shutting the door behind him. "I came as soon as I could get away. I am so sorry, Minerva. Is there anything I can do?"

"I must... oh, Albus, I must tell you some troubling things. Will you listen to my confession?"

Albus nodded and said gravely, "I know some of what you need to say, Minerva, and I can guess why you've not told me before. Miranda had her father's eyes. You will find no condemnation from me for affairs of the heart long since past." Albus opened his arms to her, and Minerva rushed to them, sobbing with relief and refreshed sorrow. She was free, but at a high cost. The words tumbled out with her tears, and something like hope wriggled its way once again into her heart.

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