Title: A Slant-Told Tale
Author: Squibstress
Rating: MA
Genre: Drama, romance
Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism
Published: 23/05/2017
Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling.
Chapter Eight
2 May 1946
“Will you shut that brat up?” Kenneth Macnair roared. He slammed the door to his study and stalked back to his desk.
Walden’s mewling was adding to the throbbing in his temples, and images of himself throttling the boy and his sorry house-elf excuse for a nursemaid were beginning to tramp ominously through his head.
Everything’s going pear-shaped. Why is everything going pear-shaped? he thought, looking at his papers and charting the steady decline of his investment income.
Ever since that meddling, half-blood bastard had sent Grindelwald to prison, the special, select markets into which Kenneth had poured much of his ready cash had been skittish at best. And the Swiss and Austrian Magical Exchanges had nearly collapsed, taking a good part of his portfolio with them.
Things weren’t dire—not yet. Kenneth hadn’t been so foolish as to sink all his liquid assets into vehicles that disappeared when Grindelwald fell, as some of his acquaintances had done. But the reduction in his assets was a definite worry.
Gods! His head was aching. Maybe after lunch he would pop down to London for a short spree. The exercise always did him good, and he usually felt more settled in his head after a session at Pluto’s Lair.
It would cost him, though. He frowned to himself. Probably extra after that last time. They always jacked up the price after you’d put someone in St Mungo’s. If his investments didn’t turn around, he’d have to find a cheaper house in which to indulge his fantasies. It might even be more economical to buy whores right off the street, but then again, there was no guarantee they’d be any good, and eventually someone might notice if too many went missing.
There were always Muggle brothels; it was easy enough to charm some worthless paper into Muggle pound notes, and by the time the charm wore off, he’d be long gone. And if he slipped and killed one … well, it would be harder for the Muggle authorities to trace it back to him. Of course, that hadn’t helped his father, but really, the man was hardly careful, was he? Absolutely no control of himself, he’d had, Kenneth thought with a sneer. It had been good riddance to bad rubbish, as far as Kenneth-the-Younger was concerned, and the same went for his worthless brother. Arranging things for Finn had cost him dearly, and there was money he’d never see again.
Kenneth’s father and older brother hadn’t understood the importance of self-discipline, although they were quick enough to apply it to others, Kenneth thought.
Lazy. Stupid.
Unfortunately, his oldest son seemed to take after his grandfather and uncle rather than his father in that. The boy was worthless. At least his taste in whores and their wares ran to the more pedestrian, and therefore less expensive, pleasures.
Kenneth Banished his paperwork to a drawer and locked his study.
Luncheon was a quiet affair that afternoon, the blessed silence broken only by Gerald’s occasional comment on the gossip of the day or how one of his Abraxans was coming along.
Kenneth amused himself, as he often did, with watching his daughter-in-law. Normally, he liked to play a little game with her during meals: see how many pointed comments about Muggles or half-breeds or women it would take before she would set down her knife and fork, obviously too upset or angry to eat any more.
Today, though, his head ached too much, so he contented himself with staring at Minerva as she ate, quietly and oh-so-daintily moving her fork to her mouth and back to her capon. He managed to catch her eye once, and he made a point of licking his lips, winning him the contest she didn’t even know she was engaged in, as she carefully placed her utensils at the side of her plate in silent resignation.
The woman his son had married often preyed on Kenneth’s mind. When he had contracted with McGonagall for her, he had expected her to be quiet—subtle enquiry had assured him that Minerva McGonagall was not one of those noisy, impudent girls—and to know her place as a proper pure-blood witch. Outwardly, everything pointed to that soothing conclusion, but she didn’t fool Kenneth for long. The first inkling had, of course, been her insistence on this apprenticeship of hers. Kenneth had thought he could get around it, but the girl had apparently beguiled her father into backing her on it, and there was no getting around Magnus McGonagall when he had his mind made up to something.
Kenneth had considered carefully, weighing his options. Minerva McGonagall was a brilliant catch for the Macnair family, that much was clear. Her family name went back to before the Norman Conquest, and the magical bloodline was as unblemished as any in Britain. If a Macnair were to marry into that clan, he thought, it would go a long way toward restoring the family name from the ravages that had beset it in the past few decades. There were Kenneth’s father and brother and their ignominy—not widely known, but wide enough when the right questions were asked—and the associations his aunt and several cousins had formed with Muggle-borns to contend with. And his great-grandfather had irrevocably sullied the family pedigree by marrying that Muggle whore, which, when Kenneth thought of it, was probably where the stupidity so evident in his close relatives had come from. Thank Baal it didn’t touch every member of the family.
In retrospect, it had been a good thing, Kenneth had thought, that negotiations with the Yaxley family had fallen through the previous year. The Yaxleys, though pure-blood, were not nearly as well regarded as the McGonagalls, and besides, their too-open allegiance to Gellert Grindelwald might have had unpleasant repercussions for some of Kenneth’s business holdings. He didn’t keep all his investments in pure-blood circles, after all. Whatever his personal values, diversity of one’s portfolio was important, as recent events had shown.
There was no whiff of Darkness about the McGonagall clan, although Kenneth had been careful to sound out Magnus on his beliefs and had found that the man was, if not totally in line with right-thinking political philosophy, at least leant in the correct direction. And of course, he was hungry for cash, a predicament that, in Kenneth’s experience, generally superseded any moral or political philosophy, no matter how dearly held.
So Kenneth had overlooked the apprenticeship clause. Besides, he had believed Minerva would abandon it as soon as she had a child or two to manage. Of course, the girl was turning out to be a disappointment on that score as well. Since Malcolm’s birth, there had been no sign of any further pregnancies. By the time Gerald had been a year old, Heloise had already had the first two of her many miscarriages. Gerald had assured his father that he was doing his best to impregnate Minerva, whatever his “best” was. Maybe the problem was Gerald’s. Too bad Kenneth couldn’t stand in for his son there, he thought. It might be a great deal of fun to show the girl what a man could do.
Of course, he thought as he looked at her across the table, there are other ways.
Gerald was obviously falling down on his duty in more ways than one. The fact that his wife was still spending four days a week in London, doing Circe knew what with that Marchbanks hag, was proof of it. The boy had not taken his wife properly in hand.
I’d be doing him a favour if I took her down a peg or two.
When luncheon was finished, Gerald hurriedly stood and excused himself. Off to preen over one of his horses, thought his father. Or maybe to place a few more ill-considered wagers. Heloise said she had some shopping to do in London and took to her rooms to freshen up and to fortify herself for the purpose with a potion or two, no doubt. Minerva said nothing, but silently pushed her chair back and left the dining room.
She was obviously taken aback when Kenneth entered the nursery; he almost never came near the place, and with good reason. It smelt of powder and pap.
He walked over and briefly kissed his grandson on his curly head, then patted little Walden absently. “It’s a fair day,” he said to the elf-nanny. “These boys should be out in the sunshine, enjoying it.”
The elf needed no more prodding; she quickly gathered the children’s outdoor things and bustled out of the nursery with her charges.
When she had gone, Kenneth turned to Minerva. “Well, young Mistress Macnair, we find ourselves entirely alone, I see.”
Minerva said nothing and went to gather her cloak from the peg near the door.
Too haughty by half.
When she moved toward the door, Kenneth placed himself in front of it.
“What’s your hurry, madam?”
“Let me pass, please.”
“I don’t think so. We so rarely have the opportunity to talk, you and I. I can hardly pass up this chance.”
She just stood there, staring at him insolently.
He reached out to take hold of her, and she swiftly stepped back. As she tried again to pass him, he grabbed her by the hair, pulling her back into the room.
“Gerald will be back within the hour,” she gasped as she tore at his hands.
He moved her swiftly against the large table, sweeping the toys and books off its surface with his wand, which he slipped quickly into his pocket once again. “Plenty of time for what I have in mind, mistress. Plenty.”
As he clawed at her bodice, he saw her go for her wand, but he immediately grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her, deftly drawing her wand out of her pocket and tossing it across the room. “None of that, now.”
His hands were at her skirts, and she pushed against his shoulders, but he took her by the hips to hold her firmly in place.
“You can’t,” she said. “The Trace—everyone will know …”
“Ah, but my dear daughter, the Trace only tracks the most mundane point of ingress. You have two more orifices I can fill with no one the wiser. And who knows? You might find you enjoy it. I know I will, and I won’t tell a soul. You are a secretive little thing; this could be our secret …”
With that, he spun her around and pushed her shoulders down toward the table’s surface, holding her in place by the back of the neck. His heart was thrumming in his ears and he could feel the blood racing through his body as the woman struggled against him. By the gods, he felt alive! He barely felt her nails clawing at the hand he held her with.
His other hand began fumbling at the fastenings to her skirt.
Where is the damned hook? Or maybe it’s charmed. Ah, to hell with it!
He began to gather her skirt up above her waist, and then he felt her shift under his hands. The silk of her skirt was whipping through his hands as if it was being reeled in, and her neck was disappearing under his other palm, and just like that, she was gone. In her place was only a scrawny, grey cat scrabbling at the table with its paws. The beast found its purchase, leaving deep grooves in the table’s polished surface, and leapt down to streak across the room.
Impossible! The girl is only twenty!
A slight whooshing sound made Kenneth turn his head, and he saw Minerva again, staggering slightly with a hand to her head, obviously slightly dazed. He heard her whisper an Accio.
Kenneth pulled his wand and advanced on her. She must have had lightning-fast reflexes, because before he got more than two paces, he was staring at the point of her wand.
He had time only to think, The bitch pulled her wand on me! before his own wand was whisked out of his hand to go flying across the floor. He heard rather than felt the sickening crunch as he was hurled backwards, his nose the point of contact for the forceful spell she had hit him with.
He found himself bunched up against the wall, hands covering his nose, which was dripping bright red blood all over his yellow silk robes.
“You’ll pay for that, you cunt,” he growled as he struggled to rise, but she was faster.
“Petrificus Totalus!”
And suddenly, he couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink, and before more than a few seconds had elapsed, he felt the sting of the air drying his corneas. He watched, powerless, as the girl turned and fled the room.
Fuck!
He tried ending the charm, but he had never mastered the wandless, wordless magic that might have allowed him to escape his predicament with none the wiser.
One of those bloody elves had better show up damned quick, he thought, or I’ll need a Healer to fix my eyes.
But for the moment, all Kenneth Macnair could do was sit there and think about how he was going to make that little bitch pay for what she’d done.
~oOo~
Minerva’s mind was awhirl as she raced down the hallway to the front door of the manse.
What exactly had happened? How had she done it?
Never mind that now, she told herself sternly. Just find Malcolm and get as far away as you can manage.
She made a fast circuit of the garden and found the elf and her two charges on the east lawn, Walden hovering a few feet in the air on his toy broom, and Malcolm grinning, goggle-eyed, at his uncle’s antics.
“Thank you, Maisie, I’ll take Malcolm now.”
The elf handed the toddler over to his mother, and he squealed happily. Minerva kissed his woolly head as she hurried down the path to the front gates.
“How would you like to go for a ride, Malcolm, my love?” she asked. “A visit to Gran and Granddad, maybe, hmm?”
As she said the words, however, Minerva realised with dismay that she had no way to get to Moray. She couldn’t Apparate with a child that young, and she didn’t dare risk going back to the manse to use the Floo.
She stopped mid-step and swung around, heading back across the grounds until she reached a small shed off the side of the stables. A quick Alohomora! opened the door, and Minerva peered into the darkness.
“Lumos!”
With the light from her wand she was able to find her old broom quickly and took it from the shed.
She hadn’t been on a broom since her Hogwarts days; how was she going to fly with Malcolm in her arms?
She thought for a minute, and then put the child down on the grass, saying, “Mama needs to do a few things, then we’ll take a nice broom ride, would you like that?”
Malcolm didn’t answer, but he watched his mother with interest as she withdrew her wand, ripped a section of her full skirt away, and Transfigured the remainder into a pair of tight-fitting breeches. Next, she Transfigured the scrap into a long woollen wrap and fashioned it around her body into a sort of sling.
Scooping Malcolm up, she placed him in the sling and used her wand to tighten it around him, then placed a Sticking Charm on the boy for good measure. When Malcolm screeched his objection, she said, “Now, now … you want to stay warm and safe for our ride, don’t you? There’s a good laddie. Off we go!”
She pushed off, and moments later, they were soaring over the Macnair grounds, Malcolm whimpering at first, then laughing as he got used to the wind in his chubby face.
“There’s my braw lad,” Minerva murmured as Malcolm clapped his hands delightedly.
It was around fifty miles to the McGonagall-family home, and Minerva was concerned that Malcolm might get too cold or begin to fidget so badly that she couldn’t control the broom if the trip lasted too long, and she didn’t want to risk flying too much faster with Malcolm at her breast, so after nearly an hour, she lit in a small field just over the Morayshire border and unwrapped Malcolm.
“We’ll just have a wee stretch, and then we’ll get back on the broom to go to Gran’s,” she told him.
“Mama, miwk.”
“I haven’t any milk, darling, but would you like some water?”
Malcolm nodded, so Minerva conjured a cup and filled it with an Aguamenti. When Malcolm had drunk his fill, Minerva also drank a cupful.
“How would you like a fresh nappy?” Minerva realised her error immediately as Malcolm began to toddle away from her as fast as his chubby legs could carry him, saying, “Noooooo … no nappy! No nappy!”
As she chased down her son, Minerva wondered for the hundredth time why, at fifteen months old, Malcolm had begun to react to a nappy changing as if it were an application of the Cruciatus Curse.
Both Maisie and her mother had assured her that this was common, but still …
She caught him and wrestled him gently to the ground. “I hate to do this to you lamb, but I need to have my hands free for a few moments …” she placed a light Binding Charm on the boy’s arms and legs and immediately Banished his breeches to the grass beside her, then she Vanished the dirty nappy. After gently Scourgifying his bottom as he howled his indignation—Merlin, but she hated to do it that way; soap and water was much better on his tender skin in her opinion—then looked around before removing her bodice and chemise. She put the former back on and Transfigured the latter into a fresh nappy, which she deftly wrapped around his clean bottom and fastened with a Sticking Charm.
“There we are, all clean!” she said, releasing her still-howling son from his bonds. “Oh, now. That wasn’t so bad! And now you’ll be comfortable for the rest of our ride. Are you ready?”
Malcolm nodded and sniffled, his forlorn look making his mother giggle. She placed him back in the sling, and off they went, zooming above the Moray countryside.
By the time they landed in front of McGonagall Manor, Malcolm was whining and whimpering. He had grown tired of the ride somewhere over Keith, and Minerva could hardly blame him. She herself was chilled to the bone, and the wind stung her cheeks and eyes.
She no longer held the wards to the house, so she rang the charmed bell. A few moments later, a surprised house-elf answered the door, exclaiming, “Mistress Minerva! We’s not expecting you today!”
“Yes, I know, Elgar, but Malcolm and I wanted to see my parents. Are they in?”
“Yes, Mistress Minerva. Come in! Master is in his study, and I think Mistress is in the kitchen talking with the kitchen elves.”
“Elgar, would you mind terribly taking Malcolm and giving him something to eat? He’s had a long journey.”
“Of course, Mistress. What would Master Malcolm like to eat?”
“He’s rather cold, so something warm, I think. Maybe some porridge and warm milk.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
She handed the boy over to the elf, who said, “Now, come along with Elgar, Master Malcolm. He’ll get you something nice to eat, and then maybe a wee sweetie?” He winked an enormous eye at Minerva at this last, and she smiled and nodded her head indulgently.
Dear Elgar.
Minerva realised she felt safe for the first time in weeks.