A witch is born. She’s surprisingly opinionated for a baby.
A very short story in which Minerva McGonagall demonstrates a peculiar proclivity for getting her way.
“You have a wee girl!” cried the midwife, holding the squalling infant up for her new parents to see.
The big man with the ginger hair and beard wept with unabashed joy as he kissed his wife’s still-damp brow.
“A girl, Morrigan. Think o’ that! We have a daughter,” he said, wiping his sleeve across his leaking eyes.
“Aye, and healthy as can be, by the looks of her,” said the midwife, who had wiped the baby off and wrapped her in a soft blanket. After she handed the bundle to its mother, she took her wand and changed the blanket’s colour from yellow to pink.
“There,” she said with satisfaction, “she’s a properly attired little lassie.”
“None of that, now,” said Morrigan. “She’ll be no pink, prancing princess, our daughter. Give her some swaddling more appropriate to a McGonagall witch, Thorfinn,” she said to her husband.
Thorfinn McGonagall drew his wand and touched it to his daughter’s blanket, which immediately filled with the ribbons of yellow, maroon, and black against a background of deep green that formed the McGonagall tartan.
“Better?” he asked.
“Aye, much,” she said.
The midwife withdrew discreetly to allow the little family to get acquainted.
Drawing back the blanket, Morrigan McGonagall ran her fingers gently over the black fuzz that covered her baby daughter’s head.
“She has your hair,” said the child’s father, reverently touching the downy head.
“Aye,” said Morrigan. “But it’ll fall out, and then we’ll see what she ends up with.”
“Not my ginger, I hope,” said Thorfinn, putting a hand to his own head. “Far better she should look like her mother.”
Morrigan just smiled at that.
“Her eyes are bonnie blue like yours,” said Thorfinn.
“They might change, though,” said Morrigan. “I rather hoped she’d have your great, brown cow’s eyes.”
Just then, the wee girl decided to add her two Knuts to the discussion of her appearance, issuing forth a piercing cry of indignation, her little legs attempting to kick free of the tight swaddling that held them.
“Oh, and she has your temper, too,” said Thorfinn, gently teasing his wife.
“And your great, bellowing voice,” said Morrigan. “I think she dislikes being bound so tightly. Help me here,” she added, and together they unwrapped the angry legs so they could pedal and kick freely.
The baby immediately calmed herself.
“She’ll be no shrinking violet, that’s certain,” said Thorfinn.
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