Vera Verto

Author's Notes: This story is set in the year following the series from the point of view of Minerva McGonagall. I kept it compliant with the series, including the epilogue, and mostly compliant with the story about McGonagall on Pottermore (though here's your warning that I took some liberties). No promises on Cursed Child, however.

Warnings: This story is rated T primarily because of the fact that it focuses on people dealing with death and the aftermath of war. There's also (as we say in the South) some cussin', fussin', and fightin'. And while this isn't a religious story, I did include reference to the McGonagalls' Presbyterian upbringing and heritage (with some references to the Book of Common Worship).

And finally, while I won't regale you with the shocking information that I am not, in fact, JK Rowling, I do need to give some credit where credit is due. Calliope Quintin and Marcus Rathburn are two OCs created by my partner, who writes over on AO3 as peteryoushouldwrite . You can check out more of their adventures in Percy Weasley and the Warden of Azkaban. Any other overlapping factoids between our stories is the result of shared riffing on the subject of Harry Potter (the secret to any healthy relationship).

Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: May

May 2nd

Minerva didn't remember who had used smoke, but smoke hung in the air in the wake of the battle. Her body was bruised and beaten, her castle in ruins. Minerva looked around and took account of who still lived - Flitwick, Sprout, and Slughorn walking amongst the students, attempting to offer comfort. The Weasley family gathering around each other, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger among them. Shacklebolt and what was left of his aurors levitating in a stunned Fenrir Grayback, dragging Death Eaters out in shackles.

But there was one person - one person Minerva had fought with daggers and fire - who was unaccounted for. Minerva rounded on Kingsley. "Where the hell is Snape?"

Harry Potter turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "Professor McGonagall, there's something I need to tell you."

May 3rd

"My last word to him was 'coward.'"

They had waited until nightfall to hold this vigil. That morning, they had laid to rest Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks; that afternoon, Fred Weasley. The parents of Lavender Brown, Vincent Crabbe, and Colin Creevey had arrived to take their children home, where they would no doubt be buried beside their grandparents and ancestors, far before their time.

And now Minerva, Flitwick, Slughorn, and Sprout stood around the levitating plank on the Hogwart's grounds, below the astronomy tower, where Dumbledore was buried, where Dumbledore had fallen less than a year earlier and destroyed Minerva's whole world. Before them lay their colleague, the last victim left to mourn from what history books would no doubt one day call the Battle of Hogwarts.

"He was the best student I ever had." Slughorn's chin wobbled and he wrenched his big hands together. "I should have told him." He paused and drew a long, shaky breath. "I believed the worst too, Minerva."

"He didn't tell any of us," Sprout said, playing the role of the comforter as she always did, though her eyes were shining with the same mixture of sadness and guilt. "If it weren't for Harry…"

"If it weren't for Harry," Minerva picked up where she had left off. "We would have cast incendio on his body like the aurors did with you-know-who."

Flitwick reached forward, laying his hand over Snape's, forcing Minerva's eyes from where they had been looking over the smooth surface of the black lake onto the lifeless form in front of them. In death, he looked every part of what he didn't in life - small, young, and finally at peace. "We have forgiven you, Severus," Filius whispered. "Please forgive us."

Minerva sniffed and wiped at her cheeks. Sprout reached out for her hand. They stood in silence, Flitwick's floating candles providing a dim, flickering view of the destroyed Hogwarts grounds. The silence stretched until Slughorn spoke. "What should we do for him? Does he have any family?"

"No." Harry's story had shown Minerva how little she understood a man she had ostensibly known for nearly three decades. But she had always known that. "At least not any family worth going home to."

All four paused again at the weight of that statement, then Flitwick looked up at Minerva. "Then what should we do?"

Minerva found herself, not for the first time, glancing at the white tomb as if it would give her answers. But Dumbledore was gone; Dumbledore wouldn't be providing her with guidance in this situation - or ever again, for that matter. She forced herself to look away from the tomb, and her eyes swept across the black lake.

She stepped forward, the other three following her silently. When they reached the edge of the lake, Minerva turned and drew the pallet toward her with a wordless spell. She met the eyes of Sprout, then Flitwick, then Slughorn. They all raised one arm, bringing the pallet to levitate out over the lake.

Minerva knew this moment called for her to speak and searched for the right thing to say, the right memorialization for her fallen colleague and friend. But she couldn't imagine what Snape would want - did he have a tradition? A favorite reading? Other than potions - and now, Lily Potter - Minerva didn't know of anything that he loved.

Instead, as she spoke, Minerva found the words coming from somewhere deep in her memory, her father's words spoken at a burial when she was just a young girl. "In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our lord Jesus Christ, we commend to almighty God our brother Severus Snape, and we commit his body to the deep. Blessed are the dead who die in the lord, says the spirit. They rest from their labors, and their works follow them."

"Amen," Slughorn muttered. Together, they lowered their hands, and committed Severus Snape to the deep.

May 8th

Minerva held a cup of tea in one hand, her wand in the other. The castle was empty now - empty but for the detritus strewn everywhere she looked - stone, wood, suits of armor, artwork - all of the trappings that had made Hogwarts...Hogwarts. It was Friday morning and though Minerva hadn't slept in days, she felt more like she hadn't slept in weeks. The tea and pepper-up potion weren't nearly doing their job.

Their dead had been buried and their students sent home. The bodies of the fallen Death Eaters had been burned and the remaining Death Eaters carted off to Azkaban. The sight of Amycus Carrow bound by an immobilus charm, dragged through the castle and sent by portkey to prison was one that Minerva knew she would remember fondly for the rest of her life.

But with just herself and the other teachers remaining, the castle felt more than damaged. It felt ruined, empty.

"Reparo." Minerva heard Flitwick's small voice in the Great Hall from where she stood near the Grand Staircase. "Duro. Meteolojinx." He must be out of options if he was using that one. She stood and listened as his voice dropped off, replaced by the sounds of his wand swishing back and forth as he searched for a wordless spell.

"Well, I'm not seeing any evidence of lingering dark magic." Kingsley Shacklebolt's deep voice pulled Minerva's attention to the bottom of the staircase, where he was standing with another auror, looking as tired as everyone else.

Minerva descended the staircase slowly, tucking her wand into her sleeve to grip what was left of the banister. Her knee – the one with the old Quidditch injury - protested and she attempted a nonverbal "Episkey," which only sort-of worked.

"Then why haven't we been able to repair anything in this castle?" She asked, her voice sounding more pointed than she had intended.

Kingsley remained unfazed. "We're not entirely sure." He turned to the auror next to him. "Minerva, this is Auror Quintin."

"Yes, I know." Minerva would recognize almost any student who had attended Hogwarts over the last forty-two years, which meant she knew nearly everyone at the Ministry of Magic. But she would certainly remember former Head Girls and beaters on one of the legendary Slytherin Quidditch teams. "Thank you for your help."

"Of course, Professor McGonagall."

Kingsley turned toward his colleague. "The Ministry needs me to process the Death Eaters. I'm going to leave Auror Quintin here with you." He turned heel and disappeared, niceties lost in the exhaustion.

Minerva walked slowly toward the heavy wooden doors, the doors she had locked against Sirius Black, had attempted to lock against the Death Eaters. They were covered in the marks of dozens of spells, their beautiful craftsmanship marred, perhaps permanently. "This castle is over a thousand years old, Calliope." Though she addressed her former student, Minerva was really talking to herself. "These doors must have seen other battles."

"That's probably true, Professor." Calliope Quintin maintained her distance, politely staring straight ahead at the doors before eventually turning to take in the entire entrance hall. "And the suits of armor?"

"What about the suits of armor?"

"How old are they?"

"Thirteenth Century, I believe." Minerva looked, finally, at what remained of the suits of armor littering the floor.

"And has anyone else ever used that spell?"

"What spell?"

Calliope was obviously choosing her words carefully. "Piertotum Locomotor. I didn't see it of course, Professor. But they say you brought the castle to life."

Minerva sighed. The suits of armor had defended their school, the stonework had come to life to protect them. And now it appeared damaged beyond repair.

May 11th

The wreckage wasn't the only thing that was different. Minerva discovered, after a weekend spent almost entirely asleep, that the stairway that normally took her from her private chambers to the Great Hall had moved so that she had to walk entirely out of the way, past Pomona Sprout's chambers, if she was going to attempt to find her way to the kitchens.

She knocked on the door then stood leaning against it, waiting for Pomona to scramble around her chambers looking for something as if she had not lived there for over fifty years. "Give me five, Filius," she called through the door.

"It's not Filius."

The door jerked open. "Oh, it's you." Pomona was only about half-dressed, and she grabbed an overcoat off of a hook near the door. "Joining us for breakfast?"

"The staircase sent me this way."

"They have been funny lately. I wonder what -"

She was cut off as Flitwick approached, looking a little out of breath. "I'm sorry," he said. "The staircase to Ravenclaw Tower…"

"Moved," Minerva finished for him as they made their way to the kitchens. "You're not the only one."

"What's doing that?" Sprout asked, opening the door to the kitchens for the other two.

"The aurors aren't sure." Minerva groaned as she sat down at one of the rough wooden tables. Apparently, a whole weekend sleeping didn't make up for the toll the battle had taken on her body.

"I feel the same." Slughorn appeared in the doorway and joined them at the table as one of the house elves placed a pot of coffee and bowl of porridge on the table. "Thank you, Winky."

"About the staircases?" Flitwick asked, ladling himself some of the porridge.

"No, about getting old."

"Who's getting old?" Minerva asked, though she wasn't sure if she could get up from the table if she wanted to.

"All four of us."

"Speak for yourself." Flitwick, easily the oldest among them, glared out over his spectacles.

Sprout and Slughorn laughed. Minerva forced a smile. Normally, she would have made a retort aimed at the much-older Dumbledore or the much-younger Snape, but nothing was normal anymore. Lost in that thought, the waves of conversation washed over her, though she didn't register any words, until Sprout's voice cut through her reminiscences. "Right, Minerva? … Minerva?"

Minerva's hand twitched, causing coffee to spill out over the side of her mug. Slughorn reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief, but Minerva vanished the spilled coffee with a wave of her hand. "I'm sorry, Pomona. What were you saying?"

"That the aurors don't know why we can't repair the castle."

"That's correct."

Flitwick blew a stream of air over his coffee, and steam momentarily obscured his face. "Then what are we going to do?"

Minerva nodded, partaking in the general feeling of malaise, until she realized that Sprout, Flitwick, and Slughorn had all turned their eyes toward her. "What?" she snapped, suddenly self-conscious.

"What?" Slughorn echoed.

"Why are you looking at me?"

"Get used to it, Minerva," Sprout said. Minerva watched as she ladled three more scoops of sugar into her porridge. "This is your party now."

Your party. Sprout likely didn't even realized she had used one of Dumbledore's lines - they probably all did occasionally. After all, many of them had been listening to Dumbledore since they were eleven years old. "Ms. McGonagall," she heard the voice from somewhere deep in her memory. "It's your party now." Dumbledore had held his wand up and watched her transform for the first time.

She fought a sudden urge to transform now, to turn into a cat and hightail it out of there. "My party now," she muttered. There was a time, in the not-so-distant past, when Minerva would have been overjoyed to become the Headmistress of Hogwarts. But that was in a world where Dumbledore had retired to write that treatise on transfiguration he was always talking about, living in a cottage somewhere she could visit and seek his advice. Not a world where Dumbledore had fallen off the Astronomy Tower after conspiring to commit his own murder. "That's not exactly how it works, Pomona," she said. "The Board of Governors…"

"What Board of Governors?" Flitwick asked. "They're all dead, in hiding, or in Azkaban."

"Well, then the staff," Minerva protested weakly. She wasn't sure what was making her do it, making her deny a position, a responsibility, a duty that nearly everyone would agree was rightfully hers.

"Staff vote," Sprout said, banging her mug on the table. "Hufflepuff in favor."

"Ravenclaw in favor," Flitwick said.

"Slytherin in favor." Slughorn raised his mug, and Sprout and Flitwick brought theirs up in a toast.

Minerva took a deep breath, sighed, then raised her own mug to meet the other three, clinking them together. "So," she said. "Which one of you is going to be my deputy?"

May 15th

"Not a chance, Minerva," Flitwick said for about the hundredth time.

"Come on, Flitwick."

Flitwick walked ahead of her, crouching to examine the stones littering the grounds near the greenhouse. He touched the stone with his wand, which did nothing, then muttered under his breath, which still did nothing. "Get Pomona to do it."

Minerva sighed, turning her attention to the shattered glass surrounding the greenhouse. "You think I haven't tried that? She doesn't want to, and we both know she spends more time on Head of House duties than both of us combined."

"Hufflepuff," Flitwick muttered, straightening back up. He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the grounds. Minerva's gaze followed his, scanning for something - anything - that would give her a clue how to proceed. "Let me tell you something, Minerva. When I started teaching here in 1945…" Minerva knew where this was going, but still, she stood beside Filius and let him go on. "When I started here in 1945, I never had the ambition to become Headmaster or Deputy Headmaster. There's a reason you became Deputy Headmistress when there were

professors here who were much older and had been here much longer than you. There are different skills required for leadership than for teaching - skills I do not have."

"But you're head of Ravenclaw," Minerva protested.

"Yes." Filius sighed. "But only because at the time, there was no one else on staff from Ravenclaw….which is weird if you think about it."

Minerva looked back at him and allowed herself to smile when he wasn't looking. She had found her angle. "So you stepped up when Hogwarts needed you. Is that what you're telling me?"

Minerva was rewarded with the same glare she had received as a first year charms student, when the cat she had snuck into class knocked over a stack of books that Flitwick was standing on. "A year," he said. "One year. And in that year, you'd better find someone else more suitable." He paused and shook his head, then they both started laughing. "Young lady," he added as if to acknowledge the tone he had taken. It felt strange to laugh, even wrong. Hard as she tried, Minerva couldn't think of a time she had laughed after Dumbledore was gone. The thought made her somber mood return.

May 16th

Minerva had grown accustomed, over the last forty-two years at Hogwarts, to staff meetings held in a cozy drawing room, at a glossy wooden table surrounded by plush armchairs while a fire crackled in the stone hearth. But when she had entered that room the previous night, had seen the dust piled up on the chair that had always been hers, directly to the right of the one that had always been Dumbledore's and directly across from the one that had been Snape's, Minerva had known she couldn't handle the thought of a meeting in that room. She had shut the door immediately, not even bothering with the dust.

Instead, the staff sat on benches on either side of the Hufflepuff table in what was left of the Great Hall. The ceiling was no longer reflecting the sky, the stone was chipped - and in some cases, blasted - away, and the stained glass windows were blown out, letting damp air into the room. But aside from a few scars, the table itself seemed in good shape.

As Minerva glanced around to check that everyone had arrived, she realized that they were seated in the same order they always were - herself, Sprout, Hooch, Babbling, Flitwick, and Vector in a row on one side; Filch, Pomfrey, Hagrid, Trelawny, Sinistra, and Slughorn on the other. Binns, as usual, floated somewhere behind her, making her feel vaguely eerie.

Ticking everyone off, Minerva wondered if Sybil Trelawney would make her usual comment that when thirteen gather at a table, the first to rise is the first to die. The fact that she didn't either meant that she felt it was insensitive in light of the circumstances or that Binns being dead already negated the whole thing.

She was about to smirk at the thought when she realized all eyes were on her. Clearing her throat, she started. "Thank you all for being here. Before I let you leave for the summer, which you all must be eager to do -" Something caught in her throat and Minerva wondered, again, if she was doing the right thing by holding this meeting. "We wanted to talk about next year. Filius has graciously agreed to act as Deputy Headmaster." Filius cleared his throat. "Interim Deputy Headmaster," she corrected. "While I would not blame any of you - truly - if you choose not to return, I do need to know that now."

There was a moment of silence while MInerva hoped that no one would take advantage of the offer. Then the responses started.

"I'm in." Sprout.

"You got it, Professor." Hagrid.

"Of course." Slughorn.

"Yup." Hooch.

"Absolutely." Babbling.

"Yes - and Firenze told me to say the same for him." Trelawney.

"I'll be here." Vector.

"Me too." Sinistra.

"Aye." Filch.

"Count me in." Pomfrey.

After a long pause, everyone said, "Binns!" Minerva turned around to see Binns jolt in the air.

"What?" he said.

Minerva tried to roll her eyes as discreetly as possible, then turned back to the table. Binns would be back. There was no way she was getting rid of him that easily. "While you're all away, Filius and I will work on finding teachers for Muggle Studies and Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"What about you?" Babbling asked.

"Me?"

"Who's going to teach transfiguration?"

"Well, I am." She had truly never considered an alternative.

"Professor McGonagall," Sprout said. Minerva knew Sprout was addressing her by title for the benefit of everyone else, though she took the same tone she used to when they were students at Hogwarts, when Pomona had acted as Minerva's self-appointed elder sister. "You cannot teach transfiguration and run Hogwarts. It's too much. Especially now."

"I'll figure it out."

"At the very least," Sprout said, leaning forward, "You have to find a replacement head of Gryffindor."

"She's right," Flitwick said. "It wouldn't seem fair, otherwise."

Minerva nodded in acknowledgment. "I will see you all in August."

May 20th

The first time Minerva had stood in front of this Griffin, she had been a newly appointed professor of Transfiguration - twenty-one years old and barely out of Hogwarts herself. She stood, gripping a stack of paperwork that needed Dumbledore's signature. Though Dumbledore had been her mentor, had guided her through the process to become an animagus, had recruited her to teach Transfiguration when he stepped into the Headmaster's position, she had never imagined that she would one day work for him.

Standing in front of the entrance to the Headmaster's office, Minerva stared, confused, at the Griffin - that had not been a feature when she was a student, when Armando Dippet was the Headmaster. She didn't know what to do; she assumed there was a password but had no idea what it was.

She was only left to wonder for a few moments, until the Griffin spun, revealing a spiral staircase. "Headmaster," Minerva said. "I see you've redecorated."

"I thought this door could use a Griffin," Dumbledore replied, looking at her expectantly. When she didn't respond, he continued, "So it's a Griffin-Door." Minerva continued to stare at him. "Get it?"

"Unfortunately."

Dumbledore laughed. "Well, come up, come up. The password is 'Treacle Tart.'"

Minerva stood in front of the Griffin again, planning to enter the office for the first time since Dumbledore had been gone. By tradition, this should be her office now, though Minerva hadn't decided whether she wanted to use it. She could always just keep her office near Gryffindor Tower - it wasn't like Hogwarts ever ran out of space, after all.

But in any case, she would need to access all of the records housed in the Headmaster's office if she wanted to keep any sense of continuity among her staff. Harry Potter had accessed this office during the Battle - he had told her of his breaking in to use the Pensieve. Minerva took a deep breath. "Dumbledore," she said, calling out the password Harry had used, bracing herself for the task of entering the office. Nothing happened - the Griffin didn't turn, the stairs didn't groan with the burden of rotating. She tried it again. And again. Still nothing.

Minerva turned away from the Griffin with a mixture of anxiety and relief.

May 21st

"It looks like we have an inventory of the damage," Kingsley said, surveying the front hall again. He looked over at Auror Quintin, who was taking notes on a sheaf of parchment.

"I'm sure we're not the first item on your priority list," Minerva said. "Don't you have some Death Eaters to round up?"

Kingsley snorted. "We're working on that to be sure. But the school is important to everyone. We only have until September 1st, and children are coming back here. I think everyone would feel better if the castle was in good repair."

Minerva understood that. Even from Kingsley's position - as chief auror, and if Minerva's hunches were correct, as a Minister of Magic candidate - she understood the importance of Hogwarts as a symbol in their world. After all that happened, people would need something to look forward to. But whether opening Hogwarts in even decent repair was a possibility remained to be seen.

"While you're here," Minerva said, "Would you mind taking a look at something?"

"Of course," Kingsley said, following her up the staircases, not saying anything when she took a wrong turn, forgetting for the thousandth time that the pattern of the castle had changed.

Minerva stopped in front of Dumbledore's - Snape's - the Headmistress's office. "We can't seem to get into the Headmaster's Office," she said, indicating the Griffin, which still appeared undamaged.

"Do we know a password?" Quintin asked, examining the Griffin, writing notes on the parchment.

"Harry Potter was able to access it. He said the password was 'Dumbledore.'"

Both Shacklebolt and Quintin stared at the Griffin as she said it. Once again, it didn't move. They both tried it themselves with no success.

"Well, shit," Shacklebolt sighed. "I only have one guess, and I have to admit it's a long shot."

"I'll take it," Minerva said immediately.

"When did Potter try to access it?"

"Right after he talked to Snape."

Shacklebolt and Quintin nodded. Somewhere in all of this, they must have heard the battle from Harry's perspective. "That may be it," Shacklebolt said. "Snape may have charmed the Griffin to recognize Harry's voice. From what Potter told me, he guessed the password - that leaves a lot to chance, especially for Snape. My wager is that if Potter had come up here and groaned, he would have been able to get in."

"So what do we do?" Minerva asked.

"I think the best - and least destructive - thing to do would be to bring Potter over here."

May 26th

Minerva didn't think she'd ever seen Harry Potter look tired. When she thought of him, she automatically conjured up the sly looks he and Ron Weasley wore when they were up to another scheme. But now, he looked tired. Not sad, really. Just exhausted. He had greeted her only perfunctorily on his way up the stairs, then stood in front of the Griffin blocking the entrance to Dumbledore's office.

Minerva held her breath and waited, hoping. Hoping for what, she wasn't sure. Getting into the office was a necessity, of course it was, but then she'd be in it. She'd have to sort through years of Dumbledore's and Snape's things and try to decide whether she wanted to establish herself as the owner of the office. The thought itself drained her of the little energy she had.

Harry drew himself up, faced the Griffin, and said "Dumbledore" boldly. Nothing happened. "Open," he tried. Still nothing. He turned to Minerva and shrugged. "I don't know, Professor."

"It's alright, Harry," she found herself saying. "Thank you for trying."

Harry let himself out, and Minerva trudged back to her office, wondering. How were they going to get in? She briefly considered and discounted a use of force - a reducto aimed at the Griffin - because she couldn't bear the thought. The castle had been through enough. There was no need to explode the statue Dumbledore had personally installed.

Back in her office, Minerva tossed some powder into the fireplace and muttered "Auror Quintin's Office." After a moment, Calliope Quintin's face appeared in the flames. "Any luck?" she asked without pretense.

"I'm afraid not. It didn't work for Potter - either his voice or the password he remembers."

"Hmm…" Quintin considered for a moment. "The spell was either extremely short-term, or it died with Snape."

"What's next, then?" Minerva asked. "What does this mean?"

"Normally, it would mean that we would revert to the earlier password," Quintin said, confirming what had been in Minerva's mind. "Do you have any idea what it could be?"