Disclaimer: I own no part of Harry Potter or its associated canon nor, any other already copyrighted material.

(A/N): This particular tale is set during Harry's Seventh year and tries to be mostly canonical. As usual, one outside chapter before we get back to the Chosen One next chapter.

Prologue

Fallout

Lightning cracked across the sky again. A midsummer storm was tearing across the countryside and blanketing the local populace in heavy rain. It was a small storm, affecting only a few square miles of the rural land. Though black as night over the little group of houses and buildings generously referred to as a village, the light of the sun could be seen near the horizon shining happily on neighboring towns. It created a bizarre cross lighting effect and cast dim shadows in the streets. The lightning cracked again and picked out a lone form making his way across bare dirt road and small patches of beaten grassy ground that was quickly being churned to mud.

Through the blinding downpour one pour soul moved as fast as his limping leg could carry him. He was hunched over and shabbily dressed in a tattered trench coat that was wrapped haphazardly around his frame. Beaten up shoes that looked to be badly fit did little to keep out the quickly rising puddles he sloshed through. He held the hood from the sweatshirt he wore beneath the coat tightly at his neck, his other beaten and gaunt hand at his brow in a desperate attempt to see where he was going. Another crack of lightning revealed an equally shabby face, unshaven and dirty appearing to be about fifty covered by a mat of long gray hair. A pair of scars was revealed in the moment of brightness, crossing over his cheek and speaking of a rough and dangerous past.

Hobbling a little faster to avoid getting stuck in a patch of mud, the man reached the door to the largest building in the area. Its gothic design towered over the surrounding structures with stony spires and vaults. The large grey stone church stood in stark relief against the backdrop of ramshackle homes. It had once been a country retreat for priests that became a parish when the houses appeared around it, purposely growing in its shadow. Stumbling up the three stone slab stairs and taking a moment to shake off a little rain under the entry art, he pushed through the ornately carved English oak double doors and stepped into the chapel proper.

There were the traditional two rows of pews and the simple altar area, all done in darkened native woods and obviously crafted by a master wood smith. Fifteen pairs of benches marched up the room with a wide aisle between them to the stone dais at the far end. A simple pulpit sat to one side with an ornate cross carved in the front. The wide alter table was done in simple white vestments, the tracing of gold scroll the only indication it was more than a tablecloth. Overhead, a series of carefully sculpted stone arched held the ceiling forty feet above him.

A lone parishioner, a woman dressed all in black sat near the middle of the left side pews. She was bent forward and appeared from her slow rocking and slight shudders to be crying. From what he could see she appeared to be very old, eighty at least, and thin. Not malnourished thin, just elderly and drawn. Wisps of white hair had managed to escape the hood and shawl she wore. The man hobbled silently up a little ways and slid into one of the right side pews. Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against the back of his hands which were interlaced against the top of the pew in front of him. Able to rest again, his breath, which had been getting ragged with effort, was able to shallow back out. His heart also managed to slow down from its dangerously fast beat. Drenched through and through from the rain he still held the hood close to keep what little warmth he had managed to keep through his trek.

It was several minutes later when he heard the doors open again, more slowly this time. Turning his head a few degrees he caught a glimpse of the latest arrival out of the corner of his eye. He appeared to be a young man, maybe 20 with short cut blond hair and blue eyes. There was a strange way in which he walked, as if not accustom to his jeans and grey raincoat. Returning his head to its previous position he closed his eyes once more and let his ears see for him. The new arrival walked firmly forward past him and took a seat behind the woman. He took quite a while to settle down into an approximation of a comfortable position before also leaning forward. Again a minute passed in silence before he spoke, his head turned to a little to the side.

"Should I stun him?" His voice had a clarity and command that a normal young man hadn't yet usually acquired. After a moment the woman's voice responded, seeming strong for her frail frame. She didn't turn as she spoke, keeping her eyes firmly forward.

"No. He's just an old man seeking a moment's peace and a reprieve from the storm. Much like us. He's been asleep for a while now, not that he would understand us anyway. Tell me what I want to know Severus. What happened to him?" Near the end there was a hint of desperation and pleading. He responded in the same firm tone.

"Your boy lives Narcissa. Despite his partial failure the Dark Lord has spared him. For now." The woman sounded visibly relieved though some tension returned at the last. They sat in silence for several moments before he spoke again. "You choose odd meeting places."

"It's the last place He would ever think to look. Perhaps a pointless precaution, but what's done is done." She half turned as if checking the door, "So…what of me?" He was more hesitant this time, but he spoke after a moment's consideration.

"You are to be welcomed back with open arms despite your son's disgrace. The Dark Lord wishes to kill you himself apparently." His words were and odd mix of softness and warning that he seemed surprised at. Hers wasn't as surprised as the old man expected.

"I see…"

"Stay in hiding Narcissa. I will keep Draco safe."

"You? How? If the Dark Lord wishes him dead there is nothing you can do to stop it." The one called Severus let out a short derisive laugh.

"Apparently it wasn't only your son that disappointed Him. He has forced me to resume my teaching duties…only this time at his direction. I have been put in charge of training his newest recruits and readying them for their new positions in his empire." She waited a moment before speaking in a severe, almost accusatory tone.

"You're training them to kill."

"Yes. You knew it might come to this one day, you knew what Lucious was when you wed yet you had his son anyway."

"That's my sin. Not Draco's. I won't let the sins of his father be visited on my son."

"The time to stop it is rapidly running out. It may already be too late."

"No. I will put an end to this. I won't let him become his father."

"We'll see." They were quiet again for a moment as she considered this.

"How is he?"

"Tortured daily though it has slackened lately. He's very close to breaking and it will take much work to keep him going, but it can be done." Again silence reined, this time for several minutes. It was only broken when the old woman rose and started hobbling down the center aisle back to the door. She spoke as she moved past him.

"Thank you Severus." It took her old tottering body a minute to reach the doors and exit in to the stormy afternoon. Waiting for a few moments longer the young man did the same, still sounding uncomfortable in his gard as his solid footfalls echoed around the nearly empty chamber. Left alone, the old man finally raised his head and yawned as if awakening from a nap. Looking around he noticed a priest make his way across the room and enter the confessional built against the far wall. After waiting a moment for the door to close and rising slowly, the old man followed and entered the right side, only slightly hampered by a suddenly twitchy right leg.

Kneeling in the small wooden chamber his other leg also began to twitch. Using his free hand he tried to pin the limb to the floor to keep it from rattling around to little avail. The porthole opened and he spoke, his voice weak and gravely, clearly not long for this world. "Bless me father for I have sinned. It's been…ever since my last confession. I'm…not even catholic. Will you hear the confession of a heathen father?"

"Yes my son. What would you like to confess?" The old man's breath became even more ragged and weak at this point. He tried to draw a lungful of air to speak clearly.

"I…would like to confess…that I have been party to a massive conspiracy crossing all borders and nations to hide the existence of magic in this world. For hundreds of years witches and wizards have been hiding right under your noses. Right now we are fighting a war against one of our number and his followers who want nothing more then the death of every non magical person and everyone who stands against them." He desperately clasped the port's sill, his white knuckled grip nearly crushing the wood beneath. "Tell me father…what is my penance for that?"

The priest sat in silence, not sure if the man on the other side of the window was insane or revealing a horrible truth. He had been taught to deal with all manner of person who might seek salvation, but he had nothing to fall back on in a situation as bizarre as this. Before he could answer he was shaken by a sudden rattling that sounded like the man was having a seizure. Thumps came as limb crashed repeatedly into the wood, muffled only a little by the ragged clothing the old man was wearing. The sounds only lasted a few seconds but they left the man of the cloth frozen. When all was quite he waited still another moment before speaking. "My son…my son are you all right?"

The voice that came back was solid and clear, its clarion tone easily impressing on him its power. "Yes father…I'm fine. Just the potion wearing off."

"Potion? You…you were telling the truth? There…magic is…real?" His mind suddenly cleared into a blissful nothingness and he could no longer remember what it was that was real. He clawed at the thought as it slipped away, sure it was important, but having no idea why.

On the other side of the thickly screened window the now much younger and smoother hand returned a wand to the coat after casting the silent obliviate spell. "How many Hail Mary's was that father?" The priest tried to remember what he had been thinking but it had been lost. Returning his attention to the man he spoke by rote.

"Ten…ten Hail Mary's my son."

"Thank you father." Stepping from the confessional the man stood up straight and looked around. No longer was the face grey haired and aged. The skin had smoothed and beard shaven itself to reveal the form of a man about the age of twenty-five with clear brown eyes and short brown hair. He glanced quickly over the structure with a piercing gaze that seemed to instantly pick up on any relevant detail. The clothes were still tattered and torn but a second later also warm and dry. Shaking his head one more to remove the lingering disorientation that was a hallmark of polyjuice potion, he headed for the door as well. Though his steps were light and swift this time, the battered shoes also masked the sound rather well.

There was much to do and less and less time to do it. Hunching over just slightly against the wind, a wave of his hand locked his form in a very tightly fitting shield charm that would keep the rain from his clothes. Pulling the door open he threw a quick glance each way to make sure he wasn't being watched. Both the man and the woman har completely disappeared from sight, off to wherever they had come from. None of the village's resident muggles had found anything worth stepping outside for either. Satisfied he was truly alone, he stepped out into the downpour and made an altogether quicker pace back through the mud toward one of the ramshackle houses on the far side of the village.

As he moved on his thoughts turned to the last few weeks. The death of Professor Dumbledore at the end of May had been a shockwave through the magical world. The one man, other than this boy-who-lived, whom witches and wizards looked to for protection, was now gone. When the murderer was revealed to be his own Defense teacher even more fear was spread. Everywhere people were living in terror of what might happen next, what shoe might drop from the heavens.. He had returned to this country of his magical education upon hearing the news. He couldn't stay away after such an event. The level of fear pervading it had surprised even him. It seemed people only thought Diagon Alley was safe for any sort of visit and then only for an hour or two.

After the funeral he had stopped by the school to once again see the tomb. It had nearly driven him mad that the man was dead. Now a cold rage burned in his chest and drove him on. There had been an odd side effect of Dumbledore's murder however. For the last couple weeks activity from the Death Eaters and appearances of the Dark Mark had fallen to almost nothing. Even the Weasley wedding of a week past, an event many had thought bordered on foolishness if not idiocy and would almost certainly be attacked, had gone off without a hitch. He didn't like it. What ever the Dark Lord and his followers were planning, it wasn't good for most people. Most people.

Arriving at the house, which looked to be little more than worn boards haphazardly nailed to the wall in rough approximation of siding, he pulled open the cracked door and stepped inside. The single room extended to bare rafters, a trickle of rain dropping in from the broken down window as well as various holes in the roof. The place was as beat up on the inside as it was on the outside. Only a few busted pieces of furniture sat on the dusty, cobweb strewn floor. Waiting just a moment but not hearing the tell tale sloshing of anyone following him, he removed the shield charm and moved toward the one decent chair in the room. It was a large reading chair and still had much of its cushioning left.

Lifting the seat cushion he grasped the mousetrap he found there. It was a perfectly innocuous item that would be practically useless under the cushion, but didn't look the least out of place in the ramshackle hut. Looking around once again he crouched down and drew his wand. A moment later the portkey grabbed hold and pulled him across much of the country. Coming to a lurching halt he emerged in the kitchen of a small house in the middle of a nondescript row of homes in the suburbs.

Another storm became evident outside as a flash of lightning illuminated his window for a moment. He rose and backed up to a wall to hide his shadow. Quickly scanning the rooms he determined he hadn't been robbed. With another wave of his hand the tattered, ratty clothing shed away from his body to reveal a white button up long sleeve shirt, the arms rolled back to his elbows and a pair of dark grey pants. The shoes he kicked off and replaced with far better black casual shoes. The discarded clothing folded itself and piled up in a cupboard at his feet. Reaching his hand out again his wand leapt from them and returned to his grip. Sliding it down his spine it slid into place in the holster between his shoulder blades.

He had just begun to stretch tired muscles when a sharp knock came at his back door. Dropping to a crouch and silently calling the wand to his hand from his back he stalked toward it. Whipping the door open he jabbed his wand forward ready to do all sorts of unpleasantness. After a second recognition hit him and he popped to his feet, wand dropping to his side.

"Professor McGonagall…" The elderly witch stood at the door in her normal robes, apparently also covered in a shield charm judging by the way the water was rolling off her clothing. Any response she made was lost to a crack of thunder. Stepping aside he gestured for her to come in.

"Aren't you going to check my identity?"

"Very well. When I was in third year you took eighteen points from my house for something. What was it?" She thought for a moment before answering.

"For using a rather dangerous dueling hex on a young man who was bothering you. To which you, in the arrogance of youth responded…?"

"You should just round it off to twenty because eighteen sounds stupid." She smiled just a little and accepted his invitation. As she crossed the threshold the charm dissolved. "Well, now that we both know who we are, what can I do for you Professor?"

"I'll have you know I still round points off to this day. I can only hope I impressed as much on you as you apparently did on me."

"You know you did." Again waving his hand a teapot filled itself and reached the self lighting stove. Cups waited patiently off to the side for the coming tea. Motioning her to sit at the small kitchen table he also took a seat. "But you didn't come here to reminisce Professor. You don't have the time for a trip down memory lane anymore, do you…Headmistress?" She shook her head at the question.

"No I don't. I'm sorry this isn't just a social call."

"No need to apologize. Though I am surprised you could find my temporary dwelling. I've only been in town a couple weeks." After a thoughtful glance he continued. "Have the governors decided about the school?" At that point the cups full of tea floated across the room and set down in front of them.

"No. I don't even know if we'll have classes this year or how many students will show up if we do." She took a sip, deep contemplation apparent in her eyes. "But if we do, I'm going to need teachers. I have a post I'd like to offer you. And I'm afraid I'll need your answer right now, else I need to start looking again." His eyes widened in surprise and he took a sip of tea trying to figure out what post she meant.

"Me? Transfigurations instructor? I know I did pretty well in your class, but teaching?" She shook her head in reply.

"You did more than pretty well, but no. Unfortunately I have a feeling I'll still be able to do that. I don't think we'll have enough students to warrant more than seven classes. That should leave me enough time to manage the school. It will be trying, but it's my best option. I actually came here to offer you the Defense Against Dark Arts post." He looked at her in outright shock. His words came before thinking.

"That's a cursed position." It was a little known fact that no one had been able to stay in that job for more than a year in decades. The most recent teachers had been suffering more and more grisly fates. "Besides…I don't know enough about them to teach a course that would be worth the time it takes."

"That's why we have books at the school. You know more than you give yourself credit for. I believe that magnificent weapon you own will testify in blood to your personal experience with them. Besides, it's not depth of knowledge I'm looking for. I need someone who can teach these students how to fight. And in that area your talents are unquestioned." He nodded a little confirming her assessment of his skills. "Please, if you say no I'll have to find an Auror and I'd rather not have the ministry teaching what it thinks is best."

"Not all of them are brainwashed. Though any you could get would be." Talking a long slow breath he considered the request carefully. Finishing his tea he sent the cup back to the counter. After a moment he met her eyes. "Yes. I'll do it. Though I'll want to teach the class my way. I won't be easy and I'll more than likely break one or two of them, possibly physically. And ideally I'd like to teach certain things others might have problems with. Such as resisting the Imperious Curse."

"You'll have as much freedom as I can give you. Thank you."

"Of course Headmistress. Though you get the duty of telling my folks if this job is the end of me."

Another flash of lightning illuminated her somber nod.

(A/N): If you feel it is warranted feel free to review. I welcome any and all opinions.