CHAPTER 2
Albus Dumbledore often considers his place in the world. He is Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; a former Apprentice of Nicholas Flamel in the art of alchemy; a recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class for his defeat of Gellert Grindelwald; the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot; the Supreme Mugwump for the International Confederation of Wizards; Le Grand Sorcier of the West Europe Council of Sorcerers; and leader and founder of the Order of the Phoenix. All of these titles are important in their own way and often, he finds himself drawn in many which ways at once.
As such, when Minerva McGonagall, his Deputy Headmistress, former Apprentice and most importantly, his friend, asks for the blood of Sirius Black, Albus Dumbledore finds himself making a split-second decision rather than taking more than simply a few moments to think over her request.
"Of course, Minerva," he says, already standing, sweeping across to the portrait of Headmistress Heliotrope Wilkins. The Elder Wand is cool in his grasp, as it always is. Drawing the end down the seam between her portrait frame and the wall behind her, Albus murmurs the password, Heliotrope snorting in dismissal as her brother's name passes his lips. "If I may ask-" he begins, as the portrait swings open, Minerva interrupting him bluntly.
"I want to track him down. You heard Hagrid, he was distraught. I want to make sure he hasn't killed himself, the foolish boy. You heard the rumours flying around, too," she insists, "they thought poor Remus was a traitor. At the expense of Peter's, Sirius' and James' mental health, we let them think their best friend was a honest-to-Circe Death Eater. We both owe it to Sirius to find him."
"And young Mr Pettigrew?" Albus questions, hand hovering over said young man's blood sample in the hidden compartment. After a moment, he picks it up, finding Sirius Black's vial soon enough and taking that one as well. "Will you search for him, too?"
"Unlike Mr Black, I trust Mr Pettigrew's brain not to go to a darker territory," she says, but her voice is hesitant. Albus closes the portrait, turning to face Minerva. Her face is drawn out, haggard. She still looks like as she did during the height of the war and Albus can't blame her – it hasn't even quite ended, yet. There are still enemies to be rounded up, trials to be had, their society to be repaired; too many things need to be done and Minerva is not doing anything to help.
"Before I give you these," Albus shows her the vials, "you must swear a magical vow not to use them for dark purposes."
Her green eyes swirl with petty annoyance, "All blood magic is dark magic," she barks. Her shoulders straighten and Albus knows then that it was a good idea to send her away – that night they placed young Harry Potter on his aunt and uncle's doorstep was proof enough that Minerva is still in denial that the war is coming to a close.
"Dark purposes and dark magic are not the same things," he says gently, stepping closer and pressing them into her hands. "By your magic, do you swear to that you will not let this blood be used for anything other than good purpose, if you can help it?"
"By my magic, I swear, Albus," Minerva says, voice full of vitriol. A warmth – a heat, a flash of magic – passes through her that the ever-sensitive Headmaster can feel. He lets himself sink into the feeling for a moment, before Minerva takes the vials and tucks them into the inside pocket of her long emerald robes. The golden Sanskrit woven around it gleams, briefly, before the pocket and runes disappear from his sight. "Thank-you for trusting me."
"I would trust you with anything and everything, my dear," Albus confides quietly. Minerva takes his hand and he squeezes, a moment of closeness being shared between them. Then, the contact ceases and Minerva is going back to the fire, hand dipping into his stash of Floo powder. She throws it down, calls out 'Lupin Homestead' and as Albus' eyebrows rise up his forehead, she steps into the emerald flames, lost to the Floo Network.
Hope is painting the walls again. The smell of fresh paint hangs like a cloud under her nose and Minerva has to put a hand to it, trying to block the strong scent out. Her animagus claws inside at the walls of her body, hating the smell and wanting to go away now. But Minerva has a job to do and to do it, she needs to speak to Remus' mother before giving her wife and eldest the treasured blood of her boys, of Sirius and Peter.
Stepping out of the living room, Minerva makes her way next door to the dining room, eyeing the floral wallpaper that's been slapped on. To Hope's credit, it's only slightly askew and all the lines are joined up.
"Minnie, oh, hello," Hope greets from the top of a stepladder, waving a paint brush that splatters lavender all over her angular face and soft, blonde hair that she shares with her son. "Do you know where Lyall is?"
"No, I do not – though I would imagine he's being involved in Fenrir Greyback's trial," Minerva says, catching the brief anger that flits across Hope's face before she nods happily.
"I thought so. We haven't been getting The Daily Prophet for months now – our subscription was too dangerous, said Lyall." Hope paints the edge between the wall and the decorative floral rim, still speaking as her straight line lengthens. "No news except what Witch Weekly prints and it's a glam mag – their most 'serious' stories are about how your favourite magical celebrities have survived the War!"
"Where's Remus, Hope?" Minerva questions, grimacing at her own abruptness.
"He's recovering in his room," Hope says, before cursing under her breath. "Dammit, I got paint on the moulding. I need to focus on this, if you don't mind, Minnie. I'm sure Remus will be happy to know his favourite teacher survived this week, unlike some people."
Unlike some people. Minerva's stomach rolls at the reminder that James is dead – that James and Lily are dead. Alice Prewitt and Frank Longbottom are supposedly completely numb to the world, now and didn't Marlene McKinnon and her family disappear from the face of the Earth only a few weeks ago? Children are dead. Minerva hasn't heard from her ex-husband, Elphinstone, in over six months. Please don't be dead too, she prays, not you as well.
"Go upstairs," Hope advises, wiping at the spilled paint with a cloth rather than a wand – her magic-less life shining through, so clear to Minerva in moments like these.
Minerva finds herself in Remus' room eventually, however, after turning around and walking stiffly up carpeted stairs. She doesn't knock – his door is open, anyway and she sees him sitting in an armchair in front of a small, but still triple-stacked bookcase. Books upon books – trinkets litter the shelves. There's no room for any photographs, but those are on the walls, anyway.
Remus has new scars. Fresh ones. A pink bandage wraps around his throat and Minerva's heart is in her throat, for a moment. A killing blow. His hair is braided to the left, dangling over his shoulder, though there are the casual fly-aways of a quick and messy job. He looks up when she appears.
"Professor," he croaks, voice quiet. The book on his lap closes abruptly. "Hello."
"Good afternoon," Minerva says and the greeting is so banal. "How are you?"
"I could be better, to be honest," he says. "I haven't been able to contact my superior in the Order."
Another blow lances through her chest. "Storm Faraday is dead," Minerva swallows. "She died in the line of duty, protecting Diagon Alley from a Death Eater attack. They were going to raid Ollivanders."
Remus becomes haunted. There's a change to his pallor and he sinks back into his seat bonelessly. "I see," is the only thing he says.
In the pocket of her robe, the vials press against her chest and they feel like hope. "I'm going to track down your friends," she tells him.
"Friends?" Remus says, the word sounding like treacle in his mouth, warped and…unhappy. "What friends? One of them was the Secret Keeper. Sirius was the Secret Keeper. Pete was here yesterday, he told me. Sirius is trying to tell some cock and bull story about how Pete-" his words tear off into nothingness and he bears his teeth, looking rabid and dark, eyes glinting with malice as he looks at Minerva, hands clenching around the arms of the well-worn seat. "I don't know who to trust. James swore not to make any of us Secret Keeper. The Fidelius would keep them safe, but we were all too obvious choices. But if Sirius-"
"Sirius would never have been made Secret Keeper," Minerva denies, shocked. Her interruption causes him to fall silent, giving her a chance to speak. "I'm not sure how well informed you are, but Sirius Black was wanted by You-Know-Who – wanted alive and well. He was a political target. James knew that. They were both always very clever boys, just like you. I never would have ever believed them, if they insisted Sirius was Secret-Keeper. It's the worst possible choice they could have ever made."
Uncertainty. Fear. Remus stands from his seat and Merlin, is he tall – taller than her, dammit. That last growth spurt in his seventh year did him well.
"How can we find them?" Remus demands, unstable and shaking in place. The pink bandage around his neck suddenly darkens and Minerva makes a noise halfway between a tut and a scoff, stepping forwards and pushing him back down onto his seat.
"You're making your neck worse," she snaps, worried and already undoing the bandage to check on the wound. The muggle stitching is clear and even though she doubts it will work, she tries a healing spell. "Vulnera Sanentur."
"It was another wolf," Remus says, voice barely more than a mumble as he lets her tend him, using magic to clear the blood away and apply freshly conjured bandages. "Normal healing."
"I remember," Minerva presses her hand to his forehead, but he's far from cold or too hot. "Would you like me to summon Poppy?"
"Find Sirius and Pete," he murmurs. "I'll call her if it's an emergency. Didn't you hear? The war's over. It's safe."
"Not quite yet," Minerva says. "They're still rounding his followers up. Bases are still being hit. It'll be another year, at least, before things can- before we can become something new."
"Something new," Remus whispers, looking up at her, so helpless and hoping, now. Oh, how it makes Minerva's chest ache with relief to see that. "I like the idea of that, Professor."
"How many times have I told you," Minerva's eyes sting, half choking on her own words, "you're not my student anymore. We're Order members and in the Order-"
"-we're all we have," Remus finishes, "so last names and titles and stupid. Call everyone by the name they choose. You chose Minerva."
"Oh, you silly boy," Minerva presses a chaste kiss to his forehead, "my bull-headed Gryffindors. You were mine the moment the Sorting Hat left your head."
"With special exceptions," Remus smiles, a grin tugging at his scarred face.
"And Miss Meadowes knew it the entire time," Minerva shakes her head. "That girl. You know, sometimes, Filius and I deliberately drank a toast to her antics. I got Dorcas Meadowes – he got Kingsley Shacklebolt."
Remus laughs, but it's cut off by his pained whimper, his limbs curling up instinctually. Minerva grasps his hand, holding it tight.
"I'm no use to anyone like this," he says, "and you might be running out of time. Sirius and Pete- one of them is lying or- or neither of them know the truth. Get them, before they explode on each other."
"I swear it, I will," Minerva promises, "Will you be alright, here, Mr Lupin?"
"Hypocrite."
"Remus."
Remus pauses, before nodding. "My mum is here. She'll look after me. Find them, please."
"I will," Minerva squeezes his hand once more, before letting go and apparating away, out of the Lupin Homestead to her new, muggle abode where her family awaits.
I'll find them.