Prologue: The Warp and Weft

The weeks after James and Lily Potter died were relentless battles with Ministry officials and memorial services. The Dark Lord had been vanquished, but the fallout and subsequent cleanup required a great deal of attention. Families were shattered, lives were forever altered, deaths had to be accounted for, and memorial services had to be planned.

First and foremost was the matter of young Harry James Potter. Though he was by no means the only subject the Headmaster had to make a decision on, he was by far and large the most important. Not only did Dumbledore have to question his decision for a suitable environment in which the tiny Boy Who Lived could be raised, there was also the disposition of the Potter estate to take into account, and that estate was formidable at best. There would be meetings, many meetings, with the goblins of Gringott's, in order to establish some sort of proper authority and administration over the Potter's substantial wealth.

On the heels of the Potter situation came the matter of Alice and Frank Longbottom. Unlike Harry, little Neville still had relatives with which he could be placed. Augusta would pull his beard out hair by hair if he attempted to pass her grandson off to one of Frank's brothers, or Alice's mother, but the formalities to be observed. Given that both Frank and Alice had named their beloved Headmaster the executor of their estate, there was much in the way of paperwork to fill out. He expected Augusta would have full legal and financial control over the Longbottom vaults by Christmas at the latest; until then, it was still his responsibility to manage.

The Potters were not the only ones who needed a memorial service planned, nor were they and the Longbottoms the only parents to name him executor of their estates. Too many families had seen their loved ones taken away in the fight against the Dark Lord, and the dead numbered in staggering amounts. At last count, there were no more than seven ministers of the Church of Merlin left alive in all of Britain; they would be horrendously overworked overseeing the Last Rites and traditions for the individual families if something wasn't done about it. Dumbledore supposed he could send away to France and Germany to plead for relief assistance, but he doubted any would come from those quarters. They'd been notoriously absent in their support during the long, hard war. There was no reason in the world they should change their minds now.

Too many Death Eaters were still at large as well, and he could hardly expect the Ministry of Magic to prosecute every single one of those they'd captured or those who had come forward. Well, he could expect it, but he would probably have better results expecting the island to break away from the European continent and drift until it came to rest somewhere warm and tropical. The old families, those like the Malfoys and the Parkinsons, had far too much influence and pull within the bureaucracy. If Lucius Malfoy saw a full day inside a cell in Azkaban despite the overwhelming and irrefutable evidence against him, Dumbledore would eat the Sorting Hat.

Then, there was the case of Sirius Black. Still at large, and being hunted down by some very angry, vengeance-minded Aurors who had idolized and adored James Potter. Sirius had been one of their number as well, and their sense of betrayal was understandable. Dumbledore, for all his age and 

wisdom, couldn't wrap his head around it himself. He was a fair hand at Legilimency, and never had he read deceit or falsehood in Sirius Black's thoughts. To his best knowledge, Sirius Black had been absolutely devoted to the Potters and their son. He couldn't fathom what would cause him to turn against his best friends in the name of family and purity, two things he'd been running from his entire life.

Yet the evidence against him, much like the evidence against Lucius Malfoy, was irrefutable. Sirius had been the Secret Keeper for the Fidelus Charm laid upon the cottage in Godric's Hollow. Voldemort would not – could not – have learned of its location without the Secret Keeper's full and willing knowledge.

Albus Dumbledore sighed and removed his half-moon spectacles, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He hadn't even delved into the responsibilities of his position of Headmaster at Hogwart's. He'd filled the position of Potions Master rather cleverly, he thought, but he still had yet to inform the other professors, many of whom were still reeling over the loss of too many friends and family members. He was not looking forward to their reaction when they discovered he'd hired a Death Eater to that position.

At least the boy is applying himself, he thought, and reached across his desk to pull up the syllabus Professor Snape had dropped on his desk not two hours ago. Four three-foot parchments outlined each year's proposed course in small, clean script, neatly stacked from first to seventh. An additional three one-foot sheets for additional supplies. A request to include additional textbooks from the school's stores, covering material Slughorn's original course lists had neglected.

More work, in other words.

He would promote Minerva, he decided all of a sudden, and began sorting the various piles of paperwork into those he could delegate versus those that required his personal attention. Minerva would make a fine Deputy, and would cut through all of the bureaucratic nonsense that so bogged him down with her stern and unwavering efficiency.

He picked up the parchments he planned to set into her capable hands and left his office with them. The halls, so often filled with chatty and noisy students moving between classes, dormitories and study groups, were eerily silent. His sound of his footsteps did not echo from the walls as he expected, but were solemnly swallowed up by the stone floor. It left him feeling a bit unnerved as he reached Professor McGonagall's office.

The door was slightly ajar, candles burning to ward away every shadow despite the early morning hour. Minerva was slumped across her desk, rubbing her temples, a stack of papers at her left elbow with her fearsome red-feathered grading quill atop them. Her hair, normally severely pulled back into a bun, was wispy and coming loose, framing her face and emphasizing the lines under her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Dumbledore hesitated, feeling a small pang at the extra responsibility he was about to heap upon her.



"Come in, Albus," she said without looking up, and Dumbledore did so. Neither of them spoke a word as he took the very seat every single one of her students feared, the one across from her own at her desk, and settled the pile of parchments in his lap.

"Minerva," he said after long moments of silence had gone by. "Has there been any further news?"

She only dropped her head further, then gestured at the paper folded neatly on the corner of her desk. Dumbledore picked it up, noting it was today's edition of the Daily Prophet. He spread it out, and was shocked to see the news of Sirius Black's capture.

He read the whole story in trepidation: by all accounts, Sirius Black had gone mad and attacked the last of his closest friends in broad daylight on a Muggle street in London. Twelve Muggles were reported as having been killed in the final blast, along with Peter Pettigrew. The reporter added that the largest piece of Pettigrew's body able to be found was his little finger. Sirius Black had been remanded into the custody of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and was awaiting a trial that was warming up to be swift and merciless.

He could only stare in disbelief at the pictures accompanying the piece, of Black snarling and nearly foaming at the mouth as he was led away in chains. How had he come to this? How had he sunk so low? How had they completely missed his treachery?

"How, Albus?" McGonagall asked suddenly, unnervingly voicing the same questions he was asking himself. "How did we miss Sirius Black in our midst? He'd been privy to every secret. He was hailed a hero after he turned his back on his family for their ideals. He was…" Her voice broke, and she couldn't continue. She pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes distant and hazy for a long moment. "How did we miss him, Albus?" she said again.

"I don't know, Minerva," he replied sadly, folding the paper and replacing it on the corner of her desk. "He had us all fooled, myself included."

She smiled, a tired, humorless smile. "I thought you were a Legilimens."

He nodded. "I am. That is what disturbs me most. I was not the only one within the Order of the Phoenix as well. You know as well as I do that we all routinely screened the thoughts of every member, even ourselves. I myself submitted to Diggorus Frewer's less than tender ministrations in order to set the example. For Sirius Black to fool not only one, nor two, but three talented Legilimens is nigh unprecedented." He paused, then offered, "Perhaps it was something other than willing betrayal. Veritaeserum, perhaps. Or he may have been under the Imperius."

It was like he'd pulled the lid straight off Pandora's box. McGonagall exploded in rage, slammed her hand down onto her desk, the blow making several ink pots and transfiguration materials leap and bounce. "The Fidelius doesn't work that way!" she roared, and the rest of her hair unraveled from its bun, flaring around her face like a lion's mane. Her eyes flashed and her face flushed. "You cannot just use veritaeserum on a Secret Keeper and expect them to come up with the address! You cannot use the 

Imperius curse and expect them to reveal all! The Fidelius protects those who have sworn to it! He had to have been willing! He had to have! It just doesn't work any other way!"

"Feel better?" Dumbledore asked quietly, and held her out his tin of chocolate crickets. Minerva dashed angrily at the tears streaming down her cheeks and shoved her hand into the tin.

"No, I don't," she snapped, and ate a couple of the treats. The chocolate did its work a moment later, smoothing out the angry red of her complexion into a more natural hue, and lifting the pain a little from her eyes. "I can't feel good about any of this, Albus. I don't think I ever will. Black's betrayal is too deep to heal from so easily."

"Many of the wounds the Wizarding world has been dealt will not heal so easily," he replied, and popped a couple of his own chocolates into his mouth to calm himself a little. "There are so many dead, and so much to do."

"Which brings us to why you're here," McGonagall said.

He nodded with a smile. "Exactly. With so much responsibility with various estates and dispositions of properties and dependents, my calendar is seeming quite full for the foreseeable future. If you're agreeable, I'd like to promote you to the position of Deputy Headmistress, with all rights and responsibilities therein." He paused for a moment, picking up the sheaf of parchments from his lap. "Are you agreeable, Minerva?"

She eyed him for a minute in silence, then blew out her breath in a deep sigh and nodded. "I am agreeable," she answered shortly, and held her hand out for the documents.

Dumbledore handed them over with a relieved smile. "You'll need greater access to the wards, as well as a copy of all the keys and passwords I currently possess," he said. "I'll see that you have them no later than the end of the day."

Whatever her reply was going to be was cut off by the low hooting of an owl. Both of them looked up in time to see an elderly snowy owl descending with an envelope lashed to its leg. McGonagall arched an eyebrow curiously, but that curiosity quickly turned to alarm as the condition of the owl became apparent.

The owl, badly burned and missing enough flight feathers to make anyone wonder how it'd managed to stay aloft at all, landed neatly on the edge of the desk before falling over. Blood immediately began pooling on the Transfiguration papers. The head turned to Dumbledore, the great golden eye pierced his own, and it hooted piteously.

"I'll send for Grubbly-Plank," McGonagall said suddenly, and stood up from her chair to make for the door. Dumbledore ran a finger over the owl's head. It hooted at him again, insistently this time, and clawed at the desk with the leg holding the envelope.



"I see it, little friend," Dumbledore said soothingly, and reached to untie the letter. The owl hooted once again, sounding relieved. Its body slumped and the light went out of its eyes. "Minerva…" Dumbledore began, but got no farther before the owl's body dissolved into ambient light and free magic.

McGonagall returned to stare at the spot where the owl had been, then raised disbelieving eyes to Dumbledore. "Albus?"

He leaned forward to touch the place the owl had been. There wasn't so much as a feather or a drop of blood to indicate there'd been a messenger owl there not one minute ago. "I don't know, Minerva," he admitted, then looked down at the envelope in his hand.

It was aged and yellow, slightly seared around the edges and liberally spattered with blood. The front had only his name, Albus Dumbledore, inscribed on it in messy block letters that seemed strangely familiar and yet not at all at the same time. Intrigued, he turned it over and his breath caught in his throat.

The back of the envelope was sealed with a blob of wax, into which the Potter family crest had been pressed.

McGonagall gasped, her hand flying to her throat. "Is that..?"

He nodded, and slid his thumb under the seal. "The Potter family crest, which only the heir of the bloodline is entitled to use."

"James?" The question was quavering, her voice catching on the name. "Did James send this?"

"I don't think so," he said and pulled the note out. "The writing is similar, but it's not his. It's far too neat. Perhaps another Potter survived." It would certainly make him revisit his decision to place young Harry with the Dursley family if it were true.

It had fared far better than the envelope had, with only a bare few faint scorch marks along the edges. The note was written in the same hand that had addressed the envelope, and was short and to the point.

Sirius Black was not the Secret Keeper, the note read. Peter Pettigrew was. Sirius did not kill him; Peter faked his own death. You will find him with the Weasley family, posing as a pet rat named Scabbers. He is a Death Eater.

McGonagall sat heavily back down in her chair, her expression dazed. "Well now," she said distantly. "That changes things."

Dumbledore nodded and folded the note back into its envelope with great care. "Indeed it does," he agreed. For the first time this week, he felt a surge of hope. "If it's true, we owe Sirius a very large, very heartfelt apology. Perhaps we should pay the Weasley family a visit. Post-haste."