A/N: I love you all, reviewers! I'm sorry that updates will have to be slower now I'm back at school with nose to the grindstone. Anyways, here we go again!

Minerva McGonagall kneaded her temples, and attempted to expel Filius's sympathetic face and high-pitched voice from her mind. The Deputy Headmaster had at last succeeded in penetrating her sanctuary, as his superior eventually realised that solitude was an impediment to a number of important forms. Her emotions had dominated the school for long enough, and so the miniature wizard had managed to unwittingly plant another barb-

"I'm terribly sorry about what happened. If there's anything I can do-"

No, there was nothing that Filius could do. Even Eleanor Reeves seemed at a total loss; her visit to her counsellor had been nothing but a series of extended silences, accompanied by tears, and the unpleasant sensation of sitting a few feet away from someone whose assessment she had so dramatically defied, and who no longer understood her. Their conversation had been stunted by her inability to divulge the whole story - and without that vital ingredient, Eleanor found her behaviour just as unfathomable as everyone else.

"You loved him?"

"Yes!"

"But you experienced a resurgence of feelings for Albus?"

"Yes!"

"And there was no obvious trigger?"

She had shaken her head, unable to go so far as to verbally deceive a woman who had helped her out of a previous abyss. Once again, she was alone. She doubted that she could make either Poppy or Rolanda believe that Brian was Albus, and there was no telling what damage the truth could do to Harry and Ginny - and there was no justification in passing information on that would undoubtedly eventually reach them. As for Albus himself…

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

Wondering if Filius had made some sort of general announcement in the staff room that the Headmistress was now available to sympathise with, wearily she called her assent. Perhaps she was due for a bone-crushing hug from Hagrid, or else the smug satisfaction of Sybil?

Martha Read's entrance sent her heart plummeting. Stiffly, she twisted her face into a smile. Martha swept towards the desk, watching her coldly, not attempting to return the Headmistress's grimace. Cold eyes scanned her; a muscle twitched in one cheek. Had the resentment descended that far, had the ball just added a dash of contempt into their relationship?

The Transfiguration professor sat down, still observing her quietly. Minerva thought vaguely that this was quite unusual for Martha, who would usually be either gushing or complaining before she even entered the room - but then, she had been so curt and organised on the subject of the attack on the person of Brian…

"Martha, what can I do for you?"

The other woman appeared to consider her words before answering. "I would like to ensure that the events of a fortnight ago do not occur again."

The Headmistress blinked, and tried to focus.

"A fortnight..? I'm afraid-"

"I am of course referring to the attempt made on the life of Mr Potter."

She felt herself being swept away by such organisation, such a keen focus on significant events that used to be so characteristic of herself…

"Although the culprits are now in the hands of the Ministry, I'm aware that guarantees of safety can never be made, and would like to give personal lessons to Mr Potter on the subject of self-defence. I believe he shows great potential-"

Minerva held up a hand, in order to stem the flood. Confused, she searched Martha's eyes, suddenly feeling as though this efficient woman before her was a complete stranger. "Martha… Have you any specific reason to feel continuing concern for Mr Potter? And your area of expertise is Transfiguration; Professor Brady-"

"-Is hopelessly mediocre as a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."

A flash of her old temper restored her scattered thoughts.

"I rather think that that is an evaluation best reached by the inspectors or myself, Martha. What particular qualifications do you have in the area?"

The Transfiguration professor remained silent, but her jaw tightened.

"I'll repeat myself: what reasons do you have to fear for Mr Potter?"

"Let's not pretend ignorance. The neo-Dark movement has a focus in a person once believed to be lurking in that forest. Whether or not he is or was actually there is irrelevant; unsavoury elements have already been attracted to Hogwarts because of it. Only last week Hagrid had to remove a member of the public who was wandering around the grounds."

The Headmistress shifted in her seat, anger growing. Martha spoke as though she was in charge of the castle and its affairs! Yes, there would always be some who would try and exploit her period of weakness… No, the woman was speaking sense; this was her prejudice back again with her pain-

"Your manner has been very different, recently," she said aloud, unable to curb her tongue. "I suppose you think my personal affairs have rendered me incapable of looking after Hogwarts and its interests."

For the first time, Martha looked uncomfortable. "By no means-"

"Forgive me."

Minerva rested her head in her hands, trying to quell the unreasonable rage within her. Fury and misery were all too easily wedded, not to mention exhaustion… Weak sunlight shimmered around her.

"That was out of line," she croaked. "Forgive me. It is a sensible suggestion, though I still see no reason why Professor Brady should not give the lessons instead. I'm sure Mr Potter's father would greatly approve of the idea. I will endeavour to have it arranged as soon as possible."

After the Transfiguration professor had left, Minerva closed her eyes and leant backwards, distantly feeling that she had misjudged Martha - but then, she had misjudged everything. Those who prided themselves on strength had none when it counted, and those who appeared weak concealed a heartwood which could endure all, and carry them into prominence… And what was there left to think about the tribulations of love?

The roses had died.

Rolanda Hooch's legs directed her without the conscious intervention of her brain, and she knew better than to interrupt their course down the darkened Hogmeade main street, even when they strode right past The Three Broomsticks. This was by no means the first time this had happened, and there was a wisdom in it, even if it was a rather impulsive one.

Hoochy, she goes - where the wind blows…

Even Poppy's old rhyme, flitting randomly through her brain, brought only a weak smile to her face. Rolanda was in an unusually pensive mood - one she disliked as a rule; "a life without humour was a life without meaning," as her father had often said, but there was no escaping the heavy sadness that the past week had wrought on her, on everyone. Who could sit and cheerily eat breakfast in the Great Hall, when the memory of Aberforth racing away through the doors was still so fresh? How could anybody fail to lose their temper at the First-Years who gossiped about Minerva as though she was a nameless person in a magazine? Even she, Flying instructor and broom enthusiast, could admit that the emotions that a Quidditch match aroused were not quite as hideously real as those that the ball had. In some ways she shared the stunned innocence of the less malicious of the students; how could anything of that sort have happened at Hogwarts?

Naïve, as she had been present first when Myrtle's body was discovered in the girl's toilets, and then when Dumbledore had plummeted from the Astronomy Tower, when abstract ideas such as war and murder had manifested within the school itself. Only a child could be gullible enough to believe that mortar and stone could be a barrier against the less pleasant aspects of the world.

Her thoughts did not improve when she saw the building that her feet were taking her towards - the abandoned Hog's Head, as dormant as when Hagrid had ventured to its door. The regulars had stopped wandering up and peering hopefully at the 'Clozed' sign, and had either defaulted to The Three Broomsticks or remained indoors.

Rolanda stopped, and was about to force her feet away again when there was a crash from around the back of the pub, and a sudden movement in the shadows. Nervously, she stepped forwards, creeping around the side of the building along the derelict fence-

The side gate creaked open. Whoever had opened it had leaned their full weight against it; a dark figure crashed to the floor. An obscenity floated on the night wind, and the figure began to struggle upwards, just as she moved closer.

"Aberforth?"

Her mouth realised before her eyes did. The man leaning against the fence was at first unrecognisable as the well-dressed wizard of the week before; his robes were filthy and unkempt, and his beard and hair had somehow managed to surpass their previous grizzled states to descend into a chaos of tangles. Bloodshot eyes gleamed dimly in the darkness; the night reduced him to a blot. A few seconds passed before she realised that he was cradling a bottle to his chest, or that the dulled blue eyes were unfocussed.

Appalled, she watched as he took a slurp, sucking like a baby. Liquid gurgled against the glass. The sight was so horrendous that the flying instructor found herself striding towards him, with the vague aim of dashing the bottle out of his grasp.

"Who'sh that?"

The smell of alcohol wafting from was enough to make her feel dizzy. She stopped belatedly, the idea of direct action losing its appeal.

"Rolanda Hooch."

His face twitched and he took another gulp, seemingly remembering something unpleasant to do with her. The old wizard took a tentative step away from the fence, swayed, and retreated back to it, muttering. Rolanda struggled for words.

"You can't do this. You're the barman!"

Yet again, she found her naivety flabbergasted. She felt a kind of blank horror; she could not progress from that simple fact, that eternal image of the sober barman. Aberforth spent his days watching people get drunk, and curled his lip in contempt whenever it happened. Abstemious eyes had rested on her whenever she had had one too many - and how many times had she seen him boot the likes of Mundungus Fletcher out whenever they became a little merry? Before the fiasco with Minerva, sober had been the most positive word she had assigned to him; other words such as bitter, cantankerous and humourless had aligned themselves perfectly. How had she judged that such a man would react to the aforementioned fiasco? Why, with reservation; he would withdraw, and then emerge with a soul of steel…

But no, she was leaping to conclusions - a one-off, surely-

"That'sh what I am," Aberforth responded. He laughed, wretchedly. "Never could have been… anything else."

He began to meander back through the gate. Rolanda was seized with an urge to ensure his safety; Merlin knew how many things he could fall over in the darkness. The flying instructor fumbled for her wand.

"Lumos."

The narrow shaft of light produced barely penetrated the night, but it was enough. She followed him through the gate into a very small and cluttered garden, tufts of grass concealing flowerpots and bricks, and a compost heap which seemed determined to consume as much space as possible. A ghostly shape stirred near one end; she jumped, but the sound of a goat's bleating reassured her. Looking ahead, she could see Aberforth disappearing inside - the old wizard apparently picking his way easily around the obstacles even whilst inebriated.

The door was falling off its hinges, and the equally pitch stairwell inside was manifest with cobwebs; Rolanda repaired and cleared as she passed, wondering why Aberforth hadn't done so before. An ominous feeling settled in her stomach as her foot knocked against something which chinked and sloshed. Pushing away the persistant suspicion, she followed the staggering wizard up the stairs.

Rolanda had never been inside Aberforth's living quarters - there had been no reason to do so, and the idea of the barman being anywhere other than at his post had simply not occurred to her. Nevertheless the imagined alternative formed and shattered in mind the moment she entered.

There was only two rooms, spacious but dank and cold, cobwebs lurking in the corners. A moth-eaten sofa crouched like a waiting beast, sagging and resplendent with filth, and the tiny kitchen area was awash with dirty dishes. Threadbare curtains flapped at the grimy window, and the sparse furniture looked battered, second-hand. The marks of poverty were everywhere; Rolanda couldn't help but remember in contrast the old Headmaster in his magnificent robes. The stench of goats floated in the air, and something which looked suspiciously like goat-faeces lay in a heap beside the sofa. On the sofa itself lay an actual living goat, grey and grizzled with age. All this would have been quite enough without the bottles.

They were everywhere, on every surface, and piled on the floor. Shards of glass decorated the floorboards and the walls were stained, as though several times a bottle had been thrown in rage. Rolanda gaped at the bottles, calculating pints and units, reading faded labels: Ogden's Old Firewhisky, Mulled Mead, Elderflower Wine, Redcurrant Rum, Single Malt Whisky, Crowley's Gin, Hecate's Absinthe…

"Oi." Aberforth had noticed her. He pointed an unsteady finger. "Get out."

Worst suspicions confirmed, Rolanda sank down onto the sofa, beside the goat, which promptly began to nibble the edge of her robe. She ignored it as well as Aberforth, and continued to gape, at a loss for words. This man, she thought suddenly, is Albus Dumbledore's brother. She tried to imagine the former Headmaster visiting here, having a cup of tea on the same ruined sofa. The image was impossible.

Why? Why had Albus waltzed around in sumptuous robes whilst his brother suffered this? Surely he had offered help-

-And Aberforth had refused it, had stood on his battered pride like a general sitting on a nag! That was one question answered, and the other was almost redundant, but still her brain asked it, as did her mouth-

"What have you done to yourself?"

Aberforth frowned and took another swig from the bottle.

"Did you…?" Rolanda gestured helplessly at the bottles. "Did you drink all this in a week? Are you drinking your entire stock?"

The barman slumped onto the sofa as well, beside her with the goat between them. He stroked it absent-mindedly, but a spasm of pain crossed his face; he knocked back another gulp. In that moment when his countenance wasn't set into a glower, the resemblance to Albus was horribly clear - had that been what Minerva had seen? Or had she loved this unhappy, scowling man?

The professor found herself patting him on the back, empathy too deep for words. Aberforth gave her a blank look, and withdrew another bottle from his stained robes.

"Whisky?"

Why not, she thought, uncorking the bottle wearily. He needed help, and the only help she could offer was company.

The silence stretched - now words were needed.

"Mad-Eye and Poppy are officially a couple now," she said irrelevantly.

Aberforth grunted.

"He's liked her for years," she added.

His knuckles whitened around the neck of the bottle. "Bloody Auror. Comin' here, interferin'…"

"Am I interfering?"

Blue eyes found hers. "Not offerin' opinions are you? Not givin' me an effin' speech."

"Mad-Eye gave you a speech?"

Aberforth's gaze hardened. "Told me what I ought to think. Acted like that bloody eye could see into my soul or summin'."

"He was probably trying to help," said Rolanda awkwardly, shifting on the sofa and pulling her robe out of the goat's reach.

"Hah. Nobody can help. And the only reason why people try to help is to feel good about themselves, like saints… Real little heroes, they are."

She said nothing.

"I don't need help, woman."

"I think you do."

His look was poisonous. "You're her friend-" His voice trembled. "She's probably told you all about me-"

"No-"

"-What a miserable old git I am-"

"-Certainly not-"

"-How I fail to compare-"

"Aberforth, stop it!" Rolanda grasped one of his gnarled hands, wanting him to believe. "She's said nothing of the sort, and I know she thinks nothing of the sort! Do you think I came here to laugh at you? And if - if you think I'm in her confidence right now then you're wrong. Neither me nor Poppy know why what happened happened; she won't speak to us, she just locks herself up and cries, just like after Dumbledore-"

"My name's Dumbledore," said the old wizard hollowly.

"-Albus-"

He groaned as though the name had wounded him, and snatched his hand away, bowing his head. She expected him to eject her angrily back onto the street, but instead he was merely silent and still. Then-

"No. No. He was Dumbledore. I am nothing. I'm jus' a miserable old sod; there'sh no wonder in it turning out like thish…" He pierced her with a look. "D'you think I enjoy thish - bein' a creature of envy? D'you think I like him always - winning - at - everything, even when he's dead-"

"Ab-"

Confused eyes stared at her. "I - I did everythin' - I knew she wouldn't love me like she loved him, but I thought - and that was all, that was my best-"

Stunned, Rolanda could only gaze back. She felt as though she had stumbled across someone's diary and had a page read to her aloud. Was Aberforth now too drunk to realise she was there, or had he decided to rave about his private life to a woman who had once impulsively accused him of harassing the very female who was involved in it? Hearing this was obscene, wrong, wicked. She could not listen.

She was up, striding towards the door-

"Funny, how that happens," he remarked bitterly. "The moment I shtart bein' me, people walk away."

He might as well have lassoed her; horror drove her back into her seat. No, she protested mentally, as he gave her a twisted smile. No, she was a child still - she was a little girl - he needed someone mature to listen and help, someone emotionally sensitive-

"She's shaid not a word about me?" he was asking, laying aside the bottle and opening another.

Panicked, she struggled to think. "After the ball-"

"I heard - apparently she thought she loved me."

"She did - I'm sure-"

"No."

Aberforth looked at her with a face grey with despair. He suddenly threw back his head and downed the contents of the new bottle in several vast gulps. Afterwards, he closed his eyes and Rolanda saw the line of his mouth wriggle suspiciously. An awkward silence followed. More than ever, she wanted to flee, regretting that she'd ever gone after him in the first place, but she was frozen to the sofa.

Eventually, he fumbled in his robes. The witch expected another bottle to emerge, but instead his hand clutched a battered old wand. He stared at the point meditatively, and then dragged the goat into his arms.

The animal bleated and nuzzled against its master. Rolanda wondered if he was about to cast some of the fabled 'experimental charms,' but he merely buried his weathered face in the goat's fur. After crooning something secret in its ear, he drew back, and raised his wand.

He gazed at Rolanda, wand still held aloft. "Thank you for comin.' I appreshiate it."

Was this the desired dismissal? She rose-

-He spun the wand round, so that the tip touched his head-

-Disbelief-

"Avada-"

"EXPELLIARMUS!"

Aberforth's wand described a semi-circle, sailing into the air, but Rolanda lunged forward and grabbed one of his wrists, as though he was still holding one, still on the brink - and he was, he would always remain there; he was now a ghost, with a white, shocked face that echoed her own-

-His other hand ripped open his robes as he wrenched her free, darted across the room towards his wand. She threw herself across the coffee table, bottles smashing as she grasped at his triumphant fist-

He rested the point of the deadly wand against his exposed chest, and flung her to one side-

"Diffindo! Diffindo! Av-"

-She knocked it out of his hands again, but the Severing Charm had sliced through his torso - blood was gushing over his robes-

He swayed, and sank to the floor. Rolanda half fell towards him, watching numbly as his ragged undershirt grew scarlet and sodden. Her own wand moved through the air agonisingly slowly; his face was growing slack and absent, he was willing himself into oblivion…

"Tela Resarcio!"

The tip of the wood was reddened with his blood, but the gaping wounds began to close up, albeit untidily. Aberforth's eyelids fluttered, but her eyes were mesmerised by crimson… She found herself shaking, unable to erase the image of the man before her turning his wand on himself.

As the gashes sealed, she spelled him into Poppy's often lauded 'recovery sleep,' and levitated him onto the sofa. Then she sat back, and stared at him, thoughts as incoherent as her words would have been. The lethal wand rested now in her own pocket; the idea of returning it to Aberforth was absurd. What was there to be done? She would have to tell-

-Not Minerva; Merlin, that would just about undo her-

-Poppy, though, Poppy and perhaps Hagrid, perhaps Alastor - and she would keep on visiting, she would keep on making sure that the bloodstained man over there was alive-

She bowed her head and wept. A few feet away, Aberforth slept, dead to the world.

Another two weeks passed before enough Aging Potion had been brewed for the plan to be valid. Brian dodged Eric's worried gazes, and disappeared from the Common Room entirely, only to be seen in lessons and last thing at night - and, every now and then, with the bored Professor Brady, whose enthusiasm for teaching Brian self-defence was soon surpassed by his desire for coffee. Similarly, both Madams Pomfrey and Hooch began to be rarely seen, and when they were, it was together in an anxious huddle. Once, Moody was to be glimpsed having some sort of argument with the former out on the grounds, with the latter waving her hands in supplication behind them. Brian expressed an interest which Eric couldn't help but think seemed completely superficial, and then disappeared again.

As the potion neared completion, Albus suspected that his friend spotted other peculiarities, such as that of Brian receiving a package from Gladrags Wizardwear containing august robes that were many sizes too big for him, or being found muttering under his breath about how roses were now "out of the question." There was no helping it, and he felt too distracted, too nervous and stretched to the limit, to pay much attention to Eric's puzzled frowns.

Minerva,

Are you free on Saturday afternoon? I feel that I might risk inconveniencing you.

Words cannot express my sorrow at how I daresay you are currently feeling. I repeat that I am not angry over what happened concerning my brother, merely concerned. Both of you have my affection.

I hope that you have not decided never to write to me; you never responded to my last letter.

His daring faltered; had the 'affection' comment been enough? No, he would write more-

My dearest, I look forward to our meeting.

Yours,

Albus

He had not the audacity to write 'love,' not even when the Sorting Hat was so amazingly confident of his feelings being reciprocated, but hoped the reader might sense his sincerity in the 'yours.' He read over the letter critically, knowing that he was allowing verbosity to obscure the emotions within. Nevertheless, he sent it off, and received:

Dear Albus,

I will be available on Saturday.

I will continue to write, if you are sure that you desire it.

Minerva

Did it not exist, or was it also obscured? Parchment yielded nothing; only the meeting would reveal if there was anything to reveal.

Minerva! His darling Minerva, whom he had not even glimpsed for weeks! And he was to go as himself..!

Saturday morning found him in a state of quivering nerves and anticipation. He played Wizard's Chess with Eric impatiently, won absent-mindedly, and attempted to feign interest in Cal's jokes. Brian was a point of tension in a sea of relaxed contentment; the other Gryffindors were wasting the weekend happily, seemingly oblivious to his sweating palms and churning stomach. He checked the potion spasmodically, whenever Eric left him alone.

The young Weasley was apparently determined to have Brian enjoy himself. Whilst he grinned when Albus's persona accepted the invitation to go flying in the run-up to lunchtime, he seemed less happy when Brian went shooting off all over the pitch, diving savagely, brushing the grass daringly with his broomstick and wildly weaving in and out of the goalposts until the watching Mark asked whether the Potter boy was mad or suicidal. Mad was the best guess, Albus thought, doing a mid-air roll. He tried to lose himself in the wind, but Eric's cries of fear urged him down before he could.

"What the hell were you doing?"

They were walking across the grounds towards the main building, broomsticks over their shoulders. Eric was looking furious; Albus arranged Brian's expression into one of confusion.

"What-"

"You know what I mean! You could have got yourself killed!"

The artifice was failing, and so he dropped it. Eric's cheeks were as red as his hair.

"Listen - I don't know what's wrong with you at the moment, but we're mates, yeah? You can tell me what's up, whatever it is! If you don't want to tell me, that's fine too! But don't go pulling stupid stunts like that!"

Touched by the boy's loyalty to Brian, Albus remained silent. Their journey up into the school and into the Great Hall for lunch passed without a word, and Eric kept on shooting Brian frightened sideways glances, as if wondering if he had offended him. Albus tried to smile in response, but his face felt like lead. The chatter of the other students seemed far away, irrelevant, and he picked at his food, forcing himself to eat for the Weasley's sake. His eyes were constantly drawn to the Headmistress's empty chair, the throne of the goddess. The world was unreal; in less than a couple of hours he would be making an attempt that should have been made in another lifetime…

He left early, unable to restrain himself even for Eric's feelings. The rest of the student body was still at the House benches as he exited the Great Hall, the churning inside him reaching a crescendo. Corridors passed away quickly; soon he was outside the girl's toilets.

As he opened the door, Myrtle gave a squeal of welcome. He looked at her narrowly; it would not do to have her present when Brian shed his youthful body.

"Oh! Are you back to visit me?" the ghost giggled. "You're such a little charmer!"

"Myrtle?" He made his voice low and flattering. "Could you perhaps give me some assistance?"

Myrtle blushed silver, and stared at him fondly. "Anything for Mr Potter!"

"Could you possible keep watch outside the door whilst I do something?"

Her face fell slightly, but she nodded, and promptly floated through the wall. Albus immediately turned to the potion, which was the correct shade of indigo, and bubbling nicely. A vial stood ready by the sink, but there were other things to be checked first. He found the bag stored as he had left it, beside the door. The robes and Harry's old invisibility cloak lay rolled inside, as did the bunch of forget-me-nots he had decided on. Wondering if they would be worthy of Minerva, he transferred them to the sink before reaching for the vial.

He set the cauldron to the simmer, and scooped up as much as he could into the vial. He left the door of the cubicle open, rested the vial by the sink, and slipped off his robes, leaving only the phoenix medallion hanging at his chest.

Brian's pale, lean body confronted him from the mirror, naked as the day he was born. Albus smiled at it, for a moment glorying in the unspoilt flesh which only youth could give. Then he raised the vial to his lips.

"Oooh…"

Myrtle's whisper was followed by the sound of hyperventilating. Albus spotted her silver, delighted face peeping through the door.

"Myrtle!"

"Sorry!"

He waited, to make sure that she was definitely gone, before drinking the contents of the vial in one go. Noting vaguely that it tasted oddly like hot chocolate, he watched the mirror for signs of the change.

He felt it before he saw it; he felt his spinal column stretch, his ribcage expand. His limbs lengthened, and a prickling spreading over his jaw told him that his beard had started to grow. The reflection's form grew indistinct, slightly misshapen. Fascinated, he watched the years ease their way on. Soon, a young man replaced the boy in the mirror, a young man with long auburn hair and a soft, downy beard.

He slipped his adult robes on before taking another dose, stumbling and awkward at the change in his proportions. He had chosen purple trimmed with silver, embroidered with shining stars - robes which he would have worn in a previous life, robes which suited him. He savoured what he estimated to be his early twenties in the mirror before refilling the vial.

Time fast-forwarded. This time he approached a Muggle's middle age, a wizard's continuing youth. Another dose, and his beard fell to his waist, as did his hair. Old, remembered lines reappeared to mar his face, but they were beautiful in their familiarity. The last scoop of the potion flung him into late wizarding middle age; grey began to curl itself in his hair and the lines deepened. His estimation was the late eighties, early nineties. This was Albus Dumbledore before he had gone to fight Grindelwald.

Not enough Aging Potion had been made to restore him to the old man he had been in the years before his death, but it was enough; the boy was gone and the man was clear to see. Were there disadvantages in wooing Minerva over fifty years younger than he would have been? He could not care. A strange nostalgia and wonder for his old form gripped him; the reflection held him a few minutes more before he took up the forget-me-nots and retrieved Brian's wand.

He hid Brian's school-robes in the bag, and bundled them inside the cubicle. The invisibility cloak he withdrew, and a picture of himself came to him:

"I don't need a cloak to become invisible."

He would condescend to do so now! He wrapped the cloak around him; his reflection vanished. Looking at the empty space in the mirror where his image had been, Albus paused. Would that be all he would be to Minerva in the end, after so much? Was it even possible for her to accept the onion he had become, the man within a boy within a man? Had the Sorting Hat been false in its confidence? He had no idea what he was going to say to her. Would words even suffice? It was too late to draw back. Could any man now surrender?

Myrtle started when he opened the door, and stared right through him.

"Mr Potter? Where are you hiding?"

She floated inside the girl's toilets, and let out a piercing shriek. Outside, the portraits shivered. A reclining maiden looked up, and a group of wizards paused at their card game, exchanging nervous glances. An old witch shuddered and jumped. An unseen presence passed them by, an unseen presence which occasionally dropped blue petals.

She had turned all of the head teachers' paintings over in preparation, and had found herself resisting the urge to change into more attractive robes. Such a desire filled her with shame, and so she waited tensely at her desk, fiddling with forms and sorting papers.

Thank Merlin the roses were gone. Poppy had removed them for her, continuing to apologise profusely for what she had said straight after the ball - but the accusation was more than just. The same accusation was facing her today. This meeting with Albus was bound to be painful, even without the roses, but still, at least they were gone. At least they were gone.

His letter was baffling in its lack of hostility, in its support, in its… warmth?

Both of you have my affection… My dearest…

Of course, the affection was clearly platonic, and she despised herself for welcoming that extra 'est.' Three letters meant nothing… 'Dear' was a term he applied to anybody. Why, why did she devote part of her mind to Albus when Aberforth was all she should think of? Yet Albus was the reason-

No, the blame was hers. The secret was hers to bear; Poppy and Rolanda had seemingly taken the hint - now they moved together as one, worried eyes fixed elsewhere. She could not extract the reason from either of them, not that she had any right to-

That Albus did not blame her was inconceivable. What brother could see a woman treat a sibling so badly and even have any patience for a cordial acquaintance with her-

So her thoughts moved, disjointed, restless. So had they been for the past two weeks; the letter had merely intensified it all. She was an enigma to Eleanor, agony to Aberforth, abomination to Albus and a frustration for her friends. Nothing could persuade her to return yet to the Great Hall - that much would be unbearable. No, let all who demanded to see her come and find her…

Like Alastor.

That thought made the Headmistress wince. Moody had not turned up in person, but a letter from him had conjured his furious presence so vividly for her that she had thrown it in the fire straight after reading it. The ex-Auror had said all that she had thought, all that her mind had accused her of at night. She knew Moody had a kind of rough liking for Aberforth - perhaps it was because, like for her, he reminded him of Albus.

Albus, with his flowing white hair and beard, and twinkling blue eyes. Albus, a boy with an innocent face, but with the same eyes. Two realities endlessly colliding. A dream and a nightmare rolled into one. A wish both granted and denied. He was always with her, but a what if that remained a what if. Aberforth was also always with her, but as a spectre of guilt…

When the knock on the door came, she could not help it, she could not sit remotely at her desk. Instead, she crossed the room, and opened the door into empty air. The moving stairs stretched beneath her, mockingly vacant-

"Minerva."

A silver cloak was swept off, and the Headmistress found herself staring into the face which had haunted her for twenty years, a face with eyes as blue as the forget-me-nots below.

A/N: I'm aware that this is getting to be a trend with me, but... I really do genuinely think this one to be awful. Absolutely NOTHING went how I had planned it. Still, hope you enjoyed it!