January 2, 1982

Chateau Black, France

Collapsing gracelessly back onto the reluctantly abandoned daybed she had once intended to nap on, Cassiopeia Black twirled her wand between her fingers and considered what she had learned from Filius Flitwick. "Knotty."

"Pardon?"

"Knotty- the yarn ball that we're working with, I mean. A new tangle every time we pull a string."

Settled into a wide wingback chair at her side with a glass of elven wine in one hand, Isla quirked her lips upward. "Missing the days when all we had to deal with were crazy nieces and dark lords, are we?"

"Without a doubt." Cassiopeia crossed one ankle over the other and raised a single brow. "Aren't you?"

Isla laughed, then grew sober. "What Filius said about your great-nephew…"

"Dorea's grandson."

"Right. What he said…."

"Horrific. It's horrific. I think of my heir, and your grandson, and I can't comprehend it." Cassiopeia paused. "Frankly, I am going to have to call a family council."

"Will you prioritize this over Sirius?"

"Don't be ridiculous. The two matters go hand in hand- based on what Filius told us today and what you learned about the Order of Phoenix, the only reason a false accusation of Sirius went through was because Dumbledore at the very least allowed it. And based on how determined the meddling old man seems to be, my hypothesis is that he did it to ensure he would have control of Dorea's grandson."

"We need to know why he wants that control in the first place." Isla swirled her wine around the rim of the glass. "I thought it was jealousy at first. Knocked off his throne as Hero of the Wizarding World by an infant…. But I don't think his actions suggest jealousy anymore. He's jeopardized his own reputation repeatedly to try to gain an upper hand- no, there has to be a long game strategy here somewhere."

"Either the Headmaster's bias against dark magic and traditionally dark families is so intense that it rivals the British dark lord's revulsion of muggles, or he is working on a project of his own that requires full control of Harry Potter. Either way, he seems quite set against my House." Cassiopeia furrowed her brow further and sat up to look Isla square in the eye. "The House as a whole will have to respond."

Isla inclined her head regally, polishing off her wine and setting the glass aside before rising from her seat. "And while you handle that, I'll fulfill our promise to Filius. Gryffindor or no, Minerva McGonagall needs our help."


January 4, 1982

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Albus Dumbledore was tired.

He was tired of his carefully laid plans being thwarted by previously unheard of foes (seriously, where were these meddling Blacks even coming from? Everyone knew their House had essentially fallen!). There was still no clear answer to what had happened to him when he tried to remove Harry Potter's connection to the Black family tree, nor was there a clear answer as to how he had ended up in the Crowing Cock.

He was tired of the constant level of anxiety that having his only weapon against Tom Riddle's eventual return made inaccessible to him.

He was tired of trying to explain why the Greater Good was more important than the individual good- especially to a woman who, he knew firsthand, would risk no life other than her own to save anyone- even the whole world.

He was tired of the rising level of guilt born from days of wreaking havoc on one of his dearest friend's memories. It was particularly vexing that the guiltier he felt, the worse behaved his familiar was. The Phoenix was barely singing at him these days.

But most of all, Albus Dumbledore was tired- absolutely bloody tired- of swimming.

In the Great Lake.

In January.

So when Minerva didn't come through her portrait hole at 4 am sharp on the first Monday of 1982, his first reaction wasn't concern- it was relief. No excessive heating charms for me today! Good thing, too. They dry out the skin terribly, and at my age….

However, it was not long till his bright smile faded, and the twinkle dulled in his eyes. Has Minerva ever missed a morning routine when she's not been ill?

Albus Dumbledore may have spent the better part of two weeks attempting to manipulate, maneuver, and consequently obliviating Minerva, but she was still one of his dearest friends. One of his dearest friends, who had cried on his shoulder and who he'd shared many a good Scotch with. Certainly the only person alive who he could entrust his legacy at Hogwarts to.

Surely not ill- she was fit as a fiddle at dinner last night! Even if she did seem a bit off when we spoke afterward….

A new fear struck the elderly Headmaster like a slap to the face, and his twinkling blue eyes widened. What if he had messed up the spell?

"Minerva?" Dumbledore's soft voice echoed down the hallway, earning angry glares from other portraits. "Minerva, are you awake?"

"We're all awake now," a painted nymph grumbled from her gilded frame.

Ignoring her, Albus tapped on the side of the portrait guarding her rooms. "Minerva-,"

"Excuse me, Headmaster, but the Professor hasn't moved an inch yet this morning. I haven't heard her moving around at all," the painted magical lion said hesitantly, clearly apologetic. "I'm not sure if I could rouse her even if I-,"

"That's quite alright my boy," Dumbledore murmured, but his mind was spinning now. He had two choices- and both had pros and cons.

The first, to barge in and check on Minerva. If it was indeed his spell that had incapacitated her, there might be a limited window of time to get her the help she needed. There was the worrying possibility that someone could clue in to how many obliviates had been used on her recently- but on the flip side, without help she could lose her mind entirely.

The second was more palatable- walk away, pretend he thought that Minerva was having a lie in today. Assume everything was fine. Ignorance is bliss. If he came back to check again later, he would still seem like the hero for finding her, and chances were it would be too late for any healer to determine where her mind had gone.

A sudden barrage of memories- moments, so small he would later wonder what had made him recall them- consumed his mind.

Minerva, elbowing him and asking him which seventh years he wanted to bet would be dating by end of term.

Minerva, pouring two healthy drabs of whiskey and sliding one across the table with a conspiratorial grin.

Minerva, dancing with her late husband at the Leaky one New Years Eve.

Minerva, dropping a pair of hand knitted socks into his lap. Teasing: "What else do you get the man who has everything?"

Minerva, eyes lit up as she spoke of her students.

Her students. The next generation. The Greater Good requires an educated next generation.

Dumbledore took a deep breath, and laid his hand on the portrait frame. "I'd best check on her- just to be safe. Rejicio."

The portrait swung open slowly, and Albus Dumbledore took a deep breath. An entire generation of students needed Minerva- as did the school as a whole. Checking on her, regardless of the consequences, was for the Greater Good.

For the Greater Good.


"Really Albus, this is completely unnecessary."

Albus glanced over Minerva's lime green and swollen form through the contained air bubble he had cast around her, amazed that she was protesting. "Oh my dear, it is most definitely necessary."

"Such a germaphobe," Minerva grumbled around loud, hacking coughs. "There is positively nothing wrong with me. I am fit as a fiddle."

"As I'm not the Hospital Wing Matron, I'll leave it to Madam Pomfrey to determine that," Albus said patiently. Or more likely, for St. Mungos. How on earth did Minerva get a mild strain of Dragon Pox?

"Tosh- Poppy will have me back at my desk in a minute if she knows what's good for her. I have things to do, Albus!"

"Anything in particular I can take off your shoulders while you're in the ward?" Dumbledore offered as cheerfully as possible, crossing his fingers that, with any luck, Minerva had just enough of a fever to be looser lipped than normal.

"Actually, if you could step in for my advanced classes, that would be wonderful- they really shouldn't miss any days at this point in the semester," Minerva fretted. Dumbledore sighed. What could be so important at the very beginning of the semester?

"Of course, not a problem. I haven't had a chance to step foot in a classroom in some time now, I suspect it will be quite the good time."

"And if you wouldn't mind managing the approvals for the prefects new schedules. Also-,"

Dumbledore hid his despair behind a kindly smile, nodding agreeably with each additional request from the increasingly frazzled and hacking Deputy Head. "Minerva, don't worry. I'm sure you'll be back at the desk in no time at all."


"She won't be back for at least three weeks."

"What's that now?"

Poppy Pomfrey shot Dumbledore a sympathetic glance. "Minerva will be out for at least three weeks- assuming her treatment goes well."

"But I thought she had-,"

"Rare form of dragon pox, as opposed to the mild strain you suggested. She's not contagious, thank goodness- can you imagine having an outbreak in the school?- but she requires daily potions, constant oversight, and quite a bit of rest. At her age and at her stress point, the Head Healer over at St. Mungo's decided to admit her for some time."

"But three weeks…" Albus murmured, suddenly dizzy. One day of overseeing Minerva's normal duties had been exhausting- the idea of three weeks? Beyond the pale! He might not survive.

Maybe he should have left her alone after all, and damn the Greater Good.

"Don't worry, Headmaster. Minerva sent a specific list of instructions…."


January 5, 1982

St. Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies

Minerva McGonagall eyed the woman who walked through the door of her hospital room warily. "Can I help you?"

Blood red lips flickered up into an amused smile. "Hello, Minerva. My name is Isla Calderon, and your friend Filius Flitwick has requested that I help you."