Chapter I

The portraits were silent as stone. Under normal circumstances, Minerva would have been grateful. But as they were anything but normal, she found herself craving the usually incessant jabbering of the previous headmasters, trying to interfere and give their advice when most unwelcome.

Minerva stared, challenging them to say something, anything. They merely stared back.

It was only Albus who didn't even bother but smiled cryptically, in the meanwhile sitting in a leathern armchair and knitting an oversized, red jumper. It was one of the most ridiculous things Minerva had ever seen, but then again, Albus was many things. Ridiculous was one of them.

"Now would be a great time to share your train of thoughts, Albus," Minerva drawled, irritated with his careless demeanour, "or let me know what it is that you seem to find so amusing about this situation."

His hands froze for a few seconds, but his eyes never left the gigantic piece of mesh resting in his lap. He seemed to be considering his next words and didn't speak, as the witch noted with utmost aggravation, until he resumed his crochet work, slowly looping the red wool around the wooden needle and continuing with rapid movements Minerva had difficulties to follow.

"Amusing would be the wrong word, Minerva," Albus said calmly, sighing as the smile finally left his face. He didn't meet her eyes. "Indeed, the situation calls for swift but very well-wrought decisions. Not very easy decisions, I'm afraid."

Not even death had changed him, Minerva thought grimly, her lips tightening and her eyes snapping shut. Staying calm was a quality that was lost on Minerva, but if she really, earnestly wanted to take Albus' place, or at least try to showcase some of his leader qualities, she had to retain a cool head. Take a deep breath and face the old man with the same kind of provocative serenity she'd had to endure for what felt like a lifetime.

When she opened her eyes, however, she realised it was all for naught. The second she looked at his portrait, peacefully knitting away like everything was alright with the world, Minerva felt anger, as hot and as vibrant as she hadn't felt for years, throbbing and pulsing through her veins.

She wasn't Albus Dumbledore. She wasn't the God he was, moving the figurines on the checkerboard with careful deliberation, his every calculated stroke playing towards a purpose unknown. She was human, and she was tired of trying to reach this level of inviolability.

She found herself on her two feet, her fist slamming on her desk and causing all of Albus' instruments, the most delicate and intricate objects, to vibrate and eventually fall over. Gasps flooded the room immediately, outraged and scandalised at such display, but Minerva's stare was unforgiving. It was enough to silence them all; after all, the portraits already had had their chance to speak, and now Minerva couldn't care any less what the old, batty goons could have to say now.

Pleased to see that all of Albus' attention was focused on her, Minerva raised her chin and straightened herself.

No beatings abound the bush. No mind games. She wanted clarity, once and for all.

"I will not let my students come to harm, Albus, and I will certainly not allow you controlling them from beyond your grave. They have suffered enough to last them ten lifetimes, for heaven's sake!"

Albus sighed. With his knitting work now resting on his lap, he carefully took off his spectaculars, folded them in slow movements and set them aside. With his eyes closed, he began to massage his temples. To Minerva, it was clear that he was more than worried. About whom or what, she couldn't infer.

"Technically, Minerva, they aren't your students anymore."

Her silence was answer enough.

"I've heard Mr Weasley is- "

"Why is he still alive, Albus?"

This question came out as a mere whisper. At that, Dumbledore opened his eyes; there was no question, no doubt about what she could have possibly meant by that. He had understood, very clearly.

"It's a most unexpected miracle- "

"Don't say things that you don't truly mean, Dumbledore," Minerva spat, shaking her head. "Potter shouldn't be alive if Voldemort is supposed to have died. We both know that."

She hadn't always known. Since the defeat of Voldemort, Minerva had kept speculating. Even if she never had been too concerned about this huge question mark that the Dark Lord had left behind (ignorance was bliss, after all), there had always been this soft nagging voice in the corner of her mind. It had become louder and louder, until she couldn't ignore it anymore.

She had been so naïve. As they all had. But as long as Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, covered the front pages with nothing but his vibrant presence, his shy, humble smile, truly nothing could be wrong with the world. And should there be another Dark Wizard in training, there was Potter to rescue them all, again. Over and over.

The letter on her desk mocked her, and more generally, whole Wizarding Britain.

"The times of pretend are over," Minerva sighed, plunking down into her chair, closing her tired, wrinkly eyes. "He was right, Albus. Potter was right."

"Harry has always been an exceptionally bright child, Minerva," Albus remarked, but his voice had lost its edge, the syllables he uttered all rendered meaningless. Minerva shivered at the hollowness of his words.

"Not to mention the fact that a piece of- of him has resided in Potter's body for years." Minerva shook her head, still trying but failing to imagine how the poor little boy had coped with so much evil in his system. "If anyone should be considered an expert when it comes to You-Know-Who, it's Potter."

Taking a shuddering breath, she unfolded the letter in front of her as if detonating a ticking bomb, and carefully smoothed it out against her desk. Blue ink. The signature of the Minister himself, Shacklebolt, placed at the very bottom. To any outsider it looked like an official letter; Minerva, however, was fully aware that its content went beyond these boundaries.

And the longer she mulled over the words hospitalised, hallucinations and Janus Thickery Ward, the surer she was that it was all their fault, that none of this would have happened hadn't they been so bloody careless in the first place. She wasn't even sure if there was anything left to do, anything besides what seemed almost… inevitable.

Inevitable. She felt sick.

Minerva looked at the portrait right next to Albus, trying to catch the slightest twitch of an eyebrow, the pursing of his thin, dry lips. But the dark figure remained silent, its eyes closed and its body completely still.

Since the day he had died, Severus Snape hadn't said a single word.