Anthea spent most of her early days at Hogwarts. Minerva worked there, after all, and only came home to the McGonagall estate in July. When she was old enough, and aware enough, to start walking around, Anthea realised she couldn't kid herself anymore: she really was in the Harry Potter universe. The flick of a wand could kill or heal her. Well, then, she was in a school, wasn't she? She would learn everything she could, and would have to be enough.

She was five when she met Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody. He and Minerva were apparently distant cousins through their Scottish heritage and, in truth, Anthea knew that her mum – she saw her as such now – really loved the man. He was paranoid, yes, broken in more ways than one could count, but protecting his family and the wizarding world was everything for him. He had been sent to France for the five first years of the girl's life to learn new Defence Against the Dark Arts tactics and, now that he was back, he wanted to be part of Minerva's newfound family.

"You really have a cute little lass here, Minerva," he said when Anthea handed him a cup of tea with a dimpled smile.

"Of course I'm cute," she said, her smile turning almost startlingly sharp in her young face. "I have manners, too. Mum raised me well."

The two adults laughed, but there was a spark of interest in the old Auror's eyes. Minerva put her hand on Anthea's hair, toying with her hair. They were both sitting in chairs facing each other, with the girl in her adopted mother's lap. The elves watched over Anthea when Minerva taught classes, but when she had free time the old witch loved holding her, keeping her close. After a while, Anthea had gotten used to it.

"Mum says you're the best Auror ever. Is that true?" She grabbed a cinnamon biscuit and started eating it, but her pale green eyes were set on the man and focused fully on him.

"Ah, I guess it is. Why d'you ask, lass? A bit young for that stuff, ain't you?"

Minerva snorted in her cup of tea. "Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. My girl wants to learn to fight, if you can believe it."

"Oh? And why is that, lass?"

"I want to learn so I can kick Silvio Kettleburn in his soft bits," Anthea said, looking down on her tiny hands. He cut my hair and he always bullies the other children in the castle." He was also two years older and almost double her size, but those were details in the child's eyes. She wanted revenge, and she would get it.

Alastor shifted in his seat with a grunt that sounded appreciative. "Tell you what, lass. If you can convince your mum, I'll teach you some stuff you can use to kick whoever wherever. I'm here for a month to check the wards and stuff like that, I'll have time for you."

Anthea turned towards her mother and looked up at her, her eyes suddenly big and pleading. The art of puppy eyes didn't hold any secret for her anymore so, when Minerva sighed, she knew she had won. "Fine, fine. But don't turn her into a paranoid monster, Alastor, or I swear I'll turn all your kilts yellow and pink. With a permanent spell."

Seeing the man recoil so visibly made Anthea giggle before she could suppress the sound. Alastor shook his head and glared at her, but the smile on his scarred lips broke the effect he was going for. "It's going to be like that, eh? I see, I see. Well, lass, finish your biscuit, we're starting now."

She swallowed her biscuit in two mouthfuls then grinned, jumping to her feet. Minerva looked at her, something akin to melancholy and tenderness in her eyes. Love, maybe. Love and fear of seeing her child growing up so fast. Anthea intellectually understood what she caught in those soft brown eyes, but her heart couldn't quite follow. She still had a lot to learn, things she had lacked in her first life.

Alastor took her to the open grounds, a few hundred meters away from the Whomping Willow. During the second week of July, Hogwarts didn't welcome students, only the staff's children. Most of them, at this time, lived either in Hogsmeade with the teacher's partner, or spent time with wizard friends. Neither applied for Anthea; besides, she was happy to stay in the castle, to have it almost to herself.

She had started to learn to read and write almost a year ago. She wasn't sure Minerva was aware of it, since it had started during the school year. House elves had tutored her, gushing over her intelligence and how quickly she progressed. Of course, she didn't tell them that she had done it all before. They also taught her things she hadn't suspected were part of a witch's education: etiquette, gardening, the theory behind magic and potion-making, and the history of magic outside of the Goblin Wars, thank God. She loved those lessons, and even more when Minerva taught them herself.

"Most witches and wizards have piss poor physical skills," Alastor started. "I won't have it with you, lass. You'll train 'til you puke with exhaustion if it's what it takes. Your opponents won't expect you to run, to dodge, to punch, and so that's exactly what you'll do."

A prim and proper witch would have been appalled by the idea of fighting the muggle way. Anthea was neither, under the veneer she usually put on, and she grinned, her eyes gleaming. When she saw her expression, Minerva sighed and shook her head, but her eyes were still warm and loving.

The following hours did indeed make Anthea puke in exhaustion. First, Alastor had her running laps then, when she couldn't put one foot in front of the other anymore, he guided her through stretches, push-ups and squats until she collapsed. It was all very muggle, and very satisfying despite the pain. She retched, kneeling in the grass, and heaved until her stomach was empty and then some more. Her mum was by her side, pulling her hair back and rubbing her shoulders.

"Eh, you're quite good, for a witch and such a tiny lass," Alastor said.

When Anthea looked up, she saw satisfaction, raw and deep, gleaming in his normal eye; the other one was scanning the surroundings, as it had since the beginning of the session. When she felt she could do it without fainting, she stood up, leaning against Minerva. Her mum wrapped an arm around her. She seemed conflicted, torn between the desire to protect her against harm and seeing how happy and enthusiastic she was about learning to fight.

Minerva, in truth, didn't believe for a moment that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had really died. She had discussed ancient witch magic with Lily Potter just before she went into hiding. She wasn't as knowledgeable on the subject as she wished she was, but still, she recognised the signs in what had happened in Godric's Hollow that damned night. If all was as she suspected, then the self-proclaimed Dark Lord wasn't dead. Not quite.

Besides, his supporters, cowed as they were, didn't all believe he had fallen either. Severus didn't believe he had fallen. Minerva hadn't trusted the spy at first, but it all had changed after Lily's death. Seeing him so broken, so utterly devastated, had allowed her to consider him under a different light. The man himself was still infuriating, but the warrior in him she respected. When he said that Voldemort wasn't dead, she believed him.

So, yes, Minerva supported her adopted daughter's wish to learn how to fight. And Alastor was the one man she trusted the most to train her. Now, the whole challenge would be to keep Albus' long nose out of it.