The Secret Keeper

Disclaimer: I own very little; least of all the characters in this story.

Tuesday, May 5, 1998

Harry James Potter wakes as the sun first dares to lift its sleepy head from the darkness at the farthest point of the eastern horizon. He deliberately chose to sleep on his side facing the window the night before and left the hangings around his four-poster bed ever so slightly parted just for this reason. Ensuring, despite his exhaustion, that he would be one of the first to wake in the ravaged and war-torn castle.

He yawns as he fumbles for his glasses, momentarily wishing he had done what must be done the night before. Tossing regret aside, he silently admits that it simply was not possible last night. When the battle was won, when Voldemort was dead, he had walked among the survivors and the dead alike. He had shaken countless hands and hugged all those in need, offering what little comfort to the bereaved that he possibly could. And although he felt bound to do it, he had privately yearned for the moment when it would be acceptable for him to slip away from the battle weary, the grief stricken, and the victorious faces of his friends, schoolmates, and loved ones; and simply allow himself to sink into oblivion. When it was all said and done last night, the only thing he really wanted was sleep. He needed, he craved, its medicinal balm above all else.

Swinging his feet to the floor, he pulls on his socks as he watches the edge of the moonless sky fade from black to navy, and navy to a purple that will no doubt go gloriously golden and pink in less than an hour.

There hadn't really been time to think about it yesterday. He had thrown himself out of Hagrid's arms and rose ready for battle amid the thunderstruck cries of the death eaters' outrage and the heart-swelling cheers of Dumbledore's Army, and there was still work to be done. Later, when the fight was done, there still had not been time. And even if there had been, he had simply been too tired to contemplate the reality of it all. It was over. It really was over. They had won. Voldemort was dead. And Harry wasn't. A slow smile stretches the bottom half of his face to the point that it nearly hurts.

"I'm alive." He whispers to the darkness. "I've got… I've got the rest of my life to do… whatever I want to do." He almost laughs aloud, choking back the sound at the last possible moment when he realizes, with surprise, that he's not alone. He can hear Ron snoring in the next bed, and the hangings are pulled tightly shut on the other three beds as well. Seamus, Dean, and Neville. How have they all survived? Even before his brain can fathom an answer, his next thought is of Ginny.

He pulls on robes over yesterday's clothes, snatches both his wand and the elder wand from their hiding place beneath his mattress, and races for the dormitory door.

For one blindingly happy moment, all he can think of is her - her and the lives they are about to lead. But, even as he crosses the threshold, he resolves to let her have the peace that comes with sleep for as long as she possibly can. He doesn't need verification to know that she is still asleep, and when she does wake; for just one moment, maybe two, everything will be good. Everything will be okay - and then she will remember that her brother, Fred, is gone. Wishing it were not so, Harry leaves the Gryffindor common room at a much more sedate pace and eases out from behind the portrait of the fat lady, who mumbles in her sleep about the indignity of being roused from slumber, no matter how briefly, at such an unforgivable hour.

Moving stealthily, with the Great Hall in mind for his first destination, Harry casts the muffliato charm over the entire floor to conceal the noise he's about to make, so as not to disturb anyone's rest, and then raises the elder wand high overhead and begins what he knows will be the painstaking and possibly arduous restoration of Hogwarts.

Choosing one spot at random, he turns in a very slow circle magically fixing anything within sight from the badly fragmented stone floor to the ruptured crenelated molding of the ceiling high overhead. He repairs the damaged or fallen stone walls, and the frames and canvases of the war-ravaged portraits they hold. He rectifies massive holes or breaches in the castle's battered structure. He magically wipes away all traces of scorch marks from poorly aimed curses. Using 'tergeo' like he never has before, he clears away any visible traces of blood.

While reassembling a particularly gnarled and ancient looking suit of armor, he discovers the rotund and stiffened body of an expired death eater in a dimly lit corner of the corridor outside Gryffindor tower.

Rolling the heavy corpse onto its back to see if he recognizes the man, Harry grimaces and nearly wretches at the sight before him. More than half the man's face is gone. The part that is still there is so badly ravaged that Harry doubts the man's own wife would recognize him; presuming he had a wife. Forcibly swallowing against the rising tide of bile, Harry shoves up the man's left jacket and shirt sleeves just to verify what he already knows to be true. There on the anterior surface of the man's left forearm is the undeniable dark mark – a skull with a serpent slithering from its open mouth. A second glance at the man's large body tells Harry that the only person capable of moving this man without assistance will be Hagrid.

He quickly returns to his bed, where he tugs the duvet free and tosses it carelessly to the floor. Pulling the top sheet off the mattress, he retraces his steps. Spreading the sheet over the man's body, concealing it from the eyes of people who will be passing by until such time as it can be properly dealt with, Harry whispers when he covers the man's obliterated face. "You got off easy, you bloody bastard."

Rising to his full height, Harry glances around realizing that it took him more than half an hour to accomplish the little restoration work he's done. People will be waking soon, and rather than have them scrabble over massive chunks of fallen debris on their way downstairs, he abandons his – stand in one spot and fix everything you can see – approach, and adopts a new policy. His new intent is simply to clear a path. Fix only the major obstacles and leave the finer repair work for later. Even with this new approach, it still takes him more than 45 minutes to make his way to the marble staircase and the Great Hall below.

Once there, he realizes, he isn't the first to rise. In fact, judging from the bleary-eyed expressions on the faces of the adults already in the room, Harry is quite certain that some of them haven't been to bed at all.

Near the massive oak doors, Flitwick and Sprout are on hand to coordinate and supervise the final care of the departed.

Just inside, Harry passes a dour-faced and pencil-thin woman with tight curls the color of steel wool and a matching somber gray pantsuit. Talking in hushed tones with the weeping mother of Lavender Brown, she patiently encourages Ms. Brown to choose between cremation or a handsome mahogany casket for her daughter.

Harry scans the room. Cots and blankets have been removed. The walls are now lined with a variety of coffins, already occupied, their inhabitants waiting to be claimed for burial.

Standing atop the dais, where the head table is usually found, Harry catches sight of Kingsley Shacklebolt, the auror, cloaked in long majestic tribal robes who stands head and shoulders above most others. When their eyes meet, Shacklebolt inclines his head in a discreet beckoning fashion.

Moving slowly across the room Harry steps patiently around people. Sliding this way and that, he weaves his way up the steps to Kingsley's side.

"Glad you're here, Potter. Someone should witness this."

"Sir?"

Kingsley nods toward the coffin that currently has the lion's share of his attention.

Glancing down into the open lid of a fine polished oak casket that rests where Dumbledore's chair normally would have been, Harry's eyes come to rest on the thin expressionless face of Remis Lupin and instantly, his throat tightens.

For a long moment, neither of them dares to speak. Fearing his voice will crack under the weight of emotion, Harry simply watches as Kingsley affixes a gold medal to the lapel of Lupin's badly faded suit jacket, just over his heart.

When Harry's curious eyes meet his again, Kingsley explains, "Order of Merlin, first class. First werewolf ever awarded."

Harry nods. "He deserved it, sir."

"That, he did." Shacklebolt pauses for a weighted moment. "Harry, I have a favor to ask."

"Anything, sir."

"I've got to escort their bodies home tomorrow and I wondered if you might come with me to visit Andromeda Tonks."

Henry nods again, this time, uncomfortably. "It'll give me a chance to offer her my condolences. She lost her husband, her daughter, and her son-in-law because they stood with me."

Shacklebolt shakes his head. "Not because they stood with you, Potter. Because they stood against Voldemort; and that was a choice they each made freely. You didn't enslave them. The three of them gave their lives so that Teddy Lupin, and others like him, could live in a better world. Without your actions, that world would not exist."

When Kingsley closes the lid of Lupin's coffin with a softly spoken, "I'll see you again, my friend." Harry points his freshly mended wand with the phoenix feather at its core and whispers, "Insignis Lupin."

As the lid of the coffin becomes emblazoned with the name Remus J. Lupin imposed over a fine rendering of the crest for the Order of the Phoenix, Shacklebolt nods appreciatively. "Well done. Nyphadora will be receiving honors as well. I thought her mother might like to have her medal. She can pass it on to Teddy when he's old enough. Remus would probably laugh and say something about the medal clashing with his scuffed shoes and his threadbare suit."

Harry chuckles. "Probably, but Sirius would be the first one to point that out. Lupin would just agree with him to keep the peace."

"You know something, you're absolutely right. Those two…"

"Hang on!" Harry interrupts. "Can you do that? Give out medals, I mean?"

"I can."

Harry squints and Kingsley chuckles.

"I take it you haven't heard."

"Heard what?"

"Scrimgeour is dead."

"Yeah, I heard on the radio."

"They asked me to step up."

"Hey, wow, that's nice. Congrat – uh, I guess that means you've accepted the post? If you're passing out honors?"

"I have. It's time for the ministry to clean house."

"I hope you mean that."

"I do."

"Great, where do I sign up?"

"I'm glad you asked. It saves me the trouble of having to talk you into it. Scrimgeour seemed to think you weren't too keen on the idea."

"Uh…" Harry starts slowly. "That is not entirely true, sir."

Shacklebolt raises an eyebrow.

"If the ministry is going to be properly run, I'm all for it. What I wasn't too keen on, was the notion of being Scrimgeour's puppet."

Shacklebolt rolls his wrist encouragingly. "Please continue."

Harry shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, giving it a single second's thought before he decides to be completely honest with the man. "He wanted me to tell everyone what a good job the ministry was doing, and how safe we all were under his management. I strongly suggested to him that instead of just appearing to do a good job, the ministry should actually be doing a good job. It went downhill from there."

"This was during your visit to the burrow at Christmas, correct? "

"Yes, sir."

"How far downhill did it roll?"

Harry pauses momentarily, trying to recall the exact words of his conversation with Shacklebolt's predecessor five months before. "I remember, I asked him if Stan Shunpike was still in Azkaban under just the suspicion of being a death eater. He said Dumbledore tolerated me. He called me insolent and insubordinate. He called me Dumbledore's man." Harry shrugs, obviously taking great pride in Scrimgeour's intended insult. "He said it was time I learned some respect. I told him it was time he earned some. Long as you're not planning to go chucking innocent people into prison for just the suspicion of being a death eater without any real proof, just because it makes you look good. I think we'll get on just fine, you and me."

Kingsley chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully. "Harry, can you be this honest with me every day - on the job – even if sometimes I don't like it?"

Harry nods. "Sure, I can."

"Good. We can discuss your options tomorrow… Or next week. Whenever is convenient for you. What are your immediate plans?"

"I can't leave here until I've set this place right. After that, I'm not sure. But, if you're serious about cleaning things up at the ministry, I'm in. Uh, I didn't complete my last year here. I've been a bit busy hunting horcuxes."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"Is that going to be a problem?"

"There will be some red tape to get around, I'm sure, but Harry, you've just defeated the darkest wizard of our time. Trust me, the ministry has a place for you. And, something else, you needn't worry about this place. Hogwarts was built by magic. It will be restored by the same."

Harry nods. "I understand. It's just that this was my home. At least, the first one I can clearly remember. It was the first place I remember being welcome." He looks around at all the death and decay. "I can't leave it this way, sir. I won't."

"I won't ask you to. Come with me tomorrow to see Mrs. Tonks. I'll introduce you to your godson. After that, you can take as long as you need."

"What time do we leave tomorrow?"

"If it's not too early, I will meet you here tomorrow morning at 6:30. We can have breakfast before we leave."

"I'll be here."

"I'll look forward to it."

"Have you seen Professor McGonagall yet this morning? I need to talk with her."

"I believe Professor Sprout escorted her to the hospital wing about half an hour ago."

Harry's green eyes widen noticeably behind his spectacles. "The hospital wing?"

"She insisted, rather adamantly, that she was alright. Pomona just seemed to believe that she might be in need of a little patching up."

Harry thrusts out his hand, gripping Shacklebolt's and shaking it firmly. "If you'll excuse me… Minister."

Kingsley shakes his head, impressed as Harry leaves the room on winged feet.

Weaving rapidly between clusters of people, Harry barrels into the entrance hall and does a clumsy little quick step to avoid colliding with Lee Jordan.

"Sorry Lee, my fault."

"No worries, but where's the fire? Slow down Potter. We kicked the bad guys out last night, remember?"

Harry nods and waves dismissively, moving too fast to have time for more. He's down the hall and passed the staff room with all its uncomfortable mismatched chairs before he realizes he's moving in the wrong direction but when he turns, he catches sight of something that cools his heels, if only temporarily.

Just inside the main entrance, Arthur Weasley is embracing his sobbing wife. "Molly, dear, you have to let go now. They need to take him." Harry's eyes slide to another coffin and another somber looking pair of mortuary officials.

"There are so many, Arthur. Too many. What if they get him mixed up with one of the others? Just let me go. Let me go with him."

"Molly, love, they won't lose him. They won't mix him up with anyone else. It's their job. That's what they do. Let the boy go."

"Let him go? How dare you, Arthur Weasley. How dare you say that to me!" She shrieks, wild with grief. "He hasn't been gone twelve hours yet. How could you?"

"Now Molly, that isn't what I meant." Mr. Weasley covers his balding head with his hands.

Realizing that a crowd of nervous looking people, including Hermione and several of the Weasley's remaining children are observing what should obviously be a very private moment, Harry hurries forward. "Mrs. Weasley…"

"Oh, for heaven's sake! What is it now!" She turns to face him and pales instantly, her trembling fingers coming to rest over her mouth. Harry, dear! Oh, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."

"There's nothing you have to be sorry for. There's nothing I need to forgive, Mrs. Weasley. You can shout at me all day if it helps."

"I don't want to do that. I didn't mean to…" She pulls him into a fierce hug as new sobs echo through the hall.

For several long moments, Harry simply holds her. When she has exhausted her supply of fresh tears, she goes scarlet and quietly chastises herself. "Fred would be mortified."

Harry shakes his head. "Fred knows you love him."

Molly wipes her face with her hands and then reaches out for the handkerchief her husband is offering. "What did you need, dear?"

"I only wanted to help." Harry raises his wand and murmurs a similar incantation to the one he used for Remus. "Insignis Weasley." When Fred's full name along with the Weasley family crest are fully within view on the lid of the simple, otherwise unadorned coffin, he adds, "There now, you can be sure he won't be misplaced."

Mrs. Weasley collapses into another round of tears and as she murmurs about his being a 'wonderful boy.' He gently extracts himself and beckons Ron forward to take his place. "Here's Ron, Mrs. Weasley. I need to go and check on Professor McGonagall in the hospital wing, but I'll be back to check on you all as soon as I can."

As he steps away, picking up speed again, he reaches out to take Ginny's offered hand and holds on, only letting her fingers slip from his when he has no other choice.

"I'll be back." He repeats.

Before he is out of sight, Hermione queries, "What's happened? McGonagall was fine when I saw her before going to bed last night."

Running backward, Harry shrugs and repeats, yet again, "I'll be back."

He turns on his heel and disappears from sight in the crowded hall.

The hospital wing is filled beyond capacity; every bed is occupied, and the space between the beds is not so generous as it usually is. Cots have been added, and several patients, who appear not to have a bed at all, are seated in folding chairs lined up against the back wall of the vast room on either side of Madame Pomphrey's office door.

Harry scans the room and politely squeezes between two visitors, who have the look of relieved parents who were afraid they might find their child in far worse condition than sitting upright in a hospital bed with a heavily bandaged forehead.

After several seconds, even before he sees her, he hears the voice of the person he came in search of. "I tell you, Pomphrey, I am fine. And I am leaving."

"You'll do no such thing." The resident healer of the castle declares persistently. "I want you close for observation. You will be spending the night here, Minerva!"

As Harry gets near enough for his first shocking glimpse of Professor McGonagall, who is dressed in her usual pristine attire but, happens to appear more than just a little battle-bruised, she retorts indignantly, "Horse feathers! If you are going to insist upon keeping me under observation, you'll just have to come find me in my own quarters."

She tries to come to her feet, and when it's plainly obvious to Harry that the attempt causes her pain, he steps to her side even as she continues with her objection. "You have people here who are far more in need of this bed than I."

"I do not agree."

"Yes, your objection is duly noted. However, I do not require your consent. What I do seem to require…" She frowns. "is Mr. Potter's arm." She turns her penetrating gaze his way. "Potter, if you would be so kind."

Harry places a gentle hand on her shoulder, momentarily holding her in place as he searches the transfiguration teacher's badly bruised face. With clear concern in his voice, he asks, "Professor, what's happened to you?"

"I assure you; it is nothing that won't heal."

"Okay, that's good. I'm glad, but Professor, you look as though you've been punched in the face."

"That's because she has!" Madame Pomphrey glowers. "And that's not the worst of it. She's had a couple of broken ribs, a separated shoulder, and a very badly sprained ankle. I've mended what I can, but she needs bed rest."

"And, I will have it - in my own bed. Honestly, it's not as if I don't know what to do with fractured ribs. I've had them broken before!"

Madame Pomphrey throws her hands into the air. "Yes, when you were 50 years younger! You stubborn old - witch!"

It takes a supreme effort on Harry's part to stand still and not remove himself from a space he strongly suspects is in imminent danger of becoming a free-fire zone. However, McGonagall surprises him by pressing her lips into a thin line, and although her countenance is unbearably stern, Harry has the mad, yet distinct, impression that what she's really doing, is trying - on account of her broken ribs - not to laugh.

Arching one eyebrow high over the rim of her square spectacles, she lifts her chin defiantly. "Well, if that's the best you can do, Poppy…" She tucks her arm into Harry's, and he helps ease her slowly to her feet. "I will be leaving now."

Glaring after them, the matron of Hogwarts makes one final attempt. "Harry Potter, do not take her from this room!"

Harry glances over his shoulder. "Do you know where her quarters are?"

"Of course, I do, boy!"

"Then you know where to find her, don't you?"

Leaving the ruler of the hospital wing with a look of supreme exasperation on her shocked face, Harry walks as fast as he dares with a limping McGonagall on his arm. He can't quite suppress the urge to duck slightly, half expecting some convenient object to be hurled across the room at the back of his head as he asks again, more quietly than before, for her ears only, "Professor, how did you get like this?"

McGonagall smothers it quickly, but this time, Harry certainly does hear a quiet chuckle. "I'll tell you later, Potter. Just get me out of here before she forces another of her vile-tasting remedies on me."

With her spine as straight as that of a veteran military man, and her head held high, McGonagall allows Harry to escort her across the ground floor of the castle. She ignores the shock and concern in the watchful eyes of people as they pass by. Thankfully, Potter seems to understand her desire for as little fuss as possible, and whenever they find themselves in the direct path of someone who is likely to become overly helpful, he politely sidesteps them or avoids them altogether by changing their route whenever possible. When one such detour leads them to a passage completely blocked by a collapsed wall, Potter takes his wand from inside his robes and quietly commands, "Reparo." When the wand's response is mildly sluggish, he returns it to its former place, and extracts another. Although she says nothing, it does not escape McGonagall's attention that the second wand responds immediately without so much as a spoken word. She watches in fascination, but only mild surprise as the entirety of the collapsed wall rises into the air and sets itself to rights. Moving slowly, as she is, he has more than ample time to clear all obstacles before them.

Once past the transfiguration classroom, they step into her small but neatly appointed office, and while he locks the door behind them, she extracts an attractively gnarled walking cane from the umbrella stand to the left of the door and releases his arm, carefully testing the cane's ability to support her despite her throbbing ankle. "This will do, and you have my gratitude, Potter."

"No thanks necessary, Professor." He watches her lower herself with care into the seat behind her desk.

When he doesn't immediately volunteer anything more, she waves him into one of her visitor's chairs and waits for him to settle before she raises an eyebrow, prompting him. "I presume you came looking for me for a reason - or were you in search of someone else when you happened upon me?"

"I was searching for you. When I heard you'd been taken to the hospital wing…" Harry stalls briefly and then shrugs. "I was worried."

She nods appreciatively. "You were searching for me because…"

"There's something I need to do, and I… I'm going to need some help."

"I'm listening."

"I want – well, this can wait. If you need rest."

"I do, and I shall have it shortly. I do not, however, intend – no matter what Madame Pomphrey wishes - to collapse into bed like some frail old woman who's given up and is impatiently waiting for the undertaker to come and ferry her off to the afterlife."

Harry smiles. "The last time I saw you, you looked tired but fairly unscathed given all that's happened."

"Yes, well, sometime late last night Professor Flitwick and myself had a conversation. It was decided that it would be best for the teachers to patrol the school in shifts in case there were still any death eaters lurking about."

"They all fled after…" Harry clears his throat. "After Voldemort was gone."

"Correction - the ones you saw fled. Did it never occur to you that even after Voldemort's death, he might have a handful of devoted followers ambitious and brazen enough to try and complete his mission?"

Harry blinks; his mouth going dry.

"This castle was badly crippled last night, Potter. Just because you've completed your mission does not mean that one of them might not foolishly seize the opportunity to come after you when your guard is low in the hopes of making a name for themselves - in the hopes of securing his or her own position as the leader of a new dark regime?"

Harry removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose as if a headache is suddenly looming just behind his eyes. Suddenly angry with the situation, and with himself for not foreseeing this, he rises too quickly and nearly overturns his chair as he hisses violently, "Is this always going to be a thing? It is, isn't it? I'm never going to be rid of his taint, am I?"

Shocked by the unexpected outburst, but realizing that perhaps she shouldn't be, McGonagall stammers wordlessly before quickly collecting herself. She then speaks softly, earnestly. "Potter, you are not tainted. I promise you, nothing could be farther from the truth, and anyone who believes otherwise is an unmitigated fool!"

"I am! And Dumbledore knew it. He knew what I would have to do. Only, I didn't know it myself until it was almost too late. Now you've been hurt because I didn't once stop to think about the aftermath. After Riddle was dead, I assumed it was over. I went to bed and slept- like a boy - while you, and how many others stood guard?"

"You more than earned the right to sleep last night."

"So did everyone else in this castle, Professor! I'm tired of being protected. I'm tired of being looked after. I'm sick of being guarded - like a child!"

"I do not think you are a child. And neither did Dumbledore. If he had thought that - if he had thought you uncapable for even one moment, he would not have set you the task of locating and destroying all those horcruxes."

"You knew what I was doing, then? He told you?"

"No, I'm sorry to say he did not share that bit of information with me. He only told me that there were things that must be done, and that it must be you who did them. If he had told me that he planned to send the three of you off hunting for the rest of the horcruxes, I'd have given him a sound piece of my mind and a severe tongue lashing! Which is likely the precise reason why he did not tell me."

Her words work like a pinprick to an overheated balloon. Suddenly out of steam, Harry's knees buckle and he sinks back into his chair. "I never would've wanted to be the cause of conflict between the two of you, Professor. Why should you have opposed my efforts to stop Voldemort? Unless… Unless you thought me un…"

"Do not misunderstand me, Potter. I had no objection to stopping Voldemort. However, there was no reason under creation why Dumbledore could not have entrusted the locating and destroying of those treacherous objects to myself or several of the other staff members here at this school. If he had only told me, I would have spared you that hideous task."

"Thank you, but…" Harry shakes his head. "It was better this way, and Dumbledore knew it would be."

"You'd have had one more summer holiday to enjoy before…"

"But, if I'd done that, Professor, I wouldn't have been ready for the battle. If I hadn't done it myself, I would not have survived yesterday."

McGonagall frowns. "Potter…"

"I spent a lot of time being scared and confused last summer. I spent a lot of time being angry with Dumbledore because he doled out small bits of information only when he deemed I was ready to hear them. He stretched it all out over six years' time, and at the start of last summer I thought that if he had just told me everything I needed to know all at once, all of this would've been so much easier. Now I know, he knew what he was doing, he was preparing me. He was getting me ready physically, mentally… Sort of forging my armor, I guess. If I hadn't done everything I've done this year, if I hadn't learned everything I've learned, I'd be dead right now, Professor. I'm sure of it. I've also come to realize that a big part of the reason I was so angry with him had nothing to do with Voldemort, horcruxes, prophecies, or any lack of information I may have been suffering from. It's utterly mad, but part of me was angry with him simply because…" Harry bows his head and runs the fingers of both hands through his hair in frustration.

McGonagall queries softly, "Because he died?"

Harry lifts his head and looks at her in surprise. "How did you…"

She inhales slowly, mindful of her injuries. "I'm quite familiar with the sentiment - Intimately so. It's not mad. It's perfectly natural behavior for those of us who get left behind to grieve. Sadly, it probably won't be the only time in your life you experience such an emotion. Have you never been angry with your parents for leaving you behind; however unintentionally it was done?"

Harry shakes his head without hesitation. "No. I haven't. I suppose I've been lonesome for them, especially when things have been hard, but never angry with them. But then, I can't clearly recall a time when they were here. I have this vague half-memory of the two of them smiling and talking to me, but I don't even remember what they were saying. They were just talking to me; that's all. Anything else I know about them is borrowed from other people's memories. Maybe this is awful, but in some ways, losing Dumbledore was worse."

"it is not awful. It's honest. It was worse because you had a sense of him. You knew him. You have your own memories of Dumbledore, not just those borrowed from others."

"But, it's not like he actually wanted to die, Professor. I mean, he chose to do it to spare Malfoy, but… I don't think that means he wanted it to happen. I think he was just trying to exert some control over the situation in the best way h…."

McGonagall blinks twice and holds up both hands to halt his progress. "Potter, what the devil are you talking about?"

Harry raises an eyebrow. "I'm talking about… Malfoy was ordered, by Voldemort, to kill Dumbledore. And Dumbledore suspected that Draco wasn't going to be able to do it. I mean, Draco, he's… He's spoiled, he's arrogant, he's…"

"Draco Malfoy is an entitled bully, who uses bravado and other people's muscle to mask his own cowardice. And if you ever tell a single soul I said that; I will skin you alive, Potter."

Harry holds up his left hand as if taking an oath. "Right, but he's not a killer, and when he couldn't carry out those orders, Voldemort would've considered it a failure. Worse, he would've considered it an act of disloyalty. He would've used the killing curse on Draco. Dumbledore knew that, and he was dying anyway. It took some time before I figured that out, but I'm sure that you must have known. I know you saw his hand. The curse from Slytherin's ring. Dumbledore hid the truth from me for a while, but he wouldn't have been able to fool you."

McGonagall's mouth becomes a thin slit, as if to speak would be tantamount to betraying a confidence.

Harry waits with silent persistence.

McGonagall sighs. "Alright, yes. I knew. He knew that I knew, but we did not talk about it. He wanted it that way… and I suppose I did too."

Harry nods. "And, although I don't think he wanted to die, I suspect he wanted to get it over with before he became a burden, or anything like that. That's why he had Snape do it."

The few patches of skin on McGonagall's face that are not bruise-black go chalk white, creating a sharply unfavorable contrast.

"Snape was on Dumbledore's side. Our side, all along - just like Dumbledore believed."

She whispers in a heated rush of breath. "I do not give a damn whose side he was on, Potter! It was…" Her voice fails her momentarily as she presses her lips together to prevent them trembling with a rage Harry had only ever guessed her capable of. "It was unforgivable!"

"I don't disagree. I only know that Dumbledore wouldn't have wanted to lose himself before he died. He wouldn't have wanted the curse to affect his mind… To make him less than he was. This was his way of controlling that."

"It was utter vanity! That, and damnable pride!" Her dark eyes burn with the kind of white-hot fury that only comes from the deepest pain.

"You weren't kidding when you said you understood. I'm not the only one who's been angry with Dumbledore for dying."

McGonagall laughs bitterly. "He was my friend, and I miss him beyond words, Potter – but sometimes…"

Harry nods in understanding. "What would you have done? In his place, I mean? If you had the chance to go out on your own terms with as little suffering and fuss as possible, and maybe - just maybe - you could help somebody on your way out."

McGonagall's chest rises and falls with a nearly silent snort. Evading his question, she demands, "How do you know all this, Potter?"

"Private sessions with Dumbledore before I started hunting horcuxes. He took me back through some of his memories using his pensive. That, and my ill-fated occlumency lessons with Professor Snape. Plus, some of his final memories that he gave me access to when he was dying."

"You were with Snape when he died?"

Harry nods. "Voldemort killed him… Well, actually Voldemort ordered the snake to kill him. Ron, Hermione, and I were hiding nearby. As soon as Voldemort was gone, I went to him. There was nothing I could do, Professor - except to be there with him. He cried. He told me to take his tears. He was gone before I finished collecting them."

McGonagall's eyes narrow. "Why? What did he want you to see?"

"The truth behind his allegiance to Dumbledore. The reason for it. That, and the final piece of the puzzle."

"The final piece? Why you felt as though you were tethered to Voldemort?"

"Yeah, that was… "Harry frowns as words allude him.

"I'm sure it was." She smiles sadly. "And the reason for Snape's unwavering allegiance?"

"You don't know?"

McGonagall shakes her head slowly. "I've always privately wondered why Albus trusted him so completely."

Harry lowers his voice, almost to a whisper. "He was in love with my mother."

McGonagall closes her eyes and covers her mouth with the fingers of one hand.

For a moment, Harry isn't sure how to interpret the sound that softly escapes her. Then he realizes that she's laughing, but it's not laughter born of mockery. It is a dry humorless laughter full of self-recrimination.

"I should've known. All this time I thought it had to be something complex – something complicated. Of course, the simplest explanation wins out again." She shakes her head. "They grew up in the same neighborhood as children. When they first arrived here at Hogwarts, they were very close. As they grew older, they grew apart. I knew he felt the disconnect more intensely than Lily, but I never dreamed … I guess I didn't see the forest for the trees."

"Don't feel bad, Professor. It was a shock to me, too. You certainly couldn't have guessed it by the way he treated me. I know that you know he was a death eater. He came over to our side when he found out Voldemort intended to kill my parents. He begged Dumbledore to save them." Harry pauses, backtracks, and edits his own words. "Well, I think he could have gladly let my father die, if doing so wouldn't have broken my mother's heart. After they died, after my mum died, he wanted to avenge her death. Ever since Voldemort returned, three years ago, Snape's been risking his life, spying on Voldemort for the Order. His patronus is a doe – the same as my mum's was. The last words he ever spoke were about her. He said to me, 'You have her eyes.' and then he was gone."

"Thank you for sharing this with me." She sighs heavily. "It will never be okay that Albus has gone, but I suppose it does help to know that he went by his own choice – that the last months of his life were not viciously stolen from him."

Harry nods almost imperceptibly. "So, last night you were patrolling the castle? Standing guard?"

McGonagall clears her throat and nods slowly. "I was. And, after yesterday you've more than proven yourself capable of managing impossible tasks with courage and dignity. if, by not waking you last night, I have stolen something from you, it was not done with deliberation. Any lesser human would have crumbled long before last night. That is why I chose to let you sleep. I thought you might finally have the peace you so richly deserve, and I was determined to do all I could to let you have it. It was my decision, and mine alone. I gave orders that no one was to disturb you. If my choice offends you, I am most heartily sorry."

"Thank you!"

"Whatever for?"

"Not that you owe me one - not that anyone does - but you're the first person to apologize for…" Harry gestures aimlessly, searching for the right words, "… any of this."

"This life is rarely fair, Mr. Potter."

"I think I stopped expecting it to be a long time ago, Professor. It's just nice to hear that someone else is also aware of that."

She nods. "Painfully so, I'm afraid."

So… You were right? There were…" He chooses his next word carefully. "stragglers?"

"Not many. A few thick-headed clods, but they've lost their leader. They are not unified. I daresay you could easily handle any one of them on your own after what I saw yesterday."

He clears his throat. "What happened to you?"

McGonagall waves dismissively. "Very early this morning, while on patrol in the corridor outside Gryffindor tower, I came across one of those stragglers - as you call them. He was probably intent upon murdering us all in our beds. Particularly you. We both disarmed the other at precisely the same moment. Then the buffoon tried to use my own wand against me. When it wouldn't comply with his wishes, he tossed it aside; apparently deciding that if he couldn't use magic to get the better of me, he would simply resort to brute force. He knocked me around quite a bit until I turned his own wand on him with much more satisfying results."

"Wait. The dead death eater behind the wrecked suit of armor just beyond the portrait of the fat lady?" Harry stares incredulously. "That was your doing?"

McGonagall nods fervently. "It was."

"Professor, you eviscerated his face!"

She shrugs, her voice as arid and coarse as the Sahara. "I'm not going to lose sleep over that. He was bigger, stronger, and younger. He made me angry. He manhandled me, and when I would not allow myself to be beaten into submission, he tried to throw me down a flight of stairs. He might have done; if I had been just one second slower. And anyhow, it was no great loss to him." She wrinkles her nose in unmistakable disgust. "The face he had before I bested him wasn't all that appealing either."

Laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep inside Harry and explodes out of him. "Professor!"

"He really was quite ugly." She announces, her eyes alight with something that, to Harry, looks suspiciously like self-satisfaction.

He shrugs. "As long as you're certain you'll recover completely. You're going to be alright?"

"Please, Mr. Potter! This life has dealt me far more savage blows than the ones that animal delivered before dawn, this morning. He is dead – and in a few days' time, I shall be right as rain. I give you my word."

Sensing that she would prefer to let the present line of conversation drop, Harry nods agreeably. "Then, I won't ask again."

"I would greatly appreciate that. Now, you said you needed help with something."

Nodding, Harry rises to his feet, removes the elder wand from beneath his robes, and silently places it on top of McGonagall's desk blotter between the two of them.

Recognizing it instantly, now that she is seated and in considerably less pain than she had been out in the corridor, where he had used it to clear debris from her path, she simply stares at it in disbelief. After several long seconds, she silently reaches out and touches the wand with trembling fingers. Then she turns her blazing eyes on him, and confusion rapidly begins to evaporate, replacing itself with rigid accusation as she comes to her feet. "Harry Potter, this is Dumbledore's… He was buried with… How did you… If you…"

Stunned to realize the track her thoughts must be taking, Harry hurriedly backs away from her desk, nearly tripping over his own chair, with his hands held protectively out in front of himself. "I didn't. Professor, I wouldn't! I couldn't. It was Voldemort. Not me, I swear!"

For ½ a second, Harry is relieved when the seething rage in her eyes begins to shift. For a mere flicker in time, he thinks he recognizes a tender spark of contrition, but then something rebounds, and the rage is back tenfold, only instead of stammering noisily, she whispers in revulsion and horror. "Voldemort? He? He took? From? He disturbed…"

Harry nods, and instantly wishes he hadn't done so when one solitary tear slides down her face. He scarcely has time to think that he would have preferred all the noise and rage to that lone teardrop before she is up and prowling aimlessly around the room, like some caged beast.

The room begins to shake violently as though it is sitting on an active fault line. For the rest of his life, whenever he remembers what transpired in this next few minutes, he won't be able to recall what happened first, but there ensued a thunderous swarm of activity that left him simultaneously terrified and awestruck.

When it was over, other than Dumbledore's wand, which was somehow miraculously un-assaulted, not a single item rested upon the surface of McGonagall's desk. Her heavy chair was overturned, and the contents of multiple bookshelves had violently ejected themselves onto her floor.

As Harry crouched between the front of her desk and his own upside-down chair with his arms held protectively over his head, her office windows exploded because the pressure inside the room was simply too great to be contained. The storm did not end until McGonagall was standing at one of the shattered windows and hurling out a massive shockwave of uncontrolled magic from the palms of her hands that would jettison passed the greenhouses, only to blaze across the quidditch pitch and the Black Lake beyond, before it bent the treetops of the forest, sent wildlife scattering for cover; and echoed, dark as thunder, against the shuddering mountain walls in the distance.

By the time Harry dares to return to his feet, wide-eyed and thunderstruck, Professor McGonagall is perched on one corner of her desk with her back to him. The only observable indication of her inner turmoil is the nearly imperceptible tremor in her shoulders as she labors to bring her ragged breathing back down to an acceptable range.

Not remotely willing to be the first to speak, Harry quietly sets his chair right-side-up and returns it to its proper place. Too unnerved to sit quietly in the suddenly deafening silence, he reaches down and picks up an overturned plant with large dark green leaves. Using his hands, he scoops as much of the rich soil from the stone floor back into the pot as he can manage before dusting his hands on the legs of his jeans and scooping up a small collection of books. Returning them to a bookshelf without knowing if it is the correct one, he bends for a second armload, only to be halted when she orders quietly but sternly, "Leave them."

He glances her way only to realize that her back is still turned. Puzzled, he assures, "It's alright, Professor. I don't mind."

"Well, I do! I made the mess. I will clean it up myself."

With nothing left to do, he returns uncomfortably to his seat and waits.

It takes her a long time, but eventually she does turn to face him again. "Are you hurt?"

Harry shakes his head with certainty.

When she tries to upright her high-backed chair and struggles with the weight of it given her present condition, Harry does it for her, but then quickly returns to his own seat, determined not to offer more help than she will appreciate.

After gingerly returning to her chair, she says, "I should not have done that. That was unacceptable. I apologize."

Harry chuckles. "Professor, you don't have to apologize at all. I'm just glad you're on our side."

He could swear he detected the faintest hint of a smile before she reaches out to pick up Dumbledore's wand from where it still rests in the center of her desk.

"How did you come into possession of this?" She then answers her own question before Harry can respond. "You won it off Vold.."

"Professor, I think I would like it if we all went back to calling him by his proper name - Riddle. He hated that name. He chose Voldemort because he wanted power. He wanted to instill fear. I don't think we should continue to allow him to do that anymore. He's not fearsome. He's dead."

"Very well. You took the wand from Riddle."

"I did. I was able to because it felt no true allegiance to him. He may have taken it from Dumbledore's resting place, but before the wand was interred with Dumbledore's body, Malfoy disarmed him. I later disarmed Malfoy. Riddle mistakenly thought that the reason the wand didn't completely accept him, was because Snape killed Dumbledore. He thought the wand was aligned with Snape."

Hence, the reason he murdered Snape?"

"Correct. He thought he could master the wand if its previous owner did not stand in his way."

"But the wand never answered to Snape."

Because it is a statement, and not a question, Harry doesn't bother to respond. He simply locks eyes with her.

"I presume you realize what you have here - I mean beyond the fact that it is…" She corrects herself. "or it was, Dumbledore's wand."

Harry nods gravely. "Yes, I know what else it is, but as far as I am concerned, it is still Dumbledore's wand. It responds well enough to me, but I'm still more comfortable with my first wand. While we were hunting horcruxes this year, mine…" He pulls the holly wand with its phoenix feather core from the pocket of his robes. "got badly broken. Hermione told me it could not be fixed. Last night before bed, I used Dumbledore's; just to see if it would fix mine. It's the only wand in existence that is powerful enough. It worked. My wand is fine. It's fully functional again, and it feels as familiar and comfortable as it always did. I would like to use Dumbledore's wand to help restore the castle. It seems better suited for that kind of work."

"That's because most of this castle was torn apart last night by dark curses. It takes unfathomable power to completely undo that kind of damage."

After things have been put right – I don't want to obliterate every last trace of the war. Somehow, I think it would be disrespectful to those who died for us if we return the castle to its exact previous condition. So, I don't want to make it look as if nothing happened here over the last few days. I think we'll need some sort of monument – but I can't put into words how badly I need to see this castle restored and functional. Once that's done, I would like to return the elder wand to Dumbledore. That's its rightful place, and if the wand remains at rest with him then, someday, when my life does come to an end, I think the wand will die too. I'm afraid that if I tried to snap the wand, or to dispose of it by any other means, someone else would come along determined to mend it – and very likely for the wrong reasons. No one witch or wizard needs this much power. Dumbledore managed to resist the wand's temptations. He used it well, and he was a far better man than I. Professor, the wand needs to stay with him, and if it does, then, for safety's sake, its location will have to become unplottable. I know it was Dumbledore's wish to be buried here on school grounds, and he still will be. I'd like for the wand to be returned in secret. I do not want anyone outside this room to ever know where it is. If anyone out there understands that the wand now answers to me - if anyone ever comes after me thinking to take the wand from me, then I am prepared to deal with that. I'd rather that, than live to see anyone else rob his grave again. Professor, no one can do that if they can't find the wand. However, I've never performed the Fidelius charm. I will need your instruction to make it happen properly, and beyond that, I am asking, will you keep the secret?"

McGonagall's eyes widen dramatically. "Potter, I am an old woman."

He nods. "True, but I don't know anyone who is stronger or more of a force to be reckoned with. I also know no one less likely to be tempted by the lure of the wand. All of my friends, the ones who are my own age, they're all just starting out in life. Odds are, in the next few years, most of them are going to be starting families. They're going to have people in their lives who would be endangered if they kept such a secret. I am not suggesting that you don't have any such people in your life, only that I don't know of anyone else that I can say with absolute certainty would die without telling a single soul. If we make this pact, and you don't tell anyone, and I become incapable of telling anyone, then the secret dies with you. After that, no one but me will ever know. Will you agree?"

Minerva McGonagall holds his gaze and raises an eyebrow. After an interminable moment, she declares, "You've given this a very great deal of thought."

Harry nods. "I have."

"I think you are right. There are few men in this world as good as our friend. However, I also think you are wrong to say that he was 'far better' than you. I think you may yet give Albus Dumbledore a run for his money, Harry Potter. I have never in my lifetime been prouder of anyone than I am of you at this moment. I will be honored beyond measure to be your secret keeper."