McGonagall wakes to the gentle pressure of a hand on her shoulder. Slowly rising from sleep, she reaches out from beneath her blanket and clumsily pats the hand, trying to push it away, until an amused voice softly declares, "A'mornin' Professor."

Sitting up quickly on the sofa, she squints and pushes hair back from her face as she struggles to overcome the momentary disorientation associated with waking up somewhere other than her own bed. "Laird?"

"Aye."

She looks around in confusion. "What time is it?"

"Nearly 7:30."

Her dark eyes widen. "In the morning?"

Chuckling, he whispers, "That's wye Ah said good mornin."

"Tuesday morning?"

"Aye. 7:30 AM. Tuesday morning."

She looks around her living room taking in the fuzzy outlines of a serving trolley piled high with neglected dinner dishes. Trying to force her mind to kick into gear for the day, she mutters, "Where are my spectacles?"

"No idea. Ye were not wearin' them when ye answered the front door last night."

She frowns as she thinks, trying to recall. "They are on the vanity in the bathroom."

"Would ye like me to run and fetch them fIr ye?"

She pats his shoulder with her free hand as she tries to disentangle herself from her blanket. When her sleepy gaze comes to rest on his feet clad in white socks and crossed at the ankles atop her coffee table before traveling the length of his legs, up to his lap and the blurry multi-tonal blob laying there, she shakes her head. "No, I'll go. Is that my cat?"

McKinnon laughs. "Phin wasnae kiddin!"

"About what?"

"He once told me that ye were blind as a bat."

Minerva scowls and waves demonstratively as she talks. "I am not! I can see what's over there across the room just fine. Just don't ask me to read something without my glasses."

McKinnon nods for the sake of agreement. "Yes, that's yer cat. I'd move, except I dinnae want ta disturb him. He looks almost as comfortable as you did a few minutes ago."

Putting both feet on the floor, she stalls momentarily, trying to recall waking even once in the night. Talking more to herself than to him, she whispers absent-mindedly, "I slept all night."

Lifting his arm from the back of the sofa, he nods, "Aye, and me arm's going ta be asleep until lunchtime."

A flicker of contrition crosses her face before it vanishes. "That's your own fault. You should've woken me instead of letting me use it for a pillow all night."

"Ah thought Ah had woken ye at one point. Ah got up ta go ta the bathroom. Ah was thinkin' ta fetch ye a pillow and let me self out, but afore I could get back ta ye, you were havin' a nightmare."

She frowns again, shaking her head. "I don't remember.

Musta been a bad one. Ah couldnae wake ye, but when Ah spoke ye settled a bit. So, Ah stayed.

Minerva looks at the floor before saying quietly, "Thank you."

"It's nae trouble. Ye needed sleep."

Nodding, she rises to her feet and steps around the coffee table. "I'm going to shower. I have to go to work."

Sensing her discomfort, he waves her away without complaint and looks at the large cat sprawled across his lap. Speaking softly, he says, "Hey big fella?"

No response.

Gently he nudges the pad of one of the cat's forepaws with an index finger and the cat's foot curls reflexively inward, its claws lightly grazing the skin of his finger. "Wordsworth?"

Just the tip of the cat's tail lifts and twitches vigorously, before settling into immobility again.

McKinnon waits a moment before he whispers, "Do ye want some breakfast?"

The lazy cat opens one large green eye and stretches, pressing his front claws harmlessly into the left hip of McKinnon's denim trousers.

He laughs. "Is that the magic word, 'breakfast?"

The cat purrs languidly.

Just minutes before 8:00 AM, Minerva steps out of her bedroom, showered and dressed for the day. Clasping an earring into place, she calls out to the cat. "Wordsworth? Time to go."

Stepping into her kitchen, she peers around the end of the breakfast bar where his serving and water dishes are kept, and finds the cat enjoying an indulgent morning repast.

Raising an eyebrow, she turns to McKinnon who is drying a skillet at the kitchen sink. "Sardines for breakfast? You know I'm trying to get him to lose a bit of weight, right?"

He points to her small kitchen table set with breakfast for two. "Sit down. Have breakfast wi me."

Minerva glances at the table in surprise. Eggs, bacon, toast, and grapefruit. Yes, she had been planning to hurry out the door with only a coffee cup in hand because she had slept longer than she meant to, but if he hadn't been here, she probably wouldn't have slept much at all, and he was kind enough to make breakfast without being asked. Changing her plans without a word, she stalls her departure and takes a seat.

Nodding in appreciation, he steps across the room long enough to fill both their coffee cups before returning the old-fashioned coffee pot to the stove top. "Ah only gave him half the tin of sardines. He can have the rest fir supper. What Ah dinnae understand is how he got so big in the first place. I ken ye dinnae overfeed him."

"He's the last birthday gift I received from Dumbledore. Albus found him in some shelter, and it seems the shelter employees were trying to love him to death with food. According to his paperwork, Wordsworth weighed a little over 10 pounds when he was taken in at the shelter. Eight months later, when Dumbledore brought him to me, he weighed nearly 22 pounds."

McKinnon spreads blackberry jam on his slice of toast. "The heavyweight champion of domestic housecats!"

"His veterinarian told me she wanted him down to 11 pounds. I've gotten him down as low as 14.3 pounds, and he stays somewhere between there and 15, but he's stubbornly hanging on to those last few pounds. He seems determined not to give them up."

McKinnon eyes the cat speculatively. "Maybe he needs more exercise."

Minerva scoffs in mild exasperation. "I bought him one of those toys with a rotating arm. The idea is you tie a bird feather, or something else to the end of it to get his attention and he supposed to run in circles, chasing after it. Which he did, the first time I turned the thing on - for all of 20 minutes. After that, he just walked up to it, and laid down on top of it. It stopped rotating shortly thereafter. So, I bought him this little robotic gadget on two wheels. When it rolls around on the floor, the wheels light up to attract attention, and when it bumps into walls or other objects, it simply reverses direction and goes the other way. I figured he'd have to catch it before he could lay down on top of it." She smirks. "He's afraid of it!"

McKinnon chuckles. "Ye've told me afore that cats have ways of communicating with each other that we humans just dinnae understand. At least, not most of us anyway. Yer different. Ye cannae just ask him whut he likes?"

She shrugs. "That's precisely why I decided to wise up and stop listening to so-called pet experts who are only in business to fill their own pockets. While it's true that I can more or less communicate with cats, he's my first pet cat; and I am not a feline mind reader. They only reveal what they want you to know."

McKinnon squints in surprise. "You never had a pet cat before Wordsworth?"

"Until Wordsworth, the only pets I've ever had were those I acquired for myself in adulthood. My father didn't allow pets when I was growing up."

A hearty laugh rumbles from deep within McKinnon's chest.

"What's funny?"

"The Rev. McGonagall didn't allow pets… And his daughter goes off to magic school and turns herself into a cat!"

Minerva offers him a sharp look. "That is not why I did it. I wasn't trying to do an end-run around my father. People who undergo animagus training do not choose their animal form. I had no control over what animal form I would take. I did it solely to advance my knowledge of transfiguration."

McKinnon nods. "Okay… if you say so, Professor."

Minerva ignores the obvious doubt in his voice. "The only objects I know of that Wordsworth has a true interest in are toothbrushes and thimbles. Both of which are small items he can carry around without physically exerting himself. I started letting him roam the grounds at Hogwarts last year. He gets enough exercise. He's just a big cat, and he's content to stay that way. Albus called him the wrecking ball of Gryffindor because I got him just before he was two, and his first month in the castle he ran around within the confines of our private quarters knocking over anything in his path. One day he was chasing after Fawkes and somehow managed to overturn Dumbledore's pensive…. What a mess! It took the both of us nearly two hours to clean up and put everything right again."

McKinnon raises an eyebrow. "Fawkes?"

Minerva sips coffee before nodding. "Dumbledore's familiar. A phoenix."

McKinnon squints. "Mythical bird… Catches fire when it dies and is then reborn?"

"Not so mythical… but yes."

"Sweet! And Wordsworth used to chase him?"

Minerva nods again.

"Ever catch him?"

She shrugs. "Well, he tried. He gave it his all. He's certainly cunning enough. Fawkes was smart enough to always stay just out of range. Either one of them could've seriously injured the other if they had tried, but they never did. I don't think they liked each other at first. In fact, I'm not sure they ever did, but they did develop a healthy respect for each other. Wordsworth got a little too close once on a burning day. He didn't get hurt, but after that, he was a little less keen on the idea of catching Fawkes."

McKinnon eyes the cat curiously. "Get yer whiskers singed, did ye?"

Wordsworth's only reply is to walk across the room and commence his morning ritual of face and paw washing.

"Whut's a pensive?"

"It's a big stone basin with a kind of reservoir in it. It can be used as a receptacle for thoughts and memories."

McKinnon squints with the effort to imagine what she describes and then shrugs, taking her at her word. It's easy enough to picture, it's just that he has no idea how one goes about putting thoughts and memories into such a thing.

"The pedestal has to weigh ten stone, if not more. I have no idea how he managed to turn it over unless Fawkes unintentionally helped him do it. Wordsworth was running around the outer rim of the reflecting bowl, trying not to fall in, while simultaneously trying to catch the bird, and in the commotion, the thing tipped and went crashing to the floor. It made an awful mess. Silver streams of memory and wisps of intuition were all over the floor. Fawkes was screeching in protest, and Wordsworth went tumbling end over end, slammed into the back wall of the fireplace, and bounded out again flinging cold ash in every direction. He's lucky it was a warm summer's evening; a fire wasn't lit."

"So, he's narrowly escaped being a fire-roasted wrecking ball more than once? McKinnon quietly hums the chorus of Jerry lee Lewis' Great Balls of Fire.

Minerva chuckles softly behind her linen napkin when Wordsworth pauses his grooming long enough to study McKinnon with narrowed eyes.

Following her gaze, the Scot challenges the cat in a comical gangster impersonation. "Who you lookin' at?"

"It's because you started humming. Music fascinates him. He gets very excited when Logan sings."

"Does he?"

She nods and repeats, "It fascinates him… and sometimes I wonder…"

McKinnon raises an eyebrow. "You wonder…"

Minerva shakes her head. "Never mind. That's a conversation for a different day."

More than eager to know, McKinnon shrugs his curiosity aside and asks, "Where's Fawkes now?"

Minerva's lips disappear into a thin white line. She sets down her coffee cup as she lifts one shoulder in a shrug. The memory of the bird's sweet melancholy cry as he took to the night sky above Hogwarts for the last time, nearly brings tears to her eyes. "No one knows. He left the castle shortly after Dumbledore died. I haven't seen him since. I hope… Well, I hope he's alright. He was a good bird."

"No doubt he misses his friend, but I'm sure he's fine. If anything bad happens to him, he'll just be…" Stopping suddenly, he realizes the insensitivity of what he was about to say. "Minerva, Ah'm sorry. I didnae mean ta make light of it. I was only tryin' to…"

"I know what you were trying to do… and thank you."

"Do ye ever wonder if it works that way for people too?"

"Which? Life, or death?"

"Both, Ah guess."

Minerva shrugs. "More than a few cultures believe in reincarnation. As for me, personally, I'm not sure."

"Says the daughter of a man who believes Christ rose from the dead after three days."

"That's what I was taught to believe. And as for Christ, himself, I do believe it. That does not mean I walk around expecting ordinary people to rise from the grave, in a burst of flame or otherwise. If that is the way it works, then I suppose the person I knew as Albus Dumbledore might be a month or two into a new life. He might have a new body, a new name, a new family to love him… If that really is how it works, then I hope he makes the best of it."

"Maybe you should get a new bird. Wordsworth might need one to chase."

Minerva's chest rises and falls with a quick puff of stifled laughter in response to McKinnon's lack of knowledge on the topic. "It doesn't work that way, Laird. I can't just walk into a magical pet store and ask for a new phoenix."

"Why not?"

In the first place, there are strict laws about the buying and selling of magical creatures. In the second, phoenix are not indigenous to this area. Third, they are an endangered species. There are precious few of them left in this world, and fourth, a person does not choose a phoenix. The phoenix will not allow it. It's the phoenix who chooses the person, and they are said to be very discriminate. Once they decide to be with someone, it is for life - meaning, the remainder of said person's lifetime. Albus has gone, so Fawkes has too. Knowing Fawkes… Well, it was nothing less than a gift. Most people don't even know that phoenix are real. They go their whole lives without ever seeing, much less befriending one. Fawkes was sitting on my shoulder one day eating sesame seeds from the palm of my hand. I suppose I was taking pity on him. He did look rather dreadful. I knew he was due for a rebirthing. Still, when he burst into flame without warning, I was startled, and then pleasantly surprised to discover that the flames did not burn me. They did not hurt at all. I froze in shock, which turned out to be for the best. Albus' eyes did widen noticeably, but he remained perfectly calm and simply whispered, 'Do not move Minerva. Just stand very still, my dear, and give him a chance to collect himself.' It was literally one of the most spellbinding moments of my life – watching him disintegrate and then, reemerge from the pile of ash that was cascading down the front of my robes. I suppose I thought it would be harder for him to rise from my shoulder because there was a basin underneath his perch to collect his ashes. Turned out, he didn't have the slightest bit of trouble with it."

"Obviously, he trusted you."

She nods. "I hadn't realized just how much until that moment which made it all the more captivating for me."

"Well, maybe ye cannae go out and buy yerself a phoenix; but put out some bird feeders or some plants ta attract butterflies. Give the wrecking ball something else ta get excited about."

"These days, it seems like every time I see him outside of our quarters, he's running from Mrs. Norris. She seems to have taken a liking to him. One I do not think he appreciates or returns."

"Which teacher is Mrs. Norris?"

Minerva laughs again, and then sighs drolly. "Mrs. Norris is Argus Filch's cat. Mr. Filch is the castle's caretaker. He's the disgruntled man who was grumbling beneath his breath that day two weeks ago, about the messes the children make. He doesn't care for being treated like a janitor or for being asked to provide custodial services."

"That is the nature of his job, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"Maybe he needs a new job."

"Perhaps he does. I have thought so myself more than once. But the truth is, he has nowhere else to go. And, as Albus so astutely pointed out time and again, keeping him on provides us with a controlled opportunity for exposing the children to difficult people. Flich's very presence teaches a lesson that cannot be effectively taught in any classroom."

"Ye gave me, and everyone else in the room, the impression that ye would toss him out on his narrow arse the next time he dared to open his mouth ta utter a complaint."

"And I just might. Albus had a very valid point. However, he also had more patience than I do."

Nodding. He asks, "Whut's the rest of yer week like? More restoration?"

She uses a wedge of toast to push egg onto her fork. "All week long. You?"

"The same."

"Duncan's head?"

"Yes ma'am."

She sips from her coffee cup. "Here's to decrepit old lighthouses and castles. The work never ends."

"Thank the lord!"

"How are things coming out there?"

"Still slow at the moment. Still trying to get the scaffolding built so we can begin repairs on the outside walls. Should be done by the end of the week. After that, the real work will start."

"You have crew during the day?"

"Aye."

"And wear your harness. Last time I checked, you still haven't sprouted wings, and the tower walls must be over 33 meters high."

"Closer to 50… And, Ah'm always careful."

"That's not what Riona told me."

"Bah, Ye cannae go by anythin' Ree said. The woman got dizzy four feet off the ground! She'd have fainted dead away upon seeing ye walk the parapets of that castle!"

Minerva shakes her head. "How does a bear of a man who would tap dance across the high wire wind up married to a woman with a pathological fear of heights?"

He flashes his best grin and shrugs. "Dinnae ask me. She couldnae sail either. Got seasick in the bathtub."

"Stuff and nonsense!"

"Yer the diehard matron of Gryffindor house who married a man from Slitheryn! The way you talk, it's a wonder ye werenae accused of heresy on yer wedding night!"

The chuckle that escapes her is almost inaudible. "They aren't all bad. Though, I admit, I surprised even myself with that one."

"Ye surprised Phin too. It's a wonder he didnae have a stroke when ye finally said yes."

"I never actually did."

"I beg yer pardon."

She repeats calmly, "I never actually said yes. He'd been asking me to marry him on and off for the better part of 20 years. That day… Well, I was feeling a bit short-tempered. I snapped at him. "Elphinstone Urquart, when are you going to stop asking me that?' To which he calmly replied, 'When you give me a different answer, Minerva." I was standing there beside him on the banks of the Black Lake with my hands on my hips. I'm still not sure I really meant to do it. I was just beyond exasperated. I sighed and demanded, 'Fine, when?" She pauses with a smirk. "He was so surprised I think he forgot what we were talking about. 'When what?"

Remembering an old conversation shared with his friend, McKinnon laughs freely. "Yes, he told me about that." He mimics in jest, "And don't you dare say this afternoon because, I can't do it today. I have to go back to work. I have three more classes to teach today… and I am not retiring!"

Minerva gives up and laughs along with him. "I have no idea what possessed me, nor why I felt it necessary to tell him that. He never would've asked me to retire."

"Of course not! Ye just had to set the tone… clearly define yer position in the marriage."

"Why he put up with me…"

"He loved you."

She laughs. "Yes, but why? I gave him nothing but grief! First at work. And then later, outside of work."

"Not true. You challenged him, and you made him happy."

"Hah! He was a glutton for punishment!"

McKinnon points his index finger. "Now, Ah'll grant ye that! Ah told him more than once over the years, 'Will ye leave the poor woman alone! Dinnae propose again. Good god man, get it through yer thick skull, she doesnae want ye!"

Her dark eyes widen slightly. "I didn't know he talked to you about it."

"He was relentless! If ye hadnae agreed to marry him, Ah'd have been obliged ta shoot the man and put him out of his misery!"

"I still have no idea why he chased after me the way he did. Why not someone else who would've made things easier for him?"

McKinnon shrugs. "He didnae want easy. Easy women found him attractive… Well beyond the normal age when they usually stop looking at most older men."

"This I knew. It wasn't a secret. Every single time he undertook to teach a class for the DML, more than half of his students were female and 40 years his junior. It was the lion's mane of white hair, the resonating timbre of his voice, the captivating blue of his eyes…. and the broad shoulders didn't hurt either."

"Don't forget the money."

Minerva sets the comment aside with a shrug. "I never cared about the money."

"I know… But they did. And he knew it. He understood. He was a good-looking older man with discerning tastes and a healthy bank account. He knew he was a magnet for sweet young groupies with daddy issues. He wanted a wife whose behavior… whose temperament… was a bit more refined. Ye were happy in yer own right. Happy with yer life, and yer work. Fir you, this quiet little cottage on the beach was an indulgent haven. Ye wanted nothing material from him. Ah dinnae remember you askin' Phin fir anything more than once or twice the entire time you were married."

"That was because I couldn't ask him for anything. I didn't dare express an interest in something. The minute I did, it didn't matter how big or how small, it was simply presented to me. Had I let him, he would've spoiled me."

McKinnon shakes his head. "Ah've seen spoiled women, Minerva. Ah've seen them throw their tantrums when they dinnae get what they want. That was never you. It may have been rare, but Ah'm certain Ah can recall Phin telling you 'No' at least once or twice, and when he did, you never argued with him."

"That was because he did it so infrequently that on the rare occasion that he cared enough to actually say the word 'No,' I felt obliged to let him have his way."

"Which was wye it had to be you. He simply couldnae tolerate anyone less worthy."

"Worthy wasn't exactly how I felt. In his presence, I felt exalted."

"Believe me… I know." The lines around McKinnon's blue eyes seem to deepen noticeably in an instant. "And then something happens…"

Minerva nods slowly. "They get cancer…"

"Or they get bitten by venomous plants, and they leave us behind with half our lives left ta live."

"Why try?" She asks.

McKinnon declares, "There isnae any point in botherin."

"It'll never be that good again." Minerva concurs.

"Definitely not."

She offers him a bittersweet smile. "You see. We have been spoiled."

"Lucky us!" He wipes his mouth on a plain paper napkin. Rising from the table, he picks up their plates and carries them to the sink. Turning on the water, he says, "One of me girls bought me season tickets to some symphony thing."

Pressing her lips together tightly to keep from laughing aloud at this announcement, Minerva offers simply, "You do like music."

"Oh aye, but can ye picture me all spit-shined and dudded up? Off to the concert hall in me rattle-y old truck? Ah dinnae ken whut Shannon was thinkin!"

"Your truck is not rattle-y. That truck is a classic! And, I would pay good money for the chance to see you dressed up and off to the symphony!"

"Good." He challenges, "Then you can come with me. This weekend?"

"Me?"

"Yes you! Kat'leen has informed me that Ah'm nae allowed ta go ta these types of things unaccompanied. Apparently, it's an unwritten rule. Ye're supposed ta take someone with ye when ye attend the symphony. It would seem a chaperone is required."

Minerva has to work diligently to keep from choking on the last sip from her coffee cup as she dissolves into helpless laughter.

McKinnon studies her with a raised eyebrow; his arms folded over his chest. "Whut the devil is so funny?"

"Laird, the person who accompanies you on an outing to the symphony is not meant to be your chaperone. They are meant to be your date for the evening! Your daughters are trying to… fix you up, or at the very least, they are encouraging it."

"Well, we've just finished talking about that, haven't we? I have no desire ta date anyone!"

"Nor have I." She declares, still laughing at him.

He nods. "So, come with me. Save me from me schemin' daughters."

"Alright, fine. Only, I can't do it this coming weekend. I told Flitwick I would accompany him to the All-England championship. If his past performance is any indication, it's likely that I'll be unavailable both Friday and Saturday evening. If you had season tickets, can we pick a different date for our outing?"

"Ah'll check me tickets and call you later this week."

For a moment, she stands quietly, watching him wash their breakfast dishes. Then, with a smile tugging lightly at the corners of her mouth she steps from the room to go and secure all the doors and windows before leaving the cottage for the remainder of the workweek.

In the harsh glare of late morning sunlight Harry stands between his two best friends and shakes his head, staring at the neglected remains of the Potter family cottage. Maybe this was a mistake.

Professor McGonagall had instructed him to get away from the castle for the weekend; to go somewhere else. He'd done as he was told.

He'd chosen to spend the weekend with Ron and the rest of the Weasley clan. Hermione was there too, but there was very little cheer to be found. He was welcome enough. Harry was always welcome at the Burrow. He knew that, but they were down a family member, and everyone was feeling the loss. Even the ghoul in the attic was somber; barely moving at all, much less rattling about. He knew they needed to grieve, and he joined them in their sorrow, but this morning, when he and Ron were setting the table for breakfast and Mrs. Weasley had turned to her youngest son and said, 'Ron, be a dear. Go up and tell Fred and George that…"

The whole house had suddenly fallen silent. All chatter and noise stopped instantly. No one breathed, and Ron looked as if he'd just been slapped, until she corrected herself, whispering apologetically, "Run up and tell George that breakfast will be on the table in five minutes. See if he will come down and join us."

Harry knew she couldn't help it. Mrs. Weasley had been saying 'Fred and George' together for 18 years. He wondered if it would take another 18 for her to stop. It was muscle memory, every bit as natural as breathing. Her tongue simply did not know how to acknowledge one without the other, as if the two of them were individual parts of the same whole.

George stayed shut up in his room. He talked to no one. He hadn't spoken a single word all weekend. Not even to tell a joke. He took most of his meals alone, and barely touched what was offered. Judging from the quiet sounds that came from his room at all hours of the day and night, Harry knew that he wasn't sleeping much either.

When George had declined to come down for breakfast, Harry had made up his mind on the spot to find any excuse to get his friends out of the house for a few hours; but looking at the overgrown hedges and waist-high grass that surround the small two-story cottage in Godric's Hollow in the harsh light of day, he can't help but think he made the wrong choice. This place isn't going to lift anyone spirits.

For what he knows is the second time, Hermione silently reads the memorial plaque that rises up from the ground the moment she touches the garden gate. Having never been here before, Ron stares open-mouthed at the gaping hole in the right side of the roof until, unable to help himself, he whispers like one does when walking through a cemetery, as though to speak louder would somehow disturb its inhabitants. "Looks a bit dodgy, doesn't it?

Taking in all the destruction and despair with the aid of sunlight, Harry feels every bit as glum as he did at the Burrow. "I swear, it looks worse than it did the last time I was here."

Gently, Hermione offers, "That's because it was Christmas Eve, and everything was covered in fresh snow and moonlight. Everything looks prettier under fresh snowfall… Or at least …less awful." Then, she shakes herself, making a physical effort to cast aside the somber mood that has settled among them. Forcing half a smile, she declares, "Well, it's not going to fix itself, is it? May as well roll up our sleeves and get to work."

Harry raises an eyebrow.

Without bothering to answer his unspoken question, Hermione points her wand at the rusted and dirty memorial plaque that is half buried in a thick tangle of brambles and weeds, and whispers, "Tergeo."

The bronze plaque is instantly cleaned and shining like new. Another flick of her wrist, and the overgrown thicket around it retracts, withers, dies, and vanishes from sight.

"That's better. How about some flowers Harry?"

Harry stares, barely managing to nod as, without a spoken word, two very large and sweet-smelling bushes of hot pink knockout roses suddenly sprout into existence on either side of the gate where none had been before.

"I picked up study guides for the NEWT exam from Flourish & Blott's for the three of us. It says we will be tested on nonverbal spells, not to mention lots of other spellwork. This looks like a great place to practice."

Harry can't help but chuckle as Ron groans and rolls his eyes, questioning dubiously, "Are you sure about that Hermione?"

"Sure, I'm sure. Just look at it. This place is a disaster. It needs lots of work, and even if we get something wrong, we can hardly do worse to it than Voldemort did."

Ron pails instantly as he shoots an apologetic look in Harry's direction. "Geez Hermione, think before you open your trap, would you?"

Harry waves aside his friend's attempt at solidarity. "It's alright Ron. Hermione and I, we've been here before, and she's right. It is a disaster. Though, I wasn't planning on making repairs today. I just wanted to see the place. Make sure the keys fit the locks."

"Oh, please let us, Harry." Hermione intreats. "I realize we'll only be able to get so much done today, but now that you have the keys, now that the place is officially yours… Harry… It's depressing. You cannot leave your parents' house like this. I will not stand for it."

Harry rubs the back of his neck. "Uh, okay, I guess, if you want. I really wasn't planning to put the two of you to work today. I was just looking for an excuse to get out of the house for a bit. I hadn't really thought it all the way through. I guess I was planning to hire someone to fix it up."

Hermione's hands suddenly find her hips. "Why on earth would you hire someone to do it for you. Save your money. If you can help restore a 1500-year-old castle, you can handle this cottage. Besides, who knows what personal possessions you will find inside; things that belonged to your mum and dad… keepsakes. Harry, you cannot entrust those things to complete strangers who will not care for them the way that you will."

Harry chews on his lower lip. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Lucky you brought me along." She points her wand through the iron bars of the gate, and this time the brittle waist-high grass in the door yard shortens into a neatly manicured lawn that goes from yellow to a healthy pale green almost instantly, revealing the badly broken and hazardous front walk hidden beneath it.

Smiling in spite of himself, Ron grouses, "Just don't plant those fuzzy pink flowers everywhere; too many and the place will look prissy. Not to mention, I won't be able to stop sneezing."

"Ron, it's Harry's house, not yours, and you haven't sneezed yet. Harry, are the roses okay? I can add some stargazers if you like."

Harry scowls in inquiry. "Stargazers?"

"They are a type of lily. You think your mum would like that?"

Harry shrugs, uncertain what to say.

Hermione takes aim again and an assortment of lilies with long, wide-open petals in varying shades of white, pink and purple sprout up and unfurl in the brick-lined beds in front of the roses on either side of the gate. "There! Nice?"

Harry places an arm around her shoulders and squeezes gently. "I don't know what Mum would think, but I like it. It's very pretty. Thank you. Ron's right though. Don't get too carried away with the flowers. I don't live here yet. It'll be a shame if they all die from neglect before anyone can move in."

Recognizing the truth in this, Hermione shrugs. "Right then. No more flowers… Yet. Where are your keys? Open the gate. Let's go inside already."

Harry reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small ring that holds the three keys Professor McGonagall gave him. After a moment of fumbling, he manages to find the only one that will fit in the lock and, after a bit of straining, the lock grudgingly springs and the gate swings open, squeaking horribly on badly rusted hinges. "I guess I'll have to replace the gate."

Hermione nods and shrugs simultaneously. "Try some oil first. If it works, it will be a much more inexpensive fix. If I were you, I would leave as much of the original structure as I could." She glances up and Harry follows her eyes to the yawning hole in the roof. There's no question, some of it is beyond repair, but save as much as you can."

The three of them move up the front walk slowly and despite being mindful of where they step, Ron trips over a cracked and raised portion of the walk. He nearly falls on his face, but Harry is quick to reach out to steady him with a firm grip on the back of his hoodie. When Ron stops flailing, Harry relaxes his grip. "Careful mate."

Ron stares at the pavement. His expression mystified and his ears going slightly pink. "I swear I was looking."

Teasing, Hermione smirks, "Maybe you should borrow Harry's glasses."

Ron offers her a sour look as Harry laughs. "What good would that do? Then Ron would be the one rescuing me from certain catastrophe."

Hermione raises an eyebrow. "Really Harry? Without your glasses, you can't even see your own feet?"

Harry shrugs as he nods. "Oh, I can see them, but without my glasses, they look like two large misshapen potatoes."

"When was the last time you had your eyes checked. You might need a stronger prescription."

"Nah, I don't think so. With my glasses, my feet look like…" He shrugs. "feet. That's one thing that Aunt Petunia did stay on top of. She made me go to the optometrist every 18 months. Mostly because, if I needed new glasses, I would burn the breakfast, or leave stains on the laundry. I thought she'd have a stroke one time when I didn't get the raspberry jam stain off of Uncle Vernon's favorite bowling shirt. Dudley had broken my glasses, not for the first time, and they were too badly damaged to tape them back together. So, I didn't see the stain. I put the shirt in the dryer without realizing that the stain hadn't come out in the wash. Of course, the dryer baked the stain in. Uncle Vernon was livid. Stupid me, I went and told him that if he didn't put half the jar of jam on his toast in the mornings, maybe the jam would be less likely to fall onto his clothes."

Ron sniggers.

Hermione gasps, "Harry, you didn't."

"Of course, I did." He shrugs again. "That got me shut up in my cupboard for two weeks, and I had to wait until they were either asleep or out of the house to sneak out for food or to go to the bathroom, but it wasn't so bad. When I was confined to that cupboard, they pretty much left me alone. Plus, I didn't have to do laundry for 3 ½ weeks until Aunt Petunia took me to get some new glasses."

"Harry, how old were you when this happened."

"I don't know. Eight, maybe nine. I still had to use a step stool to push the start button on the washer. I could reach the cycle selector because it stuck out a little, but I couldn't reach the start button well enough to activate the machine."

Hermione's expression is indignant "You do know that's not normal, right?"

"It was normal at 4 Privet Drive."

"My mum didn't make me start doing my own laundry until I was 14. I was already a Hogwarts' student, and I think she was just exasperated because I came home for summer holiday that year with a trunk full of dirty clothes that I didn't want the house elves to have to wash… but, even then, I was only responsible for my own laundry. Not laundry for everybody in our house."

Perplexed, Ron stares at both of them. "Our laundry gets done thanks to the really ancient washing machine on our back porch and magic. Dad brought it home from some muggle junkyard and tinkered with it until he got it running. It's big, and noisy, and Dad says it looks like something out of the 1940s, but Mum says as long as it works, she doesn't care which decade it came from; and I still don't have to do laundry."

Hermione sighs. "That's because you have a really outdated machine and if you were responsible for overseeing the washing of the laundry, you'd make a mess of it, and your mum would have even more work to do than she already does."

Unoffended, Ron shrugs and then nods. "That's probably true. She taught Bill and Charlie to do their own before they moved out. She'll let me know what I need to, when I need to."

"What about Percy?" Hermione inquires. "He does have a job."

"Yeah, but he still lives at home. Besides, she tried. Percy's a brainless git. He left a pair of fancy red underpants in the washer, and they turned all of dad's socks and work shirts pink. Mom tried to reverse it. It didn't work. Dad had to have all new shirts and socks. Mum was furious! So, now she does all of Percy's laundry. She says he can do it himself when he lives in his own house and the only clothes he has to screw up are his own."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "Your mum is pretty adept at household cleaning spells. Why couldn't she reverse the damage done?"

Ron sniggers again. "Because Fred and George had put some kind of jinx on Percy's silky red knickers."

Harry laughs. "Of course, they did! What was the jinx supposed to do?"

Ron shrugs. "Don't know. They wouldn't tell."

Still laughing, Harry pants, "Probably smart not to."

Ron grins. "I can just see Percy walking around with his bum as red as a baboon's and praying to God that nobody ever found out!"

Even Hermione can't help but laugh a little as she points her wand at the broken pavement underfoot and concentrates on enacting the spell; speaking only in her mind, "Reparo." She watches the repair work spread outward away from them, mending not only the walkway, but also the rusted and deteriorating lamps that line either side of the walkway before turning both left and right at the front door and branching out around the sides of the cottage.

Harry stamps his foot against the cobblestoned walkway in appreciation, testing its worthiness. "Nicely done."

The three of them step toward the cottage, stopping just short of the front stoop; their eyes travelling upward, following the path of what appears to be dead ivy that has entwined itself around the brick columns on either side of the front door, and nearly covered the roof of the small front portico, obscuring it almost completely from view.

Ron says, "It was probably nice at one time. Now, it's just dead, and you'll have to tear it all out and hope the roof doesn't come down with it. It might be the only thing holding the roof up."

Hermione tries to tear a thick dried vine from the nearest column and is surprised when she can't manage it. "Ron, do you have your pocketknife?"

Slipping a hand into the right front pocket of his jeans, Ron comes up with the shiny new blade he received from his father for his most recent birthday gift. He flips the knife open and then hands it over carefully, watching as she cuts a section of the vine free, inspects the ends, and then shakes her head.

"Obviously, it hasn't rained here in a while. It looks dead on the outside, but on the inside there's still a tiny bit of green. If we prune it, water it, and give it some fertilizer, it may come back, Harry. Why don't you wait and see? Give it some love before you decide to tear it all out."

Harry looks at the mess of tangled brown vines hanging from the roof and travelling down the support columns and guesses that no matter which option he chooses, it's going to be a lot of work. "Do you know any gardening spells, other than those dealing with flowers."

"Of course, I do. I paid attention in herbology class. Plus, my mother loves to garden. I was helping her tend her own flowers and plants by the time I was in kindergarten." Hermione takes aim again and steps a little farther back down the walk, putting some distance between herself and the house. "If Ron's right about the ivy holding up the roof, don't yell at me, okay Harry."

Harry smiles and gestures toward the mess. "Give it a go."

Hermione shrugs as if to say, 'Here goes nothing.' and waves her wand again.

For all of the next two minutes, as if the trio were watching a time-lapsed photo run in reverse, the mass of overgrown and burned-out vines magically retracts and reduces itself by a third. It doesn't sprout and reclaim its green leaves, but the difference is more than noticeable.

Hermione nods in appreciation of her own work. "A rejuvenation spell would work wonders, but you shouldn't do it yet. Wait until after you move in, otherwise the ivy will run wild again."

Ron nods in agreement. "It's not exactly welcoming like this, but at least the ivy doesn't look like it's trying to devour your house anymore."

Glancing upward one last time to be certain that the small portico's roof isn't going to fall and render them unconscious, Harry steps cautiously to the front door and fumbles with the two remaining keys until the lock yields to the encouraging pressure of his thumb.

The front door opens and the three of them are met with a rush of musty stale air and a stench that is beyond foul.

They each step back, fanning the air in front of their noses.

As his eyes begin to water, Ron declares, "Harry, I don't know how to tell you this mate, but your front yard looks like the entrance to an ancient, haunted cemetery… and obviously, the dead bodies are piled up inside your house!"

Harry concentrates hard on suppressing his gag reflex and breathes through his mouth. "Phew… oh that is vile!"

Ron pulls the collar of his tee shirt up over his mouth and nose; his voice muffled as he asks, "Seriously, all joking aside, what died in there?"

Backing further away from the door than the two boys, Hermione turns her face to the sky, searching for cleaner air. "That is not the smell of death. I mean sure, there's probably a few dead mice in there, maybe even a few larger animals, but that wouldn't smell this bad. This is like the smell of… rotten vegetables…" She turns away unable to stop herself, and gags. Grateful when nothing comes up, she adds, "Rotten vegetables on steroids."

Ron squints. "What are steroids?"

"Oh, never mind. I'll explain later." She waves his question aside as she turns to face Harry again. "Didn't somebody clean the place up before locking the doors? You know… Clean the refrigerator, take out the trash?"

Harry shrugs and points. "How would I know? I was one year-old the last time I walked through that door.

Ron shakes his head. "Even if no one properly cleaned before closing up the house, it still shouldn't smell this bad."

Hermione tries again, still grasping for logic. "Assuming someone did… I don't know, did your parents have a root cellar, Harry?"

Again, Harry shrugs. "I was one. Something tells me toddlers probably aren't all that fascinated by dark gloomy old root cellars, Hermione."

"I'm asking because it smells like a lot of rotten potatoes, or maybe onions."

Ron squints. "You recognize the smell of rotten potatoes and onions?"

"You don't?"

Ron shakes his head and the morning sun cast strands of gold through it. "Potatoes don't go bad at my house. No food does. Somebody's always eating."

Hermione turns a raised eyebrow toward Harry, and he shakes his head apologetically. "Sorry, same problem at the Dursley's. Dudley never let anything go bad. Even if it was something he didn't like, which wasn't much, Uncle Vernon was there too."

Hermione grimaces. "Fine, go in there. Open windows on your way to the kitchen. It's probably at the back of the house. See if you can find a cellar door. If there is one, go down there and vanish everything that's in the cellar. If there's not one, find the source of the smell. It shouldn't be too hard."

Ron inquires, "Aren't you coming too?"

Hermione shakes her head emphatically. "I am not. If I go in there, I will vomit all over everything. You guys are on your own. I will stay out here and do what I can to clean up the grounds. After you find whatever it is that smells, and deal with it, I will come inside." Announcement made, she backs away from the house, leaving them to it.

Harry retraces his steps. Reaching in through the open front door, his hand skims the wall in search of a light switch. When he finds one and flips it into the on position and nothing happens, he isn't surprised. Turning the switch off again, he buries his nose in the collar of his shirt, and tells Ron, "Light your wand. We're going in."

Tuesday evening, after a full day back in the castle and repairing nearly a quarter of the damage done to the second floor, Harry steps out onto the grounds and inhales deeply; filling his lungs for the first time all day with air not laden with dust. Watching twilight approach, he sets out on foot, choosing no particular direction as his mind begins to buzz with thoughts and memories of the previous weekend. Time spent at the Burrow was always nice… Even when it wasn't. Time spent in his parents' house became something of a scavenger hunt. Though, not all the things found were desirable. But, when it came to talking to Ginny, he'd chickened out, lost his nerve. What was he supposed to say? "Look, I know it was me who ended things, but I want you to take me back." She'd think he was pathetic. Plus, she'd been at school all year. What if she'd been seeing someone else? What if she was still seeing someone else? He didn't want to ask. He didn't want to know. They had chatted several times over the weekend. No serious conversation, just friendly chatter. She didn't act like she didn't want to talk to him. She didn't act like she was angry. Still, somehow, he just hadn't been able to pluck up the courage to ask her what he really wanted to know.

Stepping into the stand of trees surrounding the Black Lake, he mentally kicks himself and wonders if the water is warm enough for a swim. Probably not. Even in the third week of May, he would probably freeze his skinny self half to death. Which, in light of his cowardice, he thought might be a fitting punishment.

Vaguely aware of the sound of rustling leaves, he looks first up at the treetops and, when he finds them barely swaying, he turns his head. Looking over his shoulder, he takes in a sight that is wholly unexpected; Professor McGonagall in trousers, sitting astride a two-tone bicycle with vivid green racing stripes and adorned with a large wicker basket tethered to the widely spaced handlebars. The shortened riding cloak she wears is meant to provide warmth for the upper body but avoid the dangers of entanglement with her mid-century wheels.

He stares unabashedly for a second or two until he realizes that his mouth is hanging open rather stupidly. At which point, he snaps it closed and attempts a smile as he realizes that she's scarcely less surprised to see him. "Nice bicycle."

"Thank you, Mr. Potter. Contemplating a swim?"

He tilts his head to one side and idly wonders if she's secretly skilled in legilimency. "More like contemplating the water temperature and the lack of intelligence needed to take a swim."

"I don't recommend it. That water doesn't warm up until mid-August. Even when it does, the temperature is only comfortable for leisurely swimming for about three weeks. After that, the temperature starts to drop again until it freezes over. As I'm sure you know, that is usually sometime in late November or early December. It doesn't even begin to thaw until late February. The trees around the lake usually provide a bit too much shelter from the sun's rays, but after a hot August day, it is usually good for a brief moonlight swim."

Harry tries to process the words, "McGonagall' and 'moonlight swim' in conjunction with one another and fails dismally. Trying to cover his discomfort with the topic, he croaks, "Good to know."

"You were gone most of the day yesterday. Did you enjoy your extended weekend?"

Harry shrugs noncommittally and uses the toe of one sneaker to kick a large pebble into the water.

McGonagall presses her lips together, studying him for a moment before she offers, "I've got two ears, and I'm a willing audience, if you want to talk about whatever is troubling you."

"I went to the Burrow Friday."

"I'm certain the Weasley house is a bit somber presently."

Harry nods. "Sunday, just to get out of the house; Ron, Hermione, and I went to Godric's Hollow. My parent's cottage was an even bigger disaster than I knew. The inside was about 1000 times worse than the outside."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Was it just the damage done by Riddle?"

"No. Though, that was certainly bad enough. I'm glad I had my friends with me. The place has fallen completely into disrepair. It's dilapidated. To be honest, I'm not quite certain why village officials haven't condemned it and scheduled it to be demolished." His next statement proves that he does have at least some understanding to the contrary. "There is a magically concealed sign at the garden gate declaring that the townspeople chose to leave the house in its ruined state in memorandum. I do understand, but the longer the house is left to rot, the more it seems like a pretty poor way to remember my parents and what they died for. Do you know there's a statute in the middle of the town square bearing the concealed likenesses of my parents and me, when I was a baby? Wizards and witches are the only people who can see it. Muggles who come across it can only see an old war memorial."

She nods. "I've seen the statue. It's a very nice tribute, but I imagine it's somewhat harder for you to look at than the rest of us."

He nods. "Seeing the statue, It's not hard exactly. It's just strange to think that people walk past it every day, and see me that way… as a baby. I wonder how many people still think of me that way. You know, because it's their only frame of reference."

"Probably a very large number of people. Mr. Potter, the days go slow, but the years go fast. Unconsciously, we're all aware of the years as they pass by, but how many times have you bumped into someone you haven't seen since childhood and suddenly found yourself confronted with the reality that time did not stop for them in their absence from your life? When we go a great while without seeing someone, we have a habit of fixing our last images of them in our minds and, for us, they stay that way; at least until the world reminds us otherwise."

"It's also still very unsettling to have complete strangers walking up to me again on the sidewalk just to shake my hand… as if they're very proud of me… As if we have some great kinship, or as if the simple act of doing so is some great honor, when I'm certain I've never seen them before in my life."

"I expect there are quite a few people who do feel that meeting you is an honor. Though, I can certainly understand the awkwardness of such moments from your perspective."

"That happened a lot my first year here at school. Looking back, it's not so hard to understand. I went to live with my aunt and uncle and was basically sequestered, hidden away from the magical world; at least until I stepped into the Leaky Cauldron for the first time. Seems like every time people let up a bit, something would happen to put me back in the limelight. I started to think maybe it was over, at least until the battle. Now it's started up again and it's much worse. Saturday morning Mrs. Weasley asked me to go out to the chicken coop and bring in some eggs. I didn't make it halfway there before people driving by on the road were stopping to honk their horns and wave."

McGonagall nods quietly and dismounts her bicycle. After a moment she says, "To some degree, that's probably going to happen for the rest of your life."

Harry makes an effort not to groan aloud. "I know. I'll deal with it, but I still don't like it. I still feel like I'm just Harry."

"It's good for you to feel that way. Try not to believe too much in your own press. It'll help you stay approachable. Have you given any more thought to living there, in Godric's Hollow?"

Harry shrugs even as he nods. "Ron and I talked about it. If we can make the place livable. I told Hermione she's welcome to come with us, but I think she's really hoping for a commission with the ministry. I know she thought it was out of reach until she talked to you. She didn't come right out and say so, but I think she's looking forward to the idea of a flat in London, someplace that might be a little closer to work, if things turn out the way she wants."

Pushing her bicycle along at her side, McGonagall begins to walk, and Harry keeps pace.

"A small flat in London might be the right way to go, at least until she has her career under way. I'm not at all certain Molly and Arthur would approve of the two of them living together outside of marriage, even with you along for the ride. Unless their relationship is much more serious than I'm aware, they are not ready for that yet."

A sudden puff of laughter escapes Harry. "None of us are. After Professor Dumbledore's funeral last year, I broke up with Ginny. Not because I wanted to, but because I figured if Riddle was going to come after me, I didn't want her getting hurt in the crossfire. Turns out, it may have been pointless. If he'd taken it into his head to use her as bait, broken up or not, I still would've gone after her. I'd have done anything to protect her. Now, Ron and Hermione are together, but they still snap at each other like we're kids. And I can't even figure out how to talk to Ginny, unless it's about something totally insignificant. No. None of us are ready to be married."

Harry watches his Professor's mouth do that thing where it wants to smile but, thanks to her sheer strength of will, it does not."

"At least you're aware of that. Take your time. You four have the rest of your lives to sort all that out. There's no rush, and as for Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger snapping at each other, that may never go away."

Harry groans upon hearing such a proclamation. "Well, I was hoping, maybe someday…"

"Maybe someday it will happen less frequently. I do not think it will stop altogether. They've done it since they were children. Most likely because they cared for one another and yet, they were too immature to know how to express it properly. Now it's simply habit. It does not mean that their bond is deficient in any way."

"I know that. It's just not easy being the third musketeer stuck in the middle when they go to war with each other."

"No, I imagine not. So, don't be the middleman. Their relationship belongs to them. There is absolutely no reason for you to be in the middle. Remove yourself from the equation when the need arises. It's a bad place to be in. You'll catch grief from both sides at once… As I'm sure you already know."

"Boy, do I." He's quiet for several long minutes before continuing. "We went into my parents' house yesterday… and the day before. There are more than a few holes in the walls, and not all of it is the work of curses being fired about. A lot of it is simply neglect. When we opened the front door, the odor was so foul it nearly knocked the three of us off of our feet. There were dead rodents behind every closed door. Including cupboards and closets. There was a dead polecat in the middle of the living room floor that had sprayed its stink everywhere, probably in response to the dead badger in the upstairs hallway. Once we opened the front door, even before we entered the house, Hermione said she could smell rotten vegetables. Ron and I pretty much dismissed this. She may be a muggle-born witch, but apparently, she has the nose of a bloodhound! She could smell that even among all the death and decay. The root cellar was left half-full with forgotten vegetables that had rotted, and left wet oily stains to seep permanently into the floorboards. Even the canned vegetables on the shelves were well beyond expiration. We used 'evanesco' to vanish literally everything in the cellar, including the flooring. It still reeks!"

McGonagall mulls this pungent bit of news over briefly before offering, "Sometime soon, maybe next weekend, if you don't already have other plans, buy yourself several large bags of charcoal briquettes. Take them to the house. Open the bags and leave them in every room. In a few weeks, maybe a month, go back. Take a tent, whatever you need to be comfortable, plan to camp in the rear garden. That way you can open up all the windows in the house and leave them open for the weekend, and you're being there will deter burglary or vandalism. The charcoal will absorb some of the odor. Fresh air will help. Even so, after all this time, you may find it's not enough. If you vanished even the floorboards in the cellar, one of your next projects is likely to do the same with the wall paneling, if there is any. Throw out all the rugs and carpeting as well. After all this time, that smell has permeated everything in the house. If you find any fabric or cloth items worth keeping for sentimental reasons, seal them up tightly in a plastic bag, and pour the charcoal in generously. Then, leave it to sit for a while. Anything you choose to keep will have to be cleaned, likely more than once."

Harry nods. "I'll try that! Thanks. Nearly all of the curtains in the house were infested with doxy and their eggs. I found a rusted tool shed in the rear garden with enough outdated ingredients to mix up a batch of doxicide that was only effective enough to momentarily subdue the creatures. We took all the curtains down, except for the ones hanging in the kitchen, because they were left hanging open, and the eastern sunlight must've been a deterrent for the doxy. I'm glad we got to save the ones in there. They're made of yellow gingham. It's a bit faded now, but most of the seams in the curtains are slightly askew. I'm only guessing that it must've been some sort of homemaking project my mother took up after they moved into the house." Harry chuckles quietly. "If I'm right about that, she wasn't much of a seamstress, but I like to think that she tried, and when they came out less than perfect, she hung them anyway."

"That's a very nice thought, and it's not unplausible. You could be right."

We threw the rest of the curtains and draperies into a heap in the garden and burned them, which earned us some unwanted attention. Yesterday police came by. I had to tell them who I am and show them the deed to the house. After that, they shook my hand and left quietly enough."

"You've been busy."

"That's not even half of what I found… Just a very little bit really. While ridding the house of vermin, we opened the pantry door and found a discreet but noticeable scratch on the backside, about 1½ foot off the floor. It was hard to make out but the date of my first birthday was scratched into the wood alongside it. I didn't understand at first. It was Ron who explained, 'Mum's got seven of these in door jams all over our house. Your parents were keeping track of how much you grew … or, at least they started to."

"That could evoke a number of emotions."

Harry nods. "It made me angry… which, I wasn't expecting, but all of a sudden I wanted to put my fist through the wall …"

"Because there was only one mark on the back of the door?"

"Yes ma'am. I could see Ron looking around, trying to find any way to change the subject, but I was so angry that I was shaking. I couldn't even speak. Leave it to Hermione! Without saying anything, she grabbed me and shoved my back up against the door so she could make a new mark. It didn't change anything…"

"But, she defused the tension?"

"Some of it. Enough, I guess. The day before yesterday, we stuck to the gardens and the first floor. Yesterday, we ventured upstairs to the bedrooms. That was…" He breathes deeply. "hard. There was a boggart in the trunk at the foot of my parents' bed. No telling how long that thing had been in there." Harry smirks. "Ron is still terrified of spiders. Hermione was nearly catatonic for half an hour after the sight of T's for all her NEWT scores." I don't think it's really the test she fears. Its failure in general." He pauses hesitantly, and after a moment, he shakes his head. "I don't feel like I'm giving away any secrets there. Four years ago, it was all put on display in that one Defense Against the Dark Arts class… Only, back then, for Hermione it was her OWL test scores. She's moved past that now, on to a bigger, harder test."

"And what about you… If I may ask."

"it's very strange. After winning the battle, I would've thought the three of us would be feeling pretty invincible, but I don't, and I don't think they do either. I guess we've lost too much to ever convince ourselves that we're untouchable."

McGonagall inhales deeply. "No one is ever untouchable, Mr. Potter."

"I would say that's true, especially if my own experience with the boggart is any indication. It was just blank."

The professor raises an eyebrow. "Sorry. I don't follow. What was blank?"

"When I stepped in front of the trunk in my parents' bedroom to deal with the boggart. I half expected a dementor to come rising up from its depths, and to hear the sound of my mother's final terrified screams."

McGonagall stops walking and reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder.

Turning to face her, Harry places his own hand gently on top of hers. "It wasn't like that this time, Professor. It was darkness. It was blank and void and silent, as though there were nothing in front of me."

Her voice waivers slightly, lacking conviction when she says, "Perhaps, that's a good thing."

Harry shakes his head. "I don't think so. It didn't feel very good. It felt bad. It felt cold, and lonely, and empty. When we had that class four years ago with Professor Lupin, most people's fears seemed to be rather straight forward … a room full of spiders, a snake, Professor Snape, failing test scores, howlers sent from home and exploding in the Great Hall for everyone to overhear and laugh at…" He chuckles softly. "Those are easy enough to comprehend. A few of them were a bit more complex. It was not really so much the dementor I feared, it's what they could do to me… what they can make me feel. Just like it wasn't really the moon Professor Lupin feared, but the change in himself that accompanied the full moon. I've been disconnected from so many of the people I've cared about – my parents, Sirius, Professor Dumbledore, Lupin, Tonks. I don't think I'll ever get Cedric Diggory's death out of my head. We weren't even that close, but it's horrid to see someone murdered in front of you, and to be old enough to understand what's happening, and not be able to do anything about it. Even the Dursley's are gone now, and that's okay, I guess. They were never kind, and they spent ten years lying to me about who my parents were. Aunt Petunia thought Mum was a freak, and she convinced herself that my dad must have then a good-for-nothing drunk, who was too strung out, and/or too lazy to get a job. Uncle Vernon never had a thought in his head that wasn't influenced or supported by her. So…"

McGonagall turns to face him directly. "Harry Potter, you listen to me! Your father may have been a bit carefree and a little entitled when he was a student at this school. He grew up. He was not lazy, and he certainly wasn't a drunk! He didn't have a job because he didn't need one. That fact alone does not make a man shiftless."

"No. It's alright Professor. You don't have to tell me. I know these things. I always have."

"How could you? When the people responsible for your upbringing indulged in such mendacity?"

Harry shrugs. "Probably because they took so much pleasure in telling me these things. It was like they wanted to inflict pain, or to punish me… Like I had any control over my parentage. Like anyone does! I knew they were lying. I didn't have any proof, but I can't ever remember not knowing that it was a load of rubbish."

"Good for you."

"When they finally told me the truth about how my parents died, Aunt Petunia called Mum a freak. I don't think she could even hear herself talking. Even though it was only my 11th birthday, I remember thinking she sounded more jealous than repulsed, but even if that was the truth, even if she is aware of it, she will never bring herself to admit it. She left home as quickly as possible and married safe, provincial, Vernon Dursley who didn't approve of anything that was far enough outside of his wheelhouse to be considered abnormal, and the two of them fed, and fed off of, each other's biases. So, I'm not aching to have them back, but it's odd to think they're out there somewhere, and I will never see them again. Then there was poor kind, simple, Dobby."

"The Malfoy's former house elf? The one you freed?"

Harry nods somberly. "He died, not quite two months ago. He was protecting me. Bellatrix Lestrange threw a dagger as we were fleeing Malfoy Manor."

"I've heard you were seen there. There were both suppositions, and denials, regarding the rescue of those who may have been held as hostages. Lucius contended that they were visitors. There was no mention of the elf."

Harry scoffs angrily. "Of course not! As far as the Malfoy's were concerned, Dobby was a servant. He didn't even register a blip on their radar. Yes, those people were undeniably hostages. If Mr. Malfoy, or anybody else, said otherwise, they lied. We got out, but not before they tortured Hermione with the Cruciatus curse, and Dobby caught Bella's blade in the chest just as we were apparating. He died in my arms in the front garden of Bill Weasley's cottage."

McGonagall's normally stern countenance softens almost imperceptibly. "You've suffered more loss than anyone ever should. I would be worried if you didn't feel a bit untethered."

With unmistakable worry in his voice, Harry admits, "It's worse than that. Stopping Voldemort… It's the most important thing I've ever done, and it's all behind me now. Professor… What if it's the most important thing I ever will do?"

"Then I, for one, will be very disappointed in you Mr. Potter. I can understand how your vision might be a bit clouded. From the moment Voldemort first attempted to kill you, you've been on a collision course with the Battle of Hogwarts. Now that it's done, you're wondering what's in front of you. You just need a purpose. A goal… Something to work toward. Find one. Find more than one. You've got an entire life to live, and this world is full of important things that need to be done. The end to Tom Riddle's tyranny does not deserve to be the most important thing in your life. Find something or someone who does."