On her way up the stone walkway in front of the McGonagall manse, Peg Fairley glances over her shoulder twice and nearly scurries back to her car waiting at the curb. Each time she considers retreat, hurt blossoms in her chest. Tired of suffering, she forces herself to put one foot in front of the other until she is knocking hesitantly at the massive oak hewn door. The knuckles of her right hand don't so much as graze the wood a third time before the door is open and Robert McGonagall comes up short, just in time to keep from plowing into her on his way out.

"Peggy?" His steely blue eyes light up in surprise.

Unable to find her voice, she stands there wordlessly, her nervous fingers repeatedly clutching at her handbag as she takes in the sight of his freshly combed thick white hair and his newest cardigan sweater.

Concerned by her obvious distress, he prompts, "Is something the matter, Peg?"

She shakes her head and flounders about, searching for anything she might say other than what she wants most to say. "I've come at a bad time. You're going out."

Robert shrugs. "I dinnae have to. It's nothing that cannae wait. What brings ye by?"

She tries a nervous smile, but it falters quickly when she realizes how forced it feels.

It must look every bit as forced as it feels, because Robert questions, "Peg, are ye alright?"

Waving away his concern, she laughs a little too brightly. "I'm fine."

The Rev. McGonagall simply raises an eyebrow.

"I am. I'm fine… Except for… Oh, the hell with it! I miss you."

She can't help but laugh when he chuckles at the announcement.

"Is that all?" He steps back from the door, opening it wider. "Would ye like ta come in?"

Peg shakes her head. "No. I can see you're on your way out. You weren't expecting me. I don't want to be a bother."

"Ye couldn't if ye tried. I'm on my way ta the farmer's market fir some fresh neeps and coriander. Care ta walk wi me?"

This time her smile is genuine. "You're sure you don't mind?"

Stepping out onto the porch, he pulls the front door closed behind him before tucking her arm snugly into his. "Ah've missed ye too, Peggy."

Logan waits for the couple in the private hospital room to nod somberly in agreement before she presses the switch that will shut off the respirator that tethers their son's limp unresponsive body to a life that is already over by every definition, save the clinical one. Using her own body to block their view of a potentially disturbing sight, she removes the tube from her patient's airway with practiced, steady hands and moves it as far away from their son as possible.

Stepping away from the bedside, she invites the boy's parents to move closer with a silent gesture.

His mother's face is pale and drawn, but tearless, while his father avoids eye contact in a halfhearted effort to conceal his own silent weeping.

"Is he in pain?"

Logan shakes her head. "No, Mrs. MacLaine. Tommy is beyond pain now."

Tommy's father looks at the instrument panel on the wall behind his son's bed so that his gaze has some were safe to land. "How long will it take? Will he have to stay like this for very much longer?"

"I'm afraid there is no definitive answer, sir. Some people do linger after the machines are turned off, but in Tommy's case, I don't believe it will be a long wait."

When they both nod but ask no further questions, Logan steps toward the door. "I'll give you your privacy. If you need anything, have one of the nurses at the station outside page me."

Teresa MacLaine runs her fingers through her son's shaggy blond mop of hair. "You… called the funeral home… for us?"

"I did, but they won't come until you're ready. Take all the time you want, ma'am."

The bereft woman nods and murmurs something unintelligible as Logan slips quietly out of the room and closes the door behind her.

She forces herself to walk calmly passed the nurse's station where an unnoticed visitor catches sight of her and follows her down a long corridor. A dozen steps behind her, it takes him a few seconds to catch up and push through the door to the stairwell at the end of the hall.

For a moment, indecision stalls him. He can't decide whether to go up or down until he leans over the railing and catches sight of her coral- colored scrubs turning a corner. Listening to the sound of his own foot falls echoing off the walls in the confined space, he moves right passed her before he realizes that she has not continued on her way down to a lower floor but stopped in the sanctuary of the stairwell. Huddled to one side, her back against the wall, she sits, draws her knees up to her chest, and covers her face with her hands. Without a word, he sits down beside her and waits. She doesn't make a sound, but her shoulders tremble violently with the force of her emotion.

It takes several moments for her anguish to subside enough for intuition to alert her to his presence. When it does, she lowers her hands and simply looks at him. She offers no awkward halfhearted apology for her emotional display. She neither snaps at him, nor makes any embarrassed attempt to wipe away the remains of the tears on her face. He likes that she obviously feels no shame for them. She only cries in secluded stairwells for the sake of professionalism, and out of respect for the family members and loved ones of her lost patient. Their suffering is far more important than her own.

Quietly, Talbot Winger asks, "He's gone? The MacLaine boy?"

Logan nods. "Thomas Dillard MacLaine… Tommy. I just turned off the machines."

"Dillard?"

"Grandmother's maiden name."

"You know he was gone weeks ago."

She nods. "I know, but I don't waste time crying if there is still half a chance that I might be able to do something for them. Only after it's over."

"You don't have time to cry now. We've got two new ones. A street racer from Memorial, and a 19-year-old single mom from Saint Francis."

Her face goes hot and hard as she whispers angrily, "Swell! That's just bloody fantastic! Do me a favor Mr. Winger, catch this bastard! You catch him, and when you do, you put him down the deepest, darkest hole you can find so that he can't poison any more kids!"

If it were solely up to me, I probably would. Unfortunately, I'm just one cog in the wheel. There are others above my pay grade who will ultimately make that decision."

She inquires bluntly, "Then what good can you do?"

Unbothered by her sudden flash of hostility, he shrugs. "I can buy you a really bad cup of coffee from the hospital cafeteria."

Logan rises to her feet and begins retracing her steps. "I'll accept if you add a slice of blackberry pie. I need sugar."

He slides past her and opens the door to the stairwell, politely waiting for her to step through first. "If we're having pie, I think you'd better call me Talbot."

When the penalty bell sounds at the All-England wizard dueling tournament halfway through the second match of the morning, the referee must make use of the sonorous charm in order to be heard over the jeering and booing from the standing-room-only crowd of spectators. When an obviously injured Filius Flitwick is escorted from the arena in route to the medical tent, McGonagall descends from the stands and hurries after him; the look of displeasure on her stern face doing a great deal to help part the crowd and clear a path for her.

Just beyond the arena's northern exit, she finds an irate escort badgering Flitwick loudly. "Sir, you have to get in the chair. It's for your own safety."

With his right hand clamped over his wounded left arm, and a startling amount of blood still spilling between his fingers, Flitwick argues, "As you can see, my legs still work just fine. I do not require use of your wheelchair. If you don't mind, I would prefer to get to the medical tent under my own steam."

The orderly continues to loudly make his disapproval known to anyone within hearing distance as McGonagall steps between the two of them and momentarily lifts the Charms professor's hand so that she might assess the severity of the wound for herself.

When she catches the stark, jarring sight of exposed bone, she drops his hand back into place and turns to glare at his shouting escort with withering condemnation. "This man is seriously injured! How dare you stand here shouting at him! If he refuses to get in the chair, what are you going to do? Deny him medical attention?"

Flitwick nods aggressively. "That is a very good question."

McGonagall whirls, turning her rigid disapproval on him. "Do be quiet Filius! What is the matter with you? Have you completely taken leave of your senses? Get in the chair!"

"But Minerv…"

"Now!"

More afraid of her temper than his own injury, Flitwick concedes and settles into the chair without another word, and neither man dares to speak again as McGonagall leads the way; her heels making angry clacking sounds against the cobblestoned pavement as her robes billow and flap in her wake.

In the medical tent, she manages to stay close, overseeing his care while simultaneously managing to stay out of the way of the healer tending to his injury. Until the jagged and gaping hole in his arm is mended, she remains tight-lipped and silent unless spoken to directly.

Once Flitwick is seated upright with pillows behind his back, McGonagall addresses her questions to the healer. "Will he recover completely?"

The busy pale-faced witch with a headful of ebony ringlets sighs in exasperation. "He'll be fine this time. He can return to the tournament in half an hour if he's dumb enough to want to do it. He's owed a two-incantation penalty if the match resumes." She thrusts a clear goblet containing some smoking medicinal liquid the color of tar into Flitwick's wand hand. "Do not let him get up from this cot until he drains this cup." Eyeing her patient, she demands, "You will drink every last drop of this… and I don't care if it does taste worse than dragon piss."

Flitwick raises the goblet as though in response to a toast being made.

The healer rolls her eyes and stomps off to attend to the needlessly wounded patient in the next bed.

McGonagall waits until her attention is completely absorbed by the next man before pinning Flitwick down with her own dark gaze. "Suppose you tell me how that third-rate glory hound got the better of you in that arena? He's young, he's arrogant, he's cocksure, and completely readable!"

Flitwick's ears color slightly as he admits quietly, "My mind is elsewhere. I received an owl from Tima this morning before the first match. She had to take her mother to St. Mungo's before sunrise."

If anything, upon hearing this, the set of McGonagall's jaw becomes more rigid. "And, recognizing your own preoccupation, you chose to step into that arena anyway? Really Filius! I'm disappointed in you!"

"I did not wish to allow recent events to deter me from carrying on with life as I always have."

That idea and the intent behind it is admirable, but attempting to carry it out is beyond foolish, and you know it! You cannot continue your life as though the battle never happened. You cannot act as if it didn't change you, because it did. It has changed us all… Irrevocably."

Flitwick inhales deeply. "You're right, of course."

"Do you intend to go back out there and have the match resume?"

"I'm tempted to. Just to finish what I started, but…"

"Do you have a second? Someone to stand in your place?"

"Not unless you're offering."

McGonagall sniffs in disdain as she folds her arms over her chest. "The only reason I'm here is because I know you're not interested in one-upmanship. You are your only competitor, which is precisely why you don't already have a second waiting in the wings. If I never point a wand at another living being for the rest of my life, that will be just fine with me. I've had enough of dueling to last me ten lifetimes - and maybe you have too."

He states plainly, "You're advising me to withdraw from the competition."

"Yes, please. Do not put me through the heartache of having to search for a new Charms professor. It's enough aggravation just having to find someone to fill the posts for Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions."

Flitwick takes a sip of his ghastly looking medicinal brew, grimaces horribly, and raises an eyebrow. "I thought Slughorn was amenable to returning next year provided his injuries are completely healed by then?"

Finding it crass behavior, McGonagall resists the temptation to roll her eyes in exasperation. "He'll be fine. He's already fine. He had a broken ankle. He mended faster than I did, but he'll be crowing to anyone who will listen about the war wound he received in the Battle of Hogwarts for the rest of his life. He has offered to return, but I'm hesitant to accept the offer."

"You don't like him." Flitwick states evenly.

"No, I don't." She declares just as evenly. "Severus' bad disposition and his tendency for self-loathing usually hurt him worse than they hurt anyone else, but Slughorn… He's a different animal. I find him gluttonous and self-serving."

"I'll assume you're not just talking about his excessive fondness for sugared pineapple."

"You know me better than that." She answers dryly. "That particular lack of self-discipline harms no one but himself, and is entirely forgivable, but his habit for collecting notable people and adding them to his living menagerie while he ignores the ordinary… Filius, it's obscene. I'm not eager to have him stay on in the wake of the battle and go about the castle gathering those who he considers to be his elite flock of winners, while he ignores anyone who doesn't offer up a brightly colored feather for his cap. Plus, Slughorn may fill the post adequately, but Snape was by far the better potions master. We need someone of his caliber."

"Got any ideas who that might be?"

"Just one."

"Oh?"

"She is a former student of his and getting her to say yes might not be easy. I expect she's a bit busy just now."

"Busy with what?"

"She got married last year. She's currently a little more than halfway through her first pregnancy, and according to rumor she may, or may not, be carrying triplets."

"Ah, how is Miss Haywood these days - eh, other than the fact that she may be about to be dive-bombed by an entire battalion of storks?"

"You mean you don't know? You really should read the Daily Profit, Filius."

"That rag? I thought you only used it to line the bottom of Wordsworth's litter box?"

"I only do that with Rita's column. The paper does have a few worthwhile tidbits between its folds."

"Such as?"

"She's teamed up with her younger sister, Beatrice. The Haywood sisters co-author a credible advice column. Plus, at least twice a month you can spot her byline on the society page. She always did have a nose for gossip. Right now, she's mostly freelance, though I believe she's in the running for a salaried position with Witch Weekly."

"Let's just hope she hasn't neglected her potion-making prowess while turning the gossip gristmill."

McGonagall sighs. "Filius… She sends Madame Pomphrey medicinal potions by the case-full every month."

"And who did she marry?"

"Don't you keep up with any of your former students… Even in passing?"

"Of course, but Minerva I'm a little more concerned about the current lot than I am the ones who graduated eight years ago."

"Fair enough. She's married Murphy McNully."

"The young statistician in the wheelchair with greased lightning on his tongue?"

"That's him. You know their house is never quiet."

Flitwick chuckles and uses the moment to forestall another drink from his foul-smelling cup. "Their children, however many of them there are, will have to be just as loquacious and three times as noisy just to get a word in edgewise at the dinner table."

McGonagall almost smiles.

"Do you suppose they'll all be attending Hogwarts?"

"Starting roughly 12 years from now."

"What's McNully up to?"

"He's a guest commentator for the Quidditch World League."

"That's no surprise."

"There's talk he may become the assistant manager for the Chudley Cannons - try to pull them out of their interminable losing streak."

"I never asked. What put him in the chair?"

"I conferred with his parents when he enrolled 15 years ago. They said he was born with need of the chair, and that he was entirely capable of managing his own self-care as long as we were agreeable to allowing him to use spellwork between classes to navigate the castle's numerous staircases. I figured as long as he could see to his own needs, I didn't need to press for more information. I was watchful when he first arrived, in case I was misinformed about his ability. I don't recall him ever once asking for any kind of assistance related to his physical limitations."

"Nor I. He whizzed around the castle, moving those wheels almost as fast as he moved his tongue. Whatever caused the need for the chair, it would seem that it didn't affect his ability to produce children."

"Apparently not."

"Has he ever even been on a broomstick?"

"Not to the best of my knowledge."

"And yet, he's going to become the assistant manager for a quidditch team?"

McGonagall shrugs. "It's just talk as of yet, but he's a crackerjack strategist and, he loves the game. He certainly understands how it's played. If he can pull the Canons out of their long-term encampment of last place, he'll make a place for himself in the annals of history."

Flitwick downs the remains of his medicinal tonic in one grim swallow and rises to his feet. "I'm going to withdraw from the competition. I should be at St. Mungo's with my family. You go send McNully's wife an owl. Try to snap her up ahead of Witch Weekly. However many children she's about to have, a steady job with steady pay in a fixed location might certainly have its appeal over journalistic freelancing."

Owl sent, McGonagall finds herself free several hours before dinner. Very much in need of fresh air, and tired of the pitfalls of castle renovation, she decides to take her own advice and find a purpose – a task to occupy her mind lest inactivity give way to thoughts best left unvisited. When she apperates to the manse, she is only mildly surprised to find her father absent. She scrawls a quick note across the bottom of the green board usually reserved for his weekly grocery list, certain that it will be found upon his return from wherever he happens to be. From there, she takes his borrowed bicycle through the small-town square to the marina on the eastern shore.

With the 1st of June less than a week away, the first hint of summer warms the breeze coming off the briny water. She coasts through the gates of the marina and only dismounts the bicycle as she passes the first row of boat slips. Looking around for anything even vaguely familiar, she waits for some wisp of memory to tell her where to go. Walking slowly, she scans directional markers as she takes a folded slip of paper from the pocket of her dark green linen trousers. Already knowing the slip number she will find written there, she reads it anyway as she stalls, trying to recall which path to take. When someone approaches unnoticed and reaches out to touch her on the shoulder, she turns too quickly in surprise and nearly collides with Laird McKinnon.

"Ah think ane of us is lost. Ah dinnae mean ta startle ye."

Taking in the sight of his fishing pole and tackle, she declares, "I'm not exactly lost. I meant to come here. I just can't remember how to get from this spot to where I want to go. I've been here before, but it's been quite a while since the last time I visited this marina. Things are the same… but different than I remember."

McKinnon chuckles dryly. "That's because about 12 or 13 years ago some vagrants accidentally set fire ta the place one night. Half the marina had to be rebuilt, and they changed the layout a bit.

She nods. "Yes. That's right. I forgot about that, but now that you've mentioned it, I remember Uncle Sean being furious about the fire. He was worried about his boat. Once he knew that the boat hadn't been damaged in the fire, he went from being irate to merely annoyed at the carelessness of the people who started the fire."

"So, what brings ye here today?"

"I'm looking for the boat, but the slips are not numbered the way I remember."

"Ah thought ye had other plans this weekend."

"I did, but Filius wasn't faring as well in the competition as he would've liked. He hasn't lost a match, but he's been injured. He was distracted and not performing up to his usual standard. I think he'll be fine next year. His heart just isn't in it this year. It's too soon after the battle. It has us all off balance. I went with him because his wife couldn't attend this year. She's caring for her elderly mother who, just this morning, had to be taken to the hospital. Filius withdrew from the competition before lunchtime and decided his time would be better spent at his wife's side."

"So ye've come here in search of a boat?"

Minerva nods. "I needed some fresh air and exercise. My father's brother passed away several months ago. It took a while for his will to make it through probate. He left the boat to me. Da is of the opinion that Uncle Sean thought I would be the one most likely to properly care for her, but I haven't set foot on that boat since the summer before I started work at the ministry. "

"So… it's been a minute."

"A fairly long one." She admits dryly.

"Dae ye ken the slip number?"

She passes him the folded slip of paper without comment.

McKinnon glances at the information neatly printed there and surmises, "She must be a full-figured lass." He points as he talks. "See this prefix here. It indicates the section of the marina designated fir fully masted vessels. In other words, sailboats, not power boats, and she requires one of the largest berths available. Follow me. Ah'll show ye the way."

Falling into step beside him, she muses quietly. "That's ironic."

"Sorry. Whut is?"

"I remember feeling cramped that weekend. As though we were packed in like sardines in a tin."

"If it were a maiden voyage, or if ye were the slightest bit claustrophobic…. Well, sailing can leave some folk a bit peely-wally. It can take a wee bit of time ta adjust ta the close quarters aboard any vessel, no matter how grand her size. Was there rough sailing that weekend?"

Minerva shakes her head. "The water was smooth as glass, and winds were fair. I think it had more to do with my being the only female on board with my uncle, my two younger brothers, and an overzealous deckhand who was suffering from the malformed assumption that I required his near-constant attention."

"Yer no salty old sea dog, but yer no land lubbing bambot either. Ah doubt ye needed constant supervision. Maybe he was just thirstin' fir a wee kiss."

Minerva scoffs. "If that was his aim, he missed the mark. He certainly did not put me in a kissing mood."

"Too bad fir h..." McKinnon pauses briefly before letting out a long, low whistle of astonishment.

"What?" Minerva turns to face the familiar vessel she hasn't boarded for more than four decades.

"Is this the right ane?"

She nods proudly. "Yes, that's her."

"Christ, woman! Ye told me ye were lookin' fir a boat. Ye dinnae tell me ye were lookin' fir Bluebeard's modern-day beloved!"

Dryly Minerva intones, "I'll assume that means you like her."

"Oh aye!" He whispers reverently. "She's a bonny one."

Minerva presses her lips together to keep from smiling. "Would you like to go aboard?"

"Aboard? Ah want teh set sail fir Bali… tonight!"

"Easy man! Calm yourself. You have a decrepit old lighthouse to repair, and what about my ruddy old shack of a castle? We can't just hoist the sails and run away together. Even if we could, I would strongly recommend we make certain she's seaworthy before heading for open water."

McKinnon walks the length of the dock, making impromptu measurements, carefully placing his feet heal-to-toe with each step. Talking only to himself, he mutters, "She's got to be every bit of 40 feet… and then some."

"According to her paperwork… 42."

"How old is she?"

Uncle Sean bought her second hand from an auction the same year I graduated from Hogwarts."

"They dinnae make them like this anymore, Minerva. She's nae a pleasure craft, meant teh entertain some bored, spoiled socialite… and she was never intended teh be one. She was built fir a true sailor. When was she last tended to?"

"I don't have her record of service with me today, and to be honest, I haven't read it all the way through yet. It's very detailed. It's in my quarters at the castle along with the rest of Uncle Sean's paperwork on her. "

"Ye can ask the marina staff at the office. They'll have record of any maintenance done unless yer uncle preferred teh take care of her himself."

"He did when he was younger and in good health. I don't know how he's managed her upkeep in recent years, but she doesn't look like she's suffering from neglect - at least not from here."

"No." McKinnon's keen eyes travel bow to stern and crow's nest to dock, looking over every visible inch of the boat. "Even if he was no longer able teh manage it himself, he saw teh it she was rightly cared fir. If we find signs of neglect below deck, Ah'll be shocked." Reaching the end of the dock, he turns intent on returning to Minerva's side, but before he does; he stops, retraces his steps, and cranes his neck to have a good look at the stern before he lifts his face to the sky and laughs loudly and freely.

"What's funny?"

"Catnip! Your uncle named her Catnip!"

"She had another name before Uncle Sean bought her. I don't remember what it used to be. I'm sure it's listed in the paperwork somewhere. He changed it."

Well, yes obviously. What are the odds of him buying a sailboat already in possession of that name?"

Minerva steps close enough to him to allow her to lower her voice to a more discreet level. "Shortly after I completed animagus training in my third year, Uncle Sean took to calling me Catnip… Like it was a pet name. My father hated it when he called me that, which only served to make Uncle Sean that much more determined to do it. When he christened his boat Catnip, Da was not pleased."

Still grinning, McKinnon winks at her. "Ye were Uncle Sean's favorite."

"He was never so unkind as to say so. He wouldn't have hurt my brothers that way, but yes, I think I was. Naming the boat as he did, it provided him with an excellent opportunity to annoy his younger brother whenever possible."

"He enjoyed vexin' your father?"

Making good use of a bike lock, she tethers her father's bicycle to the dock as she talks. "He enjoyed being the older of the two, but he hated being the middle child in the family. Uncle Ian was the oldest. He annoyed Uncle Sean, and in doing so, taught him to look for ways to annoy Da. The three of them were very good at deliberately vexing each other." Stepping toward the boat again, she carefully puts one foot over the gunnel before she turns and reaches out for his hand. "Shall we?"