Hungry after having worked all day Friday on castle repair, Harry rushes his way through supper, equally eager to move on to other things. With his grumbling stomach finally sated, he slips quietly out of the Great Hall, and preparing for any eventuality, he visits his dorm room long enough to retrieve Dumbledore's wand from its hiding place along with his Firebolt, figuring that whatever obstacles he may meet on the 7th floor, if they can't be circumvented with either his broom or the elder wand, then they can't be circumvented at all.

Alone, as no one had ventured as high as the seventh floor to commence repair work there, It takes him nearly 45 minutes to clear a path amid the debris before he can reach his destination.

Hoping not to be interrupted, he paces the western corridor opposite the tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy's ill-fated attempt to make ballet dancers out of trolls. Closing his eyes, he turns his focus inward and concentrates as he makes three laps hoping that the room of requirement isn't damaged beyond its ability to appear.

With bated breath, he opens his eyes. Successful, he grins in wild triumph at the now visible heavy wooden door with its iron brackets. Glancing over his shoulder once to be certain he is still alone, he lifts the latch, and slips into the room.

Once inside, he is nearly knocked flat by the acrid stench left behind by fiendfyre. Every surface recognizable within the cavernous room is charred black. Countless items are burned beyond recognition. Hundreds, if not thousands, of them are reduced to ash and cinders.

Harry walks for a while, turning his head this way and that. He knows he can't stay long without being overcome by the foul stench, so he thinks to himself, 'What this room really needs, is some open windows to air the place out.' When nothing happens, he wonders, like Ron, if the room has been damaged beyond repair. Depressed by the thought he lifts his own wand high overhead and concentrates hard on another thought. 'Accio Snape's potions book.'

Nothing happens.

Frustrated with himself, he has a second go and speaks the incantation aloud.

Still, nothing happens. Cheered by the thought that maybe he hasn't merely been unsuccessful at nonverbal magic, he tries the same again with Dumbledore's wand. When his silent attempt is, again, fruitless, he tries verbally.

Nothing.

Harry shrugs, guessing that after being exposed to cursed fire, the book, like countless other things hidden in the room, is probably lost forever, beyond even the reach of the elder wand.

The memory of successfully summoning his broom during the Tri-wizard Tournament leads him to memories of D.A. meetings and the triumphs he witnessed at those times. If it hadn't been for those secret meetings, if it hadn't been for this room, the outcome of the battle might have been unbearably different. So, he lingers, and walks a bit further into the room seeing, not what is there but instead what he remembers. Hermione stunning Ron over and over again. Neville flush with success. Ginny wobbling uncontrollably when Luna actually managed to hit her with an exceptionally well-aimed jinx.

So lost in his reverie that he trips and goes down hard on top of something he wishes he hadn't found. Harry nearly vomits at the sight of charred and brittle human remains.

Scurrying backward on his hands and knees before he can get control of himself, he stares senselessly at the blackened remains of a skeleton, curled in on itself until the unbidden memory of Crabbe's fall returns to him. Then, anger, logic, and compassion kick into drive in rapid succession and Harry doubts that Crabbe landed curled into a fetal position. No, if the fall had been fatal, he would have been found with his hands flat against the floor beneath his body. It's human nature to throw out one's hands to break a fall, natural to attempt to protect one's head and face. Vincent Crabbe must have survived the fall, and then tried to protect himself in the only way he could. The thought horrifies Harry.

He shakes his head. "Crabbe, you idiot! That's what happens when you go round starting fires! I hope you were dead before the flames got to you though. Nobody deserves to die that way."

He calls for the flat sheet on his bed and magically places it beneath the charred skeleton. After calling for the braided ropes that tie back the hangings around his four-poster bed, Harry ties the makeshift shroud tight at both ends and, looking around but finding nothing identifiable, he shoots red sparks into the air with his wand before he lays his broom aside and lifts the only thing left of Vincent Crabbe into his arms.

It takes him more than twenty minutes to make his way down to the corridor outside the transfiguration teacher's office before he remembers that McGonagall is away for the weekend. Along the way, the people he meets stop whatever they are doing and stare after him in surprised silence. Everyone believes the last of the deceased had been removed. It's been more than two weeks since the last was found. So, onlookers are surprised, yet at no loss to understand the soot-covered shroud or the flat, solemn look in Harry's green eyes.

When he remembers that he is headed the wrong direction, he sighs, turns about, and presses on until he crosses paths with Professor Sprout who he'd seen the hour before in the Great Hall.

"Mr. Potter?"

Harry nods grimly. "I was on my way to Professor McGonagall's office. I just remembered, she's not here. Are you standing in for her tonight?"

"I am." Sprout seems to shake herself and then step into action with resignation. "I hoped we'd found the last of them."

Harry shakes his head. "No. Sorry. Vincent Crabbe."

"Well, thank heaven for that, at least. He's been found. His family can stop searching and give him a proper burial."

Harry sighs. "Uh… Sorry Professor, I don't know how to say this except just to say it. Whoever comes to collect him, you should tell the funeral home officials that they shouldn't let his family see him."

"Why is that?"

"Because there's nothing left but bones."

She touches her chest in shock. "Dear God!" She is silent for the appropriate moment before asking the obvious question. "How do you know it's him?"

Because, during the battle, Ron, Hermione, and I were in the room of requirement at one point with Malfoy, Crabbe and Zabini. Crabbe cast the spell for fiendfyre, and we had to fly to get out. I got to Malfoy in time, and Ron was able to get to Blaise, but the fire burned out of control and Hermione tried to hang onto Crabbe, but… Well, she was never the best flier, and even if she were, it wouldn't have mattered anyway. Crabbe was too heavy for her. She couldn't hold onto his hand and keep her mount. He fell. We had no choice but to leave him. We barely made it out ourselves."

Harry watches her dash away tears of shock and dismay as she mutters beneath her breath, "Poor, reckless, stupid boy!"

"I'm sorry, Professor."

Her lips part in surprise. "I don't mean you, dear. I was referring to young Mr. Crabbe. Such a waste!"

Relieved, Harry simply nods. "Yes ma'am."

"I will notify the funeral home, and his family. Until they arrive… " She sighs heavily. "Well, come along."

Harry follows her down to the subterranean Hufflepuff common room and to one of the dormitories beyond. Under different circumstances, he would've looked around in curiosity, eager to have the opportunity to see another house's living quarters; but as he laid the remains of Vincent Crabbe gently down on top of a made bed, he took no notice of the bright yellow duvet, the room's many thriving plants, or it's cheery décor. For him, the dormitory had ceased to be anything more than a cold, dreary, temporary crypt.

With the unpleasant task behind him, he wants nothing more than to escape. He doesn't want to be in the castle later that night or the next day when Crabbe's family comes calling. He doesn't want to have to look at them, knowing as he does, that Crabbe, Sr. had been Voldemort's ally. He has the suspicion that no amount of sympathy coming from him will seem sufficient to the other boy's family. So, as soon as they step beyond the door of the Hufflepuff common room, Harry makes his excuses, noticing that Professor Sprout seems scarcely less eager for solitude than he is.

Moving quickly, without running. Harry returns to the room of requirement to retrieve his broom. He is only able to find it, courtesy of the red sparks he had marked its location with, and he wordlessly gives thanks for the presence of mind to do so before turning back the way he came. He's halfway back to the door when he spots the charred remains of a cabinet with a wig-wearing bust perched atop it. The bust is black with soot, and the already hideous wig is now badly burned, doing absolutely nothing to improve its appeal, but Harry can't keep from smiling just a little as he tries to open the cabinet door and has it fall completely off its hinges and crash to the floor.

Inside, he finds his reason for entering the room to begin with, just where he had left it the previous year. The cover of the half-blood prince's book is curled around the edges, courtesy of the extreme heat and its pages reek horribly of smoke, but with the exception of some minor damage, most of the text was still legible. Stuffing the book under his jacket, Harry delays only long enough to vanish the entire contents of the room with a gentle flick of Dumbledore's wand. Satisfied that the next time someone enters the room, it would smell at least marginally better without all of its charred offerings, he leaves at a trot, and hurries down to the kitchen to entrust Kreacher with an urgent message to be delivered to Melbourne Australia. From there, he leaves the castle.

Stepping out into the night, he fills his lungs with clean air, mounts his broom, and takes to the sky.

Hermione is sitting curled up and reading at the end of the sofa opposite her father when a loud cracking noise was heard immediately followed by her mother's startled yelp and the sound of breaking china. Both she and her father run for the kitchen where they find Monica Granger with her back pressed hard up against the sink as she stares in shock at the hideous gnarled old elf standing in the center of the room and leans sideways, stretching her left arm as far as possible to snag the broom from the nearest corner.

Just in time to stop her bludgeoning the elf on the head, Hermione declares, "Mum, don't hit Kreacher!"

Kreacher turns his hostile black eyes from mother to daughter but before he can say anything unsavory, Hermione offers in a breathless rush, "Hello Kreacher. Mum's nice. You just scared her, that's all. What's up?"

"Kreacher comes with a message from Harry Potter."

Hermione smiles with curiosity. "Oh, okay. I'm listening."

"Master Harry says Hermione Granger is to meet him at the amphitheater in Sydney." Kreature pauses to sneer. "Master Harry says Kreacher is to say 'please."

"That's nice. Thank you Kreature. When? Now?"

Kreature nods.

"Did Harry say why?"

Kreacher nods again. "Because Harry Potter does not know where Hermione Granger lives now, but he says he will meet you at the amphitheater to ask if it's alright for him to visit."

"Well, of course it's alright if Harry visits me here. Kreacher, you should have just brought him along with you."

"Kreature could not do it, Miss."

Hermione gives the elf a worried look. "Why not? Are you alright Kreature?"

"Of course. Kreacher is well."

"Then why couldn't you bring Harry along."

"Because Master Harry did not command it. He only bade Kreacher to come deliver a message."

Hermione huffs. "Honestly! Kreacher, for future reference, you may bring Harry to visit me, anytime he chooses."

When the elf gives her a dismissive look, she sighs and tries again to reassure him. "It's alright. If it will make things better for you, you have my permission."

Kreacher mutters, "That makes no difference at all. The Granger girl is not my mistress."

Hermione rolls her eyes but smiles anyway. "At least you're making progress. 'The Granger girl' is loads better than 'that mudblood girl."

Turning to face her wide-eyed parents, she announces, "Back in a flash… with company."

"Hermione, wait!" Her mother calls anxiously. "Shall I make tea or is there something else Harry would prefer… Maybe he's hungry."

"Tea is fine, Mum. Harry likes tea… We just finished breakfast an hour ago. Given the 11-hour time difference between here and Scotland, Harry probably just finished his supper."

"Oh right. Maybe he would like a desert then."

"They serve dessert at the castle. If you happen to have any in the cupboard, treacle fudge is his favorite sweet, but honestly Mum, don't make a big fuss. Harry is just a regular guy, and that's how he likes to be treated. Just like any of my other friends. If you cater to him, you'll make him uncomfortable."

"But…"

Hermione smiles impatiently. "I've got to go if you don't want me to leave him waiting. Dad, tell her." With that, she turns on the spot and disappears before her mother can ask another question.

Reappearing on the sidewalk in front of the amphitheater in Sydney Australia, it takes her less than a second to spot Harry and grin before lecturing lightheartedly, "Harry, you idiot! Of course, you can come and visit. Why didn't you just tell Kreacher to bring you to my house?"

He shrugs as he walks over and drapes an arm around her shoulders in greeting. "Because your parents might have had company, or you might have been busy. I didn't want to just drop in unannounced, but even living on Privet Drive, I've heard of this place. I don't imagine there are too many people that live in Australia who don't know how to get here, or who can't at least find this place on a map."

"I've only lived here three weeks, Harry. I wouldn't know how to get here if it hadn't been part of Mum and Dad's get-to-know-Australia tour."

"Good thing I picked a well-known tourist trap then."

Hermione chuckles. "Come on, let's get going. If we linger too long, Mum will cook breakfast all over again."

"Why?"

"Because she knows you're coming. Kreacher scared her half to death, by the way. She almost hit him with the broom. Don't think she's ever seen a house elf before."

Harry winces. "Sorry. Maybe it would have been better had I just showed up on your doorstep."

"Probably, but you don't know how to get there."

"Right then, come on, let's go before your mum goes to too much trouble. I just had dinner."

"I know. I told her as much, but she'll think it's bad manners not to offer you something."

Harry shakes hands with Mr. and Mrs. Granger. "It's good to see you both again."

"You too, my boy. You look like you came through the fire fight alright?" Wendell Granger smiles warmly.

"Wouldn't have done without Hermione. She was amazing!"

Hermione's cheeks go noticeably pink, and although she said nothing, Harry doesn't miss it when Mrs. Granger frowns.

Neither does Hermione's father, who steps quickly into the breach with, "It's Saturday here, and we have no patients today. We're off to the beach shortly. Care to join us?"

"Thank you, but no. I don't want to intrude, and I didn't bring swimwear anyway. I just wanted to ask Hermione…" Harry turns to face her. "Do you still have Bill Weasley's tent in that beaded bag of yours. If I can borrow it, just for the weekend, I'll make sure it gets back to him when I'm done."

"Oh gosh! Please do. I completely forgot! I hope he doesn't think I kept it on purpose." Hermione chews on her lower lip.

"Hermione, relax. You're dating his younger brother. You're practically his sister-in-law. I'm sure he knows you're not a thief."

Smiling, and going even pinker, Hermione whispers breathlessly, "I wouldn't go that far, Harry. Nobody has said anything about marriage… and why do you want the tent?"

"I'll figure out where to buy my own tomorrow… or Sunday." Harry stalls, his mind obviously still running on Scotland time. "It's a bit late tonight to do any serious shopping, especially when I have no idea where to look for that sort of thing. I'm going to Godric's Hollow this weekend. McGonagall suggested that I pitch a tent in the rear garden so it's obvious someone is there, you know; to deter burglars, and then open up all the windows and air the place out. If I can get enough done tomorrow morning, I'm going to start repair work in the afternoon, or maybe Sunday morning."

Hermione smiles with excitement. "You've made up your mind then? You going to live there?"

Harry shrugs. "It's either that or bulldoze the place. I know people left it in its dreadful condition as a tribute to Mum and Dad, but it really is an eyesore, and left alone, it's only going to get worse. I don't really want to raze the place, but if I'm going to go to the trouble to fix it up, it would be a shame not to live there."

Hermione nods in support of the idea. "I think your mum and dad would like for you to live there. After all, they meant for you to, didn't they? Only, if you're going this weekend, don't ask Ron to go with you. He needs to be with his family right now. If you need help, or if you don't want to be there alone, then I'll come with you."

"No, that's alright. Go have fun at the beach with your parents. I could use a bit of time to myself. The hard work won't hurt either. It'll be a good distraction."

She studies his face. "Are you okay?"

Harry rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah. I just don't want to hang around the castle this weekend. I got into the room of requirement."

"Oh, that's good then. Ron was worried we might have been some of the last to ever see the place… That it might've been too damaged to re-materialize. Be a shame for Hogwarts to be without the room of requirement in the future, wouldn't it?"

"At present nobody would want to go in there, trust me. The place reeks of fire and I found Crabbe's body… or what was left of it."

Hermione covers her mouth with both hands. "Oh God, Harry. No wonder you want a break from Hogwarts."

"Yeah, Sprout is going to notify his family. They've been looking for him. Not really eager to be there when they show up."

"Didn't you tell me you saw his father with the death eaters?"

"Yep."

"I don't blame you for not wanting to be there." She touches his arm with affection. "I'll go and fetch the tent. Later today… or tomorrow… make a trip to Diagon Alley. Look for a shoppe called Outbound Wizard. It's about three blocks down from Quality Quidditch Supplies. They sell pretty much everything you might need for any outdoor activity, except for quidditch. You should be able to find a tent there. They have tiny little ones that are not much different from the muggle variety, all the way up to the grand affairs that might be as palatial as Malfoy Manor."

Harry chuckles. "I won't be needing anything that pompous. One somewhere between the two should be fine for me."

"Harry, I really am sorry about Crabbe. I held on as long as I could."

When guilt flutters across her face and takes up residence, Harry places his hands on her shoulders. "Hey, no! Don't you let that thought into your head Hermione. If you'd held on any longer, he might have unseated you. We might have lost you. He started that fire, not us. It's his own fault he's dead. Not yours. We did the best we could for him, and we barely got out alive. We have nothing to apologize for!" Harry waits for her to nod, and when she finally does, he hugs her tightly and whispers into her hair. "Remember, we didn't start that fight… We finished it."

She holds onto him for a long moment before nodding again and stepping away. "I'll go get the tent for you."

Minerva shakes hands with Terry Briard. "I'll be back. Wednesday morning 10:00 AM." She nods appreciatively in Newt Scamander's direction. "Thank you for all your help. I'll be in touch, and I'll see you next term if not before." Just before stepping off the farmhouse's front porch, she walks to the railing and smiles at the gray, but healthy featherless young phoenix tucked protectively beneath her father's wing. Stroking his chest in farewell, she whispers, "Well done, Fawkes. She's magnificent. Albus would be tickled pink."

Marie Briard frowns with concern. "I thought Baby Violet was going with you. You aren't taking her?"

Minerva shakes her head. "She's well now. As long as she's healthy, she's not mine to take. Her parents are here now too. They know how to look after her. Don't be disappointed if they leave as soon as she's capable of flight. It seems clear that her mother only left to bring Fawkes back to her, but he doesn't want to be here without Albus, and we have no right to try and make him stay. Phoenix choose their own path."

Terrence squeezes his wife's shoulders with affection. "I know you love 'er, sweet'eart, but if she chooses to go zen, we'll 'ave to let 'er. If we try and force zem to stay, we are no better zan zat Snape."

"Big Red doesn't want to be here?"

McGonagall smiles patiently. "His name is Fawkes, and no, he doesn't. He came back because his child needed help but being here without his friend makes him sad."

Marie eyes the big red bird with circumspect before nodding. "He's a good dad then."

"He's excellent. She's a very lucky little African Violet."

"Like the flower?"

Newt nods. "Phoenix are only indigenous to Africa and some very exclusive parts of Egypt."

Marie looks around curiously, tipping her chin toward the sky. "Mama bird is gone again."

Newt smiles reassuringly. "Don't let that trouble you. All of us standing around out here would've only made her nervous. She's not as trusting of humans as Fawkes was taught to be. Given her unusual color, beautiful as she is, I imagine she's been treated very badly by someone. Besides, she likely went to gather breakfast for her girl. She'll be back, with a beak full of leafy greens… probably as soon as we all clear off. I think it will be safe for you to watch from afar if you like, but I would recommend you keep your distance. Get too close to her young one, and she's likely to do you serious harm."

Marie shakes her head emphatically. "I won't hurt Violet."

"I know that ma'am, but she doesn't. Think how you would feel if a stranger got to close to your baby girl. To her, that's who you are. A stranger. And she's Mum. Protecting that baby from strangers is her job. And Violet is the first tender-age phoenix I've seen in decades who wasn't hatched on a reserve. So, give Mum and Dad their space and forgive them if they seem a little overzealous when protecting their girl."

Marie nods and Terry squeezes his wife's shoulder again as he waves goodbye. "Safe travels. We'll see you Wednesday, Professor."

By 2:30 PM the fourth-floor cafeteria at Saint Vincent's Hospital in Inverness is done with the lunch rush and very few tables are occupied by patients or their family members. After returning to the castle for a quick shower and a change into muggle attire, Minerva steps into the vast room and ignores the mingling scents of microwaved food, burnt coffee, and hospital antiseptic as she searches for a familiar tired face.

Spotting her daughter at a corner table near the farthest exit, she quickly pays for a cup of lukewarm tea at the register and then crosses the room unnoticed until the fingertips of her outstretched hand are ¼ inch away from touching the girl's shoulder. That's when Logan looks up wearing an all too familiar facial expression that is an intriguing mix of both expectation and surprise because, although Logan had empathically sensed, and correctly identified Minerva the instant before she felt her touch, she'd had no reason to anticipate her visit.

Smiling, she puts down her salad fork and dog-ears a page in the book she's reading to mark her place before closing it. "Minna? What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you." Minerva helps herself to a chair.

"Okay. Why? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. I brought you a present."

Logan raises an eyebrow. "It's not my birthday. It's not even Christmas."

"No. This couldn't wait. It's too good to hold onto waiting for a birthday or Christmas."

Logan is quiet for a long introspective moment before sighing and admitting, "If it was anybody else but you or Grandda I would already know what it is."

Minerva shrugs, waiting for Logan's rising impatience to get the better of her.

She's neither disappointed nor surprised when, after scarcely more than another three seconds, Logan demands, "Well, since you came all the way out here unexpectedly, and it's too good to wait for Christmas or my birthday… Gimme!"

Chuckling softly, Minerva removes a small manila envelope from her handbag and slides it across the table.

Logan releases the clasp on the envelope with exaggerated care and applies a slight pressure to either side of the envelope, causing the mouth to open wide so she can peer inside at what is unmistakably a three by five photograph. Unfortunately, it's facing the wrong direction inside the envelope, and she has no idea what image it holds until she pulls it free and turns it over in her hands, whereupon a warm smile instantly graces her face and brings light to her eyes. "Where did you find this?"

"At La Ruche… Last night."

Logan doesn't bother to tear her eyes away from the photograph as she asks, "What were you doing there?"

"Cleaning the place up. Somebody neglected to close the floo network connection between the school and the farmhouse. It seems Professor Snape was travelling back and forth between the two."

Logan scowls. "Why?"

"Looks like he'd taken up residence. He misled Terry into believing that he had Aberforth's permission to do so."

Logan shivers with obvious revulsion. "Creep! I hope you fixed it so nobody else can do that, Minna!"

"I did. Then I cleaned house and got rid of all the things Severus left behind. I found the photograph taped to the back of the pantry door. You know how Albus was with treasured photographs. He liked to tuck them away in unusual places so that when he came across them, they'd catch him by surprise."

"He said it was a shame that so many people stick their favorite photographs inside albums that set on shelves and collect dust for years at a time before anybody pulls them out to look at them. He'd forget which pictures he put where, and then he'd open a drawer or a cupboard and suddenly he'd have the biggest smile on his face. I got used to it. I always knew when he'd accidentally stumbled across a picture of someone he loved." When Logan looks up from the photograph, unshed, but happy tears are pooled, waiting to spill from her eyes. "He stuck this to the back of the pantry door… In his kitchen?"

Minerva nods. "That's where I found it."

Logan presses the photograph gently to her chest and snatches a paper napkin from the metal dispenser on the table and presses it roughly to her welling eyes. "Oh god! I miss him. I didn't even know he had this one. Who took it? You? Or maybe Phin?"

"I think it was your grandmother. It was taken before Phin and I married. You were seven. It would've been 1979. Your grandfather had just bought himself that new camera, only to have your grandmother take a liking to it and claim it for her own like she did every other camera he bought. He complained that he bought the thing so he could take pictures with it, but…"

Logan laughs. "I remember this. Every time he picked it up, it had no film in it, because Nonna had already burned up the entire roll taking pictures of anything and everything. He'd get so cross with her, and then stomp around the manse huffing and puffing until she went out and bought him more film. He would develop ten rolls at a time, and then complain because she wasn't a very good photographer, and she took pictures of the strangest things… Like that old dead tree in the backyard, before Grandda had it removed. Some of the roots were visible above ground, and for some reason she took multiple pictures of a huge knothole in one of those gnarly old roots. Grandda was furious to discover that he'd paid good money to have a dozen pictures of a knothole developed."

Minerva presses her lips together tightly before saying, "You remember how sentimental she was, but you won't remember why she took a dozen pictures of that knothole."

Logan searches her memory briefly but shrugs and shakes her head apologetically. "I have no clue. All I remember is the sour look on Grandda's face every time he came across one of the pictures."

"It was the early summer of 1974… A few months before your second birthday. That knothole was huge and every time it rained; the thing would fill with several inches of rainwater. It was wide enough, and deep enough for a toddler to stand in. It was hot that summer, miserably so. One evening, your grandmother turned on the lawn sprinklers, stripped you down to your undergarments and sent you out into the backyard to play. The knothole filled with water, and you had the time of your life jumping up and down in the puddle. In under 30 seconds you were soaked head to toe, covered in mud, and laughing like a loon. You played for hours. When it got dark, we had to turn off the water and force you to come inside. Seeing you that exuberant over something so simple… It made your grandmother happy. A few years later the tree got sick and died despite her best efforts to save it. Your grandfather announced that it had to come down, and she pleaded with him to leave it where it was. He did… for a while… until storm season approached. The tree was too close to the house, and he knew that one good gust of wind would send it crashing through an upstairs window or the roof. He had the tree removed, much to your grandmother's displeasure, but not before she took a dozen pictures of her precious knothole."

Logan laughs freely. "If she could attach an emotion to anything, she kept it forever, didn't she?"

"Without a doubt. Your grandfather called her the family's emotional pack rat. Somewhere in the attic there's an old box of crayon drawings from when your uncles and I were children. They are really nothing more than just scribbles, but she kept them… every single one. And I remember him cleaning the attic one winter. I must've been in my twenties by then. I remember her shouting, 'Robert McGonagall, don't you dare throw those in the rubbish bin! My babies drew those!' I'm not kidding, they were literally just scribbles, but the way she carried on, you would've thought our last name was Monet."

Logan giggles. "Well, not every photograph she took was odd or emotionally obscure. She turns the nearly 20-year-old photograph that is still pressed lovingly to her chest around, putting it on display. The image it bears is one of herself in pigtails and roller skates with a gap in her smile courtesy of a missing front tooth and two noticeably skinned up knees while nestled happily in Albus Dumbledore's lap on a wooden bench at an indoor roller rink. "I thought those skates were the best thing in this world, and he gave them to me! I still have them. No hope they'll ever fit again, but I cannot throw them away."

"Don't. Maybe someday you'll have someone to pass them down to."

Logan catches Minerva completely by surprise when she shrugs, but says hopefully, "Maybe."

She raises an eyebrow sharply. "That's the first time I've ever alluded to the possibility of you having a child, and you haven't laughed it off, shoved it away, or ignored it completely."

Logan shrugs again and says simply, "We'll have to wait and see."

"What's changed?"

"Maybe nothing."

"But you've at least considered the possibility?"

"It's way too early to be thinking about having kids. It's too early to even be considering a standing date night…"

"But?"

Logan bites down on the inside of her lower lip and jiggles the photograph. I'll make a copy of this and get it to you."

"I've already made a copy. Don't change the subject. Tell me what's going on with you."

"I don't wanna talk about it. I don't wanna jinx it."

"You won't. It doesn't work that way."

Logan inhales noisily. "I love her, but I can't talk to my friend Vivienne about this yet. If I try, she'll just go all boy-crazy on me. Any time a single woman mentions even the slightest interest in a guy… Her brain goes straight to sex and camps there. She likes to tease me, which would be okay except she's really juvenile about it sometimes. She overwhelms me when it comes to men. I say one word to her about him and…" Logan lowers her voice to a more discreet level. "her mind jumps straight to multiple orgasms; meanwhile I'm still daydreaming about the thrill of holding his hand."

Minerva shrugs. "Easily remedied. Don't talk to Vivienne about it until you feel ready for… such discussions."

Logan smirks with the effort of making up her mind. "That guy… The auror trying to arrest the dealer… Talbot Winger. He came by the hospital yesterday. I think just to check on the patient, but I'd just taken the kid off life support. He found me hiding out in the stairwell. He didn't get all nervous and fidgety the way most men do, because they can't stand to see a woman cry. He just sat there. He didn't say anything useless or trite. He didn't make an excuse and run away. He didn't trip over himself trying to fix something that he had no hope of fixing. He bought me pie and coffee. It was lousy hospital coffee but…"

"But you like him?"

"Maybe. Jury's still out. He's quiet. Doesn't say a lot. Mostly, I like his quiet head. I barely got a read off him. Usually, guys who don't talk much have very unquiet minds. There's a lot that goes on below the surface that most people know nothing about. Their mouths may be quiet, but inside their minds, they are usually screaming. And it's a good bet that I don't want to hear most of what their screaming about. Not this Winger guy. For a change, I have no idea what he thinks of me. Usually, I know within the first 10 minutes exactly what a guy feels, and I usually don't care for most of it. Minna, I talked to him for nearly 45 minutes yesterday and the only time I registered any emotion at all was when he mentioned his little girl. He went from emotionally flat-lined, to an all-consuming tidal wave with the mere mention of her name. It took my breath away."

"I didn't know he had a child."

"One he lives for. He didn't say much about her. He didn't have to. If I hadn't been sitting down, he would've brought me to my knees. I can't put into words how nice it was to sit across a table from somebody and not feel anything coming from him except for love… pure, unabashed, unapologetic, fearless love."

"Sounds like he might be good for you."

"At the very least, maybe he'll be peaceful. When he stopped talking about his daughter, he reigned himself back in and I got nothing else from him. At least not empathically. I wouldn't even know that he likes me except, he asked me out."

"And, are you going to go?"

Logan nods. "I said I would. For the first time in… I don't even know how long… I'm looking forward to it."

"He has known loss. Known it very deeply. When he was my student, he carried a lot of pain in those silent depths."

"Well, if he still carries it, he's figured out how to manage it, because I didn't feel it."

"Maybe you won't feel it until when, or if, he decides to tell you about it."

"That would be amazing. It's hard enough to sort out my own feelings without having to wade through everybody else's first… but do I really want to date an auror… somebody who's always dashing into the fray. People who do that tend to get hurt frequently. More than a few of them get dead."

Minerva inhales deeply. "First, stop that! You haven't even been out to dinner yet and you're already looking for a reason to call it quits. Second, no matter what job we hold, eventually all of us are going to… 'get dead.' We must love people while they are here, Logan. Once they are gone, it's too late. Give him a chance. Give yourself a chance. There could be 20 reasons it won't work, other than his job. There might be 100 reasons it works perfectly. You will never know if you don't try."

"I want to. It's just scary."

"Oh, it's terrifying, I know but…"

Logan smirks and offers her an accusatory glance. "You couldn't even bring yourself to accept Dougal McGregor's proposal."

"No. I couldn't, and I spent the better part of the next 25 years clinging to the memory of a young man who couldn't understand my refusal. He was angry and disappointed, but he moved on, eventually married someone else, had children, and died. Even though I made the decision that was best for me, when he died, the way he died, I tormented myself with the thought that if I had been there, I might have prevented his death. But the truth is I can't know that. He got married. He had four children. I can only assume he was happy, and if he was, I wouldn't have wanted to take that from him. I made Elphinstone wait all those years. I finally decided to stop saying no. We had three years. I went off to the market one Sunday afternoon because I wanted unsalted butter. He bought the wrong kind, and I was annoyed with him. I came home to find him dead on the greenhouse floor, bitten by some ridiculous poisonous plant. Those three years were some of the best of my life, but the time we could've had if I'd simply gotten out of my own way. So, I'm telling you… don't rush into anything… but don't say no simply because you're scared it won't work. I'm sure it would be easier for you, but I don't think you truly want to be alone Logan."

"Do you? Or are you on the verge of making the same mistake all over again?"

Minerva starts to speak, changes her mind, presses her lips together tightly and then finally admits, "That's a fair question."

Logan nods. "And the answer?"

"I'm not certain."

"Have you even talked to him since you kissed him three weeks ago?"

"Several times."

"Really? Anymore kissing?"

"No. But he is going to teach me the sail."

"So, you have the opportunity to spend time with him?"

"I do."

"So, we both feel like we're working without a net."

Minerva raises an eyebrow. "A net?"

"I'll step out on the high wire if you will. Maybe we'll pull off a McGonagall hat trick."

"Isn't it customary for there to be three successes of a similar kind before it's considered a hat trick?"

"You, me, and Grandda. He called me last night. Mrs. Fairley turned up on his doorstep. They didn't specifically talk about how they're going to cope with her keeping the big family secret… but she misses him."

Minerva snorts quietly. "Still, I don't think mothers and daughters usually do this sort of thing in tandem. It's not normal."

"Well, who cares about that? From day one, what, about our relationship, has ever been normal?"

Minerva stands up and pushes her chair in.

"You're leaving?"

"I've got to go back to work, and so do you." She kisses the top of Logan's head. "Have fun on your date."

Logan gathers up her lunch tray and calls over her shoulder just as Minerva is stepping through the nearest door, leaving the cafeteria, "You should try making one yourself."

Friday night, Harry sleeps in Bill Weasley's borrowed tent. Late Saturday morning, he rises and decides that the first order of business is to find a coffee shop or diner where he can order a proper breakfast. Sliding an egg, sausage, and tomato between two slices of buttered toast, he munches while he scribbles a quick shopping list. He orders a second extra tall cappuccino to go and sets out for Diagon Alley. After making a withdrawal from his vault at Gringott's, he visits the apothecary shop for potion ingredients and the largest vat of Mrs. Scour's Magical Mess Remover that he can find. Briefly, he window-shops outside the Owl Emporium, but it only serves to make him lonesome for Hedwig so, he gives it up. He doesn't really need a new owl… yet. Then he drops in at The Outbound Wizard as the Hermione suggested, where he spends the better part of two hours choosing and purchasing a tent of his own. When that's finally done, he apperates to Godric's Hollow, finds a deli in the town square, where he purchases a couple of ham and chicken sandwiches, two bags of crisps, and a half dozen bottles of water. At the cottage, he dismantles Bill's tent with the flick of his wand and stakes his own tent in its place in the rear garden.

Standing in the entryway, he tries to survey his collapsible domicile objectively. He wanted something serviceable, and he has it. All his basic needs are met. He has shelter from the elements, a full bathroom, and a comfortable place to sleep. In fact, with one full-size bed, and two sets of bunk beds, plus some overstuffed living room furniture, he has more than enough room to accommodate his two best friends should the trio experience an inexplicable desire to go on an extended camping trip ever again. He doubts they will, but at least they have the option and, if they decide to, they can do it without borrowing their living quarters from anyone else. The tent even has a couple of ceiling fans and a radiator for air conditioning. It has no glittering chandelier overhead, but several nice wall sconces instead. There are two large chests of drawers and a tidy little walk-in closet big enough to hold all his clothing and personal possessions, which he takes an hour to tuck away properly, along with his emptied-out school trunk and all his quidditch supplies. Best of all, his new place came odor-free, comfortable outdoor living, minus the smell of cat urine. It had all cost a little bit more than Harry was initially willing to pay, but looking at it fully assembled, he declares it to be money well spent – a comfortable wizard's tent that is neither sparse, nor lavish. If he learned to cook over a campfire, he could not only survive in such quarters, but maybe even be content. Draco Malfoy would consider such modest accommodations worthy of only the homeless.

The thought makes him laugh as he steps into the tent and flops down, stretching out in the center of the first double bed he's ever owned. He laces his fingers behind his head and stares up to the domed ceiling. Technically, he supposes he is homeless – at least temporarily – but the living space inside his new tent is easily 30 times bigger than the cupboard under the stairs at 4 Privet Drive. There is no cat flap in the door for Aunt Petunia to shove cold canned soup through while denying him even the most basic of human contact. No one can lock him in, or out. It's all his, and unlike Hogwarts, no one can force him to leave, come 30 June every year. He even bought a new leather backpack that he'd already subjected to an undetectable extension charm. At the end of the weekend, or any other time he chose, he could simply fold up the tent, with everything he owned still inside, jam the whole lot of it into his new bag, sling it over his shoulder, and he'd be ready for travel. He turns his head to the left and peers out through the open tent flap at the back door of his parents' derelict cottage. Soon, he'd have a more permanent address. Maybe then he'll feel up to buying a new owl. For now, he's not hiding from anyone, and none of Voldemort's henchmen are scouring the countryside looking for him. Life could most definitely be worse. He drinks a bottle of water and decides it's time to get to work.

Using Snape's old potions textbook to brew the strongest batch of doxicide that he's ever personally concocted, he enters the cottage, opens all the doors and windows, and gives the entire house a second treatment since the batch made on his first visit had been dismally weak. On the top shelf inside the kitchen pantry, he finds an old caddy of seriously out-of-date cleaning supplies and some dust clothes. It takes him nearly four hours even with a wand, but Harry scrubs every surface on the ground floor of the cottage with an absolute vengeance, including the floors and the walls. He chases out any and all remaining forms of vermin, repairs several broken or cracked windows, strips the root cellar down to its bare bones including concrete flooring, and the studs in the walls. While shopping earlier, he had bought ten extra-large bags of charcoal, and once in the house, he used a spell to multiply them. He left copious amounts of the stuff in the root cellar, in every closet, cupboard, or crawl space he could find. Between that and the fresh citrus smell of Mrs. Scour's all all-purpose cleaner, he hopes the place will smell 100 times better by tomorrow evening when it's time to batten down the hatches again.

Deciding on a break before daring to venture back upstairs to his old nursery, he wipes his right forearm across his sweaty brow, retrieves his backpack from the tent, and settles on the top step at the cottage's back door, ready for a much-needed sandwich. Hungrier than he realized, he inhales 1 ½ sandwiches, a bag of crisps, and three bottles of water. He's just about to help himself to the remaining half a sandwich when he looks up and realizes that he's being watched.

Halfway across the garden, peeking out from behind a large dark green clay pot filled with the remains of some unrecognizable plant that died a long time ago, a young sleek black cat with a single jagged orange stripe of fur running diagonally across its face stares at Harry through alarmingly green eyes.

Making a conscious effort to be still, so as not to frighten the cat, Harry says softly. "Hello."

The cat continues to stare.

"I'm Harry. I live here or… I will soon." He lifts the sandwich from the wax paper spread across his knees and watches the cat's gaze follow it to his mouth. Stopping just short of taking a bite, he asks, "Are you hungry?" He holds out the wedge of sandwich. "Sorry, fresh out of tuna, but I'll share what I have."

The cat sniffs at the air and takes two steps forward before pausing to sit and study Harry a bit longer.

"It's alright. You can come closer. I like cats."

The cat tilts its head to one side.

Harry lowers the wax paper to the bottom step and opens the sandwich, laying the bread flat, so that its contents are exposed. Then, he helps himself to the second bag of crisps and sits enjoying the sun's rays as he pretends to ignore the cat. It takes about 15 minutes for the cat to get brave enough to come all the way to the porch step to inspect the offering. Whereupon, the cat snatches its first bite and runs away with it, only to return for a second tentative bite before deciding to relinquish fear and tuck in.

Harry watches the cat eat without comment until the cat loses interest in the sandwich and grows bold enough to approach and stick its delicate nose inside Harry's bag of crisps in search of another tasty morsel. Harry moves the bag, palms a crisp, and offers it to the cat. The cat's nose investigates, and then the cat uses its paw to swat the crisp out of his hand and away to the ground.

Harry chuckles softly. "I guess that means 'no thank you." He glances at the remains of the sandwich. "And, you only like the chicken, not the ham. I bet you're thirsty too." He glances through the open back door of the cottage. "Come on. Let's go to the kitchen and see if we can find you a bowl. I bet we can. My mum and dad had a cat when they lived here."

When he stands up, the cat scampers several feet away but continues to watch him curiously.

Glancing over his shoulder, Harry pats his thigh as he walks into the kitchen and starts opening cupboard doors. "Don't be shy. Come on in, cat."

Teacups and saucers, mugs, plates, bowls; all of it thickly laden with dust. Harry keeps opening doors in search of something other than china. When he stirs up enough of the dust to induce a sneezing fit, he pauses long enough to pull out his wand. Stepping into the middle of the kitchen, he opens all the cupboard doors at once, turns a slow circle and, aiming for the cabinetry, he freshens the dishes where they sit rather than pull them all out to be washed one at a time. Idly, he wonders if it's possible to vanish dust from an entire house all at once. He makes a mental note to ask Mrs. Weasley the next time he sees her. If anyone would know how it's done, it will be her. Her house may be bursting at the seams with people, but Harry can't recall ever seeing so much as a speck of dust anywhere in the burrow. He closes cupboard doors two at a time until he's standing directly in front of the antique stove. In the smallest cupboard, above the range hood, he spies a couple of small stainless-steel dishes with decorative black paw prints stenciled on the sides. Lowering both to the countertop, he waves his wand and closes the rest of the cupboard doors before inspecting his find more closely. Placing both bowls in the kitchen sink, he shoots several healthy jets of water into the bowls and rinses each one thoroughly. Aside from paw prints, Harry smiles when he realizes that each bowl is stenciled with the word 'Pumpkin.'

Intriguing name for a cat.

Harry searches the darkest recesses of his memory, but try as he might, he can't conjure up even a scrap of memory regarding his family's pet. He only knows the cat existed because of a single sentence in a letter to Sirius, in which his mother had briefly referred to the cat. The gist of her message was, 'Thank you for the toy broom. Harry loves it. He nearly killed the cat!'

Smiling to himself, Harry shrugs and turns his attention back to the cat who now hovers just the other side of the open back door. "Maybe the cat was orange. That might explain the name."

He returns one bowl to the countertop and points his wand, once again filling the bowl with fresh clean water. Carrying the bowl out onto the stoop, he lowers it to the bottom step as he reclaims his former place, and his bag of crisps. This time, it only takes a few cautious seconds before the cat joins him on the stoop and is lapping noisily at the dish of fresh water. The bowl is nearly empty before the cat stops drinking, surrenders once again to her curiosity, and resumes staring at Harry.

"I don't have anything else to eat just now. You can eat the rest of the sandwich, or you can wait until I go out for supper. I'll bring you something back." He eyes the cat speculatively. "I don't see a collar. That either means you don't have an owner, or that the owner you did have, didn't look after you properly. You can stay if you like. I'll get you some proper food. I bought some mousetraps with me today, but you'll do a better job of keeping mice away, and then I wouldn't have to clean the traps. What do you think? Do we have a deal? You keep the mice away, and I'll give you all the food and clean water you can hold."

The cat blinks.

"If you're going to stay, you'll have to have a name. You're not orange, but you do have that nice, crooked orange slash of fir across your face. What do you say? Would you like to be Pumpkin, II?"

The cat lays down on the step at Harry's feet and closes its eyes.

Taking this as an acceptance of his offer, Harry nods. "Good enough. Welcome home, Pumpkin."

Harry finishes his bag of crisps and the last of his bottle of water. When he rises to his feet, his new cat opens its sleepy eyes curiously.

"Come in the house whenever you like. I have work to do upstairs."

Even relying heavily on magic, It takes him the better part of another two hours to clean the three rooms that make up the second floor of the cozy little house. Because a significant portion of the roof is missing, everything is covered in a revolting combination of mildew and mold, not to mention, infested with insects. Harry vanishes nearly everything his parents had once possessed on the second floor, including the mattress on their bed along with all the bed linens. Once the master bedroom and bathroom are as clean as he can possibly make them, he squares his shoulders, inhales deeply, steps across the hall and over the threshold into the room that had once been his.

Tempted to vanish literally everything rotting inside the destroyed room, he pauses long enough to stare up at the gaping hole in the roof and realizes that it will do no good to clean the place if he doesn't first close the massive opening overhead. He tries several times to use a mending spell, and although the massive hole in the roof does become smaller, it will not close completely. After a few more attempts, he decides to at least vanish all the leaves, dirt, fungus, and other detritus from the room; lest he stay in here too long breathing in something that could very well be toxic. Then, he smirks at the thought. He's already been here for hours. For all he knows, the whole house could've been toxic when he arrived. However, given that this is a second visit, and he's yet to be rendered unconscious, it seems unlikely that all the grime and grit will prove to be fatal, but he can't help but chuckle at the irony of the thought.

Voldemort couldn't kill me, but what he did to my parents' house just might.

Satisfied that the worst of the filth has been dealt with, he turns, pointing his wand at the bedroom door that sags dejectedly from only one hinge. Intent on fixing the damage, he steps back, startled to find Ginny watching him from the doorway, his new cat cradled in her arms.

"Hi." He says breathlessly, and not at all certain why he's whispering, but his stomach does a happy little flip flop when she smiles and whispers back to him.

"Hi."

Harry grins. "You're here."

"I'm here."

"Why?"

"Because you're here… and I want to talk to you."

"Oh. Okay. What's up?"

"You tell me. What gives Harry?"

He squints. "I'm not sure what you…"

"Save it! Look, I know why you broke up with me last year. You were trying to protect me. I understood that completely, but Voldemort's gone now and most of his evil little toads are in prison. If they're not, they soon will be. For the last three weeks, you've been warm, you've been friendly, you occasionally hold my hand, and we're fine as long as we don't talk about anything that matters. I'm confused. Are we getting back together, or aren't we?"

Harry can't help it. He chuckles. Which, of course, Ginny completely misreads, and then glares at him with flaming hostility.

"You don't have to laugh at me. If you don't want me back just say so."

"Ginny, I'm not laughing at you. I promise. I'm laughing at myself."

"Why?"

"Because… I'm an idiot."

"Why are you an idiot?"

"Because I have no idea how to do this. I've been avoiding this conversation because…" Harry closes his mouth, thinks it over, and then blurts, "because I was afraid you might not want me back, and I didn't want to hear you say that."

"Why wouldn't I want you back Harry?"

He shrugs. "Maybe because I broke up with you, or maybe because I have no idea what you've been doing for the last year. You could be with somebody else, for all I know. Because Fred's gone. Because I was a freaking living horcrux. Don't think I don't know how creepy that is. A part of Voldemort attached itself to me. I wouldn't blame you if you never wanted to get near me again, much less touch me."

"You're right. You are an idiot."

Harry nods. "That too."

"Let's clear up a couple of things. Number one, you were trying to protect me. I didn't like it, but I understood it. Number two, I'm not seeing anyone. I haven't all year long. I could tell you that it's because Hogwarts was not a nice place to be for the last year and because simply being there sapped all my energy. That would be true enough, but it's also true that I didn't see anyone else because I didn't want anyone else. Last year's Yule Ball was a somber affair. I went with Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnegan, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Lavender Brown. We all went as a group because none of us had dates, and none of us could muster up the enthusiasm necessary to go find a date. The Christmas spirit was DOA. I think we all stayed for less than half an hour. Three, my brother being gone is not your fault. He chose to fight, just the same as I did. The same as we all did. If he had it to do over again, he wouldn't do a damn thing differently. Last, Voldemort literally tried to take over my body five years ago. He almost succeeded. He was in my head too, Harry. Maybe not exactly the same as he was in yours, but you never let that stop you being with me. You never acted like I was dirty or contaminated. What in the world makes you think I would treat you that way now? If you think that, you're just plain stupid, Harry Potter!"

"So, you're not mad at me… About anything?"

"Not as long as you quit treating me like I'm your little sister. Keep that up and I'm going to murder you. But…" She raises an eyebrow. "If you wanna stop doing that…"

Harry grins. "Okay."

Ginny chuckles. "Okay… Only… I am not kissing you right now. Harry, you're filthy… and you smell."

"I know. You think it's bad now, you should've seen it when I got here last night. The place was disgusting."

"Well, you'll never be able to keep it clean until you close the hole in the roof."

"I know. It won't close."

"Of course, it won't close. That's a rebound from…" Ginny inhales deeply, lowers the cat's feet gently to the floor, takes out her own wand, and promptly vanishes the entire roof. "There's no fixing that, Harry. You'll have to conjure a new roof."

"It's gonna take me some time to figure out how to do that, Ginny."

Ginny turns her gaze to the sky above. For a moment, she chews thoughtfully on the inside of her lower lip, then she lifts her wand and slowly walks the perimeter of the room, magically attaching a new roof over the nursery before she steps out into the upstairs hallway and continues her work. A few minutes later, when light from the setting sun no longer streams in from directly overhead, she turns to Harry who has been following along, watching her progress, and says, "Go outside. Tell me if the roof is similar to what was here before."

Harry doesn't move. He simply stares at her in amazement. "How did you do that?"

"What? Put a roof on a house? That's easy."

"Easy?"

Ginny shrugs. "Sure. Easy. Being the youngest, I wasn't around for most of the renovating that went on inside the burrow, but Bill said when Mum and Dad closed on the house a few weeks before their wedding, it wasn't anything more than a two-room shack… Just one big room for the kitchen and living room, and a tiny bedroom. There wasn't even a bathroom. Originally, there was an outhouse on the property. Mum got Uncle Fabian to help Dad put a proper bathroom in, because they got married the week before Christmas and Mum declared that she could handle living in two rooms, but there was no way she was going to go out at night in four-foot snowdrifts to get to the outhouse. Bill came along before their first anniversary, and with every new baby, the burrow got bigger. Most of the expanding was done before I was even born, but things break down and have to be repaired. Dad lets me help. He's not nearly as good at tinkering with muggle artifacts as he thinks he is, but he does know how to keep a roof over our heads."

"Let me get cleaned up, and then I'll take you out for dinner."

"You're going to take me out for dinner?"

"About time I did, don't you think?"

Ginny smiles. "I'm certainly not going to try to discourage you. However, I do have a question. The lamps in this house run on gas jets. Have you turned on the water or the gas yet?"

"I haven't figured that out yet either. I'm sort of taking it as it comes."

She nods. So, the cottage has no running water or gas to heat said water, much less gas to provide you with light after dark?"

"Not yet."

"And… how exactly are you going to get cleaned up? Because trust me… you need more than a simple freshening spell. You need a full-on bathhouse dunking!"

Harry laughs. "Come on. I'll show you my new collapsible flat."