The Secret Keeper

by 1 Jagged Outlaw Queen

A story about Harry Potter, and his chosen secret keeper.

5. Ante Reparandam

Ante Reprarandam

Motioning for McKinnon's ad hoc team to gather round, McGonagall commands, "With me, ladies and gentlemen."

Katy Bell shakes her head in obvious doubt. "Professor, I don't think any one of us is going to be able to fix this on our own. I mean, what a mess!"

"That's why no one is going to do it alone. We're going to do it together as a team, the same way you've done everything else today. Spread out. Make a circle around the collapse. Holding hands with the people closest to you or take the arm or elbow of your neighbor's wand hand."

She takes Harry's left hand in her right, and Kingsley Shacklebolt steps up beside her, taking her left elbow as she continues. "Don't break the circle. Keep contact with the people nearest you. We're going to cast as one, with Mr. Potter leading the way." She nods to him in silent communication that he understands and trades his wand made of holly for the elder wand in the pocket of his robe. "Everyone… Hardhats on, ear plugs in, wands aloft, and…"

She gestures for McKinnon to back up and stand clear when she notices his approach.

"Mr. Potter, when you're ready, the incantation is 'Castelleum Reparandam."

Nodding to the others, Harry enunciates clearly.

The floor, the walls, the ceiling, the castle itself seems to shudder and groan in protest, like a feeble old woman who has no desire to rise at the start of a new day. She has seen too much of life and simply wants to be left to languish in peace.

Feeling this resistance, McGonagall almost smiles. Not at all surprised when, beside her, Harry mutters barely under his breath, "C'mon girl, don't you quit on us now. You're young yet. We'll put you right again. You just help us out and you'll still be standing long after I'm dust."

A few feet from his left, Hermione whispers, "Harry, who are you talking to?"

Harry shrugs. "The castle."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Harry, it is not a living thing."

Wholly undeterred, Harry grins and fires back, "Says you."

Chuckling, Dean Thomas concurs with Harry. "Yeah, Hermione, don't insult her. She's already feeling a bit churlish."

Luna adds, "You would be too if you'd been blown half to bits. Try giving her some love instead."

Hermione is ½ breath away from smirking when the jet of dazzling cobalt blue light flowing from the tip of Harry's extended wand goes a brilliant blinding white and begins to saturate the room. As the floor underfoot begins to quake with volatility, the horrible sound of the colossal mound of stone breaking apart into hundreds of pieces permeates the air.

Realizing that Harry must've followed Luna's advice, Dean and Katie turn to each other and shrug, willing to give it a go.

Long moments later, when they've all decided to follow suit, including Hermione, the stone finally stops breaking apart and the unbearable noise fades away, much to the relief of their ears, and various types of stone begin to rise and swirl gently into the air; each piece returning itself to its former place. Cracked walls mend, as do the blighted portraits that hang upon them. Broken walls sconces set themselves to rights, and light flickers into existence where previously there had been none. Marble columns rise. Draperies freshen themselves without being taken down and beaten into submission, and the glass that had erupted from the open windows settles back into place; whole and unblemished. The last things to be restored are the hole in the middle of the fifth floor, a crumbled statue, and the splintered door that hangs slightly askew at the east entrance; half off its hinges.

McGonagall looks around the room, making certain that nothing else is amiss. She steps across the room and quietly retrieves the walking cane she had abandoned earlier. Turning to face them once again, she declares, "Good work, everyone. Well done. I suggest you all make your way onto the grounds and enjoy some fresh air. Turning and making eye contact with him, she admits, "Professor Flitwick, I need some downtime. As of this moment, you're in charge until otherwise notified."

The dwarf nods his understanding. "What would you like me to focus on?"

"Roping off the damaged or unsafe areas of the castle. Let the house elves know that people will be staying with us tonight. Dinner and breakfast for approximately - what, 100 people - will be required. "

"Best to say 200, I think. Better to over-prepare, than not have enough."

McGonagall nods in agreement before continuing, "Madame Pomphrey gets anything she asks for. I don't care what it is. Make yourself available to parents. Especially those of the children we've just rescued, or those who lost a child in the battle. Beyond that, Filius, don't let them burn the place down, and don't disturb me unless the place 'is' burning down."

"Understood Headmistress." Flitwick hurries away to see to his appointed rounds.

She turns her gaze to Kingsley Shacklebolt. "I presume you would like a word, Minister."

"Indeed. If you allow me to escort you to your office, I promise, I will make it quick, and then leave you to rest."

She motions for McKinnon to accompany them. "Gentlemen, right this way."

Moving slowly, she makes her way out into the corridor and down one of the few staircases left largely undamaged at this level.

On the way to her office, Shacklebolt asks, "How exactly did three junior students come to be trapped under that pile? Because it's only a matter of time before their parents go home and tell their neighbors about it, at which point they are going to be calling both you and me."

"I didn't witness the collapse. So, I'm afraid I can't yet answer that. Prior to this moment, I haven't really bothered asking questions. Getting them out was my first priority. Now that they are, and two of them are largely unharmed, I'll direct you to Filius. If you want to talk to the students themselves, I suggest speaking with Ripley Rivers. He's a bit calmer than Miss Cordelia Drakes. Magnus Thorne was not trapped with the three of them, but he returned to the castle last night with them or, to be more precise, the three of them returned with him. The boy sneaked back into the castle because he wanted to fight. His friends came in support. To be honest, I'm not certain how all four of them managed it. At present, there's only one hidden passage in or out of this castle. It's through the Hog's Head. I'm sure the last few nights were chaotic in Hogsmeade. I can see one or two of them slipping through unnoticed, but all four of them – they must've had impeccable timing."

"I'm not blaming you, or anyone else, Professor. I was a student here myself not too very long ago. I did a fair amount of my own sneaking about. Finding ways in and out of this castle undetected seemed to be something of a rite of passage; especially for the boys."

"I was a student here long before you were, Minister. I can tell you that the girls do just as much sneaking about as the boys, though usually for slightly different reasons."

"Oh?"

"There's an exception to every rule, but usually, with regard to junior students, the boys sneak around making mischief that is, for the most part, harmless. Other reasons might include a perceived slight to their sense of honor, or a desire to prove something, as was the case with the young Mr. Thorne and his friends. The younger girls, at least the few that I spent time with while I was attending school here, usually only resorted to sneaking about to avoid embarrassment - If they had a situation or a problem they didn't want their classmates to know about."

Shacklebolt grins and studies her profile with a curiously raised eyebrow. "Maybe it's wrong of me, Professor, but somehow I just can't picture you prowling about this castle late at night. Not as a girl. I know you did your fair share of reconnaissance for the Order but…"

"Just picture me obsessing over OWL's and falling asleep in the library late at night and then getting caught on my way back to the dormitories. Or slipping out to the pitch at midnight to practice quidditch without anyone watching me because I wasn't yet confident in my ability to flawlessly execute one maneuver or another, and I had to make sure that I nailed it before the next big match. Dumbledore caught me out of bed more times than I care to admit."

Shacklebolt laughs. "That's right! I forgot about that. He was the transfiguration teacher before you. You must have been introduced to him when you were quite young."

"I met Dumbledore at the age of 11. The same age a lot of children meet…" She clears her throat and corrects herself. "met Dumbledore."

Shacklebolt nods his understanding. "It's hard to think of him in the past tense." You two knew each other a lot longer than most of us think about. You must've been his star pupil."

Shifting focus away from herself, she turns it back on him. "Of course, when the students get a little older, the boys and girls start sneaking around together - as I'm sure you will recall."

"Oh, come on, Professor! You never sneaked out to the clock tower courtyard at 2:00 AM to meet a boy for a little harmless snogging? Not even once?"

She raises an eyebrow, making him feel like the student he used to be. "If I did, Mr. Shacklebolt, what makes you think I would tell you about it?"

"I wouldn't tell a soul."

"As you pointed out, I did my fair share of sleuthing for the Order. One thing I learned from all that slinking about is, 'Don't volunteer information unnecessarily.' Knowing when to close your mouth can save your life."

Arriving at her office on the first floor, Shacklebolt opens the door and waits for both she and McKinnon to pass through before stepping in and closing the door behind himself. "Fine, don't tell me."

"I won't." McGonagall assures as she steps around behind her desk with her left hand outstretched, reaching for the doorknob at the cloaked entrance to her private quarters the instant before it reveals itself. "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me for just two minutes..."

No sooner than she's over the threshold with the door soundly latched behind herself, McGonagall struggles, reaching around behind her back with her left arm, trying to release one of the patches of Velcro that effectively immobilizes her right shoulder. Giving in rather quickly, for the sake of expediency, she points her wand and whispers, "Relashio."

The sling falls away and she catches it, and leaves it hanging on the doorknob before she strips down to her shift with only the mere flick of her wand. She then relocates her soiled and discarded clothing to the laundry hamper inside her private lavatory. Stepping quickly beyond her sitting room, into the privacy of her small bedroom, she selects fresh attire from her armoire. Carrying it into the powder room, she hangs the ensemble on the conveniently placed hook on the back of the door, and steps to the mirror.

Taking in her battered and dirty appearance, she cringes. Longing for a proper bath, but knowing she hasn't the time at present, she uses a freshening spell to clear away all traces of dirt and grime, both from her body, and from the hem of her shift. Muttering only to herself, she queries, "How in the world did I manage to get this much dirt under two layers of clothing?"

Next, she touches the right side of her own rib cage with tentative fingers. Wincing at her own tender touch, she aims her wand again and says quietly, "Emendo Ossa."

Her broken ribs shift and grind together, clacking softly as they reconnect with a sharp flash of pain that steals away her next several breaths and leaves her staring at her own reflection in muted shock for several long seconds. After the mind-numbing stitch in her side begins to abate, or at least fade to a much more manageable degree, she pulls a fresh washcloth from the drawer in the vanity intent on soaking it with warm water from the tap but, when nothing happens, it reminds her that the water has been turned off. Using her wand, to add a little warm water to the cloth, she at least takes the moment necessary to properly wash her face and neck. Using another spell, she silently and quickly uncoils the knot of hair resting at the nape of her neck. Letting it fall to its full length, she magically whisks away any traces of dust, dirt, grime, or blood and then returns it to its previous style. With yet another wave of her wand, she dons the fresh clothing - a navy dress made of soft stretchy fabric that isn't too form-fitting and therefore will not restrict the movements of her bruised body in any way. Although it's one of her favorites, the dress is normally reserved for casual weekends when she doesn't spend time teaching or otherwise interacting with the students. She mends her tattered stockings before leaving the vanity to return to the armoire where she selects the shoes meant to accompany the dress. After stepping into them, she bypasses a sleeveless emerald-colored robe knowing that with her badly bruised face, her signature color will give her a sallow sickly pallor. Therefore, she chooses one in dark red and slips into it very slowly; trying not to move her right shoulder or twist at the waist any more than she absolutely must. From her jewelry box, she selects a simple braided gold oval pendant and, using her wand, she pins it into place over her heart before returning to the door and using 'Tergeo' to cleanse the shoulder sling before sliding halfway back into it as she steps back into her office.

Shocked as much by the speed she utilized, as he is by the unobstructed view of her now clean but obviously bruised face, McKinnon blinks. "How did ye dae that so fast?"

McGonagall jiggles her wand slightly before sliding it into the pocket of her robe.

He shakes his head. "I was married for 27 years. I've got four daughters, and seven granddaughters. That's 12 different women. Ah'm quite used tae waitin' on women tae dae whatever it is they dae when they tell me 'I jus need two minutes.' Nae one of the lasses can change her clothes that fast. Not even the one that does use a wand." He laughs. "Even me lad doesn't move that fast."

Approaching him, McGonagall ignores his comment and says instead, "A wee bit of help, if you don't mind. It's nearly impossible to fasten this sling properly when you're the one wearing it – even with the use of a wand. It traps my arm against my torso…" She demonstrates as she talks. "And prevents me from moving my shoulder."

"Aye, ah've seen them. We use the same kind. Whut did ye dae tae yerself, woman? Afore I couldnae see all the contusions on account'a aw the dirt and sandstone grit."

"I was having a bad morning even before I decided to crawl under 2000 pounds of stone. Careful…" She turns her back so he can fasten the Velcro on the nylon band that goes around her middle. "Snug, but not too snug. My ribs are in pretty bad shape."

McKinnon nods, frowning in concern as he locks the band in place and then encircles her slender bicep in the band meant to immobilize her arm and shoulder. "T'wis probably closer tae 4000 pounds." He says while watching her face for any signs of pain he might be inflicting. "That stone is heavy stuff."

When he is done, she says a quiet 'thank you' as she steps around the corner of her desk and lowers herself gingerly onto her chair.

Taking their lead from her, Shacklebolt takes the customary place of a student come to visit. While, moving to an out-of-the-way corner, McKinnon observes the pair quietly, feeling like a forgotten bystander when McGonagall queries, "Shall we move on to more pressing matters."

"Right." Shacklebolt changes tacks easily enough. "We're all going to deal with nervous parents for the foreseeable future. Let's try to keep the focus on the fact that while some bad things have certainly happened, we've won the war. I'm going to make sure the school is okay." Shacklebolt stops and gives McKinnon a moment of his undivided attention. "Thank you for your help today, sir. It was invaluable."

"Name's McKinnon, and I didnae really dae that much. Ah think I was just here fir moral support." He points at McGonagall. "She's the ane did aw the dirty work. She just needed herself a soundin' board."

"I'm Shacklebolt. Never underestimate the importance of a good sounding board. That is, at least in part, why I'm sitting here now - because I find myself in need of one, and I do hope you'll forgive me for being rude but…" He turns his attention back to McGonagall. "Can we speak freely in his company?"

McGonagall nods. "One of his granddaughters graduated from Hogwarts three years back. He's an old friend. My late husband trusted him implicitly, as do I."

Nodding, Shacklebolt returns to his previous topic. "I'm already fielding owls from the Hogwarts Board of Governors. I'm trying to stall them to give you time to get your feet back under you, but they're going to insist on a meeting sometime in the very immediate future – I'm thinking within the week. You should know that Lucius Malfoy is currently in holding…"

"Pardon me for interrupting. He's in Azkaban?"

"No. He's being held at the ministry. He's trying to barter a deal to save his sorry hide, and no matter how vulgar I find the prospect, I'm getting heavy pressure to accept his terms."

"What does he have that's worth bartering with?"

"He's offering to name names. In short, he's willing to turn on all his fellow death eaters – give us names and information in exchange for a deferred prison sentence."

"Of course, he is," McGonagall scoffs. "and the reason you're getting such heavy pressure to accept his terms is because, they probably all met at Malfoy Manor. So, he's in a prime position to know who every single one of them is. He probably has useful intelligence stashed away somewhere on every single one of Riddle's followers. It's your chance to put 90% of them behind bars. If Lucius goes free in the bargain… Well, it's what I would do."

"Is it, truly?" I'm asking because I trust your counsel. Everybody in London falls into one of two groups. They are either afraid of me, so they hide from me; or they're sycophants, bending over trying to kiss my grand posterior just to keep their jobs. I keep looking for a way not to let the oily son of a…" He catches himself and clears his throat. "Well, I keep looking for a way not to let him slip through my fingers. So far, I haven't found one. At least, not one that's going to instill the public's trust in me."

McGonagall thinks it over for less than five seconds. "Take what he's offering. If it proves fruitful, let him walk. There's not a decent wizarding family within 500 miles of here who hasn't heard the Malfoy name. We all know what he's done. At this point, if there's anybody left who could be taken in by him, it's because they want to be taken in. You'll come out on the upside of the bargain."

"That means you'll be dealing with him again. I wouldn't put it past him to insist upon retaining his seat on the board of governors."

She laughs. "I am not afraid of Lucius Malfoy. Furthermore, I don't think he will be half as interested in what goes on at this school when his son is no longer a student here. Draco is about to take his NEWT's. He was never the most dedicated student, but he will graduate. Once that happens, Lucius won't have reason to use his position with the board to get his precious son out of trouble. That gives me maybe four, or five years before Lucius becomes a grandfather, and then another 11 years before Grandpa can abuse his authority in quite the same way. That's 15 years of relative peace. I'll take it."

"He still may be a thorn in your side, Professor. Surely you know he won't pass up any opportunity that comes his way."

McGonagall shrugs. "Better the devil I know than the one I don't."

"If the next meeting takes place before he's released, it's likely his wife will arrive in his place."

Again, McGonagall shrugs. "She's even easier to deal with than her husband. On any given day Lucius' primary concern is Lucius – and beyond that, public perception of the Malfoy family. Whatever else Narcissa is, her primary concern is, and always has been, Draco. That makes dealing with her no different than dealing with most of the parents whose children attend this school."

"Due to recent deaths at the hands of Voldemort, the board's got a couple of empty slots that have recently been filled by people I don't know; one Mr. Jennings Doherty, and a Ralinda Cosgrove."

"I don't know Mr. Doherty. We'll have to get acquainted. I went to school with Ralinda. She was a year ahead of me."

"Were you friends with her?"

"Hardly."

"Is that going to be a problem?"

McGonagall answers plainly. "No."

"What I need from you is your assurance that, despite all that's happened in the last year – despite all that's happened in the last week – you're not about to up and retire. I won't hold it against you if that's precisely what you want to do, but if I'm about to have to go searching for a new headmaster, or headmistress, I'd like to know that now."

Taking a moment to choose her words, McGonagall inhales as deeply as her fragile ribs will allow. "Albus Dumbledore chose me to be his successor. I knew him too well to think that he made that choice lightly. He probably thought about it for years before he let anyone, including me, know about it. He educated me, he handpicked me, he groomed me, he equipped me… to do this job. He entrusted this school, its faculty, and its students to me. Last year, following his death, when Lucius Malfoy and his woefully misappropriated board of governors came in and removed me, and subsequently offered my seat up to Severus Snape, the man who murdered Dumbledore, I considered it the pinnacle of disrespect for Dumbledore. I marched myself into the new headmaster's office on that very same evening – A Thursday evening - and I informed him that I was taking the following day off. I left this castle before the end of the workweek. I actually went home to the cottage I spend less than two months out of any given year in. For the better part of the weekend, I seriously considered quitting."

The ex-auror says in his deep somber voice, "Professor, I'm sorry."

McGonagall shakes her head. "I'm not after an apology. Certainly not from you, Mr. Shacklebolt. You were not to blame. What I'm telling you is that Thursday night, Friday night, and Saturday night, I had every intention of walking away from this place. About halfway through the day on Sunday, I remembered why I took this job. I remembered why I've continued to do this job from more than 40 years. Monday morning, I was back at my desk."

"I'm guessing the reasons why have nothing to do with the coveted office at the top of Gryffindor tower."

McGonagall smirks. "They do not. After the year I've had – after losing Albus, Snape as headmaster, the ministry falling, and death eaters overtaking this school - after all that, it should've been easy, but it wasn't. Even Lord Voldemort himself couldn't move me from this place. This is where I belong, and you, Minister Shacklebolt, are quite stuck with me."

Smiling broadly, he rises to his feet and shakes her hand. "I'm glad to hear it, Headmistress, and I won't monopolize any more of your time. Get some rest. We've both got a lot of work to do. I'll be in touch in a few days. If I have any questions before then, I'll talk to Flitwick."

He sees himself out, and when he's just beyond the threshold and out of sight, she calls him back.

"Kingsley."

He leans back, poking his head in the door. "Yes ma'am?"

"You wear it well."

He almost squints in confusion, and then, catching on, he smiles warmly. "Do I?"

She nods. "You most certainly do."

"Not too bad for a poor kid from the dodgy side of London, eh?"

"Not bad at all, Minister. Not bad at all."

Shacklebolt walks away confident in his belief that the school is in the best hands possible. Thus, leaving McGonagall to turn her attention back to McKinnon.

"What happened tae ye, Professor?"

"War is ugly."

"Aye, that it is. Karolyn said that Voldemort fella and his demented sheep attacked the school. It's plain enough that's whut happened. Ah came fast as I could."

"Yes, I know. Thank you, and although your presence here is not unwelcome, if anything like this should ever happen again, please don't do that. I don't want to offend you, but you're no match for a wand. Especially not when the person wielding it does so with malicious intent. I've lost too many people I care for already. You mustn't put yourself in harm's way, Laird, especially not on my account."

"That's nae yer choice tae make, Minerva. How many people tried tae dissuade ye from going in there today – tried and failed, because ultimately, ye believe that the lives of the weans here at this school are more important than yer own.

"I know they are more important. I've had a full life. They haven't." She rises slowly to her feet, and beckons for him to follow as she steps back through the door to her inner sanctum.

Stepping over the threshold two steps behind her, with his gaze swiveling and his eyes widening, he gives a low whistle of astonishment. "It's yer own private apartment!"

She hums softly. "What did you expect? Some austere threadbare room fit for an impoverished nun with faded paint on the walls, a single bed, and a lone cross hung for decoration?"

He squints, the corners of his eyes crinkling attractively. "Nae. I know ye better than that. Ah've been tae the cottage ye shared with Phin." He gestures to the space around them and begins a slow circle around her small combination living room/kitchenette. Staying close to the walls, he peruses memorabilia hanging there just waiting to be discovered by what he surely knows is the extremely infrequent guest.

There are photographs of both the muggle and the wizard varieties. Some of them forever frozen in time and unmoving while people depicted in others move about somehow appearing to be both idle, and yet, busy. Some portraits contain faces he easily recognizes. Others are complete strangers to him.

He halts his self-guided tour of the living room long enough to skim through the printed word of a two-page framed article gone faintly yellow with time. Beneath the publication's title, "Transfiguration Today" there's a photo of a bearded middle-aged man with merry eyes seated comfortably in a luxuriously cushioned chair beside a small antique table just large enough for a reading lamp and a short stack of books. Perched atop the stack of books is a sleek young silver tabby cat. The accompanying article is titled, "Albus Dumbledore Successfully Trains Youngest Animagus in Centuries " and although McKinnon doesn't read it all the way through, much of the article seems to praise the accomplishment, with only a smattering of questions as to whether or not Dumbledore was wise to train a student as young as the one mentioned in the article to undertake the highly advanced and dangerous task of self-transfiguration.

Letting his attention wander elsewhere, he's not the least bit surprised to find the McGonagall coat of arms mounted above the fireplace or the family tartan on the wall opposite the entrance. Nor is he surprised to find that the place appears to be entirely cat-friendly, with attractively exposed rafters overhead that are just wide enough for a cat to tread, lofty shelves that contain very few knickknacks, and certainly nothing breakable lest it should be pushed to the floor by either the curious or offended paw. The room is drenched in natural light courtesy of its bare windows, and plump cushions can be found in more than a few of the corresponding window seats; perfect places for cat naps in an inviting stream of afternoon sunshine. He also notices more than one obvious hideaway or shadowy little cubbyhole, along with multiple cat trees, feline friendly plants, and scratching posts - all of it meant to accommodate and entertain her large feline familiar, Wordsworth.

He catches a glimpse of the foot of her neatly made bed through a door left ajar but doesn't dare to venture inside the room. On the wall, to the left of her bedroom door he finds a shallow display case that holds a broom and an obvious sporting uniform of some kind.

Having given it only a small fraction of his attention upon entry, He turns his gaze to the self-playing harp positioned near one of the window seats and scratches his beard curiously when he realizes that the instrument is mid-chord. "Minerva…" He points. "That thing's playing itself!"

Settling herself into an antique high-backed sofa and arranging pillows to accommodate her aches and pains, McGonagall nods. "It usually does."

"But how?"

She declares dryly, as though it should be obvious to him, "Laird, it's enchanted."

"You can do that?"

Not bragging, she shrugs and declares plainly. "I can do almost anything I choose."

Stepping toward it, McKinnon reaches out intent on strumming the strings of the harp only to draw back the fingers of his good hand suddenly when the harp stops its soft, delightful melody and issues a jarring, blatantly reproachful chord.

"I think it's a wee bit angry with me."

McGonagall almost smiles. "Then don't touch it."

Careful not to make the mistake again, McKinnon walks around the instrument, studying it from every possible angle. "Ye need ane at the cottage."

She shakes her head. "Elphinstone didn't care for it. It put him to sleep."

Joining her on the sofa, he chuckles. "The man used tae listen tae the cello. Talk about music that will put ye tae sleep!"

"Agreed, but music resonates differently with every person. The victrola is at the cottage, the harp is here. It was an easy compromise to make."

I like this space. It's small, but it's pure braw. There's even a fireplace."

"Well, of course there's a fireplace, Laird. It's a centuries-old castle. Like most castles, it's drafty, and it gets cold at night. There's one in the bedroom too."

"I wondered how ye could stay here for nearly 10 months out of the year, only coming home fir the occasional weekend. It makes more sense now. Though this old stone floor has got to be hard on the joints, not to mention, the feet."

She rises stiffly to her feet and crosses her small sitting area and takes a dusty bottle down from an inlaid shelf. "I'm used to these old stone floors. I've been walking on them for more than 2/3 my life. Care for a wee dram?"

He shrugs. "As long as ye dinnae go having an attack of conscience and telling me it's too early fir that."

McGonagall smiles. "You can have one drink. That's all I'm having, ½ hour from now I will be asleep, and you will be driving your granddaughter home. There's not enough time for a lecture, and even if there were, at the moment, I don't much care to give it."

He chuckles. "So, some blaggard and his insidious band of followers wages war on the school, attacks a bunch of wee anes..." He motions toward her bruised face as she hands him an unadorned cut glass tumbler containing two fingers worth of Ogden's fire whiskey. "And whut? One of them decided tae knock ye around?"

Reclaiming her seat, she smirks and downs her own shot of whiskey before nodding. "In a nutshell."

"Ah thought wands were the weapon of choice around here."

"I had his wand. I disarmed him. He took mine as well, but he couldn't get it to fire against me which, as you can see, both did and did not work out in my favor."

"Where is he?"

"That hardly matters now."

"It does tae me. I'd like tae have a conversation with him."

"Laird, that'll be rather difficult. Seances are more Sybil Trelawney's department than mine."

"He's dead then?"

"That, he is. I'm afraid I lost my temper. I took his abuse rather personally."

McKinnon laughs. "Well that's hardly something fir ye tae feel bad about."

"I didn't say I felt bad about it. It was just a bizarre experience, that's all. It's not the first time I've come up with bruises or even broken bones. I played quidditch when I was a student here. In my final year, I was badly hit with an intentionally-aimed bludger by an angry opponent who was not very sportsmanlike. I fell more than 50 feet and was in the hospital for quite a long while. Although I'll walk away from the events of the last few days without an extended stay in the hospital – well, Laird, I know how silly this is going to sound. It's not as if I expected him to behave like a gentleman, but I just keep thinking about how incredibly rude one has to be to ball up their fist and punch someone else in the face. That particular indignity, I can honestly say I've never experienced prior to this morning - and that's what I think about it. It was just plain rude! If I live the rest of my life without another such experience, that will be just fine with me."

McKinnon laughs wholeheartedly. "Ye gotta kin when tae duck, Professor.

"Oh, no I don't. I've seen two wizard wars. I'm done. I'm leaving the next one to the younger generations, and after this morning, I say leave the bar brawls to the men too. You're better equipped for it."

"Not very enlightened fir a woman who is something of a diehard feminist."

"There's a difference between being a feminist and being a dimwitted moron. Much as I might not like to admit it, there are a few things men are just better at."

"Stuff and nonsense! Yer jus tired. You jus need a good night's rest." He studies her closely before he clarifies his statement. "Or, maybe two or three nights, but ye'll live tae fight another day. Dumbledore was older than ye are noo, when he fought that Grindelwald fella."

McGonagall's eyes widen slightly with surprise. "You know about that?"

He nods. "Aye. Well, it would be more accurate tae say Ah kin whut Ah've read aboot that. Ah like history, but when it comes tae written history, it's always stained by the perception of the person doing the writing. Ye have tae take everything ye read with a wee grain of salt."

She nods. "Aye, but how did you get your hands on reading material about Grindelwald's defeat?"

Laughing again, McKinnon says, "I sent ane of me wee lassies tae this school. "Dinnae go thinkin' that ah didnae read every word of every textbook she brought home. Ah had to kin what ye magic folks were teachin' her up here; didnae I?

McGonagall squints dubiously. "I knew you were a highly involved grandparent – but every word? Literally?"

He nods. "Every word. Well, except fir the divination stuff. Ah skimmed over a lot of that. Ah can't hold wit aw that willy-nilly twaddle. Aye, some of it is true enough, but there are sensible reasons fir wye. Is nae aw crystal balls and tea leaves." He points to the display case. "Is that whut the uniform was fir, quidditch?"

McGonagall nods.

"When she was at school, Karolyn enjoyed watching the matches, but she couldnae play. Lass is terrified of heights."

"It's not for everyone."

"The article aboot Dumbledore in the frame; it didn't mention ye by name, but that is ye, isn't it? I've nae seen ye as a kitten a'fore."

"It is. Da wanted to protect my privacy. He let me be present for the interview, but only on the condition that my name wouldn't be mentioned. I was only in year three. Most students aren't given the option to attend animagus training until after they have completed their OWL's with high scores across the board. Thankfully, Vera Skeeter had much more integrity as a journalist than her daughter has. Dumbledore asked her to leave my name out of the article for my personal safety, and she honored the request without complaint."

"Skeeter? That nasty woman who writes for The Profit?"

McGonagall smirks. "She's the daughter of the woman who penned the magazine article about Dumbledore and me. You've read her work too?"

He nods. Karolyn reads the paper, or she did, a'fore aw the recent nonsense. Lately she's started lining the bottom of her owl's cage with the Skeeter woman's photo."

"How apropos." McGonagall chirps dryly.

"She comes oof very one sided, and usually the wrong side at that. She likes sensationalism." He downs his glass of whiskey and grunts with appreciation. "That's good whiskey, that is!"

"That's fire whiskey. It's made by wizards, for wizards."

McKinnon raises an eyebrow. "Whut ye mean, for wizards? Ye lot dinnae like tae share?"

McGonagall tries to stifle a yawn and can't quite manage it. "It's not meant to be shared with muggles. Our physiologies, and therefore, our constitutions, are slightly different."

With one hand against the back of the sofa, he leans toward her, scowling good naturedly. "Ah'm gonna let that ane slide, but only because yer face looks like ye've gone ten rounds with a heavyweight prizefighter."

Laughing softly, she cups his cheek in the palm of one hand. "Thank heaven for small favors."

Knowing it's not the brightest of ideas he's ever had, he leans in and brushes his lips hesitantly against hers and finds himself more than a little surprised when her response is not rigid and disapproving, but warm and pliant. All shyness and curiosity at first, with each of them making discoveries, the soft kiss slowly turns into something else, and McKinnon is just on the verge of seeking more when he feels her gentle retreat.

"Laird?"

"Ah should havenae done that." He says softly in apology and almost misses the lightning quick flicker of pain in her eyes as her fingertips brush her own lips in wonder.

She whispers, "You didn't do it alone."

"Nae, but the last time we did that, ye ran fa me. If ye don't mind, Ah'd rather leave than watch that happen again."

"Is that what you think happened?"

"That is whut happened, woman. Ye kissed me. At first, it was just a friendly wee nip. Then it was a bit more than friendly. Ah kissed ye back… And then ye ran away fa me."

"Oh, Laird. No! I wasn't running away from you. It was too soon. I was running away from myself – away from what I might do if I stayed."

He can't help but chuckle softly. "Ye cannae run fa yerself, Minerva."

She shrugs. "True enough, but I did put some distance between us."

"Aye." He nods. "Too much. Phin died. A few months later, Ree followed him and, because of that kiss, Ah nearly lost ye too."

"I know. For a long time, I didn't know how to face you. I was ashamed - of myself."

That's nae whut I wanted. It's nae what I want noo."

"I know."

"Is it still the same?"

She shakes her head. "No. It's different now."

"But - is it different enough?"

"I don't know, Laird. I'm beyond exhausted. I haven't slept for more than two days. I'm battered and bruised up one side and down the other, and even covered in dirt, dust, and sweat; you somehow still smell magnificent. I'm absolutely certain I'm not thinking clearly."

He seeks out and finds the one spot on her forehead that's not bruise-black and presses his lips to it. "Go tae bed. Ah'm going tae leave ye fir noo. Ah kin, yer gonna be busy fir a wee bit, but when ye have time, call me. Ah'll answer."

"And then what?"

He shrugs. "We'll worry aboot that when it happens."

The next morning, at 4:45 AM, a 35-year-old muggle alarm clock begins to clang its shrill wake-up call and is silenced before it can rattle noisily for more than two seconds. Already sitting upright in bed, McGonagall stiffly swings her feet to the stone floor and begins the first of many long days to come.

Showered and dressed in well under an hour, she checks her reflection in the vanity over her dresser and straightens the clasp of her robes before she steps toward the blank expanse of wall between two dated family portraits. In one, a pretty dark-haired witch can be heard softly humming as her hands, somewhat inexpertly, manipulate a pair of knitting needles. In the other, a tall thin man in possession of both a robust red mustache and a cleric's collar, wears a tartan kilt and smiles uncomfortably for the artist; his image unmoving and forever captured; frozen in time like every other muggle image.

As she approaches the wall between the two treasured pieces of memorabilia the door to her office materializes. Without giving this oddity a second's thought, she turns the knob. As she crosses the threshold, Wordsworth darts around her, and leaping effortlessly, he helps himself to her chair.

Once the connecting door between her private quarters and her formal office space closes behind her, it vanishes from view as expected and, after lifting the cat out of her seat, she is behind her desk before 6:00 AM.

Looking around in dismay, she realizes that her office is still a mess, and it suddenly strikes her as odd that four, or maybe even five people, visited the previous afternoon and not one of them commented on the condition of her ordinarily immaculate workspace. Then again, Harry Potter is the only person who knows exactly how her office came to be in its present condition. It's likely that everyone else simply assumed the room's less than pristine state was a direct result of the battle. Ordinarily, after having magically made such a mess of things, McGonagall would've insisted on cleaning up said mess without the use of magic – a form of self-discipline; a personal reminder that she shouldn't lose her temper. She inhales as deeply as her sore ribs will allow and, when doing so ignites a muted wave of pain in her right side, she decides to forgive herself just this once and sets the room to rights with an easy swish of her wand, restoring everything to its proper place and condition. With nothing left to delay her, she dives right into work.

After 1 and ½ hours of mundane but necessary paperwork, the cat in the room demands to be acknowledged as he leaps up from the floor and lands squarely in the middle of her desk blotter, dropping his most beloved personal possession into her direct line of sight.

Setting aside the bright orange toothbrush without being deterred from the writing of the letter that currently has her attention, she orders, "Wordsworth, go chase mice."

She continues writing the letter until the cat fixes her with a mind-probing stare and yowls softly.

Placing her fountain pen on the desktop, she eyes the cat with momentary annoyance and demands, "What is the matter with you?

She half-unconsciously places a hand to her grumbling stomach and then rises from her chair, catching on. "Ah, yes, you're hungry. It is time for breakfast, isn't it? I am sorry, Wordsworth. Come with me."

Returning to her private quarters, she visits the miniature refrigerator beneath the service counter and then quickly arranges a piece of leftover salmon from last night's supper on a small saucer and tops it with a few bits of crumbled Roquefort cheese. Placing the plate on the floor next to his water dish, she listens to the cat purr throatily even as he gobbles up his repast with greedy abandon.

Shaking her head, she tells him, "You sir, are spoiled! Behave yourself while I go and get my breakfast. I have work to do today. I will see you later." With that, she takes her decoratively gnarled old walking stick in hand, and heads down to the Great Hall.

At the head table, she leaves Dumbledore's place vacant and instead takes her customary place, immediately to the right of his empty chair.

No sooner than she is settled into her chair, Madame Pomphrey approaches and leans in discreetly, whispering for her ears only, "You should be in bed."

With forced patience, McGonagall returns her goblet of chilled orange juice to the table and, inhaling carefully, she keeps her voice low and level. "Poppy, I have been in bed for the better part of the last 16 hours. When this day is over, I will gratefully return to my bed. Between now and then, there are an untold number of things that are waiting to be done today. Since the responsibility for getting those things done is currently resting on my shoulders, I will thank you not to make arguing with you about my condition yet another thing that I must add to my very long list of things to do."

As Madame Pomphrey shrugs and takes her seat, McGonagall pushes her chair back and, cane in hand, she takes the podium and clears her throat. As the clatter of breakfast dishes and silverware falls silent and all eyes turn her way expectantly, she begins, "Good morning, one and all."

She waits for a smattering of response to rise and fall as she looks out over the half-filled room. "To our remaining students, their family members, and teachers, it is incumbent upon me to announce that Hogwarts will be closing before the end of term this year so that the castle may be properly restored in time for the start of term come September. As much as we, the teachers of Hogwarts, would like to see our hardworking students finish out the current school year, at present, I am afraid that is simply not possible. As of this morning, all damaged and unstable areas of the castle have been roped off. Please, for your own safety, do not venture into these areas. Tomorrow, the restoration of Hogwarts Castle will officially begin, and with the castle in its present condition, it is simply unwise to try to continue classes. As such, all regularly occurring end of the year exams have been canceled. NEWT's for our students in their final year here at Hogwarts will be held in six weeks' time at a location yet to be determined. You will be notified of the date, time, and location of the exams by owl once the location is set. To all of our students who will be returning next fall, we will see you, hopefully well rested from your summer holidays and ready to return to work, on September 1. The Hogwarts Express will be leaving today at 1:00 PM for anyone who does not have a parent or guardian already here and is in need of transportation home. Please be certain to pack your belongings carefully. As the castle will be undergoing restoration in your absence, any items left behind will likely be lost."

McGonagall pauses for a shallow breath before continuing, and in the interim, not a sound is made. "To each of you who stood and fought so selflessly in the battle for Hogwarts, my only words are, thank you and God bless you. In reverence of their sacrifice and out of respect for all those who fell, I ask each of you who is here with us this morning, and physically able to do so, to please rise to your feet for a much-deserved moment of silence."

After the momentary noise of every person in the room coming to their feet, the Great Hall falls as silent as a tomb for not just the requested moment, but for an uninterrupted span of five full minutes.

Then, someone coughs, and people somberly return to the food on their plates. McGonagall leaves them to it, not daring to interrupt again until she is through with her own meal at which point she stands, walks to the edge of the dais and announces, "As you all leave today, in the Entrance Hall, on the wall to the left of the front doors you will find a list meant to contain the names of all who have been lost. Students, family members, everyone, please check this list carefully. If you lost someone whose name is not already on this list, please come find me or any other teacher here at Hogwarts to let us know. In September at the start of the term, a plaque in memory of all those who have been lost will be unveiled in the Entrance Hall. We do not wish to exclude anyone who deserves this honor. For any student or parent who wishes to see me, for any reason, before leaving today, I will be in my office, here on the ground floor of the castle all morning. Thank you, and safe travels everyone."

Neville Longbottom rises to his feet. "Professor, before you go…"

"Yes, Mr. Longbottom, what is it?"

"Some of us were wondering. Well… where's Harry gone off to?"

"Mr. Potter left here early this morning."

Ernie McMillan stands up. "But, Harry's not in some sort of trouble, is he?"

McGonagall inhales slowly. "Of course not, why would you ask that?"

"Someone said they saw him leaving with the new minister. Given the way the ministry's been behaving of late, we just want to make sure Harry's alright."

Hermione rises, taking hold of Ron's hand and pulling him to his feet beside her. "Everyone can relax. Harry isn't in trouble. He went with Minister Shacklebolt voluntarily to offer condolences to some of the family members of the people who died. We don't know exactly when, but he will be back soon. He's going to help restore the castle."

"Oh, that's good, then."

Justin Finch Fletchley raises his own hand as he puts down his coffee mug. "Is Harry going to be an auror now?"

Seamus Finnegan laughs. "Going to be? Mate, I think he already is one… Talk about a dark wizard catcher!"

The Great Hall explodes with a thunderous round of laughter, cheering, and whistling.

McGonagall waits impatiently for the din to die down slightly. When she can be heard over the noise, she clears her throat. "Harry Potter's precise whereabouts at this moment are his own business. All I can tell you for certain, other than the fact that he is, as Miss Granger stated, expected to return; is that Mr. Potter has left the building."

Several people chuckle. "If you would like more information than that, I will remind you all that Harry Potter is no longer a student at this school. He is of age, and free to make his own decisions about his future. Whether he will choose to undergo the necessary training to become an auror remains to be seen. No matter what path he chooses, I certainly hope that - as I do - you will all wish him well."

Luna Lovegood struggles to rise to her feet and props herself up on wooden crutches, heavily favoring her thickly bandaged left leg. "Professor, I know that most of us are leaving here for the last time today. I'd like to know, once the castle is restored, what will become of Hogwarts? I heard what you said a few minutes ago about the start of next term, but some people are saying that the board of governors might not allow the school to reopen. That after what happened, parents aren't going to want to send their children here to be taught."

"What?" The collective cry goes up among the students as they all take turns turning to look at each other.

Neville is back on his feet. "Professor, we cannot let that happen! We cannot let them close the school. If that happens it'll be like Voldemort took Hogwarts with him when he went."

"Yeah! That's right! That can't happen! No way!" Several people shout, all of them talking at the same time, their voices overlapping.

With her mended shoulder in a sling, McGonagall is only able to raise one hand into the air, and after that, her protesting ribs will not allow her to draw breath deeply enough to be heard over the boisterous protests of her students. Seeking assistance, she turns her gaze to Hagrid and simply raises an eyebrow.

Pushing his chair back noisily, Hagrid comes to his feet. Towering above everyone else in the room, he roars, "Oy! You lot!"

Several people duck their heads in response as if they expect to be swooped down upon. More than a few people cover their ears, wincing in protest; but the room does fall utterly silent.

Hagrid continues. "Well now, that's better! Id'nit? The headmistress of yer school is talkin' to ye. Ain't she? I reckon ye all best close your mouths and open yer ears!"

When all eyes in the room turn her way again, McGonagall nods appreciatively. "Thank you. I had several owls yesterday from the board of governors, a multitude of frightened parents, along with three separate communications from the undersecretary to the Minister of Magic. There are a few people on the board who are questioning whether or not the school should remain open." She pats the air when the noise level begins to rise again. "You should know that those who are asking such questions are outnumbered by the people who do not see any benefit to permanently closing the doors of Hogwarts. What has happened here in the last few days could have happened anywhere. The students of this school, both present and future, should not be punished for something that was entirely beyond their control, and I am telling that to anyone who has the temerity and the good sense to listen to me, whether they want to hear it or not. At this point in time, I do not foresee the school closing; not permanently. The current Minister of Magic is a sensible man. I do not believe he would allow such a travesty to occur. So, please, now is not the time for you to worry about such things. You should go home and be with your family and friends. That is where each of you is most needed today."

Seated once again, Luna raises her hand, avoiding the trouble of coming to her feet. "If the school does reopen, who's going to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Potions?"

McGonagall almost chuckles. "Miss Lovegood, one problem at a time, please. Before I worry about filling teaching posts, I must first have accessible classrooms for teachers to use. That is a problem for another day."

Seamus speaks up again. "I'll bet nobody's going to want to teach either class after Snape!" He turns in his seat and spits on the floor.

"Seamus Finnegan!" McGonagall glowers. "When in my presence, you will conduct yourself with a little more dignity - a little more decorum! You will never again treat any educator with such blatant disrespect! Furthermore, you may consider yourself banned from spitting on any floor of this castle ever again! How dare you! Whatever your personal feelings about Severus Snape, it is a good thing you are leaving here today as a graduating student. I assure you, were you returning next fall, you would spend the entirety of the year in detention on your hands and knees scrubbing every floor in this castle with a brillo-brush for that vulgar display!"

Cringing, Seamus answers meekly, barely above a whisper, "Yes ma'am."

"Hermione, there you are!" Ron catches up to her in the transfiguration courtyard and doubles over, breathing hard. "I've been looking all over!"

"What for?"

"Hope you're packed. We're ready to go?"

"We?"

"Mum, Dad, me, and the rest of the ginger brood."

"Oh, yes, I am packed, but listen Ron…"

"Well then, hurry up! I want to get to the burrow before lunch. I'm hungry."

"Ron, you just had breakfast less than 3 hours ago."

Ron shrugs. "What's that got to do with anything. By the time Mum gets lunch on the table…"

She smiles. "Did Fred and George put an undetectable extension charm on your stomach when you were a baby?"

"Nah!" Ron pauses momentarily, looking concerned as if he's actually considering the likelihood of such an event. "Don't think so. I'm not getting fat, am I?" He touches his own stomach self-consciously.

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Relax, I'm not calling you fat! If they put an undetectable extension charm on your stomach, it would be 'undetectable.' Wouldn't it?"

"Oh, yeah, right! Anyway, come on!"

"I've got to go to McGonagall's office first."

"What for?"

Hermione shrugs. "She sent me a note. She wants to talk to me."

"On the last day? What'd you do?"

"I didn't do anything. Honestly, Ron? Haven't you ever talked to a teacher when you weren't in trouble?"

Ron squints. "Not if I could help it."

"Well, I'm on my way to talk to her now, and I'm not coming…"

"Well, hurry up… Hang on! What do you mean, you're not coming?"

She sighs patiently. "I'm not coming with you to the burrow today."

Ron suddenly looks worried. "Why not?"

Hermione touches his arm gently. "I'm going to Australia."

Ron's mouth falls open. "Whoa. Okay. I wasn't expecting that, but just let me tell Mum and Dad. I'll come with you."

"No, Ron. I'm sorry, you can't. I need to go by myself."

"Why?" He whispers, looking like a dog that's just been scolded for soiling the rug.

"My parents are in Australia, remember? I'm going to go get them and lift the memory charm. Once they know who they are again, once they remember me… They're going to want to know why I did that to them. I'm going to have to explain everything, and I think it would be easier on my own."

"Oh." He looks a bit relieved. "Yeah, okay, I can understand that, but you're just going to apparate off to Australia, by yourself?

She smiles. "I'm seventeen, and I'm a witch. Plus, Voldemort is dead. The death eaters aren't looking for me anymore. I can handle it."

"But, by yourself, in a foreign country? What if something bad happens… You know, like normal everyday bad stuff?"

Hermione laughs. "I'm looking forward to it!"

Ron grins. "You really are mental."

"I am not. After what we've been through, normal everyday bad stuff will be a breeze. Go home. I'll send you an owl; soon as I can." She kisses him full on the mouth, and trots away leaving him standing there slack jawed and shaking his head, but happy.

Hermione knocks softly against the office's open doorframe, and McGonagall waves her in. "Thank you for responding so promptly, Miss Granger. Please, have a seat."

Hermione settles into one of the chairs meant for the professor's guests, hoping she looks more curious than puzzled.

Noticing the peculiar expression on her face, McGonagall queries, "Are you feeling well?"

"Oh yes." Hermione shrugs. "It's rather strange walking around the castle without a hefty book bag on one shoulder. Somehow, I feel as if I'm…"

"Underdressed?"

"Yes, that's it exactly."

"I think, with the castle in its current condition, we're all feeling a little out of place." She clears her throat. "I've asked you here to talk about where you plan to go from here."

"Well, as soon as I leave here today, I'll be taking a long overdue trip abroad, but I'm guessing that's not what you mean."

"No, it isn't. I mean professionally, but I highly recommend any trip that allows you a little rest and relaxation before moving forward, especially after the year you've just had.

Hermione bites her lower lip, trying to decide what; if anything, to say next.

"What's troubling you?"

"I'm not going abroad on holiday. When I decided to leave last summer… Well, I sort of hid my parents so that if Voldemort found out I was with Harry, he couldn't use my parents to get to me, and by extension Harry."

"That was a wise move on your part. Although, I don't imagine your parents were eager to comply."

Hermione wrinkles her nose. "Professor, I didn't really give them a choice."

"Oh dear. I see. Well, however you managed it, there are sure to be consequences."

"I know, and I'll deal with that. Going with Harry was the right thing to do. I know that, and I can't wait to see them." Hermione blows out a puff of breath, causing the hair against her forehead to flutter. "Still, I'm not looking forward to explaining."

McGonagall laces her fingers together thoughtfully. "I'm sure you're not. However, the only alternative is to leave them as they are. Explain all that to them as well. Be honest with them. It won't be easy, but I think you'll come through alright. I seem to recall your parents being shocked the summer before you first arrived here at Hogwarts. They were not reticent, and only mildly resistant. They asked lots of questions and were receptive to my answers. How much do they know about Mr. Potter?"

"That he's my friend. That Voldemort was the dark wizard who killed his parents, and that Voldemort was trying to return to power. I didn't give them a lot of details. You're right, they are receptive, but there's still a lot about the magical world that they don't understand. Try explaining to your parents that one of your best friends in the world can talk to snakes, and that he is somehow pre-cognitively linked to one of the darkest wizards to ever exist. There isn't really a way to soft glove that. It sounds bad no matter how you say it. I couldn't think of a way to make them understand that; yes, it was bad, but Harry isn't."

"So, you simply avoided telling them things that would likely lead them to say, 'Stay away from that Potter boy.' Is that it?"

"In a nutshell."

"Well, there is not a teenaged girl - or boy - who ever existed who hasn't done what you have. Though, I daresay, it is unlikely that most of them had quite so much to explain once the truth came out. You're not likely to have a very enjoyable summer."

"I know. It's my mess. I'll clean it up."

"That's very mature of you. Have you had any time to think about what you're going to do with yourself afterward?"

"A little. I'd like to do something that would make a difference. Something that will matter. I don't think I have the right temperament for teaching though. I'm not very patient, and I have a talent for saying things the wrong way… Especially when I'm irritated."

McGonagall chuckles dryly. "If it were what you truly wanted to do, Miss Granger, I am confident that you could find a way to make those qualities work for you. However, it has not gone unnoticed that you seem to be rather civic-minded. Have you considered a career in magical law enforcement? Perhaps with the ministry?"

Hermione wobbles her head side to side ambiguously. "I did. Briefly, but that's not really an option anymore."

McGonagall's eyes widen with mild surprise. "Oh? I fail to see why not."

Hermione whispers as if she has something to be ashamed of. "Professor, I haven't studied at all this year. At least, not if it wasn't directly related to horcruxes; how to find them, procure them, and destroy them. For the last ten months, that's all the three of us have done – unless it was listening to the radio to find out if anybody we care about had been imprisoned, tortured, or killed. I'd have to take my NEWT exams, and do exceedingly well, in approximately six weeks. I'm not prepared for that."

McGonagall chuckles for the second time. "Miss Granger, if I were a betting woman, I'd lay odds on the fact that you are better prepared than most of the students who have been here all year. Go talk to your parents. Once you've done that, make a decision. If you want to take those tests, send me an owl. I will do all I can to help you prepare."

Hermione stares; momentarily struck dumb. When she does speak, she asks in astonishment, "Why would you do that?"

"The more appropriate question is why wouldn't I do that. I am a teacher. It's what I do."

"But, you'll be giving up your summer too. I have no idea what you do when you're not here, Professor, but there must be something."

"It will be a sacrifice well worth my time if it means I get to see a sensible person of your caliber at work inside the rank and file of the Ministry of Magic."

No sooner than Hermione leaves her office, McGonagall slips through the door to her private quarters, kicks off her shoes, and sets the alarm clock to rouse her in 45 minutes. Because lying in a prone position is currently uncomfortable, she settles into her favorite reading chair in front of the fireplace, places her wand and her glasses on the side table, tucks a slender pillow in between herself and the right armrest of the upholstered wingback recliner, drapes a hand-knitted afghan over herself and waits for Wordsworth to join her. When the cat settles a little too closely to her right side for comfort, she gently forces him to the left side of her lap and closes her eyes, surrendering herself to sleep almost immediately.

After what seems only a moment, she is jerked from sleep by the insistent clanging of the alarm clock and she opens her eyes; surprised to find that Wordsworth has left her for the hearth rug, where he is shamelessly enjoying the adoration bestowed upon him by a friendly house elf who seems to have the fashion sense of a teenaged muggle girl trapped inexplicably in the mid-1980s.

The messy dark brown ponytail she wears is secured against the crown of her head with a rainbow-colored cloth scrunchie. Her bangs are teased and immobilized high off her forehead courtesy of copious amounts of hair lacquer. Wide plastic bangle bracelets half-cover her forearms in a shocking variety of neon colors. The dress the elf wears has been cut to fit her diminutive frame with painstaking care. McGonagall recognizes the material at once as belonging to an old set of bed sheets that she has recently parted with.

Although the fabric had still been serviceable, the elastic in the fitted sheet had been stretched beyond repair with age. The sheet would not stay in place on the bed, and she had grown tired of waking in the morning to find her mattress half exposed. When she had carried the sheets outside, she had intended to toss them into the rubbish bin, but the small sweet-tempered elf had stopped her and expressed a liking for the material. Reasoning that bed sheets were not technically considered clothing, which the transfiguration teacher knew the elf did not want anyway, McGonagall had gladly handed over the bundle. Now, transformed into a tiny sleeveless dress with a pleated knee-length skirt, the cream-colored material with its dark green pin stripes and its pattern of tiny bearded irises probably passes for haute couture among the female house elves.

Yawning, McGonagall uses her wand to silence the alarm clock. "Benna, your dress is lovely."

Startled by the unexpected alarm, the house elf jumps to her feet, squeaking in surprise as she clasps her hands in front of her waist. "Madame is awake. I hope Benna did not make too much noise saying hello to Mr. Wordsworth."

McGonagall shakes her head. "Quiet as a church mouse. I wouldn't have known you were here at all if the alarm clock hadn't rang."

The elf smiles. "Madame likes my dress?"

"I do. That material looks far better as a dress than it ever did as bed linen."

"Benna tried to use the elastic to make a belt, but it was no good. It didn't have any more snap-back. So, my friend, Twilly made a belt to match my necklace."

McGonagall eyes the wide choker of delicately woven glass beads nestled against the elf's throat. A single strand made up of the same kind of beads, the kind young girls use to make costume jewelry, is knotted at her waist, and although the belt contains slightly larger beads than the necklace, both display an intricate alternating color scheme of royal purple and forest green. "If you ever decide to stop working for me, I'm sure you and Twilly could go into business together and make a tidy living as elf fashion designers."

"That's what Mr. Dobby told Benna too."

"Mr. Dobby? The house elf that used to belong to the Malfoy family?"

The girl elf nods excitedly. "Benna was very much liking Mr. Dobby. Benna misses Mr. Dobby."

"I'm sure you do, but Benna, we've talked about this. You don't have to refer to yourself in the third person when you're talking to me. Remember? You're not a slave."

The elf nods again. "I know this, Madame. I'll only do it when we are at the school. It helps me. The other elves look at me strangely if I don't. Mr. Dobby was very much braver than me. He wasn't scared to be free. I would miss my friends if they stopped talking to me."

McGonagall nods with unspoken compassion. "You can be free anytime you choose, Benna. If your friends stop talking to you for that choice, or because you'd rather speak as equals, they can't be very good friends."

The elf's eyes widen in mild worry. "I like work. Mr. Elphinstone was always good to me, and so are you. You kept me on after he passed. You could have sent me to live with his sister. Ms. Urquart is nice enough, but I do not want to leave. Who would look after you, Madame?"

McGonagall replies dryly, "Oh, I would muddle through somehow. I promise."

"I do not want you to muddle. I will stay. I cannot go. I would miss Mr. Wordsworth too much. Cats don't usually like house elves, but he is special. He likes me. He never bites, and he almost never scratches me."

"Wordsworth likes anyone who feeds him; especially house elves who sneak sardines into his bowl when they think I'm not looking."

Benna smiles with feigned innocence.

"This isn't your usual time to pop in. Are you just visiting with the cat?"

"No, Madame." She takes a tightly bound small scroll from the pocket of her skirt and quickly presents it. Professor Flitwick asked me to bring this to you."

Slipping her glasses into place, McGonagall reads Flitwick's hastily scribbled note letting her know that her afternoon appointments have been shifted to his and Professor Sprout's calendars, and that they will only disturb her if it is absolutely necessary to do so. Grateful for the reprieve, she returns her glasses to the table. "Thank you Benna. Please tell Filius and Pomona that their kindness is greatly appreciated. I think I will go back to sleep for a while longer."

"May I turn down the bed for you?"

"No, thank you. The chair is more comfortable for me just now. You may check on me this evening if you like."

"Shall I bring your supper up later?"

"That would be very nice."

Benna nods. "I will go now so Madame can rest."

No sooner than the elf is gone McGonagall drops back into sleep.

Sometime later, she stirs enough to realize that it's dark out, and that Madame Pomphrey is standing over her in the fading glow of firelight. Sitting up straight, she winces in response to not only her aching bones but also to her stiff neck.

"Poppy?"

"Shush, don't talk. That colorful elf of yours, just delivered your dinner, not five minutes ago. She fed Wordsworth as well. I told her to bring you something that could be eaten cold in case you don't feel up to it just now."

"I'm fine. I'm hungry."

"That's a good sign. I'm guardedly optimistic that you're going to survive."

"Of course, I am. I told you that yesterday morning."

"Yes, I heard you, many times. You'll forgive me for wanting to ascertain that for myself. My patients have a habit of underestimating the severity of their injuries. Get up and move around for a bit. If you get the blood flowing, some of the stiffness you're trying to downplay will ease. But, don't you overdo it. Have a bath, eat your dinner, and go back to sleep. And, not in this chair."

"Lying down is uncomfortable at the moment. In that position, I wouldn't sleep a wink. Sitting is better."

"So, go prop yourself up in bed. It'll be better for your legs, and for that ankle that's trying to heal."

Thin-lipped and quiet, McGonagall simply nods.

"Finally, some cooperation! Would you like something to help you sleep?"

"No thank you."

Placing her hands on her hips, Pomphrey shakes her head. "And the stubborn is back just that quickly."

"I'm not being stubborn. I just don't need it."

Madame Pomphrey glowers. "In your condition, breathing too deeply probably feels like cruel and unusual punishment. Having this conversation probably hurts, and you want me to believe that you don't need help sleeping?"

Even in my condition, all that is required for me to sleep is to simply sit and be still for 45 seconds. I'm beyond tired. Tomorrow or the next day, I may need some help but for now, the wear and tear of the last few days is more than enough. If I'm wrong, I'll have another shot of that fire whiskey over there." She points to the shelf across the room. "One shot and I'll be down in less than 30 minutes, but tomorrow morning I'll emerge more easily from sleep than I would if I took anything you're going to give me. One dose of your sleeping draft puts me in a mental fog for three days. I can't do that, Poppy. There's too much to be done here. The staff can only cover for me for so long."

"We can cover for you as long as you need us to… But, do it your way. As long as you're not outright refusing to rest, I won't complain too much."

"Stop fussing over me. I'm going to be fine, and I'm absolutely certain you have other patients to attend to, not to mention the fact that you look as if you're ready to drop in your own tracks."

"Pomona is going to take a shift in the hospital wing tonight so I can at least nap. Things will be much easier now that 95% of the students who were here last night have gone home. The place is nearly empty. If it weren't for all the destruction, it would feel like the summer holiday was upon us."

I'm afraid there's not going to be much holiday in our summer. In the back of my mind, I've already begun compiling a list of things we must get done before the start of next term… and said list just keeps getting longer."

Madame Pomphrey nods. "Speaking of things that will have to be done. I've made a judgment call you should probably know about."

McGonagall rolls her wrist encouragingly. "Go on."

Hagrid and I went up to fetch the petrified death eater from the Thorne boy's locker."

"And, where is he now?"

"Sequestered in the locked room reserved for infectious patients. Nobody else is in there right now. I have other patients, but all their injuries are related to the battle. There's not a highly contagious one in the bunch."

"He's still here then?"

Madame Pomphrey nods. Sprout is working on procuring some mandrake especially for him. It's out of season. I won't use what I currently have in store. I'm saving that for our students who need it. I won't deprive them to save his wretched hide. Somebody from the ministry came to get him today – a wet behind the ears, pock-faced lad by the name of Gantry. When he announced that he intended to take the death eater prisoner and haul him off to Azkaban…"

McGonagall's eyes widen in alarm as she interrupts, "In his present condition… Petrified?"

Madame Pomphrey nods somberly. "He said that was what he intended to do. I told him…"

"Over my dead body!" McGonagall exclaims forcefully.

"Precisely what I said. I told him you wouldn't allow that. He told me you didn't have the authority necessary to stop him."

McGonagall half rises to her feet, declaring archly, "We'll see about that!" before Madame Pomphrey stops her with a firm a hand on her shoulder. "Poppy, I don't care if he is a death eater. He's still a human being. He cannot be tried in his present condition, and to lock him away in Azkaban with the dementors when he has no hope of getting away from them… If we allow that to happen, we are no better than them!"

"I know, Minerva. I know. Relax, please. It's alright. I've already dealt with it. That's why he's still here. If we put him in St. Mungo's, when his condition is reversed, he'll have access to the public. Or before his condition is reversed, the public will have access to him. Either option is just bad. I told the lad from the ministry that I wanted to speak to his immediate supervisor. He told me his immediate supervisor was not available. I said, fine then, get me Shacklebolt. I want a word with him, now!"

"Did he inform the minister of your request?"

"Well, first he went positively green in the face. Apparently he finds the new minister of magic just the tiniest bit intimidating, but he did leave, and less than 1/2 hour later Minister Shacklebolt was standing in my office. I was halfway through telling him what you just told me about – if we allow that to happen – he didn't even let me finish. He turned to Mr. Gantry and informed him that the days of locking wizards away in Azkaban without benefit of a proper trial were over. Gantry started to argue with him and… Well, you know Kingsley. He just stared the young man down. So, the death eater is still here. He's in a locked room, and the minister called for some aurors to come and stand guard. Flitwick conjured up a small prison cell and magically reinforced it. Even though he's petrified, and doesn't currently need to be, the death eater is in four-point restraints. Shacklebolt insisted, just in case he's faking but, I assure you, he's not. His wand has been confiscated. As soon as we can revive him, the aurors will take him into custody."

"Nicely done, Poppy. Thank you. When you're seeing to his needs, don't forget that just because he's petrified doesn't mean he's asleep. Even though he can't respond, he may be able to hear you. Make certain you don't discuss confidential matters in his presence, especially not the new security measures that are being put into place here at Hogwarts."

The matron nods slightly. "I know, but it never hurts to be reminded. To be on the safe side, I'll have Flitwick maximize the Muffliato charm around the room, and I'll just avoid speaking altogether when I'm in the room with him. It's not like he can answer me anyway. There's no reason to talk to him."

"That should do it."

"There's a staff meeting scheduled for tomorrow; 9:15 AM in the Great Hall."

"I'll be there."

Madame Pomphrey steps toward the door. "I'll see myself out. Sleep well."

McGonagall nods perfunctorily and as soon as the door is securely latched behind the busy healer, she tosses aside her blanket and heads for the water closet. An hour later, after a steamy shower – she hadn't dared to allow herself the much desired soak in the tub for fear she wouldn't be able to get out again in her present condition – she uses her wand to dry her long hair and then settles herself upright in bed among a number of pillows. Pulling the blankets up to her waist, she waits for Wordsworth to settle into his customary place against her right thigh.

Nibbling halfheartedly at a bowl of salad greens, she sorts through a short stack of personal correspondence. Saving the envelope with the familiar crest emblazoned on the flap for last; she dispenses with the minutiae that always arrives either by owl post or the muggle alternative first. She pays bills, balances her account at Gringott's, and scans the Daily Profit with all its frontpage sensationalism regarding the Battle of Hogwarts. 'Are Reports of Harry Potter's Untimely Demise True; or Are They Merely A Bid for Publicity? Rita Skeeter Wants to Know." McGonagall snorts indignantly; tossing the rag to her bedside table before using her antique silver letter opener to slit the flap on the final envelope waiting for her attention. There's no return address, but none is needed. The letter bears no signature, but the missive scrawled in a familiar masculine script is short and to the point. 'Sean's last will and testament finally made it through probate. Come see me.'

McGonagall slips her glasses off and stares into the middle distance, seeing nothing of her surroundings as she considers this succinct summons. After scarcely more than a moment's delay she helps herself to a piece of stationary from the bedside drawer and, using her meal tray in place of a desk, she pens her own equally concise message. 'Arriving early Saturday afternoon. What would you like for supper?'

She seals her note in an envelope, pens the mailing address clearly, and affixes a muggle postage stamp to the upper left corner of the envelope before relegating it to the top of the stack of outgoing mail on her night-stand. Then she gets out of bed long enough to carry her tray to her tiny kitchenette and leaves it for Benna to return to the kitchens when the elf makes her final round for the night.

Pouring milk into a saucepan, she quickly heats a cup of hot cocoa and salts it lightly. Just as she's returning to bed with her preferred sleep aid, the antique phone on the night-stand trills softly.

In response to this unappreciated late-night summons Wordsworth lifts his head and squints his sleepy eyes in an accusatory manner. Not accustomed to receiving late night phone calls herself, McGonagall frowns curiously before telling her less than curious cat, "There's only one way to find out."

She places her cup and saucer on the nightstand, settles back into bed, and picks up the receiver. "Hogwarts, Minerva McGonagall speaking."

She can picture McKinnon tugging at his beard in relief when he says, "Oh braw! Ah was expecting a switchboard, one that was probably answered by one of those little imps ye keep on at that drafty old shack."

McGonagall sighs, and for the second time in as many days, she imparts, "Laird, they're not imps. They're called elves, and they don't appreciate being mistaken for imps. They don't answer phones either. They work in the kitchens and on the housekeeping staff. I have one of the very few phones in this drafty old 'shack' as you call it."

"Why is that?" He asks as if he's just thinking about it for the first time. "I thought magical folk preferred communication by owl."

"We do, but as you know, we do admit muggle-born witches and wizards here at this school. We must have a reliable way to communicate with their families; many of whom find owl post a bit irregular."

"Right then. Did ah wake ye?"

"No. I was just about to put out my lamp. You did wake Wordsworth. He is not pleased."

"My apologies. Tell him I will have a treasure fir him the next time I see him."

"Is it a new toothbrush? He's just about chewed the current one to bits?"

"Naw. It's a wee tiny bit more high-class than a toothbrush."

"Laird, your idea of high-class is a wine bottle that comes with a cork as opposed to a screw top."

He laughs. "How right ye are, Professor."

"Did you make it home okay?"

"Dropped Karolyn off about an hour ago. Ah'm on me way tae Duncan's Head noo. Be there in aboot 10 minutes."

"Duncan's Head? Why are you driving way out there at this time of night?"

"A'cuz the Lighthouse Board was gonna tear her doon, Minerva. Ah talked them out of it. Jus cuz she's auld does nae mean she's useless. Ah'm gonna fix the old lass up."

McGonagall blinks twice. "How long did they give you?"

"Ah asked fir 18 months. They gave me 12."

"Do you think you can do it that quickly Laird? She's falling down."

"Ah guess we're aboot tae find out."

"But why drive out there now? You can't do anything in the dark."

Ah can get a good night's rest. In the morning, Ah can get started at first light, instead of having tae drive aw the way oot here first.

"You're planning on sleeping out there, alone, in the middle of nowhere, in that creaky old ramshackle lighthouse?"

"That's right. Ah already brought me a bed doon. Ghost stories dinnae bother me Minerva. If Duncan senior's grieving wife really is walking the waves out there, the auld banshee is gonna have some company tonight."

"Laird, I am not the least bit concerned about old man Duncan's wailing widow. I am, however, concerned about the malevolence souls that still walk among us in human form. You'll be all the way out there on your own with no electricity and no phone. What happens if someone decides to rob the place?"

First of all, Ah'm talking tae ye now, aren't I?"

"How long before you lose service?"

He goes on as if she hadn't spoken. "Second, there's nothing out there worth pinchin' and third, there are nae too many people in this world who will start a fight with a one-armed fella. Those that would, usually dinnae stick around too long after being punched in the face with a titanium grifter."

"Alright then." McGonagall winces as she touches her own badly bruised face. "Just be careful. Heaven only knows who might be squatting out there."

He chuckles. "Tonight, it'll be me. Sleep well, Professor."

The next morning after breakfast, Sybil Trelawney peers out from behind the spectacles that seem to magnify her eyes to an unnatural size as she complains in her most mystical voice. "I fail to see why we cannot start from the top and simply work our way down."

Twenty minutes into their staff meeting, every remaining member of the Hogwarts faculty is gathered around the head table with their breakfast dishes carefully pushed to one end as many of them peruse the castle's aged blueprints.

Firenze, the centaur, resists the urge to sigh in exasperation. "If what is below lacks integrity, it cannot support that which is above. Professor McGonagall has already explained this. All of the entrances have been secured. Next we must ensure that the foundation this castle is built upon is still sound."

"Very well." She declares hurriedly. "When might I expect the north tower to be restored to its former state of being."

McGonagall clears her throat. "I'm sorry Sybil, but it will be quite a while. I know you're anxious to return to your rooms, but after any damage to the foundation is set to rights, then we will repair any damage to the load-bearing walls. After that, the structural damage to the roof and the turrets must be fixed. Only then can we start with the sub basements and the dungeons and work our way up to the top to fix the internal damage - one floor at a time. We'll all just have to make do until then. As soon as I'm strong enough to navigate the staircases multiple times a day, I will move upstairs, at which point, my current accommodations will be available, but depending on the amount of damage, that may not be possible any sooner than returning to your own quarters will be. If rooming with Pomona is a problem, then Professor Binns has informed me that there are several of the Hufflepuff dormitories standing empty which are safe to inhabit."

"You are suggesting I take refuge in an underground dormitory?"

"Yes. One with a warm bed, an appropriately functioning fireplace, and a structurally sound lavatory; so that your needs can be met. I am not suggesting that you remain there indefinitely. It is only temporary."

Trelawney sniffs indignantly and pulls her many shawls tighter around her shoulders. "It's very disconcerting to the inner eye to spend so much time below ground with all the artificial lighting, and the ever-present sound of dripping water."

"Then perhaps, until this castle is back in working order, you should try closing your inner eye, dear."

"Then, however am I to see?" Trelawney demands in her most wispy voice as if McGonagall has just asked for the impossible."

"Might I suggest you try using the two eyes located above your nose."

Simpering resentfully, Trelawney returns to her chair.

"Now then." McGonagall continues undeterred by the senior divination teacher's recalcitrance. "Mr. Filch, today I would like you to begin clearing a path through the debris in the corridors and stairways where possible. See if you can unblock some of the access to the upper floors. I know there are areas you won't be able to access as of right now. Do the best you can. When you've done all you can, help Madame Pence to restore some order to the library so that she can begin getting a feel for which books and publications will need to be replaced before the start of next term. Pomona, I know you're busy in greenhouse two, trying to coax some mandrake seedlings into producing out of season. When you're not busy doing that, I'd like you in the kitchens to help the elves restore some order. Filius, in your spare moments, when you're not tending to other duties, please begin cataloging the damage to the classrooms. We will need to replace all manner of furnishings, I'm sure. Hagrid, please begin work on the the clearing of the grounds. All other staff should concern themselves with repair work below the sub basements today – except for Firenze. I realize that our many staircases are not exactly centaur-friendly. You may see to the clearing of your own rooms here on the ground floor, and when you are done with that, I am certain Hagrid will welcome your assistance out of doors."

Hagrid nods. "Ye betcha, I will, and don't ye hesitate to call on me, if'n ye need help with anythin' in your rooms either, Firenze."

The centaur wordlessly bows his head in appreciation.

McGonagall continues. "If at all possible, I'd like to finish repairing the foundation before sundown on Friday. I have obligations I must attend to this weekend away from the castle."

She rises to her feet. "If everyone has their marching orders for the d.." She comes up short when the doors to the Great Hall swing open wide and 18 unexpected people, all of them wearing black arm bands bearing the dynamic insignia of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, file into the room two by two with a barrel-chested blonde fellow obviously leading the way. "Pardon the interruption Headmistress, but we don't."

McGonagall blinks and peers at him from across the room over the top of her rectangular spectacles. "You don't what…. Mister?"

"Have our marching orders for the day. "I'm Barnabas Blackbuckle, and yes, I'm new to the ministry, but AMRS is reporting for duty, Ma'am. We know what happened here wasn't technically an accident, but Minister Shacklebolt tasked us to come. Thus, for the foreseeable future, we are at your disposal."

"Well…" McGonagall clears her throat in muted surprise, "When Minister Shacklebolt said he would help us set this place to rights, I had no idea he intended to send me an entire squadron."

"You tell us where you want us, Ma'am. We're here till it's done."