Insurrection

Author's Note: A warm 'Happy birthday' to Minerva McGonagall who is 85 today. May she outlast us all!

Summoned by the ringing of her doorbell, Augusta Longbottom opens her front door and is nothing less than startled to find Draco Malfoy standing on the welcome mat. She tries to avoid frowning, but her facial muscles seem to have a mind of their own. "What can I do for you?"

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Longbottom. I've come to speak to Neville."

"Oh, no you haven't."

She moves to close the door and Draco stops her with a firm hand, using only enough pressure to halt her progress, not enough to knock her off balance.

When she cannot close and bar the door, she switches tactics. Before Draco has time to react, she throws the door open wide and raps him sharply about the head with her walking stick as she begins shouting, "You'll be leaving my front porch. That's what you'll be doing, boy! I know who you are. I know who your father is. I will not have you talking to Neville. He's a good boy. You get yourself away from here now. Don't make me reach for my wand!"

Draco has no choice but to back up for his own safety as she forces her way out onto the front walk with her cane poised ominously, ready to strike another blow if he dares to inch toward her. Seriously regretting the decision to come, he's nothing less than grateful when he glimpses Neville through the open front door, rushing down from the second floor of the house and taking the stairs three at a time in response to the noise.

"Hey Gran? What's going on? Hey, whoa, Gran! Stop!" Neville darts around between his grandmother and Draco. Spreading his arms and planting his feet wide apart like a linebacker, he physically blocks the old lady's access to her target.

Augusta glares at her grandson. "Move boy!"

"So you can go to Azkaban for assault?" Neville shakes his head. "Sorry Gran, not gonna happen. I don't want to see you in that place."

"No son of a death eater is setting foot in this house!"

"I understand, but Gran, he's not in the house! It's time to ease up. His nose is bleeding. Don't hit him anymore…" Neville eyes Draco with uneasiness. "at least not until we figure out why he's come."

Crouching on the front lawn and pinching his nose to staunch the flow of blood, Draco's squeaks, "My nose! I think she broke my bloody nose!"

Holding one palm open to the air in case his grandmother decides to descend again, Neville reaches down with the other hand, grabs the front of Draco's silk shirt and pulls him to his feet before slapping the other boy's hand away from his face and roughly pinching the cartilage in the bridge of his rapidly swelling nose. "Quit being such a drama queen. You're gonna live. It's not broken. It's just bloodied."

Draco eyes Augusta Longbottom and murmurs under his breath, "Crazy old bat!"

Neville's grandmother raises her walking stick high into the air again and Draco takes another three steps backward before he trips over his own loose shoelace and nearly goes down a second time.

Neville warns, "Gran, don't make me tackle you!" Then, before the old woman can turn her ire on him, Neville turns to Draco. "Bloody hell, Malfoy! How thick are you? You do understand… Death eaters tortured my parents… They tortured her son… Until he lost his mind! And you came here? Two days after one of the worst battles in recent wizard history? Your pops is a death eater, and you turn up here? I should let her have you!" Breathing hard, Neville stops talking and simply stares at the blonde boy. After several silent beats in which he can only hear his own ragged inhalations, he demands, "Well?"

"Well what?" Draco shouts, still holding his nose.

"What the devil are you doing here?"

"I came because I need your help. I thought you might be willing but obviously, I made a mistake. I'll go now."

Neville squints in utter confusion. "You need my help? You are mad!"

"You know what? Just forget it?"

Neville groans aloud, knowing what he has to do, and hating it. Sighing, he rolls his eyes and relents. "Draco…"

"Never mind!"

"Draco wait… Come back."

Halfway down the drive, Draco tosses over his shoulder, "If you think I'm coming back up there, you're the one who's mad."

Deliberately goading the boy, Neville calls out, "So, you're just gonna leave. You come all this way, you get your bum handed to you by an little old woman, and you're just going to turn around, tuck your tail between your legs, and go home with nothing to show for it. Nice Draco. Way to persevere."

Turning on his heel, Draco stalks halfway back up the drive. "I didn't do anything wrong! All I did was knock on the damn door. That crazy wrinkled old hag…"

Neville clenches his fists, looking far more ominous than he ever did at age 11. "Malfoy, you insult my grandmother one more time, and I'll be the one knocking you on your arse!" He waits a moment just to make sure Draco is through blowing smoke. "Now, what is it you want my help with… I'm not gonna ask again."

Deciding he may as well talk fast; Draco launches in with just the facts. "Dad's in holding at the ministry. Mum is temporarily taking his seat on the Hogwart's Board of Governors. They've called a meeting without notifying anybody properly. Their gonna show up unannounced and sandbag McGonagall. Because of what happened… I don't know how to get in touch with everybody else, but I figured you might. They wanna close the school."

Port Melbourne, Australia. This is it. Hermione checks the shingle hung on the gate post. 'The Wilkins. 419 Barrett Street. Dentistry and Orthodontia, Dental Office in the Rear. Hours of Operation Mon - Fri 9:30 A – 6:30 P.'

Moving her bag from one shoulder the other, she sighs, pushes the gate open, and follows the path around to the back of the house taking in everything there is to be seen along the way.

It's a teeming little oceanside town, and she has found the place much quicker than she thought she would – much quicker than she wanted to. Judging by the outside, her parent's little cottage, just two blocks from the Beach Street waterfront, can't possibly have more than two bedrooms. The unattached garage is barely big enough for one car. The flower boxes – Hermione had known there would be flower boxes - are thriving with multicolored blooms outside every visible window despite the heavy salt content in the air.

When they married, Wendell Granger had been something of an amateur horticulturalist. Years ago, his interest in the subject had waned and he'd moved on to other hobbies while his wife, who claimed she couldn't keep a cactus alive before they married, had thought it a wife's duty to at least have a passing knowledge of her husband's interests and had, therefore, dived headfirst into the subject. Thus, before their second anniversary, she had grown herself an impressively green thumb. Her vibrant flower boxes with their impressive blooms had always been a part of Hermione's life and Hermione cannot decide whether to be cheered or depressed by the knowledge the ritual has continued without her.

She checks her watch – 6:10 PM. Just in time to be the last customer of the day. It's now or never. She rings the bell.

When the woman believing herself to be Monica Wilkins opens the door, Hermione nearly throws herself into the woman's arms, and probably would have done if a pretty petite blonde woman hadn't been in the process of trying to sidestep the female dentist. "Thanks again for letting me leave a few minutes early Dr. Wilkins."

The dentist smiles, assuring her receptionist, "It's no trouble Bridget. Tell your mother I said hello. I hope she's feeling better soon."

Hermione sidesteps, allowing the one called Bridget to pass through the open door as she thinks to herself, "Good. The fewer people in the office the better." But when her mother smiles offering, "You must be Miss Graves?" she experiences a moment of confusion until she recalls that when she had called earlier, just to be certain she had the right office, she'd been on the verge of giving the last name Granger only to think better of it at the last possible second in case the sight of the name on a callback slip should spark some flicker of memory for either of her parents. Instead, she chose to identify herself by the first surname that came to mind that started with the same first three letters. "Yes ma'am. That's right. I'm Hermione Graves."

"Hermione? What are lovely first name. If I'm not mistaken, its origins are Greek. It means, 'well born."

Hermione smiles uncomfortably, "Yes, that's right."

The dentist eyes her with a moment of intense focus and then shakes her head apologetically. "Forgive me, dear. You've made an appointment to see a dentist because you're in pain, and here I stand prattling on about the origin of names."

Hermione touches her own cheek, feigning discomfort. "It's alright. I don't mind."

"Yes, well, come on back. You're our last patient of the day. You'll have the place to yourself there's nobody left today. It's just me and my husband. He's cleaning up after his last patient."

Hermione crosses the small reception area with its tiny waiting room that probably looks like the waiting room of every other dentist office in the world with its uncomfortable chairs, and it's out of date copies of Highlights children's magazine and Redbook. Down a nearly nonexistent hallway, she steps over the threshold of an exam room that is just as familiar as the waiting room.

Clad in her white dentist's smock, the doctor nods toward the exam chair as she steps to the small sink in the room and washes her hands for what might be the 15th time since she began her workday. "Make yourself comfortable."

Hermione hangs her handbag on the conveniently placed hook of the utilitarian coat rack and then removes her lightweight summer sweater being careful to remove the wand stored up her sleeve as well. While the doctor is busy snapping on pair of purple latex gloves, her back still turned, Hermione points her wand and whispers, "Ad conscientia."

Monica straightens her spine slightly, something indefinable about her posture changing, "Did you say somethi…" She turns to face her daughter with an odd expression, confusion seeping from every pore.

Hermione stands rooted to the floor with her hands behind her back like a guilty child.

Monica Wilkins is gone, leaving a very uprooted and disoriented Monica Granger in her place. "Hermione? Hermione. Oh, sweetheart!"

The next thing Hermione knows, she's in a rib-crushing hug and blinking back tears as she thanks the gods. She did it right, at least it seems like she did. Memory charms can be tricky, and catastrophic if done wrong. She returns her mother's hug with fervor. "Hi Mum!"

She hardly has time to inhale before her mother is calling out loudly, "Wendell, Wendell, get in here!"

It takes a moment of anxious silence and then Hermione hears the familiar sound of her father's foot falls approaching rapidly. The door opens again, and he rushes into the room. "What's the matter, Mona…" He stops short, wondering who the unfamiliar girl is, and why his wife is embracing her.

"Wendell, she's here!"

"Who's here?" He asks, just as perplexed as his wife had been a moment before.

"Wen, it's Hermione!"

He stares at the young woman in his wife's arms without recognition.

"Wen, honey, what's the matter with you? It's Herm…"

Unable to watch the confusion continue another moment, Hermione points her wand and repeats, "Ad Conscientia."

She watches her father go to the same moment of blind disorientation. She sees Wendell Wilkins melt away as Wendell Granger resurfaces.

Startled, confused, and frightened, her mother demands, "Hermione Granger, what did you just do to your father?"

Yep. It definitely worked. Only her mother has that tone of voice. Hermione has never been so happy to be scolded in her life.

"It's okay Mum. I promise. Everything will be alright now. I didn't do anything bad. Not today. I just returned his memory. That's all." Hermione wrinkles her nose hopefully. "Right Dad?"

Wendell Granger runs his fingers through hair that is going prematurely gray at the temples; confused for a single moment longer before recognition sets his eyes aglow. "Baby." He steps forward and folds his arms around his daughter somewhat gentler than his wife had done, but with no less emotion.

Feeling his arms around her for the first time in nearly a year, Hermione loses any hope of holding in the tears. "Hey Dad. How are you?"

"I'm good… Except I haven't seen or heard from my little girl in almost a year. I hope you can explain that sweetheart because I'm really confused. I remember the last year. I remember moving to Australia without you. I remember not knowing that you existed." With his arm still around Hermione, he turns to his wife, quietly seeking confirmation.

Monica nods but with some hesitation as a frown of uncertainty creases her brow.

Glancing her way, Hermione explains, "It's coming back more slowly for you than it is Dad, but don't worry, it will come back. I promise. Try to relax. It'll probably come faster if you don't chase after it."

Wendell Granger gently forces his daughter to step back so he can look at her. "How are you? Where have you been? You look… The same, but different. Are you alright?"

Hermione nods. "I'm fine Dad. Even better now that I've found the two of you. I was afraid I might not be able to find you, or afraid that I might not be able to reverse the spell I cast last year."

Wendell's face falls, but his need to understand pushes him onward more quickly than his wife.

"Isn't it obvious?" Monica asks with something dark creeping into her voice. "We let her go to that school. She's taken what she's learned and turned it against us."

Hermione winces and begs in a whisper, "Please let me explain."

"I don't need you to explain." Monica says, her voice hard and unnaturally quiet. "It's quite obvious to me. You either wanted to go somewhere or do something you knew we wouldn't approve of. So, somehow, you've used that wand - turned it against us in order to get your own way. I'm not quite sure how, but somehow you've manipulated us, controlled us." She turns to her husband. "Wendell, I told you this would happen eventually."

Wendell nods slowly. "I remember. And, I told you then, that our girl would never do such a thing without supreme motivation. Can we postpone the shouting, the accusations, and the disapproval until after we give her a chance to explain?"

"I don't care why!" Monica shouts. She glares at her daughter. "There is no excuse. Not one! Do you hear me young lady?"

Stung to hear her mother say that she expected something like this would happen all along, Hermione inhales deeply and tries in vain to keep from sounding defensive. "If you expected something like this, you must've thought very little of me. I didn't want to do it. If I had wanted to do it, then I would've removed your memories of the last year before restoring the previous ones. That would've been simplest for me, then I could've avoided all this and everything that's about to come, but I never actually wanted to rob you of your memories. Doing it once was unbearable. I couldn't do it a second time. Do you honestly think I wanted you to forget about me?"

When tears slip from her lashes, Wendell pulls her into his arms again. Of course not, but it was a pretty horrible thing to do. Tell us why. Tell us there is a good reason."

Hermione's next words tumble out in a heated rush. "I had to protect you. I had to go with Harry. It was the right thing to do, Dad. I didn't have a choice. But, Mum's right. I knew if I explained everything last year that the two of you would put up a fight, and I couldn't let that happen. I knew you would want to keep Harry, or at least me, safe and not going with Harry was not an option. Voldemort was looking for him, if he'd found out that I was with Harry, he would've used you to get to me and by extension, Harry. That couldn't happen. But there's been a war, and it's over now. We won. Voldemort is dead, but Harry isn't. As soon as it was safe for me to do it, I came for you. I've missed you both so much. There's so much to tell you." She turns pleading eyes on her mother. "If you'll listen."

Harry isn't really surprised when Andromeda Tonks smiles with mournful appreciation but, doesn't even bother to open the cases containing the posthumously awarded medals for both, her daughter and her son-in-law. Very few of the people they've visited have given the awards their loved ones have received more than a passing glance. Harry understands. What comfort is a medal when the person it honors will never walk through the front door again?

He sits, perched uncomfortably on the edge of an overstuffed floral-patterned sofa cushion, merely because he was told to do so by their courteous host. No sooner than she leaves the room, Harry is on his feet again, pacing anxiously as he whispers to Kingsley Shacklebolt. "I wish she'd yell at me."

Puzzled by this, Shacklebolt raises an eyebrow and whispers back, "What for?"

Harry shrugs. "Yell at me, or cry, or scream. She could do anything instead of being so… nice."

"Harry, she's a nice woman."

"I know. I've been here before. I mistook her for her sister, Bellatrix. I nearly attacked her. They look a lot alike… Well, you know. They're very similar, except Bellatrix looked, eh…"

"Less stable." Shacklebolt intones judiciously.

"She was nice even then. So was Mr. Tonks. She's lost so many people she cares for because of this war. Her husband, her daughter, her son-in-law… Even her sister."

"I don't know if this makes it any easier for her, or not. It wouldn't for me if it were one of my siblings but, she hadn't spoken to Bellatrix in years. Her family ostracized her when she married Ted."

"Yeah, I know. Tonks told me. Bloody lousy of them. The Dursley's weren't exactly overjoyed by my existence, but at least they didn't turn their backs on me. Who is she going to fall back on? Who does she have left?"

"She has her friends, the Order, and she has her grandson."

"Yeah, but don't baby's take more than they give."

"They take time, energy, and a lot of love. If you treat them right, and I believe she will treat Teddy right, they give a lot of that last one right back. Until he's able to give her something more than just his love, he will also give her a reason to keep going."

Harry looks at his shoes. "I wish I'd killed him 17 years ago."

Shacklebolt reaches out and places a hand on Harry's shoulder and waits for him to look up. When Harry does make eye contact he says, "Doing so likely would have killed you too."

Harry runs his fingers through his hair in agitation. "Maybe that wouldn't have been so bad. Not if it could have prevented all of this.

"Harry, survivor's guilt won't do you a damn bit of good. He's dead. You're not. Kick some dirt over his corpse and move on. Too many people died for you to carry his ghost around with you for the rest of your life. The best way you can honor their sacrifice is to go out there and live your life to the best of your ability."

"I'll second that." Andromeda Tonks comes down the stairs, joining them again with a tiny bundle wrapped in a powder blue baby blanket decorated with white stars and nestled securely in her arms. "Here he is. Fresh and bright-eyed from his morning nap. Would you like to hold him?"

Harry mumbles something unintelligible and reaches out hesitantly, not at all certain he should hold the child Andromeda Tonks is offering him. He's never held a baby before. What if he does it wrong?

"Well, go on then, boy. His daddy was a werewolf, not a glassblower. Just support his head. He's not old enough to do it for himself yet."

Harry takes the baby holding him in mid-air, placing his hands under the baby's arms and using his outstretched fingers to support his head.

Andromeda laughs at him despite the evidence of recent tears on her face that have now gone dry. "No, not like that. Don't hold him like he's a sacrifice to the gods. Snuggle him close to your chest; it'll make him feel safe."

"Yes ma'am." Harry moves the baby boy who is not even a month old yet in close to his body, as opposed to holding him an arm's length away, and cradles him in his arms.

Mrs. Tonks nods her approval. "There, that's better."

The baby squirms and wriggles a bit, flexing his tiny fingers and moving his arms about, but he does not fuss over being placed in the arms of a total stranger. Instead, he seems to study Harry every bit as closely as Harry is studying him.

Mrs. Tonks smiles at the pair of them. "You can sit if you'd like, Harry." She gestures again toward the sofa in her small but cozy front parlor. "Would you gentlemen care for some refreshment."

"No, thank you, ma'am." Shacklebolt returns to his seat, watching Harry watch the baby in his arms.

Harry gently touches the baby's hand and grins when Teddy takes hold of his index finger reflexively. Nearing complete awe, he whispers,

"He's so small!"

Mrs. Tonks frowns curiously. "He's not small. He's nearly nine pounds. He's gained two since he was born three and ½ weeks ago."

Harry looks up startled by her confusion. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean any offense. I haven't spent a lot of time around babies. He seems small to me, but then, I don't have any pictures of myself before I was a year old. I've seen pictures of my cousin, Dudley, on the day he was born. Even then, he was huge compared to this little guy. Dudley always has been rather… well… large." He turns his attention back to the baby. "Hiya, Teddy. So, you're my godson? I knew your parents and someday I'm going to tell you all about them."

The baby coos and Harry watches, completely spellbound as the little tuft of turquoise colored hair on the boy's head slowly begins to change, going from turquoise to a darker shade of blue, to purple, to brown, and finally to jet black before it suddenly goes from lying flat on top of his head to sticking out in all directions. "Well that's kinda cool. I guess you're gonna take after your mum, eh."

"He does this every time he meets someone new."

Harry raises an eyebrow, "Does what?"

Teddy's grandmother smiles. "Keep watching. You'll like it, I think."

Harry returns his gaze to the baby in time to watch his blue eyes transition to green. The bridge of the baby's nose elongates comically and then snaps back to a more appropriate length, and Harry can't help but laugh when a jagged little lightning bolt shaped scar softly begins to materialize in the center of the baby's forehead.

"Whoa! Hey, that's impressive! Can he do animal faces yet, like Tonks?"

Andromeda smiles and shakes her head. "He will. Soon enough. He's just a baby. So far, he only mimics what he sees, and because his vision is still developing, his ability is a bit limited at the moment. You have to be very close for him to see you, and even then, he may not see you clearly."

"He can see well enough to at least try to mimic my scar. The hair isn't quite right but, that's okay. He only has a very little bit to work with."

Harry grins at the baby. "When you're old enough to go to Hogwarts, you'll be able to impersonate people without the need of Polyjuice potion. You don't know how lucky you are. That stuff is revolting!" Harry pretends to gag, and the baby smiles.

Shacklebolt chuckles softly. "Potter, as his godfather, I don't think you're supposed to encourage that kind of thing."

Harry shrugs, grinning again. "I don't think it matters whether I encourage it or not. He's the son of my friends, Remus and Nymphadora. Plus, this kid is related to Sirius Black, my godfather. That kind of behavior is just in his blood."

Andromeda laughs. "The boy knows of what he speaks. I can only wish that Sirius was still around to meet Teddy. He was great fun to grow up with. I'm nearly four years older than he was, but I had no brothers of my own. As my cousin, he sort of filled the spot meant for a little brother. I tried in vain to get him to behave, and he tried valiantly to corrupt me at every possible opportunity."

An eager light begins to glow in Harry's eyes. "Will you tell me about him?" He immediately backpedals, adding softly, "If it's not too hard for you. All I have are… Well…"

She smiles sadly. "All you have are memories. I know the feeling. Let's see…"

Harry watches her face come alive, and he realizes just how pretty she is as she searches her storehouse of memories. He can see something of the family resemblance in all three sisters, but Ted Tonks' wife lacks both Narcissa's haughtiness and Bellatrix's madness until what is left behind is simply pretty, in a clean, uncomplicated, sort of way.

"I guess it would have been their second - no, their third - year, my last year, he and James. They weren't bad. They were just a couple of clowns having fun together, making mischief and egging each other on. One day, just before midterm they took it into their heads that they shouldn't have to stay awake in History of Magic if even the professor couldn't do so. So naturally, when they got in trouble for sleeping, they decided to keep everybody else awake as well. The pair of them, they unleashed an entire crate of blast-ended skrewts in the classroom. Well, you can just imagine. In the commotion, nobody else was quite sure who'd done it. Magnolia George stepped on a skrewt in the midst of it all and nearly toppled headfirst down the stairs leading to Professor Binns office. I knew just who the responsible party had to be. I decided that, before somebody got seriously hurt, I would take it upon myself to scare the daylights out of Sirius. I sent him a phony howler the next morning at breakfast. Back then, the only thing that truly scared Sirius was Aunt Walburga – not that he would admit it. No. Not to save his own life. So, next morning at breakfast, there's his mother's voice wailing out of a howler envelope for everyone in the Great Hall to hear and she's raging on about how if he doesn't straighten up and fly right immediately, she's going to come up and thrash him good in front of the entire school. Only, something went wrong with the incantation and right at the end of the howler's message, it was obvious it wasn't Aunt Walburga's voice. It was only a couple of words, nobody else knew it was me. Nobody except for Sirius… And the fink ratted me out! Next thing I know I'm the one standing in the headmaster's office, and Dumbledore is patiently explaining that he's already spoken to Sirius, and that he is speaking to me only to give me the same lecture he gave my cousin. 'It's not nice to be a turncoat. Especially when the person you're informing on happens to be family.' I got the distinct impression that he was amused by our antics, but not by our willingness to give each other up. However, before he could finish his rather lighthearted lecture, the door to his office flew open and Professor McGonagall strode into the room. She was quite the sight - dripping wet, soaked to the skin, head to toe, and so angry she could hardly string two words together coherently. I remember Dumbledore exclaiming, 'Minerva! What in the name of Merlin's fuzzy purple socks!' She just stood there perseverating. It took several seconds before she finally managed one clear, concise word. 'towel.' Instead of conjuring her a towel, Dumbledore simply pointed his wand and a moment later, she was dry as a bone. She straightened her robes, collected herself, and offered a prim 'thank you.' Naturally, Dumbledore wanted to know what happened to her. We both did, but not more than a dozen words into the story, I was shown the door. Over the years, I have pieced together the story courtesy of conversations I have had with your mother, your father, your godfather, and Remus. At some point; probably at the end of their second year, your mother, who was muggle-born, and as such, had a wealth of knowledge about things we knew nothing of, tells the merry marauder's about a popular movie in the muggle world, The Wizard of Oz. I'm sure they all found it quite entertaining. Apparently, at first, they thought she was having them on. Over summer break James managed to see the movie somehow. He comes back to school the next fall, he tells Sirius that Lilly wasn't joking, and what's more, the actress who played the Wicked Witch of The West also doubled as Elmira Gulch the unfriendly, and overly pious, neighbor who didn't care for Dorothy's scruffy little dog. He then proceeds to tell Sirius that Mrs. Gulch bares a somewhat striking resemblance to a certain teacher at the school and that he's bound and determined to find out before the end of the year if said teacher really will melt when doused with a bucket of water."

Harry's eyes widen with a mixture of mirth and dread. He covers his mouth in a fruitless attempt to stifle his own laughter as he shakes his head, saying in vain, "No! Tell me they didn't… Oh, she must have been… So…" He can't stop laughing, even when he notices that the baby in his arms is laughing with him.

Andromeda laughs along with everyone else in the room. "I'm only telling you this because you're done with school. I don't think the word 'angry' quite covered it. You didn't see her face that day. She was nothing short of feral. The two of them, Sirius and your father, they couldn't talk Remus into joining them. He took the high road, claiming that he didn't need something to fear worse than he feared the full moon. So, Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee set out alone together to see if they could melt themselves a witch. Somehow, they rigged several buckets of water over the door to the transfiguration classroom, made the buckets invisible, and charmed the door to lock behind her when she exited the classroom. They were watching when it happened, but because it happened midafternoon in a crowded corridor… Well, you can imagine the melee. Students were in hysterics. Sirius and James escaped into the crowd, and because she couldn't duck back into her classroom, McGonagall hiked up seven flights of stairs all the way to the headmaster's office dripping wet with students laughing every step of the way. At first, she didn't know who had done it, or why. I think that's the only thing that saved them. By the time she figured out who was responsible, she'd had time enough to calm down a bit. I thought that when she figured out who was to blame, they would be expelled, or worse, annihilated, but no! McGonagall, she's very shrewd. Somehow, she uncovered the truth. I told James that when she did, his goose would be cooked. He'd never play quidditch again, no matter how much she liked the game. To his credit, that thought did seem to worry him. On a Monday morning about two months later, she sidestepped your father on her way to the head table and, quiet as you please, she said something for his ears only. I was across the room at the Slytherin table. So, I didn't hear her, but… oh Harry, how I wish you could have seen the look that came over your father's face. It was beyond priceless when she leaned in and whispered, 'I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog too."

Seated on the sofa again and laughing so hard his ribs hurt, Harry chokes out, "Good… for… her! God, they were Fred and George before Fred and George! You have to tell me. What did she do to them?"

For a while, she didn't do anything. She just let them imagine the worst. She had both of them looking over their shoulders every day for more than a month, which I have to believe was part of her evil plan.

I'm sure all she had to do was listen to chatter around the castle to get some idea of who was responsible. When it was all said and done, rumor was that she was tutoring Pettigrew because he was behind with his transfiguration homework. That she plied him with biscuits, and that he spilled the beans."

"That wouldn't surprise me. Harry replies drolly, talking to the baby in his lap.

But McGonagall was in no hurry. She bided her time. Gave them time to relax. Then, two weeks before the final quidditch match of the year, Sirius borrowed your father's broom one afternoon to go and have a game with some of their housemates. James was busy serving detention for dropping frog spawn soap into one of your mother's potions. Plus, he was trying to make up with Lily who was ready to gut him for ruining the same, absolutely exquisite, batch of forgetting potion. By the time the game ended, and Sirius returned late to the dormitory, your father was asleep. He had quidditch practice the next morning. He woke Sirius up searching for his broom and was horrified when Sirius informed him that the broom had been stolen the night before."

Harry groans. "If somebody stole my broom… Well, I would not be okay!"

Andromeda smiles wryly. "I don't think your dad was either. According to Sirius, he was talking to some mates in the changing rooms after their game and he happened to turn and catch sight of a small hooded figure making off with your dad's broom. He gave chase. Apparently, he even attempted to stun the thief and was mystified because although he was certain he hit them squarely between the shoulder blades, nothing happened. Sirius was just as sick about the loss of the broom as your dad was. He knew what that broom meant to James. He promised he would buy your dad a new broom, but then Uncle Orion refused to allow Sirius to pay for a replacement, which James said was just as well anyway because the broom had belonged to your grandfather, Fleamont, and a new broom wouldn't have the same sentimental value. Well, they searched the school in desperation trying to get anyone to own up to pulling the prank. The final match was getting closer and closer. The house cup was still up for grabs, and of course, they were playing Slytherin. For a while, they even though the Slytherin team might be behind the theft. However, when Sirius threatened to pound Lucius Malfoy into oblivion if he didn't return the broom… Well, Lucius was scared to death of Sirius. If he had taken the broom, or had knowledge of anyone else taking it, he would have sung like a canary. James was practicing on one of the school brooms, and things were not going well. I don't mind telling you, as much as I wanted Slytherin to win that year, I felt bad for them. The closer they got to game day the more tense things became. Naturally, the two boys started sniping at each other. Things came to a head, and one day they finally had an honest to goodness row out in the clock tower courtyard. During the confrontation Sirius let slip that it had not been a hooded stranger who had taken James's broom but a sadistic looking monkey with very strange eyes."

Harry squints in astonishment, wanting to make sure he heard correctly, he asks, "A monkey?"

Andromeda nods. "For a minute, I swear I thought James was going to pound on him, but since the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, Sirius was talking fast. 'That's why I didn't tell you. I knew you wouldn't believe me. It sounds mad, but I swear mate, it was a bloody monkey." Well, we were all sort of stunned when suddenly your dad looked as if he didn't know whether to groan, vomit, or laugh. He shouted, 'Merlin's pants, Sirius! You should have told me this a month ago!' Sirius couldn't see how knowing that some creepy looking monkey had absconded with his friend's broom and used it to fly off into the night had improved their situation. James just laughed. 'Don't you get it? What are you, thick? Flying monkey? Mate, the game is afoot, and we've got less than four days to figure out where that witch is holding my broom hostage and steal it back!"

Harry grins and bounces Teddy gently in his lap. "Oh brother! Here we go again."

Well, they stopped fighting amongst themselves, and joined forces again, and they tried everything they could think of. They crept into her classroom one night. Somehow managing to get past the fact that it was secured with a new password. They found the room stacked halfway to the ceiling with brooms. Every broom imaginable, but not James's broom. They sneaked into her office one night and missed dinner because they got locked in. They barely managed to escape out one of the windows before she caught them. I remember the two of them complaining they should've known it was too easy to get into the office. The door did not accidentally lock behind them. She'd enchanted it to do that. When they tried to gain access into her private quarters, they fell for their own trap and got drenched. Only, it wasn't just plain water. It was water with some kind of dye in it. They both spent all night in the boy's bathroom in the showers scrubbing themselves raw, because the stain refused to be magically removed. Their faces, arms, and hands were the same reddish pink color as radishes. They managed to come clean, but first thing the next morning they had transfiguration class and had a miserable time trying to stay awake. Inside, McGonagall had to have been laughing hysterically at the sight of them, but she never cracked a smile. Finally, with less than two days before the big game - James wanted to get in at least one practice with his own broom before the match - he swallowed his pride and marched into her office with your godfather standing right beside him. Sirius wouldn't let him go into the lion's den alone. The two of them fessed up to the whole sorted witch-dunking debacle.

Harry cringes. "Poor Dad! Poor Sirius!"

Remus once told me that he wasn't really all that surprised when James reported that all she had to say when they were done confessing was, "I see." They must've been standing there waiting for her to bring down the lightning. When she didn't, they got even more nervous which, until that moment, neither of them knew was possible. So naturally, they both started talking fast about serving detention without complaint for half the upcoming school year, if James could just please have his broom back. I'm sure they were just babbling at that point. Sirius told me she just stood there and let them ramble on. When they finally realized she wasn't scolding them or threatening to expel them, they stopped and she handed the broom over and informed them that six months' worth of detention was not necessary, but they would both be scrubbing the ink stain off of her office floor. That they would each swear never to try to enter her private quarters again, and that she would forgive the entire matter if James would do her the courtesy of beating the pants off of Slytherin house in the upcoming game… Which, he did."

Harry laughs. "He probably never played harder in his life."

"Now that I think about it, that could've been part of her plan all along. Your father had a nice broom. It was much easier to fly than anything the school had to offer. James used to brag about that. Maybe he got complacent, relied a little too much on the broom instead of skill. After she nicked his broom, he spent quite a while using the school brooms. He had to work harder at practice. He had to actually put some effort in."

Harry nods. "McGonagall would definitely do that. She took my broom once. For an entirely different reason, but…"

Andromeda nods. "Same result?"

"Pretty much."

"She could have been bitter over having been made a laughingstock of. When she didn't send them packing, I think they both realized they had made a friend for life. It was the talk of the school. For a few years after that, some brave and utterly foolish boy or girl would take it into their heads to try and outdo James and Sirius. A few aspiring students tried for a repeat of the witch-melting stunt – including Fred and George Weasley, I believe. No matter how hard they've tried to catch her unaware, no one has ever succeeded. To the best of my knowledge, James and Sirius remain the only two that have ever pulled it off."

"Thank you for telling me about that." Harry grins. I can't believe I got all the way through school without hearing about it. Well, I do remember once overhearing some kids saying that pulling a prank on her would be fun. I have no idea if they had something like that in mind. I just remember asking them if they had a death wish."

"You may have inadvertently talked them out of doing the same thing without realizing that's what you were doing. They may have assumed you knew about it, being James's son."

"The very first moment I saw her, I decided she was not someone I ever wanted to mess about with. The look on her face that night…" Harry shakes his head. "You could not have paid me to dump even one bucket, much less several buckets, of water on that lady."

Having left the dental office in favor of a more comfortable environment, the three of them are seated at her parents' tiny kitchen table, and the tea in their cups has gone completely cold. Her mother makes tea just for the comfort of routine. No one is actually interested in drinking it. Hermione's father, who simply wants to understand why she's taken the action she has, listens attentively to every word while occasionally putting one hand on his wife shoulder to stop her from interrupting. He says patiently each time. "Just let her tell it her way. Ask questions when she's done.

When she is finally finished, Hermione inhales deeply as if it's something she hasn't done for a very long time.

Her mother is gray-faced and tight-lipped.

Her father, wide-eyed and fidgeting nervously, exclaims quietly. "You fought… in a war?"

"Yeah Daddy, I did."

"Are you okay? Are you hurt? Were you injured? Do you need anything?"

"I'm okay Dad." Hermione reaches out and squeezes his hand. "The last couple of nights I've had some pretty wicked nightmares, but all in all, I think I'm doing remarkably well for a girl who dueled Bellatrix Lestrange." She glances nervously at her mother, who is suddenly across the room with her back turned and standing at the kitchen sink scrubbing the teapot ten times harder than it needs to be scrubbed. "I did it because I couldn't stand by and let Voldemort take control."

Angry tears of betrayal fall from Monica Granger's eyes as she refuses to look at her daughter. "I don't care why you did it. We should have been given the opportunity to say 'No! No, we don't want that for our daughter."

"Mum, don't you understand? If Voldemort had gained the power he wanted, if he had gained control of the wizarding world, I'd be marked for death. As far as he was concerned, I am a mud-blood! I am not saying I agree with him. He thought anyone who wasn't a pure-blood witch or wizard from the oldest of family lines didn't deserve to breathe. Anyone who couldn't prove that they were 100% wizard would have been slaughtered. That means me. That means hundreds of thousands of magical people and squibs who were all born with absolutely no control over who their ancestors were. I could've stayed home. Chances are, if I had, we wouldn't be having this conversation or any variation of it because, I would be dead. He was a homicidal bully with a wand. I had to fight - as much for my own life as for the lives of anyone else who wasn't able to fight. I had to do everything I could to help my friend, Harry."

Monica turns to face her daughter. "What's a squib?"

Hermione almost smiles because she knows that the question alone means that at least her mother is listening. She joins her mother at the sink. "A squib is a person with magical parents who has no magic of their own."

Wendell squints. "Like you, only in reverse?"

Turning her back to the sink, so she can see both her parents, Hermione nods. "Only, it's worse for them. At least I could fight back. A non-magical person has a snowball's chance in hell against an evil wizard."

Losing a smidgen of her anger, Monica asks, "And, you had a better chance? You're 17. He was what, 50 or 60?"

"He was 70. And usually, the older a wizard gets the more powerful he becomes. He was still relatively young compared to some wizards. Albus Dumbledore was 116 when he died last year."

"Wait! Dumbledore is dead?"

"Yes, Dad. I'm sure I told you that last summer before I left. Maybe you just don't remember yet. It'll come. Give it time."

"Who has been in charge of the school for the last year?" Monica demands to know.

"Death eaters… But I wasn't there. Not until the battle."

"Those poor kids!" Fresh tears fall from her mother's eyes.

"See, that's what I'm trying to get you to understand. The death eaters, they were practicing the Cruciartus curse on first-year students – as a teaching method. When Neville Longbottom refused to participate, they used it on him. That's the same curse that drove his parents mad. To this day, they are still in St. Mungo's in the long-term care wing. I had to be there. I didn't have a choice, Mum. All it takes for evil to prevail is for g…"

Monica nods. "is for good men to do nothing. I know. Who do you think taught you that?" She tosses a dish towel in the sink in frustration. "But I still don't like it!"

Hermione chuckles. "You don't have to like it. You shouldn't. I don't need you to like it, I just need you to understand, Mum… please."

"What are we supposed to do now?" She puts her hands on her hips. "Are we just supposed to uproot our lives again and go back to London?"

"You can if you want to," Hermione shrugs. "but there's absolutely no reason why you can't just stay here."

Demonstrating from which parent Hermione got her eagerness for calling attention to herself in class, Wendell slowly raises his hand. When he has the attention of both females in the room, he says, "We're gonna need a bigger house. This one only has two bedrooms."

Hermione squints. "That's okay Dad."

"Uh…" He looks to his wife, obviously seeking her approval for something. "Mona?"

She nods silently.

Hermione's head swivels as if she's watching a tennis match. "What?"

Wendell clears his throat, looking more than a bit sheepish.

Hermione sighs and motions to hurry them along. "You guys; spit it out. Whatever it is, it cannot be half as bad as what I just laid on you."

Monica smiles for the first time since Hermione arrived on the doorstep at the office. "She has a point there, Wen."

Wendell clears his throat for the second time, "Well, see, we thought we had no children."

Hermione squints again. "I get that."

"Your mother is pregnant… with twins."

Hermione hesitates a single moment before her mouth falls open to form a perfect 'O' then, she asks quietly, "You're not joking?"

Monica grimaces. "No. We are not joking."

It takes Hermione another long 3 seconds before she starts to laugh.

Both of her parents stare at her as if they're concerned about her mental well-being.

"But, this is perfect! I always wanted a little brother or sister. I mean, I thought I'd be a little closer to their age, but now I have at least a chance of getting one of each. You two said no. You always said, 'one child is enough."

Wendell laughs and crosses the room to fold his arms around his daughter. "We meant it, but then somebody went and wiped herself from our minds. So, don't you think for one second, young lady, that you're gonna be getting out of diaper duty."

Hermione laughs. "Sign me up. All you have to do is call. I'll just pop over from London anytime, day or night."

"London, eh? You have plans?"

Hermione nods, displaying just a tiny bit of uncertainty. "I'd like to try for a post with the Ministry of Magic – specifically the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Professor McGonagall thinks I've got a good shot even though I missed the last year of school. She says she'll give up what little she has of her summer to help me prepare for my NEWT's in six weeks; which I have to pass with flying colors if I'm going to have any hope of getting such a position. I'd like to change the laws that are written in open opposition to anyone who isn't pure-blood. I'd like to make them more inclusive."

Monica raises an eyebrow. "That sounds like an arduous undertaking."

Hermione shrugs. "I survived a battle against one of the darkest wizards in centuries. Not to sound glib, but I think I can handle it."

"And what about you and this Potter boy?" Her dad winks.

Hermione takes ½ step away from him, holding out her hands and shaking her head. "No Dad. You've got the wrong idea. Harry is my friend. He's a great friend, but he is… just my friend."

Wendell squints in surprise. "Oh? You went to a positively herculean amount of trouble for a boy who is 'just a friend."

"Yes, I did. He deserved it. It doesn't change the fact that he's just a friend." She clears her throat. "Actually, since you brought it up… I'm with Ron."

Monica smiles as if she has expected such an announcement for quite some time. "Ron Weasley." She prods the memory of her confused husband.

"The ginger-haired one with the expressive face that gives away all his secrets?"

Hermione nods eagerly. "That's him. I need to send him an owl. He wanted to come with me on this trip. I told him that it would be better if I was alone. He'll be worried until he hears from me, and probably in a foul temper. I'm sure he's driving his family mad." She reaches for her bag in the center of the kitchen table and while she is rummaging through her pocketbook, a glowing gold medallion spills out of it catching the attention of all three.

Picking it up with tentative fingers, Hermione puzzles aloud, talking to herself. "That's odd."

Her dad places a hand on her shoulder. "What's odd exactly? I mean, other than the fact that you're holding a gold coin that is glowing."

"This is my coin for the D.A. It's how we used to communicate with each other - schedule meetings, and practice sessions. We haven't used them in a while. It shouldn't be glowing – unless they're trying to reach me for some reason. I need to call Ron. He'll know what's going on."

In the subbasement below the potions laboratory, Filius Flitwick quick steps around two members of the AMR squad and dashes to McGonagall's side breathlessly. "Minerva, they're here." He declares in an urgent whisper.

Busy mending an elongated crack in the wall of the basement, McGonagall finishes a downward stroke before lowering her wand. "What?" She presses a lace-lined handkerchief to the hollow of her perspiring neck. "Oh, I'm sorry. Hello, Filius. Who's here?"

"The board of governors, or more precisely, what's left of the board of governors."

"What? Now?"

He nods. "Yes, I am afraid so."

She sighs, "Of course, they are. Shacklebolt told me he would stall them as long as he could. I guess I should be grateful he could stall them this long."

"What you want me to do? I tried explaining that you are very busy, and that no meeting has been properly scheduled. The Cosgrove woman seems – this may sound odd, but she seems as if she's a woman standing on a precipice waiting to jump."

McGonagall smirks. "Then Ralinda hasn't changed in the last 50 years. Where are they now?"

"In the entrance hall."

"Alright, you stay here. Take my place. I'll go up."

Flitwick nods and pulls out his wand without another word as McGonagall puts purpose in her stride, but at the same time refuses to hurry.

Turning back on afterthought, she asks, "How do I look?"

Flitwick gives her the once over before he answers honestly. "Like you and ½ dozen other people have been repairing the foundation of a war-torn 1500-year-old castle."

"Lovely." She mutters mordantly beneath her breath.

Even before she has time enough to rethink turning her wand on herself, Flitwick offers, "Not that you asked me, but I'd go just like that if I were you."

McGonagall squints.

"It's not by accident that they showed up here without first going through proper channels to schedule a meeting. They're trying to catch you off guard - to unnerve you. Use the shock value to your own advantage. Give them a taste of their own medicine. War is messy, and you're busy woman with many demands on your time. Don't pretend otherwise, especially not just for their comfort. Let them see you just as you are. If they want a presentable Headmistress, all bright and shiny like a freshly minted penny, which is pretty much worthless these days, then suggest to them that they should have been polite enough to call ahead."

McGonagall touches his shoulder in thanks before she turns and steps away with her robes snapping softly around her heels.

Halfway up to the ground floor level of the building she points her wand and, without uttering a single word, she calls for the castle's floor plan and the newly drawn schematic that details all the current damage. By the time she steps out of the stairwell, she has them in hand, and when she opens the western door to the entrance hall, seven people - three men and four women - turn to face her expectantly.

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Hogwarts. If you will be so kind as to follow me, we will be meeting in…"

A witch in her mid-sixties who is over six feet tall in her stockings, and still finds it necessary to wear 3-inch heels, gives a soft yelp of surprise. "My stars, Minerva! You look as though you've taken up prize fighting!"

"Hello Ralinda. It's nice to see you too. You still look as if you've just stepped off the cover of Witch Weekly. Still dressing to compete with girls ¼ your age, I see."

Ralinda Cosgrove throws her a dazzling smile, completely unaware of the fact that McGonagall doesn't consider her own words a compliment. However, the well-delivered slight isn't lost to Narcissa Malfoy who snaps to attention, suddenly more interested in being present than she is in inspecting her own manicure, which is what she had been doing prior to McGonagall's arrival.

"As I was saying, if you will all follow me to the Great Hall. I'm afraid my office is not large enough to accommodate all eight of us."

"Your office?" Narcissa seeks an explanation. "The new minister gave us reason to believe that you have assumed the role of headmistress."

"Oh good." McGonagall offers her a chilly smile. "Then you have been in touch with Minister Shacklebolt. You have at least some awareness of what's going on here."

Narcissa nods noncommittally. "A very small idea. Your communication with the board of governors has been rather vague in the last few days."

"Forgive me. I've been a wee bit busy, and I received your first request for information the same evening as the conclusion of the battle. At that point in time, we were still gathering information. It was impossible to pass on what we didn't yet know for ourselves."

"We?"

"The remaining staff and myself – and while I'm explaining things – I have not…" McGonagall forms quote marks in the air with her fingers. "assumed' any position. Prior to his death - prior to all this nonsense - Albus Dumbledore chose me as his deputy headmistress. That means, by right, the position of headmistress is now mine, and it is my full intention to serve this school, as I always have, to the best of my ability."

They step into the Great Hall as Narcissa frowns quizzically. "You call war nonsense?"

"In this case, yes. I do. I don't know what else to call a homicidal maniac hell bent on the genocide of his own people attacking a school full of children. By its very definition, to me, that…" McGonagall stresses the last three words of her sentence. "makes no sense."

"I see." Narcissa makes meaningful eye contact. "and you would have us believe that your office, as the headmistress of this school, is not big enough to accommodate the eight of us?"

"My soon-to-be former office is not big enough to accommodate the eight of us. The headmaster's office at the top of Gryffindor tower is more than large enough for a party of this size." With a wave of her wand, McGonagall produces three wide blackboards side by side on the dais in front of the head table. After the moment necessary to magically move the table back as far as possible, she makes room for the group and, unfurling them with another gentle flick of her wand, she adheres the castle's floor plan and the recently acquired schematic that she still holds to the blackboards. "At present, due to massive amounts of, as yet, unrepaired damage, the head office is currently inaccessible." She points. "There is a large structural collapse here that prevents ingress. It will be dealt with as soon as it is safe for us to do so. We have other, more pressing matters, that myself, my staff, and the repair crew must see to first."

The only unfamiliar person in the group is a plain man, the sort who would be easily overlooked or even go altogether unnoticed on the average busy sidewalk in London, and he gives McGonagall the impression that he is aware of just how often he is overlooked when he raises his hand without hesitation or apology. Thus, effectively calling attention to himself before he asks simply, "Such as?"

"You must be Mr. Doherty." McGonagall approaches and reaches out, shaking his hand.

He smiles, pleased by her acknowledgment. "I am. How did you know?"

"Process of elimination. Yours is the only face in our group that I've never encountered before. Minister Shacklebolt mentioned that you have joined the board."

"First name is Jennings. You can call me Jenni. Everybody does."

"Welcome aboard. Now, as to your question, "I've consulted with a structural specialist who has informed me that our first task, is to repair the damage to the foundation. Work of there has already begun." Again, she points with her wand to the schematic displaying the damage. "Here, here… and here. All areas of the castle that are in need of repair have been roped off for everyone's security and we, as a group, will not be venturing into any of those areas today. The foundation must be repaired first if it is to soundly support all that is above. We are, most definitely, against the clock. The longer we wait, the worse the damage will become. Our intent is to fix it now before things have time to shift or deteriorate any further. Minister Shacklebolt has tasked a team of witches and wizards to lend a helping hand with the repair. First we see to the foundation, then the load-bearing walls, then the roof, parapets, towers, and various turrets. After that we will finally be able to start with the ground floor and work our way back up to the top. I have every confidence that the castle, including all of its outlying buildings and grounds will be ready to reopen at the start of term, come 1 September."

Jenni voices his acceptance. "Sounds like you're on the move."

McGonagall nods. "We have to be, especially if I want my staff to have any kind of a break this summer before returning to their teaching posts next fall. There's a lot of work to be done."

A florid-faced middle-aged man with bad acne and a weak chin that makes him look as if the bottom half of his face might slide into oblivion, questions, "What specialist? We haven't approved the inspection of the school by any structural analyst."

"I know one personally. He was here the morning after the battle. He offered his professional opinion. I accepted."

Narcissa Malfoy squints. "What's his name?"

"Laird McKinnon."

"I've never heard of him."

"That's not surprising. You and Mr. McKinnon travel in different circles. He's only loosely affiliated with the wizarding world."

"What you mean..." She sniffs in distaste. "is, he's a muggle and, if he's a structural engineer of any kind, he works with his hands. Am I right?"

"Precisely, He's a skilled craftsman; a carpenter and a sailor by trade and he's been doing both for more than 38 years. He's highly experienced, and there's nothing wrong with a hard day's work, even if it is with one's hands."

"Then, presumably, no matter how much experience he's had, if he's a muggle, he hasn't consulted, or done work on, an enchanted structure of this kind before."

"Hogwarts was his first, and he handled it with professionalism and the acumen I knew he would."

"Minerva, really, I'm surprised at you! You cannot show the floor plans for this castle to just anyone. You know that! There are centuries-old enchantments at work within these walls that he should have no knowledge of; things he has no hope of understanding."

"First of all, were he here, I think Laird McKinnon might surprise you with what he's capable of understanding, Mrs. Malfoy. Secondly, I do not require you to tell me what my obligations are. The security of this school and its students has been one of my primary concerns for longer than you've been breathing. We had a dire situation. The lives of three Hogwarts' students were in imminent peril. I had to act quickly for their sake, and I did. Those children had no time to wait for the board to convene. Mr. McKinnon was available. I obtained the necessary help, and I did it without divulging any of Hogwarts' many secrets. I did not show him the floor plans, nor did I mention any of the hundreds of enchantments that are at work within this building or on the grounds surrounding it; many of which I suspect you know nothing about."

Narcissa's eyes widen dramatically, but McGonagall plows on, not giving her the chance to respond. "Enchanted or not, this castle is, at its core, a building. Just one of many that I needed a structural analysis of. Mr. McKinnon provided those before he left here two days ago. Filius Flitwick created this schematic per the information he provided, and I am confident in their work. If you're not, hire your own team of analysts. Bring them in here. Let them do their own work. I am not opposed. However, I have no intention of halting or delaying the repair work that has already begun. We're just about to close out the first week of May. That means I have just over three months to get this place ready for approximately 750 returning students, and somewhere in the neighborhood of 350 new students."

Narcissa crosses her arms over her chest, taking a defensive posture. "You're jumping the gun. At this point, we need to discuss whether or not the school is even going to reopen."

"No. We do not! There is absolutely no benefit to closing this school. Do that and the only thing you will accomplish is punishing the students who will no longer be able to be educated here. What happened here last week was not their fault."

"Someone has to be held accountable. Dumbledore didn't listen to us. He ran this place like he was lord and master with you right by his side. Wasn't he the one who believed that the Potter boy would have to fight Lord Voldemort? All because of some convoluted prophecy? Come on, Minerva! He raised the boy like a lamb for slaughter, all to put an end to a man he didn't agree with, but he was too old and too weak to stop him on his own. So, he manipulated a boy into doing it for him. Furthermore, you don't have the authority or the ability to make that kind of decision, Minerva. You can't just decide the fate of the school on your own."

McGonagall grinds her teeth together to keep from shouting and clasps her hands behind her back to keep from strangling the woman. "I'll tell you what – Narcissa – I just did! As long as there is breath left in my body, the doors of this school will remain open to any young witch or wizard with the desire to learn. If you don't like that, you have two options. You can leave the board, or you can fire me! Until the day you manage that last one, I'm here - and, according to our bylaws, you need all 12 signatures to close this school and/or remove me from office. At present, you are at least five signatures short. Furthermore, you should know, I have the full backing of the current minister of magic, and by the time you have your number back up to 12, I intend to do so much good with this place that you'll be hard pressed to get 12 people to unanimously sign off on my vacation time, much less my removal. Beyond that, I have no interest in fighting with you. If you need someone to blame - someone to hold accountable - for what happened here, you need look no further than Tom Riddle and his rabble of extremist followers. He masterminded this entire inglorious disaster, and he's already paid for it - with his life. McGonagall makes eye contact with each of the seven board members. "I implore each of you… please, don't compound the problem by closing the doors of this school. Do that, and you will irreparably damage the lives and the skills of generations of witches and wizards to come, possibly even your own grandchildren, and I'm certain you don't want that! Narcissa, are you going to be happy if Draco's children, wind up seeking their education as far away as Durmstrang and Beauxbatons? I give you my word, I can make this place functional again before the start of the new term."

Althea Jordan clears her throat. "Can you really? I'm not trying to be the voice of dissension. Just let me play devil's advocate for a moment. Based on the amount of damage I saw just stepping onto the property… You've got your work cut out for you. My grand-nephew Lee knows I'm on the board. I don't mind telling you, he's talking my ears off – both of them. This place… The experiences he had going to school here, growing up here… they mean the world to him. He wants other children, particularly his younger sisters to have that opportunity. He speaks very highly of you. He tells me that you challenged him, kept him in line, and demanded a lot from him. He also tells me that no other teacher ever gave him more of themselves, their time, consideration, or compassion. Quite honestly, I don't want his sisters to go anywhere else, but Voldemort and the damage he and his followers did aside, let's talk more about those four underage students who I'm told returned to the castle… After being removed for their own safety? Why was no one watching out for them? Rumor is that one of them is still in the hospital wing."

McGonagall presses her lips together to keep from groaning aloud as she gives her next words due consideration and inhales deeply.

"You mentioned the amount of damage you've already seen and alluded to the fact that you're aware that there is much more to be seen. Four nights ago, this place was a war zone. That is not hyperbole. Look around you. People were fighting for their lives. People were killing each other right where you're standing. There were approximately 40 teachers in this building that night. Plus, a handful of other staff. There were also approximately 400 of age students, both past and present. There were maybe 100 other adults. Possibly as many as 150. We're talking a no more than 600 people present and accounted for to defend Hogwarts and everything that she stands for. They didn't exactly stand still for a head count. So, I'm only guessing, but there were at least three times that many death eaters in this building that night. To say that we were outnumbered is an egregious understatement. Children misbehave. They frequently do things they are not supposed to do. We were all spread terribly thin that night. I'm sorry I was not personally on hand to stop them from reentering this castle. I assure you, if I had been aware of their presence, no harm would have come to them. I would've sent them packing, even if I had to escort them back into Hogsmeade personally. They certainly would not have been here to be trapped under an absolutely mountainous pile of debris. As soon as I was made aware of the situation, I took steps to get them out. Three of them are fine… with the exception of minor bumps and bruises, and what I know are terrible memories. Yes, Misti Rivers is in the hospital wing. Yes, she is recovering from serious injury. She is currently in an induced state of sleep because it was the safest way to bring her out of confinement. Her injuries have been seen to and mended where possible. She is expected to recover. Apart from her, there were no underage casualties. The choice to come back into this castle was her own, and I am absolutely certain it is one she will regret for the rest of her days. People died here on Saturday and Sunday. A lot of people. People I care about. People you care about. Let's not blame each other unnecessarily. Closing the doors of this school will do nothing to honor their sacrifice, or the way of life they fought for. Give me a chance to put things right here at this school, and I w…"

Suddenly, the doors of the Great Hall burst open, interrupting McGonagall's entreaty. Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom stride into the room shoulder to shoulder with Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan, Luna Lovegood, George and Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Augusta Longbottom, and Kingsley Shacklebolt all in tow.

Glaring at them in shock, McGonagall demands, "What is the meaning of this?"

Harry nudges Neville as he whispers, "The ball's in your court, mate. This was your idea. I'm just here in support."

Neville is nothing less than astounded when Draco moves from the back of the line to stand next to him, making certain that he is visible to all, especially his shocked mother.

McGonagall raises an eyebrow. "One of you had better speak up."

Neville clears his throat. "Pardon the intrusion, Headmistress. We apologize if we're out of order, but we have a message for the board."

Neville lets his unwavering gaze take in all seven members of the board.

McGonagall snorts, trying to hold her dry laughter at bay. Addressing the board, she declares, "This is what I was talking about mere moments ago. My students occasionally do things they are not supposed to do. I keep sending them away for their own well-being." Shaking her head, she crosses her arms over her chest. "As you can see, they keep coming back."

The florid fellow with the disappearing chin exclaims, "This is highly irregular, McGonagall! No student has ever attended, much less participated in a board meeting before!"

The board glares at her in reproach, but each of the students present is pleasantly surprised when McGonagall chirps, "Perhaps it's high time they did. This is their school, after all."

Narcissa Malfoy exclaims, "Surely you aren't serious, Minerva? Are you honestly suggesting we allow these children to have a prominent voice with the board of governors?"

McGonagall's surveys the group, making certain she is correct before she nods decisively. "To the best of my knowledge, every one of these young people are of age, and legally considered to be an adult. Perhaps we should treat them as such. Mr. Longbottom, if you wish to be heard, the floor is yours."

Surprised it wasn't much harder to get to this point, Neville gets right down to business. "Thank you, Professor. Our message is simple. We're not going to let you close this school. Hogwarts shall not perish with Voldemort."

The man without a chin steps off the dais. "I will not be party to such utter nonsense. Imagine, allowing children to make decisions about how to run a school!"

Seamus Finnegan challenges boldly, "What's the matter? A'feard we'll do a better job than ye have? None of what happened here this week was our fault. You're the anes who allowed death eaters tae overtake the place!"

McGonagall raises an eyebrow sharply. "Mr. Finnegan…"

Interrupting, Kingsley Shacklebolt steps forward and clears his throat. He waits respectfully for McGonagall to nod her consent before he speaks. "Let's not turn this into a shouting match. Pointing fingers will not accomplish anything. You don't have to be here Mr. Callahan. You're free to leave anytime you choose. However, if you would rather walk out bed door than listen to these young men and women, I will consider it an act of resignation from the board. You will have to be replaced."

Uncertainty flickers in Callahan's eyes.

Narcissa Malfoy clears her throat. "Even if Calvin does resign, the board elects its members by majority vote."

"True, Mrs. Malfoy, but as minister, I do have right of first refusal."

"That right was extended as a courtesy. No previous minister has ever actually used it."

Shacklebolt shrugs "Also true. In fact, the board has basically been left to govern itself. If those of you who are here today give me your word that you will start doing so in an effective and sensible manner, I will butt out. Continue to carry on as you have in the recent past, and not only will I exercise that right of first refusal, I will consider it my personal privilege to get… all up in your business."

The students fall suddenly silent, but all of them are wide-eyed; several of them grinning broadly.

Althea Jordan nods almost imperceptibly but it is not clear whom she is nodding in support of as Narcissa takes the same moment to challenge, "That sounds ominously like a threat… Minister."

"You may call it one if you like. I would prefer to call it a promise."

"And what will it take to keep you from getting 'all up in our business?"

"For starters, if any member of the board - be they past, present, or future - has a child currently enrolled in this school, all attempts to use their position on the board to curry favor for their child, or get their child out of trouble, will cease and desist immediately. I find that habit detestable. Instead of mollycoddling your children after the fact, I suggest you teach him or her to behave themselves in the first place. If your children fail to do this, let them be held accountable for their actions. Secondly, you may elect whomever you choose to fill the empty seats on the board provided that who you choose does not have a proven association with either death eaters, snatchers, or the one who saw fit to refer to himself as 'Lord Voldemort.' Beyond that, I have recently reviewed your bylaws. It seems to me that of late, the individuals on this board have been guilty of flagrantly disregarding the bylaws that you yourself set into place. I find your charter to be a sound document, and from this point forward, I expect you to cling to it as though it were your personal bible. Do that, operate fairly and justly, according to the guidelines you set for yourself and I promise you, your interaction with me will be minimal. Fail to do that, and we're all going to get very well acquainted with one another."

"We have the right to choose the head of this school. We also have the right to decide whether or not this school remains open."

"Yes, you do. Just as you chose the previous head. He had the right to suggest who he wanted his successor to be. It is my understanding that he made his choice quite clear. You do, of course, have the right to veto his choice. However, to do so, that decision has to be unanimous among a full 12 members of this board. Currently your number stands at seven. Therefore, you do not have the power to oust Minerva McGonagall from this school, nor can you, at this time, make the decision to close this school. Furthermore, I seriously doubt that you could even get the seven among you to agree unanimously on either decision. As such, I will tell you this. As of this day, and in accordance with your own bylaws, I will not allow this school to close. I am confident in Professor McGonagall's ability to have this school up and running come 1 September. If you wish to remove her as the head of this school then, you're going to have to first get your number back up to 12 in accordance with the stipulations I've already set. In the current climate, I think finding 12 willing bodies will be a difficult task in itself. Additionally, not only will you have to agree unanimously, I'm going to insist that you have her replacement in mind and ready to start work no later than August 15. In light of everything that has happened here in the past week, I wish you luck. I believe you'll find it next to impossible to find someone who is not only qualified to do the job, but one who also wants to do the job. You find such a person and agree unanimously two full weeks before the start of term, and I promise I will at least here your petition. Until then, ladies and gentlemen, your business here is concluded - with one exception. I fail to see why a select group of students, both present and former, as long as they are of age, should not be allowed to express their concerns about the goings on at this school." He turns to face the group he arrived with. "Since Professor McGonagall has already stated her willingness to allow you to voice those concerns - If you all are serious about wanting to be heard, and it seems to me that you are. I do know that some of you came from a great distance to be here today, and on the spur of the moment at that - then, I strongly suggest you form an official group. Organize yourselves properly. Choose a spokesperson for your group. Choose a secretary, even a treasurer if you want. Write yourselves a charter, your own set of bylaws, decide who gets to be a member and how those members are selected. I might suggest that membership be limited to the senior class, or maybe year-six and above. Junior classman may voice their concerns, but I think, should not have a seat among the group, as many of them may lack the necessary maturity that comes with age. Once you've done this, see Professor McGonagall. Until further notice, she is the head of the school. She has the right to oversee your assembly, and to either approve or veto anything the group comes up with. I expect you to conduct yourselves with the dignity befitting any Hogwarts graduate."

Narcissa scowls as if there is a nasty smell in the air "I cannot believe you're going to take this seriously. They barged in here without respect. Completely unexpected and without invitation, but you'd think they are mature enough to not only conduct themselves in the appropriate manner, but also to offer council on the day-to-day of this school?"

Kingsley Shacklebolt looks her dead in the eye. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Mrs. Malfoy, but unless I'm misinformed, you and the board, such as it is, arrived here today in much the same fashion – without respect for Professor McGonagall's time, or any of the things she's currently dealing with. You arrived unexpectedly, and without invitation. If their sudden unexpected arrival here is to be taken as a show of either disrespect or immaturity, then it seems to me that you are guilty of the same things you accuse them of."

Ron Weasley's eyes nearly pop out of his head. He covers his mouth would both hands because even Draco's murderous stare is not enough to quell the sudden burst of laughter rising deep in his throat. However, Hermione manages to do what Draco cannot when she deliberately steps on Ron's foot; applying enough pain to silence him just in the nick of time.