Minerva takes hold of his prosthetic hand as McKinnon steps aboard. "Where do we start."

"The helm. If ye've got any problems there, ye'll not get underway until they're dealt with."

Leading the way, Minerva nods without comment.

Halfway up to the quarterdeck, McKinnon glances down. "Ye need some proper deck shoes Professor. Ye cannae be walkin' around a boat in those heels, no matter how stylish you make them look. You'll break your neck the first time a stout wave washes over the side."

"I know."

"Well… If ye know…"

"Oh here!" Minerva chirps crossly as she moves past the helm on her way to a large cabinet in the console behind the wheel. Reaching beneath the collar of her blouse, she removes a thickly braided long platinum chain with a small key ring attached to it. After the moment needed to sort through the keys, she unlocks the cabinet and retrieves a pair of size eight men's deck shoes from the floor inside. Moving to the nearest padded bench, she sits, and begins loosening the laces of her heeled boots.

McKinnon watches her slip out of them and then stuff her linen trousers socks into the sole of one of them. He picks up the other, looking it over. "These things look like they came out of the 1930s."

"I like them. I had them made that way."

"In the 1930s?" He teases.

Minerva shakes her head. "Early 1970s."

"That still means they're 25 years auld."

She shrugs. "They still fit… and I take care of them. I had to have the sole in that one replaced a couple of years ago."

"Just this one?"

She nods. "One of Fred and George Weasley's joke items malfunctioned. They somehow got their hands on some nitro-cellulose."

McKinnon chuckles softly. "The stuff book makers use for flash paper?"

"They combined it with a spell written to create Weasley's self-exclamatory homework parchment."

"Sorry. They created whut?"

"If a teacher wrote favorable marks on the user's homework assignment, the parchment would then cheer and toss confetti. If the mark was unfavorable, the parchment would blow a raspberry and then, the section of the page where the grade was written would burst into flame."

McKinnon squints. "This happened at the time the paper was graded?"

"Yes."

"Tae whut end?"

"Purely to startle the teachers. I learned rather quickly not to take my hair down at night before I graded papers."

"Ah bet ye did. That could have been disastrous."

She smirks. "It nearly was the night I first discovered the enchanted parchment."

"Whut happened tae yer buit?"

"Something went awry with the first batch of parchment they sold. Too much nitro-cellulose and/or the spellwork was shoddy. Some girls were passing notes in class one day and one of them chose the wrong parchment to write on. Every time she wrote the letters 'P' 'D' or 'T' the parchment would throw flames three feet high. In fright, she pushed the parchment to the floor. I stepped on the smoldering page, to keep another student's long skirt from igniting. The flames were hot enough to burn right through the sole of my boot."

McKinnon raises an eyebrow in shock. "And ye didnae expel the Weasley lads?"

"They weren't in class at the time. It didn't take much to know they were responsible. This sort of prank was right up their alley, but I had no proof, and anyway, they weren't bad boys. They certainly had pranks waiting to be pulled one right after the other, and at times, their antics were a hassle, but they were not malicious. They never actively tried to hurt anyone. Any negative effects of their novelties were temporary, and when they created a new item, if there were kinks to be worked out, it always happened quickly. It was rather interesting to observe, just to see what the pair of them would come up with next. They were smart enough, and their skill as wizards was sharp enough to allow them to create all manner of things, and they made money and had fun doing it."

Ye did make them pay fir the shoe repair?"

"No. Not without proof. Arthur and Molly always pay their debts. They teach their children to do the same. The cost of the repair alone would've meant that the children had to go without something they needed – possibly their school supplies. Anytime I did have proof of their shenanigans, they always accepted their punishment without complaint. I would never have told them this, but I greatly missed having them in my classroom last year. Now that Fred has left them, I sincerely hope George doesn't lose that part of himself."

Melancholy settles over her, and McKinnon is an instant away from joining her on the seat and wrapping an arm around her when she steps into one of the well-worn deck shoes and he notices the toes of her other foot. Chuckling in surprise, he declares, "Minerva, yer toenails are bright orange wi wee silver stars on them!"

She nods perfunctorily. "That's Logan's fault. I can talk her into using a sensible color on my fingernails – clear, or at the very least nude – but for some reason the girl gets perverse pleasure out of painting my toenails in one outlandish fashion or another."

He smiles. "She likes knowing it's there. Even if yer feet are rarely ever seen – which is also probably the reason ye let the lass dae it."

"It makes her happy. Last Halloween, she painted my toes purple with little white ghosts on them."

"No black cats?"

"She tried. Her cats need work. They came out looking like something… other than cats. She's a nurse by trade. She's only a pedicurist when she thinks there's a chance it will annoy me."

"The wee anes in our lives like laughin' at our expense. Me granddaughter, Thea, bought me some of those novelty socks. Ye ken, the ones with the writin' on the bottom of each."

"Oh dear. What do they say?"

"If ye can read this, bring me some whiskey."

Minerva presses her lips together briefly before asking, "Do you wear them?"

"Of course. Every Saturday."

"Every Saturday?" She raises an eyebrow.

"They're me Saturday socks."

She slips the other deck shoe on and ties it securely as she shrugs. "I suppose it's no stranger than Logan painting my toenails with tiny golden snitches before a quidditch match."

McKinnon squints. "Whut's a snitch?"

"It's the smallest ball in the game – a tiny golden orb that would fit into the palm of your hand several times over if it weren't for its long silver wings. They flutter faster than the wings of a hummingbird, and it's nearly impossible to see. Especially when it's flying into the sun."

"Kara tried to explain the game tae me once. Ah thought she said the ball was called a quaffle."

"There are three types of balls – one quaffle, two bludgers, and one golden snitch."

"In the same game? How the devil dae ye keep track of them aw?"

"It definitely requires some skill, but different players are responsible for tracking the movement of each type of ball. There are seven players on a team – three chasers, two beaters, one keeper, and a seeker. The keeper does his best to block the three goal hoops on his end of the pitch to keep the other team from scoring. The chasers are responsible for getting the quaffle passed the keeper, and the team beaters are responsible for keeping the bludgers away from the chasers while the quaffle is in play. The seeker usually flies above it all. He or she has only one job – to catch the golden snitch. It's worth 150 points, and with rare exception, the team that catches it usually wins the game."

"And all of this happens in-flight, on broomsticks several hundred feet above the ground?"

Minerva smiles genuinely. "Yes! It's quite the rush, especially when the two teams playing are very closely matched and the scoring stays tight. It's rare, but professional games can literally go on for days."

Her enthusiasm is contagious, and he can't help but smile. "Whut position did ye play?"

"I was a beater for the Gryffindor team, starting in my second year."

"Bet ye were good."

She shrugs. "I think I took out every school-related frustration I ever had on those bludgers."

"So, quidditch is therapeutic?"

"I don't know about that. The potential for injury is too great, but it certainly was fun!"

He points to the floor. "Those arenae yer shoes."

Looking down at her own feet, she taps her toes against the deck. "They were Uncle Sean's but they fit. Either he had small feet for a man, or I've got big feet for a woman."

McKinnon studies the badly scuffed but still serviceable shoes. "Bit of both. Doesnae matter though. Yer a tall woman. Ye need a solid foundation tae stand upon."

"So, these will meet with your approval, then?"

He holds up her boot before bending to pick up its mate. "Better than these. Ye'd twist yer ankle five minutes after we left shore, and then be utterly useless tae me."

"Ah… So, you don't object to women in general being on board… Just useless women?"

He stores her boots in the same cabinet she took her uncle's shoes from and closes the door, making certain that it latches properly. "Ah object tae useless women both at sea and on dry land, thank ye very much."

Minerva stands and moves to the boat's command center once more. Gesturing as she talks, she says, "Most of this wasn't here that weekend I went sailing with Uncle Sean. The radar, the global positioning readout, the map table, they are not new. They've been here awhile. You can see small imperfections in the woodwork, but when he bought the boat at auction it had older versions of some of this stuff, and they were in very poor repair. Uncle Sean didn't mind. He preferred his star charts to all these modern conveniences, but he added them anyway as time and money permitted." She steps to the large wooden console that houses the map table with its recessed lighting and shatter-resistance safety glass. Unlocking the bank of drawers beneath it, she searches through them, carefully selecting one chart and one map, moving both into the viewing tray, side by side beneath the glass. When she flips on the lighting and opens a smaller drawer to select a sextant and lay it carefully on top of the table, McKinnon whistles.

"Ah like this map table."

"Uncle Sean was proud of it too. I remember him talking about it when he bought it secondhand. He searched for a long time. Looking for just the right one. He loved this boat."

"It shows." Whut's this marker here, on the map. I dinnae think there is much out this way. Is nae more than thirty nautical miles from Duncan's Head."

Minerva checks the longitude and latitude before answering. "You're right. There's not much out there, but there is a small archipelago of tiny uninhabited islands. One of the larger ones, I don't think it's more than a mile or two in diameter, it has a small station on it that is unmanned for much of the year, until storm season hits and then the lighthouse board sends somebody out there for a few months just to keep an eye on the place and make certain that inexperienced sailors don't run aground and get stranded out there during rough weather. Uncle Sean volunteered more than a few times. He said that if he had enough money, he would've liked to buy the island, put a proper lighthouse out there, and live out the rest of his days like a reclusive island hermit, living off fish, crabs, clams, and the unusual fruit that grows out there."

"Fruit?"

"He said it was something similar to a crab apple."

"Jus by himself?"

"That's what he said."

"Nae. I think he was just havin' ye on a bit. He'd need a woman eventually."

Minerva smirks. "You never met Uncle Sean. The reverend didn't much care for his attitude concerning women."

"Which was?"

"He was a diehard bachelor. His firm belief was that women should be permitted to visit only when absolutely necessary. At which point, he would take what he needed, and then send them on their way."

"Jus a man and his boat. If he ever got lonely, he could always plot a course fir civilization."

"That was how he liked it."

"Come on, let's check out the rest of her."

After a few minutes of following along, watching him run through an obviously mental checklist that is permanently stashed somewhere in the cobwebbed recesses of his brain, Minerva simply hands over her key ring on its chain, content to watch and learn. He travels the boat bow to stern and back again before descending below decks where he checks out the galley, each one of the birthing compartments, and all other accommodations. When he returns to the upper deck, she wanders away to the starboard side and stands watching the waves, idly aware that he's unfurling each of the sails, checking them for worthiness. A short time later, she's surprised to realize that she must've been mesmerized by the tranquility of the water and the light breeze, because it suddenly occurs to her that, not only are they moving, but the slip is easily more than 50 yards away. Shaking her head, she turns to stare up at the billowing sails and calls out, "Laird?"

He calls back, answering, "Port, Quarterdeck."

When she joins him, he's checking the regulator on a miniature personal diver's tank to be certain it has the necessary amount of oxygen inside it and that it is functioning properly. Once he's satisfied, he lowers it to the deck at his feet, kicks off his shoes, and reaches over his head with his good hand to grab his collar and pull his shirt off.

"What are you doing?"

"Gotta check the outer hull."

"Laird, you don't have to do that."

"Ah want tae Minerva."

"Today? I just bumped into you out here. I'm sure you have other plans."

"Just tae go fishin," He points to his tackle. "and Ah already did that." Stepping to the helm, he drops anchor.

Uncle Sean kept an assortment of wet suits and other swimwear on board..."

"Yeah, Ah know. Ah found them in the same utility cabinet wi the divin' gear below deck. None of whut's there is gonna fit a big old bear like me. It doesnae matter. Ah'll go in me shorts, but only cuz the marina people take offense tae folks swimmin' in their birthday suits."

Minerva turns her back when he unbuttons his trousers, saying dryly, "I can't imagine why."

When she starts to step away, he calls her back. "Wait, dinnae go yet."

She turns again to find the bottom half of him still clothed, and silently watches him remove his prosthetic arm. Handing it over, he winks. "Hang on tae that fir me." He pulls off the soft cotton nub sock that covers the rounded stump at the end of his amputated arm and tucks it into the top of his prosthetic, all the while watching her face as she wordlessly searches for an appropriate comment. Just to tease her, he adds, "Dinnae lose it. It's important."

Minerva presses her lips into a thin line and walks away without comment. Below deck, she lays the prosthetic in the leather seat of the dining booth and shakes her head, muttering softly, "Dinnae lose it!" When she hears a splash seconds later, she knows he's gone over the edge, and thinks to herself, 'There can't be more than ½ hours' worth of oxygen in that little tank.' So with time to kill, she fetches a stack of dry towels from the captain's quarters, picks his discarded clothing up off the deck, and folds it all neatly over the back of a deck chair, pausing long enough to chuckle dryly at his brown sock with its white lettering across the sole, 'bring me whiskey' before she picks up his tackle.

Thirty-five minutes later, he descends into the galley, re-dressed and rubbing a towel over his wet head. Stepping in close behind her in the confined space, he looks first at the cook-top and then at his wicker tackle basket in the corner. "Hey, that's me catch! Yer cookin' me fish!"

"What were you going to do with them?"

He shrugs. "Same thing, but if ye'd told me, Ah woulda cleaned them fir ye afore goin' over the side."

She shrugs. "It was no trouble. I figured you were going to be down for a few minutes. I needed something to do. How's the hull?"

"Shipshape. Been cleaned recently, and the aft rudder is brand new."

"So, she's voyage-ready?" She turns fish on the grill and adds seasoning salt to pots of carrots and yellow rice.

"Ye can be underway anytime you like. Yer uncle must've been here recently, if the cupboards are all stocked."

"I hope not. He died months ago. There was nothing fresh, and the freezer is empty. All of this is canned, but it's good enough for an impromptu meal. He didn't have any tatties or neeps, but there is a small jar of pickled okra if you want it. There's even a quart-sized jar of stewed tomatoes."

McKinnon chuckles. "Stewed tomatoes… Loaded with vitamin C. No scurvy on board this vessel!"

"Oh no, that's not allowed!" She loads two tin plates with food and delivers them to the table with the efficiency of a fry cook in a diner as McKinnon lowers himself into the booth and picks up his prosthetic.

While she pours steaming black coffee into matching tin mugs, he dons the nub sock once more, by pulling it half on with his left hand and his teeth, and then trapping the material between his chest and arm to hold it in place while he finishes easing the sock into the proper position to ensure that the fit is snug, so that the fabric will not bunch inappropriately once inside his prosthetic and cause irritation. As she settles in on the opposite side of the table, he up-ends the titanium device, clamps it securely between his knees, and slides what's left of his natural forearm into the socket. Lifting it onto the table, he gives it a nudge with his left hand to reposition it very slightly and then flexes the grifter to be certain it's functioning properly.

"Logan brought me an article from a medical magazine a few months ago. Medicine is making all sorts of advancements with artificial limbs. I even saw a couple of pictures of hands that offer a 'fully functional five-fingered grip' or so the article claimed."

McKinnon chuckles. "Oh aye. Whut the article didnae tell ye is that those newfangled things rely heavily on robotics and are still mostly under development. The ones that are available now carry such a bonny €250,000 price tag that a middle-class workin' man's insurance carrier will laugh in his face if he tries tae purchase one. Plus, one sensor goes cock-eyed, and the whole thing shuts doon. Makes it a good fir nothin' paperweight. It'll take god knows how many months tae fix it and meanwhile, I have a serious problem gettin' through me day, which was fine when Riona was here. If Ah needed her tae pitch in fir a couple of days and be me right arm, she didnae mind cuttin' up me meat at dinner or unbuttonin' me pants. Try askin' a stranger tae dae those things fir ye. It's a wee bit personal. Ah like this ane. If it goes wonky, Ah can usually fix it wi a screwdriver; and if Ah decide tae stab it with said screwdriver, I dinnae have tae fash aboot shortin' oot some wee little €5000 micro-processin' flutterbudgit!"

Minerva shrugs as she sips coffee. "Okay, veto the €250,000 arm."

"Aye."

"But Laird, why would you ever decide to stab it with a screwdriver?"

"Bloody phantom pains. Nae as bad as they use tae be, or at least, less often, but sometimes the body still feels the arm that's long gone. Hurts like the devil's got hold o' me and wilnae turn loose. Sometimes the only thing fir it, is tae stab the ruddy thing and then have a good look. When me eens show me brain that ah cannae feel the bloody screwdriver stickin' oot o'me arm, it's the ane thing that stops the eejit neurological misfire that says, 'me arm hurts!" He pantomimes jabbing his fork into the prosthetic.

She chuckles even as she winces. "Okay, I guess. If it works."

He grins as he slices into his fish with the side of his fork. "Works like magic… Every time."

They eat in companionable silence for a time until she says, "I have a proposition for you."

He sits back in the booth, stretches out his legs, and picks up his coffee cup. "Ah'm all ears, Professor."

"I know you're every bit as busy as I am, but there's not much point in having a sailboat when I don't know how to properly sail it."

"Agreed."

"I'm not going to sell her and entrust her care to some stranger."

"Ah'd be angry if ye did."

"Right now, I lack the skill and the knowledge to handle a boat this size by myself."

McKinnon shakes his head. "Even with the knowledge, ye'd still need a crew of at least two. Three would be better, but nae mandatory."

"Uncle Sean managed it on his own."

"Aye, but if I heard ye right, Uncle Sean thought being a recluse was a good idea."

"Fair point… and, in truth, I doubt I could comfortably handle a boat half this size but, if I'm going to keep her, then I would like to learn. Right now, my schedule is rather packed. I probably can't manage more than one weekend a month … two at the absolute most. I want to get things squared away at the school so that I can at least give my staff two full weeks off before the start of term. Will you help me?"

He studies her quietly for a moment, and she misinterprets the reason why.

She acknowledges again, "You're just as busy as I am."

He shrugs. "Ah'd find the time."

"I can pay you?"

McKinnon frowns. "Ye'll do no such thing!"

She raises an eyebrow and shrugs. "I get paid to teach. Why shouldn't you be afforded similar compensation."

"First, cuz yer me friend. Second, jus bein' oot here is enough payment fir me. Third, cuz Ah'm nae a teacher; Ah dinnae have the temperament or the patience tae be one, and fourth, I dinnae want yer money. It's no good here. Ah'll teach ye tae sail, but ye have tae make the time; twa Saturdays a month, no arguments. We leave early - 7:00 AM at the latest, and ye always have the proper footwear. We'll start next week, go shoppin' fir basic emergency supplies that should be on board any vessel and staples fir the galley."

Minerva thinks it over, giving his words serious consideration before reaching across the table to shake his hand. "Deal."

"Nae backin' out at the last minute every other weekend, cuz yer ruddy castle has a leaky roof, or missing spell books, or anemic cabbages in the garden."

Minerva bites her lower lip in an effort to remain straight-faced. "Understood… but Laird, there is no such thing as an anemic cabbage."

"Whutever, ye ken me meanin."

She nods.

When an unexpected sound draws his attention, he asks, "Is that an owl, Ah'm hearin?"

Minerva nods again and rises to her feet.

McKinnon checks his watch. "It's 3:00 PM."

"That's why I'm going above."

He drains his coffee cup quickly before rising to follow her. Joining her above, he stares curiously at the jet-black owl perched atop the mainsail.

The bird blinks its yellow eyes, twice, makes deliberate eye contact with Minerva, and drops the tiny envelope clamped tightly in its beak. The missive flutters briefly on the breeze before it lands face down on the deck with the Hogwarts crest is clearly visible on the outer flap of the envelope.

Stooping to pick it up, Minerva waves to the bird. "Thank you, Nicodemus."

The bird blinks twice more, stretches out his wings and is gone as quickly as he arrived.

Minerva breaks the seal on the envelope and reads the single sentence printed on the scrap of parchment inside. Frowning, she turns to McKinnon. "Help me turn this frigate around. I've got to go back to shore."

McKinnon laughs dryly. "This isnae a good start, Professor."

Already moving toward the helm, she calls over her shoulder, reminding him, "You said we start next week."

They return to the slip, secure the boat, and as soon as they are feet-dry, a noticeably silent Minerva walks, with purpose in her stride, straight to the nearest telephone box in the marina. With his curiosity piqued, and nothing better to do, McKinnon follows along. Stepping into the bright red box, she leaves the door open and encourages McKinnon to stand still in the doorway, using his body to shield her from view, and afford her some privacy. Picking up the telephone receiver and holding it at waist height between herself and he, she withdraws her wand from an inside pocket of the jacket she wears. Careful to hold it out of sight from passersby, she whispers, "In fiducia" and then dials too few digits on the keypad to be a standard phone number.

Standing less than two inches away, McKinnon can hear the odd combination of beeps and trills that would seem to indicate a ringing phone on the other end of the line. It takes nearly 30 seconds before a obviously breathless female picks up the phone and pants, "Hogwarts, office of the headmistress, Professor Sprout speaking."

Minerva deadpans, "Mr. Dumbledore would like a word with me?"

"Oh, thank heavens, Minerva, it's you."

Minerva stares at the ceiling of the phone box forcing herself to use patience she does not feel. "Yes, it's me. Don't tell me Sybil has gotten bored with the repair work and decided to hold a séance."

"What…No dear, don't put them over there."

Minerva squints. "Put what over where?"

"What? Oh, I'm sorry, Minerva, I'm not talking to you."

"Well, I am talking to you. Focus please."

"Focus on what… No, Mr. Blackbuckle, and don't bring them in here! What am I to do with them? There's a place for all of God's creatures, and the place for those is not on the headmistress's desk!"

McKinnon grins when an obviously exacerbated male voice demands, "Where would you like me to take them?"

"Outside, where they belong, of course! In case you haven't noticed there is a very large lake on this property. I do believe they would be more at home there."

Wordsworth yowls in the background, something crashes to the floor and shatters, and Barnabas Blackbuckle, still on loan from the ministry, roars, "That massive devil just bit me… again!"

Professor Sprout sighs audibly, "He's not a devil! He's a cat, and don't you dare kick him again, unless you want a set of whiskers and a tail to go with them! If you don't want to be bitten, then I suggest you don't try to take things out of his mouth! Wordsworth, dear boy, don't eat the bullfrogs. They might give you warts."

Wordsworth sneezes and then hisses menacingly, presumably at Mr. Blackbuckle.

"Well, don't stand there talking to him like he's human. He's just a dumb animal."

Professor Sprout sniffs in disdain. "He's obviously smarter than you. I don't see him sticking his paws in people's mouths and then complaining when he gets bitten."

Minerva breathes dryly into the phone, "Do I have to be here for this?"

"Oh yes, sorry Minerva. What was that you said about a séance?"

Minerva tries again, just as soberly as the first time, "Mr. Dumbledore wants a word with me?"

"Yes, he does."

McKinnon watches his friend try to silently make sense of this bit of news.

"Pomona… I'm going to need you to explain that."

"What's to explain? Aberforth wants a word."

Minerva nods in obvious self-recrimination and whispers, "Aberforth…"

"Yes, of course, Aberforth. Who did you think I… Oh, I'm sorry Minerva dear, I see why you were confused… But really. There is another Mr. Dumbledore, you know."

Minerva inhales deeply with irritation. "Barely."

"Minerva! I'm surprised at you!"

"I have been trying to contact that man for nearly 14 months to discuss his brother's estate. He couldn't be bothered to return a single owl… not a single communication." She sighs in resignation. "I suppose it is my fault because I expected better of him. I keep expecting him to behave with at least a smidgen of the grace or the dignity that his brother possessed."

"Well, he's been here twice today… In the middle of everything else that's going on. Apparently, he's ready to talk."

"He's been there? At the castle? Twice? In one day?"

"He came by early this morning, while you were at the tournament, and he was here about half an hour ago."

Minerva gives in. "Is he… Did he seem alright?"

"He seemed anxious, or maybe annoyed. I'm not sure which."

Minerva shakes her head. "Alright. If he comes back, tell him I'm on my way back to the castle. What else is happening?"

Sprout laughs. "Oh, nothing I can't handle. The castle is just taking on water, that's all. The prefect's bathroom on the fifth floor burst a pipe, probably because she's beginning to settle after all the damage that's been done. Mr. Potter did grow up in a muggle household, as you know. He says the problem doesn't appear to be magical but rather, physical… Plumbing in need of repair, but Mr. Blackbuckle didn't listen to him, and instead, he tried several incantations. So now, there's not only water all the way down to the fourth floor, but one of the soap valves burst as well. So, add a few hundred gallons of perfumed soap to the mix. Then one of the other gentlemen did something - I have no clue what - and unleashed a plague of big fat croaking bullfrogs half the size of tortoises - I mean by the thousands. Mr. Wordsworth is running around determined to have nice fresh, fat and juicy frog legs for dinner, and that idiot Blackbuckle keeps trying to take them out of his mouth; but don't you worry Minerva, I'll put it right somehow."

The headmistress of Hogwarts nods perfunctorily even though McKinnon is the only one who can see her doing it. "I'm confident in your ability. Sometimes, you have to put on the hat and remind them just who the witch in the house really is."

Sprout giggles. "I'm pretty sure that's you, dear, but I'll do my best to make you proud."