Hanging up the phone, Minerva smiles with regret. "I've got to go."

McKinnon nods. "Ah know. Ye've got some things tae dae."

She eases past him as he steps away from the phone box. "I'll see you next Saturday morning? 7:00 AM?"

He points to the boat. "I'll be waitin' fir ye right there."

She kisses his cheek lightly before returning to the dock to retrieve her father's bicycle. Riding passed him again, headed for the gates of the marina, she calls over her shoulder, "Laird?"

He raises an eyebrow.

"Thank you."

"Ah havenae done anything yet."

She assures him as she rides out of sight, "Yes, you have - and I won't be late next Saturday."

He picks up his fishing gear and walks away whistling.

At twenty minutes past 4:00 PM, Minerva walks into the Hog's Head Tavern. Stepping up to the bar, she notices that she's one of only three patrons waiting there. Aberforth is nowhere in sight, but she can hear noises coming from behind the dingy curtain that separates the bar from its back room. Taking a handkerchief from her jacket pocket, she carefully wipes dust off the nearest barstool before sitting down. After waiting 15 minutes, she surrenders to her impatience, rises to her feet, and steps behind the bar. Coming to a stop in the doorway of the musty storeroom, she clears her throat, getting the attention of the man who is returning glassware to a shelf along the inner wall with his back to her.

Without turning to see who's come calling, he grouses irascibly, "If you're not on the payroll, you don't belong back here."

"I understand you're looking for me."

Recognizing her voice, he finally turns and with the tilt of his head, he declares, "Not anymore."

She puts her irritation in check and tries again, "You wanted to see me because…"

He starts to speak until something on the floor catches his attention. Squinting in the gloom, he asks, "Are you preparing for the second coming of Noah's ark?"

McGonagall scowls. "What? No, of course not. Why?"

He nods toward her feet.

Glancing down, she grimaces, offering only an abbreviated reply. "Deck shoes.".

"I can see that. Why?"

"Because half an hour ago, I was standing on the quarterdeck of a boat. Why am I here Mr. Dumbledore?"

"Somebody's been living in my brother's house… and I'd like to know who."

"The row house in London, or the farmhouse in Riquewihr?"

"The farmhouse. I believe he referred to it as La Ruche, which I'm sure you know is…"

"French for beehive – yes, I know."

"It sounds much grander in French, doesn't it? But then, my brother did like to put on airs, didn't he?"

"I don't believe he did, and I'll thank you kindly not to speak ill of him or his home. Some of my most poignant memories were born under that roof."

"Were you aware that someone has been living out there?"

"I suspected as much. I assumed it was you."

"Why would you make such an assumption?"

"You're his brother. He left the place to you."

"What good does a farmhouse in the French countryside do me. I live here. I work here." He raises an eyebrow as though something she said has finally caught his ear. "There's a row house in London?"

Beyond exasperated, McGonagall finally snaps, "Of course, there's a row house in London! A rather nice one!"

"Well, how was I to know? It's not as if he ever invited me there."

"Rubbish!"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Her dark eyes flash with anger. "Don't you dare lie to me, Aberforth Dumbledore! That's pure claptrap, and you know it! He wrote to invite you to come and stay with him every Christmas holiday that he was away from that castle, and nearly every Spring. You disappointed him every time you couldn't be bothered to accept, or even decline, for that matter! Furthermore, If you'd bothered to answer even one of my letters, you might have known about the row house before today!"

Aberforth speaks calmly, quietly, trying not to raise her ire any more than he already has. "I figured he wanted to be seen to be doing the right thing. I figured he was only asking out of obligation."

Seething, McGonagall whispers, "You figured wrong!"

"You want a gillywater, or something?"

She presses her lips together grimly, refusing to be placated.

"Why would you assume that I'm living in the farmhouse?"

"As I said, he left it to you. It's not as if it would be a strain for you to travel back and forth between Hogsmeade and France. You could be there in a matter of minutes if you wanted to; and we're still receiving product from the farmhouse. I assumed you were responsible."

He shakes his head. "Not me. Who's we?"

She suppresses the feral urge to hiss in contempt. "We… as in Hogwarts?"

Shaking his head again, he repeats, "Not me. What product?"

"Have you never gone out there? Even once? For five minutes?"

Aberforth shakes his head for the third time. "Not until yesterday."

McGonagall glares at him. "Disgraceful!"

He tosses the bar towel resting against his shoulder onto the nearest countertop. "Look, my brother and I didn't get along. I'm sorry if you find that offensive, but spare me the righteous indignation. It won't do any good now anyway!"

Her angry eyes continue throwing daggers, but she says nothing.

After a terse moment, he nods and tries again. "What product?"

"There are nearly 75 acres out there. It's home to an expansive apiary. He had staff to care for the place during the year while he was at the school."

Aberforth's beard twitches with his grin. "He was actually keeping bees?"

Minerva nods, her demeanor softening slightly. "For the honey, and the wax."

"The wax?"

"Beeswax. He supplied a substantial portion of the candles we go through every year… and the bees also pollinated the grapes."

"Grapes?"

"There's a wee little winery at the northern end of the property. It's really not much more than a shack. I think he's spent more money than he made on the grapes because, to the best of my knowledge, he never sold any of the wine. It was just for his personal amusement. He experimented with it and even managed to come up with an impressive little Moscato that I will drink every once in a great while."

"If it's only every once in a great while, it can't have been very good."

She shrugs. "It's a dessert wine - typically much too sweet for my tastes. I rarely take spirits, usually only medicinally, but your brother did something intriguing with it. I've got an unopened bottle if you're interested."

"It won't sell in this place."

"I wasn't offering it for profit."

Aberforth steps to a box tucked onto a low shelf in a dark corner of the room and pulls something out of it. "I'm not the one living out there. I went yesterday by floo powder. I was only inside the house briefly. I did not explore the grounds. There are cauldrons and potion vials in nearly every room of the house, including the water closets. There are dirty dishes everywhere, and clothing too. Though, I don't think any of it belonged to Albus. It didn't seem to be his style. It was much too dour. I found this."

He approaches and hands over a heavy black cloak that has been rolled into a tight ball.

Minerva shakes it out and pauses in resignation before sniffing lightly at the collar. Instantly repulsed, she rolls it back into a ball and tosses it at the bar keeper's chest. "Essence of Snape!"

"Severus Snape took up residence in my brother's house? How?"

Minerva is quiet for three seconds before she turns on her heel and stomps back the way she came. Just before the bell over the tavern's main entrance chimes with her abrupt departure, she announces, "There's only one way I can think of… and someone's head is going to roll!"

Apparating to the village of Riquewihr, McGonagall approaches the house on foot. She finds the main gate to the property standing open but finds no alarm in this. Having been there many times, she knows from experience that the gate is frequently found standing open. Albus suffered from neither a desire to lock himself away from the rest of the world, nor one that led him to foolishly attempt to keep the rest of the world at bay.

Walking up the long stone-lined path, she takes in all there is to be seen and feels her anxiety settle slightly. Nothing seems out of place. Numerous beehives that all appear to be in good working order follow the fence line. In the side yard, the barn door is open. A broad-backed flea-bitten gelding is munching on fresh feed in the corral. Minerva steps up onto the porch and is further relieved to find the front door is locked. She follows the porch around to the back of the house and when she's out of sight of the main driveway, she transforms. Intent on walking through the cat flap in the back door, she comes up short when she realizes that the security flap is in place, barring her entry. Backing up, she sits, staring at it for a few seconds in surprise. When the mild shock dissipates, Minerva steps off the porch and moves around the side of the house to the wood pile. Effortlessly she climbs up to the top of the heap, being careful not to knock even one log loose as she steps onto one of the low hanging first floor gables and follows it all the way around to the back of the house once more where, as expected, she finds a second story window cracked open, allowing her the necessary three or four inches to slip through. From the window seal, she scampers to the floor courtesy of the room's radiator before resuming her human form. Looking around at numerous piles of discarded clothing and dirty dishes in a room that was once normally kept neat and tidy, she hums in disapproval before murmuring, "You would probably find it highly amusing that I'm crawling through your bedroom window. If you were here Albus, this, no doubt, would set your neighbors' tongues to wagging." Taking up her wand, she gives it a tap against the ornate ironwork in the footboard of his bed. Instantly, the bed is stripped of rumpled linens, misplaced items that belong in the room rise into the air and return to their proper places. Books, blankets, pillows, and his favorite bowling ball all settle where they belong, while things that shouldn't be in the room, like the dirty clothes, dishes, books she doesn't recognize, cauldrons, and potion vials, become airborne, and waft through the open door, across the hall, and down the stairs ahead of her. Sending the dishes through the dining room and into the kitchen, she detours to the mudroom where she finds three large, galvanized washtubs, washboards, detergent, and all of the other standard laundry-related supplies. Dumping the dirty laundry into one of the tubs, she fills the other two with both, detergent and water hot enough to scald, with a quick flick of her wrist, and stands watching momentarily while the soiled laundry sorts itself into loads and then begins scrubbing itself against the washboards. Leaving the laundry to see to itself, she wanders back to the dining room where she takes in the sight of a similar mess. From there, she makes her way to the living room and finds more of the same.

Reminding herself that its already half passed four in the afternoon, she delays the rest of the cleaning, and steps to the fireplace. Fearing that she's right in her assumptions, she takes a pinch of floo powder from the urn on the mantle and steps inside, annunciating crisply, "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, grate one. The expected green flames erupt. The world accessible from Albus's living room fireplace begins to swirl, and an instant later, although it's the last thing she wants to do, she steps out of the fireplace inside the head office located at the top of Gryffindor tower. Still muttering to herself, she declares, "Sometimes I hate being right! Why couldn't I have been wrong - just this once."

She knows that the office in which she currently stands is not accessible from the outside coming in, and from her present vantage point she can see at least one of the reasons why. One of the support beams from the rafters, normally high overhead, is down directly behind the door leading to the seventh-floor corridor beyond. Pointing her wand, and using an upward sweeping motion, she makes quick work of the rafter repair but when she opens the door, small, seemingly ineffectual cracks in the ceiling overhead begin to branch out like the tendrils of an expanding spider web. Instantly recognizing her rather thoughtless mistake for what it was, she is momentarily paralyzed, not knowing whether it's safer to stay where she is, or if it would be more prudent to throw any desire to remain calm out the window, and dive for cover. However, her indecision evaporates with her next breath, and she chastises herself aloud even as a bright blue hardhat materializes on her head. "Oh, good Minerva! Just stand here motionless while the bloody building falls down around your ears!"

New decision made, she moves swiftly toward the fireplace, intent on leaving the way she came, but before she can get there, the grand chandelier overhead sways ominously. Rather than walk directly beneath it, she changes direction and hurls herself to the floor beneath Dumbledore's massive desk; only just managing to pull her left foot in under her body as large, jagged chunks of plaster and molding begin to thunk noisily against the desktop.

Trying to catch her breath, she waits two seconds before peering out from beneath the relative safety overhead to see if the ceiling will hold or if it's going to collapse entirely.

Deciding that it's going to hold, she sighs noisily with relief and then jumps nearly half out of her skin when the antique telephone on top of the desk suddenly begins to ring.

"Really?" She says aloud, glaring at the phone for having the audacity to issue a summons at just that moment.

She lets it go on ringing five more times before it's loud clear trilling begins to annoy her, and she decides to snatch it off the desk and answer.

She gets another look at the ceiling as she says somewhat breathlessly, "Hogwart's, Minerva McGona…. Immobulous!"

Glancing at the chandelier that is now both, trapped and free-floating in midair, she tries again. "Hogwart's, Minerva McGonagall speaking."

A familiar Scottish baritone demands, "Whut the ruddy hell is goin' on?"

"Laird? Is that you?"

"Aye. Whut's happenin' there now?"

"Nothing to worry about. The roof is just falling in. I can handle it. Why are you calling?"

"Well, see, the weirdest thing jus happened tae me. Ah was pulling onto the berm here at Duncan's Head and me hardhat on the front passenger seat of me truck up and vanished. Jus disappeared, it did. Now, normally that's the sort of weirdness I would ask me granddaughter, Kara aboot but I ken she's oot jus noo buyin' shoes tae go wi her weddin' dress. So, I doubt she's needin' a hardhat jus noo."

Minerva touches the top of the too-large hat on her head and the pressure of her hand against it causes it to slip down over her eyes. Pushing it back up again, she admits. "I stole it."

McKinnon laughs. "Ye stole me hardhat?"

"Yes. I did, but I promise, I'll give it back."

"When should Ah expect it to return?"

"Just as soon as my head's out of danger of being squashed flat."

His voice loses a noticeable amount of its frivolity. "Ye werenae kiddin' around aboot the roof fallin' in."

"Afraid not."

"Are ye alright Minerva?"

"Yes."

"Yer sure? Yer not bleedin? Yer not hurt?"

If I were, do you really think I'd sit here calmly under the desk talking to you on the phone?"

"Probably no. Ye need me to come? Ah'll get back in the truck right noo and be on me way?"

"Don't waste your evening. You have work to do, and if you did drive out here, it would take you five hours, and by the time you got here, the problem would be completely resolved."

"Doesnae matter. Ye want me tae come, Ah will."

She smiles. "You're a very nice man."

"Shush. That's a secret woman. Dinnae tell a'body."

"I won't tell a soul."

"Yer under a desk?"

She nods as she talks. "Dumbledore's, in the head office. I'm curled up in the knee space. Its massive. I think it probably weighs 450 pounds… And no, I'm not kidding. Everything's alright now though. I've immobilized the ceiling. It's not falling anymore."

"Okay, but Ah thought ye said his office was on the top floor?"

"It is."

"It was blocked off. Ye havenae had time tae get there yet."

"We haven't had time to dig our way in yet. I came from somewhere else and entered the office courtesy of floo powder."

"Whut kind of powder?"

"I'll explain that part to you later. The point is, I was able to get into the office magically, coming from elsewhere. Once I was in here… well, I was angry about something, and I'm afraid I did something rather less than intelligent."

"That's hard tae believe."

It is, nevertheless, true. I stomped across the room, repaired some damage that I could see, and knowing that the hallway on the other side of the door is completely impassable due to structural damage, I opened the door."

"Minerva!"

"I know! Believe me, I feel like a third-rate idiot. The ceiling started to spider web, and just for a second, my feet quit working. I couldn't move Laird, and the only hardhat that I could think to call for…"

"Was the ane that's almost always in the front passenger seat o' me truck?"

"Yes!"

"Ah'm glad it was there when ye needed it."

"Me too. No sooner than it was on my head, my feet remembered how to work. I decided to go back the way I came and get out of here, but I thought the chandelier was going to come crashing down and cut me to ribbons. I dived under the desk, and almost as soon as I did, the phone started to ring."

He chuckles. "Yer not havin' a good day, Professor!"

"You don't know the half of it. I've got to hang up, Laird. I've got to clean up my mess, and I've got to do it before 5:00. Then, I'm going to London to yell at someone."

"Yer goin' all the way to London, tae yell at someone? Today? Before 5:00?"

"Yes, I am!"

"Uh oh!

"And they better have an explanation I like!"

"Ring me later tonight when things settle doon a bit. Ye can tell me aw aboot it."

Hanging up, she stays as she is ten seconds before returning the old pedestal-style phone to the desktop. Glancing upward, she gives one final moment of doubt to the immobilized ceiling overhead, before easing out from under the desk, and rising to her feet. Moving to the center of the immense circular room, she holds her wand high overhead, closes the office door and, turning in a very slow circle, she magically puts the room to rights.

It takes several long minutes to return it all to normal, but when she is done, her gaze fixes on the larger, squashier of the two armchairs before the fireplace, and after countless evenings sitting in front of the fire, discussing the day's events with Dumbledore, his absence from that chair, more than a year later, still stuns her with a piercing pain to the chest that temporarily halts everything, including her ability to breathe. However, when his quiet voice reaches out to her without warning, saying simply, 'Nicely done Professor.' Her respiratory system receives the jolt it needs to resume function and, gasping wildly, her eyes fly around the room, frantic for any plausible explanation.

When, after an unbearable moment, they come to rest on the most recent of wizard portraits to be added to the gallery of former headmasters and headmistresses, McGonagall is both thoroughly shaken up, and simultaneously relieved. She tries to study the portrait objectively. It's an excellent likeness… the twinkling blue eyes that were always in search of merriment, the shining silver hair and beard that he wore so well, the half-moon spectacles resting against the bridge of the long, twice broken, and badly healed nose that she thought suited his face far better than the technically more handsome patrician nose he was born with. He was even captured dressed in his fine dark red robes with the gold trimming which she personally liked more than his usually preferred lavender or periwinkle. The portrait is so very close to being Dumbledore, and yet simultaneously it is so very far away.

It is this paradox that motivates her to call for the portrait, bringing it down from the wall with the gentle wave of her wand. Holding the painting close, she stows her wand in her jacket pocket once again and returns to the fireplace. Another pinch of floo powder, and she quietly declares, "Hogwarts, grate two."

She hears Harry's voice before she sees him, "Professor McGonagall is not going to like this." The single declarative sentence is enough to raise her eyebrow even before she steps out of the fireplace in her own first-floor office. "What am I not going to li…" She stops short, aghast at the sight of blood, and frog body parts smeared over nearly every surface in the room, including the walls. Restraining her temper, she demands, "Someone explain!"

A very young man, not more than a year or two older than Harry, in possession of an AMR squad armband and a sleekly styled headful of long chestnut colored hair steps forward, claiming her attention. "It was all my fault Ma'am. I am Pilott Pendleton, and I'm sorry."

She gestures to the room around them. "How is this your fault?"

"I'm new with the ministry. I just started two weeks ago. Mr. Blackbuckle worked the spell that gave us the bullfrogs, but I was trying to remove them from the building. I'm afraid I made a terrible mistake. I immobilized them to stop them hopping all over the place. I thought they would be easier to catch if they would only hold still."

"A reasonable assumption." She chirps crisply.

"Yes, but once I had them still, I tried to move them out the open window. Harry here was just explaining that I shouldn't have used any variation of a locomoter charm in conjunction with any freezing spell for this task."

"How is it that you did not know this already?"

The neophyte ministry worker hangs his head as his ears turn bright pink with embarrassment. Quietly, he admits, I would never do that to a human being. It would… Well, it would pull them apart."

"As you can now see, it does the same thing to bullfrogs."

"Yes ma'am."

"Actually, any object, sentient or otherwise, is pulled apart when it is subjected to the work of two such spells simultaneously. Here at Hogwarts, we strenuously caution all students to never use two such incantations in tandem on any living thing."

"Regrettably, I can see why."

"Where were you educated?"

"Durmstrang, ma'am."

"Headmaster Karkaroff did an excellent job of teaching his students to only look out for themselves."

"Would you like me to leave Hogwarts ma'am?"

She wordlessly waves her wand, and all traces of blood, brain matter, and amphibious body parts vanish from sight; including the webbed frog foot that is seen hanging limply between her cat's clenched jaws. Addressing the cat, she declares, "No more frog legs for you, sir." Turning her sharp eyes back to Pendleton, she asks, "Now that you know better, will you do better?"

"Yes ma'am. I promise."

"Then you may stay. Please immobilize any living frogs that remain and then physically carry them outdoors to be released. There is no reason for them to pay for someone else's blunder with their lives."

Harry volunteers. "I'll help you round them up."

"A word please Mr. Potter, and then you may join Mr. Pendleton."

Looking at her curiously, Harry nods. "Yes, Professor."

McGonagall waits for Pendleton to leave the room before she says lightly, "Finish out the day. Tomorrow, get away from here. Go do something fun. We start NEWT review next Tuesday. I want your mind fresh and ready to work."

Harry nods. "I'll go buy those bags of charcoal we talked about. I'll take them out to Mum and Dad's cottage. I still haven't figured out what that third key goes to. Maybe I'll investigate."

"That sounds like a worthwhile endeavor."

"Hang on. I thought you were supposed to be out most of this weekend?"

The beginnings of a soft noise that sounds suspiciously like laughter come from the back of her throat before she can stop herself. "Yes well, the best laid plans…"

"Did Professor Flitwick return with you to the castle? How did he do in the competition?"

"I'm afraid his weekend plans were preempted as well. He was needed at home. He will return sometime next week."

Harry nods, noticing the load she is carrying as she steps toward the office door. "Let me help you Professor."

As the front of the portrait is held facing McGonagall, he does not know what it is when he lifts the large heavy painting out of her arms. "What is this and where are we taking it?"

She ushers him out through the office door ahead of herself. "The entrance hall, I think."

They cross the ground floor of the castle in silence, Harry concentrating on the weight of the portrait frame. It isn't until minutes later, when she magically hangs the portrait on the wall opposite the front doors below the Hogwarts crest that Harry realizes what he was carrying.

"It's Professor Dumbledore's portrait!" He studies her in obvious surprise. "Shouldn't it hang in the office with the others?"

McGonagall draws a noticeably shaky breath. "Perhaps someday it will, but for now, if you want me to take up residence in that office…"

Harry nods fervently. "I do Professor."

"It's only in enchantment. It looks like him, it sounds like him, but…"

Harry understands. "It's only a cheap imitation."

McGonagall clears her throat. "Let's not call it cheap. It's a very fine likeness…"

"But it can't compare to the real thing."

Not trusting her voice, the transfiguration teacher simply shakes her head.

"I think Professor Dumbledore would like to have his portrait hanging here in the entrance hall. He always seemed to get such a kick out of welcoming the students at the start of term feast. Now, when the kids arrive in September, a small part of him will be here to do just that."

"My thoughts exactly, Mr. Potter."

Harry sets his gaze upon the portrait, wishing that he could somehow fix every brushstroke in his mind forever. "The only picture I have of Professor Dumbledore is on a chocolate frog card."

"That one was his favorite."

"Yes, I know. That's at least one of the reasons why I keep it."

Pressing her lips together until they are nearly invisible, she studies him intently before asking, "Would you like to have another… One that is not on a trading card made of cardboard."

Harry nods eagerly. "I would like that very much…" He hesitates before pointing to the relocated portrait, "only, not this one."

She nearly smiles. "No, of course not this one. This one belongs here at the school. Come with me and do it quickly. I really do need to be somewhere else very shortly."

In route back to her office, Harry has to take a step and ½ just to keep up with one of hers. Taking up the customary place of a student come to visit, he isn't surprised when she steps around behind her desk. At least not until she opens the door to her private quarters and steps through, glancing over her shoulder. "You will wait where you are. Is that understood?"

Harry's nod is compulsory. "Of course, Professor."

She all but seals the usually hidden entryway; the minuscule gap between door and frame not wide enough to offer him an unrestricted view of anything. Reaching out, he gently strokes the head of the large male cat sitting on top of her desk. "Hello Wordsworth. What's new?"

The cat purrs deep in his throat but lowers his head to the top of his paws and closes his eyes, obviously bored with Harry and intent on a nap until a noise heard coming from inside his living quarters warrants immediate catly investigation, at which point he leaps to the floor and abandons Harry, leaving him alone in the office. However, when Wordsworth nudges the bottom of the door with his head to make passage for himself… well, Harry doesn't dare to stand up and lean across the desk, but as Professor McGonagall is nowhere within his direct line of sight, he does lean forward as far as his chair will allow.

As the gap in the door frame is only a few centimeters wide, he is given no more than a peeping tom's view of things, but much of what little he can see is no surprise. He sees what, for the most part, looks like an ordinary cat-friendly apartment – the arm of a comfortable sofa with plump cushions and a hand knitted throw blanket folded neatly over the back, a cat tree against the far wall, a portion of an end table stacked with books and magazines. Somewhere inside the apartment, harp music plays softly. There's no fire visible in the grate. It's too warm outdoors to need a fire at this time of day, and she hadn't planned on being here today anyhow. The one thing that really does capture his attention is a large photograph resting atop the fireplace mantel. In it, a tall elderly man with thick white hair and a matching beard that is kept neatly trimmed, wears a heavy winter coat and scarf. He stands on a beach with foamy white-capped waves crashing against the shore behind him. The sky above his head is leaden gray and overcast with heavy dark clouds. An old dog with rust colored fur, except for the heavy patch of white around his muzzle, sits obediently at the man's feet, but the dog's alert eyes are fixed on the woman resting warmly in the man's embrace. It takes Harry several seconds to realize that he's looking at a younger version of McGonagall… A younger, seemingly happier version. The photograph must've been taken on a very windy day. Several strands of her dark hair have come loose from the customarily well-kept and usually severe looking bun on top of her head. The errant windswept strands of hair frame her face haphazardly in the breeze, but the smiling woman in the photograph doesn't seem to mind in the least. Even though she's a tall woman, she's standing on tiptoe, leaning into the man's embrace, and Harry has the distinct impression that the photograph must've been taken either just before, or just after she whispered something in his ear. Harry wonders who the man is. He wonders who took the photograph. He's even curious to know the dog's name, but before he has time to get lost in his thoughts, he hears footsteps signaling her return, and only just reminds himself to correct his posture and lean back in his chair.

Stepping into the office again, she glances over her shoulder to see Wordsworth settling on a sofa cushion. When it's clear he's not particularly interested in returning to her office, she closes the door before passing a photograph across the desk to Harry.

He stares down at a very formally dressed Dumbledore standing center photograph between Lily and James with an arm around each of them. Harry had expected a photograph of the wizard variety and is surprised to find that the one he's being offered was obviously taken with a camera owned by a muggle, but he offers her a wide smile anyway. "He's with my mum and dad."

McGonagall nods without comment.

"What's Mum wearing? Is that her wedding dress?" He takes in the sight of his father's formal wizard robes as well. "It is, isn't it? I have a few other pictures from that day, thanks to Hagrid."

"Yes. This was taken several hours into the reception."

Harry can feel himself grinning ridiculously, but he can't seem to stop. "Professor Dumbledore was at their wedding?"

"We all were." She tips the upper corner of the photograph so she can see where to point before she says, "He's mostly out of frame. You can see one corner of a piano there, the bench, and Professor Flitwick's left shoulder and arm. He'd had a bit too much wedding punch and he decided to play for us."

Harry pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and squints at a tiny speck of nail lacquer barely visible beneath the hem of his mother's form-fitting, pale golden gown. "Was Mum barefoot?"

McGonagall nods. "For much of the day, yes. Although, she didn't start out that way. She hated the shoes your maternal grandmother insisted she buy to complement the dress. On their way up the front walk into the church, Sirius was feeling playful. She ended up dancing with both your father, and your godfather simultaneously right there in front of the church. She broke one of her heels when she inadvertently stepped off the pavement. I offered to mend it for her, but as she was about to accept, James vetoed the idea. He declared, 'You detest the things anyway. Forget them. Go barefoot.' Lily was shocked. 'Are you mad? James, I can't get married without shoes!' To which your father shrugged and replied, 'I don't know why not? You don't like them. They're uncomfortable. It's your wedding day. I say, you can do whatever you want. If your mother raises a stink, blame me. Besides, no one will know if you don't tell them, the dress is long enough to conceal your feet.' So, with the groom's consent, she kicked off her shoes, tossed them into the bushes, and putting an arm around both men, she declared, 'Well alright then!' and she marched right into that church with her head held high."

Harry laughs. "It sounds like the party began even before the ceremony."

"Oh, it did! By noon that day, Mrs. Evans was running around fussing trying to get everyone ready, and no one in the wedding party was cooperating with her. They were all too busy celebrating to be much bothered by the proper form or etiquette that usually goes hand in hand with wedding preparation. They were married at twilight, and as soon as the ceremony was officially over, the party resumed and lasted the night. I, myself, didn't leave until nearly dawn and the bride and groom were still dancing then."

Harry points to the background of the photograph where he sees a younger, less threadbare, and noticeably less careworn, Remus standing before a window with his head thrown back, his mouth held at an odd angle. "What's Professor Lupin doing here? Is he laughing?"

McGonagall studies the photo briefly. "If memory serves me correctly, I believe that was when he was howling at the moon."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "While in his human form?"

Your father was telling a funny story. Remus was providing the sound effects to go along with it. It seemed that on a day less than two months before the wedding date - The reception hall had already been booked, the invitations were already printed and set to go out by owl post - when your mother marched into Fleamont and Euphemia's drawing room and announced that they could not get married on the intended date. Apparently, your father assumed she was overcome with a bad case of pre-wedding jitters, and he calmly informed her, 'We are getting married. It's too late to call it off now. I won't let you back out Evans.' According to Sirius, your mother promptly smacked your father on the back of the head and declared, 'I don't have cold feet, you idiot! I've just been looking at the lunar calendar. We have to change the date. If we don't, then we'll be getting married the evening of a full moon and one of your best friends will not be in attendance!"

Again, Harry studies the tall slender form of Remus Lupin baying at the moon courtesy of a high cathedral-style window. "Obviously, they changed the date."

"Of course, and all four of them were rather animated in the retelling of the tale that night at the reception. According to your father, upon realizing their mistake, they changed the date immediately. However, your mother felt badly that she hadn't checked the calendar much earlier than she did. They had to reprint the invitations, hire a different band, because the one they had already chosen was booked on the new date. They lost their deposit for their reception hall and had to reschedule any number of other wedding-related things; and James threatened, rather comically, to leave Lily at the altar if she didn't stop apologizing for the added expense. James couldn't have cared less about the wasted money because they both agreed that no matter the hassle, they simply would not get married if Lupin was not there to see it happen. And Lupin, who never had much more than spare change in his pockets, told them when he heard of the error, 'Don't waste the money! It's alright! You two can get married without me. I don't have to be there.' And your mother, your father, and Sirius, all three rounded on him, shouting emphatically, 'Yes, you do!"

"Of course, he had to be there! Did my Grandmother Evans take this picture?"

"Either she, or your grandfather. I'm not sure which. To be perfectly honest, I don't remember exactly how the photo came to be in my possession. Did you never meet your maternal grandparents?"

Harry shakes his head. "I know they died when I was very young, but even before then, Aunt Petunia didn't want them around. She said they were very proud of having a witch in the family. That's something that she never learned to cope with. So, I know almost nothing about them."

"Well, I doubt that I can be of much help in that department. I had my initial meeting with them the summer before your mother started at Hogwarts. After that, my contact with them was very limited. Your mother was not frequently in trouble during her time here. As such, I didn't spend a lot of time writing to her parents. I can tell you that, like the parents of most muggle-born witches and wizards, they were shocked at first, but they recovered quickly, and I would say proud was the right word. They were very supportive of your mother."

Harry grimaces in confusion. "So, what happened with Aunt Petunia? If her parents were so supportive, how did she come out so bitterly opposed to all things magical?"

"I can't speak to that with any certainty. It's only supposition on my part, but I suspect that the root of the problem was not magical at all. Perhaps there was some bitter sibling rivalry there that would've existed with, or without, the magical complications. Your mother being a witch probably magnified the issue. Your aunt obviously felt overshadowed by her. It's sad really. I don't recall your mother ever once speaking unkindly of her sister. Lily didn't speak of her often, but when she did, she was never cruel. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Harry rises to his feet nodding. "Thank you for this Professor." He holds up the photograph before tucking it carefully into his shirt pocket. "You're sure you don't mind parting with it?"

Stepping around her desk, she holds open the office door for him to pass through. Shaking her head, she declares, "Not as long as it's you who has it."

Leaving her office, Harry doesn't make it ten steps beyond her door before he's splashing and sliding through a shallow puddle of sweetly perfumed soapy water. Hearing this, McGonagall pokes her head around the door and declares with a heavy sigh, "What is it now?"

Harry shrugs but before he can say that it looks like the plumbing problem on the fifth floor is only getting worse, McGonagall is already striding passed him, and unlike his, her footing seems to be sure and solid as she uses her wand to magically throw open windows along the first-floor corridor of the transfiguration department.

As Harry watches, impressed nearly to the point of being mesmerized, She whips the fragrant water into hundreds of miniature whirling water spouts and casts them out through the open windows. As she reaches the grand staircase and begins to ascend, heedless of the slippery suds, the volume of water intensifies, and with it, the size and number of her spinning wet vortexes. Harry tries to be of help and guesses correctly at the silent incantation she must be using. He can form the miniature water cyclones easily enough. However, his do not hold at the center, and come apart too easily before they are far enough out of the windows to avoid severe splashing. Watching carefully, he realizes that he doesn't have quite the proper wrist movement for the task. So, instead of forming tiny tornadoes made of water, he takes the lead and, staying five steps ahead, he hurls open all windows along her projected path, leaving her free to focus solely on the wet work.

By the time they make it to the third floor, water has risen from less than ankle-deep to mid-thigh, and although McGonagall is still keeping pace with the flow of water, she's working ten times as hard. "Mr. Potter, we've got to get to the source."

Harry nods his understanding. "Nothing like travelling upstream while indoors! Professor, this is ridiculous!"

"I concur. I hate to shut off the main water supply to the castle twice in less than a month, but if we don't get there soon…"

"Want me to go back down?"

Before she can answer, they are interrupted by the sound of Peeves cackling loudly, as he uses the newly repaired grand staircase like a water slide.

"Look out below!"

He draws out each word, making it sound four times longer than it should be and as he jets passed them wearing a child's inner tube, a rubber duck's head clearly visible around his middle, he sings horribly off-key, "Splish-splash, I was taking a bath long about a Saturday night!" Bouncing in and out of the flood of water, he blows bubbles when he goes under and still comes up singing, "Rub-a-dub, just fartin' in the tub…"

Harry watches McGonagall struggle valiantly in her effort to keep a straight face. "Professor, can poltergeists drown?"

She answers dryly. "It would seem not."

Laughing, Harry tosses out the first thought in his head. "Maybe if we electrocute him…"

"In a castle overflowing with water? Can you think of a safe way to do that without electrocuting everyone else in the building?"

Harry considers the question briefly. "Right then, scratch that."

By the time they reach the fifth floor, Harry is wishing he'd had the presence of mind to take off his shoes before he left the first floor. Inside his sodden shoes, his feet feel like they weigh 100 pounds apiece, and still, McGonagall charges forward, seemingly impervious to it all. Holding his wand high overhead in an effort to keep it dry, he's just about ready to give up the attempt to keep his footing, and take to swimming instead, when they finally trudge into the prefect's bathroom where Mr. Blackbuckle is heard saying, amid a torrent of water that is erupting from a hole in the wall, "I don't understand, it was holding a moment ago. Why did it burst open again?"

Sprout glares up at him from her knees as she struggles without success to reach the water shutoff valve in the tile wall behind one of the massive tub's many taps. Obviously soaked clear to her skin and getting wetter by the second, she sighs with relief. "Minerva, thank the gods! Plumber's on his way. You're taller than me, your arms are longer. I can just barely brush the valve with my fingertips, not enough to grab it."

McGonagall waves her wand to staunch the tide of soapy water that is hosing down everyone and everything in the room. Once she's applied a magical barrier to keep things from getting any worse, she nods to Harry, and with the flick of his wrist, he opens all the windows, and the water level inside the room instantly drops as water spills over the low windowsills and plummets to the ground six stories below, carrying soap suds and bullfrogs with it.

McGonagall hands her active wand over to Sprout. "Here, Pomona! Hold back the flood for me, and I'll see if I can stem the tide. Mr. Potter, find Mr. Filch and go kill the main water supply coming into the castle. I'm going to try and shut off the valve here, in this room, but if the pipes are weakened because of recently sustained damage, shutting off this outlet may cause another rupture somewhere else."

Harry is already gone before she's finished speaking.

Sinking to her knees and leaning into the cramped space behind the faucet, McGonagall feels around blindly, searching for the valve. Once found, she tries to turn it one way, and when it won't budge, she goes the other and sighs with relief when the free-flowing water from the wall behind the tub diminishes and then stops. Turning her gaze to Barnabas Blackbuckle even before she is back on her feet, she declares, "You will stay until this place is dried out. I do not care if you spend the night. This castle will be bone dry before you are permitted to leave, and the next time someone suggests to you that perhaps you should call a plumber, or any other specialists, before you go waving a wand about, you will listen and act accordingly. As unusual as it may be, not every problem in this building can, or should, be solved with the use of magic." She takes her wand back from Professor Sprout's outstretched hand, and magically removes the plugs from the many drains in the massive tub. Next, she turns her wand on the botanist first, and then herself, drying them both out with stout blasts of warm air issued from the tip of her handsomely carved fir wand. "I am going downstairs to freshen up. I have somewhere to be. Pomona, when the plumber arrives, he gets anything he needs. Keep Mr. Blackbuckle away from him!" Announcement made; she strides out of the room without a backward glance.

Inside Minister Shacklebolt's highly polished and very impressive office, a party of men can be heard having a conversation that is one raised voice away from becoming an argument.

A redheaded man by the name of Coopersmith declares not for the first time, "We need to let the Potter boy know that he has our gratitude. If we don't make some sort of formal statement, offer some sort of reward, the ministry will come off looking ungrateful. People won't like that. The entire wizarding world thinks he's the greatest thing since Merlin."

Most of the other men in the room nod their agreement as Shacklebolt leaves his seat and steps around his desk, perching lightly on the front left corner. "I am not suggesting we do nothing. Between the lot of us, I'm sure we can come up with something appropriate, but truthfully gentlemen, I'm more interested in giving the young man a job - a means by which to support himself - than I am in giving him a mere trinket of appreciation. If we hold some formal ceremony with an awards presentation, if we throw him a parade, if the media shows up – I'm telling you all, I've met the young man, I've talked to him numerous times – and it's highly likely that if we make him the center of attention, not only won't he show up, but he may decide to turn down the job offer. He's too valuable an asset to let that happen. We need people like him. Now that we're all breathing a collective sigh of relief over the parting of Lord Voldemort, it's very easy to become complacent. Instead, we need to be looking to, and planning for, the future. Voldemort is gone. We need to start preparing for the next 'big bad' because, trust me, it's coming. The bad guys never stay down long. I wouldn't be surprised if right this minute there is one out there saying to himself 'Voldemort failed, let's see if I can succeed where he didn't.'

"You really think they compete with each other?"

"Don't you? Voldemort has lived in infamy for the last 30 years. People will still be talking about him 500 years from now. Before him, it was Grindelwald. Before Grindelwald, the Rosier Clan, the Gaunts, Et cetera, Et cetera, Et cetera. And it's not just in Europe. We're talking about something worldwide. The Salem Witch trials, and for eons before that. How far back do you need me to go? Do you honestly think there's any place on the planet that hasn't been touched by this?"

Come on, Shacklebolt, can't we relax for ten minutes? Can't we breathe easy, even just for a month?"

"Coop, forget that you work here in this grand building for just one minute. Imagine you're just John Q. Wizard going about your business on the streets of London. Do you want your ministry taking a month-long holiday? Or do you want to know that we're doing everything we can to ensure your safety and that of the people you love? Are you comfortable thinking that we're all sitting around with our feet up drinking giggle water, or would you rather know, and rest comfortably in the knowledge that, we're gearing up for the next threat? We've lost a lot of people, and if we are going to be ready for whatever comes next, we need to do more than hand out awards, breathe easy, and throw parades. We need to get some new blood in here. If you want Mr. Potter to be among the ranks… well then, I hope you have more to offer him than pomp, circumstance, and fanfare because he's shown no interest in being the ministry's next poster boy."

When a knock is heard at his office door, Shacklebolt nearly sighs aloud with relief. Giving the interruption his full attention, he calls out, "Yes, Julienne?"

His secretary pokes her head in through the door. "Sir …" She acknowledges the room. "Pardon the interruption, gentlemen." Her gaze swivels back to her boss. "Professor McGonagall is here."

Surprise registers in Shacklebolt's eyes as he sits up a little straighter. "Julienne, have I forgotten about an appointment?"

"No sir. She acknowledged that she's here unexpectedly. She helped herself to a seat in the reception area and opened a magazine as she informed me, 'Tell him I'll wait if he needs me to, but I am not leaving here until I talk to him."

Shacklebolt raises an eyebrow and inhales noisily. "That's not good, is it?"

"It doesn't seem to be, sir."

"Give her coffee. Give her anything she wants. Tell her I will be with her very shortly." He adds pointedly for his audience, "I am just about done here." Then, already reconsidering his words, he backpedals. "On second thought, Julienne, ask Professor McGonagall to join us."

A moment later McGonagall steps into the room, an obvious look of uncertainty on her face as the office door closes behind her. "Ms. Springer said I should join you?"

Shacklebolt smiles, offering, "Yes, please have a seat." When he looks around the room belatedly and realizes there isn't an empty chair to be had, He stands and steps behind his desk once more, pushing his own chair to the other side of the room for her. "I believe you'll recognize nearly everyone here, as they will no doubt remember you, with the possible exception of Mr. Levitt, who is a graduate of ilvermorny." He gestures to a portly middle-aged male dressed in the customary clothing for a man of Hasidic faith. "Samuel, this is Minerva McGonagall. She's headmistress of our Hogwarts. Nearly everyone else here is a former student of hers."

Minerva nods politely in Levitt's direction. "Shabbat shalom."

He smiles revealing very crooked, but exceptionally white teeth. "To you as well, Madame."

She turns her gaze back to Shacklebolt. "You asked me to step in because…"

"We're discussing Mr. Potter."

Nodding, she gestures, seeking more information. "What about him?"

The optics of his relationship with the ministry… Or rather the ministry's relationship with him. My advisers have informed me that it is absolutely essential we host some sort of formal award ceremony to publicly express our profound and heartfelt gratitude to him."

McGonagall is silent for a weighted moment before asking simply, "Why?"

A short bark of laughter escapes Mr. Coopersmith. "Is she serious?"

Although he addressed his question to Shacklebolt, McGonagall answers for herself. "Always."

"And you have to ask why?"

"For a couple of reasons, yes."

"Such as?"

"First of all, I think giving one human being an award for taking the life of another is rather vulgar."

"Vulgar? It's not as if he committed cold-blooded murder! Voldemort was a monster!"

"Do you honestly think I don't know that? Three weeks ago, I watched him murder children… children I taught. Those images won't be leaving my head within this lifetime. Harry Potter was defending his own right to life. He was defending the freedoms and rights of an entire race of beings. He was drawing a line in the sand against tyranny. That is not murder. That still doesn't change the fact that we shouldn't start handing out commendations for taking lives. That would most definitely be the wrong message for the ministry to send. You mentioned a public award ceremony. What are you going to do? Stand him up in front of the press and give him a plaque, a trophy, a nice shiny medal? Maybe you could erect a statue." McGonagall shakes her head. "Forgive me, but that seems like a pretty poor way to show your appreciation for everything Mr. Potter has sacrificed. Namely, his time, his energy, his privacy, and a significant portion of his education. He's been physically injured. He's shed his own blood. He's been publicly ridiculed. He's been harassed and deliberately misrepresented by at least one overzealous media representative. He has seen his friends, classmates, teammates, teachers, and mentors die. He very nearly gave his own life, and he has lost every single person he has ever called family. For that, you want to give him a nicely carved piece of wood with pretty bronze letters on it?"

She raises an eyebrow, silently daring any of them to speak. "What's that going to cost you? Maybe 50 galleons? I don't care if that award is made of solid gold. Give him the keys to the city if you want. Such gestures are utterly meaningless. They are meant to make gentlemen like you feel good about yourselves. No award is going to make up for what he's lost. Awards don't put food on the table. They don't keep a roof over our heads or help us support families. Neither will they keep us warm on a cold night. You want to know what awards do gentlemen? They hang on walls and sit on shelves… and collect dust. That's it! They wind up being something we have to clean. You want to show your gratitude for the sacrifices that young man has made? Give him a job. Give him a purpose beyond the death of Tom Riddle. Give him an opportunity to support himself and the family I hope he will one day build. God knows he deserves to have one. If you are determined to give him some sort of commemorative trinket, I can't stop you, but when you do it, don't expect him to stand around and publicly pose for you like some sort of armchair warrior, he deserves better than that."

When she stops speaking, the room is utterly silent until Shacklebolt rises to his feet once again, "I believe we can close there. I couldn't possibly say it any better." He steps to the door, pointedly opening it and waiting for his reluctant visitors to take the hint.

Slowly, one by one, they all rise and begin to file out except for Mr. Levitt who lingers long enough to quietly ask McGonagall, "Are you Jewish?"

She shakes her head. "No sir."

He frowns in light puzzlement. "But your greeting to me…"

"My father is the senior minister at the First Presbyterian Church of Caithness."

"And he is a wizard?" He waits half a beat before adding, "Forgive my bold questions. There are not many of us who are both devout and mage. We make up a very exclusive community."

"Yes, we do, but no, my father is a muggle. My mother was the mage."

"That can be a very hard thing for some to accept."

"Yes, it can. Happily, my father came to grips with it a number of years ago.

Levitt eyes her robes and the stylish conical hat that undeniably proclaims 'witch.' as he nods intuitively. "Your father and I; we do not share exactly the same faith, but still, he taught you to respect any faith that differs from his own?"

"He did."

"Then his flock is very well looked after."

"Thank you. I'll tell him you said so."

He nods genially. "Peace unto you, Professor. May you find some respite this weekend."

"And you as well."

As Levitt steps from the office, McGonagall realizes belatedly that they are the only two remaining and that Shacklebolt is eyeing them patiently from the door.

Once the door is closed behind Levitt, the Minister says quietly, Do me a huge favor, please. Invite him to dinner one weekend soon… Ahem… That is if your father is not opposed to cooking a kosher meal."

"That shouldn't be a problem. Are you having trouble with him?"

"No. Not with him. He even shows up here on the Sabbath if I can't stall an impromptu meeting. He shouldn't have to do that. He's devoted to his new position here at the ministry. It's the rest of these philistines that have a problem. A lot of them are reaching a certain age. They are set in their ways, and they really have no idea what to do with a Hasidic Jewish man. They don't openly shun him, but they certainly don't go out of their way to include him. He's definitely the odd man out. He's trying desperately to find a place for himself here without compromising his faith, and I find it disgraceful that he isn't treated more kindly."

"I'll talk to my father. We'll extend an invitation soon."

"Give him my gratitude."

Minerva shakes her head. "Not necessary. Besides, he wouldn't do it for the ministry. He'll do it because it ought to be done."

"I'll take it. Now, what can I do for you?"

"It has come to my attention today that the connection to the Floo Network between Dumbledore's office and his home in France was not severed as it should've been following his death. I've come to realize that at some point in the last year Severus Snape took to traveling between the two. Prior to his death, Professor Snape was living in Dumbledore's home, or at the very least, spending an inordinately large amount of time there. I want to know who should have been responsible for terminating that connection. I want to know why it wasn't done. And I want to know now. A potential security breach of this magnitude is inexcusable. I am not leaving here this evening until someone answers for this."