Stanley Stokowski in the Office of Floo Network Regulation has been hoping against hope all day long that he will be able to sneak away and go home at least a few minutes early. Slumped dejectedly in his swivel chair, when he looks up from the most recent pile of paperwork to burden his desk at three minutes before five and finds the Minister of Magic come to call in person and in the company of his former, sour-faced transfiguration teacher, he knows without asking that it won't be happening. Fighting the urge to groan aloud, he plasters a saccharine smile on his face. "Minister Shacklebolt, sir, what brings you down my way?"

Still the new man on the job, Shacklebolt has to move paperwork aside just to read the nameplate on the man's cluttered desk in order to be certain he's talking to the right person. "Stokowski, Professor McGonagall and I would like to know which member of your staff was responsible for overseeing network regulations for Professor Dumbledore's office prior to his death last spring?

Stanley can feel his eyes widening even as he tries to control his response. Stalling, he asks, "At Hogwarts?"

McGonagall purses her lips together thinly and raises an eyebrow. "Yes, of course, at Hogwarts."

"Just asking, Professor." Stanley replies in a thin voice barely above a whisper as he takes entirely too long setting his paperwork aside, making a show of giving them his undivided attention.

"To the best of your knowledge, did Professor Dumbledore have any other office?"

Fixing his eyes on a spot somewhere just above McGonagall's left shoulder so he won't have to look her in the eye, he mumbles, "No ma'am. Of course not."

"Then you are stalling, and rather badly. Just as you used to do as a student when you hadn't completed the assignment you needed for class Mr. Stokowski. I warn you, today is not the day to trifle with me. You will sit up straight. You'll answer our questions clearly and concisely with zero attempt at avoidance."

Straightening his posture, Stanley silently wishes he'd skived off work for the day and gone fishing with his brother-in-law, who he hates. He starts out in a whisper, then forces himself to raise his voice to a normal speaking volume. "That would have been Benney."

Shacklebolt nods. "Benney?"

"Benedict Shaid, sir."

"Why didn't Mr. Shaid terminate the connection between the headmaster's fireplace and his places of residence following his death… That is proper procedure, is it not?"

"Yes, it is but I'm afraid I don't have an answer for that sir."

McGonagall scoffs. "I'd like a word with Mr. Shaid please."

"That's not possible ma'am."

"May I ask why not?"

"Because he's in the hospital ma'am – 's. I believe he's been moved to long-term care. He's in a persistent vegetative state."

"Why?"

Squinting, Stokowski repeats the question back to her. "Why?"

"What happened to him?"

"No one seems to know for sure. He was found home alone and completely unresponsive. There's talk he sided with the death eaters during the ministry takeover."

McGonagall glares at the weak man before her. "Do you have any proof of that?"

"It's only talk. You know - the office gristmill. No one knows if he was actually in league with the death eaters, if he only sided with them for survival, or if he was acting under the imperious curse. It could have been any one of the three."

"You have no proof one way or the other, and I'm guessing you don't know for certain that any of the supposition had anything to do with his failure to terminate the connection between Professor Dumbledore's home and office."

"No ma'am." Stokowski cannot keep his voice from shaking, and he prays that the rest of him isn't shaking as well."

Mr. Shaid cannot currently speak for himself. Is that correct?"

"Yes ma'am."

"And you sit here spreading rumors about him? In the complete absence of proof? Have you never heard the words, 'Innocent until proven guilty?"

"Personally, I think they should take anyone even suspected of collaboration and toss them all in a holding cell to remain there indefinitely, until they can get it all sorted out."

"How nice for you to be above reproach Mr. Stokowski. Does he have family?"

Surprised by the question, Stanley's eyes widen noticeably. "Yes ma'am."

"Do they need anything?"

He shrugs. "How would I know?"

"You'd visit them at the hospital… and you'd ask them."

He asks incredulously, "With all this paperwork on my desk?"

Placing her hands against his desk, McGonagall leans forward and with her face mere inches away from his, she whispers ominously, "People before paperwork Mr. Stokowski!"

"He just worked here. We weren't friends."

Eyes blazing, McGonagall trembles visibly with every angry word. "If you think that matters, then shame on you! He was in your charge. He was your responsibility. If you can't muster up enough concern to at least make an appearance at the hospital, then you don't belong here!"

Stokowski turns his attention to Shacklebolt, "What would you like me to do now, sir?

Shacklebolt crosses his arms over his chest. "The connection between the head office at Hogwarts and all of Professor Dumbledore's homes will be severed tonight before you clock out. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir.

"Good. You'll be notified when the date and time has been set for a disciplinary hearing."

"Sir? It was Shaid's mistake."

"And I will be combing through the records to verify that prior to the hearing, but it doesn't change the fact that Mr. Shaid was under your direct supervision, or the fact that this was a major security breach. The people in this office are your responsibility. If you can't handle that, Mr. Stokowski, then we'll have to find someone who can."

Turning to leave, Shacklebolt politely holds the door open and waits for Professor McGonagall to step through first. As the door closes behind them, Stanley Stokowski drops his head into his hands and whispers, "I should just quit and take up drinking."

McGonagall returns to La Ruche. Recognizing that she should've done so on her earlier visit, her first order of business is to drop in and speak to the farm's caretaker. Approaching the cottage at the western border of the property, she finds several copies of The Daily Profit waiting to be retrieved from the front porch. When no one answers her knock, she peers in through the narrow window beside the door and finds the house dark. No one is home.

Returning to the farmhouse, she spends the better part of the next three hours cleaning and putting things right. Because severing a connection to the floo network is a matter of bureaucracy that does not come without ample amounts of red tape, once back in the farmhouse, her first task is to properly clean and then brick up the fireplace. It's a minor inconvenience, but until she's sure that the connection is terminated, no one else is coming into Albus's home by floo powder, and once the connection is cut, opening the fireplace back up will be a simple matter.

So, for three hours, she scrubs, scours, and polishes everything in sight. All things that belong inside the house are restored to their proper places. Things that never should've been in the house, namely Snape's possessions, are boxed up and set aside for removal. She throws out any of his clothing that is too shabby to make it worth the trouble of mending it. He had no remaining family, so there isn't anyone, at least not a relative or a friend, to offer his possessions to. Anything she deems serviceable is laundered or scrubbed clean and set aside for drop-off at one of Diagon Alley's secondhand shops. She boxes up nearly a dozen different cauldrons, too many potion vials to bother counting, and a handful of small books filled with cramped, slanted writing that appear to be notes and his personal observations related to potion-making. Once back at the castle, she plans to go through it all, keep anything that might be beneficial to the school, and toss the rest onto a large burn pile behind Hagrid's hut.

Exhausted by the events of the day, her muscles fatigued and sore, she's still too angry to even consider sleeping.

Apparating as far as Hogsmeade, she walks back to the castle hoping that the night air will provide some comfort. Halfway down the corridor outside her office, she breaks into a dead run at the sound of Wordsworth yowling loudly, Peeves cackling with mischievous glee, and Professor Sprout's unmistakable cry of pain.

One foot over the threshold of her office, and McGonagall nearly goes down hard, the loaded boxes she's carrying toppling to the floor and spilling their contents in every direction. A glass potion vial breaks underfoot as Peeves deliberately jets around the room, taunting Wordsworth maliciously, while being just careful enough to stay out of reach; and Wordsworth tears around the room knocking over everything in his path as he growls low in his throat, and snaps his teeth trying to get at the elusive menace.

Stumbling across the room amid all the motion and confusion, McGonagall braces herself with a hand against her desk. Tired of this day, disgusted with other people's nonsense, she shouts, "Enough!" and leaving behind all attempt to hold her temper in check, she removes her wand from the inner pocket of her robes, and taking aim, she fires at Peeves, hitting him squarely on the backside with the only thing she's found that will make him listen to reason even briefly, a low wattage bolt of simulated lightning.

"Owwww!" The poltergeist shouts as he disappears through the ceiling, calling out loudly, "No fair! You'll scramble Peevsie's butt!"

As Wordsworth lunges, flying halfway across the room in a single leap before scuttling behind the safety of a large potted plant, McGonagall lifts her face to the ceiling, "If you ever again put so much as a toe inside my office, you demented loon, then yes, I will scramble your ridiculous posterior… permanently!"

Wordsworth whines softly.

McGonagall spins on her heel and glares at him. "Do you want to be next?"

Crawling backward into a corner, Wordsworth disappears entirely from view behind the plant.

"Pomona, are you alright? I heard you cry out."

The herbology teacher nods. "Wordsworth scratched me, but he didn't mean to do it Minerva. He was just… that bloody Peeves was deliberately tormenting him."

Minerva examines her friend's arm briefly before running the pad of her thumb lightly along the wound tract.

The deep scratch is entirely mended within seconds and Sprout watches it happen with fascination. "You're becoming rather good at wandless magic."

Minerva shrugs. "It's progressive. Not much more than a hobby at this point. I'm still only using it for minor things.

Sprout smiles. "Everybody's got to start somewhere. We can't all save people from 50-foot drops."

"Thank God some of us could. I might not be here otherwise."

"You, nor Harry Potter."

"True." McGonagall stoops to reclaim her dropped boxes and all their scattered contents. While she's doing this, Sprout waves her wand and repairs the shattered crystal vase that was knocked from the top of a bookcase in the melee.

"Minerva, what is all that stuff?"

"Some of Snape's personal possessions. I found them at Dumbledore's farmhouse. It's pretty evident Snape was staying there."

"He was not?"

"Afraid so."

"Well, that explains the look on your face."

"How did he get there?"

"The floo network; courtesy of the grate in Dumbledore's office."

"But access from either London or France should've been terminated last spring."

"Precisely why I went to the ministry to demand an explanation. I didn't get one though. The person in charge of overseeing those particular connections is currently unresponsive in St. Mungo's."

"Oh joy!" Sprout declares dryly. They had to have a rather high security clearance to be overseeing the fireplaces Dumbledore routinely had access to."

"Don't I know it." Minerva deposits the boxes on the bottom shelf of one of her many bookcases. "We will go through these tomorrow. There are several cauldrons that can be loaned out to students in need. There are also a large number of potion vials we'll need to go through and identify properly. Not all of them are labeled clearly."

Sprout nods. "I will put it on my to-do list for tomorrow… Unless you want it done tonight."

McGonagall shakes her head. "Have you had your supper yet?"

"I've not, and I'm rather famished. Pitts promised Coq au Vin tonight and I've been looking forward to it all day." She bounces on the balls of her feet with mild excitement.

"Go have your supper. I'll be here all day tomorrow. You can have the day to tend your own office."

"Aren't you coming down Minerva?"

"I don't feel up to joining the crowd tonight. This has been a very long day." Reaching behind the potted plant where Wordsworth hides, Minerva lifts him into her arms and carefully looks him over. He purrs loudly when she strokes the underside of his chin with a fingertip; effectively apologizing to the cat for her unwarranted scolding. "Are you hurt? I don't see any injuries."

Sprout steps up close beside her, looking the cat over for herself. "I don't see how he could be. He was holding his own; giving Peeves as good as he got." Stepping toward the door, Sprout kneels and picks up a stray potion vial and one of Snape's small notebooks bound in expensive dragon hide that has been dyed a muted shade of blood red and passes them to Minerva as she says quietly before parting, "The plumber was here. He repaired the problem in the prefect's bathroom. I left the bill in your inbox. Prepare yourself. Saturday service does not come cheaply. Mr. Blackbuckle is still cleaning up his mess. Although we no longer have standing water, he's going to be here a while yet tonight drying out the fifth floor."

Minerva drops the vial and notebook into a pocket. "If you see him on your way down to the Great Hall, tell him to break for supper. I might very much like to strangle him right now, but I won't starve him."

"The curly haired witch taps the door frame before stepping away. "Have a good night, Minerva."

Lowering Wordsworth to the floor, she settles into the seat behind her desk as she answers, "You too Pomona."

For an hour and ½, she slogs through the sizable mound of mundane paperwork on her desk until she realizes that she has yawned half a dozen times in as many minutes.

Putting down her quill, she rises and extinguishes the office desk lamp, before stepping through the door to her private quarters with Wordsworth following eagerly.

The cat immediately saunters to his empty bowl and looks at her reproachfully.

"Alright. Yes, I know. I'm coming." She declares in route to her private bathroom, where she plugs the tub drain and turns on the tap, adding a scant two drops of eucalyptus oil to the water.

While waiting for the tub to fill, she makes her way to her tiny kitchen, puts the kettle on, and feeds the cat. Returning to the bathroom, she undresses, dons a dressing gown, and quickly sorts the day's apparel into two laundry hampers. When she hears the soft clink of glass, she's reminded of the items stowed in her pockets. Turning, and reaching into the cupboard above the toilet, she selects two towels, and a washcloth and lowers the toilet lid before placing them on top. Removing the vial of potion, and the notebook from the pocket of her discarded robes, she lays both items on top of her bath linens and goes to see to the whistling tea kettle.

Minutes later, she settles into the steaming tub and quickly bathes with a bar of her favorite coal tar soap, before leaning back to relax and soak her tired muscles. Picking up the cup from the edge of the tub, she sips the hot peppermint tea carefully and lets its heat flow through her. She closes her eyes, bends her knees, and sinks a little lower into the heated tub, wishing for the added comfort of the whirlpool jets in the tub at the cottage. She stays that way for a long time, until she can feel fatigue pulling at the edges of her consciousness. Still dreading sleep, and the dreams that will doubtlessly come with it, she reaches for the notebook that lies waiting on top of her bath towels.

The very first page bears the insignia of the stationery manufacturer – Calamus Ardentis, along with the watermark of a flaming quill scratching its way across a lengthy piece of papyrus that curls at its edges. The second page holds Professor Snape's familiar untidy scrawl and the words, 'This journal is the property of S2.' Turning the page again, she riffles through quickly when she finds the third page, and every page after it, blank.

Well, not entirely blank, she corrects herself. Throughout the book, on multiple pages, she finds perfectly circular stains. Some are faint and nearly colorless, while others seem to be a deep brown hue mixed with shades of purple or red. Perplexed, but not totally clueless, she pulls the plug and rises from the tub ready to prove a hunch. Pausing only long enough to wrap the dressing gown around her wet body again, she hurries to her tiny kitchenette, and with Wordsworth eyeing her curiously, she stands on tiptoe, reaching into an upper cabinet for a rarely used wineglass. Measuring the base of the glass against the circumference of the stains in the notebook, she comes up with a perfect match. Turning to the cat, she says, "It would seem that Professor Snape spent his evenings scribbling down things he didn't want anyone to read while imbibing freely."

Finding this of absolutely no interest, Wordsworth returns to chewing on his favorite blaze-orange toothbrush.

Minerva shrugs. "Fine. You don't have to care. I want to know what he was hiding." She tries using a bit of wandless magic to no avail and returns to her lavatory where she snags her wand from its resting place on the vanity. Pointing it at the pages of the open book, she thinks silently, "Revelio." She smirks when the book suddenly fills with barely decipherable writing on every page, front and back, including the margins. At first, she thinks merely that his penmanship leaves something to be desired, but her sense of success is short-lived when she realizes that, yes, his handwriting is as deplorable as it ever was, but she also doesn't recognize the language that is used. For a long moment, she's caught between a nearly overwhelming desire to know, and an equally prevalent desire to not be a snoop. If this journal contains nothing more than his private thoughts, then she feels bound to respect his privacy. On the other hand, if the book contains nothing more than his private thoughts, then why go to the trouble to put those thoughts down in an unfamiliar language, and then render them invisible. It seems like overkill. How much privacy or respect does she still owe him?

'To the dead, we owe only truth.'

She smacks the letter bound journal against the palm of her hand thinking silently, "Okay then. Voltaire wins." Leaving the small book on the kitchen counter, she hurries to her bedroom to dress before retrieving the book and stepping out of her private quarters once more.

Searching the ground floor of the castle, she checks all of his usual hangouts, without finding the ghost she wants, but she does cross paths with another.

"Friar, may I have a moment?"

The jovial ghost of Hufflepuff house turns his attention her way with a wide, easy smile. "Of course, headmistress. You may have as many as you like."

"I can't seem to find Professor Binns. He's not dozing in the staff lounge, his classroom, or in that chair he likes in the library."

The rotund little cleric chuckles softly. "I'm afraid Madam Pince threw him out of the library. She said he was making too much noise."

McGonagall sighs. "School isn't even in session. It's not as if students are in there trying to study."

That was Professor Binns' argument as well. I'm not sure where she banished him to. Is there a chance I may be of service?"

McGonagall opens the book, putting its obscure writing on display. "I speak Latin, Italian, and French, along with a smattering of Spanish and German. I can read Greek. However, I barely recognize more than a few characters of this, and of the ones I think I recognize, I'm not absolutely certain. Any idea what language this is?"

The fat friar is silent for a long moment before he scowls thoughtfully. "I think I understand your problem Professor. Unless I miss my guess, I believe this is an ancient Egyptian dialect, and if you'll forgive me for saying so, Professor Snape had the handwriting of a serial killer. I would recognize his diabolical chicken scratch anywhere."

McGonagall squints in surprise. "An ancient Egyptian dialect?"

The friar pats his protuberant belly as he studies the book for a second time just to be certain. "Yes ma'am. At least, I'm fairly certain that was his intent. I'm afraid he did a rather poor job of it." He points. "In life, we clergy did a lot of studying. You see this group of symbols here?" He waits for her to nod before he continues. "Judging by the context of the rest of the sentence, I believe he's trying to say, 'reborn through fire' but what he actually wrote was 'baptized by fire.' Indicating that he may have had a basic understanding of the language, but he certainly is no aficionado."

McGonagall purses her lips thoughtfully as she shrugs. "The difference between the words 'baptized' and 'reborn' might only be a subtle one. In fact, depending on the context in which they are used, they might be interchangeable."

"It's certainly possible, but not in this instance." The ghost waits patiently, watching McGonagall sort through her own private musings until worry begins to slowly creep into her thoughtful expression. When her lips disappear into a thin white line, he says, "Oh dear, have I helped, or did I only make things worse?"

Stepping away with purpose in her stride, Minerva waves in appreciation. "You did fine. Thank you, Friar."

"Any time, Headmistress." He sinks through the floor on his way to the clocktower courtyard for a little star gazing.

Returning to her quarters as quickly as possible, Minerva snatches the potion vial from the top of the toilet tank, where she had placed it moments before while dressing to go in search of Professor Binns. Removing the cork from the vial, she sniffs its contents cautiously after observing its color. Placing a stopper in the bathroom sink, she empties the contents, and when she comes up with nothing more innocuous than moon dew, she returns to her office and the heavy crate of vials waiting to be properly inspected and identified.

Wordsworth follows her and watches her every move curiously as she moves the crate to her desk and begins to sort through its contents silently praying that she does not find what she's looking for. It takes her nearly half an hour to sort through it all, even though the contents in nearly 2/3 of the vials are easily identified through sight alone, because the remaining third must be handled with both deliberation and delicacy. When she has only 20 vials left to go, she swirls the ice blue contents of a fat squat little bottle and grimaces when she realizes that the bottle itself is frigid against the skin of her palm. Removing the cork, she passes the frosty bottle slowly under her nose. There is no detectable fragrance or odor. Moving slowly around the desk to her chair, she takes time to settle in, momentarily stalling before giving herself a shake and deciding that there's nothing to be gained with the passing of more time. Eager to have it done and over, she pulls the message spike on her desk nearer. Placing it carefully in front of herself, she reaches out, quick as a hiccup, and deliberately pricks the pad of her left thumb. Blood immediately wells in the minuscule puncture. Placing her right index finger over the top of the bottle, she upends it briefly before returning it to the desktop and dabbing the faint trace of icy cold liquid against her self-inflicted wound. When the wound stops bleeding and glows with a faint golden light, before sealing itself shut, McGonagall grits her teeth to avoid swearing aloud. Then, she inhales deeply, rises to her feet, jams both the notebook and the bottle into the pocket of her robes, and rushes for the door. She's just stepping over the threshold when her ringing phone calls her back. Returning to her desk in record time, she snatches up the receiver and declares, "Laird, I can't talk now. I have a feeling it's going to be a long night. I promise I'll call you tomorrow evening."

Before the man on the other end of the line even as time to speak, he is listening to a dial tone and tugging at his beard as he wonders how a castle with no electricity manages caller ID.

As soon as she steps clear of the castle grounds, McGonagall disapparates, and in less than a moment's time, she's back in France. Wasting no time with the lighting of her wand, she transforms. In the darkness, cat's eyes are better than the artificial light that wands emit, and the heightened sense of smell that comes with the transformation is also of great benefit to her. She prays she's wrong about what she will find despite extensive evidence to the contrary, as slowly, almost reluctantly, she sniffs the air.

Taking in the expected scents of honey, beeswax, grapes, night-blooming jasmine, horseflesh and hay, she sets them all aside and searches for something faint and feathery beneath it all. Moving slowly at first, she circles the house without any real expectation of success. Branching out away from the house, she moves faster with each widening circle. In the compost pile beside the barn, she catches the pungent scents of coffee grounds, eggshells, animal droppings, and rotting orange rinds and banana skins. The putrid sweet odor nearly masks something else - but not quite.

When she steps through the barn door, the scent of something she does not want to find intensifies. Walking the perimeter of the interior floor space, she hugs the walls on her first lap until she makes it to the innermost wall, then she returns to her human form and climbs the ladder until she can see into the loft. Finding nothing of interest up there, she returns to the floor, and steps beneath the loft. In the darkest corner of the barn, she finds a trapdoor in the floor. One she's never seen on any of her previous visits. Staring at it in wonder, she supposes it could've been there for years and she simply had failed to notice it. It's not as though she's spent a great deal of time in the barn. What puzzles her most though, is the rather large, and arcane looking padlock that is meant to bar the entry of anyone not in possession of a key. Giving her wand a gentle flick, she frowns when the alohomora charm has no effect on the lock. She's a breath away from breaching the door with bombarda when a raspy male voice with a thick French accent orders from the doorway, "Do not move!"

Minerva's throat constricts painfully in response to the unexpected shock as she instantly halts all movement.

"Arms out away from your sides."

She complies, silently berating herself for being too preoccupied to hear his approach, and she prays he's alone.

"Drop zee wand."

She hesitates slightly.

"Do it! I've got no problem stunning trespassers."

The last thing she wants is to be stunned yet again in this lifetime. Her arms still held out away from her body, she bends and lowers her wand gently to the floor before slowly returning to her full height. "I'm not a trespasser. Albus Dumbledore was a very good friend of mine."

"Kick zee wand away." The man orders, too smart to be fooled by mere words.

Reluctantly, she does so.

"Alright zen. Turn around."

Moving as slowly as possible, Minerva turns and exhales noisily at the sight of the familiar wiry little wizard standing in the doorway holding a dimly lit lantern in the hand opposite his wand. "Thank God! Terence Briard, you nearly scared the life out of me!"

"I scared you? Merde, Professor McGonagall! Thank heavens, someone wiz some sense is finally 'ere!" He puts away his own wand, tucking it into the inside pocket of his work robes, and then strides forward to retrieve hers from its place on the barn floor. Handing it back to her, a rosy blush rises on his ears as he says awkwardly, "My apologies ma'am. I thought someone was up to no good."

McGonagall crosses the barn floor and lowers herself onto a hay bale as she pats her throat with relief. "I'm sorry I frightened you. I didn't stop to think how late it is, or how my presence might be interpreted. Heaven help me, I didn't even recognize your voice, Terry."

He nods, rasping heavily, "We only just returned home 'alf an hour ago." Referring to his wife, he adds, "I 'ave caught Marie's cold."

"And here I am, dragging you out in the night air. I apologize. I stopped by your cottage earlier today. No one was home. I should've checked again upon my return. Thank you for not stunning me."

Briard chuckles dryly. "Zank you for not making me do it. What brings you 'ere tonight, Professor?"

"I've only just become aware today that Professor Snape had taken up residence in the house."

"What is zis? You did not know."

"No. I'm sorry to say, I didn't. Well, that is to say, I suspected someone was out here. I assumed it was Aberforth as the place legally belongs to him now, and the school is still receiving our expected allotment of honey and candles."

Briard nods. "I've been doing my best to see that those shipments go out on time each month. Zat's the way Albus would want it. When zat Snape showed up 'ere the first time, I thought he was 'ere to help or maybe to 'urry me along. I didn't zink it right 'e should be taking up residence, but 'e said 'e had a right to zee place. I thought zose of you at zee school knew 'e was 'ere. 'e made it sound as if 'e had worked out some sort of arrangement wiz Mr. Aberforth. 'e didn't like me asking questions. I only left 'im alone because I did not want 'im making trouble for me with Albus's brozer."

"Well, I can assure you that Aberforth knew nothing about it. He's been trying to track me down since he came here yesterday and realized that someone was living here. What sort of trouble did you expect?"

"As you already know, Albus left me zee small parcel of land on zee western border where my cottage sits. 'e asked me to look after zee place when zee couldn't be 'ere. That's what I've been doing. Mr. Aberforth didn't seem to 'ave any desire to come out 'ere. Zat Snape said if I didn't keep out of 'is way, 'e'd have me, and Marie zrown off. If it was just me, I wouldn't worry, but my Marie, she's in no shape to leave 'ere Professor. Zis is the only place she knows, and wiz her memory slipping away, she gets agitated any place new or unfamiliar. I couldn't have zat Snape making trouble for her."

McGonagall snorts derisively. "I would've liked to see him try. Albus's will was ironclad. You have nothing to worry about Terry. He left that piece of land, and that little cottage, for you and Mrs. Briard. He made me his executor. As long as there is breath in my body, no one's going to throw either of you off – and I apologize. I should've realized it was you who was making sure that Hogwarts got her supplies."

"I should've called you. I should've come by the school if I 'ad to."

"You've got your hands full just looking after Marie, not to mention this place."

"Why are you out 'ere in the barn?"

"I have reason to believe that Professor Snape may have been doing research or experiments. I'm looking for something that I really hope I don't find. Has this door always been padlocked this way?"

"No. It was never locked before zat Snape showed up."

McGonagall motions as she talks, "Stand back, I'm going to break in."

Briard takes two steps back and then, just for good measure, he takes three more.

Minerva wordlessly slashes her wand through the air, and the trapdoor explodes throwing shards of wood in every direction. The padlock is left uselessly dangling from an eyebolt that is no longer attached to a door. She steps toward the door with the intent to descend and Briard stops her with a calloused hand on her shoulder. "Let me go first Professor. Lord only knows what 'e's got 'idden away down zere."

"Don't you need to get back to Marie?"

"She's asleep."

"If she wakes and you're not there, will she be frightened?"

"Oui, if she wakes. Zat's not likely. Zem 'ealers at St Mungo's gave me a sleeping tonic for 'er. I put a few drops in 'er bedtime tea every night. It's just me that looks after 'er now, since 'er sister's gone on. I don't want to put 'er in long-term care, but I 'ave to sleep sometime."

"Can I do anything to help?"

Briard shakes his head emphatically. "You'll not trouble yourself on account of us. You've got enough to do just looking after Albus's school."

"Feel free to change your mind about that. My paternal grandfather was diagnosed with dementia a few years before he passed on. It wasn't secondary to surviving dragon pox, as it is with Marie, but I saw how hard it was for my father to care for him. Sometimes the caregiver needs a break too, and those can be very hard to come by."

Briard shrugs, almost nods, but then changing his mind, he shakes his head again. "She still 'as more good days than bad, but yesterday she asked me if Albus was going to be joining us for zee summer 'oliday. Sometimes… Well, she forgets 'e's gone. I'm afraid I've given up correcting her, at least on 'is account. Every time I remind her, she cries like it 'appened yesterday." He looks at his feet. Embarrassed, he admits in a whisper, "I just don't 'ave the 'eart to keep breaking 'ers, Professor. So, I lie to 'er, and tell 'er 'e'll be 'ere soon."

"That, Terry, is entirely understandable."

"You are not offended?"

"Because you're trying to do what's best for your wife? Not at all."

Approaching the opening in the floor, he says, "Well, come on zen. Let's get zis over wiz.

Moving slowly, McGonagall follows him down the steep narrow stairs until they find themselves standing on a dirty hay strewn floor in what might have been intended to be a root cellar, but there are no root vegetables here. Without lighting their wand tips, the only available light comes from Briard's sleepy lantern, and even with only its hazy ambience to guide them, their eyes are immediately drawn to a worktable along the innermost wall. A moderately sized metal cage sits atop the worktable. The top of the cage, as well as three of the four sides is covered with a heavy woolen blanket. Only the front of the cage is not hidden by the covering. Even in nearly total darkness from ten feet away, the large rusty padlock on the door of the cage is plainly visible and so is the conjured and eerily silent waterfall that pours out of nothingness three meters above the cage. Water douses the cage perpetually and washes away courtesy of a large floor drain in the center of the underground room.

Something moves inside the cage.

Disliking Snape more than she ever has before, McGonagall surrenders all hope that she is wrong about what she will find. Trying to steel herself in preparation for the inevitable, she tells Briard in a whisper, "Put out the lantern. It's too bright. We're scaring it."

"It's barely lit. 'Ow do you know whatever is in zat cage is reacting to zee light?"

"Have you ever been trapped in a dark space for an extended period of time – I'm talking about days or weeks, not just a few hours."

"No. I can't say I 'ave."

"Well, I have. Spend a few weeks in dark captivity, get lucky enough to break free, and the first light you see will drive you nearly out of your mind."

The farm's caretaker studies her intently for a moment, but he asks no questions as he extinguishes the light from his lamp and, being careful not to point it directly at the cage, lights the tip of his wand instead.

Cautiously approaching the table, McGonagall does a bit of offensive spellwork searching the table and the area immediately around it for any traps they might encounter, magical or otherwise.

Seeming to understand this without being told, Briard asks, "Any boobytraps Professor?"

"None that I can detect." Slowly stepping nearer to the table, McGonagall lights the tip of her own wand and passes it to him. "Here, hold this." When the thing in the cage cries pitifully, she adds, "Stand back a bit, don't shine the lights directly in. Hold the wands up over your head if you can."

When she's a few centimeters away, she knows that the invasive cold in the room is emanating from the waterfall. On the verge of reaching out to touch the metal cage, she thinks better of it. "This water is like ice."

Briard nods. Still ½ dozen steps behind her he breathes quietly, "I can feel it from 'ere. Zis room is near to freezing."

"I need gloves."

He pulls his heavy work gloves from a pocket, and hands them over.

She knows even before she slides her hand into one of them that they are entirely too big for her; at least twice the size she needs, but she dons the gloves anyway. Afterward, she is still for a moment, studying the scene before her, choosing her next move carefully. At length, she touches the wet wool blanket, lifting it only slightly to be certain that removing it will not cause any sort of unwanted chain reaction. When the edge of the blanket lifts without catastrophe, she gives it a firm tug and tosses the wet sodden thing aside only to gasp in horror and heartbreak at the poor abused creature that is now finally on full display.

She thinks dark thoughts that she will never voice, but she does not have to. Briard thankfully does it for her.

"Damn zat Snape to 'ell!" He hisses angrily when the creature inside the cage screeches horribly with the added pressure of the icy water now that its cover has been removed.

McGonagall hastily lifts the cage and slides it out from under the flow of the icy waterfall. Wordlessly reaching out for her wand, she snaps her fingers and then closes her fist around it when Briard places it in her hand. Stepping back from the table, she's careful to avoid shining her light directly into the cage, but she needs enough illumination to effectively assess the situation.

The feathered creature inside the cage screeches in pain and terror. A tiny wooden spike has been driven completely through each of its tiny wings, and the poor waterlogged animal is shivering violently, dangerously under fed, and showing signs of hypothermia. It's once brilliant purple and silver feathers have begun to rot and the stench of decay emanating from its desecrated plumage is anything but pleasant.

Stepping closer and being careful to shield his own wand light. Briard shakes his head with sorrow for the pathetic animal. Looking it over, he declares, "She's a girl, and she's much too young to be away from her parents. I wonder where zey are?"

"Not here. That's for sure. If they were, they'd be raising an unholy ruckus."

"Ow do you zink Snape got his hands on 'er?"

"It's fairly obvious he stole her from a nest. I hope her parents pecked him half to death, but we can speculate about that later. If she's going to last the night, she needs help now."

"Eh, I am not a magizoologist. Are you?"

"No, but I'm on good terms with one. We need to warm her. If you'll help me get her to your cottage, I'll go and fetch him."

"Can you get rid of zat blasted waterfall?"

"I can, but I want to move her further away before I try to reverse any of the spellwork, in case my attempt somehow backfires."

The animal cries mournfully.

"Can we at least take 'er out of zee cage?"

"I cannot tell you just how much I would like to do that, but out of the cage, with room to spread her wings, she will likely attempt to fly away in fright, and right now that would do her far more harm than good. She's too weak, and the shock of removing those spikes might kill her."

"Come on zen, we will carry 'er out of 'ere and take 'er someplace warm."

"We will balance the cage between the two of us and try not to jostle her about too much."

Briard steps forward nodding and, abandoning his lantern on the tabletop, he pockets his wand to free both of his hands. Talking sweetly to the frightened feathered youngster inside the cage, he says, Come along, mon chèrie. Let us go someplace better.

With the cage wedged tightly between their bodies, McGonagall and Briard climb back up the steep stairs at a snail's pace. Once they are back in the barn, she leads the way to a stack of hay bales, and momentarily settles the cage there. She retraces her steps quickly. Halfway down the subterranean staircase again, she points her wand at the waterfall and quietly says "Finitè!"

As she feared it might, her cancellation spell does not have the desired effect. Instead of vanishing, the magically chilled waterfall erupts in bright blue flames that simultaneously roar to life and turn the rushing water to steam. Sighing heavily, she tries again. "Extinguere!"

Nothing happens.

Before the flames can incinerate the underground room and the barn above, she exclaims loud enough for Briard to have at least a second's forewarning, "Oxygeni Privatio!"

For five long seconds, she stays where she is and watches the flames gutter and die. Then, she races back up the stairs to find Briard wrestling with the weight of the hefty cage. Taking half the weight in the hand not holding her wand, she quicksteps for the door, moving as fast as she dares with the terrified animal screeching wildly from the confines of her cage.

Outside the barn, they pause just long enough to fill their lungs with air before they set off again, this time at a nearly torpid pace. Moving as slowly and gently as possible, It takes more than half an hour to reach the caretaker's cottage, and by the time they step over the threshold, despite the cool night air, both McGonagall and Briard are bathed in a fine sheen of perspiration.

Grateful to find a fire already crackling in the hearth, McGonagall steps near, and with Briard's help, she lowers the cage to the floor a short distance away from the flames. Whispering inside the darkened house, so as not to disturb his sleeping wife, she reminds Briard, "Don't try to take her out… and don't feed her or give her anything to drink just yet either. I'll be back as soon as I can with help."

Briard solemnly nods his understanding as she helps herself to a dash of flu powder from the fireplace mantel, and tosses it in. The instant the flames go vivid emerald green, she steps in and whispers, "The habitat."

When she arrives at her destination, instead of immediately stepping out, she leans forward, stretching the fingers of her right hand out until she feels and can grasp the tasseled end of an old-fashioned pull cord. Giving it a gentle tug, she sets a tiny bell to ringing. Thus, alerting the house's occupants to the arrival of an unexpected visitor. She doesn't have to wait long to be received. In a matter of seconds, she hears the quiet shuffling of sleepy bare feet against a hardwood floor.

Stepping into view of the fireplace, a smiling witch clad in a floor length flannel nightgown with chestnut hair that is liberally streaked with silver, greets her with surprise. "Minerva?"

"Hello Tina. I'm sorry to come calling at such a late hour, but I have a bit of an emergency on my hands. Is your husband at home tonight? I'm hoping he hasn't already been called away elsewhere."

Chuckling softly, the thin witch with the pageboy haircut waves McGonagall's apology away. "I'm nearly 96, Minerva. I've had lots of years to get used to my husband's odd hours and his many late-night callers. Don't just stand there in the fireplace. Come in, make yourself at home. Help yourself to tea if you want. The kettle is still on in the kitchen. I'll go up and wake Newt."

Tina shuffles away and drifts quietly up the stairs. In their bedroom, she gently but deliberately pokes her husband. "Wake up."

Rolling away from her, he mumbles, "What for?"

"Minerva's only just arrived. She needs your help."

Newt hugs his pillow, showing no intent to abandon the warm cocoon of his bed. "Who needs my help?"

Tina repeats, "Minerva."

"Love, are you dreaming again? I don't know any Minerva. Go back to sleep."

She thumps his bare shoulder playfully. "No, I'm not dreaming. I haven't been to sleep yet. And you do so! I'm talking about Professor McGonagall."

Newt finally sits up in bed. His untidy mop of hair is as unruly as it ever was. The only difference is that at 101, it's gone from reddish brown to pristine white. "Professor McGonagall is here? Now? Tina, honey, why didn't you just say so?"

Tina laughs at him. "I did. More than once." Get your skinny self out of bed."

Suddenly awake and completely alert, Newt nearly falls out of bed trying to fight his way out from beneath the blankets. "Why is she here?"

Tina shrugs. "She said she has a bit of an emergency on her hands. I'm assuming, from past experience, that means she either has a sick or injured animal she needs you to tend to."

Newt is already out of the bedroom and hurrying down the hallway when Tina steps up beside him and drops his bathrobe around his shoulders.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he steps into his living room belatedly wondering if he should've made a pit stop in the bathroom for some mouthwash before greeting his guest. "Professor?"

"Hello Newt. I'm sorry to disturb your rest. I'm afraid I have found a very badly treated tender-aged phoenix who is in dire need of your help."

Newt blinks in obvious surprise. "A young phoenix? Are you quite sure of that Professor?" He shifts his focus momentarily. "Tina, my bag, please darling."

Tina waves at him, from behind their already open coat closet door.

McGonagall nods, reclaiming his attention. "Very much so. She can't be more than a month or two old."

"Where exactly did you find this bird, Professor?"

"In France. If you don't mind, I'll explain the particulars after we get there. I'm afraid time is of the essence. She is not at all well."

In a voice filled with quiet wonder, his hazel eyes sparkling with childlike excitement, Newt Scamander whispers to his wife as she removes his robe and helps him on with his heavy blue coat, "Tina, a baby phoenix!"

Dropping his boots on the floor for him to step into, she winds a black and yellow scarf around his neck. Standing on tiptoe, she kisses his cheek. "Yes, I know. I heard. Go on now. Don't keep the poor bird waiting… and Newt, honey, make sure you keep that coat on. If you get arrested for indecent exposure again because you're too busy tending to animals to bother with a pesky little thing like getting properly dressed, I will not come bail you out."

He grins. "I love you too."

Tina waves dismissively. "Go already! You're wasting time."

"Don't wait up for me. Get some sleep."

She laughs at the absurdity of his statement. "Why do you think I said I wouldn't come bail you out if you get arrested. Tonight, I get the bed all to myself. I can sleep in the middle if I want to, and you won't be here to steal the covers!"

He steps into the fireplace beside the professor. Changing his mind, he rushes out just long enough to wrap his wife in a warm a hug before dashing back in again.