July 21, 1976 — Déchant Townhouse

"You wouldn't happen to know, where Minerva's been disappearing off to?" she asked, stretching languidly in Cailean's arms. His warm scent, like bergamot and oranges, had long since become a comfort, and she mourned — quietly, for she didn't wish to show him just how attached she'd grown — the day he would be gone.

"I do, actually. She's been looking in at the hospital, when she thinks I'm away. McGregor's room," he responded, stroking her hair from her face.

"The one who was injured," she murmured. "How is he?"

"Much the same as yesterday, I'm afraid. Stable, but — not good."

She frowned, shifting in his lap to place her head on his shoulder. "I wish that didn't have to be the answer - I wouldn't make a good healer, then, I'm sure."

"Why do you say that?"

"The stress — I wouldn't be able to handle it. Everything's so uncertain in healing, is it not? Who lives, who dies — anything can happen, even when things seems alright."

"There is that element to it, yes, and an unfortunate element it is, but it is overshadowed by — the rest of it, really: knowing you can do something to help people, and then doing it."

"I felt helpless, you know, when the attack took place, because I had no idea what to do," she admitted, tangling her fingers in the curls of his hair to distract from the memory. "It isn't just the fighting — I know I couldn't take them on if I tried. But, what good does a stasis do, when the injuries are that bad?"

"A lot, Cassiopeia," Cailean responded seriously, meeting her eyes. "You wouldn't think it, but it's one of the first spells retaught in healing, and for good reason. The stronger version of it, of course, but even yours could be the difference between life and death."

She paused for a moment, before plunging in, ready to be rejected. "Could you teach it to me?"

Cailean tilted his head, considering. "It's advanced magic — a little beyond NEWT level. But… I'd be happy to try."

She smiled gratefully. "Only when you're up to it. I know you're tired, watching over the recovery."

"It's not as bad as you make it out, thankfully. The Muggle doctors are doing most of the work, I'm just supporting."

"Still, this was supposed to be your holiday."

"I'll have to get used to it anyway, as a proper healer," he smiled wryly. "Don't worry yourself over it — if you're up to a lesson now then I am as well."

"If you could, it would give me some peace of mind. Thank you."

Her wrist ached something dreadful, and her magic felt drained, but at the end of two hours' practice she had reached something approximating the proper spell, and Cailean eyed her proudly.

"We induce a comas with this also, if you didn't know. I'm not sure if you're at that level yet, but you could certainly stop some major bleeding. Good work."

"A couple thousand more spells, years of training, losing my squeamishness, and I could become a healer."

Cailean laughed, but his next suggestion was serious. "I'd be open to teaching you more, if you'd like. I know there's more to your involvement with the… current conflict than what you're telling me, and I do want to make sure you're safe."

"I — would appreciate that. It's always just a haunting spectre with me, that I could have done more."

"I do sympathise — "

Cailean was cut off by the sound of an owl beating at the window, and he moved to let it in. It was beautiful — big, rich brown, and with a pleasant demeanour — but the letter it carried seemed to be quite its opposite— judging by Cailean's progressively more pained expression.

"Everything's alright?" she asked, coming to stand near him.

"Yes. No," he sighed, before holding out the letter for her to read. "See for yourself."

She only scanned the parchment, cognisant of his privacy, but it was clear what his mother's message was. Lachlan's name was mentioned throughout, coupled with heaps of praise and discussions of what laudable efforts he was currently engaged in, while the communiqué ended, very unambiguously, with the question: why can't you be more like your brother?

She'd almost laugh at the brazenness, were it not for the tragedy of the situation.

"That seems… difficult to deal with. She's always like that?"

"Generally. She was happy when I completed my studies, and when I got take on by the hospital, but outside of that — most only when people are watching. Than she's all proud: did you hear, Marine, that my son got accepted to Saint-René? That's of course, when she's talking with people who know I exist."

"Your brother knows she's like that?"

"For the most part. He's grown up with it, however, so it's difficult for him to see it as anything other than the normal order of things."

"Ah. That's… difficult."

"It is, but — " he shrugged, "I'll work with the hand I've been dealt. Merlin knows it could have been much worse."

July 25, 1976 — McGonagall Manor

Minerva met them in the library, huddled over a thick tome of transfiguration. Though Cassiopeia's lessons had fallen off a bit, after the attack, she had insisted on getting back into them — determined not to let herself fall behind, and hoping the familiar routine would ease the still-present twinges of pain that accompanied thoughts of the ordeal.

Though Cassiopeia was the only one advanced enough to grasp the book's full meaning, Severus offered suggestions and ideas as they read, enjoying the peaceful quiet of the room around them, and the opportunity to connect with each other.

When the witch entered, it took mere moments to notice the tightness of her mouth, the dark circles under her eyes. She took a seat in her favourite armchair, seeming older by years.

"Will you be… attending the funeral?" she asked without preamble, after a moment of silence. "I'd be happy to take you — I'll be going myself."

Cassiopeia swallowed, the image of the tome being replaced with the still body of Kathleen McGregor stretched out against the rock, unseeing, in her mind. "I'm sorry. I wish I could, but — I can't. If I was in any — "

She bit her tongue, knowing she could not finish her sentence, but it was too late.

"If you were…?"

"It's nothing."

The older witch met her gaze, eyebrow raised, and it was clear she would not accept such an obviously false answer. Cassiopeia almost froze, panicked, before the Slytherin portion of her brain took over, weaving half-truths and lies into a more believable response. "If you wish to know…The Death Eaters — the group behind the attacks, they know me — know us — to a certain extent. If the strike had been targeted to me, and I'd been the reason for her death… I hope you understand."

"I… do," Minerva replied slowly, "but what care does such a group have for a student — a child — like yourself?"

I'm not staying at Malfoy Manor; I didn't tell him where I was. Did he get into my mind — does he know I don't want this anymore? Did I fail him somehow? Was I —

"They haven't been happy with Lucius, lately, and they know that I'm a… weak spot, for him."

The witch's brow furrowed. "Then Mr. Malfoy is still involved with them?"

"He has never had a choice," she replied, a hint of steel in her voice.

Minerva let out a breath of understanding, meeting her gaze. "I understand. I do so wish you two need not be involved with him — with any of this. I suppose it's much too late for that, is it?"

"You know the answer," she replied delicately, and Severus' fingers curled around her hand.

"I do, and it's a damned shame I didn't do more to protect you," she said harshly.

"You couldn't have, Professor," Severus spoke up for the first time, his voice low. "Knowing everything."

They fell into silence, Minerva resting her head in her hands, seeming pained.

"Might I ask, why you are going yourself?" Cassiopeia broached the subject delicately.

Minerva looked up, her voice tired as she explained. "I suppose I can't keep that from you, can I? I was… quite close with Dougal, some time ago. We were — " she lowered her gaze, " — we were due to be married. I have no resentment towards him or his wife, and… I'd like to go and pay my respects."

July 27, 1976 — McGonagall Manor

Severus untied the letter from the small owl's leg, and it took off as soon as he did, not even waiting for a bite of food. Concerned with its strange behaviour, he unfurled the parchment, reading it over with a furrowed brow.

Severus, Cassiopeia —

There is no easy way to say this. I want to warn you. My father has forced my hand, and in a year's time I am to be inducted: I am certain you know where. If you could warn Aurora, either now or once you've returned, that I am barred from communicating with her, and that I am unsure when I shall be able to speak freely, I would be grateful. That same holds true for my communication with you two, at least with regard to private matters. Avery and Crouch Junior have begun the process of joining as well; the latter seems happy to do so, the former less so, though I cannot be sure. It shall be some time before we speak in this manner again. My apologies. Please do not respond.

— Augustus

The quick pen-strokes, and lack of the elegance usually present in his friend's letters were a certain indicator as to the circumstances under which it was written. He hadn't thought, in a million years, that the Dark Lord would attempt to gather only fifth-years to his cause — surely it would be better for his ranks that they be possessed of actual, trained wizards, not just the meagre offerings of unwilling students? Cassiopeia and he, though nowhere near formal members of his followers, had been supposed to be the exception, not the rule.

This — did not bode well for the future, he was certain, and he mourned Augustus' circumstance, wishing desperately he could in any way change it, but he recognised his impotence in the matter, at least at the moment. He would write to Aurora at once, he thought, to spare her at least some worry.

And dear Merlin, he hoped despairingly that he would not too be put in the same situation, although he knew — very well — that such events were seeming more likely each coming day.

July 30, 1976 — McGonagall Manor

Cailean had broken the news to Minerva first, then to them. An infection from McGregor's injuries had spread quickly: detected first in the morning and unresponsive to treatments, it had taken his weakened body into death by the night.

Cassiopeia would remember the abject horror of Minerva's face for years, as her face drained of blood, and she stumbled forward, losing her strength. They had not seen her since she had fled to her room, glossy-eyed, as though hoping she would have at least the strength not to break down in front of them.

She had wanted to go after her, to comfort her, but Cailean stopped her with a quiet word, and instead she turned into his arms, defeated.

"Everyone around me dies."

She lay in her bed, enveloped by darkness, unable to fall asleep. Severus, who had been sitting at the edge of her bed — having wandered inside hours ago, unable to do so either — looked up at that, frowning.

"I'm still alive, aren't I?" he asked, raising his brow.

She let out a sigh, fingers trailing through the uncombed mane of her hair, wild with waves. "Mother, father, Wilkes, the McGregors," she listed slowly, her eyes closed. "The little boy might be and Augusts is as good as, now that they've gotten their hands on him. And Lucius walks with a cane."

"And have you considered that only one of these is not attributable to the Dark Lord?"

"But they have all been caused, if not directly then tangentially, by me. Even my father and Wilkes, no matter how awful people, did not deserve the death that was brought to them in my name."

"If you could have prevented their deaths, their circumstances, would you have?" Severus asked rhetorically. "Because from my view, it seems there are two people responsible, your father and the Dark Lord. No matter if they proclaimed you to be the cause of their actions, or if you proclaim so yourself, they are ultimately the ones who hold the blame."

"I wish it were as easy to make myself believe as it is for you to say," she sighed. "I think… Henry blamed me for a lot of things when I was young. Most things. It was easier to escape a beating when I admitted them as my fault."

"Tobias did the same with me. I think you just have to learn, over time, that the lessons taught to you were wrong — that it doesn't matter what your Da thought or thinks, because why should his opinion matter?"

"It doesn't — not at all. It's just… a thought pattern, I guess. Difficult to break out of."

"I sympathise."

August 1, 1976 — McGonagall Manor

"Cassiopeia, child," Minerva spoke to her for the first time in two days, her voice scratchy and soft. "Occlumency, the practice you described — Filius has told me of the effects it can have — effects that I am seeking."

The concern must have shown on her face, for Minerva glanced around, as if ashamed of her words, before explaining. "Sadness and rage fill me, lass. I cannot control them — it is nothing like I have felt before. I worry for my actions, for my thoughts — I need something to focus on, and a way to control them," she paused, her expression unconsciously imploring. "I know neither you or Severus have asked to be a teacher, and I demand nothing of you, but if you were willing… I would be forever grateful."

Taking in her image, greying hair uncombed, face pale and taunt, Cassiopeia considered the proposition. She worried of accidentally causing harm — she knew Occlumency should not be used to surpress emotion, no matter how many times she had done so herself, — and of taking advantage of her Master's precarious emotional state. More so, however, she was anxious that such an opportunity would not present itself again, and she thought it imperative — highly imperative — that Minerva learn at least the basis of the art, before the beginning of the school year. She could not risk leaving her Master's mind completely open to the machinations of other, and it was already a miracle that the suggestion had come, of its own accord, from Minerva herself. Really, she had little choice.

"Of course. I'll endeavour to teach you all I know."

•••

My greatest apologies for not releasing this nearly as early as promised. I have been struggling greatly in my personal life, and it's been almost impossible to write. In an effort not to deliver subpar chapters just to release 'on schedule,' I'll be taking a one-week break, in an effort to get back on track. Thank you for your understanding.