"Minnie?" I call, my fluffy boots making an inordinate amount of noise as I reenter the kitchen.

McGonagall glances up from her seat at the table, a steaming cup of tea poised in one hand. Her lined eyes behind her glasses are tired, and I grimace internally at the thought that I might be causing her any more stress than she already experiences on a daily basis.

I slide in across from her, thumping my bottom down on the bench. She lifts the cup to her lips but murmurs archly, "What have you gone and done to your hair?"

I must look like I've been making out in the hallway. "I was making out in the hallway," I tell her, thrumming my fingertips on the tabletop. She delicately chokes on her sip of tea. "With Sirius," I add hastily, so she doesn't think I'm throwing my cat at just anybody.

"Ah, bon!" I glance behind McGonagall's thin form to see Fleur lifting both hands in the air in victory, "Huzzah, Feenee!"

I give her a demure smile and regal wave, "Yes, thank you."

McGonagall leans forward in her seat, clinking her cup back onto its saucer. "Yes, yes," she mutters acidly, "How very exciting. Muffliato!" She flicks her wand once around our heads, stowing it almost as quickly as she had whipped it out. I glance surreptitiously around the kitchen and dining room where other Order members are still conferring, cooking, and decorating. It's as if a Plexiglas barrier sits between us and them. The sounds of the room are faint, and no one seems to have noticed Minnie's quick spellcasting.

I feel the first prickling of dread as I inspect the older witch's face. McGonagall's outward appearance is impassive, but something sharp flickers behind her eyes as she scrutinizes me. "It is good to see you are…," her spectacles catch the light, and I get the sense she's being deliberately serene, "…relatively unhurt after your escapades the other evening."

I slide my face into something I hope mimics neutrality. The high of my once-crazed hormones have fled from me with the combination of Sirius' impending departure and McGonagall's stony regard. When had this woman's perception of me become something that gives me heart palpitations?

Probably the moment she dusted your ass off from the floor of a pantry.

When I don't answer her immediately, she leans forward, lowering her voice even further. "I saw the memory of the girl you saved, Finnie. Dumbledore tracked her down and retrieved it. We know everything."

Bile rises to my throat, further closing off my ability to speak. My hands have retracted into my shirtsleeves, fists closed into nubs. I won't look away from her eyes. Think what she may, what any of them may, I did the right fucking thing.

But my defiant pride quails at the thought of their good opinion abandoning me.

"I am…," McGonagall sniffs and looks down her nose, "…regretful that you are the person best suited for such a role." My shoulders tighten, but I still refuse to look away.

"But," she continues, "I am thankful for that role. I want you to know that."

The weight in my stomach dissolves just a hair, and I feel my breathing stabilize. Her cold gaze continues to search me. "I must admit," she says more softly, "it has taken me these past two days to ascertain precisely the nature of my feelings regarding this newfound dimension to our cause."

I can't blame her. The complete brutality with which I operate as a norm, when given the green light to do so, is definitely not standard procedure for the Order of the Phoenix.

Those fucking movies would not have been rated PG-13 had I been in them, that's for damn sure.

"Thank you," my voice sounds like a croak, and I feel a twinge of embarrassment for letting her see how affected I am. "I know I'm not what you expected," I continue, "or maybe what you ever thought you wanted-" A small ghost of a smile quirks one side of her lined lips. "-but it's…nice…that y-you don't hate me for…f-for-"

Shit. I'm faltering. Quicker than I'd have thought possible, Minerva McGonagall's hand rests itself securely over mine in my sleeve. The strength in her thin fingers surprises me, and I drop my eyes to look at our hands rather than her face as I search for composure.

"No one would dare hate you, Finnie," she whispers, almost harshly. "If any of these witches or wizards who now count you as one of their friends understood, to the full extent, the nature of your existence, how very little choice you have been given in regards to your own future, not one of them would dare judge you." Her fierce tone softens, and she pats my covered fist once. "Not that it certainly won't give them pause," she says a little sadly, "As it certainly gave me pause…"

Their faces, shocked and horrified, flit past in my mind. Arthur, Molly, Lupin, Tonks, Harry, Hermione, Ginny, Ron, Sirius –

Fuck.

That moment, should it ever come, is going to suck.

As though reading my mind, or maybe my expression, McGonagall clears her throat and slowly withdraws her hand from mine. "It is you I'm most concerned for, my dear," she informs me. Her voice is now soft but matter-of-fact.

"Me?" I feel my brows draw together in confusion. Shouldn't she be more concerned about the Death Eaters I'm likely going to be mutilating in the not-so-distant future? Isn't that where the compassion-driven characters' moral compasses are bound to lie?

She leans forward and lowers her voice even further, so that it's hardly a whisper. "Finnie," she hisses, "You can't be so naïve as to think that this path you've been set upon will suffer no consequences upon your soul?" Her eyes search mine beseechingly, "How do you fare? Do you truly feel nothing for this calling to war?" Her spectacles catch the light again, and I'm granted a short reprieve from the relentlessness of her sharp gaze.

I sigh. The soul of which she speaks feels very heavy right now, its edges frayed just as she fears.

But, it's there. I know it's there.

"It helps me," I begin slowly, weighing my words, for I can tell that the subject means a great deal to Minnie, "to think of the bigger picture when I'm called to action the way that I am."

Her lips dip down into a swift frown.

"And by the bigger picture," I hurriedly add, "I mean a lot of things. I mean my brothers, father, and family twenty years in the future who will have a better life because I'm here, doing what I'm good at doing. And I think of that little girl, who, without my being around, probably endured exactly what those men intended – in your original reality."

McGonagall gives a small but grave nod in understanding. She looks marginally consoled, but unfortunately I can't just leave it there. She deserves to know the full of it. "But you should know," I whisper, regaining her attention, "that that isn't all it is. I don't turn into a different person when I let that girl out – the girl you saw go full Jack-The-Ripper in a London alley. That thing is in me all the time. I'm not afraid of it, and I'm not sorry it's there."

The older witch takes a deep, bracing breath, but nods once more. "I understand, dear," she murmurs.

We sit in silence for a few beats, each recovering from the unexpected intensity of this interaction. Through the Plexiglas, over Minnie's shoulder, I can see Fleur and Tonks talking heatedly – their heads close. A chorus of raucous, but muted, laughter echoes from behind me, but I resist the urge to turn.

I refocus my attention onto the severe features of the kind, open-minded woman across from me. I'm surprised to see that she's gazing over my shoulder, her eyes unfocused and tinged with fondness. "I do fear," she murmurs mostly to herself, "the irony of your position, my wee Finnie."

I say nothing. She flits her softened eyes back to my face, and they're sad. "You kill for us to destroy a wizard who became difficult to destroy by his propensity for killing. I wonder just how many horcruxes you could have inadvertently made along the way, had you had the ability to do so."

This point of view is dark, to say the least. I struggle to think of something that would illustrate for her the difference. But nothing comes to mind.

I'm spared from answering by a sudden presence – specifically, a pink-haired, loud-mouthed witch – who shatters the Plexiglas by plopping right down next to me. Her superficially daft, silver counterpart does the same across the table.

"What eez thees you are dizcussing?" Fleur snaps from Minerva's elbow, flipping her curtain of hair behind one shoulder. "You both appear to be een ze worst birthday spireet I 'ave ever seen."

I raise my eyebrows at Tonks who is flitting her gaze suspiciously between McGonagall and me, tapping one finger with trademarked impatience. "Lord woman," I murmur at her, "You're like a chipmunk on a cappuccino."

"Quite," McGonagall mutters, demurely lifting her teacup back to her lips.

"I do not enjoy," Tonks hisses venomously, pinning the older witch with a glare, "being left out of the loop of things." She crosses her arms petulantly across her chest. "It's bloody unprofessional."

McGonagall looks annoyed, her mouth twisted. Before she can respond, I decide to intervene. Using my now-patented, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-flaming-liar's-pants method of pure word-vomit, I abruptly begin.

"We were just discussing-," I keep my face straight and serious, so to chastise Tonks for her rudeness, "-Minnie's rather diverse fantasies involving the numerous suits of armor at Hogwarts." Fleur's silver eyebrows shoot to her hairline. "Rather sordid stuff. But she's fairly confident she can solve the issues involving rust mid-lovemaking with WD-40."

Silence.

I continue, "I didn't want to interrupt your one-woman monologue of 'Why Remus is a Twat,' which I was told would be touring soon, anyway, so you're right - you were simply left out of the loop. Feel better?"

McGonagall attempts to skewer me to my bench with her eyes, but by some miracle she refrains from cursing me across the room.

Fleur bursts into tinkling, beautiful, melodic laughter which dissolves swiftly into gales of snorting inelegant coughs. "You didn't see," Tonks sniffs at me, spots of color appearing high on her cheekbones, "how he's been regarding me the past two days. It's nothing short of emotional whiplash. We can't all take bloody sleeping draughts and just fuck off, you know. Some of us have to work."

"I was conceptualizing," I say airily. "Dreaming up ways to make sure you have cool werewolf babies while also saving the free world from tyrannical, snake-faced loons. I was working extremely hard."

Tonks scoffs, but it's with warmth.

"Weerwolf…" Fleur gasps, wiping her eyes, "….bebiez…."

Tonks inhales deeply, looking as though she's about to launch into her aforementioned monologue. But before she can utter even one berating syllable, a whoosh of flame and a chorus of cheers and hellos echo from behind my back. I swivel, looking over one shoulder to see Fred, George, Mrs. Weasley, and Ron make their way into the room. Mrs. Weasley and Ron are beleaguered with armfuls of colorfully wrapped gifts. Mr. Weasley swiftly leaves his post, mixing frosting by hand with Hermione, to relieve his wife, who's arms are shaking despite her protests against his assistance.

"RONALD," Ginny shrills to get her brother's attention, but merely succeeds in alarming him to the point that several boxes tumble to the ground. He clumsily recovers and deposits the rest onto the table where we sit, glaring at her.

"Wotcher," he grumbles at our gathering. McGonagall flinches slightly at his informality. "Ron-" Ginny hisses again, and I catch her eyes darting to me briefly. " –come here. I need to talk to you."

His eyes narrow suspiciously at his sister for several beats before his curiosity gets the best of him and he lopes over to her, grumbling. I continue to watch until I catch Hermione's eye, after which she ducks her head back to her task, attempting to hide a smirk.

"Interesting," Fred remarks, his playful gaze on his siblings as they begin a stilted, hushed conversation. He sits beside me, his back to the table, arching a single, jocular brow.

"Indeed," George grunts, still standing. His eyes are also on Ron and Ginny's huddle, but his are narrowed. "Not at all suspicious," he announces, loudly.

"Shut up," I mumble at them, "It's my fault. I may have slipped to Ginny that Harry prefers carrot-headed witches..." Tonks snorts at the memory.

"As he well should," George grins at me, "And speaking of trysts and the people involved in them – Fred and I are happy to announce the imminent arrival of our dashing –, "

"- handsome, brave, artfully-scarred–," Fred interrupts.

" –tragically single brother Charlie," George finishes, his eyebrows wiggling in perfect synchronization with Fred's.

I open my mouth to graciously decline their matchmaking services, when a low rumble beats me to it.

"No." Sirius growls, glowering at the twins.

George's grin grows, and Fred somberly nods to the understated, leather duffel in Sirius' hand noting, "Doesn't look as though you're going to have a whole lot of say in the matter, mate."

Again, I open my mouth to offer a response – and again I am ignored when Fleur jumps in.

"Zey were kissing in zee 'allway, earlier!" she squeals with obvious delight.

An uncomfortable laugh bubbles from my lips before I can stop it. The rest of the room has gone suspiciously quiet, and I positively refuse to look at anything but the cuticles of my left hand. Which are seriously fucked, as it turns out.

I'm not looking at him, but I know Sirius is smirking. He's just classy that way.

Suddenly, my left hand is snatched away from my perusal as Tonks holds it up for George's inspection. He squints and peers at it with a scientist's critical eye, holding his chin in concentration.

"It would seem-," he pushes imaginary glasses up the bridge of his nose, "-that a hallway snog does not, as someone's tone would suggest, result in a wedding band miraculously appearing here." He gestures to my bare ring finger.

Sirius looks unamused. He opens his mouth to retort when Minnie suddenly gets to her feet with a mumbled, "And on that note…"

The twins continue to silently face-off with Sirius, their mocking, gloating stares at odds with his increasingly furious one. McGonagall begins to round the table when she catches my eyes and raises an eyebrow, "Miss Sjofn, if you would be so kind?"

Not looking anyone in the eye, I scramble gracelessly to my feet and accompany the aged witch to the fireplace. As we approach, the flames in the grate blaze green and Victor Krum steps out, looking wan and stressed, but alive.

I knew this, of course. I knew that he had survived our ordeal. But that doesn't erase the fact that the last time I had seen my relative partner-in-crime, he had been rapidly losing blood and we had been limping for our lives.

Unbidden, my eyes dart down to his arm, where I know a Dark Mark stains his skin beneath the sleeve.

"Miss Sjofn," he looks surprised to have run into me and halts with a small, respectful bow.

"Sup, Krum," I joke weakly.

"I 'ave been speaking vith Mad-Eye. I vos unfortunately unable to attend the meeting this afternoon," he explains awkwardly. "I vos hoping to speak vith you very briefly, Sjofn, but…" His dark eyes sweep the room behind me and I finally register how quiet everyone else is.

Super sneaky listeners, wizards.

"…I suppose it is not a secret, of sorts," he finishes. I feel the approach of others at my back, and the ghost of someone's hand on my hip.

If the leap in my heartrate and sudden numbness of the brain is anything to go by, it's Sirius.

"The Death Eaters 'ave been attempting to force someone from their ranks into Hogvarts as a professor," Krum minces no words, speaking to me but loudly enough for the whole room to hear.

"It is my hope, and the hope of Dumbledore, that they vill accept me in this role due to my past vith the school." He hesitates and swallows audibly, "I'm going to the Malfoy Manor now to report that Dumbledore has offered me the Defense Against the Dark Arts post."

The room erupts in murmurs. "I must be quick," Krum takes advantage of the crowd's distraction, speaking only for us closest to him to hear. "I am expected promptly at-," Krum winces with a hiss, his left arm flexing and forming a fist. "Do you want me to come with you?" I ask him, completely seriously. "Will they be expecting me to make appearances at your side?"

I hear Sirius inhale sharply through his nose. One of the twins mutters, "Oh, bugger that."

Despite the strain on his face, Krum attempts to look reassuring.

"Not at this time, Sjofn. These particular meetings are…exclusive…to Death Eaters."

I finally take in his robes, which are black velvet with intricate hemlines – designs which hint at their more sinister purpose. I wonder if he has a mask yet.

Shit.

As though sensing the direction of my thoughts, Krum carries on. "Mad-Eye vill be here soon, and he vill tell you vat…er…surveillance targets ve have discussed for your specific attentions…" He looks nervously over my shoulder once again at our audience, and I search his face suspiciously.

My specific attentions?

Fuck me, did Mad-Eye tell Krum about the dismembered arms?

Krum avoids my narrowed, searching gaze and begins speaking with Tonks, McGonagall, and Sirius about his interactions with the Death Eaters since being involuntarily drafted. I try to listen to what he says, but my mind is whirring.

Everyone disperses and conversation turns to Harry's imminent arrival. Sirius' hand at my hip wraps a little more securely around my midriff, and I lean in his direction as my thoughts continue to wander.

More minutes pass, and Fred and George begin loudly discussing Ginny's potential birthday present for Harry.

I remain uncharacteristically quiet, thinking simultaneously of my secret, which only seems to be getting harder to keep, and of whatever upcoming surveillance the Order of the Phoenix has in mind. I flip through the faces of the individuals I met at the Malfoy party, secretly hoping it's Dolohov I get to kill next. That guy was such an asshole.

Against my will, I feel my eyes glaze over with black as I momentarily revel in that dark, exciting thought. I blink it back just as quickly, but as I glance back up to the room at large I see Hermione's chocolate gaze riveted on my face.

Our eyes hold one another's for a beat.

"Hey Hermione," I call out to her, our eyes never breaking once.

I wait for a second, until it's clear that other occupants in the room are listening.

She continues looking me in the eye, a shadow of confusion creeping over her expression.

I smirk, "How's it feel to have your ex-boyfriend become your teacher?"