Note: Second part of the double bill. Enjoy!

Chapter Nine

The Woes of an Executrix

Minerva rested her head in her hands and stared down at the desk in the head's office – she still couldn't think of it as belonging to her – although she was not truly seeing it. Her thoughts were miles away. She had re-established contact with Severus and she had got Harry to the comparative safety of the Burrow almost single-handedly. Now what? Minerva felt like she was a minnow floundering in a sea of sharks; the entire weight of, well, everything was on her shoulders and it was threatening to crush her completely. She was so horribly alone as she fought her one-woman war, aided solely by a colleague only she could trust and a handful of canvasses that could provide excellent wisdom but very little in the way of physical assistance or comfort. Minerva was a practical and not-at-all tactile woman, but in that moment she found herself longing for the embrace of a friend to give her some solace, to let her know that she was not the only person in this wretched world. A tear dripped onto the desk and Minerva hastily wiped away those that threatened to follow it. There was no time to be wasted in self-pity. She had to get on and get the rest of Albus's grand plan implemented. Severus had insinuated to her that his return to Hogwarts was guaranteed, but getting Harry to follow was going to be far more difficult. As proud of her house as she was, Minerva also knew their inherent bad points, and stubbornness was one of them. When Albus had told her, albeit through a memory that had not originally been intended for her eyes, that he and Harry had begun a search for these dread horcruxes, she had known that it would be a nigh on impossible task to try and execute Albus's wish that he should return to Hogwarts. Speaking of executing… Minerva pushed the small problem of Harry to one side and picked up the envelope containing Albus's Will. She really ought to read it and be done with it, lest it become one of the spectres hovering over her shoulder like all the other momentous happenings that she had been tasked with masterminding.

Minerva slid the parchment out of the envelope and detached Albus's note before settling down to read the bequests. From the look of things, the headmaster had not made many, so hopefully it would be blessedly easy to act out his final wishes. She skimmed over the formulaic preamble and read the first thing that Albus had signed away.

To Professor Minerva McGonagall, I leave the headship of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Minerva's eyes narrowed, puzzled. Surely the headship was not something that Albus could claim as his own to give away like this in the first place? The head was voted upon by the board of governors, and the deputy acted in lieu for however long it took to find a replacement. She traced her fingertips over the words, wondering if there had perhaps been some mistake, and she gave an audible yelp when more writing revealed itself under her touch, minute red script included as annotations to the text.

No, there is no mistake Minerva. Please excuse the secrecy in communicating like this so unexpectedly, but I am sure that you will discover these notes that I have hidden just in case the Ministry takes it upon itself to intervene. Back to the Will: I know what you are thinking and no, there is no mistake. Whilst in their tenure, the head of Hogwarts is technically in physical possession of the post and can therefore pass it on like this if they so wish. Such an action is frowned upon and has not been performed for many years due to the preference of previous heads to retire before their deaths, but I can assure you that it is perfectly legal. DO NOT GIVE UP THE HEADSHIP WITHOUT A FIGHT, MINERVA! It is rightfully yours and I know that you will know what to do with it when the time comes.

Minerva lifted her fingers from the parchment and the writing disappeared. She was completely confused by Albus's posthumous message and she looked to the headmaster's portrait for clarification, but he was asleep once more. She pressed her lips together, lost in thought, and she wondered whether Albus would have been able to tell her anything more had he been awake anyway. There was something about the desperate tone of urgency in the message, and again about its haphazard secrecy – there was always the chance that she might not have discovered it – that made her wonder. Perhaps this was something that she needed to work out by herself; perhaps that was the whole point. Maybe it was a test of some sorts. Minerva shook her head and continued to read. There was no point in getting distracted by puzzles now; she could think about it later once the task at hand was complete.

The next bequest was the contents of Albus's Gringotts' vault. A sizeable proportion was set aside for the upkeep and maintenance of the school, and the rest was left to St Mungo's hospital. A small token gift had also been left to each of the Hogwarts staff. Knowing that under both muggle and wizarding law, a person could not ostensibly profit from their crime, it made Minerva a little sad to realise that Severus would not be allowed to receive his share; but then again, Albus had in all probability made arrangements for this eventuality before his death. She wondered at the former headmaster's ability to plan some details so thoroughly and to leave others unsatisfactorily unexplained. Minerva ran her fingertips across the letters to see if there was any hidden message behind them, but Albus had obviously thought that this particular section was to be taken at face value and needed no further explanation, unlike the next, rather more sobering bequest.

To Mr Harry James Potter, I leave the sword of Godric Gryffindor that he pulled from the Sorting Hat four years ago. I hope it will prove useful as a letter opener if nothing else.

The annotation was simple and chilling at the same time.

I believe he will need it.

The six words sent shivers down Minerva's spine. What possible reason could Harry have for requiring a sword, other than a rather dangerous letter opener? When the horribly unavoidable confrontation between Harry and Voldemort finally occurred, however much Minerva prayed that it would never come down to such, it would be a battle fought with wands and words, not weapons like this. Albus had still not let on everything that had occurred in the last few weeks leading up to his death, indeed the few memories that he had left her could not tell her everything that had happened in the last twelve months since he received his accursed injury. She would have to either work it out for herself or ask Albus when he next woke. I believe he will need it. It was not a solid statement. Albus had not said that Harry would definitely need the sword, only that he believed he would. Maybe he was unsure himself and simply trying to cover every eventuality. Whatever his reasoning, Minerva did not like the heavy implications that the bequest carried, and she wished that Albus had included a slightly more substantial explanation along with it. She glanced across to the sword, on display in the office as it had always been, rubies glittering in the soft candlelight as if they had flames of their own on the inside. Albus had always insisted on letting Harry try, on letting him form his own path and learn from the challenges and mistakes that he faced and fell down with as they occurred to him. He would never have been content to shepherd the boy in a pre-destined direction, and she knew from the memories that accepting that Harry would have to be made to return to Hogwarts by whatever means necessary, rather than being allowed to go off on his own to finish the work that they had started, had been difficult for the old man.

But the fact remained that Harry had to return to Hogwarts, and it was up to Minerva to persuade him to do so. She looked again at the sword, and she thought of the things that it had done; hard to imagine as it sat in the office so innocently. This sword had slain a basilisk; it had destroyed a powerful piece of dark magic, and it was being entrusted to a wizard who was not yet of age, or at least had not been at the time of the Will being written. Minerva shook her head, it was not that she did not trust Harry, after all, he was more than competent when it came to self-defence, but… Somewhere within her was an undeniably maternal feeling that made her want to protect this boy, one of her students and one of her house, from the dangers he faced, especially knowing what she did about what his future would hold. She wondered whether Albus would have had the same sort of reservations had he still been alive and in her position. She could not help but regret that Albus had not attached some sort of condition to Harry's possession of the sword, such as that he could only claim to own it for as long as it stayed within in the boundaries of Hogwarts. That could have helped her cause when she tried to coerce the boy into returning for his final year. Harry turned seventeen the next day, and Minerva knew that the longer she left it before making the inevitable journey to the Burrow to hold the inevitably unpleasant conversation, the more chance there was of the trio starting on their journey and losing contact with the Order.

The final entry on the parchment caught Minerva's eye and she forced her thoughts back to the task at hand. It would not do to get tangled up in her thoughts and leave something important, if bureaucratic, unfinished.

To Professor Bathsheba Babbling, I leave the text 'Ethelburga's Eighth Untitled' in the hope that perhaps she can make more sense of it than I.

Minerva raised an eyebrow; she had never heard of the work, but since it had been left to the ancient runes professor with a proviso for translation, then there was no wonder that she had not come across it within her own field. The only problem was that, having never heard of it, Minerva had no idea where she should start looking for it in order to give it to its new owner. Perhaps Albus had left a clue outside of the words, but as she drew her fingers over the single line of text, there was nothing.

Minerva closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Albus's office was a glory of clutter and it always had been. A book of runes could be hidden anywhere amongst the many tomes that were stored there. She was going to have to think logically. Minerva was not a scatterbrained person, far from it, and she was a clear and level-headed thinker, but when push came to shove, she was ultimately a Gryffindor and not a Ravenclaw, and she could not help but think that Filius would perhaps be better suited to this strange pseudo-game of hide-and-seek than she was. Still, she said to herself, giving up was worse than not having tried in the first place. If it got to the stage where she was on the verge of destroying the office in her search then she would know it was time to call in outside help. She paused, would it be such an irregular idea to ask for Bathsheba's assistance? Aside from Professor Binns, the ancient runes professor was now the longest-serving member of staff; she had first been employed by Professor Dippet in the same year as Albus himself had begun teaching. Whilst she had never been made part of the main core of staff – she had never held a head of house position and her subject was an optional one that ever fewer students were choosing to take – Bathsheba had undeniably had more contact with Albus by dint of their simply existing within the same walls together for so long. Minerva gave a shiver when she realised that, like Albus and Horace Slughorn, Bathsheba would have known Voldemort as a schoolboy.

"I believe that you will find what you're looking for in the third desk drawer," drawled a voice in her ear. Minerva turned to see Phineas Nigellus examining a non-existent stain on his robes in his frame. He presently looked up at her. "I am prepared to overlook your comments of two weeks ago and give you assistance out of the goodness of my heart, Minerva," he said, and Minerva raised an eyebrow, casting a quick glance at the looks that the other portraits were giving Phineas through half-closed eyes as they continued to feign sleep. They looked… threatening. She opened the drawer and rifled through the papers therein.

"It's under the 'Cheesecakes for Emergencies' recipe book," Phineas continued.

Not pausing to question quite why Albus had such a recipe book, Minerva quickly located the text, hand written in tiny, spindly runes that Minerva could not decipher. She had studied the subject herself, up to Newt level in fact, but this script was one unlike any other she had ever seen. Only the title was discernible, written in undeniable English in Albus's distinctive hand. Ethelburga's Eighth Untitled.

"Thank you, Phineas," she said, wondering idly what the other heads had threatened the Slytherin with if he did not make amends. There was only one way to get to the bottom of the mystery.

A little while later, Minerva was sitting in Bathsheba's living room and the elderly witch was looking at the single sheet of parchment, surrounded by lexicons and pages of notes from her many decades of research. She had not spoken for the best part of ten minutes, but Minerva did not mind the silence. It allowed her to take in her surroundings. She had never visited Bathsheba in the holidays before and she had not really known what she should she should expect from the little cottage in the heart of the countryside, a stone's throw (or should that be quaffle's throw?) away from the Chudley Cannons' home quidditch stadium. It was no secret in the staffroom that Bathsheba was an avid Cannons supporter, and Minerva felt it was a shame that Ronald Weasley had not taken ancient runes, allowing both witch and wizard to find a similar kindred spirit with the same sense of slightly misplaced optimism.

The living room was decorated with faded cream wallpaper that had a slight sheen to it; it was only once she concentrated on it that Minerva realised that it was patterned with runes, the symbols constantly moving and only coming to a stop when stared at for a prolonged period of time. She tried to translate the nearest sentence. Something about tickling trolls' toes…

"Well, I think I've worked it out," said Bathsheba hesitantly. "It's a very, very old script, older than the oldest runes I teach, which are in their very nature ancient." She paused. "Minerva, you're never going to believe this."

"What is it?" the younger witch moved over to the ancient runes professor and looked over her shoulder at the still incomprehensible text.

"Minerva, it's a knitting pattern."

The two witches looked at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter. Unfortunately, the soberness of the situation caught up with them, and the moment of mirth was shortlived.

"I know Albus knew I liked knitting, and I know he collected knitting patterns, but why would he leave me one?" Bathsheba murmured. "There must be more to it than that. It's a very complicated pattern; so many different balls of wool needed… There's only one way to find out. I shall simply have to knit it and see what I end up with."

It was only as Bathsheba turned the parchment over that Minerva realised that, like with the Will, there was something more to the text. As her fingers brushed over the title, a familiar red script flashed into being, a message that was as ominous as it was barely comprehensible.

The best kept secrets are hidden in plain sight.

Minerva could come to only one conclusion: there was an awful lot more to Albus's Will than met the eye…

Note2: The ancient runes professor was never named in the books; I got her name from the HP Lexicon (although there seems to be confusion over whether it is spelt Bathsheba or Bathsheda) and then just ran with her character.

Personal Note: NCD, if you do not pick up on the WW reference I put in there for you I will be most disappointed.