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Been a while. Hope you'll say hi. :)

20 August 1994

Minerva kneaded her forehead with the heel of her palm and leaned back in her desk chair. Her office was stuffy and a bit dusty, after her near-month away, but it felt even more uncomfortable than she might have anticipated, given the abrupt end to her holiday.

"I know what you're thinking, McGonagall," Moody growled, and Minerva looked down into her fireplace again, where his head sat, scowling up at her. She picked up the day-old newspaper from her desktop and gazed at it––SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP.

"And what's that?"

"That you should've been expecting something like this. That you could've done something about it," he said, his magical eye whirling about while his normal one watched her fixedly. "You forget how well I knew Urquart, and the two of you, you're exactly alike––bloody Gryffindors, always trying to fix things and getting their feet in it––"

This actually did make Minerva give a short, sharp laugh, and Moody pressed his lopsided mouth together, one side lifting.

"Better than a grouchy old Ravenclaw, building a better booby trap every other afternoon to scare off the local pigeon population," Minerva replied, tossing the newspaper back onto her desk. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "I am glad you'll be here this year. Especially now."

"Way I heard it, you think I'm off my rocker," said Alastor, lifting his grizzled brows. "Unhinged, eh?"

"I never said that," Minerva laughed. He squinted at her. "There may have been some synonyms mixed in, but never unhinged."

"Well, anyway," he grumbled, "I appreciate the meeting. Can't come tromping up to that ruddy school every few days. I'll make the one trip when I move in."

"Too many watchful enemies," Minerva said mistily, in a passable imitation of Sybill Trelawney.

"Bloody leg's more trouble than it's worth, more like," Alastor replied, with a grunting laugh. He hesitated. "And the spies, too."

Minerva shook her head. "Well, Alastor––it's been grand catching up, and I thank you for the updated Flourish and Blotts order, but I've got to go."

"Tournament?" he grunted.

Minerva grimaced. "The heads of school are meeting again."

"Karkaroff," Alastor mumbled. "S'pose he's landed that job with a few good old-fashioned glowing character references."

"I'm sure I wouldn't know," Minerva replied wryly. She regarded Alastor's scarred face again; it had been a long time––too long––since they'd corresponded in more than occasional cards. He'd been such a close friend of Finn's, and after losing him, it had been too painful for her to stay in close contact. But in the last half hour she'd remembered all the reasons she'd most enjoyed spending time with Alastor, and regretted the lost time. He seemed to know what she was thinking, though he didn't seem to begrudge her anything.

"All right, off you get, Witch Watch," he grumbled. "See you in a few weeks."

"Goodbye, Alastor. See you soon," she replied.

With a small pop, Moody's head vanished from the flames. Minerva stood, stretching her stiff back, and took a deep breath, holding it for a moment until, right on cue––

"Professor McGonagall, we are ready now."

She collected a stack of parchment from her desk, tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the flames whence Albus's voice had just come, and stepped into the grate.

"Headmaster's office."

In a whirl, she was there, entering the great round room lit by the afternoon sun. The light danced on Albus's many curiosities and devices spread across the tables that had been moved away from the center, where five people were gathered at a large round table conjured specially for the meeting.

"Good afternoon," Minerva said politely, with a nod to Olympe Maxime, who was quite as tall as Minerva remembered, even seated.

"Professor McGonagall!" cried Ludo Bagman joyfully, looking far less distressed than Minerva might presently have expected from the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. He bounced around the table and seized her hand eagerly, shaking it. "I expect you don't remember how dead awful I was in your class," he chortled. "You had the patience of a saint!"

Sensing this was a remark best left unanswered, Minerva turned to the person seated on Albus's other side. "Barty," she said, in a more civil tone than she might once have imagined using. He looked gray and worn, clearly strained from the unpleasant business with his house elf and the uproar of the World Cup. He glanced up at Minerva and gave her a nod, but said nothing.

Karkaroff leaned to one side in his chair, comfortably reclined. He gave no indication that he had even noticed Minerva's arrival, and she was perfectly happy to return the favor. She couldn't wait for him to clap eyes on Alastor…

"You have the plans, Professor?" Albus asked.

Minerva moved to her seat at the table and passed the parchment around the table. "We're quite capable of hosting the number of students you've each requested. Rowena Ravenclaw's suite in Ravenclaw Tower will be opened to accommodate Ministry representatives who wish to stay in the castle for tournament events––"

"I am afraid," Madame Maxime interrupted, though not unkindly, "that I 'ave 'eard from many Beauxbatons families already, 'oo 'ave no desire to allow their children to stay in 'Ogwarts castle."

Minerva stared at her. "I beg your—"

With a heavy sigh, Maxime waved one enormous hand. "I assure you, it is nothing I cannot 'andle—the price of 'aving an—aristocratic—clientele. Nothing ever seems to impress, I 'ope you will not take it personally. 'Owever, you may remove us from your dormitories. We will stay in the carriage I am preparing for our journey."

"As you wish," Minerva said. French, she thought, and Albus made a small noise beside her.

"Then we shall also stay in our own accommodations," drawled Karkaroff, running his thumb and forefinger over his goatee. When others at the table looked at him questioningly, he shrugged. "It only makes sense, if we're going to allow Beauxbatons to have their private planning headquarters."

Madame Maxime gave an impatient snort, "That is not––"

"I was already thinking I'd rather have my students under my own supervision," Karkaroff shrugged lazily. "Avoid any opportunities for––sabotage."

"Come now, Igor," said Ludo Bagman jocularly, "this is all in the name of good fun––a Triwizard Tournament, safely restarted, will do wonders––Barty was just saying, international relations among wizards could use a goose––"

"Not exactly how I put it," Crouch said witheringly, his dark eyes flickering over a piece of parchment he'd picked up from Minerva's pile. "What's this, Dumbledore?"

Albus sat forward. "The plans for the new second task, I gather?" he asked Minerva, who nodded.

"The centaurs are not comfortable allowing us free reign of the forest for a task," she said. "Hagrid did his best, but in the end, the merfolk were more accommodating––"

"Accommodating, pah!" Karkaroff sneered. "Do you always give your magical creatures control of your grounds, Dumbledore?"

"Eef the champions are swimming, 'ow can zey be expected to do ze task in February?" Madame Maxime gasped, scandalized.

Minerva sank into her seat a little behind Dumbledore's, away from the table, and let her aching head drop into her hand.

"I take it back," she said, as Albus shut his office door on Barty Crouch's retreating back.

"Take what back, my dear?" he asked.

"Whatever I said when I told you I was unhappy to have been left out of the planning earlier on," she groaned, still not moving from her chair. "Have all these meetings gone that way? Four hours––nothing changed, and hardly anything was decided."

"The process of collaboration is never quite what one hopes," Albus sighed, sitting down in his chair beside the fire and picking up a stack of envelopes. "But we have enough to get started with, and with any luck, all will be finalized prior to their arrivals… in October."

"Something wrong?" Minerva asked, watching as Albus studied the open letter in his hand.

"Sirius Black is returning to Hogsmeade," he said, his blue eyes narrowed at the note.

"Surely not," said Minerva. "Why? What for? After all it took to get him away––"

"Harry has written to him," said Albus, still scanning the letter. "He's had an episode… a dream about Voldemort, one that ended with pain in his scar."

Minerva flinched at the name. "What? What does that mean, Albus?"

Dumbledore shook his head, looking up at last. "I don't know. I wonder…" He stood up and went to his desk.

"Are you going somewhere?" she asked, startled. "To see Potter?

"No—Harry has not confided this in me, but clearly, Sirius senses something he doesn't want to make Harry frightened of," he replied, shifting aside a stack of books. "I am looking… for…"

He picked up today's Daily Prophet from the desktop. "Bertha Jorkins––is missing," he said. "Rita Skeeter says––"

"A reliable and trustworthy source," Minerva rolled her eyes.

"Perhaps," Albus said, "but aggrandized details or not, Ms. Skeeter has effectively sounded out the by-and-large of many top-level secrets in her day, and I don't believe she's wrong here. Look where Bertha went on her holiday."

Minerva frowned at the article—then her stomach dropped. "Albania."

"And then, there is the matter of Frank Bryce," he went on, now opening a desk drawer and digging through it.

"Who?"

In response, Albus presented her with a slightly yellowed edition of The Northern Echo, folded over to show a small headline below the fold: NO SUSPECTS IN BRYCE DISAPPEARANCE.

Minerva skimmed the article about the elderly man's disappearance from his home in early August, trying to catch any kind of meaning, but couldn't. "Who is he, Albus?"

"The caretaker of a mansion in a village called Little Hangleton," Albus said quietly. "He once worked for a Muggle family who owned it, over fifty years ago––the Riddle family."

Minerva shut her eyes. "He's disappeared. And Bertha… and then, two days ago…"

Albus nodded grimly. "It can't be coincidence."

Unexpectedly, Fawkes gave a soft cry from his perch, awaking and fluttering his gold-tipped wings in the sunset light filtering through the high windows.

"Maybe we ought to––to suggest cancelling the tournament," Minerva murmured.

"The tournament is the reason we have been able to persuade Alastor out of retirement," said Albus. "The eyes of trustworthy and skilled wizards will be on Hogwarts this year, more so than we could ever have hoped at a moment like this, in other circumstances. If these disappearances are what they appear to be, we only stand to gain by being the center of the Ministry's attention."

"You have that much faith in them?" Minerva asked incredulously. "Look at what happened the other night!"

"I have faith in you, and the rest of our staff," Albus said, shaking his head. "You, and Alastor, and–-yes, Minerva, and Severus––know the signs, and how to watch for trouble."

"Albus, if he's after Potter again––"

"We know he is, Minerva," Albus cut her off gently. "He has been, for fourteen years. So let this tournament be a distraction––one more layer of confusion and misdirection keeping them apart. It is all we can do, at this point."

Minerva looked at the newspapers in her hand, and then at the phoenix, who was eyeing her mournfully. She felt her shoulders sag, and nodded.

"I think it would be wise," Albus went on, after a moment, "to contact some old friends. Ask them to be on their guard. Would you be so kind…?"

She lifted her head. "Remus. Elphias…?"

"To begin with," he agreed. "I'd like a status report on the Order of the Phoenix."