The following morning, Minerva practically dropped her teacup when she read the headline of the Daily Prophet: "EXPLOSION AT GODRIC'S HOLLOW; THIRTEEN DEAD". She gasped audibly as she continued to read the story. "No, it can't be…"

"What can't be, Professor?" blurted a groggy Hagrid from the other side of the kitchen table.

"Here, read this," Minerva stammered, shoving the paper at his navel.

Hagrid scanned the paper and shook his head, scowling. "Sirius Black killed twelve Muggles and Peter Pettigrew? I can't believe that. That's not at all like him."

"No, unlike much of his family, Black is a good person," agreed Minerva. "It's not in his character – he would never harm the innocent. Something's not adding up…"

"Yer mean, like a conspiracy?" asked Hagrid.

Minerva nodded curtly. "Precisely."

"But if not Black, then who?" Hagrid wondered aloud.

"I don't rightly know, Hagrid," Minerva murmured, shaking her head sadly. "Obviously someone with a vendetta against the Potters… I'd wager that Black went off to avenge his friends, but let his recklessness get the better of him."

Hagrid could only nod solemnly. "Shouldn't we help Black? Yer know… clear his name and find the real perpetrator?"

"If Black were sitting with us, he'd tell us to look after Harry and deliver him safely," Minerva said. "It'll take time to create a plausible case in his defense; whoever set him up left little room for ambiguity. You and I know that Black's an honorable wizard, but to the DMLE and Wizengamut, he's a ne'er-do-well that disgraced the family name. People of influence were already suspicious of him when they learned he was sorted into Gryffindor as opposed to Slytherin as most Black family members traditionally go."

"But he'll rot in Azkaban!" exclaimed Hagrid with a roar, who was beginning to fume. "He doesn't deserve that… punishment without a trial, bah!" A loud, piercing cry from the next room drowned out even Hagrid's booming voice.

"The opportunity to help Black directly will present itself in due time," trilled the Professor as she took a sip from her teacup in an attempt to help regain her composure. "And congratulations, Hagrid. You've woken up wee Harry from his nap. I think it's time for you to check his nappies and see if he might want anything to eat." She pointed toward the door with her head.

Hagrid mumbled a few incomprehensible curse words under his breath as he exited the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Minerva began writing a note to Roger Woodward regarding Harry's stewardship:

"2 November 1981

Professor Woodward,

It is with a heavy heart that I must share the news of the recent passing of both Lily and James Potter. In accordance with their wishes, I humbly ask you to assume guardianship of their one and only son, Harry James Potter. I know you and your wife can offer him both love and safety, which at the moment is a hot commodity in Great Britain.

Little Anneliese is in capable hands with her grandparents, but even if you weren't ready four years ago, remember that you will always be her father. You will have the opportunity to prove it to her one day, but for now, please take this as is your second chance at fatherhood. Lily and James would want you to care of Harry as if he were your own – it's just as important that he's loved as much as he is safe.

Please owl me if you need anything from me. I will gladly assist in any way I can.

Sincerely,

Professor M. McGonagall"

She rolled up the parchment, sealed it, and whistled for her personal owl. A massive brown and cream Great Horned owl fluttered through a half-open kitchen window, and cocked its head at Minerva.

"Good morning, Ithamar," purred Minerva. "I need for you to take this to Professor Roger Woodward to his business address – Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Massachusetts, U.S. If for whatever reason he cannot be reached there, then try his personal address of 57 Skylark Place, Surrey in British Columbia, Canada.

Ithamar just stared at Minerva blankly. Minerva simply chuckled at her familiar. "I know it's a long distance, but I assure you it's a most urgent matter. Now, off you go… the weather starts getting a bit unpredictable this time of year, so the sooner you leave, the sooner you get back in one piece. I'll be sure to have an extra bag of crickets waiting for you."

Ithamar hooted, clearly pleased that he'd receive a handsome reward waiting for him. He snatched the note with one taloned foot, and with a whoosh, he soared out the kitchen window, heading westward toward the sea.

Several days later, the brand-new Defense professor Roger Woodward sat in his office at Ilvermorny, grading a handful of essays written by his second-year students. His concentration was broken when he heard a sharp rapping sound behind him. He opened the window and was nearly knocked off his feet by the massive Ithamar.

"Goodness gracious, what do they feed you to get so big?" Roger wondered aloud. He carefully removed the parchment from the owl's grasp, and returned to his seat to read the note.

"No, no, no, this can't be real…" he whimpered, clearly stunned by the horrific news. "Lily and James can't be dead… they can't be." He collapsed on his desk and began to sob into his folded arms. After he finally regained his composure, he looked at Ithamar. "Old McGonagall is coming to see me whether I'm ready or not, isn't she?"

Ithamar simply stared at Roger intently, which Roger took as an affirmative. "All right, I might as well send her my response while you're here." He fumbled around looking for a quill and some ink, and hastily scrawled a response agreeing to the Potters' final wishes. Ithamar hooted softly before departing for Great Britain.

Roger tried his best to carry on as nothing happened, but the tragic loss of two of his closest friends hit him harder than he could have possibly imagined. He frequently lost his train of thought in the middle of lectures over the next couple of days, which caused confusion and frustration amongst his students. He barely ate during his meals, and barely spoke to students or faculty alike.

Roger's change in behavior did not go unnoticed by the Headmaster, Professor Agilbert Fontaine. Fontaine was a tall, regal man who somewhat resembled a more youthful version of Dumbledore, except with jet-black, close-cropped hair and a short beard. Fontaine was named headmaster less than two years earlier, at the relatively young age of forty. While not the youngest Headmaster in Ilvermorny history, he wasn't far off.

During dinner, Fontaine decided to broach the subject with his subordinate. If there was anything he could do to help, he'd make it happen. He had a reputation for patience and understanding, which applied to faculty and students alike.

"Roger," the Headmaster purred in a deep, silky Transatlantic accent. "Something's been bothering you lately, but you try to carry on as if nothing's happened. Surely you don't think nobody else has noticed?"

Roger hung his head in shame. "Well Professor, something has happened, but I'm not sure I'm comfortable discussing it in the mess hall. Perhaps tomorrow morning in your office, away from prying eyes and ears?"

Fontaine nodded. "Very well, Roger. Does nine thirty work for you? I highly doubt it would take more than a few minutes to get things off your chest."

Roger smirked. "That should be fine, sir. I'll see you then."

The following morning, Roger flooed directly to the Headmaster's office as requested. Unlike Roger's cramped and cluttered office, Professor Fontaine's office was spacious and impeccably tidy. Countless tomes and scrolls lined the perimeter of the office on shelves that went nearly ceiling-high. Priceless paintings and artifacts – likely both magical and non-magical in nature – dotted the various desks and tables throughout the quarters.

Roger cleared his throat before addressing Fontaine. "Good morning, sir. I'm here as you've asked."

"Ah, yes, good morning Roger," replied Fontaine in a casual tone. He chuckled softly. "You're not the first faculty member to be overwhelmed by my office. You've been here, what, just over two months now?"

Roger nodded. "That's right, Professor. I'm still getting accustomed to Ilvermorny and its offerings. I like it here, but it's a bit different than Hogwarts. Old habits die hard, you know."

Fontaine stroked his chin in thought. "Ahh, so is it homesickness that's been troubling you, Roger? I mean, I can't say I blame you – you were educated in Magical Britain so I'd imagine that some of the differences between Hogwarts and Ilvermorny throw you off from time to time?"

Roger cocked his head. "Well, partly… but what's really troubling me is that two of my closest friends… fellow Hogwarts alumni… recently perished, and I've been tasked with raising their son. They apparently want him to be kept as far away from Magical Britain as possible for his own safety."

Fontaine nodded. "You must be referring to the unfortunate incident concerning the Potters a few days ago," he said in a voice that wasn't all that much louder than a whisper. "I can't believe it myself…"

Roger threw Fontaine a bemused look. "You knew?"

Fontaine steepled his fingertips together. "Of course I knew. I keep tabs on the happenings in magical Britain – not everything that happens over there is of any consequence to us, but sometimes, it can…" He let out a deep sigh. "I do think the Potters' plan of sending their son across the Atlantic was a wise plan, but even then, it's not foolproof. Firstly, he has no known living relatives in over three thousand miles of Ilvermorny, so it would be useless to attempt a blood ward should he stay with you and your wife. And with you teaching much of the year, much of Harry's raising would be your wife's responsibility…"

"But the distance should be enough of a deterrent, I should hope," Roger said. "I will do what I can to be a father figure to Harry, especially during the summer and holidays, as I owe that much to Lily and James."

"And when is young Mister Potter due to be delivered?" asked Fontaine.

Roger shrugged. "I suppose any day now. I received an owl from Minerva McGonagall just a few days ago informing me that I've been chosen to be Harry's caretaker… knowing her, she'll deliver him personally."

"It's been quite a few years since I've seen Minerva," admitted Fontaine. "She was your house head, wasn't she? She acts more like one of your Ravenclaws… she tends to think things through before taking action, does she not?"

"That's Old McGonagall, all right," laughed Roger. "She's a good lady. Very prim-and-proper, but she's got a heart of gold once you get to know her."

Fontaine nodded. "The Thanksgiving break is coming up in a couple of weeks… hopefully that should give you some time to clear your head. Now, be sure to let me know when Minerva gets here with young Harry. She and I have much to discuss, I reckon."

"Yes, the Thanksgiving holiday can't get here soon enough," agreed Roger.

"Now, if you would like a few extra days' furlough, I can fill in as Defense professor if you need some personal time," offered Fontaine. "It hasn't been that long since I actively taught, and as luck would have it, I used to teach Defense!"

Roger smiled wanly at the Headmaster. "I'll keep that in mind, sir. I think this little discussion has helped take some of the weight off my chest, but I think I need to keep teaching, as it'll keep me busy and my thoughts on where they need to be… on my lectures and on my pupils. There'll be a time to grieve soon enough."

Fontaine waved a hand at Roger to dismiss him. "Very well, Roger. If you do need to take a day or two before Thanksgiving, you know how to get a hold of me."