Him Again (CHPT 31!)

[Apocalypticat]

Title: Him Again
Summary: HBP SPOILERS! Minerva hasn't been able to heal the grief inside her and Harry and Ginny are having their first child. But what if a certain deceased returns in a way that will push Minerva to the boundaries of what is appropriate? ADMM with a twist!

Rating: T... but may increase.

SHORT AS POSSIBLE AUTHOR'S NOTE: A) This story isn't for everyone. When I said 'with a twist,' I mean 'with a twist.' B) I'm an aspiring author whose main problem is with grammar - please tell me the errors you see! C) Up on ff.net for those without patience.

CHAPTER 1: Death, Victory and Pain

Albus Dumbledore was numb with horror.

As his body fell away from him, from life, everything seemed to fade with it. He couldn’t see the Death Eaters anymore, nor the tower or the Dark Mark. His beloved Hogwarts was gone - no, it was he who was gone, leaving everything he cared about. He was too sick with dread at what had happened to even consider paying attention to what was happening to him.

Severus…

This couldn’t be. It was utterly impossible; if someone had told him about it, he would have laughed out loud at the absurdity of it.

Severus, no, you couldn’t have.

There was something wrong here; it couldn’t have happened.

That wasn’t you.

His soul shuddered; he recognised his own denial.

Merlin, no…

The closed mind. The raised wand.

Why?

Loathing, etched into features he had protected and cherished.

Severus… please…

He was sick with it, with the realisation - but no! Severus would never-

…Don’t betray me. Don’t go back into the night.

A harsh cry. A green flash, the after-image burnt into his spirit.

Severus, my child, my dark one, my eyes on the enemy-

Eyes on him. The pain. The agony of brutal acceptance. Then another thought: Harry. Harry’s face swam before him, Harry angry, Harry bereaved, Harry guilty, Harry worried, Harry laughing-

He’d told Harry repeatedly to trust Severus. Repeatedly.

Severus turning to Harry, wand raised - the dark words cried again-

Had his mistake cost him that much? Had his mistake cost him his life, the whole of the wizarding world… had it cost him Harry…? What had happened? He could imagine it all too clearly; it was terrifying in its clarity - he allowed himself to think the worst, because the worst had half happened-

Harry angry. Harry running after Severus. Severus turning around, and-

Avada Kedavra.

If he had eyes, he would be weeping now. For his mistake, he deserved the worst.

But things were spreading out now. He was dissolving on the rushing wind, and darkness was all around him. Ahead, he could see a bright light, shaped oddly against oblivion. He realised that it was a phoenix. Then darkness again; pulsating warmth around him… was this..?

He’d wondered, occasionally, what happened after death. Now the images painted by others before him rose up within his mind. Darkness and heat. Flames and punishment.

Despair.

Harry, he thought. Harry, my boy. And then he thought of someone else, and another face came to him in the vacuum. The fear of what else Severus might have done pumped through him. He’d seen grim betrayal for faithful loyalty. What if what he’d interpreted as friendly rivalry had actually been bitter enmity?

Merlin, no.

He saw the raven hair and the green eyes. It was odd; how his two favourite people shared features.

Minerva…

---

Years of frustration. Years of fear.

Victory.

A pale boy with messy black and green eyes older than the rest of his face, stood tall, beside the happy red-heads, that bushy-haired girl, that strange old ex-Auror, that werewolf and the pink-haired woman, and so on… A whole collection of people, expressions relieved, triumphant, shaking hands and sipping wine, oblivious to the cameras flashing and the babble of excited voices.

There he is, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Man-Who-Destroyed-Him, there he is, standing by the pretty red-head girl, looking dazed and happy. What does he think? How does he feel? His picture, with You-Know-Who at his feet. That girl, is she with him? Oh yes, she’s the girlfriend, isn’t she, she’s Ginny Weasley-

Who’s the tall red-head nearby, with the bushy-haired girl? Oh, that’s them, those are his two best friends - yes, they were with him, they were there, they helped. Orders of Merlin for the pair of them. The boy’s one of the Weasleys - see the dumpy witch over there - that’s the mother - how does she feel, being the mother of a hero?

What about the thin, ragged man over there? Yes, that’s the werewolf - he’s with the wild-haired Auror - killed Fenrir Greyback, didn’t he? Couldn’t get a job because of anti-werewolf legislation under Fudge’s government - no, never agreed with it either, of course now he’ll be in great demand-

The man with the funny eye? One of the best Aurors ever, never doubted him, of course he’d be involved, Order of the Phoenix, yes? A bit funny, but just like Mr Weasley, bit odd but odd in a good way-

The rest of the kids - they were all there, too - see the girl with the big eyes? Daughter of the man who runs the Quibbler - fine magazine, wonderful publication, that - Dumbledore’s Army - the Boy-Who-Lived, he started that. Another Order of Merlin winner, the boy over there - son of Frank and Alice Long bottom - whole family brave, must run in the blood. Grinning like a maniac; of course I don’t blame him, I’d smile if I was him-

Who’s the old bird in the corner? Her, sitting looking like someone’s died. Looks ill, doesn’t she? Oh, she was part of the Order of the Phoenix, can’t understand why she wouldn’t be happy - Headmistress of Hogwarts, yes, fine school, brilliant education here, look at all these brave youngsters they’ve turned out - Professor McGonagall, that’s her. Wasted something frightful, hasn’t she? Must be the stress, running a school during a war-

Look, they’re all here, the whole Order of the Phoenix - started by Dumbledore, wasn’t it? Died last year, didn’t he, poor chap, never disagreed with a word he said, splendid man, mentor of the Boy-Who-Lived, y’know, should’ve been Minister…

Minerva McGonagall got to her feet with difficulty, leaning heavily on her walking stick. The hypocrisy of it all, the fact that the person who most deserved all this was absent and would remain absent - it was all getting to her. Ignoring the stares, she left the Great Hall, climbing up the nearest staircase blindly. She had a sudden urge to go up to the Astronomy tower and throw herself off.

---

Minerva McGonagall sat, frozen, quill suspended over the thick parchment, eyes fixed on a point in time - in a happier past. Her thinking had stalled, like it did so often, these days. She had failed again. Anybody watching would know by the tense rigidity of her posture, the way she’d paled slightly. The realisation of this made her blink and attempt to surface.

It had been seven years. Seven years, for Merlin’s sake! Six, since the turmoil had ended, and everybody, save her, had celebrated the long-awaited peace - peace which He‘d never been able to enjoy. Six wonderful years, she thought. Six wonderful years that she should be grateful for. If she thought them wonderful, then perhaps she could convince herself that they were.

Seven years was more than enough for a person to pull themselves together.

She remembered the quill and attempted to focus on the letter to the school governors. Incorrigible men, they were; it was quite tedious writing to them. She searched for words - and realised that her quill was not scratching on the parchment, meaning that other sounds were reaching her.

His office was almost silent. She could not think of it as hers. There was the quiet ticking of the clock, the whisper of the wind outside the window… and that gentle snoring, that awful snoring from the wall behind her. The pressure to turn around was familiar but she suppressed the desire; it never did her any good when she looked.

She tried to block it out. She had spent the last seven years trying to do so, and she’d never yet succeeded. The snoring was very much like the memory of Him: constant, irrepressible, upsetting. It was the one final cruelty which had been done to her.

Once, she’d taken the picture down and stowed it in a corner, in a feeble effort to quieten the snoring. The guilt and agony of it had tortured her, so she’d put it back up again a mere couple of days later. The worst thing in the world would be to do an injustice to His memory in His office, whilst sitting in His chair with His job, with the residue of Him all around her.

He was always strolling in and out of her mind, too. There was always the thought of Him, and His mistake, and what He’d done, and what she’d never told Him. Too much thinking of Him would result in an agitation of the hands, and tears, so she tried to direct her thoughts away from Him. Naming Him would be the worst error to make.

That snoring. She wanted to scream!

In the time after He’d gone, she’d waited, grief held at bay by the idea of speaking to Him, of telling Him… But her last comfort had been snatched away from her; snoring was all that was left…

There was a knock on the door.

The Headmistress came back to herself and put down her quill, grateful for the interruption. She could be Professor McGonagall again.

“Come in,” she said.

Filius Flitwick opened the door nervously. His eyes found the thin, sharp woman at the desk instantly. The corners of the woman’s mouth turned upwards slightly.

“Filius! What can I do for you?”

The small wizard walked into the room, clutching the papers to his chest. If a student had been present, they would have seen a different Flitwick to the one that taught them. Professor Flitwick was cheerful and exuberant and excitable; the Filius that entered the Headmistress’s office was far more subdued. Nobody liked seeing the ruins of Minerva.

Seeing her sitting there, dull green eyes circled with weary darkness and black shot liberally with grey, Filius felt a pang to his heart. He always felt miserable and confused whenever he entered this room. But he’d never been a close friend of Minerva’s, and if neither Rolanda nor Poppy had solved the mystery, then he certainly would never know.

“Well, I’m a little confused by the new syllabus outlines for the sixth years,” he said timidly, holding out the papers.

Minerva - or the ruins of Minerva - sighed. “You are not the only one, Filius. I was thinking that it could be sorted out in tonight’s meeting. Both Pomona and Rolanda have already been to see me, just as confused by the school board’s inability to write in plain English.”

Filius nodded. Another time, he would have laughed. Still, he had some hope - he had news that should put a genuine smile on the witch’s face. “Minerva, I have some good news!” he squeaked. “It was in the paper - Mrs Potter’s having her baby!”

Minerva sat up, and for a moment, her wan face was transfigured with sudden joy. “That’s wonderful, Filius! Harry must be pleased.”

Filius nodded happily - but as he left the office, he saw her smile fade. A distant, painful look had come into her eyes. He went down the stairs feeling disappointed and wrong-footed - if the news that one of her old cubs was having a baby wasn’t enough to cheer Minerva up, then what could?

Minerva found herself surrounded by the silence again. She clasped her thin hands together sadly. In another world - in a world that was more perfect, perhaps - she would have been present at the birth. She could have cradled the soft pink form and been truly happy. But she couldn’t and she wasn’t. After it had happened - that event which had caused her to fall in upon herself - she had known enough not to inflict her presence on others. The world was in dire need of cheer and light - and she was neither, not anymore. Her brooding presence and her inability to smile properly hurt others, she knew. Her lips twisted. The staff was worried about her - had been ever since they had first noticed the change in her. Only now were they beginning to accept that it wasn’t possible to change her back.

So she had drawn back from it all - even from poor Harry, as he had flailed around searching for a point of dependence and stability. Poor Harry, who wanted and needed another - another Him. She sighed when she realised the direction her thoughts were taking her. Him again.

[prodigyviolin101]

Oh wonderful story, and onto the point of grammatical errors, not real errors possibly some awkwardly worded sentences, but over all it is quite good!

please continure.
I also loved what you did with harry's personal life
please keep going.

Prodigy, and welocme!

[Chpt2]

Thanks for the feedback Prodigy!

Anyway...

---

CHAPTER 2: Harry's Son

Darkness and warmth were all around him. He was compacted into a small space, unable to move or even to twitch. Albus had spent an indefinite time wondering whether this was some sort of hell or not - whilst not pleasant, it was not wholly terrible either. The squeezing and writhing of the darkness around him at least managed to keep some of the anguish at bay.

There was a sense of urgency in the way that the dark walls around him were closing in. Something was about to happen.

Then, suddenly, he was being propelled through the darkness… out into the light.

Albus’s eyes stung as he struggled to adjust to the difference, overwhelmed by sensation. A searing pain flared in his chest cavity as he gasped for breath - and realised that he had not been breathing before. The blinding white around him seemed infinitely more promising than the darkness he’d just left - but it didn’t feel like any sort of heaven. For one thing, everything seemed too painful - he was gasping as though he’d just surfaced from water - and there was noise all around him, horrible echoes that clashed inside his head and made his ear drums throb-

His eyes came into focus - and the vague blur of red and peach he could see sprang into clarity. It was then that Albus Dumbledore received what was quite possibly the greatest shock he’d ever had in his life - or death.

Albus had, occasionally, contemplated an afterlife, of sorts. He hadn’t been able to come up with any clear picture of what it might be like, although his conviction that nothing ended at death eliminated any possible fear of it. His mind had surged towards heaven and hell only because they were generic, widely known ideas. The afterlife had always been a rather fuzzy concept. He had imagined, perhaps, that his life would be reviewed before any final destination.

He had not imagined an older-looking Ginny Weasley exposing one of her breasts to him.

In complete disbelief, he gaped at the woman above him in shock. Ginny Weasley. It was undoubtedly Ginny Weasley - she didn’t look all that different - but certainly older and - and with one of her breasts-

Albus shut his eyes. He had always liked to think of himself as a moral man - how could any kind of life review feature Ginny Weasley..? But no… this was proof! He was dreaming. This whole thing had been some sort of extended nightmare. It was utterly ridiculous to think of Severus betraying him and him being killed just when Harry needed him most - what a delusional idea! He was in bed, asleep at this very moment - and now he realised that he was dreaming, he could wake up - and be awkward around Ginny Weasley for a few days - but that was easily explained by Freud, Freud’s writings about dreams could explain it all, everything was fine and it would all go back to normal…

His thoughts were accelerating in hope and desperation. It was just a nightmare - nothing real at all - he’d wake up and go downstairs to breakfast and joke with Minerva about how moody Severus was and then speak to Harry about something or other - about the Horcrux, yes about the Horcrux undoubtedly - and Hagrid would say something about chimaeras being completely harmless and ask whether he could breed them at school - which he would say no to, of course - and then he had to go and see Rufus Scrimgeour about the…

He opened his eyes, to see his hand flailing above him, as if it had nothing to do with him at all. It was small and pink, and clenched tightly into a fist.

---

Harry Potter took five long strides forwards, stopped, turned around and then took another five. He halted, about-turned and walked, before repeating the process. His legs were beginning to ache and his feet were growing numb, but pacing was the only way to combat the anxious energy bubbling inside him. His hands were clasped together behind his back, so that he could feel how clammy he had become. He could sense Ron smiling encouragingly at him from the nearby sofa, but he was more annoyed by his friend’s serenity than buoyed up, and ignored him.

“Harry,” Ron said at last, after ten more minutes of frantic activity had passed. “She’ll be okay.”

Harry stopped and stared at him. Ron stared back, grinning.

Ron’s long body was draped over the sofa in a careless manner, having flopped down into it and not moved since. The sumptuous red and gold outer robes he wore were spread down onto the floor, revealing the garish orange he wore underneath. Looking at it, Harry winced inwardly. Ron, Keeper for the now legendary Chudley Cannons, had literally walked straight off the pitch mid-game, right past his adoring fans, simply to sit and watch Harry pace a hole in the carpet. At exactly the time when Ron should have been saving the Quaffle, signing Chocolate Frog Cards of himself and laughing with his team-mates, here he was-

“Harry,” Ron sighed. “Don’t beat yourself up. If you hadn’t told me, you know I would’ve killed you.” He gave his friend a look of mock severity under his brows.

The bespectacled man’s eyes looked at him uncomprehendingly before seeming to past beyond him, to see something else. The unexpected popped out.

“I wish we’d had one earlier. Ginny wanted to, y’know. But I guess I needed time to …” Harry’s voice drifted off and the distant look in his eyes grew.

Ron shifted uneasily, caught by surprise. The sentence was finished by the silence that stretched between them: to live without the threat of death. To recover from all that had happened. Harry could see Ron’s thoughts being played out across his face - there was that slight tightening of the lips that meant that Ron was thinking of the Second War, and that troubled look in his blue eyes that indicated that his friend was thinking of a time about a year after…

Harry had not thought about the Second War for quite a long time. It was inevitable that occasionally his mind would go back to it - whenever someone said, “When I was at Hogwarts…” Yet he always focussed on the enjoyable memories - the memories which were not evoked by the mention of a war of any kind. Eating lunch with Ron and Hermione. Making cushions fly in Charms. Playing Quidditch. It was at that point that he usually stopped thinking about Hog warts - otherwise, the memories would begin to descend into those with undeniably painful undercurrents. Moaning in Potions about Snape. Meeting Sirius for the first time. Talking with Dumbledore. If he remembered any more intensely… Sirius falling through an archway. Snape’s face twisted in hate. Dumbledore’s body falling from the tower. Memories that were scenes from a nightmare - and that didn‘t even count the final battle...

A year after it had all ended - that was when he’d finally broken down. It didn’t make very much sense to him. Immediately afterwards, he had merely felt numb - and when he’d seen the picture of the blank young face with its dispassionate expression as a wand pointed as the body of He-Whom-Few-Had-Dared-Name - he’d almost thought of them as someone else, someone entirely separate from him. Yet it had taken an entire year for it all to crash down. He recalled the nightmares and the way thoughts had seemed to whiz madly around in his head like starlings - and, most of all, Ginny’s worried face as he begun to sink away from her. He had needed Sirius and Dumbledore, and neither was there because of a man whom he’d failed to avenge their deaths upon… That was the worst thought. Even now, long after he had recovered and withdrawn from the public eye, the fact that somewhere, a traitor to rival Pettigrew was stilling eating, drinking and breathing was enough to send a thrill of anger through him. Snape! Oh how he’d feverishly hunted… but Ron and Hermione had put a stop to that - and although he’d been angry at the time, it had saved him. They had brought him back.

Ginny had suppressed her growing desire for a child for him - but once he’d got back from his inner death, and felt confident enough to feel capable of raising a child, he’d found he wanted one too.

That thought brought him back to the present. His heart thumped! His child! His son was being born right now! He wanted to be with Ginny, needed to be with Ginny… He resumed pacing.

“Harry,” Ron said softly. Harry ignored him.

“Merlin, I wish I was in there with her.”

“She’ll be all right, mate. She’s as tough as-”

“Ron, they said the baby was getting ‘stressed.’ What does that mean?”

“Well,” came Fred’s voice suddenly. “I imagine being born would be a pretty stressful experience.”

Harry spun around to see Fred and George, clad in dragon-leather that practically shouted ‘wealthy and crazy,’ walking calmly towards them.

“Don’t you worry about our Ginny,” George assured him.

“After being on the wrong end of her wand a few times, you soon cease worrying about her-”

“-It’s more a question of worrying for the people who meet her-”

“-Believe me, Harry; me and George were terrified for you at the wedding-”

“-Still, we always knew you were pretty thick.”

Harry grinned weakly at them, but he was too anxious to laugh. He opened his mouth to ask where the rest of the Weasleys were when the door at the opposite end of the waiting room was flung open with such force that it ricocheted off the wall, to nearly slam back into the frantic face of Hermione Granger. Hermione barely paused at this, however, and rushed into the room looking agonised.

“Harry!” she panted. “Is it - she hasn’t - has she?”

Harry shook his head. Hermione slumped into a chair.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I was in the middle of a campaign meeting.”

Harry opened his mouth to ask which campaign that had been, to think better of it and shut his mouth again. By now, Hermione had been involved in so many campaigns, it was hard to keep track. Every time Harry opened the paper, Hermione was usually featured somewhere - either in a photo where she waved her arms and shouted at some hapless bureaucrat, or as the author of an article that raged against the incompetent Ministry. She campaigned for House Elves, giants, werewolves, Muggles… Anybody whom Hermione deemed oppressed found their cause championed. It meant that Ron was often forced into playing a Quidditch match wearing a badge proclaiming his apparent support of S.P.E.W, or G.R.A (Giant Rights Association - “bigger scale, bigger hearts”) or S.P.A.W.L. (Society for the Prevention of Anti-Werewolf Legislation - “the Howling Shame of the Ministry”) or any other society his wife headed. Being Ron, Harry reckoned, must be a precarious existence.

Hermione opened her mouth to say something else - but, at that point, a Healer emerged from the double-doors over near where Harry had paced. As soon as he entered, all three friends leapt to their feet and the twins gave him unconvincing looks of unconcern.

The Healer, a young man with a blonde thatch of hair, stopped, aware that he was mere feet away from some of the most famous people who had ever lived. There they were - Ron Weasley, Champion Quidditch player for the top-of-the-league Chudley Cannons, Hermione Granger, Deputy Head of the Department of Mysteries and Chief Campaigner for so many organisations, Fred and George Weasley, founders of the wildly successful Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes - and last of all, the pale man dressed in jet black - the youngest Chief Auror in three centuries and the Man-Who-Destroyed-The-Dark-Lord, Harry Potter. He had to suppress the urge to ask for autographs.

“Come this way,” he said shortly.

Harry strode after the shorter wizard, heedless to all else. His mouth had gone very dry and his heart was racing. As they walked down the long corridor beyond the doors, he strained for the sound of a child crying. Yet there was just silence - and Harry broke into a trot - the Ward was in sight and the Healer struggling to keep up…

The door opened. For a moment, all that could be seen was white - the white of the walls, floors, curtains, chairs - everything was blinding. Then all eyes adjusted - and a flushed Ginny Weasley with brown pools for eyes could be seen propped up against a pillow. There were lines of exhaustion on her face - but at the same time she was glowing in a way Harry could never have described, maternal waves exuding from her.

The Healer watched as all of the celebrities bounded over towards the bed, the Chief Auror in the lead. He saw the wife and mother, Ginny Weasley, an Auror in her own right, smile at the father - whilst her eyes remained fixed on something another Healer was dealing with in a basin across the room. He saw the tall, thin man’s green eyes widen and follow her gaze…

Harry was mute in wonder. Something small and pink and vulnerable was being washed gently in a basin - something that was his and Ginny’s, something they had created together. Their son.

“Mr Potter, sir?” said the Healer timidly as the baby was swaddled in a blanket. “There are a few things…”

---

Albus could not understand what was happening. From the moment he had seen that pink, flailing hand, he had ceased to even vaguely understand what was going on. Gentle hands had picked him up and faces swam above him as water sluiced down his body… only, he was so small - too small - so tiny that the hands lifted him with ease… Impossible. Searching for a point of recognition, he had delved into himself - to find his magic flickering and weak in a way he didn’t recall feeling before…

Voices were murmuring behind him. He was being wrapped in something soft and warm. Arms took him back to Ginny - and he looked up to see another unexpected face, that of Ronald Weasley… What had happened? Why had he died and gone to Weasleyland? The voices became clearer and louder.

“…No, no - I don’t mean to say that there’s anything obviously wrong, sir. He may be perfectly fine - but generally speaking, when they don’t cry, it’s a bad sign. And he’s a wee bit underweight…”

“Blimey!” he could see Ron saying. “So that’s it! I thought it was a bit odd. I’ve always thought babies screamed their heads off.”

“He’s so sweet,” Ginny said softly, looking down at him with an expression he couldn’t remember anyone giving him since he’d been about five. “Aren’t you? Look at those beautiful blue eyes…”

Albus felt himself go cold. His mind was nudging towards something…

Harry beamed down at his son, and moved so that the baby could see him. Reaching out, he took hold of the baby and cradled it against his chest. He smiled down at it, crushing down the worry - he was perturbed as the Healers by the lack of sound emanating from the new-born lungs. Somehow the silence was more terrifying than the idea of any amount of screaming. He grinned more widely - no amount of worry could suppress the joy welling up inside him.

“Hello,” he whispered. “Hello. I’m Harry. I’m your daddy.”

And then tears finally began streaming down the infant cheeks. The Healers stopped moving and stared. Fred and George’s grins faded. Ron took a step backwards and Hermione’s hands went to her mouth. The blood in Ginny’s cheeks exited. Her husband clasped the child more firmly, face carefully devoid of expression but the green eyes disturbed. Nobody spoke, and there was no sound but that of faint whimpers and the choking out of sorrow. The baby continued sobbing - sobbing in a way that neither of the Healers had ever heard before from a child - sobbing in the hopeless, shaking anguish of an adult to whom it had all been just too much.

Comments? *Whimpers* Please?

[Apocalypticat]

Oops. Forgot to log in. Don't worry, it WAS me...

[snowcat]

*cheers* yay! I love this story...I have become addicted to it!
Poor Albus, poor Albus.

Love,
Elísabet (girlfromiceland)

[nemi]

Wow! That is such an original idea, and the story is so evocatively written. Post the next chapter as soon as poss

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks for the encouragement! Glad you're enjoying it!

CHAPTER 3: He's Gone

There was something about being in Harry’s arms and being propped up against the secure warmth of his chest so that the beating heart could be heard, that steadied Albus. Here, at last, was some sort of familiarity in amongst the chaos. He could remember a time in which he had held Harry in his arms and looked down to the see the newly cut scar. Once he’d calmed down, he could appreciate the irony of being the one who was held.

It had only been about fifteen minutes since he had stopped being passed around to various Weasley family members and being cooed at by Hermione. His mind was still ringing with shock. How could this be? Seeing that small pink hand that was somehow attached to him…Time had reversed and accelerated at the same time. A baby Albus held by an adult Harry.

Harry!

His soul shuddered with relief. Harry. Alive. Older. Married. All those things he’d feared that Harry would fail to be. There was his face, up above him. It was a strong, worn face, the eyes piercing and intelligent, surrounded by a mane of black hair-

Yet, was this real? He thought so. Everything felt real; he could feel Harry’s arms around him and the softness of the blanket around him. That meant that he was alive too…

I’m Harry. I’m your daddy.

The words flashed back inside his brain. He stared up at Harry, stunned. Daddy? Was that true? Was he really..? Had he really been reborn as..?

Now that he’d had time to think, he realised that he had to do something. Once he’d spoken to Harry, then the pair could start figuring out what to do… He opened his mouth.

“Harry.”

Or, at least, that was what he’d intended to say. What came out was:

“Haoorrrr.”

Albus felt himself blinking in mild surprise and indignation. That strange, high-pitched gurgle couldn’t possibly be him, could it? He scrutinised Harry’s face hopefully, but the man merely grinned and brushed one of Albus’s cheeks lightly with a finger. The contact made him lose track of his thoughts - it was amazing, how sensitive his face was to that one touch! So gentle, so soft… Looking up he saw the protective glint in Harry’s eyes - and he felt odd; nobody had looked at him like that for over a century. Everything was so strange; he was the one who protected, not the one who was protected.

That thought gave him an odd, guiltily pleasurable feeling. His responsibilities had all fallen away from him now. Right now, he was a helpless child, utterly dependent on others to be responsible. And yet…

He should be dead. The curse had undoubtedly killed him; it made absolutely no sense for him to be alive now. Harry had grown up and moved on. He probably didn’t want his former headmaster for a son. Albus was intruding on a future he had no right to be in. It was a sombre concept, and Albus realised that he just had to inform Harry of this, so that…

So that what? If he did somehow manage to get the idea across to Harry, what then? What could possibly be done? Poor Harry and his darling wife would have lost the chance of having an ordinary son and nothing could be done about it. Albus felt like crying again as another revelation hit him.

He was too old. He didn’t want to go through life all over again - especially not when this extra span on Earth that had, for some reason, been given to him, would undoubtedly mean seeing the Gryffindor trio grow old and his old friends and colleagues die. Painfully, his mind turned to Minerva - and then he forced it away again; that particular concept was too much to be thought upon right now. He had been terrified enough - during the Second War - at the idea of Harry being cut down in his teens by some cruel twist of fate. In a perfect world, he could have been certain of Harry outliving him - but events had seemingly conspired to make this happy event ever more unlikely. Weariness gripped him.

Harry, my boy. It’s me.

He tried to imagine Harry’s reaction. His mind blanked; it was impossible.

“Harry. It’s me, Albus Dumbledore,” he tried again.

“Haaoorr. Iieee, aaahhbuu duuuddd.”

“That baby doesn’t half gurgle funny,” he heard Ron’s voice say.

“Better gurgling than screaming,” said Ginny, wisely.

---

Minerva kicked the duvet round and turned over yet again. Above her, the darkness of the four-poster hangings served as a background for her thoughts, which were busy chasing each other in circles. Trying to lie still and not seek a warmth that had long left that bed, she forced herself to go over the meeting with the school governors for the twentieth time. She concentrated on the rise and fall of one governor’s voice as he questioned her about the cost of various extra-curricular activities inside Hogwarts. She remembered how one, a droopy-looking woman with soulful eyes, pressed a cup of tea into her hand as if she couldn’t possibly survive without it. She deliberately recalled the feel of the cup in her hands, and how the warmth of the liquid inside radiated outwards into her bones.

Night, Minerva knew, was a dangerous time. The mind was prone to chewing over things. Whilst attempting to sleep, the brain worried at itself, pulling up memories. Night time was Minerva’s least favourite time of day - perhaps because it wasn’t day.

The bed didn’t help. She’d tried, after getting the position of Headmistress, to remain in her old rooms and force the new Transfiguration teacher to sleep in the Head’s rooms, but she’d gotten such odd looks and questions which she couldn’t coherently answer that she’d given up. She still hadn’t got over the feeling of being in someone else’s bed.

Yes, she thought, that was what made her toss and turn. Simple displacement of habit. Her Animagus was a cat - a creature of habit - so of course it would take longer than usual to get used to new ‘territory.’ That was it. There were no extra dimensions to it at all.

Going over the day’s events tended to help. If she could keep on concentrating until she dropped off, then hopefully there wouldn’t be any… unwelcome thoughts. Self discipline was the key.

Quidditch does indeed consume a lot of resources, she recalled admitting to the governors. She focussed on the way one of the governors kept on fiddling with the skin in between his fingers. But it encourages the spirit of friendly competition in amongst the students. Even now, the angry bubbling of self-righteous indignation settled in her chest. What kind of idiot would even consider halting Quidditch matches?

Indeed, came the governor’s languid voice in her head. And the clubs?

Gobstones, chess, her inner voice began to echo. And other clubs related to specific subjects.

Wasn’t there another? came that question. That question. Oh no - but she couldn’t stop herself remembering-

Dumbledore’s Army.

Her hands clenched at her pillow as she moved to lie on her front. Coldness shot down her body. His name! She’d said - and thought - His name! Mistake.

An official club now?

Indeed. I believe I told you so last year, Robert. Now excuse me, I have to-

Run, she thought bitterly. Run back to her school to sit by the lake and drown in melancholy. Idiots! Why had they made her answer that question…

“Headmistress?”

The whisper had her sitting up in bed, wand seized from the bedside table. Fumbling for her glasses, she pushed them on and looked wildly around, drawing back the curtains with desperate force.

“Begging your pardon, Headmistress-”

She caught site of the picture of grazing deer on the wall opposite. The deer had fled to one side of the picture, the other side having been invaded by a frail-looking, elderly wizard: one Armando Dippet. She scowled at him and he quailed before her glare.

“My apologies, Headmistress - I agree, this is most improper-”

“What?” she snapped, too exhausted to even pretend some semblance of politeness.

“Ah… Well, you see, my dear-”

“What?” repeated Minerva harshly. She felt an irrational anger - the phrase ‘my dear’ was not Armando’s phrase; oh no, he was merely copying from someone else-

Dippet twiddled his thumbs nervously. “His - uh - portrait - um, it’s, well, gone.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded. “What portrait?”

“Dumbledore’s portrait. The frame’s still there but-”

Minerva was out of bed so fast that Dippet was left talking to empty space. Heart beating madly, she dashed out of the bedroom, seizing the tartan dressing gown hanging on the door as she did, and into the small hallway, hand already outstretched for the door-handle. Her mind was whirling. Gone - gone? His picture gone? But did that - oh could that mean..? Was he awake - had he…?

The concealed door swung open, the tapestry hiding it mercilessly torn aside. The office was darkened - but the portraits were all awake and buzzing with excitement. Bright, curious eyes watched her as she turned to face the desk - and the empty frame beyond.

On the wall, hung an ornate golden frame. It was heavily patterned (though Minerva could have drawn all the elegant swirls in her sleep as they were all engraved on her brain) and the words ‘Albus Dumbledore’ were inscribed on the bottom. Yet where a snoring figure usually sat, there was nothing. Instead, there was just the purple chair the painted Him had dozed in and the small painted window showing a view of the Forbidden Forest. The subject of the picture was conspicuously absent.

Minerva felt herself go cold again. Seeing that empty scene… It was almost as bad as the feeling she’d had when she’d walked into the office after He’d died, and seen the empty chair and cluttered desk, on which lay the last paper He’d been working at… It enforced His absence.

Then hope rose in her again. Had He finally woken up and gone for a stroll around the castle? Did that mean she could finally talk to Him..?

“What happened?” she asked, without turning round.

A cacophony of voices broke out.

“Well, I woke up to see him gone-”

“Didn’t see him wake up-”

“-Nobody did-”

“-And Armando went and got you as soon as we realised-”

“I say,” wheezed Dippet as he arrived back in his picture. “Isn’t this exciting? I do believe he’s woken up and gone for a stroll-”

“I hope so,” announced the fat, red-faced wizard who had once spoken to Harry. “He shall make things interesting again. I look forward to a good old chin-wag with the fellow-”

Phineas Nigellus sniffed. “Perhaps he’ll bring some dignity back into the proceedings,” he drawled. “I can’t say we saw eye to eye when he was alive but-”

“We will have to search the castle,” cut across Minerva sharply. “Armando, if you go and check the first floor and Phineas, if you take the second-”

“What?” said Dippet, blinking. “Now?”

Minerva glared at him. “Yes!”

“But, my dear, there’s no rush-”

“-When I first woke up, I recall wanting some quiet time to myself-”

“-He’ll be back soon; there are only a few interesting portraits worth visiting in this irritating place-”

Minerva’s glare switched to Phineas. She opened her mouth to demand to know why the portraits weren’t following orders when Phineas spoke again, in his lazy, sarcastic voice.

“What’s the hurry, anyway? Dumbledore’s obviously taken his time already - seven years. Personally, I don’t think there’s any excuse for staying asleep for that long - shows an appalling laziness in my opinion-”

“Well,” said Minerva weakly. “He’ll probably want to catch up on events-”

“Can’t he be told in the morning?”

“That man’s been trying our patience for seven years; he deserves to be kept waiting-”

Minerva sighed and turned away. With that, the Headmistress exited the office, lit wand held aloft. Her exhaustion had been swept away by hope. If it took all night, she would find His portrait herself and speak to Him.

---

Harry Potter looked down at his son nestled in Ginny’s arms, now sleeping peacefully, and felt a frown crease his brow. The queue for the fireplace and Floo network was long, so it gave him time to think. The jubilation at the idea of taking his son home was lifting to reveal worrying undertones.

Not for the first, second, or even third time, Harry thought of the incident earlier that afternoon with some anxiety. The way his son had cried like that… It had been disturbing, to say the least. Still, the child had seemed perfectly all right afterwards, gurgling oddly at him whenever he held it.

“We shall have to think of a good name,” Ginny said softly to him, still glowing in that warm, maternal way.

He smiled. “Yes… any ideas?”

“Sirius?” Ginny suggested tentatively. “James?”

Harry swallowed and shook his head. “Not James.” He felt that that ghost had to be laid to rest. “As for Sirius - perhaps a middle name?” He didn’t want to think of that horrible veil whenever he thought of his son.

Ginny nodded and was silent. A thought came into Harry’s head.

“How about… Brian?” he said hesitantly.

Ginny smiled. “Yes, that’s a nice name…” She paused; he knew his face must look odd. “Harry - does that name mean something to you?”

Harry nodded stiffly. Blue eyes surveyed him in his memory.

“All right, then.” She looked down at the baby. “Brian.”

---

Dawn found Minerva slumped in the seat in His office, head in her hands. His snoring had been replaced by her short, gasping breaths as she swallowed back tears. Intensely grateful that all the other portraits were either absent or deeply asleep, she gazed at the polished wood below her through blurred sight. Every part of her body ached - her legs, her arms, and her back - but none more so than what was inside.

Her eyes heated themselves in their sockets, the pressure building up behind them. Where! Where was He? She had walked around the whole castle no less than five times, peering at each and every single picture - but nowhere was He was be seen.

It was like losing Him all over again.

Thoughts, again?

[foci]

I only had time to read the first scene of chapter one, which is not much...but still something to comment on. You have an excellent style, the very fact that I think Snape was loyal to DD and read further on nonetheless should be proof enough.

I'd like to point out though that Snape is described as having black eyes in the books. See Occlumency lessons in OOTP.
Hope to be back and read more in two months.

[nemi]

That was great once again! Your writing style is great. It's a really original idea.
I don't actually like the name Brian that much but it's one of those things that you just forget about because this story is so wonderful
I loved the portraits. I always love reading about them and you write them fantastically.
Update soon

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks for the comments, illiterate ghost and nemi! Hope you're enjoying it!
Ghost, Albus was referring to Minerva and Harry as his 2 favourite people, not Snape - but I agree that chapter 1 is rather confusing. *Bows head in shame* I also agree that Snape was acting on Albus's orders, but I decided to defect to the less optimistic camp of thought for the purposes of this story.

Nemi, thanks! To be honest, Brian isn't a favourite name of mine either, but I thought it would be ironic if Harry named his son after Albus.

On we go! Perhaps I should have issued a warning about the length of this story...

CHAPTER 4: Marred Dream

The Chief Auror had just reached the Atrium when the media pounced. The reporters and photographers rushed forward as the tall, dark man they had been pursuing without success for three months walked into the open space. Cameras flashed and Quick-Quote quills began to sweep their elegant ways across parchment, as voices questioned and attempted to draw out the short, curt responses given.

Harry Potter sighed in irritation. Over the years, he had become remarkably adept at avoiding the media. Immediately after Voldemort’s defeat, he had been bombarded with demands for interviews and press reporters, to the extent that it had threatened his new job as an Auror - catching Death Eaters on the run was made exceedingly difficult when the flashes of photography gave away your position. He remembered Ron being pleased with the attention given to all the Second War veterans - but he’d detested it. He still did: he hated being asked meaningless questions about things which the people asking couldn’t possibly understand. He hated having his life condensed into a newspaper article, with all the pain of the Second War reduced to mere statistics. Even Ron had eventually understood his relentless withdrawal from the public eye.

He remembered turning down the endless interview requests and party invitations. How on earth could he have borne going to a party where all conversation consisted of: “Harry Potter! What was it like, fighting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Such bravery! Yet I suppose you were motivated by the losses you’d suffered - your parents - and your godfather, was it? How did you feel when..?” He especially hated the questions about his emotions. “How did you feel when you found out that there was a prophecy about it all? How did you feel when witnessing the death of Albus Dumbledore? How did you feel when you lost your godfather? How did you feel during the final battle?” How had he felt? How did they think he’d felt? But the papers didn’t want that. They wanted him to say that he’d felt upset but determined, sad but confident - they wanted him to spout emotional drivel as though it wasn’t real at all, so that their readers could squirm with pleasant horror. Rita Skeeter had taught him a powerful lesson.

Eventually, due to his constant refusals and curt replies, the media had lost interest. The world had moved on - in some ways. Children still pointed at him in the street - but the name ’Harry Potter’ was no longer plastered over the newspapers and his eyes no longer stared from every page. It had been a welcome relief. However, the last three months, he had taken extra care to avoid the outside world as much as possible. Once that Daily Prophet reporter had found out that he’d been on paternity leave, he’d expected everything to erupt into excitement again - and now, here he was, proven right.

“Mr Harry Potter, sir - can you confirm rumours that your wife recently had a child-?”

“-Is the baby a boy or a girl-?”

“-What do you say to the allegation that the child isn‘t yours-?”

“-Have you avoided revealing the truth to allow your child a normal life-?”

“-How do you think your fame will affect them-?”

“-What do you want for the latest addition to your family-?”

Everywhere he looked, he could see wide smiles, revealing pristine white teeth. Quick-Quotes quills were busy describing his clothes, his hair, his expression…

“Yes,” he said sharply. “Boy. Absolutely ridiculous. Indeed. Probably badly. A good life. Thank you, no comment.”

“Have you named your son?” demanded one last reporter as he waded through them, making an exit.

“Brian Sirius Potter,” he said brusquely, and left the Atrium.

As he returned home, he thought of the baby to have caused such a fuss. As soon as he did, his thoughts sharpened in worry. His son was three months old now, and they’d taken him to the Healers no less than five times. The last time they’d gone, the Healer had dared to tentatively voice the possibility that Brian was a bit brain-damaged. They obviously couldn’t think of another way to explain the silence of the child.

Brian had never cried. Never, not in all the nights which should rightfully have been sleepless. Apart from that one disturbing episode in the hospital, he hadn’t even whimpered. For a baby who, as the Healers had assured Harry multiple times, possessed a set of very healthy lungs, this was undoubtedly abnormal.

Brian’s silence was not the only thing that troubled Harry. There was something else different about his son - but he couldn’t put his finger on it; it was so subtle as to be unnoticeable to any outsider. There was just something in the way Brian’s eyes followed his father around the room, and how he would lie still when having his nappy changed, as if he understood what was happening.

Harry gave himself a shake. Of course Brian couldn’t understand - he was far too young. He was probably just imagining problems in some sort of paternal paranoia. Yes, that was it.

As the Chief Auror made his way swiftly home, his son was staring at the ceiling, thoroughly bored. A life lacking in all worry was all very well, but at least a little stress kept one occupied.

Albus had found the past three months almost insanity-inducing in their boredom. He was imprisoned in a body too weak to do anything but lie in a cot and occasionally squirm towards some uninteresting toy thrown in beside him. Apart from when Harry picked him up and talked to him, Albus had found his new life one of uninterrupted monotony. Luckily, Harry talked to him quite often - something which Albus half enjoyed and half dreaded - it gave him the same feeling as when reading the ending of a wonderful book, to find it so bittersweet and powerful that it felt as though the author was playing a melody on his heartstrings.

Harry would pick him up and pace around, speaking softly all the while. Sometimes he didn’t look at Albus when doing so, but would gaze into the distance, as if he was sending his soul far away in an attempt to dim what was around him - in a way that would throw Albus back to when Harry had been his student. How many times had he seen Harry looking that way, somehow stepping beyond the material world with his mind alone? How many times had he looked over his meal to see Harry at the Gryffindor table, oblivious to all but the dreams dancing in his head? Too many times. It had pained him then and it still pained him now.

It was particularly disturbing, as it was obvious that Harry would not have wished anyone who understood the English language to be present when he spoke to himself as he did when holding Albus. Sometimes things were fine and Harry would talk about work, and what he’d done that day, and what would happen when ‘Brian’ was old enough to talk back to him.

“I don’t know whether I’d wish the profession of an Auror on anyone,” he’d said the other day. “Still, at least I don’t have to deal with some ogre ordering me around. Not now I’m the ogre.”

Other times, however, Albus wished he was a million miles around, just so as not to have to see Harry when he thought he was alone with the blissful naivety of a child. It would always start with Harry talking about Brian going to school, and how he’d one day go to Hogwarts. Then, inevitably, Harry would begin to talk about his own days at Hogwarts. That had happened only the day before.

“Hogwarts is a good school, Brian,” he’d said, brilliant green eyes glazed with memory. “I had some good times there - and you will too. But…” He’d paused then and Albus’s soul had stiffened with dreadful anticipation. “But… my school days were disrupted a bit, weren’t they? I had a lot of fun there… but…things weren’t all right. I met some people who cared about me - for the first time in my life - there. But I lost a lot of people, too. I’m lucky to be alive…” His voice drifted off.

Albus saw him look down at him, eyes still distant. “A lot of things… A lot of things I probably won’t ever tell you - not properly. And what I will tell you, you probably won’t understand. I’ll go on about all these people who will just be names to you. And it’s like World War One, Brian, with the muggles. Everybody said that they’d remember forever - but they’ve forgotten already. It’s the same here. Everybody said - ‘let all those fell for what is good and what is right be remembered forever.’ But you… You and all of the generations after won’t really remember. You’ll probably hear about it in History of Magic - and you’ll probably go to sleep too, just like I did with Binns and his goblin rebellions.”

Albus, lying in his arms and a part of him writhing in sadness for Harry, agreed bitterly. Who now remembered the struggles and heartbreaks of a mere century ago? Who now truly remembered Grindelwald, and what sorrow he had wrought? Only a few ancient witches and wizards, whose tongues held no interest to a young world. And it would be worse for poor Harry. Nobody deserved to be a war veteran at twenty-four.

“Brian…” Harry whispered. “I wish… I wish you could meet them. All of them. You’ll meet Moody, probably, and the Weasleys, and Remus, and Professor McGonagall. But you’ll never meet Sirius, or the man I named you after.”

Miserably, Albus tried to think of someone called Brian to whom Harry could possibly be referring. Trying to place that person was preferable to thinking about the feelings this grim conversation aroused.

“Sirius was great fun, Brian. He was like a big brother to me. A wonderful big brother. And the man I named you after was the wisest and nicest man I have ever met. I’ve always tried to be like him.”

‘Brian’ would have frowned with confusion and concentration at this point, if he’d had sufficient control of his face. Harry had always been a relatively introverted and distrustful person - who on earth could he have held in such esteem as to try and emulate? Albus wracked his brains, but no sufficiently wonderful person stepped forth.

“I wish you could have met him,” Harry said softly. “He was the headmaster then and he was like a grandfather to me.”

Albus felt tears well up in his eyes. His heart seemed to swell and push against his ribcage. Harry - his Harry - had thought so much of him, and had called his own son after him. Had he been ‘himself,’ he would have blushed with embarrassment and pleasure. Harry, my boy. You were the grandson I never had.

Right then, Albus felt like attempting to say aloud a desire that he’d long suppressed. Knowing the futility of it, however, he kept his jaw clamped, but his mind still said the words in the darkness of his skull. I would have adopted you, if I’d have thought you’d have wanted it.

Another regret to chew on when he was alone. In some ways, life was too short - and that aspect he’d wasted. He was so moved and distracted by that thought and by what Harry had said that he was unable to focus on Harry’s words long enough to actually hear them. It was only by the mention of a name that his full attention was regained.

“…Professor McGonagall, Brian. She was my old Head of House, but she’s Headmistress now. She’s nice but very strict. I wish you could have seen her, before…” Harry sighed deeply, so that Albus felt the chest against him move.

His mind sharpened in alarm. He blinked away the pleasant images of a smiling Minerva which had arisen, quite unexpectedly, at Harry’s mention. Before what? What had happened to Minerva?

“She’s never been the same since…” Harry’s voice drifted off and he looked sad.

Albus’s stomach wove itself into knots. Images of an injured Minerva floated before him. He wished that Harry had said more about the subject so he could have learnt more, but Harry had moved onto something else after that - meaning that he worried about it now. Albus let a tiny sigh escape his small body. He hoped that Harry would talk to him again that evening.

Just as he was remembering all this, Ginny walked into the room. From his limited view, Albus could see that she was holding a bottle of milk. Luckily for him, his constant refusals to be breast-fed had gotten through fairly quickly - which was a relief. Circumstances may have changed, he thought, but there was no excuse for such knowing impropriety as that!

He waved his arms at the smiling face framed with red that hovered above him as Ginny picked him up and thrust the bottle in his mouth. He sucked obediently - there was no sense in being a difficult baby, after all - and somewhat ashamedly savoured the maternal warmth around him. There was an odd joy in being able to be loved like that again - it made him recall his own mother, a friendly, kind woman called Maria.

“Be a good boy, Brian,” Ginny murmured at him in that high, baby-voice she always used when talking to him. Albus wondered what her reaction would be if she knew that she was cooing at her former headmaster. “You’ve got a visitor today! Two visitors. Hermione - you know Hermione by now, don’t you? Oh, and Professor McGonagall!”

Albus nearly choked on his milk. Minerva! He would be seeing Minerva! He became aware of a sudden, deep need to see Minerva - to perhaps be held by Minerva… Harry’s sighs and low words returned to him. He would be able to see what was wrong with ‘Professor McGonagall’ himself. Hearing Minerva called ‘Professor McGonagall’ was quite strange; he hadn’t called her that himself in years - to think of doing so was somehow absurd…

Right on cue, the sound of the front door creaking open reached him. Harry strode into the room, smiling, accompanied by Hermione and his ’Professor McGonagall.’ Albus’s eyes went straight to Minerva.

“Arrived at the same time you did,” Harry said happily. “Professor - it’s good to see you again-”

“Professor!” Ginny cried joyfully. “Perhaps a cup of tea?”

That wasn’t Minerva.

That was his first reaction - the person who had entered the room looked only vaguely like Minerva, as though she were a distant relative. Minerva was the goddess she had been named for - pride was in her step and fire was in her eye, with strength as her servant - Albus’s inner descriptions tended to become progressively more poetic, until he snapped himself out it. The person who had entered the room was an old woman leaning heavily on a stick, lines carved deeply into her face and her eyes dimmed as though dust had coated the irises. Albus hardly noticed the small smile that etched the lines deeper still; he was too busy staring at the pitch black robes and the pale skin in disbelief, and in sensing the heavy aura of sadness and exhaustion this woman carried with her.

A flash of memory came to him, of a tall girl with raven hair bent downwards with books, who answered questions in an impeccably precise manner, unaware of the fact that half the male population at Hogwarts was watching her. Then another, of a young woman with full lips and emerald eyes, with hair creating a seductive night behind her. When had she gotten this old? Of course, having seen her through the different stages of her life, Albus had always nursed the image of a young woman in the bloom of her time as a part of the filing cabinet in his brain entitled ‘Minerva McGonagall.’ Yet as she had grown older, she had matured like wine - becoming just statelier in her presence and beauty. He had never noticed the old woman emerging…

No, surely, that wasn’t Minerva…

With horror, he saw again the lines and too prominent cheekbones - the emaciated skull which had once been Minerva. Under the billowing black robes, he couldn’t even fully comprehend how thin she must be. What had happened to her?

“Here, Professor - would you like to hold him?” Ginny said, offering him up.

His Minerva smiled thinly down at him and took him in her arms. Even through the thick black robes he could feel how bony and insubstantial her warmth was. Distressed, he kicked his legs and let out an unconscious murmur. Her arms enfolded him, and it had all the bitterness of a marred dream.

Then he stilled with silent agony. He wanted to scream “it’s me!” but there was no way he could. He stared into the misty eyes and wished that he were himself again, with his old body, so that he could enfold her in his arms and ease whatever pain had brought old age so suddenly upon her.

[Trulyamused]

This is great story. Interesting idea.

Poor Albus, having to live life all over again.

Hope to see more soon.
Truly

[snowcat]

*cries* *sniff* soo sad...soo good story...
I now have this urge to help Minerva and Albus!
*sniff* Poor Min, poor Albus.
*runs to get tissues*

Love,
Elísabet

[nemi]

That's so sad! And such a cruel place to leave us. Yet Harry's curt responses somehow amused me ^^"
Again extremely well written and I can't wait to see what comes of it. Post again soon!

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks, all reviewers! Hope I'm not upsetting you too much!

CHAPTER 5: No More

Minerva looked down at the child nestled in her arms and smiled. Despite this, the smooth pink body shuddered and she saw the sapphire eyes become shiny with tears. I must look awful, she thought distantly. Gently, she stroked one flawless cheek with a finger. Something ached dully inside her chest.

Once, she’d wanted to hold her own child and feel a vulnerable warmth that was half hers. She’d wanted it ever so much - had dreamed of it since her first crush and had still nursed the desire past the period in which it would have been possible. Lost children danced in the corners of her mind - children which were never created. It was both wonderful and terrible to hold the baby of a successful younger generation.

Weak fingers clutched at the material of her cloak. Her lips curved again and she snuggled the baby closer. It was then that she noticed that tears were wending their ways down the infant cheeks - but that no sound was emerging. The child was just staring up at her with vast pupils and a blank face, crying.

Her smile faded. Tears and silence were what she feared most.

Ginny made a small sound of maternal anxiety and extended her arms for her son. Minerva handed the baby over - and remembered its name - Brian. As Ginny tried to comfort him, she couldn’t help but say it aloud. The shock of it, and how it had caught her so unguarded, were impossible to quell.

“Brian,” she said, in a slightly hoarse voice. She gazed at Harry, hiding her trembling hands in her pockets.

The emerald eyes met hers. There was such a piercing intensity to Harry’s stare that she was suddenly afraid that he would somehow see and know everything about her - and then it would be impossible to continue being stern Professor McGonagall. She dismissed the thought when she remembered that Harry had never been a Leglimens, but it was still enough to make her uncomfortable.

“Brian,” said Harry, nodding slightly.

Something significant passed through the air between them. Minerva kept her face carefully inscrutable. Quite abruptly, she found herself imagining the expression on His face if He was still there to realise whom Harry had called the young Potter after. She forced away the image; there was no sense in aggravating the rush of emotion that had occurred when she’d made the connection.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with him…” muttered Ginny quietly, worriedly. Minerva saw her share a glance with her husband.

Puzzled and vaguely curious, the Headmistress looked more closely at Harry. She had never found Harry’s face very easy to read - to her, the emerald eyes were the only features that betrayed any real emotion - which was strange; many of her colleagues had always acted as though the boy - and now a man - was the most transparent person on the planet. Indeed, she could quite clearly recall Severus sneering in the staff room at the ‘Potter brat’s inability to quell or conceal the most basic of-’

Again, her mind had hit one of the walls inside her head. Things seemed to be getting worse; she had violated her thoughts twice now in one afternoon… It was too late; a small flame of anger had clenched one of her fists inside one of the pockets of her robes. She forced herself back to Harry - whose worry was just detectable by the very minute tightening of his lips…

“How many sugars do you take in your tea, Professor?” Harry was suddenly asking politely, and the moment had passed.

“None, but thank you,” she replied and Harry made a face.

She took the warm cup and sat down on the nearest sofa, and tried to ignore the large eyes that were gazing at her intently from Ginny’s arms. Minerva focussed on the tea and attempted to concentrate on the irrefutable present.

---

Weeks and months passed. Albus tried to combat the boredom by playing games inside his head - counting the cracks on the ceiling, trying to recall the answers to the various crossword puzzles he’d once been in the habit of doing and going over the more complex nuances of transfiguration. The first two months soon exhausted such dissatisfying exercises and he soon began chewing over memories and questions.

In the time leading up to his death, Albus had spent so much time thinking about the war and concentrating on the hefty problem of Voldemort, that it was hard not to fall back into the habit. More than once he found himself trying to estimate, for example, the alliances of the various members of the Wizengamot, before realising abruptly that Voldemort had been defeated, and that several of the Wizengamot had probably died. It was a very strange experience - the jolt felt was half pleasant and half terrible. He felt an immense curiosity about the whole thing: how had Voldemort been defeated? He had had several theories as to how it could be done and had obviously known that Harry would be the instrument of victory - but how had it happened, exactly? Harry had clearly destroyed the Horcruxes, but… how had he done so? How had he found the unidentified Horcruxes? How had the final battle against Voldemort had taken place? How had Harry won, when Voldemort’s magical power had been infinitely superior, even when matched against the ‘power he knew not?’

The matter of Snape’s betrayal was the hardest thing to contemplate. Albus felt a bitter anger at himself for allowing himself to be blinded by Snape’s (he found himself abhorring the name Severus) façade and for ignoring Harry’s warnings. He had preached trust, whilst refusing to trust someone he loved. How could that be justified?

As for Snape himself! You betrayed yourself. You betrayed your own reasoning, your own feelings, your own soul. You betrayed, above all, Lily’s memory.

He only felt appreciative of his new life when with Harry. Harry quite obviously loved the son he thought he had, and Albus did his best to live up to his new father’s wishes. It was Harry’s hands that guided ‘Brian’ as he stumbled and took his first steps. It was Harry who walked around the house with him, playing a primitive form of hide-and-seek.

Ginny boasted to her friends of her ‘little angel.’ “He never cries, you know. A little star. But give him a toy and he’ll just stare at you as though he doesn’t see the point.”

Gradually, he was learning to control his new body. He had the feeling of simply re-learning an old skill which he hadn’t used in a while and it was something to do to pass the time. Occasionally, he tried to speak - but that particular part of his body, to his frustration, simply would not obey him. Coordination of the tongue, gums and lips all at once was still difficult; the only sounds he could produce were gurgling noises. However, for the sake of the truth, he continued to try - and seemed to get slightly closer each time.

“Haaoorr. Haorreee. Hahhhhrrr.”

Right now, the subject of his efforts was at work, and his ‘mother’ - a thought that shook him whenever it came to him - was humming to herself in the kitchen. It brought back memories of Maria Dumbledore, who had also hummed whilst making the dinner - his father had called her his ‘bumblebee.’ He had taken the opportunity to get away and had crawled into the dining room, to practise.

He swallowed and stared up at the mantelpiece, on which sat a photo of Harry and Ginny at their wedding, smiling and dancing to music only they could hear. It recalled the photo of James and Lily and he felt himself smile unconsciously before beginning.

“Haooorrr. Haaaooorrre.”

Determination flared in him. He had to do this; he owed Harry and Ginny the truth, no matter how painful it was! Albus had learnt from the mistake he’d made during Harry’s fifth year and would never repeat it.

“Haaooorreee.”

Perhaps - perhaps if he learnt to speak, he would be able to talk to Minerva himself and ask her what was wrong.

“Haaweee. Hahwee.”

Albus blinked. The sound was recognisable as being Harry’s name. Maybe now…

“Hahwee. Ieem Allbuhsh Duhmballdooorr.”

Excitement surged through him. Somehow, at last, he was remembering! The words were slurred and distorted, but one could know them for what they were. When Harry came back from work, if he could get the pair of them alone and…

Albus’s enthusiasm faded. The physical rudiments had indeed arrived, but there were still the question as to how to tell Harry and Ginny. How would he phrase it? Where would he begin? Was it even possible to deliver such news gently? Ginny’s horrified and shocked face swam before him: she’d given birth to her headmaster! And Harry… His thoughts stalled; Harry’s reaction was impossible to fathom and unbearable to think about. It was all very well calling a child after someone who was dead, but it was definitely not acceptable for the said deceased to actually turn out to be that child.

In spite of what Harry had said earlier, it was still obvious to Albus that he would not be welcome. Even Sirius, he mused, would not be quite so welcome now - not years after he’d died, after the war had ended, not after Harry had had such a hard time getting over his grief. Albus tried to put himself in Harry’s shoes - how would he feel if his headmaster turned up as his child? Horrified, he thought. Devastated.

The comparison wasn’t exactly fair, though. Albus’s relationship with his headmaster had never been as warm as his relationship with Harry had been, and it had eventually descended into outright hostility. Harry and he had been close; he could even be pleased that… But no. He swept the thought aside. It was the concept that was important, not the who.

The child that was Albus Dumbledore gave a small sigh and rocked back on its heels. Harry would be back in a few hours, and then it would all come out.

---

Poppy Pomfrey’s hands were folded primly on her lap and her mouth was pursed with disapproval. Rolanda Hooch stood next to her, her face twitching with the expression of anger that was threatening to overcome it and her hands on her hips. Poppy’s eyes kept flicking to Rolanda with a look that was half warning and half sympathy before turning back to rest sternly upon their target.

A lesser woman would have quailed under the looks the pair were giving her - but Minerva McGonagall was not among the ranks of these lesser women, and so simply gazed back at them. Her face gave away nothing of the turmoil inside her at the sight of the school matron and the flying instructor united in their quest to force her - if necessary, physically frogmarch her - into enjoying herself. Evidently, the unspoken message which Minerva had been projecting to the pair for the last few years had failed to breach Poppy’s walls of concern or batter through Rolanda’s spurned mental Beaters. Neither of them understand anything, she thought sadly.

“There are guests waiting for you,” said Poppy, with a slight inflection on ‘waiting’ that nobody missed. “Rolanda organised it especially.”

“I apologise, but these forms will not sign themselves,” Minerva replied, gesturing at the papers on her desk. The office had been mercifully silent before Poppy and Rolanda had entered and now they were there, guilt was tearing at her like a mad thing. It’s not a lie, she thought a little desperately. These papers do need doing.

“Surely it is not necessary for them to be done now,” said Rolanda stiffly. “Not this minute, this hour, this very afternoon.”

“I’m falling behind. The school’s affairs are a priority, Rolanda.”

“And the party I arranged isn’t?”

There was a nasty silence. Minerva dropped her eyes to the parchment and focussed on her own signature in an attempt to blot out Rolanda’s hurt tone. Her signature embodied all that used to be, should be, Minerva McGonagall. The letters was neat and well-formed but the end of the ‘g’ was sharp and defiant.

“How very like you,” she remembered Rolanda saying once, when they were younger, closer. “All demure and perfect - and then your temper flares.”

“Is that was I’m supposed to say to the people waiting downstairs?” the present-day Rolanda snapped. “Should I go down and say, ‘I’m sorry, you are not deemed to be the Headmistress’s main priority today?’”

“Rolanda,” said Poppy, and the flying instructor’s jaw clamped shut whilst the matron assumed a professional stance. She looked Minerva up and down. “It is not healthy to shut yourself away. Your last health assessment worried me, Minerva. You are losing both weight and sleep. I would advise that you came down and got some fresh air and good company.”

“I appreciate your concern, Poppy, but we can all expect such things as health to decline with age. Today is the day I turn seventy-eight, not twenty-one. I should think it is hardly appropriate for women of my age to go frolicking about at a party.”

Rolanda gaped her and shook her head slowly, apparently half-stunned. “What’s happened to you? The old Minerva McGonagall wouldn’t have been happy to ‘decline with age!’”

Sparks of anger stirred behind the sadness. Didn’t either of them understand? She wanted to be left alone! “The old Minerva McGonagall was younger and probably more foolish.” She was tempted to say that the old Minerva McGonagall was dead, but there was no need to make a simple audience with two staff members into a display of dramatics.

“What happened to you? What’s changed?”

“Will you not confide in us anymore, Min?” asked Poppy softly.

“Where’s the Minerva McGonagall who made a laughing-stock of Umbridge? Where’s the Minerva McGonagall who took five Stunners in the chest and whose first words upon waking were to swear she’d throw the old toad off the Astronomy Tower? What happened to the Minerva McGonagall who helped bring down Grindelwald? I ask - where is she? Because she’s certainly not the woman sitting before me today.”

Minerva winced and agreed. The Minerva Rolanda was talking about sounded like a completely different person. She clenched her fists.

“I would ask certain members of staff not to behave like rowdy students.”

Poppy’s face went as rugged as a cliff-face. Rolanda gaped again and stared as the woman sitting at the desk as though she couldn’t believe her eyes. When she spoke, it was in a rather strained voice.

“When since have I been a ‘member of staff?’ Is this Professor Hooch you’re talking to?”

Minerva’s knuckles cracked. “I should hope so, unless you are suffering from some sort of personality disorder - in which case, you should consult my colleague next to you.”

Instantly, she wanted to go back in time and snatch the words out of the air. Rolanda’s eyes were moist and Poppy’s firm façade had suddenly given way. She seemed older, and suddenly diminished.

“'Colleague?’” she repeated. “’Colleague?’”

“Forgive us,” choked out Rolanda. “But we were under the impression that we were your friends - no matter how much you’ve tried to shove us away!”

The Headmistress found she had lost the ability to speak. Bile at herself crawled up her throat. She saw herself suddenly, as if from miles away: a cold, cruel woman hiding in her office, hurting whoever dared enter. Was that truly what she’d become?

She began to apologise but the flying instructor cut her off with a wave of the hand. “My apologies, Headmistress. We’ll go now.”

It was like a slap across the face - a slap which she deserved. Headmistress! No, nobody saw Minerva anymore; it was just the Headmistress, Professor McGonagall, a face defined by her role. Her two ex-best friends stalked out of the room - and she realised she’d lost them. That was it. They’d finally got the message that she wanted to be left alone - and now she was. She balled her knuckles into her eyes and cried.

Meanwhile, Rolanda and Poppy waited until they had entered the relative privacy of the Hospital Wing before turning to each other with looks of dismay. Rolanda’s eyes overflowed. The sight of the wreck of her friend spurning her had cut her to the core. Again and again, the scene replayed: the skeletal woman at the desk, with shadows under her weary eyes and a gaze that would not fully meet theirs, speaking curtly - harshly, even - as if they had not grown up at Hogwarts together at all, but were mere acquaintances. She gulped as her remaining friend patted her on the back.

“I’ve had enough,” said Poppy in an uncharacteristically strident voice. “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this. I refuse to believe that she meant anything she said in that office.”

“We’ve got to bring back Minerva,” agreed Rolanda, wiping her eyes.

---

It had all gone wrong.

Harry was gasping; the air seemed to catch in his throat and not reach his lungs. Reality was a contrast of light and dark - like his life - and there was only the Veil, only the Veil in the whole world. His forehead stabbed with the ghost of pain. He clutched at it, but hands seemed to be holding him, pushing him down-

Voldemort! Yes, that was it, Voldemort and the Killing Curse-

He struggled. He thought he could hear Ginny sobbing, but that was impossible; he was in the Department of Mysteries and she was at home-

Harry gasped. The image pasting itself before his eyes was intolerable, unbearable. The curtain swung back - again and again - and he was calling but Remus was stopping him, stopping him from helping-

“SIRIUS!” he screamed - but the iron grey eyes were blank and empty, and the Veil had engulfed the whole universe.

Now Voldemort was before him, red eyes livid with fury. Rage swept the fear aside. I’ll get you, I’ll get you for all this - you killed my parents-

He could hear their screams and cries again, just like he had with the Dementors. A hook-nosed man now stalked towards him. Snape! He tried to bring his wand up but the hands were still holding him down-

-Dumbledore was falling from the Astronomy Tower, his body curving away from the ghost-green of the Dark Mark, which cried its message of death to the stars - and now he was lying in the grass, his spectacles knocked askew, the blue eyes as vacant as Sirius’s-

“COWARD!” Harry shrieked at Snape but Snape had disappeared. There was darkness and peace. Perhaps I’m asleep, thought Harry.

But no, Voldemort was back again, his wand pointing at Harry’s heart. Avada Kedavra. Harry knew he was going to die - but the statue took the curse instead and hope flared in his chest at the sight of-

“DUMBLEDORE!” he cried - but no, Snape had killed him-

“COWARD, COWARD, COWARD! YOU KILLED HIM, I’LL KILL YOU!”

The hands grabbed at him more tightly. Ginny’s tears were flowing down her beautiful face. Sirius was falling through the Veil again - and now Voldemort was too, but that didn’t change anything-

Harry covered his eyes and moaned. “Peace, peace, please Merlin, peace! No more!”

Harry’s body convulsed. The bedroom was full of the sharp, panicked cries of Healers as they struggled to hold him down. Ginny sat on the bed and wept. Remus handed her a box of tissues, wordlessly. He spun around as Tonks burst in.

“What happened?”

Tonk’s hair had turned as grey as ash to reflect her misery. “Amycus - we were pursuing him through the Ministry - it was a break-in. Harry and the rest of us chased him down in the Veil room and Amycus - he blew one of the new recruits through the Veil.” Her face twitched. “And Harry - Harry just l-lost it.”

Remus turned pale. “Too many memories,” he whispered.

Outside the shut door, Brian Potter - Albus Dumbledore - leant against the wall, his young body trembling. He was glad he wasn’t in the room, watching Harry fit and sob, but the sounds were more than enough.

“SIRIUS!”

That first, tortured shout had been what had woken him up from his afternoon nap. The second shout - “COWARD!” - had been what made him unhitch the side of his cot and clamber out into the hallway. He closed his eyes and covered his face. A nightmare - Harry’s nightmare - had swallowed the whole house.

“DUMBLEDORE! COWARD, COWARD, COWARD! YOU KILLED HIM, I’LL KILL YOU!”

His own name had acted like some sort of bodybind. Paralysis had ensured he’d heard all of Harry’s shouts. A part of him wanted to go in and wrap Harry in his arms. My boy, my boy, I’m here-

Albus felt numb. The truth would destroy Harry; he knew it now.

“Peace, peace, please Merlin, peace! No more!”

He buried his head in his hands. Peace, indeed. Harry would have peace. No more. It was what he wanted too.

Hope you liked it.

[Trulyamused]

This is unique.
It will be interesting to see how it all plays out.

Truly

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks, Truly.

Okay, I'm splitting the chapters up a bit. The length is probably putting a lot of people off.

CHAPTER 6: Curse Him

PART1

Being diminutive, Filius Flitwick decided, was a definite advantage sometimes.

‘Diminutive’ was a delicate, elegant word. It had been his mother’s word to describe him, and it was a word that - he hoped - seemed to instinctively suggest the possibility of the phrase ‘despite being’ existing before it. Admittedly, he was ‘diminutive’ in the same way that Hagrid was ‘big-boned,” but nobody at Hogwarts had ever made an issue of it - and now his position as vertically challenged was certainly giving him an edge over the half-giant.

Hagrid had been the centre of attention ever since the inspectors had arrived. Sadly it was not just the psychological effect of his size but also the continuing prejudice that haunted the school board and the Ministry. No, thought Filius sadly, one war was not enough to save Hagrid from upturned noses.

They had reached one of the most unpleasant parts on the inspection - the walk across the grounds towards where Madam Hooch was conducting a Flying lesson. The inspectors - bespectacled, stout, suspicious - always used the opportunity to fire questions at whoever was unlucky enough to be present.

“Er, well, really - yeh have to be unlucky to be allergic to Flobberworms, Madam,” Hagrid, Head of Gryffindor, was protesting. His ruddy face was beginning to display traces of panic.

“I was not referring merely to Flobberworms, Professor Hagrid,” a curly-haired woman with pursed lips was saying. “There are all manner of allergies in the world. Surely there are precautions..?”

“Of course,” said the Headmistress stiffly, swooping to Hagrid’s rescue. “Madam Pomfrey stores all possible antidotes…”

Filius eyed her worriedly. Under the harsh April light, she looked even worse than she had when inside the castle. Her skin was sallow and lined, and the brisk trot of olden days had slowed to a half-stagger, hampered rather than helped by the walking stick. Her voice was hoarse from lack of use - the past few months had seen staff instructions being delivered by owl. There had been no explanation at all and Filius had had to play the fool even more exuberantly than usual to keep the slightest of smiles on the faces of the faculty.

He shook his head and looked at the other two heads of house walking along beside him. Horace Slughorn was Minerva’s opposite - having managed to increase in portliness over the last few years to the point when his waistcoat’s seams seemed to defy possibility. He was bombarding one of the inspectors with indulgent banter (“Wilkins, I always knew you would get to high places, my boy”) and fiddling with his magnificent moustache. Pomona Sprout stumped resolutely along at the rear, answering questions whenever the Headmistress failed to do so, a long-suffering expression on her face. Filius caught her eye and smiled. There was a flash of a grin before an inspector intruded.

“Ah, Flying lessons. The First-Years, I presume. I suppose Hogwarts has an insurance policy in case of injuries-”

“-None of which have ever been serious enough to merit its use,” said Minerva sharply.

Rolanda was in sight, mid-way through her speech on seating position. The First-Years were straddling their brooms with doubtful expressions - with the exception of one boy, whose broom remained on the ground.

“-Mr Croft, you will simply have to be more forceful about it. Try again. Hold out your hand and-”

Filius saw her head turn in Minerva’s direction as they approached - and saw it snap back again. Her voice grew even sharper.

It was not until they and the inspectors were within a few feet of Rolanda that she acknowledged their presence with a curt nod. Filius sighed inwardly. He was quite sure that Minerva’s sudden detachment from the rest of the staff and the rift between her and the flying instructor were linked but Merlin knew what had happened.

“Madam… Hooch, is it? This is late for their first flying lesson, isn’t it?”

“Yes, well,” sniffed Rolanda, looking over the inspector’s head at Minerva. “My budget for school brooms is exceptionally small and their lease ran out just before September - and, of course, brooms aren’t top of the Headmistess’s priority list so flying lessons were delayed.”

The Headmistress flinched. Filius looked from Rolanda to Minerva and back again, appalled. If the flying instructor was prepared to break a façade of unity in front of an inspector, then the row was more serious than he’d thought. He locked eyes with Hagrid and Pomona, to find them equally shocked. The former’s mouth was open and Pomona stared wildly back at him, obviously at a loss as to how brush over the awkward moment. Even Slughorn looked taken aback.

Time for squeaky, annoying, happy little Professor Flitwick to step forward, he decided. It was the first time he’d noticed a distinct gap between his persona and himself.

“The last three Quidditch matches have been very exciting!” he squeaked. “I was absolutely electrified during the last Gryffindor-Slytherin one!”

The inspector was still blinking at Rolanda, but the bait worked nonetheless. “I see! And which House is in the lead, may I ask?”

“Slytherin, naturally!” Slughorn declared proudly. “Of course,” he added with a kind of modest vanity, “it’s only fair to say that we have an uncommonly good line-up this year, uncommonly good.”

“Yeh wait till the next Weasley comes along,” Hagrid laughed

The moment had passed but Rolanda’s face was hard and inscrutable, and Minerva was looking away from it all, up into the sky, as if she wanted to fly away. Filius shook his head again and let out a tiny, high-pitched sigh.

“Ah yes, Headmistress, just a few last things…” one of the inspectors said eventually and Minerva hobbled back to the castle, the inspectors politely slowing themselves to her pace. Filius watched the group fade into the distance and looked around at the other heads of house. A mutual, silent agreement took place - and none of them spoke until Rolanda’s lesson was over and the First-Years were heading back to the castle. Slughorn twiddled his thumbs and had an unconvincing look of unconcern on his face, whilst Pomona simply stood stock still and glared at nothing. Filius tried to give Hagrid an encouraging smile - but Hagrid’s height meant that it went unnoticed.

Rolanda was stowing the brooms away when Pomona finally spoke.

“Rolanda Hooch, what was that?”

The other witch said nothing and continued to lock the brooms away.

“You put the Headmistress in a very awkward position, just then.”

Rolanda’s silence continued and Filius felt uneasy. Slughorn’s thumbs stilled.

“Not meaning to pry,” he said genially, “but surely any little disagreement between you and Professor McGonagall-”

“It is not a ‘little disagreement,’” said Rolanda.

Slughorn blinked. “My good woman-”

“My good man,” the flying instructor interrupted - and she looked more serious than Filius had ever seen her - “and the rest of you. It’s not even a disagreement really.” Her face sagged. “Something needs to be done.”

There was a pause and Rolanda turned away from them.

“It’s not just me, is it? This is ridiculous. There’s something wrong with her.”

“The Headmistress-” began Pomona uncertainly.

“Please, Pommy, we’re talking about Minerva here, not the Headmistress. And nobody pretend not to know what I’m talking about. There’s been something wrong with her for years now; she locks herself away from everyone and I, for one, don’t need Poppy to tell me she’s unwell without seeing it for myself. This can’t go on.”

Slughorn fumbled in his pockets. “You’re quite right. The woman,” he said authoritatively, “is on the verge of some sort of breakdown. She looks dreadful. I suggest she be referred to St Mungos at once. It’s stress, mark my words.”

“That’s odd - because I don’t think it is. If it was stress, then why didn’t this happen before, during the war?”

“An accumulated effect, Madam, an accumulated effect. Goodness, the war was hard on everyone and one mustn’t forget that she was Albus’s deputy during it all.”

“A great man, Dumbledore,” Hagrid said sadly. “A truly great man.”

“Yes indeed,” said Slughorn, with the air of delivering a moving eulogy.

“I think there’s something more to it,” said Rolanda. “I wanted to get all you lot together anyway - I think we should try and find out exactly what’s going on.”

“We can’t go nosing into Minerva’s private business,” Filius pointed out.

It wasn’t how he’d meant it but Slughorn seized on it at once. “Private business! Of course!” He looked up, misty-eyed. “It’s a man she’s wasting after!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Pomona snapped. “I sincerely doubt that the Headmistress entertains such ideas at her age!”

“I don’t see why we have ter be all underhand,” said Hagrid. “Yeh’re - or yeh were - her friend, Rolanda. Yeh oughter have asked.”

“I did. And that’s why we’re not talking to each other any more. There was… there was a time when she would have told me anything, but not now. She’s a closed shell.”

“I still say it’s a man,” said Slughorn. “The lot of you have no romance in your souls! Just because a woman’s old doesn’t mean she’s lost her heart-”

“You’re impossible,” muttered Pomona.

“Decision time,” said Rolanda. “There’s only one of us whom she talks to any more and that’s you Hagrid. You should ask her - or somehow find out.”

“But - but - I’m not her friend! I mean, I’m jus’ the Care of Magical Creatures Professor-”

“And Head of Gryffindor, her old House. And another member of the Order. Aren’t you lot having a reunion party soon? At the Potters’? You should ask then.”

“But,” said Hagrid. But, but, but. Rolanda was too determined.

[angeldust]

Ok I just finished reading all the chapters finally This story is amazing your writing style is fantastic and every time I see myself finding a little bit of light and hope in the story every time it is totally destroyed this story is utterly heart destroying. You really are a true angst writer. I'm so glad Minerva's friends are sticking by her she definitely needs them. The whole story line is just so unique I can't even guess what could possibly happen next. Update soon

[mugs]

This is such a strange story, but it's so compelling, I find myself dissappointed when I get to the end of each chapter. I really didn't think I would like it, but there's no denying that it's well written and totally gripping. Looking forward to the next update.

mugs.x

[nemi]

This is an absolutely wonderful story! It's an extremely unusual idea. I can't wait to see where it goes, ie whether or not Albus will tell Harry the truth and whether or not Min will find out! And I look forward to seeing what everyone and Min have to say to each other. Update soon; the suspense is nearly killing me!

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks for the reviews, everyone! I really must warn you all though that this story is exceptionally slow-moving. This is no quick read but if you're in for something huge, then... well, . I've been putting this up on ff.net and it really grew beyond all expectation.

PART 2

Hagrid found himself nervously knocking on the front door of the Potters’ house three weeks later. Usually, delight at seeing Harry again was enough to overwhelm him, but this reunion meeting would be overshadowed by his task. The flying instructor would be interrogating him afterwards and there was no escaping Madam Hooch when she was on target.

Most of the remaining Order members were there already, sat round the Potters’ dining room table, cooing at Brian. They met up once a year - and there had been an unspoken agreement that Order reunions also encompassed DA reunions - and so the first person Hagrid saw was Neville Long bottom - grinning and laughing as the Weasley twins displayed some of their new products. Remus - the years seemingly having dropped off him at the end of the war - was sat next to Tonks, who was entertaining their six-year-old daughter with her malleable face. The incongruous sight of Alastor Moody, scarred and grizzled, holding Brian, barely out of babyhood, was enough to made Hagrid beam. There was much handshaking and hellos before everyone settled down.

“Is Minerva coming?” Remus asked concernedly, looking at the groundskeeper.

“Er - um - I think-” blustered Hagrid. Moody’s eye rolled round to look at him.

“Up to something, Hagrid?”

“Dunno what yeh’re on about-”

At that moment, Minerva entered. Remus smiled but Moody’s eye swept her up and down with a critical look. His ravaged face stiffened, drawing the scars deeper. Hagrid’s elbow jerked off the table; how was he going to ask her?

He’d even rehearsed the conversation in his cabin.

“Professor McGonagall, I was wonderin’-”

“Headmistress, I’d jus’ like ter ask yeh, because I’m worried…”

“Professor McGonagall, now I know it might be personal…”

“Zis McGonagall, ze is sztealing you away from moi, Rrrubeus,” Olympe had said, when she’d overheard.

“Cup of tea? Cup of tea, anyone?” Ginny hovered, the content image of domesticity. Hagrid smiled distractedly as her soft eyes rested on her husband and then moved on. The black-haired man’s emerald pair followed her out the door and into the kitchen and then drifted lazily around the room, seeming to drink in the sight of peace anew.

Another happy couple flashed into Hagrid’s head - another rebellious black mop and another set of russet locks. It was odd; how the Potters went for red-heads. He smiled genuinely at the connection he’d made - and felt a sudden burst of warmth as he looked around at them. The change a few years had made was brilliant, incredible. The people gathered there were at ease, their bodies a mass of relaxed curves and lines, their cheeks flushed with health and their eyes bright, quite unlike the set of haggard, worn individuals who had bitten their nails to the quick in Grimmauld Place.

“Yes, please. Oh no - I don’t take sugar.”

Minerva’s clipped voice roused him. No, that last thought hadn’t been quite true. Peace had damaged her rather than healed her - and Merlin knew why. He felt his brow crease in a frown. Something in the war - or just afterwards - had extinguished her spirit - and there was no forgetting that the Order had not escaped Voldemort unscathed.

Voldemort! Hagrid started in his seat. He could think the name now.

They had lost Sirius - now only a mass of tangled black hair and a wasted face to Hagrid, but he remembered the laughter and the handsome man Azkaban had all but destroyed. He hadn’t been there, but Harry’s face alone had conjured the Veil from Department of Mysteries and near pasted it on his mind.

A succession of grim images passed before his eyes. Who could forget Percy Weasley, redeeming himself through death and blood? Who could banish the sight of Dedalus Diggle having his soul tapped from his body by a Dementor? What person could escape the picture of Albus Dumbledore dead on the grass beneath the Astronomy Tower, spectacles askew and limbs akimbo?

A great man, Dumbledore, Hagrid repeated to himself, almost religiously. It was a scene from nightmares.

He shook himself and sat up straight. No point dwelling on things, he told himself sternly. Does no good at all. You’d do well to get on with your task.

“Professor McGonagall?” he said, conscious of Moody’s eye resting on him.

She looked up at him, hands clasped around her cup and her back straight, the image of the eminent Hogwarts Headmistress. Professor Hagrid, groundskeeper and Care of Magical Creatures teacher, was asking her a question. Hagrid’s courage flickered, like a candle about to go out.

“Uh,” he began. “Professor-”

“Hagrid, you have my undivided attention.”

“Er. Well, beggin’ your pardon-”

“Aberforth!” Remus cried, shocked.

A tall, thin wizard was standing in the threshold of the room, his beard and robes dripping. He looked so thoroughly irritated and somehow out of place that the whole congregation gaped at him. Then Moody started up from his seat and hobbled forwards.

“Abe. Haven’t seen you for a while now. Decided to show up at last, eh?”

Aberforth grunted and retreated to the nearest chair, which happened to be next to Harry. He directed a curt nod at the younger man and then shot a look at Ginny, as if to say, “where’s my tea?”

Hagrid watched as Ginny rolled her eyes and approached the old man with a smile that defied his sullen expression - and then realised that the Headmistress was still waiting for his question. Embarrassed, he looked back at her and opened his mouth. His jaw clamped shut again at the sight before him.

Minerva’s appearance was horrifying. The Headmistress was hunched in her chair, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Aberforth, the hands encircling the cup trembling. Her face was as pale as one of the Hogwarts ghosts and she looked stricken by some terrible calamity.

Hagrid found himself immobilised in panic. He had never, ever seen Minerva so distressed, so unlike Professor McGonagall. The calm, stiff essence that was the former Head of Gryffindor was shattered; sat before him now was someone frightened out of their wits, agonised…

Ill, he thought suddenly, ill! There was something wrong-!

“Headmistress!”

Minerva started; the cup dropped from her hands and scalding liquid spurted over her robes. At the same time her face switched back into an expression of impassivity; a door had closed, hiding a dark room from view.

“Professor!” Ginny was bustling over. Moody’s eye was dancing between Hagrid, Minerva and Aberforth, making connections. Aberforth himself was staring at the Headmistress with a look of annoyed confusion.

Hagrid sat back, thoroughly bewildered. He glanced at the old man and then looked away, suppressing a shiver, before scratching his head. All this was beyond him, he felt. Minerva’s horror was seemed to be centred in Aberforth - but how, and why?

---

She had to stop, barely ten minutes into reading the inspector’s report. The words were growing blurred, and one of the pages was already marred with a wet circle. The portraits behind her were making soothing noises, though none of them knew what her problem was, nor could they help.

“Damn him,” she found herself muttering. “Curse him, curse him.”

“That’s right, my dear,” said Dippet gently. “I always said that about the Chief Inspector too.”

I'll leave it a bit before posting Chapter 7.

[angeldust]

Oh my I really do feel sorry for Minerva my heart goes out to her. Update soon this story has really grabbed my attention.

[Jessabelle]

Poor Minerva indeed. This story is good however I find that Albus being Harry's child really quite wierd (for lack of a better word). Nonetheless, I like this story because it is a different and new idea and I am looking forward to the next update! So please update again soon!
- Jess

[Trulyamused]

Hmmm . . . every part is more intriguing.

Poor Min.

Here's hoping for more soon.

Truly

[nemi]

Oh dear! Poor Min. That was great, I liked the way you wrote it from Hagrid's point of view - and the conversation rehearsal was funny!

This is a great story. Please update soon.

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks for all the reviews, folks! But I agree... It IS a strange idea. It was one wild plot bunny, and wouldn't go away.

CHAPTER 7: The Dead We Loved

PART 1

Brian Potter dropped down onto the grass, his little legs exhausted at last. Both the exercise and the heat had flushed his soft face - but he continued to burble happily, staring around with his large blue eyes at the sunlit flowerbeds and the glowing patio. An earthworm emerged from behind a large stone and eased its way past him. Birds spread their melodic discord from a nearby tree.

Inside, Albus Dumbledore did not need to fake the burbling that came so naturally to his new body’s mouth. The garden, he noted, was an idyllic scene - the type of idyllic scene that, had he been an ordinary child, should have come back to him in adulthood and painted a childhood full of waving tree branches and sunlight. Brian’s early life thus far had been almost identical to his in that the world was incredibly large and beautiful, with adults being nothing but shins and deep voices.

One only enjoys this once, he thought, gazing around cheerfully. Well, he corrected himself, normally once.

The creak of a chair behind him reminded him of the presence of Harry - seated in one of the patio chairs with a glass of pumpkin juice in hand. One glance told him that everything was as normal: the green eyes were fixed on the persona of Brian.

Albus was rapidly beginning to separate himself and Brian into two separate people. It was an irrefutable, often painful truth and it was a concept that occupied a lot of his thoughts. Brian Potter was the longed-for son, the innocent child who now sat burbling on the lawn - blue-eyed, quiet, buoyantly cheerful, devoid of any of the normal tantrum tendencies - loved and cherished by both his parents, symbolic of everything the war had been fought for. In a perfect world, Brian would be sat on Albus’s knee as an object to be revered for its very nature: the first-born son of Harry Potter, the next generation of hopeful youth. The Hogwarts Headmaster would have adored Brian, Albus thought somewhat sadly. Brian would have been treated like a scaled-down, adorably vulnerable version of Harry.

Then there was the late Albus Dumbledore - the deceased, R.I.P and all the rest of it. The former Headmaster was a pile of ashes or rotten bones, reduced to a memory to everyone who had ever known him. Albus sighed. How was he remembered? From an unbiased point of view - as unbiased as it could be with himself as the centre of perspective - he’d been a strange old man who had been thrust into the leadership of the side of light. To Ginny, Ron, Hermione and the others, he had been a shadowy figure of authority and not much more. To the Order, he had been a leader and an enigma. To Harry - now there, with Brian’s name as his witness, he had been lucky enough to be something special. When one really got down to it, however, he had been the chief manipulator of Harry’s life, continually withholding information whilst at the same time idealising one of his own students. The word Albus assigned to this image was ‘frustrating.’ To his staff - Merlin knew what he had been. To Minerva…

Albus felt his mind stall. Confused, he reached up to stroke a beard that was no longer there. Why was it so important to know how Minerva remembered him?

Of course, Minerva counted as a friend and was one of those few people who had come close to really knowing him. Yet, in the grand scheme of things, there was no reason for him to adopt - or wish to adopt - any great significance in her head. No, he mused miserably, he had just been her boss - her silly boss who couldn’t get the school records in order and was continually rushing off without any explanation at all.

Feeling irritated and upset - for no apparent reason - Albus forced Brian’s body upwards again and took a few, tottering steps towards Harry.

There was a sudden warmth in his chest cavity. Albus halted, shocked. A familiar feeling was spreading over him, a wonderful, incredible feeling… The birdsong around him became rapturous.

Harry felt his brow crinkle. Brian was standing stock-still in the middle of the lawn, with a very odd expression on his face. It was one of what Harry privately termed Brian’s ‘adult’ expressions - so convincing that it took great effort not to believe that Brian really was feeling such complex emotions as guilt or amusement. The look on his son’s face now was one of joyous, disbelieving surprise.

“Brian!” Harry called, softly.

For the first time, Brian ignored him and continued to stand, head turned slightly upwards, the look of pleasurable comprehension increasing in intensity. Harry sighed and took a sip of his pumpkin juice. He looked up at the cloudless sky - and started.

A golden speck was drifting far above the garden. Harry squinted. It looked like a bird, a funny red and gold….

Memories bombarded him. A scruffy second-year stood in the Headmaster’s office and gaped in horror at the pile of ashes that had been a bird - and later on saw pearly tears running down his arm. A grief-stricken fifteen-year-old fought against a golden statue as the same bird died for its master, and a sixth-year stared out of a window as the same bird flew away, its song shaping his misery into something beautiful.

It couldn’t be.

He was standing, though he couldn’t remember moving, and squinting into the sky, shading his glasses from the sun. The phoenix - for it was definitely a phoenix - was descending, diving its way towards the garden like an arrow. As it came closer, Harry could see the familiar fiery eyes and proud crest.

“Fawkes,” he breathed.

Dumbledore, whispered his mind. The two were inseparable. The last time he’d seen Fawkes was as the bird flew away after his master’s death. Bespectacled blue eyes twinkled at him.

You think the dead we have loved ever truly leave us?

The phoenix was in the garden now, mere feet away, and swooping down towards…

Harry saw Brian let out a laugh of pure joy and stretch out his short arms. Red and gold wings beat and the noble head extended - and the phoenix flew straight into Brian’s embrace as if it were home. There was a squawk and boy and phoenix clung together, as the birdsong reached a crescendo.

Harry dropped back into his chair. Perhaps it was just because of the shock of the moment, but Brian’s face altered, seeming to adopt the manner of one long gone. The large blue eyes twinkled and a small, knowing smile curved the infant lips. Then the impression was gone - but the phoenix was still there.

Emotion rendered Harry unable to speak. To see a neighbour walking a big black dog across the street was enough to choke him up, let alone the sight of his son clasping Dumbledore’s old phoenix to his chest. He got up slowly, afraid of frightening the bird away.

The phoenix’s head turned towards him and there was a trill of recognition. Brian smiled up at his father - and Harry got the impression that there had been some covert, silent agreement during the last few seconds - that Fawkes was his now and always would be. Tentatively, he reached out a hand and warm feathers brushed his skin.

“Fawkes… Brian, this is Fawkes…” Harry whispered, half to Brian and half to himself. “I can’t believe it… It‘s like he‘s back from the dead…”

Brian buried his face in Fawkes’s feathers. The phoenix crooned, just as it had in Dumbledore’s office during Harry’s sixth year - and, strangely, he had a similar urge to stare at his knees.

Stopping, just to break it up a little. My chapters - I've written up to 13 - become increasingly ridiculous in their length.

[Trulyamused]

Fawkes is back. YESSS.

Wonderfyl. Do keep the updates coming.

Truly

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks, Truly! On we go!

PART 2

The Hog’s Head was nearly empty; it was too early for the less respectable of its regulars to be present and too late for those who were simply being daring. The hag on the corner table was lingering over her drink and the cloaked man at the opposite end of the pub had his head in his hands and didn’t look to be leaving any time soon. He’d just started on his third bottle of Fire-Whisky and Merlin knew how many he intended to have.

Aberforth Dumbledore sniffed bad-temperedly and forced a cloth around a mug. This time of day was the worst, he’d found from years of experience. This was the point when one just had to stand there and play the waiting game. The end of the waiting game was always the arrival of one Sybil Trelawney - and then it became an endurance test. The ruddy woman always became so talkative - rambled until the urge to strangle her was almost unbearable.

This was also the point when introspection was most dangerous. Aberforth disliked introspection as a rule - it was unhealthy, for one thing, and impractical for another - but this hour was when it became impossible to avoid; when there was nothing else to occupy the mind or the hands.

Silly things came back to him. Everything was fine when he concentrated on his goats - ten generations and counting - but no, the silly, sentimental things kept on intruding. There was that woman he’d liked - what was her name, Pandora? Now she’d been the one to open up a box of misery and no mistake. Still, Pandora was better than Albus.

Images of Albus as an fresh-faced youth, phoenix on one shoulder and auburn locks tumbling down the other, obstinately ramming a stupid Muggle hat on his head whilst opening an envelope containing the most glowing O.W.L. results Hogwarts had ever seen. Images of Albus waltzing around in that embarrassingly vivid plum velvet suit, laughing at him as he scowled at it. Images of Albus arriving on the doorstep, windswept and pale but flushed with victory, babbling about his latest Auror exploits. Images of Albus spewing facts about Transfiguration, and rambling incomprehensibly about the ‘forces of darkness’ before rushing off to do battle with Grindelwald. Albus smiling and shaking hands at the Headteacher’s Inauguration Ceremony, Albus sat at his office desk, the tips of his fingers together and the blue eyes bright and intelligent, Albus staring at him wearily from the other side of the bar, looking tired and depressed, Albus grimly going over an Order plan…

Merlin, how he’d hated him - for most of his life. He’d only really started liking him after he’d died. Now he was dogged by memories of the man.

What had he said, that evening eight years before? Of course, he was pretending to himself that he was forgetting, because the words were largely unforgettable as they were so unlike the normal Albus. It was deeply ironic that Albus had only ever once heeded his pleas for him not ‘speak like a bloody thesaurus.’”

Aberforth, why do you hate me?

The eyes had been dull and the face lined. Yet what had he expected him to do or to say? He was the mighty Albus Dumbledore, and he was the grubby barman.

Figure it out for yourself.

What a stupid thing to say, he scolded himself, slamming the mug down with a bang that made the cloaked man start. And what an idiot. If he was so damned clever, he should have detected the evasion.

The next thing he’d heard, Albus had got himself blasted off a tower - by the man he himself had thrown out of the pub. It was a funny old world.

A sudden draft made Aberforth look up. The door had opened - and five figures were striding in. He blinked as he recognised them. The first to spot was Hagrid - a sight which made him scowl; he’d never had much patience for the big man. Then there was Rolanda Hooch, a woman who could hold her drink, Poppy Pomfrey and Pomona Sprout who were not well-known to him - and finally Filius Flitwick, another irritating presence. He raised one eyebrow in mild surprise: the Three Broomsticks was the usual pub for the Professors (who probably considered themselves too up-market for the Hog’s Head, he thought moodily).

As they drew nearer to the bar, Aberforth realised that all of them, great or small, had one thing in common: their eyes were fixed on him. The flying instructor looked furious, the Herbology Professor resolute and the groundskeeper alarmed - but there was no doubt about it; he was definitely their target.

Rolanda reached the bar first. He opened his mouth to demand what she wanted - but one clenched fist had already hit the surface.

“Right. What have you done to Minerva?”

Aberforth stared at her.

Filius flapped his hands apologetically. “Now, now - let’s not rush in-”

“What are you talking about?” Aberforth snapped.

“Don’t pretend not to know!” Rolanda’s nostrils flared. “We know you’ve given her some sort of trouble!”

“Rolanda, we’re not certain of anything,” Poppy said reasonably. “We can’t just start making accusations!”

Aberforth ignored her; surprised indignation was coursing through his veins. “I’ve done nothing of the sort! I don’t even talk to the blasted woman!”

“Then why has she wasted away?” The flying instructor was shouting now. “You’ve done something to her!”

“I don’t know and I don’t care! It’s not my bloody fault if the Headmistress is ill-”

“Hagrid saw you!”

“Saw me doing what?”

Rolanda gaped like a fish. Hagrid looked panicked.

“Mr Dumbledore sir, I’m not accusin’ yeh of anything but I - I couldn’t ‘elp noticing - please pardon me - but the Headmistress, she-”

“I have absolutely nothing to do with the woman! Now either buy a drink or get out!”

“I DON’T WANT TO TOUCH ANY OF YOUR FILTH; I’M HERE TO FIND OUT WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO MINERVA!” Rolanda shrieked.

Aberforth’s fingers sped towards his wand.

“ROLANDA!” Poppy roared. Filius squeaked in shock. “Please, sir, Rolanda is jumping to conclusions out of worry. We’re all very worried about Minerva; her health has completely deteriorated, as has her state of mind. We came to you because Hagrid has given us reason to believe you might know something - the Headmistress reacted rather strongly to your appearance at the last Order reunion-”

“Are you deaf! I don’t know anything! I have no idea why the Headmistress looks as me as if I‘m a damned Inferius!”

The Headmistress’s white, agonised face swam into Aberforth’s memory. He knew Minerva only vaguely - as the irrepressible supporter of Albus and Transfiguration Professor, nothing more. In spite of this lack of connection, he’d been shocked and confused at her reaction towards him at the meeting - but then, the woman was clearly going through some sort of inner crisis…

“Please, Mr Dumbledore,” Poppy continued, hands fastened onto Rolanda’s shoulders. “We’re very concerned and any information at all-”

“And she was a friend of your brother’s,” Pomona added quietly.

Aberforth felt himself stiffen. He was too angry to move.

“I’ve never said more than three words to her in my entire life,” he hissed through gritted teeth - and a tide of resentment burst forth. “The only reason people ever react to me is because of Albus! If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his; you‘ve got the wrong man! I’m just the bloody barman! Happy now?”

Rolanda sagged, grey and miserable. Poppy hauled her up straight, sighing. Filius and Pomona were already moving towards the door, obviously aware that the audience was at an end. Hagrid, however, was staring at Aberforth with suddenly misty eyes.

“You can go too, you great oaf,” Aberforth snarled - the words coming out even more harshly than he’d intended.

Hagrid didn’t appear to notice. A reminiscing expression was on his face. “Yeh do look a good bit like yeh brother, Mr Dumbledore sir… yeah, definitely something ‘bout the eyes and nose…”

Aberforth felt himself torn between hitting Hagrid in the face with the mug and enquiring further. The phrase ‘you look like your brother’ was something painful and endlessly repeated until Aberforth Dumbledore ceased to exist as a separate person and simply became a pale echo of Albus - but the memories he’d found himself perusing earlier forced themselves up again.

Poppy let go of Rolanda - leaving the flying instructor swaying and tottering towards the doorway. The Healer’s mouth was a round O.

“Rolanda. Rolanda! Dumbledore. It’s Dumbledore!”

A rasping, rough voice spoke abruptly into Poppy‘s ear. “What’s Dumbledore?”

Alastor Moody eyed the scene curiously. Aberforth was standing rigidly at the bar, apparently immobile with rage - the Dumbledore blue eyes flashing and the long, bony fingers curled into fists. Albus’s anger had been quietly passionate, impressive, limited in expression to the eyes; Aberforth’s was violent, contorting his entire face with venom. Moody kept his normal eye on the old man whilst rotating the magical one round to the Professors. Poppy seemed equally rooted to the spot, gazing at him but not seeing him, evidently distracted by some sudden understanding. The spiky-haired woman was staring irritably at her with a grey, resigned face and Hagrid was looking around, obviously bewildered. Both the curly-haired witch and the miniature wizard were glaring at the ex-Auror himself with evident suspicion. At first Moody suspected that they were simply disconcerted by his revolving eye - but then remembered that the last Mad-Eye Moody they’d seen had been a Death Eater in disguise.

“An explanation would be nice,” he growled. “I haven’t seen Abe riled up this badly for some time.”

“Alastor…” said Poppy distractedly.

Her eyes were turned towards Aberforth, busily surveying him up and down, and so she missed the Moody’s gash of a mouth twist into a crooked smile. The ex-Auror stumped forward, fondly remembering the past application of poultices by the same hands that were now clasped together as a result of mental agitation. Surprised at the sentimentality of his thoughts, Moody opened his mouth to speak - and Aberforth suddenly regained his faculties.

“Riled up! I should say!” The old man stroked his beard furiously, worsening the tangles. “They march in here and spout unfounded accusations without so much as a greeting! I stand accused of harassing a woman I barely know!”

“Harassing women, eh? I thought goats were more your thing,” Moody growled, confused. Poppy Pomfrey was not generally the type of woman to jump to conclusions.

“I’ve told them; I have absolutely no connection to Minerva McGonagall!”

Moody started - and Hagrid’s vast form increased in significance. The last Order reunion meeting flashed into his brain - Hagrid, red-faced, shifty-eyed, trying to suppress his booming voice as he spoke to the Headmistress, uneasy guilt written all over him. Hagrid was hardly the most subtle of people - and his whole manner had been the one of someone forced to carry out an unpleasant, awkward task. That combined with Minerva’s haggard appearance and her reaction to Aberforth…

He found himself chuckling. “Oh but you do have a connection, Abe! A brother of yours, for one thing!”

Without waiting for a reply he turned and faced the Professors. “I suppose this entire thing is out of your clumsy concern. Well, well, let’s see whether we can put it all together. How long has the Headmistress been in her present condition?”

Rolanda blinked at the ex-Auror’s abrupt, knowing attachment to the situation and frowned. “Ever since the war,” she replied sadly.

“Aye - and at what point during the war?”

“Well, really ever since she’s been Headmistress.”

Moody’s grizzled head bobbed in a nod. “Oh yes, and I expect she never goes near the Astronomy Tower.”

The flying instructor threw up her hands in frustration. First Aberforth had pretended ignorance and buried their one chance of a lead; now a mad old ex-Auror was accosting them with pure irrelevance! “What on earth does the Astronomy Tower have to do with anything?” she spluttered.

“No,” said Poppy in a breathless voice, gazing at Moody with wide eyes. “No, she hasn’t. She wouldn’t go near it during the last visit from the inspectors - Slughorn had to take them up there.”

“The Astronomy Tower?” Filius squeaked. “Are you suggesting that something very upsetting for her happened up there?”

“Does the Headmistress suffer from vertigo?” Moody rasped.

“Most certainly not!” snapped Rolanda. “She was a brilliant Chaser in her day and unless you think that one can fly a broomstick with a fear of heights-”

“I think nothing of the sort. This is a process of elimination. If she doesn’t suffer from vertigo then yes, I am suggesting something terrible happened up there.”

“Something did,” said Poppy quietly.

The flying instructor shot her a baffled look that went unnoticed. Hagrid was scratching his head and the other Professors were wearing identical looks of incomprehension. Moody gave a long-suffering sigh.

“Put it together, ladies and gents. The Headmistress won’t go near the Astronomy Tower, she can’t stand the sight of Aberforth, her condition dates from her becoming Headmistress…Blimey, I was told you had to be intelligent to be a Professor…”

Poppy sank down onto the nearest chair. Rolanda stared at her in puzzlement. Filius gave a sudden high-pitched squeak that robbed Aberforth temporarily of all auditory ability and Hagrid’s hands went to his mouth. Pomona’s brow furrowed and she stared at Moody as though doubtful of his sanity.

“I sincerely doubt that the Headmistress entertains such ideas at her age,” she sniffed stubbornly.

“Oh,” said Poppy, softly, twisting her hands together and blinking rapidly. “She loved him, didn’t she?”

Rolanda let out a cry of astonishment but Poppy barely heard it. Something inside her felt raw and tender; she felt her eyes being opened, her memories being seen again with an updated hindsight. The old Minerva floated before her, sprightly and fiery - sitting next to Dumbledore at the High Table, smiling as he bent his head to whisper something to her - standing in Dumbledore’s office at the start of a short audience about health and safety, brushing her fingers over Fawkes’s warm feathers. Minerva McGonagall, a friend since childhood - to hide a secret so badly yet still be undiscovered by a woman who was meant to be a kindred soul! How blind she had been, sitting in the Hospital Wing forcing potions down student’s throats, complaining about Quidditch as a source of injury - all the while oblivious to Minerva as a force that failed after Dumbledore’s death! What else had she missed over the years?

“I was supposed to know her,” she whispered to herself. “She shouldn’t have had to confide in me; I should have just known.”

Rolanda was protesting wildly, gesticulating and expressing her disagreement with the most forceful of adjectives - yet there was the same look in her eyes; the look that echoed Poppy’s soul in saying: By Merlin, it’s true, we’ve failed her! Moody was arguing back, Hagrid was gently doubting, Filius excited, Aberforth disbelieving - but it didn’t matter. Rolanda would argue herself blue in the face and then rise the next morning the epitome of astonished acceptance.

Now the question to be faced was: what was to be done? What distraction could remove the burden of such a grief that had lasted seven, nearly eight years? Poppy’s hands twisted more violently. Was there anything that could bring Minerva back?

End of Chapter 7.

[Trulyamused]

Argghhh-

At last her friends finally understand the problem. Hopefully they can help her.

And I don't think I like Aberforth here. I understand his reasons, but he needs to let go.

Good work. Keep it coming.

Truly

[ravenhaired]

*grins*

I remember reading this over at FF.net. Loved every bit.

[nemi]

That was beautifully written. The last part was so sad, but Aberforth's fury amused me somewhat.

Wonderful story. Update soon ^^