Him Again (CHPT 31!)

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks all reviewers! Glad to know my ff.net readers are also enjoying it! Here's an update...

CHAPTER 8: Beyond All Stretches

Minerva McGonagall sighed and stared around the large office which had become her prison. Most of the portraits were empty, with the exception of Armando Dippet’s, the subject of which was snoring softly in his chair, and the sunlight shining through the windows had a crystalline, cold quality which made her shiver. The day had never been destined to be a good one; she’d found a fossilised sherbet lemon behind a chest of drawers and had been unable to put it from her mind ever since. Neither had she been able to throw it away - she could feel the weight of it in her pocket, resting there like the heaviness in her soul.

To what depths, Minerva mused, did a woman have to sink in order to cherish a mouldy old sweet?

She turned weary eyes on the papers in front of her, but then let them drift away again - out of the windows and over the lush grounds, tracing the route dashed earlier that morning. Hopefully, at that ungodly hour, no student or staff member had been awake or observant enough to see the Headmistress staggering around in nothing but her night-wear and a dressing gown, limping down to stand shivering at a tomb.

She’d woken up suddenly, horribly, at just past midnight. His absence had been all around her - and it was his birthday; those were the only excuses she had for the ensuing outbreak of sentimentality. Minerva didn’t approve of being overly sentimental - especially when it led to someone her age clutching at a pillow and gulping, thinking: You were here. You slept here for so long, for so many years. And I never-

Movement was vital in order to cut the thought off. She slithered out from under the blankets and flung back the bed-hangings - and paced the room fretfully, cold to the bone but too agitated to go back to bed. Cold radiated upwards from the floor, filling her soul. She was still gulping and sniffing - like a five-year-old, she thought disgustedly - but no inner reprimands would halt the activity. A dam was breaking down; her eyes were filling with a deluge of suppressed water. You’d have turned a hundred and sixty-one today.

Her hands were moving without any conscious intervention from her brain, reaching for a wardrobe, clawing their way through masses of irrelevant robes to reach the one treasure she’d allowed herself. Albus was both everywhere and nowhere at once as her fingertips brushed something purple and embroidered - sitting and smiling at her from his desk, speaking to her seriously and intensely, verbally beating Fudge by her side, sitting next to her at the High Table, offering her a custard tart. The sapphire eyes twinkled, the beard was at first magnificent auburn, then snow-white, the face both boyish and wise - the cheerful enthusiasm of a child in union with the experience and power of the very greatest - and yet he seemed to shake his head sadly at her as he saw what she was doing.

You silly woman, she thought at herself savagely. What would He think of you?

She dared not imagine, and could not stop - and soon His dressing gown was in her hands, extravagant yet soft, seeming to retain some of its owner’s warmth as she wrapped it around herself. The material shook with the beating of the new wearer’s heart - it had not calmed her down at all; the gulps were becoming the beginnings of sobs.

Albus, I can’t-

A shadow danced in the corner of her eye. Minerva glanced upwards - and was struck by the image of herself in the full-length mirror on the other side of the room. The impression was ghostly, unnatural and most unlike Professor McGonagall. Even Hermione Granger would have had a hard time recognising her old Transfiguration teacher - her eyes wild and bloodshot, the flamboyant dressing gown obscuring her thin form, her greying hair tumbling uncontrollably down her shoulders.

His face swam before her, dismayed and appalled.

“Albus!”

Then the Headmistress was tearing from the room, through the dormant office and down the corridors. She’d forgotten her stick; she was soon gasping and stumbling, having to throw herself against the door to open it. The grounds were dark and freezing, beset with a howling wind that dulled the sound of her own ragged breathing. The dark and the tomb held no fear for her - how could they, when His spirit bestrode them all? The pain and the chill hadn’t prevented her from staying there for at least two hours, her hands knuckled in her eyes and the dressing gown flapping its guilty message around her.

Now that day and some semblance of sanity had been restored, exhaustion dragged at her. The papers blurred and refocused. Minerva hadn’t bothered going down to breakfast; one look in the mirror told her that Poppy would have made a fuss and insisted on putting her to bed, and some of the more sensitive lower years would have been alarmed.

You stupid woman, she thought again, massaging her temples.

A knock sounded at the office door.

Attempting to rouse herself, the Headmistress pulled herself up straight and folded her hands over each other. “Enter,” she said crisply.

The door creaked open to reveal Rolanda Hooch and Poppy Pomfrey. Rolanda’s mouth was in a thin, tense line and Poppy looked grim and worried - an expression that increased in intensity at the sight of Minerva; the jaw tightening and the brow descending. Rolanda gaped at the Headmistress in apparent horror. Minerva felt her hands curl into fists; evidently the day had not yet improved her appearance.

“Good afternoon, Madam Pomfrey, Madam Hooch,” she said, deciding to pretend that nothing was amiss. Her voice emerged cold and formal; she had no right to friends, not even former friends. “What can I do for you?”

Poppy took a deep breath, as if about to plunge into deep and troubled waters. “Minerva-”

Minerva started slightly and blinked. Her first name sounded unfamiliar, like the name of a stranger.

“-We - we need to talk. Things have gone - gone far enough.”

She opened her mouth to protest but Poppy was already drawing up a chair for herself, nodding for Rolanda to sit down in the other. Her eyes met Minerva’s in an unexpected, passionate plea. “Please, for sake of our friendship - whether or not you still want it to exist.”

Rolanda glanced at the other Professor with marked apprehension and seated herself uneasily, seemingly intent on looking at Minerva’s hands rather than her eyes. Poppy leaned forward, concern clouding her kind face.

“What do you wish to talk about?” Minerva asked innocently, before Poppy could open her mouth. Minerva was gone; they had a choice of meeting either the Headmistress or Professor McGonagall.

“Minerva, you look awful.”

There was no arguing with that. “I see.”

Poppy looked extremely awkward. “Listen, we know what this is about. We’re sorry - and please believe us; we are - for not seeing it before.” She paused and Minerva sensed her donning her professional persona before continuing. “Long-term grief is taking its toll on you both mentally and physically and so it’s my suggestion that-”

The Headmistress’s fingers twitched. “Grief?”

Poppy and Rolanda shot terrified looks at each other.

“Grief,” repeated the witch nervously. “Minerva, I think you should see a counsellor. I happen to know a very reliable one; a woman called Eleanor Reeves, whom I think would be-”

Minerva felt her lips stretching themselves into a desperate kind of grin. Poppy’s awkwardness, Rolanda’s conspicuous silence, the mentions of grief and counselling… Was it possible that they had seen? Had they happened to glance outside in the middle of the night and somehow pierced the darkness to spy her shame? Her fingers twisted convulsively; anything but that! What would they think of her?

An imaginary conversation flitted through her brain. Her former friends were gazing of the window with expressions of shock and pity. By Merlin, Rolanda, surely that can’t be..? A hand to a mouth in horror. What’s that she’s wearing? Isn’t that Dumbledore’s-? A head being shaken, its owner appalled. She’s lost it, Poppy. Look at her; she’s a living wreck.

“I don’t know what you mean, Poppy,” she said. The sunlight grew colder; her tiredness more severe.

Poppy stared at her, despair shaping her face into harsh lines. Minerva had never been a Leglimens, but her old friend’s dilemma was transparent: what on earth do I say now? She felt her cheek twitch and struggled to maintain control of her expression. Are you afraid to confront me about it? Are you afraid to ask me what I was doing last night?

How times had changed! They had once told each other everything - confiding all their desires, nightmares and emotions, weighting their hands with each other’s hearts. Now the desk between them was a veritable Berlin wall - but one that could never be breached.

“We’ve been blind, haven’t we?”

Rolanda was speaking, her head bowed and her broom-calloused hands working the fabric of her robes.

“I wish - I wish you’d trusted us enough to confide in us. I’m n-not saying we could’ve helped, not really, but still...” The hazel eyes met hers. “Seven years, Minerva. Seven years and we noticed nothing!”

Minerva rose from the desk shakily and walked over to the window, using her stick as a strut, unable to look at either of the witches still seated in their chairs. The grounds looked desolate, soulless; looking out she could see herself reeling madly down to the tomb again, a ridiculous scarecrow figure in a dead man‘s dressing gown. The wood of the stick cut into her hands. Poppy and Rolanda’s stares were burning holes into her back; the pretence was over now, and could never be repaired. Professor McGonagall, the stern Headmistress, had too passed into the abyss.

“I’ve not been like that every night,” she said harshly. "Give me some credit; last night was a - a particularly bad time.”

“Last night?” Poppy’s voice was high and querulous.

“I - I know what you saw.” The pause that followed was unendurable so she kept on speaking, thickly now. “I apologise. You should not have had to see that. It was foolish of me - I don’t know why I kept it.”

“Minerva..?”

“Kept what?” asked Rolanda.

Her hands tightened on the walking stick till the knuckles cracked. Her face was distorting now, bending itself out of her control; she was glad she had her back to them. “Please don’t try to deceive me. I’ve been deceiving myself for long enough; I know when people are trying. I know what you came here to say - and I quite agree. I will send my resignation to the Board of Governors today.”

Rolanda made a small choking noise. “Resignation!”

A chair was drawn back and Poppy’s shoes squeaked as she got up. “By Merlin no! Minerva, please, a counsellor is all that’s needed - and we cannot hope for a better Headmistress-”

Minerva laughed. “You cannot hope for a Headmistress who can communicate normally? The profession must be in dire straits indeed!”

“Minerva, stop it! Please, we never came to ask for your resignation. We came here to offer our help and understanding, such as it is - as late as it is. I swear if I had had any notion before that you were that close to him-”

“We were never close, never. We had a purely professional relationship. Sometimes I believed it was platonic-”

“The pair of you were friends!” Poppy was right next to her now but the Headmistress stared resolutely away. “Oh, you never said a word to anyone, did you? Not even to him?”

She shook her head, unable to speak.

“You should’ve given it a go,” said Rolanda quietly.

Her frame trembled. “Should have, should have - did not! This is purely fantastical speculation. He never wanted anything more than a Deputy and all this is perfectly ridiculous; he’s dead and that’s final. It is my inability to accept reality-”

“You’re grieving! You loved him and now he’s gone! These feelings are normal, Minerva, natural. Merlin, if I’d have seen it before-”

“Poppy…” There were no words, none at all. Her eyeballs were heating up from behind; soon her last reserves of self-control would be gone.

Arms encircled her. Poppy’s head was on her shoulder, her short stature for once aiding her. Rolanda was moving over to join in too - and two warm bodies crushed her between them. Minerva stood stock-still, head filled with images of three girls in Hogwarts school uniform embracing under a small oak tree by the lake. Her hands came up; the walking stick fell with a clatter. Rolanda was crying, whimpering apologies in her ear over and over. Minerva felt her own eyes overflowing, dripping their contents down weathered cheeks. What friends she had! The loneliness was fading, the prison had been broken open.

“Ah,” said Dippet worriedly, loudly, from the opposite wall. “Should I go and get someone?”

Random stoppage.

[Trulyamused]

YYEESSS-- Go Rolanda and Poppy. The wraith look is so not Min. She needs to live again.

Excellent piece. PLease don't wait too long to continue.

Truly

[angeldust]

I was so happy they have finally figured it all out it's about time Minerva shared her feelings
Fantastic chapter.

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks, Truly and Angeldust! On we go again!

CHAPTER 8 CONTINUED - PART 2

Minerva studied the scene critically. The two armchairs were placed a few feet apart - enough to be confidential but not so close as to be claustrophobic - and the tea set was positioned on the coffee table, ready to dispense a polite service. The chamber had been thoroughly cleaned beforehand; not a speck of dust dared float in the air. Minerva herself had selected a set of dark green robes to wear - ones that she judged to exude a professional, logical air - and had spent an unusual amount of time surveying herself in a mirror. She had a strange desire to ensure that Eleanor Reeves, of whatever character she may be possessed, would not find the area lacking, nor find her client ‘going to pieces.’

Of course, Poppy had probably exaggerated the situation and made her sound like a woman on the verge of grief-stricken prostration; Miss Reeves most likely expected to find a tear-stained invalid donned in black, clutching a small lace hankerchief. Well, Minerva thought, leaning on the walking stick, invalid is half correct.

Her eyes darted to the clock for the fifth time. Miss Reeves was due any minute. The more she thought about the concept, the less she liked it. For one thing, the idea of opening up her heart to a perfect stranger was almost incomprehensible and for another, counsellors were probably supposed to be strictly the province of actual tear-stained invalids near suicide, rather than foolish old women who simply could not move on after a tragedy and spent their days living in the past. How… attention-seeking, she thought.

The sound of Poppy’s voice reached her from her office - and there was a knock on the door to her chambers. Minerva braced herself and marched forward. The door opened, the tapestry swung aside - and Eleanor Reeves stood before her.

The first impression Minerva had was of a pair of uncommonly large, dark eyes, sitting in a round face like two pools. The second was of a set of calm blue robes hanging off a body that was too small for them and the third was a set of grey curls that had been tamed, with varying degrees of success, into a small ponytail that served to emphasise the owner’s lack of hair rather than length. Minerva was in the habit of assigning possible Animagi creatures to people, and the image that struck her was of a very small owl, head tilted to one side in a way that was slightly quizzical. The picture was neither alarming nor unappealing and she found herself shaking the proffered wizened hand readily enough.

“Minerva. I’m Miss Reeves, but you are welcome to call me Eleanor. Hogwarts is as beautiful as it was during my own days here - days long gone, I fear.”

The dark eyes quivered with a spark of amusement.

Minerva heard herself murmur something polite and meaningless. Eleanor Reeves smiled and peered over her shoulder at the prepared space - and promptly flicked her wand, transforming one of the armchairs into a recliner.

“I apologise for the alteration, but clients tend to prefer speaking when in a more relaxed position. Forgive me. I must say this is quite an ideal environment.” The counsellor beamed at the tea set out on the coffee table - and the Headmistress saw her eyes rove quickly around the rest of the room, before coming back to rest on herself. Minerva blinked; she was being assessed already before she had even begun talking. She cast a look around, wondering whether some out-of-place object had betrayed her, but her previous satisfaction remained preserved. She started at the sight of Miss Reeves already ensconced in the armchair and gesturing towards the recliner. Her muscles tensed. She had expected small talk and diversions in the form of sugar and tea and on subjects such as weather - not for the counsellor to charge determinedly to the meat of her purpose the moment she had arrived. Feeling distinctly ruffled, Minerva seated herself gingerly on the recliner.

Of course, she realised suddenly, the counsellor wanted her business over and done with as quickly as she did. It was a business like any other; Minerva was a client, a face to put a name to and nothing more. The sympathy extended would be professional, the listening something endured for payment. Perhaps she was even an interesting specimen, a psychological study in grief that the woman before her would eventually produce some article or report of. Her jaw tightened; she knew her thoughts were in the grip of cynicism.

“Now Minerva,” Poppy’s voice resounded in her head. “This isn’t the time to be rational - just blurt it all out.”

‘Blurting out,’ however, was more the province of Rolanda Hooch than Minerva McGonagall. Minerva McGonagall was a calm, self-controlled - some would say reserved - woman, who… A pang in her temple indicated the beginnings of a headache. The banshee in the mirror draped in Albus’s dressing gown battered against her skull, screaming. If that was Minerva McGonagall, then who was she?

“Minerva, just to put you at your ease,” Miss Reeves said, supporting her head with a rested elbow, “I would like to make two things absolutely clear. Firstly - and most importantly - nothing you ever say to me will ever leave this room. Everything is confidential, meaning that you are free to speak about anything you wish. Secondly, I am here to listen, and to understand - and to perhaps help you have insights you would not otherwise have. I’m not here to judge or condemn. I know nothing of your problem and so I come to you fresh and unbiased. I cannot help you based on the words of others; only your own words can tell me what I need to know to aid you. There’s no rush, no unnecessary haste… Talk whenever you wish. Please treat me as a sympathetic, impartial ear.”

The counsellor smiled encouragingly. Minerva sat at a loss, cradling the end of her walking stick in her hands. A kind of apathetic irritation weighted her. She had assumed that Miss Reeves would at least know something of the problem - the knowledge of complete ignorance and the fact that she would have to narrate everything from the beginning surely destroyed the point of the whole process. She looked up; the dark eyes were expectant. What could she say? “I loved my superior and now he’s dead.” Her lip curled at the absurdity of the image.

“You seem uneasy, Minerva,” Miss Reeves observed softly. “Does something about this situation trouble you? Not to put words into your mouth, but I assume that the idea of confiding to a stranger bothers you.”

“It does,” Minerva admitted. “I am not used to such spontaneous expression. It takes me a long time to trust people.”

“Is this the basis of your problem? That you find that hard?”

“No. Not of my main problem - though I dare say it has not helped. I suppose I could have been more forward about the issue to my colleagues and friends.”

“Was there a specific reason why you did not trust them? Only tell me if you feel the need to.”

“I felt it to be a stupid problem,” Minerva said forcefully, realising that she still thought so. “Many others have faced the same problem and have been in the same circumstances. It is ridiculous that a woman of my age cannot put the past behind her.”

“You have very high, specific expectations of yourself then.”

“I suppose so. I expect myself to overcome obstacles, certainly.”

“This ‘obstacle’ is in the past, then?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago.”

Minerva’s jaw tightened more. They were approaching it now, drawing closer to her soul. “Seven, nearly eight years.”

Miss Reeves’s gaze became sharper. “During the Second War. Does it bear any relationship to those events?”

Minerva nodded, her throat dry. This delving was unpleasant, disturbing.

“May I ask what your situation was at the time? Again, don’t answer if-”

“I will.” The eyes had become whirlpools, drawing in her secrets like wrecked ships. “I was Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House at the time. I dare say you have heard of the Order of the Phoenix - I was a member of it and intensely involved. I was second-in-command…”

“May I make an observation? There was a lot of uneasiness there, that was what I mainly got from that. Yet I don’t think it was necessarily your responsibilities that were the problem.”

“They weren’t.”

Miss Reeves sighed and leant back in her chair. Her shadowed orbs clouded. “Minerva, there is a lot of darkness surrounding the Second War - fear, grief, helplessness… You’ve said that the issue is one that you found hard to communicate to your friends; I think I’m encountering the same constraints here-”

“I’ll tell you!” Minerva found herself snapping. She glanced down at her veined hands. The implications were undoubtedly correct - evasion could not help, pride was something she should long have since abandoned - what woman who had behaved as she had that night had any right to pride? “That war took something precious from me - from the world. I did not realise how precious it was until it was gone. I cared about someone whom the war destroyed, with someone he most trusted as its instrument. Compared to this man - compared to what he did - we none of us have a right to peace. He worked tirelessly for it and yet never received it.” Her airways constricted. “I cared about him very much.”

Albus’s kind face rose before her. His deep, powerful voice reverberated in her ribcage; what wouldn’t she give to hear him again? What would she not suffer for one inane chat about socks?

“How painful - how very painful and difficult it must have been for you.”

“It’s been eight years. I should be over it. I cherish the friendship that I believe I had with him but there was no rational reason for me to have developed such fancies.”

“Minerva, what ‘should’ or ‘shouldn’t’ be is not the question. I think what you’ve just told me demonstrates that your feelings were - and are - considerably deeper than ‘fancies.’ The length of time alone indicates real attachment there.”

“His name was Albus Dumbledore.”

The question hadn’t even been asked and yet now the utterance hung in the air like a sudden spell. His name! His name had finally passed her lips in its entirety - to fill a gaping void that was unbearable, intolerable. Irrepressible, the forbidden had spurted forth like an uncontrollable fountain or a surge of flame. Now there was someone in the world who knew - who had heard from her directly - who knew that Minerva McGonagall loved Albus Dumbledore - and loved him still, beyond all stretches! This was why, this was the admission; this was why she was become as she was, the banshee in the dressing gown.

“It was silly of me,” she said - and realised that it was a conclusion, rather than a starting statement, and that Miss Reeves’s eyes held the mirror and the tomb as completely as her own did.

“I do not think it was silly,” the counsellor whispered. “You were overcome - and no wonder, for I get the impression that you have spent most of the last eight years suppressing and hiding these emotions.”

Minerva nodded, shocked at how the words had slipped out.

“You were unaware that you loved him until he had gone?”

“Not - not entirely. I suppose - there were times when I-” The Headmistress paused, licked her lips nervously and continued. The past seemed incomprehensible; how could there ever have been a time when she did not adore his presence? “Sometimes he was my superior, other times he was my friend- and there were other periods still when I felt for him. But I don’t presume to have really known him… I idolised him from childhood, though in later years whether platonically or romantically I cannot say… I apologise; I’m rambling.”

“I think you should ramble more often, Minerva. You say from childhood?”

“He was my Transfiguration Professor and was the one to guide me in my first Animagus transformation.”

The stiff words meant nothing: the memories were returning, surfacing like ripples from the underwater movement of fish. Hindsight attached greater emotion to the visual snatches, the sounds and sensations of over sixty years before, daubing them more brightly and clearly than that old reality had made them, significance both ladening and lightening them. She pursued them - pursuit having been self-denied for so long.

Up next time - CHPT 8 PART 3 - Minerva's memories!

[Trulyamused]

Oooo-- Looking good.

I understand Minerva's reluctance in speaking about her, I detest to call it probelm, difficulties and feelings. Hopefully, she'll get through.

More please,

Truly

[angeldust]

Go on Min you open up to the nice shrink!!

This fic is amazing!!! I love it, I loved the shrink most are rather patronizing but she seems quite lovely really . More soon please!!!!

[nemi]

I agree with Truly and Angeldust! This story is fantastic; it's so beautifully written. I'm glad to see things are looking up. You wrote Minerva's counselling session wonderfully; I loved what she said, how she said it and even Eleanor's response. Post the next chapter ASAP!

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks, all reviewers! Glad people liked the counsellor; she's based on my own! *Is crazy and needs shrink* Hope this isn't too disappointing...

CHAPTER 8: Beyond All Stretches

PART 3

He had already been halfway through the great epic of his life by the time she met him - yet his twinkling eyes were ageless, transcending century easily, despite the subsequent alteration of his hair and the deepening of lines in his face. That first day had made him just another face, just another teacher. Eleven-year-old Minerva didn’t know she’d just encountered the greatest wizard in the world - her main concern was ascertaining whether he was nice or nasty, strict or funny, attentive or complacent.

Rolanda and Poppy were moaning because Transfiguration, they’d heard, was the hardest subject on the curriculum, and the teacher was apparently “not to be crossed.” Minerva, however, had a truly ‘disgusting’ level of enthusiasm.

“You read your Transfiguration textbook in your free time?” Rolanda said disbelievingly, as they lined up outside the classroom. “You read it, all of it, of your own free will?”

“I found it interesting,” said Minerva, embarrassed.

“Rolanda, don’t be mean,” scolded Poppy. “You went flying before you came to Hogwarts.”

“Flying is a fun, natural activity.”

“I don’t think so. I’d rather keep my feet on the ground.”

“How boring!”

“Not boring, I just don’t like heights!”

There was a sudden hush: a teacher was approaching. Minerva looked up curiously to see a tall, thin man with auburn air and startlingly blue eyes. He was smiling benignly at them all but there was a power of presence about him, the precise nature of which was impossible to discern.

“Good morning, and my name is Professor Dumbledore,” he said as he let them into the classroom to seat themselves. “Welcome to Transfiguration - in which you have the dubious pleasure of my company for at least the next five years.” He beamed, and Minerva decided she liked him at once. “Now, expecting you to have perused the textbook is rather overly optimistic-”

“Please, sir, Minerva has,” Rolanda said loudly. Minerva flushed as everyone’s attention focussed on her and she shot a glare at Rolanda.

Dumbledore blinked and smiled at her, the blue eyes sparkling. “Excellent! Splendid! What is your name?”

“Minerva McGonagall, sir.”

“Well, I see I shall have Miss McGonagall to depend on as a beacon of knowledge if ever my memory fails me.”

He nodded at her happily and then proceeded to summarise the subject of Transfiguration, smiling approvingly at her every now and then.

---

Time passed, easing its way into major history so gradually that no one noticed.

Minerva entered the Auror department to find it bedecked in decoration and the sound of merriment. Bewildered, she turned to Olivia Prang, who was beaming and prattling about parties.

“What’s going on?”

“By Merlin, Min, haven’t you heard?” Olivia snatched up a paper ecstatically. “The problem’s gone! It’s all finished, all over!”

A copy of the Daily Prophet was thrust at her. The headline said something impossible about Grindelwald and defeat - her attention was mainly caught by a photo of a battered but dignified man with half-moon spectacles. Albus Dumbledore grinned from the front page; the impossible had been achieved.

Her heart lifted. Freedom had come in the place of the darkness, because of her old Transfiguration teacher. Her mentor had flung evil down and she felt a surge of warmth.

I must write him a letter or something.

---

“Minerva, there was no way I could possibly refuse your application,” said Albus as he showed her into the office that had once been his. “Not with such excellent references.”

“Most of the references came from you!”

“Precisely!”

Minerva gave a small smile. She was stepping into a role that had already been filled by a metaphorical giant - there was not even the remotest possibility she could ever compare - yet he treated her like an equal, welcoming her like the favourite student she’d once been, a protégé and friend. It was a compliment she did not deserve.

---

“Deputy?” she repeated, stunned.

“Who else, my dear Professor?” Albus said from across the desk, his eyes twinkling. “I can think of no one better to be my eventual successor.”

She felt herself blush at the high praise. Dumbledore was perfection; wise, handsome, powerful, kind and yet humble - who, she thought, could ever replace him?

---

“Snape killed Dumbledore,” said Harry. His green eyes were wide, his face ashen, shock and anger infused every line of his face.

The truth.

A chair was being pushed under her but inside she was still falling. Albus, with his clear blue eyes. Albus with his love of all, with all his qualities that would have not been out of place in a saint. Albus, humming as he walked around the castle, sucking on a sherbert lemon.

Gone.

She had a most peculiar urge to laugh - the concept was absurd, stupid, something the Weasley twins had cooked up! Instead she was talking - Merlin knew what about, something irrelevant and foolish… Life without Albus was looming before her, wreathed in misery…

He had been there for her, always. She had not been there for him.

“This is all my fault,” she said, with utter conviction.

But nothing sunk in until the night afterwards, after Fawkes’s song had confirmed the undisputable fact of events. The photo on the staff room wall pasted itself before her eyes: Albus and herself eternally dancing at the Yule ball. From her window she could see the Astronomy tower, pointing upwards like an accusatory finger. Her first ecstasy of grief was silent, tearless.

In all the commotion, Filch was too distracted to enquire as to why all the surfaces in the Transfiguration office corridor were smashed.

---

Minerva reached for a tissue, desperately trying to stem the tears. Eleanor Reeves watched her with compassion whilst making a soothing cup of tea.

“He would want you to be happy.”

The Headmistress wiped her eyes. The counsellor had just managed to convey everything knowable about the dead man in less than ten words.

“Albus wanted everyone to be happy.”

Shorter, I know - but as I said, I'm doing my best to break up some incredibly long chapters.

[nemi]

I loved that part! It was so sad, but so beautiful. I loved the way you wrote the memories. Rolanda shouting "Please sir, Minerva has" and Albus' "We shall have Miss McGonagall to depend on as a beacon of knowledge" made me smile too. The last part was hauntingly sad; the last line made me want to cry. A wonderful chapter, post the next one soon.

[Trulyamused]

Yea, the worst part is over.

Now, on with the healing.

Great work.

Truly

[Apocalypticat]

Thanks, reviewers! Chapter 9...

CHAPTER 9: Human Intelligence

PART 1

The years passed. They altered things imperceptibly in their days and yet in their entirety shaped souls and faces, with the reckless abandon of a sculptor at play. The seasons cycled round, turning the world green and blue, orange and brown. The birds who had sung at a phoenix’s coming laid eggs, the hatchlings of which had chicks of their own. Childhood sunshine began to turn to dusk.

Brian Potter’s small limbs shot outwards and his tiny face ceased to be all eyes. No toddler stumbled around the Potter family home; instead a skinny boy with piercing blue eyes sat quietly in his room and read - accompanied by the ageless phoenix.

Harry supposed that Brian had inherited a lot from the Weasley side. Ron’s influence was everywhere in his son: from the flaming auburn hair and the long nose, to the sapphire eyes and lanky frame. There was also no doubt that the Potter short-sightedness had claimed him early, leading to a pair of spectacles at the tender age of five.

“Aye, I can see that,” Moody had said once, after Brian had just exited the room from dinner. “But pardon me, Potter, when I say he still doesn’t look very much like either of you.”

The fact was undeniable. Brian’s eyes were not the same shade of blue as Ron’s, the red of his hair was unlike Ginny’s and his frame was far spindlier than even Harry’s. When neither Harry nor Ginny had particularly large feet, it did indeed seem odd that Brian should possess veritable whoppers. There was also something about his face, particularly around the region of his eyes and nose, that was totally unlike either of them.

“There’s not a bit of you in him, Potter,” Moody had growled.

The media had been quick to pounce on the rumours. Although the Chief Auror would not give them an audience, there were other sources, other wells of information to tap. Ancient history was dug up - there were whispers of Dean Thomas and Michael Corner and people as unlikely as Zacharias Smith.

THE DAILY PROPHET 22ND August 2013

Sponsored by Madam Malkin’s - voted Number One in wonderful witch wear!

In the days following his son’s birth, Harry Potter, Chief Auror and Destroyer of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, vehemently denied rumours asserting that the child’s paternity was in doubt, writes Eliza Streng, Special Reporter. Yet questions persist…

Ginny had stared over the top of the paper with a pale face. “Harry - you don’t - you don’t think that-”

“No, of course not,” he’d said, squeezing her hand. “Never.”

What did it matter what illusions the world laboured under? He loved Brian - and was quite sure that Brian loved him. No, it was for other reasons that Harry worried about his son.

For one thing, the boy was extremely quiet and withdrawn. There were times when he seemed uncomfortable even with his family, and the other children who befriended him soon moved on. He preferred to listen rather than talk - and yet had learned to read so quickly that it was almost beyond belief.

“Harry, don’t take this the wrong way,” Ginny had said when he’d voiced these concerns. “But don’t you think it might be due to you? Oh - not you personally, but your reputation?”

Ginny was right, of course. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed. The pressure on Brian was intense - had always been, from a young age. What boy could grow up normally when the shadow of his father extended far and wide, when Daily Prophet reporters still crept around the neighbourhood whenever they were short of actual news? What boy could find it easy to be happy when everything seemed to revolve around Harry Potter, and pass him by?

He’d tried his hardest to shelter Brian, to act as a buffer zone between his son and the media. However, success wasn’t always guaranteed. There was that time when their first family outing to a zoo had been ruined by photographers and journalists, determined to get a snap of ‘the Chief Auror spending time with his family?’

“Yes!” he’d snapped at last, thoroughly fed up. “I’m spending time with my family - or at least I was trying to! Then the bloody Daily Prophet sticks its nose in!”

Luckily, Brian hadn’t seemed rattled by it at the time. He hadn’t even tried to hide behind Harry but had calmly walked out in front, gazing at the zoo animals and seemingly oblivious to the photographers. A Gryffindor to the bone, Harry thought proudly. When they’d got home, with Harry trembling in anger, Brian had even managed to calm the situation down - by flinging his arms round his father’s middle.

“Dad, it‘s all right,” Brian had said in his usual, strangely eloquent manner, staring up at him past the new half-moon glasses he’d insisted on. “I’m not alarmed by any of it. The day wasn’t ruined at all; the zoo was splendid.”

---

August heat shimmered the air and cracked the ground. Brian sat not only on his bed, but on the brink of a new epoch - for both him and Albus.

Albus aimed Brian’s eyes at the blue brilliance of the sky outside, scanning for the blot of an owl. The expectancy of the last few days would have been exhausting, had not there been an almost equal degree of excitement. Brian’s anticipation was one of a boy about to go to school; Albus’s was one of a man about to go home.

Hogwarts.

The very word refreshed him, raising memories that were not all darkness and death. The visions of the sunlit grounds, the glowing windows, the idyllic spire of a tower that had once been his - all combined to create an urge in him that was lyrical in its potency. Had normality been restored, this would have been the sort of mood to induce the Hogwarts Headmaster to take up a brush and paint the school in all its splendour, or the faces of his colleagues.

There was a sense of dramatic irony in it all, he thought, in sitting where he was and waiting for a letter. For years he had watched the First-Years enter to be Sorted, terrified and disorientated, glancing up at the High Table with expressions of awe and apprehension. Now he was once again to be in the Great Hall - but from the perspective of an incoming student.

Yet no, that wasn’t quite true. After all, he would not be looking up at the Great Hall with awe - he would be searching for familiar faces. The apprehension would be present, but for a different reason. His information, after all this time and the subtle questioning of Harry, was still sketchy. How had the war ravaged the faculty? What absences, what disfigurements, what newcomers would he see?

The Order reunion meetings - becoming fewer in number over time as the urge to reminesce got less and the desire to live grew stronger - had provided him with glimpses of only Slughorn, Hagrid and Minerva. Slughorn’s corpulence was a tribute to his obvious well-being, Hagrid and the word ‘indomitable’ were always synonymous and Minerva…

He sat up and scanned the sky more desperately. He wanted to be there, to see her sitting at the High Table every day. That way, he could-

-Could what? Albus asked himself, confusedly. What could I do other than simply watch her from day to day?

That would be enough, for the moment. At the very least he was guaranteed seven years of watching and listening - which was better than the present.

Hogwarts. He had learnt there, taught there, led there - and now the cycle was set to begin again. Weariness flooded him. Hogwarts would both make demands of him and free him at the same time. He would have to play the part of Brian Potter, the frightened new student, make friends with children whose company could never satisfy him, learn about the war in History of Magic with the indifference of the next generation, pretend ignorance in subjects which he’d helped write the syllabus on… The very idea was tiring.

Still, there would be times when he could be alone. Places like the Room of Requirement would allow for an undisturbed dropping of the mask. Hogwarts was still his home, whether or not the last he’d seen of it was of a treacherous tower. And Minerva-

He frowned, only distractedly noticing a speck in the cloudless sky. What are you thinking, old boy?

A younger version of Harry’s face swam before him, bitter and sad. What pain blighted those features! His own voice was reverberating around the office, soothing and firm at the same time, the projected serenity almost obscene in the light of what had just then happened. The words that came back now were his.

“There is a room in the Department of Mysteries that is kept locked at all times. It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than the forces of nature.”

Albus closed his eyes. He’d walked through that room several times in his life - not the room at the Ministry, but the metaphorical room inside. More wonderful and terrible than death… Back then, when speaking to Harry, it had been his darling wife Maria’s face that had entered his head. His love and her death had been entwined - for what could be worse than loving and losing? Now the words had another meaning, and another face attached to them.

Death - the forces of nature - had been violated in his rebirth. That first aspect of meaning could be thought of dispassionately; the other levels and the face less so. He dared not think further. Why did Minerva’s face appear to him?

His human intelligence was failing if he pondered that, someone in the back of his head pointed out. You old fool. What kind of man had the audacity to sit in his twee little office and talk about the room of love yet be blind to his own passions?

Maria, my dearest, he found himself thinking, as though mere thought could penetrate the Veil. Forgive me.

The owl tapped the glass impatiently. An envelope was tied to its leg, bearing a familiar seal. Albus - and Brian - roused himself and opened the window, untying the letter. This was it.

The letter was addressed to Mr B. Potter. The moment of opening the envelope had a surreal quality unparalleled by anything Albus had ever experienced before; for one wild second he considered flinging it back out of the window.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall

(Order of Merlin, First Class, International Confederation of Wizards)

The rest of the letter was largely irrelevant - the lines dealing with Headmistress Minerva McGonagall were the ones that held his attention. He sighed and crumpled the parchment. How hopeless it was!

Stoppage. About Albus having a previous wife - well, I just don't think a 150+ man would be a virgin and able to talk about love to Harry if he'd never experienced it himself. Oh - and if you noticed that his wife has the same name as his previously mentioned mother - well, I just had a Freudian moment, okay?

[Trulyamused]

Wonderful.

Hogwarts here he comes.

More soon please.

Truly

[nemi]

That was great. I like the way "Brian" is developing into a more Albus-like character. I can't wait for Hogwarts! Update soon ^^

[Apocalypticat]

Err. Thanks for the reviews and sorry... I kind of forgot this board existed... *feels guilty*

CHAPTER 9: Human Intelligence

PART 2

“Please inform me if there are any problems. That is all.”

The faculty dispersed, heading to their respective offices to make the last adjustments to lesson plans before the new school year began. House-elves began to appear, to clear away the cold cups of tea and coffee. Minerva saw Poppy look her up and down with an expression of vaguely disgruntled medical assessment, but luckily time was too short for any remonstrations.

The school corridors were blissfully silent as Minerva McGonagall headed back up to her own office, walking stick in hand. Well, she corrected herself, it wasn’t her office. It would always remain His office - but what sane person would object to that?

A mirror on the Fourth-Floor corridor provided her with a hint at what Poppy had seen. She halted and gave herself a quick glance. No, it was as she’d suspected - Poppy had no right to complain at all. The iron-haired woman in the mirror was hollow-cheeked and lined, but the improvement remained.

“Minerva, I’m extremely pleased with your progress,” she recalled her friend saying about eight years back. “Your body mass index is improving.”

“She means you’ve got some meat on your bones,” Rolanda had added cheekily.

“How disgraceful,” Minerva had replied. “I shall become bloated and fat.”

“If you become bloated and fat, I shall jump for joy.”

She’d laughed. To this day she still remembered Poppy and Rolanda’s encouraged faces; it had been the first time anyone had heard her laugh since Albus had died. What a debt she owed Eleanor Reeves - who had become a friend and now visited every fortnight for a chat! The old Minerva McGonagall was still dead, but the new one was no longer a living wreck, unable to communicate with anyone.

She still didn’t like to talk about it. Once the initial confidences had been extended - first to Eleanor and then to her friends - the subject was laid to rest, much like Albus. Instead she talked about other things, having leant on and socialised with her friends more at the counsellor’s urging. Only some nights, His birthday and the anniversary of His death remained intolerable - and then there was always Poppy or Rolanda to depend upon.

“Surely you don’t mean that I should descend on them whenever I’m upset?” she recalled herself asking Eleanor incredulously.

“Minerva, I think that’s exactly what you should do. You shouldn’t be alone at such times.”

“I guess I’m just too proud.”

However, in the end she’d swallowed her pride more than once - and felt better for it. Albus wasn’t coming back and part of her would always grieve for him but, as Eleanor had pointed out, He wouldn’t have wanted her to be unhappy. There was also the fact that she was engaged in exactly what He’d always most enjoyed: passing on knowledge to the next generation. That she was still not the woman she once was was of little consequence; if Poppy expected a full recovery then she was a fool.

Minerva shook her head as she ascended the staircase to the office. How often she dragged up the past, at the most irrelevant and inappropriate of moments! How frequently she teetered between bracing happiness and reflective melancholy! It was enough to give anyone a headache.

The office was tranquil and warm, overflowing with Albus-esque good-will. The former headmasters and headmistresses were dozing in their frames, and there was no movement at all - except for the action of a silver-haired figure shifting in its seat to look round at her.

Minerva had no idea why she was surprised; the visits had always been the same: brusque, unannounced, irregular. He often turned up whenever she least expected him, with the attitude of performing a menial, tedious task that was nonetheless unavoidable.

“Aberforth,” she said, walking around so as to see her visitor better.

Aberforth, as usual, looked grumpy and irritated, shoulders hunched and entire demeanour closed and hostile. His grizzled hair and beard were tangled in the singular manner of something that has been brushed carelessly with no attention to possible damage and with the effect of creating more snarls than before. The bristling brows were lowered and he stared at her coldly - yet that fact of his presence was an undeniable kindness.

“Professor,” he growled, giving her a curt nod as she moved around the desk to sit down.

“It’s a pleasure to see you,” Minerva said. “Perhaps you would like a cup of tea?”

“That’s highly doubtful. And no thanks.”

She waited, but Aberforth merely continued to half-glare at her.

“I hope you weren’t waiting here long?”

“Long enough.”

“My apologies; I was in a meeting.”

“I know.”

She waited again, knowing that if she was patient, he would eventually be forced to take the initiative. The silence stretched. Aberforth shifted in his seat.

“You are well?”

“Very well, thank you.” She made sure the last two words were obvious in their sincerity.

“Good, good.”

There was another awkward pause. Minerva felt her gratitude become exasperated.

“Have you come to give me some news?”

“No news,” Aberforth snarled, teasing his beard with his fingers. “The only news around nowadays is old news.”

“Indeed,” she replied, noting that he presented her with no alternative reason. “I suppose the Hog’s Head is very busy around this time of year?”

“Busy enough, busy enough.”

“My favourite is the Gillywater.”

“Yes, women of your age tend to like that.”

“Aberforth.” Minerva sat back in her chair. The face of the man before her was cragged and guarded, like a cliff-face. “If you are so very busy then you shouldn’t be leaving your pub to visit me.”

“I didn’t leave my pub solely to visit you. I was taking a break and thought I ought to drop by.”

“Ought to? I was not aware that you were under any obligation to visit me.”

Aberforth ground his teeth and looked thoroughly miffed. “You weren’t, were you?”

She’d already dared to go further down the line of enquiry than she ever had done before, these past ten years. One could never tell if Aberforth was offended enough to completely estrange himself but the grinding teeth suggested he was close to it. What harm was there in going further, attempting to draw out an admission?

“Aberforth - there’s absolutely no need for you to visit me the way you do. I do honestly appreciate your dutiful concern for me, but you don’t enjoy it and so you may as well-”

The old man rose from his chair suddenly, sharply, eyes flashing. “Don’t flatter yourself, woman! I have no concern for you and never had! Your incompetent staff can fuss their little heads over you but, believe it or not, I have more to busy myself with than old women! I detest this blasted place!”

Minerva sat, stunned at the sudden outburst. A raw nerve had certainly been touched. Aberforth’s tattered cloak swirled, the fire leapt - and he was gone. Anger and mere frustration fought a pitched battle in her head.

“I can do without pity, Aberforth,” she muttered under her breath. “Especially from men who cannot even bring themselves to admit that they feel it.”

“What a thoroughly undignified fellow,” commented Phineas Nigellus from the wall behind her.

---

“Nerves, eh?”

Albus looked up from his toast and saw Harry beaming at him from across the table. He curved Brian’s lips in a small smile and nodded. It was certainly no lie; Albus felt as nervous as Brian’s position warranted. The castle, crowned in the splendour of a setting sun, floated in his mind’s eye. Could he bear to stand in the Hogwarts grounds and gaze up the head teacher’s tower, knowing all that had happened there and knowing its present occupant, without keeling over from both pleasure and pain?

“Don’t worry,” Harry was saying. “I can guarantee you’ll like it there, Brian. I’m afraid I’ll have to keep quiet on the subject of the Sorting Ceremony, but I can assure you it doesn’t involve trolls.”

“Trolls?” repeated Ginny, as the Potters rose from breakfast and donned their coats. “What are you on about?”

“Ron’s brothers told him that he had to battle a troll. Come to think of it, he did too.”

“How prophetic of them. Brian, go and get your trunk. And brush your hair - if you won’t have it cut to a sensible length then at least keep it tidy.”

Albus gave a very convincing little boy’s moan and obeyed. Even after over ten years of practice, keeping the mask donned was extremely trying. He knew that it hadn’t been entirely successful; Brian’s mannerisms and speech weren’t like a young boy’s, and his vocabulary and knowledge were certainly beyond a eleven-year-old’s. However, not for nothing had he been Hogwarts Headmaster for so long - the act was convincing enough to make Brian unlike an old man and merely a bit odd - and luckily his over-abundant repertoire of knowledge had thus far simply created a familial consensus that Brian Potter was extraordinarily clever for his age and would probably be “the next Hermione.” There had been slip-ups, but not many, none to make a lasting impression - bar one.

“Curious, very curious,” Mr Ollivander had said, blinking at Brian’s lack of uneasiness at the former’s penetrating stare. “I happen to know from old records that this wand possesses the very length, core and wood of old Dumbledore’s wand. How curious that Harry Potter’s son should receive this exact combination…”

Harry’s hand had tightened on his shoulder painfully, and the old wand-maker had begun to speak to him whilst continuing to gaze at Brian.

“Your son is not like other people, Mr Potter. He looks at me just as how old Dumbledore used to do so too… I’m not surprised the phoenix chose to stay with him. You watch him, keep him close. A most unusual boy indeed…”

Albus experienced little of the journey to King’s Cross (by Knight Bus), being too distracted by the growing reality of seeing Hogwarts again. He tensed at the sight of the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten; home was getting closer all the while, no matter that he was entering it as a stranger!

At last the Hogwarts Express belched its steam before him and other young witches and wizards crowded around, shouting and tugging at their luggage. The scarlet metal mesmerised him.

“Got Fawkes with you?” Harry shouted in his ear, straining to be heard above the sound of the mob.

“He flew on ahead!” Albus replied, coming back into his role with difficulty.

“Good! Now Brian, don’t worry about a thing! You’ll love it! You write to me every now and then, okay? Remember your poor old dad whilst you’re enjoying yourself, eh?”

Albus looked up at Harry’s concerned and encouraging face, with its emerald eyes and livid scar, and felt a genuine pang. Affection surged through him - and so he grinned and flung Brian’s arms around his father’s middle. Out of the corner of his eye, another student could be seen staring at him scornfully.

My boy, it does not matter what others see. Time’s too short for that, the spectre of the Hogwarts Headmaster addressed the boy cheerfully. One must show love whilst able…

A hollow emptiness became a void in his chest. Brian buried his face into his father’s shoulder; he hadn’t obeyed his own advice…

“Brian?”

Harry and Ginny exchanged worried glances. Brian had always been very affectionate but this display indicated some inner distress - yet the moment was over before it had begun, Brian was drawing back, smiling and promising to write.

“Make sure you’re in Gryffindor!” Harry yelled at the flaming mop of hair that was his son as it disappeared into a carriage.

“Harry!” Ginny scolded.

Then the train was gone.

Stay tuned for Part 3! Chapter 14 is also in production, for my ff.net readers.

[Trulyamused]

Yea, you updated.

Great part. Hope to see more soon.

Truly

[kankulex]

Ah.. WONDERFUL! More, more, more please!

[colleen777]

A very good FF!
Update soon!

[blackstar]

This is fantastic^^ Can't wait to read more. Very well done.
You discribe there feelings very good.

blackstar

[gmshed]

Totally brilliant! Please update!

[lemonygingersnaps]

YAY! More soon please!

[Apocalypticat]

...*Is guilty* I'm so very very sorry about this. I actually forgot this board existed. Yes. I know. I know. It won't happen again. Thanks to my reviewers and here's the next bit!

CHAPTER 9: Human Intelligence

PART 3

That boy - that one, with the orange hair and funny glasses - know who he is?

What? Him, sitting next to the window, staring into space?

-He’s Brian Potter. You know, Harry Potter’s son! Ronald Weasley’s nephew!

He was in the papers, wasn’t he - with a full colour family photo album in the middle of the Daily Prophet! It must be awesome, having such a cool family! And being so famous, for doing nothing but being born!

-Tried to say hello to him; just said hi back and then ignored me! And I was staring at him for ages-

-Probably thinks he’s too high and mighty for us-

-Nah, bet he’s sick of it all - must be so annoying, not being able to go outside without getting your picture taken-

-D’you reckon he’s asked his dad about it all? You know, the juicy bits they don’t print in the papers or teach you in History? I bet he has - and his dad’s Chief Auror - so he probably knows more spells and stuff than all of us put together! And he’s in our year!

-Hey - what if he has his dad’s cloak and map? You know - he’s supposed to have an Invisibility Cloak and this special map of Hogwarts that-

-I asked him - and he said yes - so I bet there’ll be a few good pranks played by the end of this year-

-He doesn’t look much like his parents, does he? I mean, his mum’s got orange hair and so has he, but other than that-

-What’s all the excitement, what’s all the fuss? It’s ancient history, it doesn’t matter any more! So his dad’s Chief Auror and destroyed some mouldy old Dark Lord - so what? I wish the papers would get over it. And it’s like with old folks. “During the war-”

-Oh, he’s gone and gone off now! I think you annoyed him; he looked well angry just then-

-Who cares? He was all quiet and odd anyway, I bet he’s screwy. Anyone know what the Sorting Ceremony’s like? Or about any of the Houses? My whole family’s been in Ravenclaw-

-Dunno, but I’ve heard that Gryffindor’s quite…

Albus stood outside the compartment door, fuming. He clenched his young hands into fists and shoved them inside his robes, before setting off to pace up and down the corridor. It wasn’t their fault - how could they understand something that had happened before they born? How could anyone understand anymore?

---

Minerva McGonagall watched as Deputy Headmaster Flitwick set the hat upon the stool and let the song wash over her, resting her eyes on the line of bedraggled, soaked First-Years standing nervously near the High Table. Rolanda nudged her and mouthed a name in her ear. She soon found Eric Weasley, the third child of Bill and Fleur, already bearing his father’s rakish air, but he was busy gawping at the Sorting Hat and so didn’t noticed the small smile she aimed at him.

She was about to finally tune into the Sorting Hat’s song when she became aware of the prickling sensation of sitting under a very intense gaze. Her orbs scanned the line again - and found a boy with long untidy auburn hair and large blue eyes, who was giving her such a penetrating look that she was strongly reminded of Moody’s artificial stare that saw through everything.

Minerva expected the boy to look away once he became aware that his stare was being returned - but he did not. Oddly disconcerted, she smiled in what she hoped was a welcoming manner. Brian Potter, whispered her brain, finally matching a name to a face.

The boy’s lips twitched in return. His eyes were wide, his face pale.

People were clapping; the song had ended. Filius cleared his throat and beamed.

“When I call your name, please sit and put on the hat,” he squeaked. “Ainsley, Robert!”

The First-Years began to be be Sorted, walking off to their respective assorted destinies. Minerva found herself waiting for the moment when ‘Potter, Brian’ would be called - and when it was, watched the boy curiously as he strode up to the stool with an unusually confident manner and placed the hat upon his head.

Albus got a glimpse of the Gryffindor table craning eagerly at him before the hat dropped over his eyes. He waited, with the profound sense of the familiar and known all around him, and with Minerva’s smile dominating a greater part of his brain than the issue of the Sorting.

“Well now-” The smooth voice of the hat cut itself off. Albus felt himself revelling in the shock of something that had always previously been frustratingly omniscient.

“By Merlin! You!” said the hat.

Me, he thought back somewhat smugly.

“Alive! And as… Merlin’s beard, Merlin’s beard! Such a thing has never happened! What? Oh, so you’re enjoying my surprise, hmm? I have a good mind to put you in Slytherin or shout the truth to the whole school, Headmaster Dumbledore!”

I would rather you didn’t. It could make things exceptionally difficult.

“Difficult, eh? Well, I must say I’m finding things very interesting at present. It’s rare for me to rest on a mind as old as yours anyway. The things I’m finding…"

Please place me.

“Now, now, Albus. Impatience is a virtue in nobody, least of all you - especially when you’ve been incredibly sluggish in realising certain things. Is this your plan, then? To languish away in another life and never tell anybody the truth? Or do you plan to proclaim your affections the next time you get sent to the Headmistress’s office after a carefully obtained detention? Or do you want me to slip it in her ear some time..?”

Albus felt his knuckles crack as he gripped the stool in shock. The hat knew - but no, of course, it had got it all wrong - his affections? Really-

“I thought you’d come to terms with it,” said the hat disapprovingly. “If you wish to delude yourself, then very well. You haven’t planned a thing - which is very unlike you. Your mind has the hallmarks of a brilliant Slytherin, such cunning and resourcefulness…”

I do not believe I’m deluding myself. And-

“That was a rather circumlocutionary thought.”

-I doubt I would like being a Slytherin for seven years.

“No? Yet no prejudice in this head, only old pain. Wondering what’s the matter with Minerva? I’ll let you work it out on your own, armed with your great wisdom and almost supernatural intelligence… You have a honed mind, a beautifully honed mind. There’s Slytherin cunning, Ravenclaw cleverness, Hufflepuff kindness and Gryffindor bravery all in here, all working in union… Hmm, what a decision…”

Thank you.

“Thank me when you’ve sorted your heart out as well as your head.”

I’ve been sitting here for five minutes. I don’t mean to be rude, but-

“‘Yet accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often. Best say nothing at all, my good man.’ Classic, Albus, simply classic. Such interesting memories you have… I think I concur with my previous decision. That’ll be… GRYFFINDOR!”

Albus took off the hat with a sigh of relief and marched up to Gryffindor table, barely hearing the cheers. He sat down, smiled distractedly at Abigail Lupin, Head Girl, and looked back at the High Table.

Connection sprang between the Headmistress and the boy again, an invisible thread attached their pupils. Brian’s cheeks flushed; Minerva looked away and began talking to Rolanda Hooch. He closed his eyes for a moment, and the Great Hall faded from existence until only Minerva remained.

…Proclaim your affections…

Never; it was impossible.

…Languish away in another life…

He opened his eyes and the brightness of the Great Hall stung them. What other choice did he have?

A/N: I'll put another bit up soon. However, I should warn you that the next bit of the story displays quite a few crinkles, so to speak - as my ff.net readers know. I will iron out what I can in posting, but I don't really want to start rewriting until I've got the whole of my first draft out. So... sorry in advance for any contradictions and for the problems concerning Erin Weasley.

[Trulyamused]

Still looking good.

Keep it coming.

Truly

[FireBird]

Whoa. This is just plain fabulous. I absolutely love the plot, and I've rarely seen a writing style as awesome as yours! Please write more soon, I am really enjoying this!

[Apocalypticat]

Thank you Truly and Tiger! Here's some more and sorry for the lateness!

CHAPTER 10: Ashes to Ashes

PART 1

A mere four days into the new school year - and already, there had been trouble.

A bad sign, Minerva thought wearily as she made her way up to the staff room. It certainly did not bode well for the rest of the year when it had taken just two days for three students to be found wandering around the Forbidden Forest by Hagrid - Sixth-Years, no less, who should have known better. Then there had been the recent spat of trouble between Slughorn and Pomona - with the latter claiming that the former had ‘mutilated her prize Tentacula with the base intention of procuring venom for his wretched potions.’ Sybil Trelawney had yet again marched into Minerva’s office to demand Firenze’s immediate ejection from the castle, with the result that the Headmistress had felt very much like ejecting Sybil from the castle. To cap it all, Professor Read, the new Transfiguration teacher, had stubbornly set the First-Years an essay that was quite beyond their capabilities despite multiple objections.

She shook her head; surely it wasn’t all that bad? The Sixth-Years had been unharmed, with the lies simply extending to the idea of ‘some man in the woods’ they’d apparently followed, the prize Tantacula was hardly ‘mutilated’ and Sybil was as a permanent a problem as the drainage; one had to accept it and move on. As for Professor Read - there was no doubt that her own prejudices were interfering there. Perhaps it was because she lived in the past so much, but Professor Read would always be ‘new’ - and what’s more, a usurper of her position. Minerva wondered whether Albus had felt the same when she’d taken over Transfiguration; she hoped not.

The staff room was ominously silent when she entered. Pomona was fuming darkly in an armchair by the fire, a book entitled Repairing Herbological Damage perched conspicuously on her knee, and Slughorn was red in the face and seemed inflated even more than usual by an air of injured self-importance. The room still seemed to echo from the sounds of a heated argument. Trelawney gave an obvious sniff at Minerva’s entry and went back to her marking with a look that said: That woman. She’ll never understand me, the poor abused Seer…

The Headmistress shot her a glare and made her way over the sofa where Rolanda sat. She rarely entered the staff room but when she did, it was usually to see the flying instructor. Rolanda had mumbled something at breakfast about one of the First-Years ‘being uncommonly good on a broom - and the rule was broken once before…’

“Minerva!” said Rolanda, noticing her presence only she sat down next to her. “Glad you’re here - the atmosphere here is terrible-”

“Yes, isn’t it?” said Pomona loudly. “But then, vandalism has never been welcome here at Hogwarts-”

Slughorn mouthed incoherently at the back of the Herbology professor’s head. “These accusations are completely unfounded! My good woman-”

“I am not your good woman, Professor Slughorn,” replied Pomona coldly. “If you needed ingredients, you simply had to ask-”

“I did! Several times! But to suggest that I-”

“And each time, I believe I informed you that it had not yet matured sufficiently-”

“Preposterous! Tentacula venom doesn’t need to mature-”

“Headmistress,” Pomona said sharply. “Professor Slughorn has admitted-”

“Admitted? I have admitted nothing! First you supply me with inaccurate information and then you accuse me-”

Rolanda rolled her eyes and gently put a hand on Minerva‘s shoulder to stop her from standing up to interfere. “Oh ignore them, they’ve been at it all evening.” She leaned forward suddenly, with a serious, excited look.

“Rolanda, if this is about the First-Year-” Minerva began, deciding to stem the adulation before it got out of hand.

To her astonishment, Rolanda waved her hand airily as though batting away a fly. “Never mind about Mr Weasley; he can wait. Listen, I was going up to the Owlery and you’d never believe what I saw!”

“What?”

Doubt crept into her friend’s face. “Well - I think that was what I saw - I only glimpsed it, you see, before it flew away-”

“Spit it out, Rolanda.”

The flying instructor was looking more and more anxious with every second. Minerva felt the brown eyes sweep over her, as if a bombshell was about to be dropped and it was arguable as to whether or not the Headmistress could withstand the impact.

“Minerva… I’m not sure whether it was his… it looked like his - but I suppose it could have been-”

The sounds of Slughorn and Pomona’s argument cut off, suddenly, as if all the debate had been was a broadcast on a radio that had been turned off. His. Minerva found herself leaning forward. His? As in… His? A pain shafted down the centre of her chest, down the internal scars left by the Stunners of over a decade before. She took a deep breath-

CRASH.

The door rebounded back off the wall, almost smacking back in the freckled face of Professor Read, who shouted something nobody understood, waving a length of parchment in the air. Minerva found herself in her Animagus form, the shock of the Transfiguration teacher’s entry having forced her transformation and set her fur on end.

Embarassed, the Headmistress shifted back, and sent a disapproving glare in Professor Read’s direction. She turned her head back to Rolanda - but the disturber of the peace was now shrieking something, continuing to wave the parchment.

“A genius! A genius! Oh, Headmistress!”

Minerva could feel a headache beginning. Martha Read reminded her something of Sybil, in that she was rather highly-strung and prone to screeching at loud volume.

“Yes, Martha!” she snapped. Patience is a virtue, chanted her brain piously.

Martha swooped down on her and shoved the parchment in her face. She glimpsed lined of narrow, loopy writing before the text was ripped away, to be held delicately on up-turned palms as though the professor was making some sort of offering to the sky.

“Headmistress! In my hands I now hold… an academic peak!”

There was a pause - Slughorn and Pomona having been stunned into silence, and the rest of the room speechless at the bizarre statement. Minerva gazed from the parchment to Professor Read’s excited face and back again, at a loss.

“An academic peak?” she repeated, carefully.

“Yes!”

“Really?” asked Professor Vector. “I never thought that that was something that one could actually hold, so to speak.”

Hagrid set down his book, scratching his head in obvious confusion. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Professor Read, but I’m afraid I’m not understandin’ yeh.”

“Neither does anyone else,” said Minerva acidly, impatience beginning to break free. “Spit it out, Martha. And please sit down and stop cluttering up the room.”

Martha Read sank down into a chair - but continued to hold the parchment up, gazing skywards with a starstruck expression. “Headmistress,” she whispered. “This academic peak I have here - is none other than the work of a First-Year.”

Pomona snorted. “Then I sincerely doubt that it’s any sort of an academic peak.”

“This essay,” Martha continued reverently, “is a work of genius.”

There was another startled pause. Minerva raised one eyebrow: student’s work had been described as excellent, outstanding and brilliant - and even then, those drooling descriptions were confined to reports and references. Students themselves were sometimes referred to tentatively as bright or talented, on the basis of multiple essays and other pieces of work. To sit in the staff room and declare a student to be a genius was unheard of - especially when said pupil was a First-Year and the evidence was one essay.

“’Genius?’ That’s a very strong word,” squeaked Filius from the other side of the room.

“Unless you are going to explain further-” began Minerva testily.

Martha snapped to attention and brought the essay down to lap-level. “Headmistress, I’m not sure if you were aware, but I set the First-Years an essay in their third lesson on-”

“I was most certainly aware. I believe I urged you not to set it.”

“Yes, well… The essay was on the simple template of any normal Transfiguration spell - known as the Transmutation Matrix, which concerns the-”

“Once upon a time, around about the time when dinosaurs walked the earth, I was the Transfiguration Professor; I’m quite aware of the Transmutation Matrix,” hissed Minerva. She clamped her jaw shut, knowing that if she continued, she would be completely unable to curb her tongue.

“Oh… Oh yes, of course,” said the other woman, flushing. “Well… I only meant for them to do a very basic discussion of the main principles - but this student-” she waved the essay “-this student - oh, Headmistress, I’ve never read anything like it.”

“Please stop gushing and get to the point.”

“Of course, well, this student’s essay - it reads like something out of the Transfiguration Journal!”

“Are you sure they did not simply copy out of it?” suggested Filius gently.

“They can’t have - they explained it from a very neutral standpoint, when most articles in the Journal are biased to one side or the other and nobody’s recently-”

“Forgive me,” said Professor Vector. “But Transfiguration was never my speciality. This …Matrix is a template, correct? How can there be a debate over it?”

“There are many arguments over the actual fundamentals,” Minerva found herself explaining. “It’s very complicated: there are two views on how particles behave during Transfiguration, and then there are many standpoints on whether or not the particles can be manipulated in certain ways… Also, the Matrix fails to explain the why in why does Transfiguration work that way? There are even debates about it in regards to things like death, birth and ageing.”

“Thank Merlin I never took Transfiguration beyond my OWLs,” muttered Slughorn.

“Anyway,” continued Professor Read, “this student covers most of the main debates and actually talked about particles! It’s far beyond Seventh-Year level! I - I confess I don’t understand a good deal of it-”

Slughorn raised his thick eyebrows. “You don’t understand a First-Year’s essay?”

Minerva took a deep, bracing breath. Martha Read was simply silly and deluded; she did not deserve to be shouted at, especially when she honestly believed what she was saying. It was time to be gentle. “I don’t like to suggest it, but it sounds as though this student either copied out of a book on the subject or got someone more knowledgeable than themselves to write it for them.”

Martha’s face fell. “Yes… I suppose that’s always possible,” she said slowly.

“What’s the student’s name?”

“Brian Potter.”

The Headmistress blinked in disappointed surprise - and then scolded herself inside her head. Just because Harry and Ginny were pinnacles of modesty and honesty didn’t necessarily mean that their son was immune from human failings, she berated herself. Such prejudice!

“Let me read it myself, and perhaps it might ring a bell to me and allow me to pin-point the source or whatever he’s copied from.”

“Oh… oh all right then,” said Martha, seeming to deflate like a popped balloon. “I’ll just be - be getting back to my marking, then.”

The door slammed, Pomona and Slughorn resumed arguing and Sybil continued to sniff. Minerva set the essay aside and turned back to Rolanda - only to find that the flying instructor had exited some time before, thoroughly worn down with impatience.

More soon! For those who are too impatient, go to my ff.net account!

[lemonygingersnaps]

Lovin this!

[Trulyamused]

Still love it.

Course, I'm reading ahead on FFnet too.

Great story.

Truly

[Apocalypticat]

Oh my goodness! PLEASE, PLEASE FORGIVE ME FOR FORGETTING THIS BOARD YET AGAIN! *weeps* I'm as far as Chapter 19 on ff.net; this is simply unforgivable!

CHAPTER 10: Ashes To Ashes

PART 2

“Lights out!”

Abigail Lupin was stomping around the Gryffindor dormitories, glaring at those who weren’t yet in bed. Albus had had to suppress a knowing chuckle more than once; Abigail seemed to have inherited both her father’s sense and her mother’s forthrightness - when one Second-Year had refused to give up his chair in the Common Room, she had simply grabbed him by one ear and pulled him up to his dormitory whilst using her Metamorphmagi abilities to pull threatening faces.

“You, what are you sniggering at?” she demanded, staring at him as he began to draw the bed-hangings closed.

“Nothing,” he said politely, suppressing a smile.

“Right then. Nox.”

The dormitory dimmed and there was a brief silence in the first few minutes after the Head Girl had exited. Then the First-Years, the excitement of sleeping away from home having not quite worn off, began to whisper and giggle, sitting up and drawing back their bed-hangings. Albus drew back his own too; if he was going to relive life as a student there was no point in being stand-offish.

The other four boys in his dormitory were already chatting and laughing. His eyes moved to their faces one by one, knowing that his observation was unlikely to be interrupted. Stand-offish he tried not to be, but his lack of confidence in accurately portraying an eleven-year-old to actual eleven-year-olds and his awareness of being much older and inevitably cleverer had led to a good deal of silence on his part. That accompanied with awkward smiles and one word replies had soon given his classmates the impression that he wanted to be left alone, just four days into the term.

The first boy Albus’s eyes found was Eric Weasley, the loud and humorous third child of Bill and Fleur. His young face was already very like Bill’s, and Albus was certain that the coming years would leave a mark on the Hogwarts female population. Eric, out of all the Gryffindor boys, had been the most persistent in trying to make friends with him, chattering away at him in Potions until even a very genial Slughorn had wagged a warning finger at their table. Albus suspected that it was something to do with the fact that both Brian and Eric was children of figures of the Second War and, as such, both had to deal with unwanted media attention.

The second boy, Mark Scott, had taken Albus’s reticence as a sign of vanity and now tended to pointedly ignore him whenever he was in the same room. Mark also talked with the air of pretending to know more than he actually did; the Scott family patriarch’s opinions could be heard in every word. The third, Daniel Glover, seemed to fall easily into the role of Eric’s hero-worshipper (“I can’t believe you can fly like that! I can’t believe anyone can fly like that!”) and the fourth, Cal Smith, was painfully shy, adopting an ingratiating manner every time someone spoke to him (“Really? Yes! I thought that too!”).

“…And Madam Hooch said she was going to speak to Professor McGonagall about it,” Eric was saying triumphantly.

“Wicked!” said Daniel, beaming. “I bet she lets you, too! You’ll be the second youngest on the team in over a century!”

“Wasn’t the first your dad?” Eric said suddenly, looking over at Brian.

“Yes,” said Albus, injecting some hesitation into Brian’s voice so as to reinforce the impression of shyness.

“What position did he play?” asked Daniel.

“Seeker, of course!” Eric replied, rolling his eyes. “Madam Hooch talked about him for half the lesson!”

“And then she spent the other half of the lesson talking about you,” Mark pointed out.

Erin flushed. “Yeah, well - Brian wasn’t bad either. Had you flown before?” he asked, addressing him again.

“Yes,” said Albus easily. For one thing, it was the truth - Harry had often taken Brian flying on his old Firebolt, allowing for some ability to be displayed in class.

“He wasn’t bad,” said Mark. “But he was nothing like you, Eric. Did you see Madam Hooch’s face? She thought he was going to be like his dad and he wasn’t-!”

“He was still good,” Eric interrupted, shooting Albus an encouraging smile. “And he’s in the best in the class at every lesson.”

“Not really,” protested Albus, knowing that most normal eleven-year-olds would object to that. “I wasn’t really.”

“Yes you were! You got everything right first time in Charms - and in Transfiguration - and in Herbology!”

Albus had to suppress a sigh. Every time he walked into a classroom he resolved to make deliberate mistakes, to be slow at learning, to pretend to get confused. Unfortunately, the resolution was usually forgotten whenever the situation presented itself, and whenever it was remembered, it proved almost impossible to fulfil. Performing spells that were second-nature wrongly was incredibly difficult and took far more concentration than was required to cast the spells in the first place. He’d managed to set his feather on fire in Charms, but only after levitating it almost to the ceiling and he‘d contrived to add the wrong ingredients in Potions, leading to a short scolding from Slughorn, but the mistake seemed too obvious to be repeated too many times. The worst crises had been in the first few lessons of Transfiguration - during which he had struggled to simplify his answers to questions and had had to repress the urge to clarify the inept teacher on certain points. All in all, it was exhausting.

“So, what do you all think of the teachers so far?” he asked, trying to make conversation. He winced; the question sounded just the sort of thing the Hogwarts Headmaster would ask if secretly disguised as a student - as he was now.

“Dunno, really.” Eric shrugged. “Slughorn’s funny, even if he does go on about all the famous people he’s ever known. Sprout’s all right, Binns is boring, Hooch is okay, I suppose… Read’s annoying.”

“Yeah - yeah I thought that,” Cal agreed.

“I tried to run away back to the Common Room today, when she gave us that essay,” Mark muttered.

“Really?” said Eric interestedly. “Didn’t you get into trouble?”

“Obviously - that’s why I still turned up, but late. McGonagall caught me in the corridors.”

Albus felt his attention sharpen to a point. Minerva! Why had he not tried to bunk off too so as to meet her, even if only for a scolding? The other boys also sat up - but for a different reason.

“What’s she like?” Daniel asked. “I mean, we only ever see her at breakfast and dinner-”

Mark shrugged. “Strict and stern. She all pursed her lips at me and acted as though I’d tried to throw someone out the window or something.” He put on a high, squeaky voice that Albus didn’t think sounded at all like Minerva’s. “‘Mr Scott, is it? Why are you not in your lessons? Run along immediately or I shall inform your Head of House.’”

Both Daniel and Eric laughed - and Albus found himself liking the latter less. “She looks ill, doesn’t she?” the former commented.

“Yes. I asked someone about that - one of the Fifth-Years about whether she was suffering from some lethal wasting disease and was about to drop down dead. They got well annoyed and bit my head off - but they said she’s always looked like that! And that, actually, she’s gotten better!”

“My dad said something about her getting hurt in the war,” Erin murmured. “It’s probably to do with that.”

Albus found himself sitting on the edge of his bed, as though nearness could affect the amount of information received. Minerva… getting hurt. But how? What had happened? Or had Bill simply been talking about her encounter with Umbridge and her Stunners?

“What happened?” he asked breathlessly.

Eric gave him a blank look whilst Mark raised one eyebrow. “I dunno. Dad didn’t say.”

Daniel yawned. “I’m turning in now. That Flying lesson really tired me out.”

“Oh all right then.”

The First-Years settled back down in their beds. Albus laid down with his back to the other boys and his face to the cold chill of the window. Through it, he could see the dark spire of the Astronomy Tower rising up against the moon. As though from a long way away, he again saw himself falling, with the ghostly light of the Dark Mark shining up above. How ridiculous it must have looked, he thought distantly. His beard and robes would have been all flapping in the wind - and Merlin knew what his body must have looked like.

“I was the one who found his - his body…” Harry said softly, staring over the baby Brian’s head at a past both dark and horrible.

Poor Harry, he thought. On top of everything else, he shouldn’t have had to find that.

“He’s weird,” he heard Mark whisper.

“Who?” Daniel whispered back.

“Potter. Too high and mighty to talk properly.”

“He was a bit funny about McGonagall.”

“He’s bit funny about everything.”

“Shush,” said Eric.

---

It was late, and Minerva’s body was beginning to protest as she dragged it up the stairs to her office - yet there was still the matter of Professor Read’s ‘genius’ essay to attend to. Seeing it lying on the desk where she‘d abandoned it earlier, she eyed it distastefully.

Prejudice again, someone in her head pointed out. You don’t want to read it because Read loved it.

She nodded to herself, accepting the charge. There was something so profoundly irritating about Martha that it coloured everything she touched or approved of - the essay, the embodiment of all things inanimate and harmless, seemed to exude a fussy, melodramatic air that made her want to throw it in the bin. Nevertheless, reading it would only take a few minutes, and Martha was bound to mention it the next day so there was no excuse to put it off.

Easing herself into the chair, Minerva found herself struck by the handwriting - loopy and distinctive, somehow old-fashioned and quaint. For a moment, she gazed at it. There was an aura of familiarity about it; something she couldn’t put her finger on. She shook herself and began to read: she had never read Brian Potter’s handwriting before and there was no logical reason for it to be familiar.

Fifteen minutes passed. Scepticism gave way to astonishment, astonishment to awe, awe to vague annoyance. She set the essay back down on the table and stared out of the window distractedly.

The style was impressive, far beyond the standard of most Seventh-Years. Complicated technical terms littered the text and the subject was analysed in a depth Minerva knew the that even Transfiguration teacher-training board did not expect. Martha had been right - this sort of thing belonged in an international professional journal, not in a First-Year’s first essay. The mind who had written this was brilliant, with their knowledge standing beyond even her own, excelling her in reasoned speculation and theory. In fact, Minerva felt herself desiring to meet with the writer and have a good intellectual discussion about some of the issues they’d raised.

The name at the top of the parchment stood out at her again. Brian Potter.

She sighed and sat back. There was no doubt about it: the boy had either copied and not had the sense to copy something average and mediocre, or he had somehow persuaded a professional to write it. She fancied that there was something familiar about the style; perhaps she had read the work of the same writer in a book somewhere?

A disappointing, Slytherin-ish thing for the son of Harry and Ginny Potter to have done, she thought. Then fury fired her mind. Could she not suppress the prejudice? Would she always be looking for ways to think well of the children of her friends?

Trying to calm herself, Minerva got up and walked into her chambers, straight up to the bookcase. Stimulated by a First-Year essay, she took down a book and began to read, exhaustion forgotten.

---

The other boys had already gone down to breakfast by the time Albus woke up the next morning - with the exception of Eric, who had quite obviously waited for him.

“Good morning,” he said cheerily, as Albus washed and donned Brian’s school-robes. “Are you all right now?”

“Sorry?”

“Last night. When you were asleep. It looked like you were having a really weird nightmare.”

“Really?” asked Albus, a small version of himself beginning to jangle the alarm bells.

“Yeah - you went all rigid at one point, and nearly fell out of your bed. It really freaked me out. And you said something, too.”

Albus stared at Eric, desperately keeping the happy expression pasted on Brian’s face. What had he said? Had it been… Minerva? Why - why would his subconscious self want to call that?

Thank me when you’ve sorted your heart out as well as your head.

He knew the answer really. He just didn’t dare think it; the hopelessness of the situation-

“It sounded like ‘Serverus.’ Or ‘Siverus.’ Or ‘Severus.’ Something like that. And you said please to something. Can’t you remember what it was about at all?”

“No,” he blurted - but he felt the blood leave Brian’s face. Snape stood before him again, ignoring his pleas not to turn his back on truth and justice and Lily, raising his wand, face contorted, sending him to his death. The betrayal was like a knife entering his ribcage, coldly penetrating to his beating heart. Poor, damaged, guilt-wracked Severus, whom he’d cared for in a similar way to Harry, had turned into the malignant Snape, merciless and filled with contempt for the man who’d supported him. What had happened, what had he done wrong?

Eric was eyeing him oddly; Albus struggled to get control over his - and Brian’s - face, but the damage was done. Hopefully Eric would simply think it had been a horrific nightmare that Brian didn’t want to talk about, which wasn’t that far from the truth anyway. Neither spoke on the way down to breakfast.

Potions was first. Albus, too moved by the reported nightmare to try at pretences, brewed a perfect Anti-Boil potion that resulted in Slughorn talking fondly of Harry for half the lesson. Really, Albus thought half-indignantly, it wasn’t as if he had ever known Harry all that well. I had the monopoly there. The thought of Harry calmed him, steadied his shaken nerves.

Transfiguration came next, this time punctuated with inexplicably stony glances from Professor Read and convincing failures at simple Transfiguration spells. The advantage of having once been a teacher who had understood where students could go wrong allowed Albus the satisfaction of successfully answering a question incorrectly.

“Your homework is to practice,” Professor Read said reedily. “That is all.”

“Come on,” Eric said, as Albus packed away his bag.

“Brian Potter,” the teacher squawked just as both boys were about to leave the room. “See me. Run along, Mr Weasley.”

Confused, Albus walked up to Professor Read, head bowed in an accurate impersonation of a nervous pupil. Since Professor Read looked like the sort of person to be easily blown away by a strong gust of wind, such anxiety really did have to be feigned.

“Mr Potter. You are to come and see the Headmistress immediately.”

“Why, Professor?”

He was astonished he had managed to speak, to ask such an innocent question. Minerva’s face filled his brain - as it had been, strong and defiant, and as it was, hollow and pale. His body had frozen in shock; here it was, the ultimate test of his will, of his acting abilities, of his heart-

Professor Read looked outraged. “You may find wasting my time amusing, Mr Potter, but I assure you the Headmistress does not! Follow me!”

The corridors passed by like a dream. It occurred to Albus that, ironically, he felt just as any other First-Year would feel having been summoned to the head teacher’s office. His stomach twisted; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Minerva had found out somehow, had cooked up some excuse for Professor Read to take him to her office, in a few minutes time he would be pouring out the whole story to her…

Then, perhaps, one day he would be able to tell her what he felt. Perhaps he would be able to do so when Brian was a man and Minerva an ailing old woman on her death-bed-

Of course, she would die before him now. That fact was undeniable. It made him want to hurl himself out of the nearest window.

When Brian was a man and Minerva an ailing old woman - surely that would be better than when he was trapped in the body of a child? He couldn’t imagine the saying the words in a child’s voice whilst in a child’s body. The image was wrong. At least, if he told her at the last, then there would be a finality to it. There would be no need for rejections or pain, because she would be gone to her next great adventure…

“Such interesting thoughts you have,” the Sorting Hat said again, but bitterly.

“Ashes to ashes.”

The odd, macabre password was spoken quickly and the gargoyle leapt aside. They were ascending up stairs he still thought of as his own…

The door was before them. Professor Read rapped smartly on the wood, ignore the Griffin knocker. Albus stared at it vaguely, remembering what a terrific joke it had seemed when he’d installed it upon becoming headmaster. Griffin-door. Gryffindor. Now the door had become a portal to more than a joke.

There was an agonising silence, and then a curt reply.

“Enter.”

Reviews? *Pleads*

[FireBird]

I've read the story at FF.N by now, but I wanted to tell you again just how marvelous this story is. I truly love it beyond words!!

[Trulyamused]

Uh oh, Albus/Brian is in deep doo now.

Looking forward to what happens next.

Cheers,

Truly

[Apocalypticat]

I've just lost my temper with myself. I came back here occasionally, without logging in, with the result that someone messaged me asking where the rest of this was in October and I only replied to them now. I'm posting everything I can.

CHAPTER 11: Moving On

Minerva looked up as Professor Read and the wayward student entered. Around her, the portraits mimed sleep, snoring convincingly - but ever ready to listen in and get a piece of the gossip. Doubtlessly after Brian Potter had left, either Dippet or Nigellus would insist on airing their opinions on the child.

She glanced at the essay, sat ready on her desk, and nodded at Professor Read to leave. There was no point in becoming any more irritated than was necessary. Nevertheless, cheating was a serious matter, and the purpose of the interview was impress upon Brian the need for honesty in the future. Once the door had closed she looked up at the boy himself, to see what impression being summoned to the Headmistress’s office was making on him.

The child’s face was deathly pale and his blue eyes were wide; he was standing as far away from the desk as possible, seemingly transfixed by the sight of her. Minerva was put in the mind of shocked and terrified mouse being hynotised by a snake. Surely she wasn’t all that frightening?

The urge to soften the blow came to her and she frowned at the impulse. There was no sense in being gentle now if it simply resulted in Brian’s expulsion if he cheated at his OWLs. The problem had to be nipped in the bud.

“Mr Potter, please sit down,” she said crisply, fixing him with a disapproving glare.

Brian gaped at her, and she found herself thinking how dissimilar to his parents he was - and yet, how familiar his eyes seemed. He walked across the room and sat himself in the chair slowly, and ripped his face away from Minerva’s, turning it to his lap.

“Mr Potter, are you aware of why you have been summoned here today?”

The boy shook his head, his half-moon spectacles almost falling off. Minerva blinked; the glasses were an odd choice for an eleven-year-old.

“I think you are.”

He looked up and gave her a searching look with his sapphire eyes. She waited but he was apparently unable to speak, so she continued.

“Brian Potter, I would like to impress on you-” She stopped, suddenly remembering exactly who the boy was named after. What would He have thought, she thought bitterly, if He had known that the boy named after Him would turn out to be deceitful? Anger sharpened her words. “I would like to impress on you the seriousness of cheating at Hogwarts. We do not tolerate such deceit here.”

The boy stared at her insolently; he was obviously still pretending ignorance. Minerva felt her nostrils flare in irritation, and she picked up the essay and waved it at him.

“I want you to tell me whom or what you copied - for there is little doubt, Mr Potter, that you have copied. Trying to pass other people’s work as your own qualifies as theft. I am deeply shocked and disappointed in this behaviour, and further attempts to cheat will result in me contacting your parents.”

The child’s face suddenly sagged in horror as he gazed at the essay. Minerva gazed at him coldly; he had been found out, the lie had been unearthed.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I - I-” the student gulped.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, M-Professor.”

The Headmistress blinked and narrowed her eyes. M-Professor? Had the boy just been impertinent enough to try and address her by her name? A fire roared into life in her chest.

“Mr Potter,” she found herself whispering. “I will not suffer this impudence.”

His silence infuriated her.

“Explain yourself.”

Brian’s mouth worked. Then-

“I apologise, Professor. It won’t happen again,” he said smoothly.

Minerva stood up. Students who did wrong and denied it when caught were bad enough, but students like the one before her - who at first pretended ignorance and then apologised so slickly, insincerely - were beyond the pale. The boy was nothing like his parents, she thought fiercely, nothing at all. This was a reborn Draco Malfoy at the peak of his insolence and disregard for authority - that the child she had once held in her arms should turn into this-! She placed her hands at opposite ends of the desk and leaned forward, so that the boy sank back in his chair.

“I’m afraid that more than cursory apologies are needed here! I will not tolerate such lack of respect, Mr Potter! Detention, on Saturday at five o’clock with Mr Filch! Now tell me what source you copied from!”

“I d-didn’t, P-Professor! I honestly s-swear I didn’t copy from a-anything!”

There was something wrong about the stutter, as if the voice’s owner didn’t naturally stutter but had felt it necessary to produce a passable rendition. Minerva felt herself becoming incensed. She stared into the pale, shocked face, suddenly feeling as though the whole display was an act designed to placate her.

“Then I would very much like to know an alternative explanation!” She drew herself up to her full height. “You have blatantly either copied from a book or gotten someone else both older and cleverer than you to write it instead! Provide me with the source or I shall be forced to contact your parents.”

The boy gazed at her silently. His pale cheeks were beginning to flush and the blue eyes begged her not to do anything of the sort, but the pointed jaw remained clamped.

“Very well,” she said quietly. “I’m writing to your parents tonight. You may go. Don’t forget your detention on Saturday.”

He got up from the chair and left the office. As he did so, Minerva was satisfied to see that his small limbs were shaking very slightly. The moment the door closed behind him, the portraits began to mutter as she sat back down at the desk.

“Disgraceful behaviour,” declared Dippet. “Simply shocking.”

“In my day,” said Everard, “he would have been hung upside-down in the dungeons by his ankles and left there for a couple of hours.”

“Well, Headmistress, you certainly had him cowed,” commented Derwent, shaking her painted silver ringlets.

“On the contrary, Dilys,” Minerva stated coldly. “I believe he was considerably less frightened than how he appeared. A cold and calculating student.”

“Doubtlessly just the sort of boy Lestrange would have approved of,” Phineas Nigellus drawled, looking over at the mentioned former headmaster’s portrait only to find it empty. “But then, I never understood Dumbledore’s fixation on the father-”

“-Who has little to do with his son, personality-wise,” interrupted Minerva, irritated. It saddened her that He would most certainly have thought of the boy as a grandson - how disappointed He would have been!

She ripped a sheet of clean parchment from the roll inside the nearest drawer, and dipped a quill into some ink, wondering how to begin chastising the boy to his family. She was about to set point on paper when a small voice broke the overhead clamour.

“I wouldn’t dismiss the boy out of hand if I were you, Headmistress.”

Minerva looked around, at first confused - and then saw the Sorting Hat twitching on its shelf across the office. It was unusual for the hat to speak at all, and the portraits were automatically silenced.

“I saw some very… unusual things in his head. He won’t go through Hogwarts unnoticed, that’s for sure.”

She sniffed and turned back to the parchment. “Unusual, yes, but not desirable.”

---

Albus sagged against the stone wall outside the office and passed a hand over his eyes, trying to stop trembling. Every second in the office in front of Minerva had been like entering some sort of hellish underworld; first there had been the unpleasant jolt of discovering that he had absent-mindedly written the Transfiguration essay as if it was a theory paper for the Transfiguration Journal, then there had been the awful spectacle of Minerva’s anger - let alone the sheer pain of the her very presence! He had been torn between keeping the secret for the sake of the preserved happiness of others, blurting the truth out for his own happiness, and simply not wanting Minerva to think Brian was dishonest - the last resolution having failed miserably. There had been no easy excuse for the brilliance of the essay, no way of making Brian the apple of Minerva’s eye in defiance of what could only be seen as cheating. Now his old friend thought him an awful, deceitful pupil!

Albus had only ever been the subject of Minerva’s temper once or twice, and those few times had allowed him to be armed with some sort of defence. It was not her temper that had frightened him and had made Brian’s body shake so, but the misery of rejection and contempt from someone he cared about, someone whom the Sorting Hat felt he had to sort out his heart about. How he longed to just shout out the truth-!

The stones of the wall behind him dug coldly into his back. Harry’s reaction to a mere location had led to some sort of panic attack. Seventeen, nearly eighteen years had passed - how could his return be welcome, even to his old friends, when all his memory could arouse were thoughts of war and death? The widening gap of time between each Order reunion was testimony to the fact that people just wanted to move on. Harry and Ginny had deserved a real son, and deceit was necessary to maintain their joy in peace. Minerva also deserved peace; there was no unselfish reason to break it.

Anger made him thump a fist against the wall. Did he really value his happiness over Minerva’s? And how could he have been so stupid as to slip up so badly, to write a paper so far above First-Year level? Tricking Minerva required a greater attention to detail than with most people; he was quite certain the Headmistress had picked up on his badly suppressed urge to call her by her name. He had nearly ruined the lie of so many years just because of his blind enthusiasm for a subject and his inability to separate the past from the present. Look before you leap, old boy. One thing was certain: what he’d told Minerva was true; it really wouldn’t happen again.

“Brian? Mate, are you all right?”

Eric was walking towards him, staring at him worriedly.

“What happened? Did Professor Read shout at you or something? Why?”

Albus blinked and tried to calm himself down. “I got sent to the Headmistress’s office.”

Eric’s eyes widened. “Why? What happened?”

“They think I cheated on the essay. It was horrible; she shouted at me for an eternity and gave me detention on Saturday.”

The other boy gave a sympathetic groan, and then looked at him narrowly. “You didn’t, did you?”

“Of course not!”

“Don’t worry, I believe you,” said Eric, holding up his hands as if Albus had just pointed his wand at him. He beamed. “I bet it’s because you’re the cleverest student ever to come here and they just can’t believe their eyes.”

“Eric, it’s only been four days,” Albus laughed, determined to destroy the mistaken image of Brian-the-Boffin. “It could be downhill from here.” It will be, he thought, still furious at himself.

“I don’t think so. Come on - Herbology’s been cancelled, apparently Sprout has to do something to one of her plants today because it got damaged somehow. Let’s go back to the Common Room.”

Albus nodded and followed Eric back through the corridors and tapestries, calming himself down on the way. His situation couldn’t be helped; one could only hope that the deception held and that Minerva did not detest Brian as much as it had seemed. There was no point in reducing his persona to a quivering wreck in the meantime.

The Fat Lady grudgingly swung aside after demanding why they weren’t in lessons and the warmth of the Common Room engulfed them. The boys made their inconspicuous way over to the side of the room, away from where a group of Sixth-Years sat alternately studying and chatting in one of their frees. Albus was about to flop down as a realistically exhausted eleven-year-old having just ‘had his first blood’ in the Headmistress’s office, when one of the older boys yelled at him.

“Oi!” called Benjamin Stubbs, a tall and burly sixteen-year-old, from his seat near the fire. The Hogwarts Headmaster would probably have termed him to be a ‘well-grown lad;’ to young Brian he was a tower. “You there!”

“Me?” squeaked Eric.

“No, you! Squirt with the mad orange hair!”

“Benjamin!” scolded Abigail from her seat next to him.

“Well he is. Nearly Headless Nick wants a word with you-”

“Yes, he does,” agreed the ghost as he suddenly floated through the opposite wall, causing a gathering of painted inebriated wizards to cry out in disgust. Nick glided towards Albus whilst Eric leant forward in curiosity.

“Is it true that you’re Nearly Headless because-” he began.

“Later, later,” said Nick testily, eyeing Albus up and down. “The Bloody Baron’s looking for you,” he announced, raising one delicate ghostly eyebrow. “I have absolutely no idea why; he wouldn’t say. I hope you haven’t been getting into trouble, young Mr Potter - though it does run in the family, I must say. But you don’t look like your father - by Merlin, I swear you look like someone else, though whom I cannot say.”

Albus stiffened. The Gryffindor ghost had been an acquaintance of his true teenage self during his first time at Hogwarts; evidently some distant memory had been triggered. He was about to make some claim to the effect that Ginny had told him that he was a throwback to one of the old Prewetts on Molly’s side - an idea Nick would be unable to contradict as Molly’s brothers had been the first in their family to go to Hogwarts, when the ghost started and looked at him still more strangely.

“I say! I think I remember now! You look like a boy I used to know over a hundred years back! A funny madcap who kept on wearing a silly Muggle hat just because it wasn’t allowed. Got on the wrong side of the then Headmaster, I seem to recall. Goodness, I wish I could remember what his name was - I believe he turned out to be someone important-”

“What a bizarre coincidence,” Albus interrupted. “It’s strange how things happen like that.”

“Yeah,” said Eric helpfully. “Once, someone told me that I was identical down to the last freckle to their great-uncle as a boy, which is very strange because I’m not related to them at all!”

“Well, anyway… The Bloody Baron. I wouldn’t get mixed up with him if I were you. He said something about wanting to catch you before your lessons tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Albus replied. “So long as he’s reasonable about whatever it is.”

Nearly Headless Nick and Erin both looked at him with odd expressions. “You’re very confident for your age,” the ghost commented at last. “Don’t become rash now!”

---

Minerva McGonagall walked up to the Owlery, sealed letter in hand. Stepping delicately over the floor stained white by centuries of bird-droppings, she headed for the nearest school-owl, an elegant tawny. It really was a shame, she thought as she tied the letter to the bird’s leg. Harry and Ginny would certainly be less than happy.

Once the owl had flown off, she left the acrid stench of the tower for the battlements outside. September meant it was cold and windy; gusts teased at her silver hair, trying to entice it out of its bun. Dinner was drawing near but she had a strange compulsion to stand and watch the clouds for a bit, and think of nothing.

How long she stood there, she did not know, only that it was long enough for the chill to finally reach her bones and make her draw her cloak closer. Minerva turned to go back inside - and caught a glimpse of something red and gold.

The wind carried a melodic cry. Something was flying over past the Owlery, soaring towards the Forbidden Forest.

She looked up, and the breath caught in her throat. The red and gold feathers, the proud crest, the streaming tail - the thing flying towards the trees was a phoenix. She gulped and hobbled to the far end of the battlements, peering intently at the feathered form. Rolanda’s words came back into her head; was it His? Was it Fawkes?

The phoenix circled, turning back towards the castle. Minerva saw the crested head turn towards her, and the hundreds of feet that separated woman and bird were pierced by an intense look reminiscent of its owner. Suddenly, the idea of the phoenix being any other but Fawkes seemed preposterous. Convinced she was dreaming, the Headmistress let her walking stick fall and proffered an arm.

Albus and the phoenix were together in her mind, they always would be. Ever since she’d first walked into his office and seen both him and the bird look up at the same time - their heads both inclined quizzically to the side, the soft brown avian eyes seeming to imitate the sharp blue human ones - one could not exist without the other. In reality, it was impossible for the phoenix to be Fawkes because that would be too wonderful, too suggestive of an unattainable fantasy…

The phoenix was mere feet away now, obviously accepting the offer of her arm. Contrary to all reason, she could see that it was definitely Fawkes; there was something distinctive about the crest. The moment was so utterly surreal that she half expected to see Him appear round the side of the Owlery, humming a little tune.

Fawkes landed on her arm, and at the same time, footsteps could be heard echoing up the stairs in the tower. Minerva ignored them and crushed the bird against her chest, savouring the warmth of the feathers and deciding to enjoy the dream whilst she could.

“Fawkes,” she whispered. “What are you doing here, back again without your master?”

The phoenix squawked as though in protest, but rested its head against her shoulder. Minerva ran a finger down the proud neck and into the soft plumage.

“Minerva!” Rolanda’s voice said abruptly. “There you are! Listen, about what I said yesterday-”

“I know,” the Headmistress said, shocked, turning round. She knew it wasn’t a dream now; had it been a dream then the moment would have remained uninterrupted until Albus’s appearance. Stunned, she looked at the phoenix in her arms and then up at Rolanda, who was gaping at the scene.

“Oh,” said the flying instructor. “Ah. I see you’ve… so it is his then?”

Minerva nodded. “I’m not in the habit of embracing random birds,” she heard herself say vaguely.

Rolanda’s expression became tentative and awkward. “Are you all right?” she asked, peering at her carefully. “I mean, I know - well I don’t really - but it must be hard-”

“I’m perfectly well, Rolanda.” There was no sense in worrying her friend unnecessarily, after all. “It has come as a bit of a surprise…” The phoenix stared up at her. “Why has it returned now? After so many years?”

The other woman shoved her hands into her pockets and bit her lip. There was a pause in which Minerva did nothing but stroke Fawkes, and then the flying instructor finally spoke.

“You still aren’t really over it, are you? Minerva, it’s been nearly eighteen years.”

“Indeed,” she replied softly.

She heard Rolanda swallow. “I’m sorry. I just - well, I’ve never had feelings that strong… If it happened to me, I think I’d just… I’m sorry.”

“No, no - you’re right. I should have put it behind me by now. Any normal person would have.”

“Well,” continued Rolanda hesitantly, “you knew the man for simply decades… so I suppose it wasn’t a normal situation, really.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“This sounds really callous, especially considering what happened - but I almost wish I’d known someone like that.”

“There’s still time to meet him.”

The other professor snorted. “I doubt it. Especially when all I talk about is brooms and Quidditch.”

“All I ever was to Albus was a Deputy. A person to delegate tasks to.”

“Don’t be silly,” scolded Rolanda. “You were friends. If he’d just thought of you as Deputy then he wouldn’t have bothered having tea with you or giving you presents for your birthday or - or anything!”

Minerva sighed and stared out across the grounds. Her eyes were drawn to the corner where she knew His tomb to be and she tore herself away. “It really is time for me to move on.”

Fawkes crooned in her ear. She shivered: for one wild second it had reminded her of Albus’s voice.