Him Again (CHPT 31!)

[Apocalypticat]

Breakfast the next day was interrupted on several counts. First Eric was called away to have a private talk with Madam Hooch; a conversation that resulted in the boy’s face becoming as red as his hair in triumph, and a proud verbal parade of his talents for the benefit of the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, courtesy of Daniel Glover. Then came the ferocious argument between Benjamin Stubbs and Abigail Lupin: a row that transfixed the whole of Gryffindor table as well as some of the nearby Hufflepuffs, ending only when Professor Hagrid intervened (“If yeh don’t sit down right now and stop disruptin’ breakfast then I’ll have yer hauled up before Professor McGonagall. Is that clear?”). Lastly, and most spectacularly, was the arrival of the post - with two envelopes addressed to ‘Brian Potter,’ one normal and harmless and the other red and smoking.

“Oh dear,” said Eric, and covered his ears as Albus resignedly slit open the Howler.

“BRIAN POTTER!”

Half of the Great Hall was silenced at once; heads turned and talking stopped. Albus ignored the stares and gazed at the burning envelope, waiting for the storm to pass. Ginny’s voice seemed to increase in volume with every word, to the point where it was painful.

“HOW DARE YOU CHEAT ON AN ESSAY! WE RECEIVED A LETTER FROM THE HEADMISTRESS LAST NIGHT AND YOUR FATHER WAS APPALLED! WE BROUGHT YOU UP TO BE HONEST AND HARD-WORKING! HOW DARE YOU…”

Albus cringed and twisted his face in distress, hunching his shoulders and shaking his head. The impression of someone severely scolded and bitterly repentant was so convincing as to cause Eric to pat him comfortingly on the back and for Abigail to forget her argument and talk bracingly of ‘Howlers being a hard way to learn, but one day he would be grateful, etcetera.’ Once the Howler had fallen silent and crumbled to ashes, he reached for the second letter whilst biting his lip with apparent nerves.

Dear Brian,

Your mother is sending a Howler with this letter. Since you were probably forced to open that first, my anger and disappointment is no surprise to you.

Four days into the term, Brian. I expected better of you.

Dad

“Well at least he’s short and to-the-point,” said Eric, reading over his shoulder.

Albus folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Had Brian been a genuine boy, he thought, considering his close relationship with Harry, those few lines would have been devastating. He hunched his shoulders higher and bowed his head and spent the rest of the meal staring into space, effecting very weak smiles at Eric’s attempts to cheer him up.

As the rest of the school left the hall for the first of morning lessons, Albus hung back, nodding at Eric to go. The Bloody Baron’s request had not left his mind from the moment it had entered it. The Slytherin ghost had not even been a vague acquaintance from his school-days, and as Nearly Headless Nick had failed to put a name to his face, he felt the risk of discovery was low. On the other hand, what other reason did the ghost have for contacting him? An idea had occurred whilst reading Harry’s gruff letter: perhaps Harry had once had some sort of involvement with the Bloody Baron - probably a negative one given his Gryffindor status - and the ghost wanted to meet the son because of the father? Whatever it was, he was about to find out.

He walked slowly to one of the entrances with the last few stragglers. Soon enough, the Bloody Baron appeared from the crowd, silver robes shining with ghostly blood. Albus looked at the ghost with a frightened expression, knowing full well that most First-Years would be intimidated by the unpleasant sight of the Baron.

“Come with me,” the Bloody Baron groaned.

As Headmaster, Albus had known relatively little of the Baron - simply that Peeves would sometimes do his bidding, and that the ghost was one of few words and an unfriendly disposition. He followed Brian’s new acquaintance down the corridors curiously, but was unsurprised as the path turned downwards into the dungeons, into an empty classroom. The talk was obviously to be private.

“P-Please,” he stammered once they’d halted. “What d-do you want with me? I’m in Gryffindor-”

“I know,” came the awful hollow voice of the Baron, and the dead blank eyes bored into him. “I know who you are.”

Albus blinked - and then realised that the ghost was probably simply referring to his House. “What d-do you w-want-?”

“I know who you are. You don’t need to pretend, Headmaster.”

“H-Headmaster?”

“Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.”

He sat down on the nearest chair, more surprised than alarmed. “How did you know?”

“I recognised you,” the ghost moaned. “I remember you.”

“But I never knew you whilst I was at school,” Albus protested, running a hand through his auburn hair worriedly. The Baron’s knowledge seemed entirely inexplicable. Had his carelessness with the essay somehow filtered down to the ghosts? Had the Baron assembled the jigsaw when he had access to only a few paltry pieces?

“No. But I remember you. You were the Gryffindor who ruined Slytherin’s chances. I hated you, for the sake of my House. I heard other rumours also, about you. Things you did.”

Albus frowned. He found himself wishing fervently that his past self had been considerably less memorable than he was proving. Patiently, he waited for the next inevitable questions of why and how, only to find his endurance unpaid. The Baron’s blank eyes were wholly incurious; the thought of an animated statue came into his head, uncomplaining, uncaring.

“I request that you do not inform anyone of my identity,” he said at last.

“I am Bound to the castle and the head teacher. If Professor McGonagall should ask, then I am Bound to tell.”

“Yes, yes, of course - but you will not directly inform anyone in the school otherwise?”

“No, Headmaster.”

“Not even members of your House?”

“No, Headmaster.”

“Thank you.” He got up to leave, but the ghost spoke again.

“Headmaster, your secret is not safe. The old portraits may recognise you. Some of them talk about you, saying you look like someone from long ago.”

Albus nodded; the thought had occurred to him. Luckily the solution was relatively easy: a spell that would cloud the memories of most of the portraits in the castle - a mild variant of Obliviation. Performing it that very afternoon seemed a good idea, especially considering what the Baron had said.

“Thank you, Baron. I will deal with that problem today.”

Hefting his school-bag, Albus left the classroom, revelling in the unexpected acquiescence of the Slytherin ghost. The mechanical voice called out after him.

“Headmaster, be careful. There have never been two head teachers of Hogwarts in castle at the same time before.”

---

Months passed. Autumn turned to Winter, after which came Spring, which breathed warmth throughout the grounds, tempting flowers out of the earth and finally healing a certain prize Tantacula to even Pomona‘s satisfaction. Eric Weasley, new Gryffindor Chaser, triumphed spectacularly against the surprised Ravenclaws, and Abigail Lupin began dating Benjamin Stubbs, to the surprise of everyone around. The school-year settled into its usual grind, and there were no further disturbances in the staff room.

Brian Potter was soon noted to be a very average student, his talents ranging from mediocre to acceptable - despite his initial promise and to the great consternation of Professor Read, who was taunted about the ‘academic peak’ for at least seven weeks afterwards. He sank into banality, to be remembered rarely and spoken of never again. His subsequent Transiguration essays (eyed suspiciously and coldly by his teacher) were adequate but not worth mention.

The routine of faculty life was only altered slightly, in that the Headmistress would inexplicably request bird-feed from Hagrid and that a careful observer would have seen the nightly visits of a phoenix to the head teacher’s tower. Yet Sybil Trelawney continued to request the ejection of Firenze monthly and the relationship between Potions Master and Herbology Professor remained rather cool and distant but warmed as the Tentacula‘s ‘condition’ improved.

Such a general mood of content made the Headmistress, armed with her new comfort, feel rather at odds with the Sorting Hat - the tip of which regularly twitched, as though the mind inside was infuriated.

CHAPTER 12: Generosity

The Easter holidays arrived, alternately marked with rain and sun. The holiday week saw a mood of tranquillity and snatched relaxation descend upon the castle; many students had gone home for the chocolate-dominated festivities, and the OWL and NEWT students seemed to disappear almost from existence, retreating to the Common Rooms to cram in sessions of belated revision. The faculty took a collective deep breath in preparation for the exams - harried-looking teachers could be seen flopped in the staff room, clutching cups of tea to themselves with the determination of people who knew that the peace wouldn’t last long. The corridors became empty, the Great Hall’s size emphasised by its lack of incumbents. The Hogwarts Headmistress was disturbed less and less for business, instead Rolanda and Poppy forced Minerva down from her office and outside.

“Come out and enjoy the sunshine,” Poppy said repeatedly.

Yet the sunshine was fitful, soon surrendering to the rain clouds. More than once, picknicking faculty members were forced to beat a hasty retreat, rushing to cover over food and fold up blankets. Minerva was, however, not unhappy to sit in the staff room or in the office. Periods of loneliness never lasted long as either friend would soon appear in the doorway and drag her down “for some company.”

Thursday afternoon of the Easter week saw her in the office writing a long letter to Eleanor Reeves. Really, she thought fondly, such a waste of parchment was hardly justified: the letter was about both nothing and everything - yet Eleanor would lap it up and send an equally long reply back, again about nothing and everything. The joy of distant, reciprocated correspondence had absorbed her for a few hours before there was a knock on the door.

“Enter,” she called, expecting either Rolanda or Poppy - or even Filius, who seemed to delight in pottering around the office nattering about all the jokes he’d ever heard. The door opened, and there was a marked silence.

Rolanda’s entries were manifest with cheery greetings, Poppy always made some summary statement regarding her health, a topic that seemed endlessly fascinating to the Healer, and Filius squeaked whenever he passed through the doorway. The person who had just entered, however, merely hovered and said nothing. Curious and surprised, Minerva looked up from the letter.

Aberforth Dumbledore stood in the doorway, scowl in place, clutching a parcel to his chest. The scraggy grey beard was as tangled as ever, the hair as unkempt, the robes patched and worn, the bristling eyebrows lowered. Minerva stared at him.

“Aberforth,” she said blankly. The old wizard hadn’t visited since before the school-year had started - and, given that encounter, she hadn’t expected him to do so again.

“Professor McGonagall,” he muttered, frowning and sitting down in the seat opposite with the attitude of waiting at a dentist’s. The smell of goats drifted across the desk.

Minerva waited, trying to disguise her astonishment with a prim, expectant expression. She wanted to ask for the reason for his visit, but her last attempt stood out painfully in her mind. The most likely reason was out of pity, or perceived duty - hadn’t he said something to that effect last time? Yet there was no point in offending him by asking, so she simply watched him from behind her horn-rimmed spectacles, waiting.

“You are well?” he growled at last, voice deep and throaty.

“Very well, thank you.”

“Good, good.”

“I suppose the Hog’s Head is very busy around this time of year.”

“Busy enough, busy enough.”

“Hagrid sometimes goes there. His favourite is the Redcurrant Rum.”

“Yes, men of his type tend to like that.”

She resisted the urge to sigh. This conversation was turning out to be a repeat of the last. She opened her mouth to made a pointless, polite enquiry into his own health when Aberforth suddenly thrust the parcel at her, as though trying to hand over something both dangerous and undesirable.

“This is for you.”

When she failed to take it, he dumped it on the desk and sat back, glaring at her. Shocked, she fingered a corner of the brown paper. A present? From Aberforth?

“What-”

“It’s for you,” the old man said, almost defiantly. His face was hard, unreadable. “It’s nothing important.”

“Nothing important?” she repeated.

“No. Just some old junk.”

“Some old junk?”

“Don’t parrot me, woman!” The blue eyes blazed with sudden anger, the lines in his face deepened.

“Aberforth…” Minerva said disbelievingly. “There’s no… obligation for you to-”

“There isn’t, is there?” Each word was weighted, suggesting obligation in every syllable. The glower increased in intensity.

The Headmistress stared at the parcel. Nothing important… some old junk… obligation. A confused anger shot through her chest.

“I don’t need charity,” she whispered.

The old man’s frame stiffened. “You aren’t a beggar, are you?”

“Most certainly not.”

“Then it’s not charity! Don’t you expect it, either!” he snarled.

“I expect nothing of you!” she snapped. “Your visits are completely incomprehensible. You informed me last time that you ‘detested this blasted place’ and now you decide to make a gift of some of your ‘old junk!’ I think I would much rather opt out of your generosity, Mr Dumbledore.”

She expected him to stand and storm out; instead he remained seated and silent. The scruffy bearded jaw tightened and face became cliff-like, the eyes chasms.

“I do detest this blasted place,” he said harshly.

“Then you may leave.”

“I do not detest you.”

A cloud passed over the sun outside. The office darkened and then lightened; the first drops of rain began to beat against the window panes. A raven gave a sharp cry and then fell silent. Inside the tower, several of the portraits opened their eyes; the fake snores ceased. A barely perceptible shiver passed around the painted former head teachers, as though a ghost had glided through the wall. The tone of the last speaker’s voice hung in the air: significant, heavy, cracked with unexpected emotion.

Minerva looked away and down at the parcel, ears ringing. Impossible, chanted her brain. Impossible, impossible, he can’t have meant it in that way-

She sensed him stand up, the chair scraped back. Her hands went forward without any conscious intervention and seized the brown paper, ripping it apart. The rustling dominated the room, the castle, the whole world. The footsteps towards the door stopped.

An embossed book sat on the desk, a rich deep purple in colour and edged with gold. The front bore no title, but had instead the gold-traced design of the outline of a phoenix, breathing expense. Dazedly, she flipped the book open - and froze.

Albus grinned up at her, Fawkes on his shoulder, his joy limited only in the constraints of a photo. Another photo underneath showed the former Headmaster at his inauguration ceremony, shaking hands with a nameless official whose presence was entirely eclipsed the man standing next to him. Blue eyes twinkled, spectacles gleamed. His innate cheerfulness and innocent genius seemed to emanate upwards from the page and hit her in the face.

She turned more pages, stunned. He winked and smiled from every side. Certain images stood out at her - that of Albus standing next to her in a picture of the Hogwarts staff, looking as though it had been cut from the overseas prospectus, that of Albus dancing with her at the Yule Ball of 1994, beard and hair shining from the lighted candles hovering overhead, that of Albus sitting at the centre of the newly-founded Order of the Phoenix… Each photo had writing beneath it - clumsy, poorly-formed writing, as though the writer was not used to applying a pen to anything, the words misspelt and simplistic. ‘Albus with proffesors.’ ‘Albus at Yool Ball.’ ‘Albus fownds Order.’ ‘Albus with Fawkes.’ The entries were dated and appeared to be in chronological order - but backwards, starting with the most recent photos and most likely ending with the oldest.

Minerva felt the blood leave her face. She looked up at Aberforth, shaken. The album was expensive, the photos carefully arranged and ordered, the labels hand-written… The gift was staggering.

Aberforth was looking narrowly at her, with a somewhat bitter expression. He took a step backwards when she looked up, as if to leave, and aimed his eyes elsewhere.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “Thank you. You did not pay for this… you did not do this… all by yourself?”

He grunted. “Found a load of old photos. Scrounged around a bit… thought you might like it.”

“I do. More than I can say.”

“Really?” The blue eyes locked with hers.

“Yes. This is the best gift I have ever received… and the most sensitive… the most-” Minerva cut herself off, speechless. What did it mean?

The immovable face twitched.

“Well, I’ll be going then.”

“Thank you,” she whispered again.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered huskily, sounding angry once more, waving a hand as though swatting a fly. “It’s not worth a damn thing.”

The door opened and shut: Aberforth was gone. Minerva stared at the front of the photo album, feeling the phoenix design being seared into her brain. A small printed label near one corner modestly informed her that the design was ‘specially customised by Lancing Special Deeds Ltd.’ Why, she thought dazedly. Why go to all the trouble? What did it mean?

I do not detest you.

She buried her face in her hands. It was too early to examine her emotions, too early to understand what had happened. The portraits broke out in a cacophony behind her.

“What a thoroughly undignified fellow,” Phineas Nigellus commented.

“By Merlin! How exciting!” Dippet laughed.

“I do declare the man holds our Headmistress in some esteem,” said Derwent delicately.

“’Some esteem?’” repeated Everard, grinning. “Well, he said he did not hate her-”

Dippet gave a roguish wink, an action that looked entirely foreign to the frail old wizard. “A knight in shining armour!”

“I would hardly call him that,” sniffed Phineas. “The man looks like a doormat. I wouldn’t have let him in-”

“Isn’t it a bit ironic, though?” Everard said vaguely. “Him proclaiming his feelings with a photo album crammed full of his brother?”

“That’s enough!” Minerva heard herself say. “There is no need to leap to conclusions.”

She got up and walked over to the window, watching the rain smear the dirt off the glass. Aberforth’s gift sat on the desk behind her like a murder weapon, screaming suggestions. Proclaiming his feelings? No! He was happy with his goats - and all he had said was that he did not detest her-

The Headmistress took the album with her to the private chambers, to remain transfixed by the first two pages until exhaustion forced her to bed. Meanwhile, the portraits whispered, argued and ‘leapt to conclusions,’ with half of the paintings deciding that the old wizard was bound to “sweep the Headmistress off her feet, a rose in his hand and a serenade on his lips” and the other half declaring him to be an “asexual madman, as incapable of feeling as Phineas.”

“Charming,” the former Headmaster muttered.

[Apocalypticat]

“Brian!”

Albus opened his eyes to see Eric’s concerned face inches from his own. Blinking, he pushed his head back into the pillows. Eric blushed and withdrew, allowing him to reach for his spectacles and push them up his nose. Brian’s bedroom, decked cunningly in Chudley Cannons posters, sprang back into focus.

“Sorry to shout in your ear like that,” said Eric sheepishly, seated back on the camp-bed Harry had conjured for him the night before. “You were having another nightmare.”

Albus sighed and smiled at him reassuringly, sitting up. Now that he looked around properly, he could see fading stars through the gap between the bedroom curtains. Dawn’s symphony of birds had seemingly just started and Eric was blinking sleep from his eyes.

“I didn’t wake you up?”

“Well - not really. I woke up on my own and looked up to see you tossing and turning like mad.”

“Oh. Thank you for waking me up, then.”

“S’alright.”

Eric smiled encouragingly at him. Albus suppressed another sigh. It was April, yet the atmosphere between the boys remained awkward, punctuated by reassuring nods and tentative enquiries. Unsure as to how to act, he had made Brian shy and retiring, saying little, willing to let others do the talking. It had seemed the wisest course of action, as more than once he had said something that seemed out of place or out of generation. Several times Albus had fallen back into his whimsical, decorative way of speaking - something which Harry and Ginny had treated as normal and just a part of Brian, but seemed less acceptable in the company of other eleven-year-olds.

Most of his year - at least, those who had spoken to him - regarded him as a bit odd. He suspected that they themselves couldn’t explain it; there was, as he’d heard someone remark, “just something kind of weird about him.” Only Eric talked to him regularly, having apparently gotten the impression that Brian was merely extremely coy, and determined to bridge the gap between himself and his mysterious uncle. Mark Scott and Daniel Glover both liked Eric Weasley, and so they were forced to tolerate Brian. Mark continued to think him too pompous to speak, whilst Daniel had fallen into the habit of ignoring him. Even Cal Smith had taken a few steps from outside of his shell and was showing more social intelligence than Brian.

From an entirely practical point of view, Albus felt that it was for the best. The more people kept Brian at arms-length then the less they could discover, and it placed his acting abilities under less strain. Yet the emotional aspects of it all were more complicated. Harry’s sensitive proximity to his son had soon meant that he’d picked up what had been left out of the weekly letters home.

Dear Brian,

You certainly sound as though you’re enjoying yourself! Glad to hear that you don’t find your teachers too awful - though Professor Read does sound very irritating. I agree that Slughorn does come across as very materialistic, but I can assure you that he’s relatively harmless, compared to Hagrid at least.

How is Hagrid? Do you visit him at all? You should; I used to visit him a lot in my school-days and I’m sure he’d like a chat with you.

Who do you talk to? You haven’t mentioned your friends or the rest of Gryffindor yet. Feel free to invite people over for Christmas.

Harry

Dear Brian,

I think you’ll just have to bluff your way through the History essay. I’m afraid I don’t remember anything from Binns’s classes at all; I usually went to sleep. I’m surprised he’s still there - but I suppose they’re stuck with him forever since he’s a ghost.

Yes, I did manage to catch Crabbe. We cornered him in a small village in Kent, running a racket in stolen goods. I promise to give you a blow-by-blow account in my next letter, it was very exciting. His son had been covering for him all these years. I can’t say how much this means - only three Death Eaters left in the world. I’m sorry, I’m rambling about the war again, aren’t I? Thank you for humouring me and pretending to find it interesting.

You know, you were perfectly welcome to invite your friends over for Christmas. Come to think of it, you haven’t told me about them, yet.

Must dash!

Harry

Dear Brian,

Ravenclaw vs. Gryffindor? I hope you’re carrying the Gryffindor pride high, Brian. I have to say that I’m not surprised at all to hear about Eric Weasley - the Weasleys and their brooms are as one! Glad to know I pipped him to the post as the youngest in a century, however!

Do you talk to Eric? You still haven’t said a word about your friends. I assume Eric is one because you devoted a paragraph to him in your last letter. I hope you’ve made some good mates.

Harry

So the letters had continued, each one becoming more pronounced in worry. Harry and Ginny would undoubtedly become alarmed if they saw neither hide nor hair of someone who could be called ‘Brian’s friend.’ He had resignedly written back about Eric and then endured the inevitable: You’re welcome to invite him over. Still uncomfortable with the level of acting that was required for the one-on-one interaction that would occur if Eric came over, he had dodged the insistent invitations - until Eric had asked himself.

“One day, can I meet your dad, Brian? He sounds really cool.”

Albus strongly suspected that Eric had been force-fed tales of Harry by Bill and Fleur. The image was all too easy to call to mind:

“’E dived into the water and saved ‘er, when she was not even ‘is ‘ostage, Eric. ‘E is wonderful. Il est incroyable et un defeater de mal. Un héros!”

At first he had been inclined to create some excuse - but the test couldn’t be avoided forever. If Eric could stay with him for a few days, the last half of the Easter holiday, without picking up on anything strange at all, then his pseudo-identity could be viewed as secure. If a canny young person the same age as Brian suspected nothing, then it was unlikely anyone else would.

“Was it the same dream?”

Albus firmly returned himself to the present. The nightmares involving Snape occurred every now and then - enough to attract the attention of Eric and alert him as to their regularity. The former Headmaster assumed that the nearness of the Astronomy Tower and the location of the betrayal had triggered the dreams, but an innocent explanation was needed to satisfy the other boy. Thus the Dark Elephant had been concocted.

The idea had been totally random, improvised on the spot, but it was easier to pretend that it was the same basic nightmare then create a new one every time. Eric’s lips twitched whenever it was mentioned and Albus himself derived some amusement from the concept - dream-Brian was involved in a lengthy fight against the Dark Elephant, who would pursue him through various fantastical landscapes plagued by banana-peel, malfunctioning broomsticks and a talking owl. Further embellishments were added each time.

“Yes,” he said - and launched into an explanation of how the Dark Elephant had chased him into Professor Read’s office, thrown the teacher out the window and crushed several of Hagrid’s giant cabbages to pulp.

“Sounds terrifying,” laughed Eric - who then gulped and looked apologetic. “I mean-”

“Don’t worry. I find it hilarious too, once I’ve woken up. It’s only whilst I’m dreaming it that I’m frightened.”

“Oh. Okay then.” The other boy brightened. “I was too tired to mention it last night - but I take it you’re a Chudley Cannons fan?”

The orange posters screamed at them from every surface. “Yes.”

“Our Uncle-”

“-Is the best player in the universe.”

Eric grinned and flushed, as if Ron was his personal property. “I've heard he’s thinking of retiring soon. He says the Bludgers are getting to him.”

“Yes, they tend to do that.”

“Is it time for breakfast yet?” Eric’s tummy gave a loud rumble. “Sorry!”

“No, I’m hungry too. Let’s see whether my parents are up.”

Albus got up and tip-toed out onto the landing, eyes on the doorway next to Brian’s room. Eric hovered outside as he poked his head in, smiling wryly at how he had once done the same as a genuine preadolescent. In the dimness, he could make out the huddled form of Ginny - but the other side of the bed was conspicuously empty. Harry wasn’t there.

Frowning, he withdrew his head and shook it. “Mum’s there, asleep - but Dad’s gone.”

His friend raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “He must have been called out.”

“Probably - though it must be quite an emergency if he’s needed this early.”

“Doesn’t that happen often then?”

“Only once before. I know they were looking for Amycus…”

Eric’s expression turned to one of impressed puzzlement. The boy leaned forward on his toes, obviously eager for news of dramatic chases and fights. “Who’s he?”

“He was a Death Eater during the war,” Albus said, wincing at the memories that arose. That particular dark wizard had been present up on the Astronomy Tower at the time of Snape’s betrayal. Pushing down that depressing thought, he continued talking as they headed downstairs to fix breakfast. “Apparently he ran away during the final battle. They’ve been searching for him ever since - and I know that they got some sort of lead a few days ago.”

“Does your dad tell you everything that happens with the Aurors?” Eric asked as Albus prepared cereal.

“No,” he replied, making his voice sound frustrated and impatient. “He only tells me things after it’s all over, and he won’t even tell me how he defeated Voldemort. He says I’m too young.”

The frustration at that last point did not have to be faked. To be the leader of the forces of light, to found the Order, to coordinate the resistence and search for the Horcruxes - and then to be denied knowledge of the fall of his enemy - was agonising. Harry had talked seriously of Horcruxes, determined to impress on Brian their evil and corruption, but then had shut his mouth firmly and refused to open it any further on the subject, saying that he did not want Brian “upset about things he didn’t understand.” For the first time, ‘Brian’ had drawn close to arguing with his father - only to be softened by Harry’s emotions.

“One day I promise I’ll tell you everything,” Harry had whispered, his back to him. “I don’t know how, but I swear I shall. I’ll leave nothing out - if need be, I’ll write it down and you’ll find out that way. You’re an intelligent boy, Brian, but you’re far too young. I don’t want you upset by things that happened a long time ago.”

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” he’d replied softly, desperately. He didn’t want to know the ‘everything’ Harry was talking about - not the feelings, not Harry’s personal painful struggles - information he had no right to, especially when technically living under a false identity. Information that could only pain him. “I justed wanted to know… the basics.”

“One day I’ll tell you. Not now. All I’ll say now is that the one thing the war taught the world was that trying to become immortal is wrong. Nobody lives forever. Once someone dies, they’re gone.”

Except me, he’d thought.

“That sucks,” Eric said. Albus shook himself, trying to gather his scattered thoughts and focus on the present. “But at least he tells you some of what happens.”

“I guess so.”

CRACK! CRACK!

Eric dropped his bowl, sending milk and frosted flakes spraying over the floor. A man and a woman had Apparated straight into the kitchen and appeared mere feet away. The woman Albus recognised at once to be Tonks, her hair bubblegum-pink but her eyes set in dark circles of weariness. The man was a stranger but looked around the kitchen as though it was familiar territory.

“Oh my goodness! Sorry!” Tonks exclaimed, seeing the boys. She aimed a small smile at Albus. “Wotcher, Brian! Up early, aren’t you? Sorry to Apparate straight in like this but time’s running short! Could you go and wake your father up for us?”

“He’s out. I looked in and he wasn’t there.”

The other man, evidently also an Auror, cursed. “Damn! He must have been tipped off about the decoy!”

“Don, you get to the Ministry. Hopefully he’s found out it was just a distraction by now and has gone back to base. I’ll get back to Hogwarts-”

“Hogwarts! Has a student been harmed?” Albus heard himself demand authoritatively. He found himself stepping forwards, out of Brian’s character and into his own.

Tonks and the man known as Don blinked at him. The Matamorphmagus scratched her nose and nodded at the man. With a crack he was gone and the remaining Auror turned back to the two boys.

“Can’t say much, Brian. Let’s just say we’ve received evidence that someone’s on their way to Hogwarts, probably with nothing good in mind. You may as well tell your mum that Harry won’t be back for some time - this is big. Get all the juicy bits from your dad later, okay?”

CRACK!

Albus was left staring at empty air. Both curiosity and worry peaked, he sat down in the nearest chair, cereal forgotten. It seemed strange that the whole Auror Department should be driven into action by a single individual, and it made him uneasy. How he longed for his old powers and body, so that he could go and get to the bottom of things himself! It was the first time any sort of emergency had occurred since the war - and now, here he was, forced to be a passive element.

“Blimey...” said Eric, shocked.

---

Aroused at an unholy hour, Minerva descended the flights of stairs with haphazard precision, walking-stick tapping on the ground with every harried step. Loud voices, among them Filius’s high-pitched squeak, floated up to her from the Entrance Hall. As she approached the last flight of stairs the sources of the noise came into view: a group of Aurors, two speaking urgently to the Deputy Headmaster and the others prowling around, wands out and faces grim. The sight snapped the Headmistress to attention, and made the walking-stick tap faster.

Filius and the Aurors turned around as she descended towards them - one even pointed his wand at her. She shot a glare at the Auror in question and swept towards Filius.

“Really!” squeaked the miniature wizard indignantly. “I don’t see the need to be cautious against the Headmistress!”

“Higgins, put your wand down,” barked a familiar voice. Kingsley Shacklebolt shook his head despairingly and nodded an apology.

“What is going on?” she demanded, deciding preliminaries could wait. “Why have the Aurors been summoned?”

“I’m afraid we weren’t summoned; we were forced to come,” Shacklebolt said wearily. “We have reason to believe that an ex-Death Eater is on his way to Hogwarts to rendezvous with another-”

“Another? You mean to suggest that another ex-Death Eater is lurking somewhere near the school?”

“That’s what we’ve been led to believe. As you can see, we’re on full alert. Once the Chief Auror gets here-”

Minerva glanced at the prowling mass of Aurors. “Why so many? Surely two individuals can be dealt with with less than the whole of the Auror Department?”

“Forgive me, Professor McGonagall, but there’s also reason to believe that there could be more than two dark wizards involved.”

“Some sort of gathering?” she asked, with growing alarm. The thought of sitting and writing letters in her office whilst outside a gathering of darkness occurred-!

“Let’s not exaggerate the situation,” another Auror, a blonde-haired woman, said in a reedy voice. “There are probably just two, but there’s a risk of more.”

Other voices broke in and there was a collective surge of hands to wands as Tonks appeared in the Front Entrance, her own at the ready. Filius squeaked in surprise and leapt backwards, treading on an Auror’s foot - the owner of which swore and dropped his pocket Sneakoscope with a splintering crash. Minerva felt herself becoming irritated by the whole affair.

“-The problem is, he’s such a focus for Neo-Dark propaganda-”

“-Amycus’s choice of direction is certainly worrying - and the fact that he’s made it known-”

“-More than enough motivation, Brian Potter-”

“-Neo-Dark? Bloody fools, getting Dark Mark tattoos for fun-”

“-Ministry will panic if it’s more than just him; wouldn’t look good for Hawkins-”

BANG!

The cacophony was silenced; Harry Potter stood beside the large double front doors, having just slammed one shut. Minerva watched the transformation of the remembered boy and quiet young man into Chief Auror with fascination; Harry was stepping forwards, his face drawn but his look intense, giving commands and soaking in proffered information like a sponge. There was a distinct air of authority about him: the scar on his head a badge of honour and his posture tensed and powerful like a great cat’s. The Headmistress had occasionally wondered why he continued to work as an Auror; wasn’t Harry thoroughly fed up of battling dark wizards? Hadn’t the war been enough? She questioned it no longer; it was plain to her now that he lived for it, allowed his soul to come to the surface through his job.

“Professor McGonagall,” he said, nodding politely at her, expression severe. There was fire burning in those emerald eyes, a fire both hungry and fierce.

“What is going on?” squeaked Filius confusedly as the Aurors moved towards the front doors. “Who is Amycus meeting?”

“Someone who might be a focus for all the remaining dark elements, Professor,” the Chief Auror answered, marching across the Entrance Hall.

“Who?” Minerva asked.

Harry looked at her levelly. The fire roared higher, demanded sacrifice.

“Severus Snape.”

CHAPTER 13: The Dark Manifesto

The Aurors dispersed, separating into three separate groups at the Chief Auror’s behest. The grounds were pitch-black and the wind cutting, ripping through cloaks like a dozen freezing knives. Harry’s eyes locked with Shacklebolt’s and Tonks’s; something emotive and solemn seemed to pass between them. The moon was not bright enough to cast shadows, yet the silhouette of the Astronomy Tower filled the grounds, reminding him, reminding them all.

“Shacklebolt, take your group outside the grounds,“ Harry ordered, his voice rising and falling with the wind. “Detain anybody going in or out. Tonks - you and your lot search the grounds themselves. I’ll be heading into the Forbidden Forest with the rest. If there’s the slightest sign of movement, Stun first and ask questions later. Got that?”

There was a collective cry of assent, and the other two groups disappeared, the Aurors melting away into mere whispers and tramping feet. Harry eyed the shapeless mass of trees warily as the wind dried the back of his throat, and then gestured quickly. The cloaks around him flapped as their owners manoeuvred themselves into formation and the search began.

Tree trunks reared ominously around them; Harry was forcefully reminded of his first visit into the Forbidden Forest - which had also seen his first encounter with Voldemort since his parents’ deaths. Tension electrified his muscles and impatience bit at him. Tonight was the night that an innocent death would be avenged-

Avenged? piped up a small voice in his brain. What happened to flinging him in Azkaban? Avenge?

Yes, thought Harry savagely. Sirius had proved that Azkaban could be escaped from and the lack of Dementors meant that the prison was no longer sufficient punishment. As for ethics, Snape had waived his right to any ethics-

Sirius’s wasted, serious face flashed before him. “I would say he became as ruthless and cruel as many on the Dark side.”

He shuddered. But that wasn’t the same, was it? Crouch had used Unforgiveables against Death Eaters, had denied them trial-

Avenge, though? How am I to do that without Avada Kedavra?

It just wasn’t the same, he told himself firmly. Snape had killed a man who had put his trust in him, who had defended him until the end. Snape was far more guilty than any of the Death Eaters Crouch had acted against, for they had never become double-agents… The Dementors had still been there, back then; Azkaban had been hell for those who deserved it…

CRACK!

He halted. Somewhere nearby, a twig had been trodden on.

Another gesture froze the Aurors. His ears strained. Again-

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The sound of crushed undergrowth was growing louder; someone was moving towards them without attempting to conceal their approach-

Higgins, the youngest and most nervous, surged forwards.

“STUPEFY!”

Red stung Harry’s eyes. There was the swishing sound of a shield being erected, and a ping as the spell hit. Scarlet flashed away into the bushes, illuminating a raised walking stick-

“HOLD FIRE!” the Chief Auror bellowed. Someone let out a cry and wrenched their wand upwards, away from the target. Crimson flame burst upwards into the sky; for a second everything was bathed in red light-

“Professor McGonagall!” he snarled.

The silhoette of his old Head of House fuelled his fury: not only had she foolishly wandered into a high-alert situation but her presence had probably also caused any Forest inhabitants to be alerted to their existence. Who could have missed the red flare in the sky, announcing their position to anyone watching? Snape had quite possibly Disapparated during that one, vital second. For a minute he was speechless, doubting his ability to say anything without sounding rude.

“Er… sorry,” Higgins whimpered.

Harry cleared his throat and spoke coldly, bitterly. “What are you doing here, Headmistress?”

Her crisp voice echoed angrily back at him out of the dark. “I was under the impression that it was a duty of mine of investigate possible hazards to students, Mr Potter.”

As his eyes became accustomed, he could see her gaunt face mere feet away, fixed into an expression of incensed determination. The sight was infuriating.

“That is the job of the Auror Department,” he snapped, struggling to keep his voice low. “We best work without interference from members of the public-”

“Mr Potter, I was part of the resistance movement against Voldemort before you were born! I do not appreciate being labelled as ‘a member of the public!’”

“With all due respect, Professor, this search is suspended until you return to the castle-”

The green eyes flashed and the lips went thin as the face around them hardened - but the sharp voice cracked. “You are not the only one who knew Professor Dumbledore.”

Harry clamped his jaw shut. The gale howled past the branches above, rustling the leaves. He could sense the other Aurors watching the scene uneasily, and his anger grew. Yet, he realised, the Headmistress was sharing the thoughts that had just passed through his head, was feeling the same desire for revenge. For the first time he wondered how long Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall had known each other, how long they had been friends before Snape performed his treachery. He felt his glare lose its power.

His hand signalled; the Aurors moved silently on. Minerva McGonagall’s walking stick soundlessly impacted on the ground and her hobbling shape passed him. The wet glint of her eyes was aimed at him coldly; his face twitched. He stared an apology at her and the glint lost its coldness.

They continued, ears and fingers numbed by the icy gasp of the wind. Silence rested on them, becoming heavy and intolerable. Some of the Chief Auror’s anticipation was being picked up by his subordinates; hands clasped wands more tightly than usual, eyes squinted more fearfully into the night. Harry found himself halting his breathing in order to listen more closely, tensing at every slight noise.

He was so intent on everything beyond the range of his wand that he walked into the back of Higgins, who had stopped abruptly and raised his wand. Harry stumbled and suppressed a curse; could not the young Auror even walk properly on demand? Higgins gazed desperately at him.

The Chief Auror stilled - and the sound of a soft mumbling reached his ears. The others halted, Minerva’s head cocked.

[Apocalypticat]

“…A fool, a bloody bloody fool,” someone was hissing angrily. “The whole thing’s been a waste of time, a waste of time.”

“Uncle-”

“Shut up, yeh nitwit. Didn’t you see that flash a while back? Someone’s on the move-”

“Where’s the leader?” a third voice broke in. “Where is he? What has happened?”

“Uncle Amycus-”

“Shut up, yeh milksop. Merlin knows, Dent. He’s gone and bloody chickened out-”

The other voice grew more urgent, defensive. “Let us meet him. We’re all waiting here, Amycus, we’ve been travelling from miles around-”

“It’s useless, I tell yeh!”

Someone made a hushing noise.

“Don’t you shush at me, Cal, if you’d stayed where yeh were, just like I’d told yeh, then nobody would ‘ave to shush no one! And don’t yeh get like that with me, Dent; I’m the one who’s been misled-”

“I can be however I like. I don’t trust a word you say; just because you’re one of the old followers doesn’t mean-”

“Don’t yeh understand? He’s a dead end. He’s turned coward on us. Wouldn’t even rise to the idea of Brian bloody Potter-”

Harry’s fingers twitched around his wand. He could feel the blood thumping in his chest: his son! The idea of his son… The urge to run and Apparate back home and check Brain was safe was almost overpowering.

“Don’t you dare call him a coward!” another impassioned voice began. Harry couldn’t help but note that this person sounded rather young in comparison to the others. “He’s our ideal; this news is what we’ve been waiting for-”

Amycus growled. “He ain’t what we thought, Blake - he’s a ruddy fool-”

“Be careful,” came the whispered reply. “You don’t want to get in trouble for criticising the next Dark Lord-”

There was a thump and a cry of pain.

“Yeh wouldn’t know a Dark Lord if he danced the can-can in front of yeh! Don’t tell me what not to do round a Dark Lord; I’ve served a true one, I’ve been inspired by his words! This guy’s no Dark Lord - he’s a loser-”

“They say he killed the leader of light-”

“Aye - he was great then, he ain’t now-”

“Uncle Amycus-”

“For the last time-!”

“The Aurors!”

Something that had resembled part of a tree trunk broke away; other dark shapes were disgorged from the bushes. Harry glimpsed a raised wand and brought up his own-

“STUPEFY!” Higgins shrieked.

Impedimenta! Harry cried silently. Protego!

“CRUCIO!” Amycus’s gutteral voice snarled; the Chief Auror saw a lumpy shadow barrelling towards him as one of the Aurors at his side let out a scream-

“INCARCEROUS!” he shouted, aiming his wand at the approaching shadow. Amycus swore as invisible chains whipped at him, dragging him down-

Yells of stupefy and crucio were echoing around the clearing. Harry’s eyes swept to and thro, but he sensed that a certain greasy-haired man was not present, and remembered the Headmistress with a jolt. Recalling the frail form and the hobbling gait he glanced wildly around - but Minerva McGonagall was gone.

“IMPERIO!”

Harry recognised the man called Dent’s voice and shook off the curse easily, sending a Blasting jinx in the appropriate direction. Panic began to curdle within his stomach as the Headmistress’s form failed to appear-

“AWAY, AWAY!” a woman’s voice was screeching. “WE’RE OVER THE BORDER-”

An Auror shouted something that sounded suspiciously like the Anti-Apparition jinx; there was a collective scream of fury from their enemies. At the same time there was a snarl and a spitting noise - a man was clawing at his face, desperately trying to disengage a small tabby cat-

Relieved, Harry dashed forwards. “STUPEFY!” The man fell, the cat still attached to his face-

“MOSMORDRE!”

Amycus’s savage face was lit with green as the old symbol flowed out his wand, filling the sky. The sight of the vast skull created a pause in the battle; the Aurors gaped upwards with disconcerted fear and the Dark wizards screeched in joy. The Astronomy Tower passed before the Chief Auror’s eyes, as did the imagined picture of a familial house as James and Lily Potter perished…The lumpy man threw off the invisible chains and shot a look of poisonous hatred at Harry-

“What’s the matter, Potter? Does it still scare yeh?”

“STUPEFY!” Higgins cried, lunging forward suddenly. Amycus toppled over, the triumphant smirk still fixed on his vacant face.

“SECTUMSEMPRA!”

There was a yowl of animal pain, an unreal caterwaul-

“PROFESSOR!”

The tabby cat was staggering, eyes glazed and blood staining its patterned fur. Harry took a step towards his stricken ex-Professor, but the pointed face of Blake loomed at him from behind a tree, twisted into a malicious grin.

“Cat got your tongue, scarhead? Light can never beat away the darkness! AVADA-”

Harry’s wand was swinging upwards - but Blake had stopped mid-sentence, and was simply standing immobile, his eyes wide and startled. Then his arms clapped to his sides and his legs sprung together. His expression of outraged fury froze into rigidity as his body snapped to attention - and he toppled over, like a bowling pin subject to a keen aim.

Petrificus Totalus, Harry realised. He shook himself and dashed over to the tabby, which was spitting blood onto the leaves. Anxiety gripped him as he saw the gleam of a vast volume of blood…

“It’s all right, Professor,” he murmured, scooping the cat into his arms. The animal arched its back and mewed in agony; he felt blood sluice down his arms…

“It’s over, Sir,” Higgins was saying in his ear. “They’ve all been captured. We’ve got Amycus, his nephew, Dark agitator Dent, a Slytherin student-”

“Enough!” Harry barked. “Have them held at HQ. Identification can take place later. Higgins, you sort out the wounded.” The feline in his arms gave a painful cough. He said no more and ran, hoping fervently that the night’s struggles were over.

---

The sight of Harry - his father - wearily forking spaghetti into his mouth, stopped him in his tracks. The Chief Auror had been gone for the whole morning, leaving even Ginny in ignorance. Tonks’s words came back to him: someone’s on their way to Hogwarts, probably with no good in mind.

Albus descended the stairs two at a time. Harry looked up as he approached, emerald eyes dulled with exhaustion. Ginny upstairs continued her conversation with her thoroughly bewildered nephew, failing to notice her son’s sudden exit.

“-Such a shame that you don’t know Brian as well as you should - personally, I think your mother's been very possessive-”

“Good afternoon,” said Harry, smiling weakly at his son. Ginny’s voice stopped; before Albus could respond she had half-flown down the stairs. The red-haired witch bestowed a kiss on Harry’s forehead before proceeding to scold him in tones that Molly would have been proud of to hear.

“How long have you been back? Honestly, you disappear without a word for ages and I’m left worried sick-”

Her husband silenced her with a kiss on the lips. Albus waited impatiently whilst Eric rolled his eyes and grimaced at him.

“Dad, what happened?” he demanded. Harry broke off the kiss with seeming reluctance and sighed.

“A real mess,” he groaned. “I suppose you want all the gossip, Brian?”

“What anyone hurt?” he asked. His father blinked at his abrupt manner and nodded.

“Yes indeed, I’m afraid. Higgins has lost half an ear, and I know that poor old Shacklebolt got his leg bust up. The worst by far is Professor McGonagall-”

Albus sat down. The blood left his cheeks and the room seemed to spin for a second. The kitchen dropped away, launching him into a void. His stomach muscles clenched; he felt as though an abyss had opened up suddenly before him… Minerva! Something had happened to Minerva, and he hadn’t even been-

“Brian, are you all right?”

Ginny was gazing at him worriedly as she placed a hand on his shoulder. He nodded and effected a vague grin before turning back to Harry, a leaden ball weighing his chest cavity down. With difficulty, he pushed the images of a bleeding, broken Minerva aside.

Interpreting his alarm half-correctly, his father gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t panic - she’s alive, and the Healer’s said she’s a ‘tough old stick.’” His face turned serious. “But I won’t lie to you: she’s very seriously injured. She got hit by one of Snape’s old curses - and, it turns out, right on top of where she got hurt before, during the war.”

“One of… Snape’s old curses,” Albus repeated slowly. Rage bubbled in the back of his throat. Knowing that his face probably reflected it, he looked away and down at his hands, which were twisting in his lap. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to relax. What had happened had happened, and there was nothing beneficial in agonising over it. There was also no reason for Brian to burst a blood vessel over whatever Snape had done to Minerva, whether directly or indirectly.

“She’s been injured,” the news seemed to return to him. “Five Stunners in the chest. Won’t be out of St Mungo’s till the end of the year.”

He still remembered the awful fear that had gripped him at that revelation, the terrible realisation of a horrible possibility… Minerva, his Minerva, had been hurt due to his absence - and now the same had happened again.

“Did you catch him?” Eric asked eagerly. "Uncle," he added, daringly.

Bitterness laced Harry’s words. “No. No, we didn’t. We didn’t even find him. Instead we got Amycus plus a load of greenhorn Death Eater wannabes, including a couple of very silly Slytherins who thought that getting Dark Mark tattoos and hanging around with a bunch of criminals would be cool-”

“Really? Who?”

The Chief Auror tapped his nose. “Now, now, Eric. Confidentiality laws, you know. Don’t worry, they’re getting punished for it. I’ve never seen Flitwick that angry and I’m convinced McGonagall will expel them - if necessary, from her hospital bed.”

“Well,” sniffed Eric. “Slytherins, y’know.”

Harry laughed and ruffled Eric’s hair. “Hmm, well, Slughorn’s not that bad-”

Albus blurted it out without thinking about it. Perhaps if he could just be there, just hold her hand- “Can I go and visit her?”

Eric gaped at him. Ginny raised her eyebrows and Harry adjusted his glasses, frowning. Albus let Brian bite his lip; the question had hardly been subtle, and there was little excuse for why an eleven-year-old boy who had been shouted at by the Headmistress a mere few days into the first term would even vaguely consider visiting Minerva.

“Erm.. Well… Obviously not until she’s recovered somewhat,” said Harry. “Er - then afterwards, I, um, don’t really see why not.”

“Okay,” said Albus softly. Brian‘s face began to flush. “Thank you.”

There was a brief pause, before Eric asked another question and the Chief Auror launched into a blow-by-blow account of the night’s dealings. Albus listened distractedly, with his head propped on his wrist and his eyes cast downwards. He ignored Ginny’s gaze and concentrated on the vision of a green-eyed witch dancing at a Yule Ball that now only existed inside his skull.

---

Slowly, the feeling began to ebb back into her body.

Something huge and weighted was sitting on her chest, crushing her ribcage, causing the bones to pierce her lungs…

Minerva gasped. Spots danced before her eyes. Her chest was a mass of screaming nerve-endings, a centre of pain. Surely what she had just thought was correct, and her breath really had been stopped by her own bones? There could not possibly be anything else to explain the agony caused by inhaling, or the throbbing beating down her sternum.

She blinked, trying to clear the spots. The blinding white of a ceiling came briefly into view, before disappearing again behind a accumulation of purple. The ache in her chest grew worse: perhaps there was something wrong with her heart?

A groan escaped her. She heard someone get up from a chair and sensed a presence leaning over her. Hoping it was a Healer, she groaned again.

“I’ll go and get someone,” came a gruff voice and the presence withdrew.

Aberforth? she thought vaguely. A picture came to her, of the old man presenting her with a book - and maybe his emotions, also. Too much to think about right now, she decided.

She blinked more rapidly; the ceiling returned. Her view seemed to widen outwards, revealing the end of a bed and a blank rectangle of a door. She could see a grey strand of hair resting on the pillow next to her head, and realised that she needed to wash her hair…

“All right, Professor McGonagall, please lie still,” someone said authoritively. Through the pain, she felt a small pang of amused irritation - how on earth anyone expected her to do anything but lie still was beyond her. She heard a diagnostic spell being mumbled and saw a wand passing over her, igniting as it hovered over her chest.

“Albus,” she croaked. The idea of her ever moving again was inconceivable, and she wanted to say his name one last time…

“No it’s Aberforth,” growled the bedraggled shape of the old wizard from beside the bed. She heard him draw breath to say something else, but the Healer interrupted.

“Okay, Professor. Don’t worry about a thing, just relax. Now, I’m afraid you’ll be here for at least a few weeks yet - whilst everything is outwardly healed, there has been some internal damage. You remember being hit by Stunners about eleven, twelve years ago?”

“…Not senile…”

“Nobody was saying you were, Professor. Well, you were told at the time that there was going to be some vascular and cardiacal weakness there - and I’m afraid the curse you were hit with impacted on the same place. As a result: increased weakness.”

The crisp voice was speaking as though reading out of a textbook; Minerva wished she could be left alone. Increased weakness… What did it matter? She was an old woman, after all…

“I recommend you don’t strain yourself when you’re finally let out. Gentle exercise will be acceptable, but you should take some care not to exhaust yourself. You’re going to be fine, Professor.”

She let out another groan, in order to illustrate the contrary. She heard the door close and then a chair being dragged over to the side of the bed. Aberforth’s lined face came into view as he bent over her. There was something odd about his expression that she could not put a finger on… Was that worry? Why would Aberforth be worried about her..?

“I do not detest you.”

Minerva shifted slightly. A wave of pain travelled up her chest and she grimaced.

“Best not fidget for a while,” advised Aberforth, in the gentlest voice she had ever heard from him. He held his hands up and she saw that something purple and embossed was being held between them. “I brought this, in case you wanted it. For when you’re well enough to sit up, mind.”

“You gave me that yesterday,” she said dazedly.

Aberforth’s grizzled head shook from side to side. “You’re a bit behind. You’ve been filling this bed for over a week.” He spoke with a tone of disapproval; Minerva wondered whether it was genuine.

“Over a week,” she breathed. Term must have started, she realised. The work would be piling up.

“Flitwick’s filling your shoes,” he said, as though he had read her thoughts.

“That must be difficult,” she muttered. “I’m a size seven and he’s only a size three..”

Aberforth snorted, whether from amusement or irritation it was hard to tell. Minerva said nothing more, and the silence stretched. Beyond the door, she could hear people marching up and down the corridor, and the creaking sound of something being wheeled. She began to feel a discomfort not entirely related to her chest: how long had Aberforth been waiting for her to wake up? Had he come and sat beside her every day? No, surely that was absurd… She had simply misinterpreted something he’d said - yet why was he there? Why had he been present to see her open her eyes and groan?

“You are well?” she said at last.

“Very well, thank you.”

“Good, good. I suppose the Hog’s Head is very busy…”

“…Around this time of year,” finished Aberforth, his face creased into an expression of annoyance. “Busy enough, busy enough.”

Minerva felt as though she was following some sort of script. Did this ritual have to be followed every time they met? At least this time he’d had the sense not to ask her how she was… Distantly, she heard herself say:

“Albus used to go there sometimes. His favourite was the-”

“The Firewhisky, the Firewhisky,” said Aberforth impatiently. Was he getting bored of the script too? “Yes, men of his type-”

“You’re his brother,” she interrupted. “Surely you’re both the same type?”

She regretted it as soon as she finished saying it; Aberforth’s face had hardened, the blue eyes turning to ice.

“No. No, I wouldn’t say so,” he growled, bitterly. “I wouldn’t say so at all.”

She waited. The old man’s eyes had narrowed.

“He was a hero.”

He didn’t say it proudly, or reverently. He said it as though Albus had been subject to some terrible, debilitating disease. Nevertheless, she moved her head gently in a nod of agreement.

“Never could stand heroes.”

There was nothing that could be said to this, so she remained silent. Aberforth knew what she felt - why else had he given her such an extravagant, personal gift? The ache in her chest seemed to deepen into her heart. She wished she was alone, so that she could release a few hot tears.

Self-pity, Minerva McGonagall? asked part of her brain angrily. For shame!

“You’ll get better,” said Aberforth sharply, more decisively. “You’re built like Bessy.”

“Bessy?”

“One of my goats. A good, strong build - never ill for long. She’s a prize one of mine. Long legs, massive udder-”

He cut himself off. To Minerva’s vague amusement, the cheeks behind the tangled beard became rather red. Long legs and a massive udder indeed…

“Thank you,” she sighed, knowing that a comparison to a prize goat was probably a fantastic compliment from Aberforth.

“Oh. Got a little something for you.” His hands came upwards again, this time bearing a small, ornate box.

Minerva felt her body tense. Oh no. Surely it couldn’t be another expensive gift? His words flashed again into her mind. Was it possible that he really did want to, as Everard had put it, proclaim his feelings? With a jolt, she eyed the jeweller’s stamp on the box he was thrusting at her. A ring? Her heart thumped - yet the thought of Aberforth proposing was ridiculous, impossible-

Her inner vision conjured up a memory, that of Aberforth standing in her office, filled with rage.“Don’t flatter yourself, woman!”

Her fingers found the box and undid the clasp with difficulty. Nestled in the paper within was a small gold necklace. A phoenix with tiny rubies for eyes dangled from the end of it as she lifted the chain from the box. Utterly confused, she stared at it. Once again the gift was expensive, and once again the gift was symbolic of the giver’s brother. What did it all mean? She knew full well that had any other man given her a present as expensive, she would have suspected that they harboured some affection towards her, but the fact that necklace screamed Albus Dumbledore at her when it was given to her by Aberforth… Taken aback, she glanced up to see Aberforth eyeing her with a face like a cliff - but with tiny cracks, as though waiting for her approval.

“It’s lovely,” she said. “Thank you very much. But I cannot allow you to continue spending money on-”

“I shall do whatever I like with my money, thank you very much. I don’t see how it’s any of your business what I do with my Gringotts account, woman.”

With that, he got up and marched off, slamming the door behind him.

[Apocalypticat]

“Jon, stop it! We’re in enough trouble as it is!”

The Slytherin Common Room was thankfully empty for lunchtime, so there was no one else present to hear Ozzy’s whinging. Jonathan rounded on him angrily. The Fifth-Year’s muscles were tense enough with anticipation without Ozzy’s whining putting him on edge.

“Shut up!” he snapped. “Are you a Slytherin or not?”

“None of the others-”

“They’re not proper Slytherins!” he spat. “They don’t know our history properly. You shut up and do what I say. It’s your fault we got caught. If you’d just stayed where you were instead of getting in the way-”

“Jon, I do believe it all, I really do,” Ozzy moaned, running a hand through his straggly brown hair. “It’s just that my mum’s going to kill me if I’m expelled - she might kill me anyway-”

“Shut up! So what if we’re expelled? We know the truth, it’s not our fault if they’re teaching us lies! All hail stupid Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and all the rest of it. Are you forgetting everything we’ve found out?”

“No,” sniffed Ozzy defensively. “But it’s all right for you. Your family can easily ship you off to Durmstrang, mine can’t.”

Jonathan turned away, scornfully. Ozzy, as far he was concerned, wasn’t a proper Slytherin either. It was he who had educated him, and he’d been the one to first get the Dark Mark tattoo - not once, but three times, on his arm, chest and back. Ozzy was merely a follower, who just thought that getting tattoos and wearing black made him equal to him, made him a true Slytherin. No, it had been Jonathan who’d pointed out the obvious to him: who said Voldemort was wrong? The school did. Who was in charge of the school? The Order of the Phoenix. It didn’t take a genius to see that something was being kept from them.

The rest of their House didn’t realise it, though. He sniffed disdainfully. The House had grown weak in recent years, swallowing anything that idiot Slughorn said, and acting as though the war had been inglorious for them - almost as though Voldemort was something to be ashamed of. Only he and Ozzy had responded to the darkness gathering in the Forbidden Forest, and when they’d been caught the rest of the House had ostracised them. His father had educated him properly, and had kept an ear open for Amycus’s call. He had learnt to pay the old Dark the appropriate respect, and had worshipped the new shadow on the horizon, the new Dark, the Neo-Dark. He had excelled in History of Magic, drinking in the story of Severus Snape with a thirst that excited him.

How did others not see it? How could they be so blind to the fact that Severus Snape was the last great chance, the next orator of the night? Voldemort, the head of the Dark, had been severed, but his right hand remained. That night in the Forest, they had come so close…

“Yes, Mr Blaine?” The hollow voice of the Baron broke in on his thoughts.

Pointedly ignoring Ozzy, he ripped open his shirt. The Dark Mark confronted them all, confronted the truth. “You see this?”

The gaunt form of the ghost gazed at it calmly. “Yes.”

“It means I’m like you. I’m a Slytherin, not like the pathetic bunch of losers mucking up the rest of the dormitories. I’ve read his book.”

His book! He, Jonathan Blaine, had read Voldemort’s own words, written during the war. He had read the most forbidden of all books, the Dark Manifesto.

“Jon, stop,” Ozzy’s voice intruded.

Ozzy was no longer worth his attention. “You know where Severus Snape is, don’t you. I know you must; one of the Prefects told me all the ghosts can sense ex-members of their houses if they’re near the castle. I know he’s nearby.”

The stare of the ghost remained blank and impassive. “Indeed I can sense him, Mr Blaine.”

“I know you can’t lead me to him. You’re Bound not to do anything like that. But you can carry a message, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell him this from Jonathan Blaine: that at least one of the faithful remains at Hogwarts. Tell him that I will follow him and do whatever he says. Tell him I’ll prove my loyalty - mention stupid little Potter Junior to him. What’s more, say that I can stir the House into rebellion in his name. It shouldn’t be too hard, they listen to anyone who shows a bit of oomph-”

“Jon!” Ozzy’s expression was one of appalled fear. “You’re not going to-”

“I don’t know how you got into Slytherin, you nitwit. You’ve got no ambition at all.”

“Jon, we could get sent to Azkaban-”

“-In the name of the Neo-Dark. Tell him that too. Go on.”

The Bloody Baron drifted away. Jonathan turned back to Ozzy with a glare, his shirt still undone and the Dark Mark still obvious. Ozzy stared at the tattoo and gulped. He had been foolish and doubting - and he knew what the punishment was for that. He knelt down and removed his shirt.

Jonathan rolled his eyes and administered the curses in a bored voice. “Crucio. Silencio.”

Ozzy’s back arched and his mouth opened in a terrible rictus, yet the Common Room remained silent.

CHAPTER 14: Inner Sanctum

The weekend always saw St Mungo’s crowded; it seemed that free time was conducive to all manner of accidents. House elves dashed up and down the corridors, carrying bandages and potions vials, or pushing trolleys weighted with tea and coffee. Eye contact was made seldom and quickly; one’s concern was for one’s own brother or mother or friend, not for the other tragedies occurring mere rooms away. Nobody noticed the boy with tousled auburn hair waiting outside a ward.

Albus had spent ten minutes pacing to and fro, and had eventually collapsed onto a nearby chair. Brian’s young body was slumped against the wall and his eyes were closed, reducing the hospital to sound. His ears strained for Minerva’s voice or Harry’s return without success.

Three weeks had passed since term had started. They had passed in a blur, punctuated by nightmares or insomnia. Pictures of an expired Minerva slumped back on a pillow continually floated before his eyes. Perhaps his alarm for his friend - yes, friend, his brain asserted - would not have been so great were it not for the dire announcements by Flitwick on how the Headmistress had “suffered a relapse” and how she “could easily have been killed.” He’d written home constantly, asking when a visit would be possible and pestering the Chief Auror almost to the point of exasperation. Now the time had come.

Harry was regretting agreeing to it, Albus knew. Not only had the visit been extremely difficult to arrange but Brian himself had caused some considerable worry. Ginny had gasped at Brian’s appearance and pulled him into a hug. The Chief Auror’s eyes had widened in alarm and he’d demanded to know whether Brian had been ill. The question had been raised: perhaps the visit would be too much for him?

“No!” he’d yelled. It was the first time he’d ever argued with his ‘parents.’

Then again, he thought now, they’d had a point. Lack of sleep and appetite had made his robes hang more loosely, had whitened his face and made shadows around his eyes. Taking a mental step back, he could almost marvel at the effect Minerva’s injury had had on him; he was certain only his wife’s death had affected him this strongly. Now his muscles were knotted and tense, holding him against the wall as if gravity had disappeared.

He allowed Brian to let out a heavy sigh. Relax, he told himself. He’d tried breathing exercises earlier but Harry had asked him if he was hyperventilating and he’d stopped, not wanting to alarm his father any more than he already had. The Chief Auror himself had now entered Minerva’s inner sanctum and was supposedly telling her of his visit. Too long, my boy.

A door creaked and his eyes snapped open. Harry was standing outside the ward, smiling at him encouragingly.

“She can see you now. Don’t worry her or wear her out, mind.”

Albus shook his head dumbly. His body had moved to the doorway almost of its own accord, as though Minerva’s presence was somehow sucking him in. Harry nodded at him, the door swung open and shut-

My dear.

She was sitting up in bed but was leaning backwards. Her eyes were closed, but her thin face seemed alert, as though she was simply resting her eyes. The sight of that proud profile, the arched eyebrows, the iron-grey locks spreading out over the pillow - all of it held him still and reverently silent, as though the ward was a church. He scanned her face worriedly, and was relieved to note a touch of pink in the cheeks. As his stare caressed her cheeks, a glint caught his eye.

A delicate golden chain was hung around her neck, a ruby-eyed phoenix hanging from it. One hand - weathered now but still shapely - was tilted towards it, and one finger was touching the phoenix very lightly. Now that he’d seen it, he noticed that her whole form seemed shaped around the necklace; her shoulders hunched protectively and her legs under the covers slightly drawn up.

An odd, leaden feeling settled into Albus’s stomach. He found himself wondering: who had given her that? When had they given it to her? Why had they? Did that light touch of hers mean that she treasured it?

“Now, now,” a mental Sorting Hat seemed to say to him. “We aren’t being selfish are we?”

Selfish! Of course he was being selfish! He shook himself angrily. He tore his gaze from the necklace and focussed it on her face again, once again feeling the relief wash over him. What did a necklace matter when its wearer seemed to be recovering? He stepped forward, a feeling of being hopelessly drawn towards a magnet filling him-

Her eyes opened, their pupils already aimed at him. The clouded emerald only left part of his brain free to wonder if he’d made some small sound that had alerted her to his presence. He halted and stared at her.

“Mr Potter?”

Minerva’s face was blank of expression, but Albus was able to detect a small hint of confusion in her voice. Of course, he reminded himself, Brian had no real reason to be there.

“M-Professor McGonagall?”

She frowned slightly and pulled her hand away from the necklace. Then her eyes softened. “Thank you for coming to visit me, Mr Potter. Please, feel free to take a seat.” She gestured at a chair, the existence of which had eluded him.

Obediently, he sat. “How are you, Professor?” he managed to ask in a relatively normal voice.

“Getting better. Or so the Healers inform me, anyway.”

“When will you be able to come back?”

“As soon as they allow me,” Minerva said, her words laced with irritation. “Personally I believe they are keeping me here just to lengthen their bill.” Her nostrils flared and Albus felt a small smile come to his face; this was definitely the Minerva he remembered.

She stared at him and Albus found himself looking past her left ear to avoid the searching look she was giving him. His ribcage quivered. Silence reigned.

“May I ask you a question, Mr Potter?”

Albus resisted the urge to say that he would always be available to answer any questions the Headmistress wanted to ask, day or night, and instead translated his thoughts. “Sure, Professor.”

“Why have you visited me?”

He felt Brian’s face flush. “We were told you were very ill, Professor. All the Gryffindors-”

“None of the other Gryffindors are here, Mr Potter. And I have to say that I was under the impression that I had sufficiently terrified you to merit your dislike rather than your sympathy.”

Her pupils fixed him. He found himself studying the small speckles of hazel that rimmed them; the way they seemed to rebel against the encroaching cloud. What excuse would satisfy her? No, she was a goddess whose gaze could never be escaped…

“…Or was I wrong, perhaps?” Her voice had regained that cold edge that had been present in the office. “Perhaps you weren’t as terrified as you tried to make me believe.”

The rest of her face came into stark relief. “No!”

“No to what, Mr Potter?”

The ‘Mr Potter’ was irrelevant; a fly to be swatted away. He was Albus again, in the same room as Minerva. “Let no doubt remain. I was indeed terrified…Professor.”

“You word yourself oddly, Mr Potter.”

“Do I?” The gold of the necklace stung his eyes.

“Yes. And you still have not answered the question. Why are you visiting me?”

“Why not?”

Those elegant arched eyebrows rose. Albus saw her fingers twist the chain of the necklance - and then the entire hand enclose it, as if the owner hoped to draw something from it. Minerva drew back slightly, and seemed to survey him anew.

“I trust the House-Elves are still providing food at Hogwarts?”

Albus blinked, confused. “…I believe so, Professor.”

“You believe so, Mr Potter? You have not been attending meals?”

He suppressed a sigh. The last thing he wanted was a conversation about Brian’s health. Yet, how typical of Minerva. How typical it was that she, severely injured and bedridden, would care about an underfed little boy. He smiled.

“It doesn’t matter, Professor. I’ve just been a bit ill, that’s all.”

The hand tightened on the miniature phoenix so that the knuckles cracked. Startled, he looked up to see her face suddenly white and the eyes distant. Her sight was going past him, into darkness-

“Professor!” He lurched out of his seat, but a gnarled hand reached out and encircled his wrist.

“No… no… I’m fine, Mr Potter. Something surprised me, that’s all.”

“A-Are you sure?” There was no need to fake the stutter; a cold sheen of sweat had engulfed his body. “I’ll g-go and g-get-”

“No need, no need, Mr Potter.” The colour had returned to her cheeks and she was blinking rapidly. “You just… reminded me of someone, for a moment there-”

Minerva’s hand seemed to be the only thing holding him up. The back of his throat went dry. Brian had reminded her of someone? Could that someone possibly be himself, Albus Dumbledore, bearded, white-haired, whiskered? Had she seen the shadow of an old man in a boy’s face, had some feature of Brian’s resonated? All boys held the shades of old men, but did Brian hold his old man clear enough to see? Was some part of Minerva’s mind still devoted to remembering the lines of his face, his mannerisms?

Goddess, let that be.

Yet…

The scene had dulled around him. He shot a sideways look at her and then past her, and then at the necklace rampant upon her breast-bone. Had it been the memory of him that had whitened her and made her fall back upon the pillow? Was the memory of him… bad, something to be feared and reviled? His mind was racing now, galloping from woodland to wilderness… Some part of him - that old man whose grasping hand marked Brian’s unspoilt face - dug his heels in and wrenched at the reins, protesting that he was going too fast, leaping to unfounded conclusions and upsetting himself unnecessarily.

The word came out, unbidden. “Who?”

Minerva frowned slightly - would he have replied to such a personal question?

“Just a man I knew,” she said at last, rewarding him with a glimpse of a divine smile. “Now I’m afraid it is about time for you to be going. But thank you for visiting… I appreciate it.”

She had not moved to wave a hand at him or nodded at him to go, but Albus felt the words almost chivvying him out the door. He got up, to mumble a polite goodbye that wouldn’t convey anything he felt at all-

The door creaked open. Albus turned, expecting some dour-faced Healer.

The sight of Aberforth stopped him in his tracks. Inside, his heart missed a beat - and kept on missing it, as images swirled around his skull. He glimpsed the tangled beard and craggy face - but then the reality was swept away in a myriad of memories. How could he have forgotten the wire-haired toddler following his older brother through the cavernous halls of Dumbledore Manor? Or the solemn-faced teenager sitting at his side in the Hospital Wing? How could he have forgotten his anchor, his one remaining relative - someone whose mere existence had kept him going all those years?

The old man was glaring at him with stony eyes. No doubt he was wondering who this gaping boy was. But then, Albus remembered with a horrible jolt, he could no longer remember a time when Aberforth had given him a genuine smile. Even back then, in the crowded Hospital Wing of a chaos long gone, the boy sitting at his side had been pensive and sullen, obviously resenting the time spent there. The blood link between them was barely acknowledged; their lives had been spent apart.

Alone, his mind whispered. You were and are alone.

How he’d longed to be able to talk to Aberforth whenever despair weighted him, or whenever he wanted to double a joy by sharing it. His brother, his other half - the one possible point of understanding in a sea of incomprehension! Yet Aberforth had sunken resolutely away from him, never giving an explanation, never informing Albus of the slight he had so clearly inflicted. He had been left a lonely old man in his office, sitting at his desk and staring into space whenever there came a brief pause in life.

The last time he had seen him - before Snape had cast him off the Astronomy Tower - he had asked. He had never dared to ask directly before; had only dared then because age has a way of making one remember one’s roots and family. Family: a wish never granted, a concept that was only embodied in one unwilling person. Yes, he had asked, come straight out with it-

“Aberforth, why do you hate me?”

He had shrugged and glared at him for his ignorance. Those blue eyes, which he knew to be the same as his own, had passed through him, leaving guilt as their trail. He had understood then that it was his fault, their estrangement. He had failed to comprehend something.

“Figure out for yourself.”

Only he had not, and then he had died. Another regret to add to the pile. Another thing to catch him unawares now.

“Aberforth! What a pleasant surprise!”

Minerva’s voice shattered the memories and revealed the ancient figure standing before him again. Remembering that he was supposed to be leaving, Albus took a step forward - and halted, convinced his eyes were deceiving him.

A bouquet of roses.

In Aberforth’s hand.

Aberforth. And roses. Red roses, luscious roses, whole roses, seemingly untouched by goats. Aberforth with roses.

He gaped.

Aberforth felt himself becoming severely irritated. First he had been accosted by House-Elves offering cups of tea in the foyer, apparently unable to take ‘no’ for an answer. Then he had found that that the lift was out of order, meaning he had had to toil up several flights of stares, attracting odd stares because of the roses. Now that he had finally arrived, it seemed that the Headmistress already had company - in the form of a gormless pre-teen with messy, unbrushed hair. Not that he was particularly well-groomed himself, but this boy did not appear to have made any sort of effort at all. Why was he there? Why was he still there after he had made it clear he wanted him to go away?

How Albus had managed to put up with a whole castle full of gormless teenagers was beyond him.

Something niggled at the back of his mind, like an itch. The brat seemed somewhat familiar; perhaps he had tried to sneak into the Hog’s Head at some point-?

A heady scent assaulted his nostrils. He recalled the roses with a start and a fearful, watery feeling. Best get it over and done with. He crossed the room and thrust the bouquet in the vague direction of Minerva, taking care not to look straight at her or look too enthusiastic. Aberforth was not quite sure why this was important, but it was.

“These are for you.”

He snuck a look at Minerva’s beautiful face. Her face twitched, but the lips turned upwards into a smile. The gold of the necklace below both satisfied and troubled him-

Out of the corner of his eye, the boy jerked abruptly and the blood drained from his face. The sapphire eyes darted from Aberforth to the roses to Minerva and back again several times, each time seeming more disbelieving, more agitated. Aberforth felt the boy’s gaze rest on him - and intensify, until it became a lead weight on the back of his neck.

The old man tilted his head back to give another scowl. Wouldn’t the brat ever leave?

The boy’s visage convulsed with a spasm of fury and hurt, as if he had been slapped round the face. He turned on his heel and marched from the room, back rigid. One hand snatched through his auburn hair. Outside, he was observed to sag suddenly against the wall, remove his glasses and pinch his nose, in the manner of a man surprised to tears.

[Apocalypticat]

Her chest still ached perpetually, walking up the flights of stairs had made her feel light-headed and giddy, and Filius had not had the authority to sign half the papers from the exam board for that year’s OWLs, but the fact remained: she was home. Minerva was back in His office again, albeit accompanied by a box of potions that needed regular application and a vaseful of drooping roses.

Those roses.

The vase was small, and placed at a point furthest from the desk, on top of the bookcase to the left of the door. If she kept her eyes down and focussed on her paperwork, she could almost pretend that it did not exist, or that it had come from a neutral source. If she imagined otherwise, then it would mean that her suspicions had not been proved and that they remained silly ideas in the head of a histrionic old woman.

Yet they were real, irrefutably real. Aberforth had thrust them at her just as the Potter boy was leaving, had casually made an undeniable proclaimation. Unlike the necklace (a constant presence around her neck) or the photo album (she had reached only a quarter of the way through; one picture of Him would be enough to immobilise her for at least half an hour), the flowers did not shriek Albus Dumbledore. Regrettably, He had never offered her roses, nor ever even mentioned them. No, Aberforth was not just trying to help to her through her grief but offering something else-

Alone in her hospital bed, after Aberforth had left, she had gazed at them, mesmerised, and shuddered slightly. The reaction had been involuntary and had left her ashamed, but there had been something so passionate, daring and sexual about those roses that it was as if she had seen an erotic statue in a street square. Their scarlet dripped blood and fire, their petals were wet with lustful perspiration. The roses were lips men would want to kiss, idylls no woman could live up to. They were forbidden items, taboo in His office. She had the odd sense that the mere presence of the roses was somehow betraying Him.

Thinking of it brought a sinking feeling into her stomach, dragging on her spine. Merlin knew when the last time Aberforth had wooed someone had been - or if he had ever wooed anyone before. How often did such an unapproachable, defensive man offer his heart to someone? How often did that cliff-face crack and reveal something more than bitterness or fury?

A damaged man, her brain said. Most probably damaged by himself. Perhaps that thought was what prevented her from outright refusal or protest.

Hypocrite! Refusing pity from Aberforth, only to offer it to him! And what conceivable right did she have to sit in her lonely tower and declare someone else damaged?

He was lonely too, in his poky little pub. So lonely that he had come to visit her under the guise of duty, so lonely that he had fallen for a woman whose soul remained in the hands of a dead man - but here was chance of Life again; would she be foolish to deny it? The scenario in which she could say no to Aberforth was unimaginable. What expression would be on the weathered face? Would he shout, storm out or fail to accept it?

His sincerity was in no doubt. The doubt lay all on her side. Delving produced no amorous flicker, no warmth at the thought of him. She had half hoped there would be, so that he could be happy and so she could shake off the manacles of Him forever. She had even voiced that idea to Rolanda.

“Manacles?” Rolanda had repeated disbelievingly. “Have you gone off… him?”

“Of course not!”

“And you don’t feel anything for Aberforth?”

“No.”

“Well obviously you’ve got to tell him that,” her friend had said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Always helpful, Rolanda.

Her stare had drifted up to the roses along with her thoughts. Sighing, she sat back in the chair and dared stretch slightly, wincing at the pain emanating from her chest. Queasiness crept up her throat. Since coming back to Hogwarts, she had felt as though something extra was weighing down her torso and stirring up her gut. Worry, that was what it was.

However, regardless of her health, today was the day to Ward the castle. Having been immobilised over Easter, it had been left till now. Filius had had neither the power or the means to Ward the castle himself; only the head-teacher held that privelege. The roses had been enough to distract her from it but excuses only extended so far.

Slowly, she eased herself up from the desk, glancing at the clock as she did. It was lunchtime - a lunchtime she had spent alone in order to spare her an unnecessary journey down agonising stairs. The perfect time, really. If the castle should tremble slightly, as it sometimes did, no lessons would be disturbed and there would be no complaints from Slughorn over the havoc caused to his precious potions.

The stairs would now have to be confronted. She exited the office carefully, pausing whenever her chest cried a warning and fingering the golden Hogwarts seal at her neck nervously. The twisting staircase dizzied her, trapping her within a coil of stone. The corridors were mercifully empty; a lone student hurried off at the sight of her, apparently alarmed at the thought of a possible scolding. She reached the Fourth Floor without any substantial trouble. The tapestry of a winged boar drew her towards it, the embroidered eyes beguiling her.

“Phoenix Reborn,” she whispered, leaning on her stick.

Slowly, the tapestry dissolved, unravelling stitch by stitch, the beast dissolving back into the wood behind it. That wood was carved, ancient, breathing the touch of those long gone, forming a great medieval door that seemed to emanate runes at her; she had only reached the outer level of security but already the strength of what was beyond was almost beating her back.

A pause.

Minerva felt distantly frustrated at herself as her breast-bone shrieked a complaint. Loitering before something so important that the entire fate of Hogwarts rested on it was not only absurd, but dangerous. Yet the fact, the sheer reality of what lurked in the chamber behind the door could not be denied - indeed, if ever ground was hallowed then this, surely, was it. How could it not be hallowed when He lay beyond it?

The concept shook her, as it always did. She remained still, but her mind passed through the door and the other layers of barriers, creeping into the chamber engraved forever within her own skull. Mentally she perused its circular form, past the ornate pillars to the centre of it all - where the heart of Hogwarts extended from the floor to the ceiling in one vast artery of magic. The castle’s blood ran together with her own, turning the stones around it an unearthly blue. Lesser capillaries - she hated that ‘lesser’ - sprouted from the bronze sockets in the floor, imprisoning it with bars of different colours-

Oh! Let no one say that He is completely gone! This was her secret, greater even than the dressing gown-

Her mind’s eye roved the capillaries one by one, passing over the labels. Livid green for Nigellus, blood-red for Everard. All were here, all lined up, that portion of themselves eternally linked to the castle lined up with the rest: a chronology of helmsmen. All may as well be invisible to her - even the main arterial source - except the purple beam, that splendid beam that surpassed them all. Water gathered in her eyes; a part of Him was there, immortal and unspent. ‘Dumbledore,’ she knew the engraved letters said boldly, as though they did not care that they had named the greatest of them all.

She blinked and cleared the memory away. Once she had entered, she could linger and feel Him directly.

There came another password, and another, and another. The Founders, even Slytherin, had known their miracle, and their duty to protect it. Few would ever see the inner sanctum she was about to enter.

The door relented, opening to release a blue glow upon the cobbled stones. Moving towards it, a crackle assaulted her nostrils and teeth. The air became thick and heavy, as if echoing the words written into the door: DARST THOU ENTER MY HEART?

She more than dared; this heart was His heart, with hers beating beside it.

Blue flickered and dimmed, but the capillaries harnessed her eyes-

-The tapestries of the tumultuous past, the sumptuous oil paintings of Gryffindor, Slythering, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, the runes radiating outwards from the core, the locked chest containing those last great treasures of previous millennia, Nigellus, Everward, Derwent, Dippet - insignificant! Closeness and love, they were the core’s true guards! That purple, that potent purple…His name transfixed her, so that she did not at first realise that the weight in her chest had increased unbearably, or that weakness was spreading throughout the ancient chamber like a disease-

Merlin, no.

Minerva staggered, clutching at her stick only as an afterthought. That rich purple was wavering, leaping towards the blue in the middle - her blue - and back again, as though longing to entwine itself. The core itself was flickering, as if about to go out.

Heat stabbed down her sternum. Shock held her still. Magic crackled and whined, the core flickered and thinned to a vein. The other capillaries were wavering too, fading to trickles and shadows. The occurrence was so sudden, so unexpected that reacting sensibly seemed impossible; only one conclusion came to her-

The core of Hogwarts, and her power over it, was dying.

Dying, like Him.

Black was creeping into her sight. Snape came suddenly into her head, smirking in that infuriating way he had had. Dark magic, powerful enough to corrupt the core? The purple danced; the blue dimmed and glowed, blinding her.

“FILIUS!”

The stick was nowhere to be found. Her ribcage seemed on fire.

“ROLANDA! POPPY!”

Gravity-

-And nothing.

---

“…No, the last time I was there everything seemed fine-”

“-The Aurors! Merlin knows what damage has been done-”

“-Never, ever-”

“You don’t suppose it is something to do with… you know…him, out in the woods?”

“-My good woman, panicking is the course of fools-”

“-My good man, do me a favour and shut up.”

Feeling a strong sense of déjà vu, Minerva groaned. For a moment she was back at St Mungo’s, with Aberforth and his wretched gifts looming over her. There was the same crushing pressure on her chest, seemingly the exact same level of pain. The only differences were the voices and the migraine pounding at her temples.

“Minerva!”

Poppy’s voice was piercing; Minerva allowed herself another moan. She shifted painfully, and had a vague impression of flapping hands and hushing noises.

“Minerva - oh Merlin, thank goodness - the Healers thought it best you weren’t moved too far-”

The slight lifting of one eyelid revealed a circle of anxious faces, ranging from a strained-looking Rolanda to a bewildered Slughorn. The ceiling above them appeared somewhat familiar - the Hospital Wing?

“-Don’t you dare move - now-”

“I doubt that is possible…” she croaked in reply. The headache was preventing her from thinking properly, blotting out memory and circumstance. Why on earth was she in the Hospital Wing, surrounded by members of staff as if by angels? Had she had another accident?

“-And don’t worry about the core at this moment; some Swedish experts should be reporting back in a little while, Hagrid‘s gone with them in case there‘s trouble-”

Blue wavering, purple leaping to and fro. Minerva clamped her jaw against the cry of alarm threatening to burst forth. She looked up at the distant ceiling again, expecting to see ruptures and tendrils of magic weaving their ways into destruction…

“It is a complete mystery!” came Filius’s shrill squeak. “I performed a check-up a matter of weeks ago and the core seemed perfectly healthy-”

“Has it ever been unhealthy?” Rolanda pointed out.

“Not in recorded memory! Still thank Merlin the quakes have stopped-”

“Quakes?” Minerva asked, daring to move her head slightly.

“Oh yes. We thought of evacuating the students but they ended only a few minutes after they began. Yet there is no way of guaranteeing that they will not happen again!”

“That’s why the experts have been called in,” Slughorn explained pompously. “It appears there is no one at the Ministry with sufficient experience in this sort of thing - perfectly disgraceful in my opinion-”

The cacophony of voices broke out again. The Headmistress winced, bringing a hand up to massage her head.

“-Well a core on this scale is practically unique-”

“-Definitely something seriously wrong; the Headmistress’s seal-”

“Minerva,” Poppy said loudly, “it is my belief that a lot of the pain you are experiencing now is due to the problem with the core. Your magic is bound to the core, so I’m afraid pain relief is the only treatment I can give you-”

“What was that about the seal-?” Poppy’s face had become blurry and distant. An image of the missing golden medallion superimposed itself over reality rather too readily.

The unwelcome tones of Professor Read answered. “Oh,” came a dramatic sigh that made Minerva grit her teeth, “they had to get it off you quick to stop it from burning you; it had gone white-hot, hot as fire, hot as molten metal-”

“Yes, yes,” Poppy snapped. “The only reference to that we can find is something about the Laws of the Founders being violated in some way-”

“Ah!” Filius exclaimed. His presence at her pillow disappeared and unfamiliar voices with thick accents emanated from the direction of the doorway. She glimpsed Slughorn smirk in an ingratiating way before too vanishing out of her line of sight.

“Is there anything else I should know?” she forced herself to ask, bracing herself for further horrors. She was mildly surprised that Hogwarts was still standing.

“No, you should lie back and have a rest and not trouble yourself.”

“Poppy-!”

“All right. The ghosts are in an uproar and apparently the Bloody Baron has been getting funny twinges from the core for over a month now but didn’t bother telling anyone… Bloody Baron, more like Bloody-Minded Baron,” the witch added in an undertone. “The whole thing is unbelievable. Nobody’s even sure whether these experts will even be able to diagnose the problem, let alone correct it.”

“I should be helping them.”

“No, you should not!” Poppy said sharply, glaring down at her. “You are going to lie still and drink this potion!”

“It will not put me to sleep, will it?” Minerva eyed the vial suspiciously. Years of experience had taught her that her friend seemed to take some enjoyment out of sending patients into their dreams at crucial moments.

“Of course not!”

“Promise?”

Poppy nodded and Minerva opened her mouth obediently. Her mind was finally beginning to wage war against the migraine, and to race. As the foul mixture burned its way down her throat, the Headmistress found herself staring fixedly at the door, behind which the fate of the school was being assessed.

“They arrived promptly,” she commented, gulping. “Or was I unconscious for longer than I think?”

“No; they were very fast. But then it seemed possible that the core was going to explode there and then.”

She saw no point in asking further questions and continued to gaze at the door, speculating and attempting to ignore the flustered pacing of Martha Read. The picture of Snape that her failing brain had thrown up in the core chamber reappeared and seemed to dance around her. No, that was impossible; the sheer level of Dark magic needed to disrupt the core was inconceivable - it simply did not exist… Yet what else could it possibly be? There was nothing to be done except wait.

The door creaked open again, slowly. At first Minerva thought that a gust of wind must have flown through the Hospital Wing and forced its opening, but then she realised that Filius’s head bobbed just below the handle. The miniature wizard appeared grey and troubled.

Even Martha stilled. Poppy slowly put her hands to her mouth. Filius shifted uneasily.

“They don’t know,” he said weakly.

Nobody responded.

“They’ve - they’ve managed to improve the situation,” Filius added tentatively. “Still u-unstable, though.”

“No explanation,” Minerva said. She felt blank and empty. “None at all?”

“Not exactly, Headmistress.”

Slughorn’s bulk seemed to materialise beside Filius; the larger wizard only minutely deflated. One plump finger twisted his moustache.
“Apparently…” The Potions Master paused, observing his audience with an unusual hesitation. “Apparently… Hogwarts is acting as though there are two head-teachers in the castle.”

Elsewhere, an old man in the form of a young boy lay still, sensing the return of a strength before sorely missed, and then most undesired.

[Apocalypticat]

CHAPTER 15: Adult Secrets

The fever had him.

In his delirium, it had the form of Brian himself, suffocating him with one of the Hospital Wing pillows and taunting him. At times Brian became Snape, and then Snape became Aberforth. Sweat made the bed a swamp. Figures appeared at his side, roses cloyed at him. They were everywhere, their scarlet creating headaches and polluting the air he breathed.

Brian’s eyes were icicles, his mouth was a merciless line. Idiot, idiot, idiot…

Past and present mingled like socialites, casually making barbed comments. Harry screamed at him and Severus - no, Snape - spoke the dread words time and time again. Most of all - worst of all - was the memory of-

“These are for you.”

Aberforth and roses, that eternal, painful paradox. So impossible had the idea been that scepticism had held him rooted to the spot, unable to take his eyes off the galling sight of love. Another irony! His brother had been the one to practise what he preached… Now two sets of Albus Dumbledore stood beside his sick-bed. One was the twinkly-eyed headmaster whose brother had just fallen in love, who was overjoyed that the hermit had come home. The other was someone he hated to think about, someone who had dashed across the ward in spirit and cast the most excruciating jinx possible on the traitor…

He relived it every day, every night, every second. He was a little boy intruding on the most intimate of adult secrets, the child standing outside the shop window, looking helplessly at a treasure beyond the reach of possibility. Albus no longer knew whether it was the fever raving or himself in the re-enactments; either way the character of Brian Potter became a wraith forged purely out of anger and the old man within devolved into a demon of revenge.

He had left St Mungo’s in a haze, his heart swollen and throbbing against his ribcage. Yet another irony had occurred a mere three days later, under Eric’s title of a ‘happy birthday.’ Of course, it wasn’t his birthday at all, not the birthday he counted by, not the birthday which marked the birth of Albus Dumbledore and had nothing to do with the construct that was Brian. As for the idea of ‘happy,’ he had laughed.

Poor Eric. What reaction had he been expecting as he thrust his present (a set of gobstones) at the Potter boy? What anxious hope had he fostered about making Brian - wan, grim, unwashed, unfed - smile again? What had he actually felt when the boy in question had accepted his present with a bitter laugh and a faux grin that would have made the most amateur of actors blush with shame?

If that wasn’t enough, Eric had then had to witness a full-blown magical re-awakening in the middle of a classroom! The horror he himself had experienced at the first surging of the power through his veins would have been incomparable, had not the episode at the hospital already occurred.

In this well of self-pity, Albus could almost imagine the circumstances of it all as it could be reported in the Daily Prophet: Transfiguration lesson, nine o’clock, Professor Martha Read. Brian Potter, twelve, collapses in the midst of magical maelstrom. Condition corresponds to that experienced by one twelve year-old Albus Dumbledore in the full awakening of his power. Confined to Hospital Wing. “It was really weird,” says fellow student Daniel Glover. “Sparks started shooting out of his fingers! We thought he was going to explode!”

One twelve year-old Albus Dumbledore practically had, he recalled. The then gamekeeper’s hut had been completely demolished and several hundred windows had been smashed. Only long experience had prevented a repetition.

Yet every tragedy has a climax, Albus knew. Tragedies had been the fashion during his twenties; there was no better way of achieving the ecstasy that came with angst than reading a gothic melodrama or watching Oedipus claw his eyes out on stage. Such familiarity with choreographed pain really should have bred some degree of expectation…

How quickly the tone of his thoughts changed! Was he trying to laugh at despair..?

Migraines, stomach-aches, dizziness… he had assumed them to be the symptoms of depression or malnutrition (whoever could lose someone like Minerva and then happily dig into a treacle tart was beyond the reaches of his imagination). After all, emotions could very easily defeat the body.

Wrong, wrong, all wrong!

Why had it never occurred to him? Why hadn’t the merest, most minute suggestion of it skimmed over the surface of his mind?

“Don’t become rash now.”

That was the reason. Strength was growing beneath the weakness. Of course Brian’s body would be identical to Albus’s. Of course it would grow and develop power in the same way. Of course once Brian’s magical signature became strong enough to register then Hogwarts would recognise it - and respond to it! All of his deceit, all of his cunning - all utterly useless in the face of such an insurmountable obstacle! When you became one with the school then you were never forgotten!

Fever, brewing magic, depression - any one was enough to result in his being in the Hospital Wing; the collapse into the darkness of oblivion was par for a course. Only when his soul had returned did he feel Hogwarts speaking to him, reaching out to him with unreal fingers which trembled with uncertainty. The tension of a quake remained in the air - he still felt it now - as the castle danced between two poles.

[/i]One, two. One, two. Which one?[/i]

Minerva, he thought desperately, as though wishing could change things. Fever-Brian lay his entire body across his head, robbing him of breath. Choose Minerva, I am yours no longer…

“Liar,” Brian spoke through his own jaw. The migraine was blotting out the ward; for all he knew someone was sitting and taking notes on his raving… “Liar, liar, liar. Hogwarts will be destroyed!”

No!

“Then tell her. You must tell her, so something can be sorted out.”

I cannot, I cannot. Harry-

-Shouting and throwing things. First a prophecy, and then a son that turned out to be a cuckoo-

“Do you want Harry and Ginny happy or do you want the school to collapse? You’ll lose your home, after everything…”

Aberforth stood above him and brandished the roses smugly, confidently. Minerva hung on his arm, her body entwined around his. She was younger, a goddess with hair without a trace of silver, and creamy skin unmarred by age-

“Traitor,” Albus mumbled brokenly. His brother and Snape joined hands and began to dance. “Is there no one I can trust? Is there no one I love whom I will not lose? Traitor! Severus, please… I trusted you, I trusted you both - Harry! HARRY! Aberforth, why do you hate me? Dad, you don’t have to tell me everything… I just want to know the basics! Minerva! One of Snape’s old curses? Forgive me, forgive me, I want you to be happy, brother…”

Brian moaned and turned over, the damp of his brow visible even in the moonlight invading through a window on the other side of the ward. Beside him, Poppy Pomfrey listened with a patience born of astonishment. As the boy’s breathing slowed into sleep, she unfurled some parchment and began to write a letter.

---

“Two?” repeated Abernathy Thompson incredulously.

Minerva nodded wearily. The Chair of Governors’ astonishment was of a type that betrayed ignorance rather than true amazement. Really, she found herself thinking, everything about him seemed indicative of stupidity, from the fussy way he had braided his wispy silver hair to the self-conscious manner with which he gestured with the hand that bore his signet ring. Truly he was one of the most tedious people she had ever had the misfortune to deal with.

But then, Minerva remembered, none of the other elderly men that made up the board and who were also standing in the room with her had ever been anything but tedious. They were sat round the mahogany table like sweating spectators to a tennis match, blighted by nervous tics and fiddling fingers, trying to conceal the blatant glass ceiling the Headmistress had found herself victim to.

“Professor McDuffy-” began the man sitting next to Abernathy vaguely.

“Professor McGonagall,” Minerva corrected him.

“Professor McGumble, I am not understanding the precise nature of your claim-”

“How vexing, especially as I outlined it a mere five seconds ago,” she snapped. Filius shifted next to her; she felt him gaze up at her apprehensively, pleading for a more peaceful approach.

“Now, now,” mumbled Abernathy, flashing his signet ring. “There is always room for misunderstanding-”

“I fail to see how anyone can misunderstand what I said. Nevertheless, to reiterate, I have accused you and the rest of these gentlemen of appointing another head teacher without my knowledge.”

A wind seemed to sweep round the room, whistling past the candelabras and tapestries. Hands twitched in agitation and the ‘gentlemen’ exchanged looks: this woman had not obeyed the chance of etiquette that unnecessary clarification gave. Abernathy’s plump face was fixed into an expression of bewilderment.

“Headmistress-”

“Were you displeased with my conduct, then twelve signatures would have been required as well as a hearing and probationary period.”

“-We are completely-”

“You have no right to turn me out of my job in this way.” The words were like lightning bolts from heaven; the goddess was on the rampage.

“-Ignorant of any such-”

“I demand that I be given reasons for this outrage, which, as well you may know, violates one of the cornerstones of the Laws of the Founders. I demand that you identify this alternate individual to me-”

“Headmistress!”

Minerva paused and looked coldly into Abernathy’s flushed face. Bitterness prevented her from heeding the slight tugging on her arm that came from Filius; hurt had congealed into fury. The night before had been spent evaluating every aspect of her leadership, searching for any little event that might have made a black mark against her. Was it the Dark gathering that had made them think she was losing her touch? Had it been her failure to secure new brooms for Rolanda? Had one of the inspectors spotted her cursing at Mrs Norris? What perfect person had so usurped her place?

The fidgeting had ceased completely; the governors were sat bolt upright in their chairs, trivial paperwork and artificial boredom forgotten. The Chair himself had frozen in the manner of a man cornered by a rattlesnake - but still with that wretched, insolent expression of confusion. Would the pretence never end?

Minerva waited for Abernathy to say something more, but the cry had obviously been one of shock, not one of reason. Her hands reached into her robes and withdrew a gold-edged parchment. Perhaps the governors needed reminding of the old laws.

“’The Founders’ Laws, Precept Two, Article One,’” she read. “’That Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry should be headed by one head teacher, be they either male or female, to be supported but not overruled by a deputy, be they male or female, and to be bound to the core of the school until their legal removal from the post, the conditions of which are under the jurisdiction of the official appointed Board of Governors who are bound to present adequate reasons to the whole panel of twelve if the motion is argued by one, and-”

Abernathy spluttered. “We are quite aware of the Founders’ Laws!”

“Professor McDuffy-”

“How dare you accuse us of-”

“Cease this preposterous recital at once-”

“-As put forward by Godric Gryffindor and as agreed by Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff on the night of first of August of the Year of the Sceptre,” Minerva finished. She risked a glance at Filius; the tiny Charms professor had his hands to his mouth in horror, but gave her a small nod of approval. “You claim to know these words, but yet you have blatantly broken them. You have not presented me with adequate reasons for my removal, and a new head teacher has been bound to Hogwarts without proper warning or ceremony. I demand to know why this is.”

“We would never-”

“How dare you assume us-”

“What grounding does this accusation-”

“Well, what have I done?” The Headmistress could feel the threat of hysteria creeping up her throat; she dropped her eyes to her walking stick. The glass ceiling was spreading, freezing into an even greater solidity. “I have not bedded a pupil! I have not broadcast whatever private relationships you suppose me to have to the student body! I have not embezzled funds-”

Abernathy glared at her, one hand lightly touching the golden clasp of his robe. “Headmistress,” he whispered, “had you halted that ridiculous display long enough to listen, you would have discovered that none of us know what you are talking about.”

“No other head teacher has been appointed,” said the man beside him quietly, equally stony-faced. “Thus far, we have had no reason to remove you from your post.”

Minerva felt at a sudden loss for words. What could one do in the face of such defiant denial? “The core,” she began.

“-Is unstable. Yes, we are well aware of that as well,” snarled the Chair. “Believe it or not, we are as confused about it as anybody. Believe it or not, we have no wish to have the castle destroyed any more than you do. Believe it or not, you are wrong in your assumptions, Professor McDuffy.”

“Professor McGonagall,” corrected Filius.

Abernathy did not respond.

---

The second quake came so suddenly that one moment Minerva was scrutinising a letter written in her own neat script with thoughts of revising several key phrases, and the next, she was staring at a pool of ink as the ink-pot seemed to fling itself over. Afterwards, the Headmistress sat frozen in her chair, withered hands gripping the sides and then curling themselves into fists. Ink dripped off the desk with a steady plop that was oddly out of place; it suggested something petite and calm, quite unlike her emotions. Those mere three seconds of near-collapse had undone all the quietening Filius had managed immediately following the disaster with the Board of Governors.

“Fretting cannot help!” he had squeaked nervously, watching her pace to and fro like what she was: a restless cat. “Try and think of something else!”

Of course it had been impossible, on the main. The agony of announcing the danger to the students, the flurry of owls that had followed, the inexplicable ignorance of the governors and her own fears of crumbling stone and falling masonry had all conspired to weight her mind with countless anxieties. Nevertheless, she had indeed attempted to ‘think of something else’ - and had half succeeded, until the castle itself reminded her.

Now the news of the damage would come rolling in - and all the time, the ache in her chest had never stopped. Occasionally the pain overwhelmed her, forcing her to sit down. In front of the governors such a luxury had been forbidden; dignity was all-important. That pride had made her downplay the threat to the students, leading to guilt: another beast that lurked inside her wounded chest. Yet Hogwarts was her haven; the idea of anyone thinking of it as a hazard was maddening in itself.

“Scourgify,” she said, wiping the parchment clean. The resulting wave of exhaustion made her lean back into the chair and close her eyes. For a moment at least, she could pretend that existence was optional.

A knock on the door. No, escape from her responsibilities was impossible.

“Enter.”

The sight of Slughorn, white as a sheet and holding something by the tips of his fingers as though whatever it was could easily contaminate the room, engendered nothing but resignation. Minerva kneaded her temples and leaned forwards. Undoubtedly he was there to complain about the damage caused to potions vials or cauldrons.

“Horace, what can I do for you?”

His walrus-moustache quivered and he transferred the mysterious object into his other hand. Oh, said the sarcastic, Snape-like part of her. Something valuable has been damaged this time.

“I - I have a problem, Headmistress.”

“Don’t we all,” she responded drily. Slughorn did not appear to acknowledge this and instead crept towards her desk tentatively - before flinging the object onto her desk and standing back.

Surprised, Minerva stared at the Potions Master in confusion. He shook his head and passed a hand over his brow, wiping away a sheen of sweat she had only just noticed. The urge to roll her eyes came to her, but instead she looked at the object, which she could now see was a little book, blackened and burnt, looking on the verge of falling apart. There was no title.

“What is this?”

Slughorn said nothing. Irritated, the Headmistress scowled and then, carefully, flipped open the cover. The title page was written in spidery handwriting.

THE DARK MANIFESTO: BEYOND DEATH

LORD VOLDEMORT

She snapped the book shut as if she had been stung. Heart pounding, she found Slughorn’s eyes. “Where did you find this?”

The Potions Master mumbled something, not meeting her gaze.

“Horace Slughorn, where did you find this?”

“Slytherin Common Room.”

“Did you confiscate it from a student?”

“N-no, I discovered it open in one of the armchairs. Nobody would own up to-”

“Well of course they wouldn’t! The penalty for possessing this, let alone reading it-”

“I-I never suspected-”

“You wouldn’t, would you?” Minerva found herself standing and on the verge of shouting. “They talk to you about everything, do they, your little snakes? Yet the same canker-”

“Albus b-believed them equal to the rest of the school!”

Horace could not know, Minerva thought as she sank weakly into her seat again. Rolanda and Poppy would never have betrayed her in that way… She felt sick at herself; was this another prejudice brought to light, or was she just afraid..?

“Headmistress, apologies. I… I should not have referred to your predecessor.”

Slughorn had deflated, his bulk reducing to that of a mouse, the sense of pride he exuded apparently erased. Fingers fumbled with each other, gone was the trademark ‘Slughorn smirk.’ When he spoke, every word seemed dragged from him.

“I… This is m-my fault… Y-you’re right; I talk at my l-little snakes but they never talk to me…”

“Horace-” Minerva began, startled. The pompous face before her was dissolving into one marked by shame and guilt.

“No, no,” he mumbled, holding up one hand. “I admit it, I…I can’t watch it a-again. The Second War was my fault-”

The Headmistress wondered what world she had entered: a world where Hogwarts stood divided between two head teachers, a world where brothers wooed women with symbols of each other, a world where Horace Slughorn, vain as a peacock and a good deal more self-indulgent, was prepared to take on the deaths of hundreds as his sole responsibility… The mind boggled.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said aloud. “How you can possibly-”

“I t-told him about Horcruxes…”

At last, a missing piece in the puzzle of history. She suspected Harry had known, but had never said a word about it. Yet this confession - this sign that He had been right, that He had seen the first shoots of a decent tree growing out of a decadent seed - had a relevance that was not immediate, a relevance that could only come into effect when Slughorn’s soul met judgement. More urgent was the fact that the words of Lord Voldemort had survived to once again eat away at that same devious House. Could a younger generation grasp the significance, when they knew the Dark Lord from textbooks and hear-say, and probably not much of Tom Riddle at all? Did the possibility of Tom Riddle sitting in a classroom, listening to History of Magic, ever occur to them? No, Voldemort was an evil that transcended humanity; his protégé could never be a mere boy reading in a common room.

Yet He had known, even before history had given her first warning.

“Severus…” Slughorn cut himself off.

…Please, finished the younger Professor McGonagall who had once eaten meals next the former Potions Master. Please tell me you did not smuggle this in.

The older Professor McGonagall’s face hardened. She would make sure she heeded the other warning as well.

[Apocalypticat]

he first day Brian’s body felt strong enough to stand without swaying, Albus was confronted by two letters.

He took the rolled parchment from Madam Pomfrey silently, only being allowed to break the seals once he had swallowed two vials of foul-tasting potion and had changed from pyjamas into school robes in preparation for Brian’s first lessons since the fever had begun. The letter, Poppy’s instructions to return after lunch, the fuzziness still attached to his brain, even the peril in which Hogwarts stood - all paled before the task before him. He had remembered it within five seconds of awakening, with a sudden, leaden feeling permeating Brian’s body and causing his head to drop back down on the pillow immediately after lifting it. How would she react? What would she say? What would he say? The mind raced at the idea. Some insane part of him wanted to shout it from the top of the Astronomy Tower, inform the Daily Prophet or paint the truth in gigantic letters all over the Quidditch pitch; so repressed had it all been, for so many years…

Ah, he remembered. That was part of the problem.

Distractedly, he unfurled the parchment.

You are in danger. I cannot defend you directly, you must appeal to your father. Your enemy’s name is Jonathan Blaine.

The words had been assembled out of newspaper cuttings and the parchment was crumpled. Feeling an odd sense of universal irony, Albus eyed the printed characters with puzzlement. How cliché. As for the name of Jonathan Blaine, over a century of memory did not avail him; the only reference the surname had was of a boy two years above him during his own school days - who had been in Hufflepuff and had been so insignificant in the great scheme of things that it was bizarre he was remembered at all. Reflecting that Brian Potter’s only enemies could be those with a hatred of Potters in general, he pocketed the note and turned his attention to the other letter.

Harry’s handwriting made him blink, but the contents were written in the stilted, hesitant way of something which two minds, not one, had fretted over and revised endlessly.

Dear Brian,

You will probably only read this when you recover, so we hope you are feeling better. We visited twice whilst you were ill, but both times you were asleep and looked too peaceful to disturb. However, please don’t think that we aren’t aware of what’s troubling you; Madam Pomfrey informed us that you talked a lot whilst you were ill, and that you talked about the Second War.

Obviously, something about this is weighing on your mind. Brian, please tell us what you know and how you know it. If you have read a troubling account of it that shocked you, or frightened you, then we would rather know so that we can talk about it with you. We aren’t angry that you followed your natural curiosity, just worried.

Please don’t hesitate to confide in us and never forget that we both love you.

Love from

Mum & Dad

Brian’s groan made Madam Pomfrey look up from her book. Albus forced a nonchalant smile and inwardly cursed the witch for ‘informing’ Harry and Ginny of anything. Merlin knew exactly what had been communicated, exactly what had been given away. Had Poppy repeated, word for word, whatever he had said during the fever, or had she just given a vague summary? Whilst the letter betrayed only the uneasiness of parents who believed their son to have read something too graphic for pre-adolescent consumption, there was no saying what real doubts know lurked at the heart of the Potter home.

Of course, the letter was not even his foremost concern. Even whilst reading it, Minerva had lurked in his thoughts. He couldn’t imagine any reaction apart from angry incomprehension. He would go to her with only his memories for proof.

Even Harry could wait.

---

The fifth quake had been the first to cause what even the ever optimistic Filius would call serious damage. It was one thing for Slughorn’s vials to be knocked over, or for Madam Pince to complain of falling books, but quite another for a student to be knocked unconscious by a plummeting gargoyle, or for the Fat Friar to be reduced to a wisp of smoke.

The consequences had been inevitable; the student’s mother had withdrawn them from the school for an indefinite period, and the ghosts (as well as every other magical creature in the castle, from the portraits to the suits of armour) were in an uproar. As for the state of the Fat Friar himself, Minerva had been strongly, and unpleasantly reminded of the basilisk affair of Harry’s second year. This time, there was nothing Pomona Sprout to contribute to the solution and no possibility of a solution at all until the core was stabilised.

Of course, Minerva thought, clutching a soothing cup of tea like a lifeline, even terming it all as a ‘quake’ was hardly sufficient. ‘Quake’ implied that the only plane to be affected was the physical one, whereas such a complicated magical problem had more ominous effects than that; the duration of such periods was marked most disturbingly by the inability to cast any sort of spell, from Nox to Accio. For all the cheer of Filius, the flippancy of the governors and her own bravado, Hogwarts teetered on a knife-edge.

Perhaps it was therefore appropriate for the most unstable of the castle‘s occupants to be present, Minerva thought irritably.

“How am I supposed to remain sensitive to cosmic vibrations when earthly vibrations have created a hole in my roof?” Sybil Trelawney’s magnified eyes were filled with tears and indignation. “Headmistress, your lack of sympathy-”

The Headmistress felt a muscle twitch in her cheek. “Forgive me, Sybil, if I do not find cosmic vibrations to be particularly urgent-”

“Neither do I,” said Martha Read in a high voice.

“Then what would you consider to be urgent, Martha?”

The Transfiguration professor folded her arms and adopted the martyred expression so native to Sybil that her audience blinked. “Well, their importance is somewhat subjective, but I feel that this whole thing has irreparably damaged my nerves.”

“Goodness, well that is a disaster,” Minerva snapped. “Again, forgive me if once again-”

“A bookcase nearly fell on me, Headmistress!”

That ‘nearly’ - such a pity, such a pity.

“If you feel unwell, then you should consult Poppy,” the Headmistress said aloud.

“… I request a leave of absence.”

Such insolence robbed her of speech. Sybil seized the opportunity.

“M-My treatment has been inexcusable! I demand that my roof be repaired, I demand that I be given some redress! My situation is unacceptable-”

“Then you may leave.”

Minerva heard herself from a distance. She was too tired, too exhausted to deal with Sybil’s silliness or Martha’s sensitivity; much too drained to curb her tongue and swallow her bile. She felt nothing but detached anger as Sybil started and flashed red then white, before rising to her feet and pointing with a trembling finger.

“Y-You have n-never appreciated me, Minerva! You have never appreciated my t-teaching or my gifts; you have always ridiculed me and turned the s-staff against me-”

“I repeat my request for a leave of absence-”

“Then take it,” snarled a voice from the corner.

Aberforth’s face was lined with annoyance and his grizzled mane of hair made him appear quite alarming. Both of the witches opposite Minerva jumped - but Sybil’s eyes darted to the roses livid in the wizard’s hand as he moved towards them. Minerva wondered how long he had been watching the exchange - at exactly what point had he emerged from the fireplace? The direction of Sybil’s glance did not escape her; embarrassed, she waved a hand but Aberforth had already passed round the desk.

“I suggest you stop harassing the woman and sort out your own problems,” he growled. Martha wilted in her chair but the Divination professor ignored him and looked at Minerva incredulously.

“So this is the way of things? W-we are shunted aside in preference to your l-lover!”

Aberforth’s jaw clamped shut and his eyes swivelled to the Headmistress. The request for a confirmation of this idea hung in the air. Minerva could feel the blood moving to her face. She stood up.

“I apologise for any offence I may have given and grant Professor Read her leave of absence. I will make enquiries about the roof. You may leave.”

Sybil mouthed incoherently but Minerva’s attention was on Aberforth, whose brows lowered at the evasion. The cliff-face remained rigid even after the two professors had exited from the room, and the roses were thrust hurriedly upon the desk without preamble, their giver then retreating backwards slightly.

“Thank you for stopping that silliness,” said the Headmistress lightly.

The atmosphere did not lift; instead it grew heavier, deeper. Aberforth was eyeing her through narrowed eyes, waiting for something. Her heart was beginning to race beyond the pain.

“Thank you for the roses.” The wizard’s face twitched, the mask - for she was sure it was a mask - flickered. “They‘re not much.”
His loneliness was all around her, appealing to her. Her gaze locked onto the roses as a distraction. “They are still beautiful.”

“Are they? When they’re nothing too upmarket?”

“Yes.”

“Even when there are better ones being sold?”

She had lost track of the conversation entirely. “Yes.”

“Even when you’ve had others… better ones… before?”

Dippet coughed behind her. Aberforth was babbling, that was the only explanation. “…Yes.”

“And you think them beautiful?”

“Yes!”

Dippet coughed again. Minerva heard a sharp intake of breath.

“They are not as beautiful as you.”

The tone of his voice made her look up; it was no longer harsh but thick, weighted with feeling. Yet it was not that, but the sight of his face that held her paralysed, incapable even of thinking.

The cliff had given way - utterly, suddenly, so that not a trace of crag remained. Behind it, something soft and stupefied stared out at her, the lines seeming to fade, years dropping off. He was smiling, smiling in a way that conveyed ecstasy rather than mere cheer, and the cold sapphire of his eyes had melted with emotion - she perceived, for the first time, the depth it all, that he was not fond but besotted.

Only now did she grasp the metaphor, only now she did realise the meaning of her own answers. She remained frozen in her chair as he moved around the desk and knelt so that their faces were level, as though she had just given ‘I do’ to a proposal. Still staring at her with a gaze befuddled with love, he took her hand with unexpected delicacy and proceeded to rub his cheek against it in mute adoration.

Oh Merlin.

Pity and horror writhed in her chest. She had answered without knowing the true question, had seemingly proclaimed her love when there was nothing but friendship. Or was there? Albus was dead, his brother held the only future. The slanted script of Eleanor Reeves came back to her:

You must allow yourself to live.

Truth pointed out the insincerity of it all, the fact that in sitting there and allowing Aberforth’s rough beard to brush against her fingers she was deceiving him… Yet no, there was fire there, in her heart, there was love, of a sort: in Aberforth there would always be Albus - the point of his nose, the shape and colour of his eyes, the line of his jaw…

He was kissing the tips of her fingers now, looking more worshipful every second. Could she refuse him? Was the capacity to break his heart within her? For now she knew that it was not the idle attachment she had either believed in or hoped for; he had thrown his soul into the balance.

Looking at him as his eyes drank in her image and his hand stroked hers, she knew that that capacity was not within her. She could not say no, she could not cause more pain to both herself and him… she could not deny the reality any longer.

Albus was dead and she was alive. What kind of person devoted themselves to death when life tugged at her, was even now placing unexpectedly soft lips on the back of her hand? He was gone and it was she who prevented any peace. How many more tears were there to cry, how much more grief to suffer? Was it vanity that kept her thinking of a god when here there was a man? He would approve, she was sure, he would approve… The man at her side was only a friend in terms of her own self-denial, her grief keeping at bay all natural feelings. In fact, this, more than any other, was a triumph of love, a victory of the soul…

A draft rustled the paper on the desk, just as Aberforth placed a hand under her chin, apparently speechless in his joy. That was you, you are gone now, I have set you free-

Aberforth was inches from her now, wide blue eyes recalling the young man in him. Minerva suddenly felt him to be adorable just as his hand cupped her cheek and a knock sounded at the door - something completely irrelevant, to be ignored…

Her eyes were closing in anticipation. What did it matter, she thought, what did anything matter?

There was another rap at the door, but Minerva raised a hand and curled her fingers in the beard before her… Even the irritating audience of the portraits was beyond her attention-

The person outside the office gave another desperate thump on the wood-

Their lips touched-

-The door burst open.

“Professor, I’m sorry but-”

Silence, as the voice cut itself off. Flushing, she pulled back and Aberforth stood up abruptly, a look of disappointment dimming the happiness slightly, as she turned her head to see the invader-

Brian Potter was framed in the doorway, white as a sheet and gaping, looking as though he had been hit in the face in with a cauldron. The least furious part of Minerva thought this was a bit of an overreaction to the admittedly shocking sight the student had come across, the main part of her wanted to levitate him out of the nearest window, half-moon spectacles and all.

Conscious of her scarlet face, the Headmistress rose to her feet trembling with anger, just as the boy’s face contorted with pain-

“How dare you,” she hissed, “how dare-”

“I’m s-sorry,” came the choked reply. The boy had covered his face with both hands and was standing with his shoulders hunched, apparently in the depth of some torment.

“Why have you come?” She said it quietly, knowing that giving greater rein to her voice would result in shouting.

Brian spoke as though the words were dragged from him. “I - I came to tell you something-”

“It can wait! It can wait! How dare you enter without my permission-”

“Please!”

The boy let his hands drop to his eyes and stared at the floor. After a couple of seconds, Minerva saw something wet fly downwards, glinting like a jewel. It wasn’t his fault-

The roar of the Floo behind her told her that Aberforth had left, evidently now secure enough to finish what was started at some other time. The Headmistress sank back down her chair, suddenly weary and regretting her anger. It really hadn’t been Brian’s fault that he had arrived at the wrong time, and the news he carried really could be urgent.

“What do you wish to tell me?”

The boy wiped his face with a sleeve and looked up at her, face pale and strained. “I came - I came to tell you my name.”

The ashes began to kindle back into a flame. “I know your name!”

“But-”

“Is this some sort of joke?”

“No-”

“Some sort of dare, perhaps?”

“Professor-”

“Are you not aware that the castle is in some considerable danger and that I might not find such things amusing?”

“But-”

“You have pushed my patience-”

“Minerva-”

She halted in violent indignation. The sound of her name was the last straw. He, meanwhile, looked at her with the fatigue of an old, unhappy man - and spoke in the tones of such.

“My name is Albus Dumbledore.”

[Apocalypticat]

I doubt anyone is reading this anymore on here, but I'll keep posting, in case anyone feels like a big long read.

CHAPTER 16: His Darling

The office was still, and the silence scintillating.

The words were all wrong, Albus realised dimly. He had not meant to tell her like that. The rehearsals of the long and gentle explanations, the revising of the envisaged conversation were all pointless, all lost because of an unforeseen element – no, a denied element. The words had all been driven away by a reality which was not only no longer his but now in the possession of someone else; someone whose delirious face was now seared and scorched into his brain, as if the image of what he had seen had been a lighted brazier primed to bring him back from a fantasy. Oh, what had he thought those roses meant? The truth! The gap left by the silence and Minerva’s uncomprehending face filled itself with a nursery rhyme-

Aberforth and Minerva, sitting in a tree-

No, it was supposed to be him-

Minerva was white, he noticed distantly. All the blood had left her face, leaving it the colour of bone; this was the knowledge of his own death staring out at him-

“Albus…”

His fists clenched. Now that the moment had come, he didn’t feel the need to say anything at all.

“Minerva, I-”

The blood rushed back, and he saw her shoot upwards as though from a distance, and heard her scream as though it was an echo-

“HOW DARE YOU! HOW DARE YOU! WHO… WHO HAD YOU DO THIS?”

She was suddenly beside him, bearing down on him, her whole frame shaking with rage. Albus wondered vaguely if he had ever seen her this angry before.

“HOW DARE-”

Words appeared to fail the Headmistress. A withered hand flew backwards, and the next second his face was ringing and the sound of a slap was lingering in the air. Dippet shouted something, Merlin knew what, and somehow he was speaking, even though his glasses had flown off his nose onto the floor-

“Allow me to explain-”

He caught her arm as it came down again, and held it, so that the furious green eyes were inches from his own.

“Minerva! You must listen to me – I am not as I appear; this is Albus speaking to you!” Brian’s boyish voice had risen in a shout. “I was reborn as-”

She wrenched herself free and stared at him with wide eyes.

“You’re raving…”

Desperation made him lunge forwards. “Minerva, I can prove it – ask me anything, anything at all! I am a Headmaster; the castle still obeys me, it still shapes itself around my will – ask me to summon the suits of armour, the portraits, widen the corridors – anything! I can prove-“

“Merlin…” She was backing away from him, face filled with fear and shock. “You’re delirious… Poppy should not have-”

“- It all; Minerva, I have the memories! I remember Grindelwald, I remember your role – how you pretended, how I discovered what you were doing-”

“How do you – but of course, you must have read something – Grindelwald is included on the curriculum-”

“-How I found you…” Something wet trickled down his cheek as the memories passed before his eyes. “How I found you after you’d decided to give yourself for the cause-”

“No-”

“Your recovery in St Mungo’s-”

“Potter-”

“NO!”

Despair-

“He was my boy, not the other way around… he was mine, I am not his – I am not his-”

The fire had gone out of him. There was nothing left to say, nothing left to do. Minerva did not and would never believe him, and all was lost anyway because of Aberforth-

K-I-S-S…

He could hear her taking deep breaths, but did not look up because his familiarity with her mannerisms only bred pain. She would be closing her eyes so that her lashes stood out against her skin, and her sensuous mouth would twisting itself as she bit back words and reassessed the situation inside her head. Merlin, he knew her too well. The Hogwarts Headmaster would have helped her by now - he would have said something soothing after the event had passed, and then would have made her a cup of tea. Yes, that was the Headmaster all over. What would Albus Dumbledore have done?

“Mr Potter…”

There was no point in protesting, but he couldn’t help giving Brian’s head a thorough shake.

“I am not aware of what your father has told you about the War, or about… my predecessor, but I will be asking him not be quite so detailed in his accounts about either as you seem to be very disturbed by it. Forgive me for… my transgression; I don’t believe that either of us are quite in our normal frames of mind. Now, you are coming back down with me to the Hospital Wing, and Madam Pomfrey-”

Thump.

Albus looked up. A purple, embossed book had fallen off the desk, having evidently shifted as the Headmistress resumed her seat. The pages had fallen open, to reveal photos, photos of a man with a long white beard and twinkling blue eyes.

Brian’s body seemed to shoot upwards of its own accord, and the room swayed as the blood fled his face.

“Why?”

He barely realised that he had said it aloud; his mind was racing along pathways previously unexplored. Why was there a book apparently crammed with himself in an office that was now Minerva’s? Was it hers? What did she hope to find in images of himself? Yes, himself from the overseas prospectus - his old self: snowy locks, Father Christmas beard, gouged lines, whiskers, crow’s feet, spindly shanks, gnarled hands… repulsive. Why bother cutting his rebarbative figure from the prospectus in the first place? Did she perhaps regard him as someone worth remembering, worth mourning, worth treasuring within gilt-edged covers?

You were friends, the voice at the back of his head said. Of course she would mourn you.

…But to the extent of collating photos and placing an album of them prominently on her desk?

“Because I feel that it is necessary, Mr Potter,” she replied, breaking into his thoughts, and bending down to retrieve the book. She was going to close it, Albus thought, she was going to slap those rich covers back down on his reproduced face. A feeling of urgency engulfed him.

Her hand was inches away from it when he snatched it up himself.

“Thank you-” she began, but he was already rifling through the pages. His arrogant assumption had been correct; he was smiling from every page, so that the reader was overwhelmed, bombarded. Was that Aberforth’s writing? Were these first fifteen pages curled at the corners because Minerva had thumbed through them?

He heard the chair scrape back as her temper rose again… She was still Minerva McGonagall despite the passing of time. Her fury still flared so quickly… She was speaking; scolding the unbalanced, cozening boy before her, but for once her words did not matter-

“That was not what I meant,” he interrupted. He could hardly speak for lack of breath; the discovery had emptied his lungs and almost stopped his heart. “Why do you have this?”

The silence was half expected. Her face was still fixed in a glare but a flicker in the eyes betrayed her.

“Why do you have this?”

The nostrils flared. “I do not believe it to be any of your business-”

The album was like a Time-Turner; he was getting younger by the second. White hair to auburn, lines fading, beard regaining its lustre… Could it be..?

“Oh, it is. I am the man in the photos after all.”

“Madam Pomfrey-”

“-Were she to examine me properly would find me as sane as yourself.”

“Mr Potter-”

“-Would be thoroughly shocked if he knew. That is why I have thus far taken the precaution of telling him nothing.”

“Give it-”

He dodged her grasping hand easily. Phoenix song seemed to be playing in the background just as he came to the last few pages, to see Aberforth’s clumsy handwriting spell out something so wonderful that it set him laughing. He was still laughing as he turned the book around and held it up to the goddess.

Albus, trelve.

The photo had been taken in the days before photos could be animated, or even imbued with colour. It was a sepia-grey and badly creased across one of the corners, but the boy’s grin still shone through, his tender youth caught like a butterfly and seeming to contradict the stiff Victorian collar and austere cravat he was wearing. Goodness, he still remembered how it had felt, wearing a Victorian Hogwarts school uniform which was little more than a mass of heavy robes with fragile clasps which broke if one tugged at them too hard or got caught on the very robes they were meant to be fastening. If he strained, he could even remember how youth had felt the first time round, when there was no aged soul to conceal and no innocence that was feigned. He could not look now quite as he did within that photo; the eyes he knew to be cornflower blue were untainted and filled with zest…

The book was torn from his hands and slammed down on the desk. Minerva was trembling and ashen. He saw her emerald eyes dart from him to the picture and back again in apparent disbelief. The thoughts behind them were all too easy to guess: here was Albus, and here was Brian, and here they looked the same.

“It’s - it’s some sort of trick-”

Her voice was wobbling and his laughter stopped. “No tricks, Minerva.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what, my dear?”

“Stop calling me that!”

To his horror, her eyes had flooded. He stepped forward.

“My dear, my darling-”

“P-Polyjuice?”

“From the body of a man who died before Brian was born?”

“No, no, no…” Minerva had wrapped her arms around herself and was shaking her head. The tears began to spill over. “You are Harry and Ginny’s son! You are Brian!”

“My dear, poor Brian never really existed. His was a persona I invented. Please-”

He hated it, hated seeing her tears. He moved forwards, with no clear intention but that of somehow comforting her, but she backed away.

“Albus is dead! Merlin knows I’ve t-tried to deny it, but it’s true! He died nearly twenty years ago!”

“Yes, yes he did! Listen to me - the essay Brian wrote, when he first came to Hogwarts - did it not strike you as being a little familiar in style? I made an error, my dear, and had to leave you with the impression that Brian was a cheat. I believed that revealing my identity would endanger the happiness of Harry and Ginny - I have told you now because of the core… The school has two head teachers as my magic returned to me… Minerva, I do not understand it any more than you do but I swear to you that it’s true. When have I ever lied to you, my darling?”

She gazed at him with red eyes and a slack face. “Albus n-never called me his darling.”

Then her features crumpled. All was quiet except for her gulps; Albus’s mouth abruptly ceased to work. He wanted to say that that was because Albus had been a silly old fool, but his tongue would not obey him. Instead he could only wait until the tears finally slowed enough for her to speak again:

“There’s v-very little proof…”

“The photograph,” he said quietly. “The core. If you wish, you may test me under Veritaserum. A skilled Leglimens would also be able to confirm it.”

She gave another gulp and he felt a sick twisting inside his chest.

“My dear…”

“This cannot be true. It defies all reason, all sense, all sanity.” She said it almost angrily, and turned to point at an empty picture frame hanging behind the desk. “Albus is dead. His portrait appeared on the wall.”

“Was I ever in the portrait?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Did I ever speak to you?”

“No, he did not. He was asleep… and then he v-vanished.”

“Because I was reborn. I would hazard a guess that my portrait was never fully animated as I did not die completely…”

“No! I will not - I will not be hoodwinked in this way-”

“The photograph, Minerva! Does this body look anything like Harry or any of the Weasleys? No, it does not - it does not because it is not a part of them; it is my body rather than Brian’s!”

“…Coincidence…” She whispered it, knuckling her hands in her eyes.

“Do you believe in such coincidences?”

At that moment, the floor buckled, as if a ripple had suddenly run across the surface of a pond. Minerva had opened her mouth to stay something, but closed it again, instead laying one hand on her chest. The tips of Albus’s fingers suddenly stung, as though he had dipped them into a fire. He became aware of a headache nestling between his temples - a familiar headache…

The portraits swivelled their eyes around to look towards something invisible to the living occupants of the room, just the floor gave another heave that sent the Headmistress staggering sideways…

“Ah,” muttered Phineas, sharp eyebrows knotted. “I think-”

The sound was like a thunderclap.

Fireworks leapt inside Albus’s skull just as the room began to sway violently, the pensieve cabinet’s doors swinging open and paper cascading off the desk. Something shot up across the walls, crackling in and out of the masonry, fizzling like lightning, something which even without the clarity his glasses was instantly recognisable-

Dippet began to scream. The sound was so dreadful, so unexpected that Albus’s feet rooted themselves to the floor, ignoring the urge to run… Whimpers of fear went around the other portraits as Dippet’s cracked voice rose and rose, beginning to cut the painted throat raw. Minerva had sunk into the chair, curling over the agony inside her ribcage… Two Heads, Albus realised numbly, watching the magic weave its away through the stones, two Heads in the same room…

“Minerva!”

The magic of the bucking core wreathed itself around him, just as Dippet’s frame became a halo of flames.

[Apocalypticat]

“… Now if yeh follow me, we will be at the enclosure jus’ within a few-”

Hagrid stopped, bewildered. Most of the Third Years, shivering in the April breeze, continued to gaze into the Forbidden Forest in what the half-giant interpreted as gleeful expectation, but a few looked around confusedly, exchanging glances and raised eyebrows. Hagrid was used to being interrupted during lessons, but not by earth tremors.

“Did yeh feel that?”

“Professor, is it another quake?”

Hagrid felt his massive bones reverberate slightly. The thought of hippogriffs seemed rather less urgent. “Ne’er felt it through the ground before…”

The vibration came again. Indecision held Hagrid to the shifting earth; the quakes were bound to continue until someone found out what was wrong with the core, surely? There was no use in him going back… A screech turned his eyes to the sky.

“Look at that cloud, Professor. Is that-?”

Hagrid was gone; the Third Years could see the half-giant running full-tilt in the direction of the castle. Looking up again and peering more carefully, a word occurred to them all, a word no one dared say because the implications were both dreadful and obvious: owls. Owls, one massive flock of owls, flying as one as though fleeing something, flying away from Hogwarts.

---

The Fat Lady was gone, and they were trapped.

Eric Weasley was clinging to the bedpost, as that was all that was left to cling to, the only thing the creeping fronds of magic hadn’t yet touched. Downstairs, they were all in the Common Room, perhaps still flinging themselves against the door and trying to get out, or burying themselves into the sofas-

Across the room, Daniel Glover was splayed out on the floor, blood leaking from his ears, rolling limply from side to side with every savage shockwave. Eric hoped he was all right, but there was nothing he could do if he wasn’t; even magic didn’t work anymore - that’s why they were trapped, with no Alohomora, no nothing-

He closed his eyes and turned his head away from the window - he couldn’t bear to look at the window, not any more; he had seen the Astronomy Tower crumble and fall, masonry cascading through the air like shooting stars, with the students who had been on top of the tower like stars as well, screaming stars lost amongst the stones…

---

Albus was being born again. He was quite certain of this; here was the same pulsing darkness he remembered from twelve years ago. There was a pressure on his back and head that was not entirely uncomfortable but not wholly pleasant either, and it seemed as though his mother - whoever it would be, this time - was somehow aware of his thoughts… If he thought of Minerva and his brother, the darkness seemed to reverberate with his distress, and if he thought of Minerva and himself then the night around him seemed friendlier.

“… This will be just about the last straw for the governors…”

Slughorn’s pompous voice was unexpected, and the darkness became still and empty. Reluctantly, Albus listened.

“Blow the governors!” Rolanda’s voice was cracked and miserable. “What about Minerva, I say! What about those poor students-”

Somebody gave a dry sob. Albus felt his heart begin to race, just as the darkness lifted. His surroundings were now no longer pulsing or warm. Instead, curtains came into view - white curtains that might be used in a St Mungo’s hospital ward…

“Yes, of course - I didn’t mean to-” began Slughorn clumsily.

“Oh, shut up!” Pomona sounded furious.

“My good woman, I know you are upset about your plants, but-”

“If you’re going to go on about your potions-!”

“Be quiet, the pair of you,” snapped Poppy. “I honestly cannot believe that mature people can be concerned about plants and potions when we have a death-toll of ten!”

The audible silence allowed for the impact of the words to hit him. He sat up. He was in a bed with crisp white sheets, which in turn was encircled by crisp white curtains. Nearby, a spindly chair crouched, bearing its load of a crumpled Daily Prophet. The headline screamed at him and jerked him out of bed.

TRAGEDY AT HOGWARTS

TEN CHILDREN FEARED DEAD IN FREAK CORE EXPLOSION

Ten children.

Was that what his conversation with Minerva had cost?

Memories of the War flashed back into his head. All his fear and despair had been contained in those painful moments when parents had withdrawn their children because of dead relatives, writing demurely, crowding their grief with etiquette and reservation: “Dear Sir…” “We regret informing you…” “…In this time of sorrow…” Or, even worse, whenever he had had to summon a student to his office and tell them of dead parents or siblings or friends. How many times had he had to lend a handkerchief or speak without adequate words? He remembered the death of Cedric, and how he had been unable to keep his voice from trembling at the mere thought of speaking with Mr Diggory…

Ten children.

Was even Hogwarts still standing? If the Daily Prophet had not exaggerated and if the core had indeed fully exploded then surely that was it. He tried to envisage the castle collapsing, spouting magic in its death-throes, but imagination failed him. Nightmares had no place in reality.

“Where is Harry?”

Slughorn’s voice made him jump.

“He’s gone to see the Headmistress,” came Filius’s squeak. “Apparently she requested his presence.”

“Minerva’s awake?” Rolanda spoke sharply. “Why did no one tell me?”

“No, come back,” said Poppy. “She probably wants to see Mr Potter alone.”

“She wasn’t alone when he went,” said Filius. “Aberforth was there.”

“Oh, him,” sniffed Sybil disdainfully. “Her lover.”

Albus gave a deep, shuddering sigh and stumbled towards the curtains, ears ringing. He drew them aside and peered out to see the professors look up at him from their seats. Hagrid was sobbing, his great, ruddy face wet with tears, and Pomona was looking vacant and lost. Sybil, meanwhile, was sitting apart from the rest of the professors with folded arms and an air of injury and malice. Filius’s normally cheerful face was worn and miserable, and Rolanda had bitten her nails to the quick. Poppy was sat beside her, an arm around one of her shoulders, but any reassuring qualities were somewhat diminished by her bloodshot eyes and grey skin. Less predictably, beside her sat a very subdued-looking Alastor Moody, whose claw of a hand was coiled around the witch’s as though holding her to earth.

“Mr Potter, I rather think you should be in bed,” she said sternly, but Albus ignored her.

“What happened?” His voice came out as a croak.

“Nothing that is your concern. Now-”

“The Daily Prophet… it said that ten students…”

Hagrid gave an almighty sob. Poppy’s eyes went glassy and distant. “Yes… Five of them were on the Astronomy Tower when it collapsed… Well, there were four below…” Her voice tailed off.

“And the other?”

“Magical core imploded,” growled Moody. “Sheer weight of mezrel was too much for them.”

“M-Mezrel?” Hagrid pressed a sodden handkerchief against his cheeks.

“Unit of magical measurement, man - but of course, you never made it past your third year…”

Bile crawled up Albus’s throat. He swayed and collapsed into the nearest chair. Would there ever be an end to human tragedy?

“Mr Potter-” Poppy began again.

“No,” he said roughly. Was Minerva telling Harry all he had said? “My father - he’s with M… Professor McGonagall… When will he be-?”

“Martha!”

Pomona’s exclamation made him look up. Martha Read was walking briskly down the corridor towards them with an expression of resigned determination. Casting a stony glare at Albus alias Brian, she halted beside Filius and bowed her head.

“I came as soon as I heard,” she snapped. “What has happened to the students?”

“Evacuated,” grunted Moody, seemingly not noticing the flicker of fear which Albus spotted pass over Martha’s face. “Ten are dead and several are injured.”

“What were the names of the students killed?”

Filius gave a heavy sigh. “Emily Bridge, Matthew Hardcastle, Jonathan Jones, Ryan Abercrombie, Donald O’Sullivan, Helena Yale, Bethany Atkins, Kara Cleeves, Leonard Cliff and Petra Albronsa.”

Martha’s face was impassive. “Right, now tell me everything from the beginning.”

The miniature wizard blinked and Rolanda raised her eyebrows. Sybil rolled her eyes.

“Well aren’t you nice and organised after the emergency,” she said bitterly. “You didn’t have to go through having the castle start falling down all around you. I was attempting to gaze into the Orb when it happened. There was a disturbance on the Spirit plane-”

“Funny how you didn’t foresee it then,” muttered Rolanda. “All right. Basically, it started off like an ordinary quake but instead of stopping, it just got worse. Some of the portraits started screaming and the others dashed around like mad things - as did the suits of armour. Students who were near the core chamber at the time had their wands burst into flames and others were trapped in their Common Rooms as their guardians had fled. We had to destroy portraits to get them out. Magic started shooting up and down the corridors… The air sort of glowed… It was terrible. Filius somehow managed to summon the Aurors, who managed to get hold of those Swedes again… I reckon they’re the only reason why the castle is still standing. The Aurors also got Minerva and Brian Potter out of the head’s office - apparently the place was in flames-”

“And how is Mr Potter?” Martha asked sharply.

“Well he’s sitting right in front of you…you can tell for yourself.”

Martha fixed Albus with a look both unexpectedly shrewd and penetrating. “Shouldn’t he be in bed?”

“Brian!”

Albus barely had time to turn around before being enveloped in a crushing hug. Harry’s heart beat next to his ear and the Chief Auror pulled him forward, so that the whole of his dazed weight was being supported by his father.

“Thank Merlin-”

“How’s M- Professor McGonagall?”

Harry drew back and gripped him by shoulders, looking at him searchingly. Albus tensed; had Minerva divulged the secret to him?

“She’s in quite a lot of pain, but she’s awake. She wants to see you. But first, here’s a message that arrived for you-” Albus took the proffered sealed envelope. “-And secondly… well, I have some personal news for you, but on second thoughts, that can wait. It’s not really a suitable time.”

“Personal news?”

Harry gave him a weak smile. “Yes. Good news. I’d rather tell you at a less pressing moment. The Headmistress is waiting for you… she says it’s urgent, but please don’t tire her out. Turn right and it’s the ward on the second left.”

Trembling slightly, Albus slit open the envelope as he walked, or rather, stumbled up the corridor. Did Minerva believe what he had told her? If so, what was this conversation going to hold? Would it hold anything at all? The image of Aberforth and Minerva brushing their lips together came back suddenly, inappropriately. Ten students were dead and his thoughts were centred on this? It was all too much to take in.

The newspaper-cut letters caught his eye.

I assume you have not told your father. Typical. I shall attempt to aid you more personally.

[Apocalypticat]

CHAPTER 17: Truth

The ceiling was watching her. Its impartial face was the only audience to all her thoughts; the idea of saying anything at all to Aberforth was simply beyond all endurance. His frantic cries of her name as she had awoken, and the way he had kissed her desperately, whispering relief and worry into her ears, had left her emotionally comatose as well as physically. Could she return his attentions with any true sincerity when once again it was Albus who stalked her mind, Albus whom she thought of as she mumbled endearments to a pair of blue eyes?

The pain in her ribcage had almost been a release from the madness that was beginning to cloud her brain. Now that it was reduced to a distant throbbing it could no longer block out the sight of Brian Potter, laughing half hysterically, looking at her with familiarity, rambling about things which no one but Albus could know-

“My dear, my darling…”

Her shiver shook the bed and made Aberforth look up. She smiled weakly and he brushed her cheek with one finger before returning to his paper. A galling sickness seemed to permeate her body.

Brian was seriously unbalanced, she tried to tell herself firmly. He was raving. Hearing his boyish voice calling her ‘darling’ should have been enough to convince her of that. The way he cried and then laughed… The madness in his eyes, almost passionate in its intensity… He was twelve years old and deeply disturbed. By Merlin, it was the most disturbing thing which had ever happened to her… Perhaps the whole episode had been some sort of fevered dream she had had between consciousness and oblivion…

Yet…

“The photograph. The core. If you wish, you may test me under Veritaserum. A skilled Leglimens would also be able to confirm it.”

Such daring, such confidence. In some twisted way, it all made sense. The core was behaving as though there were two head teachers, and if Brian was indeed Albus-

Her fingernails dug into her palms. What was she thinking? Was she so easily deluded? Why did the doubt remain with her?

She had called Harry with the intention of telling him the whole thing - or the sensible version of the whole thing. Brian had developed a bizarre fixation on someone long dead and was clearly unbalanced. He needed help, he needed to be withdrawn from school in the hope of making a full recovery. He needed to have a long talk with Harry, to sort out where it had all gone wrong. He needed all of those things, but she-

-She had said nothing. Instead she had invented a reason to summon Harry. She had spoken at length about the core, and how she hoped the Aurors would be on standby in case of a further incident, and enquired as to how long the school would have to be closed for so as to bring the lethal mezrel count down - if the school would only be closed until then; the governors were bound to be unhappy. She had acted the part of the concerned Headmistress when thoughts far more selfish were dominating her.

Brian was a boy! A sadly deluded boy! Any further speculation was preposterous!

The photo… The photo seemed emblazoned on the ceiling above her; the likeness seemed to follow her eyes as they moved about the room, and Brian’s laughter echoed in her ears. The likeness was certainly astonishing, but-

“Do you believe in such coincidences?”

No, no she did not. Coincidences as dramatic as that were not coincidences; there was some other force at work, and the only forces she believed in were human intelligence and the truth - only now they had collided. Now she had gone so far as to summon the boy, with no clue as to what she was going to say…

Aberforth’s sigh brought her back to reality. He had laid his paper aside and was staring at her with eyes that were suspiciously watery.

“I just keep on thanking Merlin that you are all right,” he whispered.

Warmth flared over the pain in her chest. Minerva clung to it, clung to her feelings for him as tightly as she dared. His tenderness, his vulnerability… He deserved better than a silly old woman still so attached to the past that part of her was willing to entertain such ridiculous notions…

Yet that part of her was persistent, endless pasting the photo in front of her and forcing her to remember the essay. She made a split-second decision: the only thing which would stop such a failure of intelligence was evidence which would prove it concretely. Veritaserum.

Right on cue, there was a knock on the door. Aberforth shot a glare at the door and bristled at the intrusion, but Minerva eased herself up the pillows.

“Aberforth, whilst I talk to Mr Potter, would you be so kind as to fetch me some Veritaserum from Slughorn? I know he always has a vial on him. I have to ask him some questions which he may not be entirely truthful in answering.”

Curiousity swept over Aberforth’s face but he nodded and brushed her cheek again as he got up. Feeling ill at what her mind told her was manipulation, she took a breath and clasped her hands together.

“Come in.”

The door opened just as Aberforth reached it; he brushed past the figure in the doorway, and Minerva saw the boy shoot a half unhappy, half hostile look at the man. Then the door fell shut, and woman and boy were left staring at each other.

Her heart seemed to climb up into her mouth. The boy was white, and his blue eyes fixed so painfully on her that she found herself nestling backwards into the pillows. He was still without his glasses, she noted guiltily. Whether or not Brian was off his rocker, her behaviour had been unacceptable.

“Minerva.”

She started and her eyes roved around the room… anything but meet the sapphire pair that dared hold so much knowledge… A shiver shot down her spine. In the brief moments she had looked directly at him, Brian’s unspoilt face had held an old expression… an old familiar expression, an expression she had had aimed at her several times by a man whom she could not quite accept was dead…

“Have I… convinced you?”

Her gaze was dragged back to him as though he was a magnet. His face was unreadable, in the same way that Albus’s had often been unreadable.

“I held you when you were a baby,” she heard herself whisper.

She saw him nod, his jaw clenched. “I was not able to speak then.”

“No,” she agreed.

The silence stretched.

“Minerva-”

“I cannot believe you without concrete proof,” she said, forcing the words out. Here was the admission that she might.

A muscle in his cheek twitched.

“Veritaserum,” she said quietly. “I have just asked Aberforth to get some.”

“Will you believe me if the Veritaserum confirms it?”

“Yes,” she replied, and felt suddenly certain that the Veritaserum would not do anything of the sort.

“Very well.” The boy walked over to the chair that Aberforth had vacated and sat down. Closer to, Minerva could see him squinting slightly. Long-sighted, just as Albus was, hissed her brain treacherously. Less characteristically, his hands twisted and fidgeted, as though some inner torture was increasing in strength. At last:

“You… and Aberforth…” His voice wobbled.

Was that distress? If he was not Albus, why? If he was, why? Evidence of mental instability..?

She let her eyes grow stony. He didn’t noticeably move but she got the sense of him shrinking away from her.

The door eased open again. Aberforth was holding a vial, and moved towards the bed looking thoroughly irritated by Brian’s presence. He placed the vial on the bedside table and leaned over, to brush his soft lips against Minerva’s. Her pulse quickened and she cursed of her thoughts of betrayal. Brian’s mouth moved into the shape of an upside-down U.

“There you are, my dear,” Aberforth purred. The ‘my dear’ grated unpleasantly on Minerva’s ears; images of both Albus and Brian collided. Her heart trembled. Why was everything so complicated, so absurd?

A strange urge to preserve the secrecy of the interview came over her. Could Aberforth possibly go and fetch her wand from reception? And he could update Rolanda and Poppy on her health? He could.

After he had left, she nodded towards the vial.

“I’m afraid I cannot reach it for myself… Take a sip… and perhaps we can stop this silliness.”

“’Silliness…’” Brian closed his eyes in anguish. His hand shot out and Minerva saw his miniature Adam’s apple bob up and down as he downed the whole vial. His face slackened into impassivity, but his eyes stared at her desperately. Now that wasn’t an Albus-expression, Minerva thought half triumphantly. Behind him, the moon shone through the window and darkened him into a silhoette.

“Right.” She cleared her throat. “Are you called Brian Potter?”

“Yes.”

His eyes widened in apparent horror. A kind of cold relief swept through her.

“Well,” she said stiffly. He was shaking his head, eyes moistening. The sight did not engender sympathy, but anger. “I suppose you thought you’d make a fool of me.”

“No!”

She raised her eyebrows. Yes, perhaps that was true. Perhaps he was genuinely out of his mind, and believed what he said to be true.

“I’m afraid-”

He made an odd buzzing sound between his teeth in protest. The sapphire had turned to water.

“Perhaps you think I’m not asking the right questions, but-”

“Yes!”

Minerva frowned. What had she asked? She had asked whether Brian was called Brian Potter… but then everyone called him that… Just as everyone called Moody Mad-Eye. But no, she was being ridiculous…

“Who are you?”

The words tumbled out of his mouth.

“Albus Percival Wulferic Brian Dumbledore.”

She fell back on the pillows.

For a few sickening moments she thought she would faint, but Brian - no, Albus - had rushed to her side and the sight of those blue eyes, those familiar blue eyes were enough to pull her back-

“Oh Merlin. Oh Merlin,” someone was saying over and over. She suspected that it was herself.

Albus’s mouth was working, but the Veritaserum would not wear off for a while; he could only respond, when she was incapable of thinking, let alone speaking…

Albus Dumbledore. Reborn into the body of a boy, but alive. By Merlin, alive! Should she scream with ecstasy? Or should she cry hysterically, continue to refuse to believe it? This was a dream, it had to be a dream - all was outside the realms of reality and possibility - surely her life had been given to that Muggle painter, Dali, to do with as was his want… All her wishes granted in one blinding moment of revelation!

But Aberforth! Oh Merlin, Aberforth…

“My darling…”

Could he have meant that?

No, it couldn’t be true - she could never have held Albus in her arms as a baby… The greatest wizard in the world could never have been reduced to a boy…

She was gasping as though having surfaced from deep water. “Is it true?”

“Yes!”

She looked up in time to see his eyes twinkle like a pair of dancing stars…

“A-Albus…”

It was too much. Her vision swam with tears. Brian - no, Albus - laid a hand on her shoulder and gripped it - and she reached up and closed her hand around his, so tightly that she felt his bones creak… Their hands were locked together - they were joined, the man from beyond the Veil and the woman who had tried so long to draw him back from it.

His boyishness and the thought of Aberforth were the only things which prevented her from also drawing him into her arms. Breathlessly, she asked him questions as they came to her, disjointed and flung from a psyche which no longer knew the difference between fiction and reality.

“Fawkes… Is he with you?”

He was smiling now, his youthful face seeming to emit a radiance far greater than the moon outside. “Yes.”

“How long have you known that you were… who you are?”

“Ever since I was born.”

“H-how?”

“I have no idea.”

She found herself laughing between gulps. “I n-never thought I’d hear you say that…”

Albus threw back his auburn mane and laughed. “No, I should say you wouldn’t.”

“Is the Veritaserum wearing off yet?” There was so much they needed to say to one another…

“No, sadly not.”

“Why - why did you finally decide to tell me?”

“The instability of the castle’s magic forced me to it… though I did want to, for so long. I told you with the intention of you somehow conveying what was wrong to those working to stabilise the core… if there is anything left to stabilise.”

“I’m told the core did not explode completely,” Minerva said vaguely. He’s here, she was thinking, he’s here, right next to me, here, alive, here… “If it had then we would probably all of us be dead. What do you think can be done about the core?”

“This is speculation… but I suspect that I need to resign or be sacked as Headmaster in order for the core to recognise a Headmistress.” The words seemed irrelevant compared to the fact that he was Albus Dumbledore. “Forgive me for saying, my dear, but my mezrel count was always higher than yours… Hogwarts is trying to reject the wrong head teacher. I died whilst still Headmaster, meaning that when I returned-”

“I’ve m-missed you.”

What an understatement! But he could never know the truth.

To her surprise, his eyes moistened again and his grip on her hand became tighter. It was not a question, so he could not yet respond, but his face held the same message.

The sound of footsteps outside the door made their hands spring apart, just before Aberforth entered, Minerva’s wand in hand and with an expression of irritation that disappeared at the sight of her. Albus shrank back almost imperceptibly and Minerva felt something inside become raw with pain.

Albus was alive, and remained beyond her reach. The fire for Aberforth was there; she was the only obstacle to it being stoked higher. Her greatest wish had been granted, but it was absurd to hope for anything more. Besides, she loved Aberforth for more than his brother. She loved him for his hidden vulnerability, his innocence, the purity of his emotion…

She kissed him guiltily.

[Apocalypticat]

Three days passed before Brian was allowed to leave St Mungo’s. The Healers had cleared him after they had run as much diagnostics as the ‘young’ wizard would allow; Albus knew that any full examination of his magical core would uncover the secret, something which he did not intend on going any further than Minerva. Luckily the Healers were easily reassured by Brian acting as energetic as possible, often conveniently being found out of bed or reading into the morning.

Harry, still resolutely mum on the subject of the ‘personal good news’ in spite of Brian’s constant whinging, had brought in some new robes in the shade of purple that Albus slash Brian adored and he pulled off the white hospital gown in relief. His father’s work as Chief Auror was not something which could be easily interrupted, and Ginny remained mysteriously absent, so Albus had been mainly left to his own devices – those devices mainly consisting of intense thought rather than anything substantial.

Another visit to Minerva had been forbidden rather brusquely by the Healer in charge of her ward, and so he found himself simply going over the conversation over and over, analysing her words and wishing that the exchange had not been so stunted by the Veritaserum. His mood varied with the weather outside; Minerva’s belief in his identity had created a light inside him, a light which he felt must be shining through so brightly that he was half surprised that none of the Healers had noticed anything – but the image of her submitting gladly to Aberforth’s attentions was one which came back to him unpleasantly during the night, settling lead into his stomach. The memory was always followed with nausea, nausea at himself for how much he found himself loathing the peaceful fulfilment on his brother’s face.

How long had he hoped that that craggy visage would smooth its contours and display a smile? Decades amounting to more than a century, and now that that desire had finally been granted, he had the audacity to be resentful of it! Did he really wish loneliness on both Aberforth and Minerva? No, goodness, no.

Nonetheless, his emotions were undeniable. A paradise lost that had never been properly appreciated in the first place was not one which could ever be regained, especially given the circumstances, but - fool that he was - hope was what had surged within him once her belief seemed in reach. Hope now crushed. Telling Minerva offered no escape from ‘languishing in another life.’

Fortunately, other arguably more important issues needed to be addressed. Gradually, information about what had happened at Hogwarts began to seep through; whispers from Rolanda and Poppy, regular and dissatisfied visitors to the Headmistress, had filled in the gaps and allowed him to know the full scale of the damage. The knowledge of the collapse of the Astronomy Tower was one which filled him with a strange unease – he could see a kind of dark irony in the terrible stories of students plunging to their deaths, just as he had so long ago. Was he the only one to make that link? Was he wrong even to consider what had happened in such a selfish way? No, it could not be helped – he knew exactly how it felt to tumble from that ungodly height. Granted, he had died as he had fallen, and had not had to know the horror of an impact on a distant earth, but the empathy he had made him reflect on the fate of students continuously, miserably.

One of those who had fallen to his doom had been a First-Year, he had discovered. Fuzzy pictures of Harry as a First-Year appeared in his mind: scruffy and thin, seemingly specifically designed to arouse paternal feelings. Boys that age were undoubtedly still children – their eyes still big in proportion to the rest of their heads, their skin unspoilt. Merlin, he still recalled how it had felt to discover Harry flat on his back beside the dead Quirrel. He could not help relating the ten dead students to the idea of ten dead Harrys, each one in a more tragic position than the last.

All because he and Minerva had stood in the same room.

Hogwarts was to be closed for the rest of year. The Fifth-Years would take their OWLs and the Seventh-Years would take their NEWTs in a room set aside by the Ministry whilst the castle was investigated and the core stabilised. The extended summer holiday was neither welcome nor uplifting; the reasons for it made the year end on a grim note, and, more personally, being away from Minerva whilst she was injured and having just revealed the truth was not an inviting prospect.

Sighing, he looked all around the bed, to see whether there was anything he had forgotten, and glanced at his watch. Harry was due to meet him and take him home by Floo in half an hour, but there was no sense in sitting in bed till the last minute.

“Brian!”

Eric was galloping down the corridor towards him, almost knocking over a large Fifth-Year lingering outside the ward, red hair seeming like blood against the white walls behind him. Albus felt a twinge of concern.

“Eric! What are you doing here?”

“Don’t worry – they just kept me here and there wasn’t even anything wrong with me! They thought I had core damage at first, because I was shaking like mad – but I was just shocked! Is it true that you were with Professor McGonagall when it happened?”

Blinking at the rush of words, Albus nodded. “Are you going home today?”

“Yes, my mum and dad are taking me back to France in a bit.”

“France?”

Eric rolled his eyes. “Mum’s gone all paranoid. She’s been saying she wants to transfer me to Beauxbatons, but Dad beat her down.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Yes.” Eric’s grin wavered. “Have you heard anything new about Dan?”

“I haven’t anything at all about Dan. Is he okay?”

The other boy shook his head and bit his lip. “No, not really. He’s been unconscious since… since it happened. They reckon his core was close to collapsing.

Brian’s wince did not need to be feigned. A collapsed core was not only hideously painful, but lethal. “Is he here?”

“Yes… He’s in a ward just a few minutes away.” Eric bit his lip again and gave Brian a worried glance. “D’you… d’you think that they’ll be able to open Hogwarts again?”

Albus sighed. “I don’t know. I hope so… I think they’re close to finding out what’s wrong with the core. Professor McGonagall told me she had an idea about what it might be.”

“That’s good. But… I mean… those people who were killed… I mean, I saw it, you know. I was looking out of the window when the Astronomy Tower collapsed…"

Albus gave Eric a tentative pat on the back. Here he was again, at a loss for words. The young Weasley gave himself a shake.

“We might be able to sneak in and see Dan, if we’re careful.”

“All right.”

They walked up the corridor in an awkward silence, halting outside a ward with a picture of a dandelion beside the door. The Healer’s desk was empty. Both boys looked at one another and nodded, before sidling in.

The sight that met them was instantly depressing. The only bed that was occupied was Daniel’s, and he clearly wasn’t aware that he had visitors. He was lying still, and as white as the sheets around him, turned slightly on his side. The eyes were closed and the face was vacant. With another twinge, Albus spotted a bunch of flowers sitting on the table nearby, bearing a note signed ‘Mum with lots of love xxx.’

“Daniel?” Eric said softly. Predictably, Daniel did not respond. Brian’s friend sighed.

“He’s still-“

Whump.

Both boys spun around. The ward door had closed behind a new visitor, a boy with straggly brown hair and pitch black robes that made him seem a blot against the wall. Albus recognised him as the Fifth-Year whom Eric had nearly knocked over earlier.

“We’re sorry,” said Eric quickly, moving towards the door. “We’ll be going now-”

“Crucio!”

Albus heard himself let out a cry as the curse knocked him off his feet so that the white floor seemed to punch him on the nose. The older boy’s wand had appeared seemingly from nowhere and had been aimed straight at him. Albus braced himself for the needle-stabbing pains which never came. His enemy’s face twisted in a mixture of fear and rage, just as Eric rushed at him with an outstretched wand.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Eric’s limbs snapped together and Albus glimpsed his friend’s rigid, frightened face as he scrambled to his feet-

“Crucio!”

Once again, the curse contrived to knock him off his feet rather than do real damage. Gasping, he whipped out his own wand-

“Avada-”

In those crucial moments, once again he seemed to see a flash of green and Snape’s distorted face. Although by now doubting the Fifth-Year’s willpower and capability, fear had him on his feet and putting a soundless Body-Bind on the boy within a second. The unknown assailant toppled to the floor and Albus stared at him, his heart-beat beginning to ease as reality reasserted itself and curiosity overtook his shock.

“Mmmm!”

“Sorry, Eric!”

He lifted the curse on the Weasley boy, and then turned back to his fallen foe, who had his eyes scrunched up in apparent horror. Questions flooded him. Who was this boy, and why did he feel the need to target Brian? For his target had certainly been Brian; Eric had been at his mercy but had been completely ignored.

“Wh… why?”

Why indeed, thought Albus, keeping his eyes firmly on their prisoner but speaking to Eric out of the corner of his mouth.

“No idea.”

Brian sounded unnaturally calm; he injected some more fear into his voice.

“I m-mean, why would he go after us?”

Eric shook his head dumbly. Albus thrust his hands in his pockets, and felt paper brush against his fingers. An memory came to him. You are in danger. I cannot defend you directly, you must appeal to your father. Your enemy’s name is Jonathan Blaine.

Was this Jonathan Blaine? And if so, then why on earth did someone feel the need to protect Brian? He let his gaze harden into a glare.

“I’m going to ask you some questions. I’ll take the curse off your mouth so that you can answer them. Then I’m reporting the matter to one of the teachers. Now-”

He lifted the curse, again remembering too late that Brian seemed far too casual. He gave an inward sigh and shoved the matter to the back of his mind. Eric thought Brian rather eccentric anyway, and this was far more urgent.

“Who-” he began.

“Please let me go!” The boy had a whining voice. “It’s not my fault - I was told to do it! Please, he’ll kill me-”

“What? Who will?”

“I can’t tell you!”

“Who are you?”

The Fifth-Year gulped and snivelled as though he was at least five years younger. “Ozzy Herrford. I’m in Slytherin.” The last words were said sulkily, dripping a petty kind of pride.

“Why did you-”

The terrified eyes displayed a flicker of hatred. “You’re Brian bloody Potter, aren’t you?”

“You have something against my father?”

“No, the whole lot of you,” Ozzy spat. “All of you idiots-”

“All of us? Gryffindors?”

“Them too!”

"I get the impression you’re not acting alone. Who’ll ‘kill you?’”

Ozzy’s mouth became a malicious line. “A man in the woods,” he hissed.

Ice shot down Albus’s spine. A pit gaped in the ground before him, just as he recalled who the ‘man in the woods’ whom Harry had been hunting was… Snape’s waxen and sallow face floated before him like a ghost. Could it be that Snape was trying to kill him, had somehow found out who he was and wanted to finish the job? Or was he acting out of spite against yet another Potter brat? To Albus’s fury, hurt was the emotion trembling at the bottom of the pit. Why did he feel hurt? Had he still not accepted what had happened, that Severus - no, Snape - had been, and continued to be, a traitor?

No, he was jumping to conclusions. Would cold and exacting Snape have put his trust in such a pathetic specimen of a boy? And there was no proof that Ozzy’s ‘man in the woods’ was the same as Harry’s.

Tentatively, he locked eyes with his prisoner and reached out with his mind. His grasp slid over something smooth and impenetrable; the boy was a natural Occlumens - such that the secrets of his mind could only be revealed if he had the will to significantly damage him. Albus withdrew.

“Silencio!”

In the quiet, Rolanda’s voice echoed down the corridor. Both boys levitated Ozzy out of the door, and almost into the arms of their astonished Flying instructor.

---

“Brian.”

They had just arrived back home. Albus had omitted to tell Harry of the encounter with Ozzy, and so the Chief Auror’s eyes were dancing with happiness - a joy oddly out of proportion to the circumstances of Brian’s return. He laid a hand on his son’s shoulder to stop him from retreating upstairs and instead steered him towards the living room.

“Harry? Brian?”

Ginny’s voice called from within. Albus stepped resignedly forward, but Harry halted him in the doorway. Ginny was sat on the sofa, clutching a cup of tea, her flaming hair drenched in beads of light by the sun outside the window.

“Brian,” Harry said again. Ginny was smiling at him, the same joy seeming to dance across the room and hug him. She laid one hand on an unusually curvaceous stomach.

Albus stared at it. Harry had taken a deep breath, but he already knew what he was going to say, already had superimposed the scene with old memories-

One day, when Albus could proudly boast that he was five and a half, Mother and Father called the boy into the living room and sat him on the sofa. Albus could tell that something serious was happening, as Mother was smiling in that way that meant she was trying to reassure him about something. Mother took his hand and laid it on her round stomach.

“Albus, we’ve got something very important to tell you.” She smiled at his apparent confusion. “Soon, you will have a little brother.”

He was so shocked that for a moment, he said nothing at all. Then he asked:

“Will you buy him in a shop?”

“No, no-” Mother said, sharing an amused glance with her husband. “The baby’s in here.” She patted his hand on her stomach.

Albus was stunned. Mother fought laughter as he stared with big eyes at her belly. Father was too busy gazing hungrily at her stomach to notice his reaction.

“When he’s born and a bit older, you will be able to play with him,” assured Mother.

He considered this, and then grinned. “A little brother!” he said breathlessly. Then he stopped, a small frown on his face. “He won’t be nasty, will he? Only, in my book, the King’s brother-”

Mother laughed. “No, Albus, he’ll be a nice little brother.”

Harry’s hand tightened on his shoulder, and Ginny’s soft brown eyes bored into him. Life really was starting all over again, he thought dreamily, really it was. Was Aberforth a ‘nice little brother?’ Merlin, he wished it were so…

“Brian, in a few months time, you will have a little brother.”

[Apocalypticat]

CHAPTER 18: A Whirlwind Summer

Summer came reluctantly, slowly. The sun which peeped its fiery face through Brian’s curtains did so with a light which at first was resolutely cold, making the outside world shine deceptively with a warmth that was not there. The nights were strangely humid, and several times the Potter family awoke to a mist which did not clear until noon. It was as though nature itself was taking a few gasping breaths, leaving out-of-season condensation on the window panes and making the clouds come in clumps. The turmoil did not go unobserved; often an auburn-haired boy could be seen at his bedroom window, blue eyes turned to the sky.

The extended summer holidays stretched before Albus like a mountain to be ascended - for little other purpose than to plant a metaphorical flag at the top. There would be excitement and boredom and sorrow, all to be conquered for the reward of seeing something he should not have been able to see: the birth of Harry Potter’s son - a genuine next generation, who would perhaps have Harry’s eyes and Ginny’s nose, who would come into the world fresh and untainted.

That anticipation buoyed him up - how could it not? The Boy-Who-Lived could truly live now, live a life where ‘to live’ did not mean ‘to survive.’ What cloud could darken such a blessing, such a wish fulfilled not only for his ‘parents’ but for himself? The sight of Ginny growing rounder, more motherly, was one which proclaimed everything that the war had been waged for.

Yet - and yes, indeed, there was a yet…

Yet the circumstances were wrong, completely twisted out of the shape they should have been, and the mountain he was climbing was without a peak. Minerva was lost to him, would remain lost to him - as would everything else connected with his previous existence. He was denied the chance of a fatherly congratulations to Harry, and Brian would not be watching from a distance as the Headmaster played with the newborn. The temptation to see the coming child as a kind of ‘compensation’ for what had occurred was one which was too uneasily indulged in; the Potters thought they would have two sons instead of just one.

He could feel another realisation hardening within him as the weeks passed, one which had been there for twelve years but had been smothered in a false hope. Grimly, Albus knew that he had done everything he could, had seen everything he needed to, had accomplished all there was to accomplish. Where now? This new life before him was a road he had already walked, made even more unwelcome by how connected Brian was to the Headmaster’s old friends. He did not want to see Harry and Ginny grow old, see their hair grow white and their bodies grow haggard. There was no desire at all in him to see his Minerva decay further whilst becoming ever closer to his brother. Did he wish to be present at the wedding?

That idea stung. But-

Stupid old fool, didn’t you see how she looked at him?

Some Muggles believed in ghosts, Albus knew. They often said something to effect of a ghost having ‘unfinished business.’ By the definition, wasn’t he also a ghost, in more ways that one? Unfinished business from beyond the Veil, and unfinished business from the spring. He felt as though one of the most important episodes of his entire life had been cut short and left with threads hanging. The secret was out, and Hogwarts had quite literally shaken with it, but here Brian was, at home as though nothing had happened…

And Harry’s boy was coming into the world… Bittersweet - Brian’s twelve years had become bittersweet in the way that old age was bittersweet, and that was without considering-

Dear Albus,

He had only been home for two days when the letter arrived. The first two words had ended in a blot, as though the writer had paused and rested their quill on the parchment, as though wondering how to continue.

Dear Albus,

I must confess that I am still astonished by it all, and know I cannot begin to understand how you must have felt, hiding yourself for so long. Yet you were a very convincing First-Year - excepting the essay, of course. Forgive me for being so stern with you; I felt that Brian’s ‘cheating’ had to be nipped in the bud.

The experts studying the core came and consulted with me yesterday. They wanted a description of what had happened, and during our meeting I managed to suggest that the problem could be due to ‘the unexplained failure’ of Hogwarts to register the death of a previous head teacher. They seemed to take to this idea, and explained that Hogwarts appeared to believe that you were alive, and came to the conclusion themselves that you would effectively have to be sacked. I believe they intend to do this in a few weeks time, when the instability should have died down a little. I hope you aren’t too upset about this.

Both the Aurors and the experts can only enter the castle for a limited amount of time at the moment; the mezrel level is apparently so dangerously high that they need shielding to protect their own cores. I enquired about the damage, and it seems that all of the portraits in Hogwarts are immobilised, and Dippet’s portrait is completely destroyed - it seems that the remainder of his magic in the main core was the weakest. There is some speculation that he might be able to be restored. Virtually all windows are smashed, two House tables have been overturned and some of the suits of armour are no longer animated. The cost will run into the thousands, if not into tens of thousands.

Even more worryingly, Aurors investigating the Slytherin Common Room and dormitories apparently discovered signs of Dark magic, with several books of questionable nature being found under various beds and illegal amplification circles inscribed on the walls. I was already aware of some sort of problem in the Slytherin house as Slughorn came to me having found a copy of The Dark Manifesto in the Common Room.

Do you know of the book? Harry may not have informed you, but following the end of the war, two copies of a manuscript were discovered, a transcribed copy in the possession of a leading Death Eater and the original in Riddle House. The original author seems to have been Voldemort himself, and the book contains an account of his rebirth as well an encyclopoedia of various Dark arts. Naturally the manuscripts were confiscated, but the original copy went missing and various transcriptions occasionally turn up on the black market. The number confiscated by the Auror department had increased in recent years; there seems to be some sort of ‘Neo-Dark’ movement growing popular amongst the younger generations. I would appreciate your thoughts on this; I am at a loss as to what action to take.

I should be out of St Mungo’s in a week.

I have missed you.

Minerva

So many words, and yet only a few of them mattered to him. I have missed you… Somehow, flying in the face of logic and evidence, their relationship had changed. His wretched optimism viewed the bulk of the letter - the business, the school, the profession, the responsibility - as cursory compared to the first paragraph and the last few words.

…I cannot begin to understand how you must have felt…

They had never been so open before - not on the subject of emotion. There had been friendly banter, of course, but the landscape of emotion had remained uncharted territory. Minerva had never enquired as to his feelings about anything unprofessional before… But then, all his conversations with her since his return had not been normal-

“WHO… WHO HAD YOU DO THIS?”

“Albus is dead! Merlin knows I’ve t-tried to deny it, but it’s true! He died nearly twenty years ago!”

“Albus n-never called me his darling.”

“A-Albus…”

“I’ve m-missed you.”

The words. The tears. The photographs. The way her hand had gripped his at St Mungo’s. That first scream of anger, almost as though she thought someone would mention him with the intention of hurting her. That second cry, as if she had had a terrible time getting over his death. Those little mentions, as if she thought it was important what he thought of her.

Why? No, he did not dare hope; there was Aberforth to remember…

My dear,

I hope you are doing well and that you will be out of St Mungo’s in no time at all. Your urge to cull Brian’s apparent deceit is perfectly understandable; I would have taken the same view myself. As for the core, it is entirely necessary that…

So he found himself doing the same, only this time he was smothering something real whereas he had simply read the non-existant in Minerva’s letter. He prattled on and on about the core, and about Slytherin, suggesting that the Slytherins be confronted directly and forced to own up, and informing her of the notes about Jonathan Blaine and Ozzy’s attack. He enquired after her life-

How have you been, these last twenty years?

Roughly translated as: tell me why you’ve looked so ill and miserable.

And, of course, another essential question: How did the war end?

And: That photo album, my dear… may I ask why?

He was tempted to sign it ‘with love,’ but such foolishness would just confuse her. Fawkes took it and vanished in a flash of flame, and the waiting began again.

So the letters began to flow. She agreed with his suggestions, glossed over the first question and dodged the last, saying something very unMinerva-ish about how her health had declined with age, and failing to mention the photo album at all. Luckily, she was less reticent about how the war had ended:

Harry took Voldemort through the Veil, and returned without him.

Such a demure sentence barely conveyed the struggle and pain it had undoubtedly required, but the essential fact was there. The Veil! Of course - now he knew of it, the simplicity was obvious! He felt another strange connection with Harry: both of them had been through death…What had Harry seen, Albus wondered. What had Harry glimpsed beyond the Veil? Sirius? His parents? Himself?

She also shed some light on the mysterious Blaine:

…I believe he is a Fifth-Year Slytherin, and was found in the Forbidden Forest along with Ozzy Herrford, gallivanting with the assembled Dark wizards whom Harry and the Aurors confronted. He has been in trouble ever since he first came to Hogwarts, and has been sent to me several times to explain his rudeness to staff.

Fortunately for Brian, the Chief Auror and his wife were far too preoccupied with making preparations for the coming little brother to notice the flurry of letters between their ‘son’ and some unknown companion. Albus was free to talk about nothing with Minerva for as long as he wished, even though the nothingness was terrible. They talked of Hogwarts, the faculty, the students, the war (carefully avoiding any mention of a certain Potion Master’s role) and Transfiguration. One exchange, lasting over a week, was devoted solely to musing over the personalities of various professors, with Minerva voicing her irritation over Martha Read and amusing him with the tale of her rival’s discovery of Brian’s ‘academic peak.’ Yet it was not completely nothing; Albus made sure of that. He would give Minerva what he could - his feelings, his true emotions about unrelated things.

You asked me how I have felt, being imprisoned in an identity which is not mine. The answer is just about the worst which words can convey… The feeling of deceiving Harry is one which gnaws at me… The worst has undoubtedly been the inability to express myself to anybody, a problem now thankfully solved.

She wrote, letting him know that she was out of St Mungo’s and now staying at the Leaky Cauldron until she could be allowed back into Hogwarts. Albus knew that Harry would not allow Brian a trip up to London by himself, and so simply continued writing. At one point, Minerva’s owl arrived carrying a parcel, which turned out to contain some of his old Transfiguration and alchemy research journals.

Dear Albus,

I found these in your personal chambers after your death. I wondering if you wanted them back again to continue the research on.

Forgive me my curiosity, but I flicked through and was very interested. Your notes seem to suggest a link between the Transmutation Matrix and alchemy, not a link which had ever occurred to me before.

Hoping you are well,

Minerva

Brian’s soft fingers turned the creased pages tentatively, nostalgically. A far older hand had drawn these diagrams, had written so enthusiastically of experiments and observations. Snape had cut the research short - the writing in the last book stopped mid-paragraph, next to a diagram that was half-drawn.

So he plunged himself back into his research, covering everything up with intellectual discussion and debate, rambling on and on to Minerva about alchemical processes and Transfiguration as a mirror to the Great Work, etcetera, etcetera. Why had he bothered writing about feelings when nothing could ever come of them? This was his only purpose left, and the only thing he had a right to talk about. Yes, Harry and Ginny fortunately left Brian free to bury his nose in obscure books ordered from Flourish and Blott’s, not looking closely enough to see what they were.

Less fortunately, the familial excitement did not quite destroy Harry’s memory, and Albus one day found himself in the middle of a very awkward conversation.

“Brian,” the Chief Auror said seriously across the breakfast table. “You never told us what had upset you.”

Ginny looked up from her boiled egg and fixed Brian with a look of concern. Harry pushed his toast aside and clasped his hands together, peering over his interlocked fingers in a way so reminiscent of the late Headmaster that Albus blinked.

“What?” he asked.

“Madam Pomfrey wrote to us-”

Albus couldn’t prevent a groan. He had hoped that the core nearly exploding had provided sufficient distraction from Brian’s little troubles for him never to be questioned on the subject.

“We’re very concerned,” broke in Ginny. “She gave us the impression that you’re dwelling on things that happened before you were born, which you shouldn’t have to worry about. Brian, have you read something about the war which worried you?”

Albus made Brian bite his lip whilst thinking for an adequate excuse. It was hard to know precisely what Poppy had told the Potters, and he had to make sure that his excuse was rock solid so as to prevent any further enquiry. Harry’s gaze was imperturbable and it was clear that he would not let the matter drop without an answer.

“Madam Pomfrey said you mentioned Snape,” said Ginny helpfully. Harry stiffened. “If you’re worried about him-”

An idea came to him. Albus took a deep breath as though about to plunge into something deeply unpleasant and deliberately avoided Harry’s eyes in an impersonation of a very anxious pre-teen.

“Well…” Albus made Brian’s voice low and faltering. “The reason why we’re famous is because of the war… but Dad - Dad said he didn’t want to tell me about it until I was older. I was just - just curious-”

He heard Harry sigh but continued.

“-So I just… had a look around… for some books about it. I can’t remember what it was called… but I read it… and it was about S-Snape… It was really horrible. I-I just keep on having nightmares, about how he killed-”

“Brian.”

Albus turned his eyes back towards Harry, who had gone slightly pale, and was looking sadly past Brian’s left ear, as though he could see something deeply disturbing behind it. Ginny had laid one hand on his shoulder.

“Do you understand now? Why I did not tell you?”

His ‘son’ nodded and looked chastised.

“I - I still find it hard to talk about. But perhaps it was wrong of me not to tell you - you were bound to go looking on your own, and that’s turned out to have had far worse results than if I had simply told you directly. I’ll get you some Dreamless Sleep potion on my way home tomorrow. I don’t suppose Fawkes can really help you with something like this.”

“No. He just makes me think of it.” Albus paused. “The Astronomy Tower-”

“-Was where it happened. And it’s gone now.”

Brian’s hands seemed to curl into fists all by themselves. “He was so stupid!”

The thought had burst out without the intervention of his brain. Yet it was true; right now he felt a burning hot hatred against the stupid old man who had refused to see the truth-

“It said that people warned him about Snape several times and yet he still-”

“He was not stupid,” said Harry wearily, angrily. “Don’t ever think that of him, Brian. He was just too bloody good for this world. He believed in trust, and it’s not his fault that Snape didn’t. Don‘t ever say that he was stupid.”

Tears pricked his eyes. Minerva’s face floated before him. “Emotionally-”

“What would you know about it?”

The table jerked as Harry stood up, and Albus glimpsed a pair of furious emerald eyes before the Chief Auror strode from the room. Ginny stared after him and then soundlessly began to clear the table.

The anger, however, did not clear for several days.

[Apocalypticat]

July-

Harry Potter took five long strides forwards, stopped, turned around and then took another five. An odd feeling of déjà vu hung over him; this was the same excitement and fear that was pounding in his stomach, and the only difference was that this time he was not alone in his anxiety; Brian was sat tensed on a nearby chair, next to a disgustingly relaxed Ron.

“She’ll be fine, mate,” Ron said again, seeming almost bored. “I said it last time, didn’t I? And wasn’t I right?”

Harry made no reply and continued pacing. He sensed Brian’s eyes following him around the room. Guiltily, he realised that he should be saying something encouraging to him, but there was no sense in saying something which he himself was not sure of.

“Hermione couldn’t come,” his friend added. “She’s looking after Alanna.”

“No worries,” Harry responded tonelessly.

Alanna was Ron and Hermione’s daughter, and she was only four years old but already the apple of Hermione’s eye. Harry had a feeling that Alanna - conceived belatedly as her parents finally got their careers under control - was destined to turn into another Hermione; she was already advanced for her years and the way she stomped determinedly around the Burrow reminded observers of her mother. Hermione had resigned her leadership of both S.P.E.W. and the Giant Rights Association in order to further her next campaign: her daughter.

“Dad, she’ll be fine.”

Brian’s voice worsened the guilt; shouldn’t he be the one spouting reassurance - especially when his son looked so pale and troubled? He opened his mouth to say something to the effect that he knew, and that Brian shouldn’t worry, but was interrupted by the thatch-haired Healer marching into the room.

“Mr Potter, Master Potter, Mr Weasley-”

Harry and Brian were past the Healer and rushing down the corridor before Ron had even moved. The Chief Auror kept an eye on his son as he walked; the last time he had walked down this corridor, there had been no boy beside him-

It was just like before: the ward was blindingly white, and Ginny was looking at him with eyes which had become deep maternal wells. One of the Healers was washing a small body in the basin.

The Healers and the ward faded; the only things which mattered were Ginny, Brian and that beautiful pink creation…Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Brian staring in wonderment, with one of those ‘adult’ expressions on his face, one of deep emotion and happiness…

This baby screamed. The cry seemed to drive itself right through Harry’s skull and out the other side, but he smiled. There would be none of the worry that there had been with Brian.

The Chief Auror moved forwards and clasped his new son in his arms, whilst his other son moved backwards, grinning in a way which suggested tears. Yet it was not just the little brother, it was something which Harry could not know, a set of words which hung inside his firstborn’s head:

PS. I may not be able to reply for a while, as Aberforth is taking me to…

---

Paris. He had taken her to the City of Love.

Aberforth was by no means vain, but he had spent that morning in front of the mirror, trying on his best robes and attempting to tame his hair and beard into some semblance of sleekness. After deciding on one set of robes - periwinkle blue - he had packed the rest; they were going for two weeks, two weeks in the City of Love.

He would take her up the Eiffel Tower, and they would eat every night in the best of restaurants. At night, her divine face would be lit with candlelight, and he would ensure that if she were to die, she would die drowned in roses, petals curling themselves in her hair.

They were staying at the L'idylle Royal Hotel, the best wizarding hotel in Paris, where live bands sung the guests into merriment and where all the bed-covers were satin red, romantic red. He had got them a suite of rooms, with separate beds - there was no need to leap into things; he quite understood her nervousness, and anyway the beds could easily be united into one if need be-

This would be their first night in one room together. A pleasurable shudder went through him. He would be able to see her sleeping, and watch her wake up, hair all tousled and face all flushed-

“Aberforth… I honestly don’t know how to thank you.”

Her voice brought him back to the present. They were in their rooms - one room the bedroom, another a living room and the third the bathroom. Minerva was unpacking, her suitcase on her bed. They had only just arrived, as he had decided that a romantic broom flight would be preferable to the Floo or a Portkey. Merlin, it had been wonderful. She had been sat in front of him, his arms around her waist…

“It’s nothing,” he said. “And there’s no need to thank me, either.”

She looked up at him shyly. Aberforth noted dreamily that her hair was not in a bun for once, instead it was loose, tumbling over her shoulders like a river. How strange; he never used to think like this. Life was no longer all darkness and drudgery.

“I was thinking we could go to a restaurant. Perhaps-”

He stopped; she had just found the roses he had placed beside her pillow. She picked them up and held them close, and suddenly looked as though she was about to burst into tears. He was by her side in a flash, drawing her into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” she said in his ear. “I’m being stupid. You’ve been so lovely-”

“Me? Lovely?” He ran his fingers through her hair. “No, you are lovely.”

The thought came to him that perhaps there was something else, though. Throughout the flight she had seemed distracted and trouble by something, and surely a bunch of roses shouldn’t make a woman go all watery-eyed? No… he was just being paranoid - she loved him, she’d said so-

He kissed her, and found he could not stop. She was kissing back, curling her hands in his beard-

“Aberforth…”

He opened his eyes. Minerva’s eyes were round, and he realised he had slid one hand into her robes without thinking. He withdrew it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I know - I know you’re not ready-”

“It’s all right,” she whispered, and suddenly it was.

He cupped her face in his calloused hands and looked at her, shaking his head.

“I still don’t understand how you can love me.”

Her eyes became watery again.

---

The summer had been a whirlwind one. After Paris - painful, wonderful Paris, with the fumbling love she had felt guilty about every time she had expressed it, and the almost helpless way in which Aberforth’s eyes had followed her every move - the weeks had alternated between paperwork and dates. Roses had flooded her room at the Leaky Cauldron to the extent that it had become a running joke with the cleaner, and Minerva found herself dreaming of Albus’s face turning into Aberforth’s and back again, in a bizarre summary of the whole mess.

For it was a mess - not only her office, which she was sitting in, but also her feelings. Albus remained beyond her reach, and she could not be toying with Aberforth’s feelings when it was plain that they were reciprocated, but, nevertheless, Albus continued to haunt her. There was nothing to be done about it, so she tried to mentally shove one brother away whilst drawing the other closer. Her success was debatable.

Her emotions were also being constantly tested. She still remembered the strain of watching the termination of Albus’s contract with Hogwarts-

“…And we remove from him his title, his office and the spirit of Hogwarts, and confer them fully on Minerva McGonagall…”

Ceremony had had to have been observed in order for the magic to work. The experts had stood on guard inside the glowing Core Chamber whilst the Board of Governors, Minerva, and a Ministry official performed the rite. She had been forced to watch as the blue of his magic died suddenly, abruptly, eternal evidence against a sin he had not committed, just as the pain in her chest died. The castle had shaken gently, and that had been all.

She heaved a sigh, and looked around the office unhappily. The patch of wall where Dippet’s portrait had hung was blasted and burnt. The rest of the portraits - now awake and as healthy as anybody could make them - were jittery and nervous, as were the ghosts and the House guardians. The windows had been repaired and the House tables righted, but little could be done for Pomona’s ruined plants or for Slughorn’s wasted potions. Her predictions had been right: the cost would run into thousands and thousands.

Term was starting two weeks later than usual, and yet she had only been allowed to return to her office a week before. All was chaos, as the teachers rushed around trying to repair or order the things they needed, and even Sybil had complained little, there simply not being time to do so. However, had the Divination professor been present in Minerva’s office, there would certainly be a cause to complain: a letter from Aberforth was lying on the desk, arranging for them to meet up the weekend after term started, and a single red rose was lying beside it.

Minerva tried to blot it out and concentrate on the invoice in front of her, but the scarlet continued to intrude. She flung down her quill and gazed out of the window, reflecting…

I hope you had a good time with Aberforth.

An innocent phrase, and there was no need to suspect that it wasn’t genuine. Yet the way he had chosen to set it out as a separate paragraph, and the way that that letter had been short and almost brusque…

Albus’s behaviour had never made much sense to her, but everything he had said since his ‘rebirth’ seemed utterly incomprehensible. During all the decades she had known him before his death, she had never once seen him cry, yet he had appeared perpetually close to doing so in their recent conversations.

“‘Silliness…’”

He had looked so hurt when she had said that…

His last letter also lay on her desk, as yet unanswered. She had replied to most of it, but had halted when it came to addressing the last paragraph:

Perhaps you remember me asking you about that photo album? Well you never answered the question, my dear.

She could never answer that question. She could never tell him about anything.

Fawkes crooned from the window sill. He flew across and landed on the desk, sending paper scattering. Minerva buried her face in his golden feathers, and heard the bird’s heartbeat racing next to her ear.

“I still love him.”

---

Slytherin House returned in two factions that year, yet both mumbled with fear when they returned to their Common Room and dormitories. The amplification circles, and those dark leather-bound books - both were gone.

“We’re in trouble now,” breathed a Sixth-Year nervously. “Merlin, it won’t be school rules, it’ll be the law-”

“Oh shut up,” someone else said. “We’ll just get the stuff all over again, and blow school anyway. It’s been lying to us for decades - why should we be ashamed?”

“I just don’t see why the whole House has to suffer because of you pack of weirdoes-”

He stopped; a wand had pressed against his throat. There was a hissing sound, as someone else began to redraw the circles, and a rustle, as a poster was hung up at the top of stairs leading to the boy’s dormitories.

Jonathan gave the sneering white face and mad red eyes a salute before he went to bed.

[Apocalypticat]

CHAPTER 19: Man And Woman

“So, how was it?”

She had only just returned to her private chambers, and the sight of Rolanda Hooch, ensconced in armchair and grinning widely, made Minerva feel even more flustered than she already was. She felt the blood rush to her face; the roses in her hands were all but blocking her friend from view.

“Tea, Rolanda?”

The roses were deposited in the nearest vase, and she made some effort to tame her windswept hair. Freeing it from its bun had seemed entirely appropriate some hours before, but in front of a colleague it felt embarrassing, even obscene. The Headmistress tried to don her professional face with apparently little success; Rolanda’s beam grew wider.

“‘Tea, Rolanda?’ Is that all you have to say about your night with a certain gentleman?”

The first week of term had passed extraordinarily quickly, for all the problems that had arisen. Firstly, Martha Read’s usefulness had ceased as soon as term began; she had immediately shut herself away in her chambers, sending only a cursory note to say she was ill. More importantly, Slughorn, having dared to poke his head into the Slytherin Common Room, had reported the appearance of a poster depicting Voldemort with understandable alarm, and she had made pains to mention Jonathan Blaine to him, that she “had reason to suspect” him to be trouble. The whole week, quite apart from replying to the blustering letters of the governors and the worried owls from parents, had been spent in lengthy consultation with Slughorn and the less hysterical members of staff, deciding what to do about Slytherin.

The concept was enough to make her sigh.. In some ways, it seemed as though she had spent all her life deciding what to do about Slytherin, however one looked at it. The House was alienated, ashamed, cut off - susceptible to any strange crazes and flights of fitful pride. Slughorn’s power over them was doubtful; the Slug Club had decreased in size, as though it was no longer considered fashionable to be in attendance. Confrontation was inevitable, but the precise handling of it was something to be considered. Jonathan Blaine himself seemed blameless; she had no evidence against him apart from anonymous letters sent to a twelve year-old boy.

Albus. Now that was the greatest weight on her mind, great enough to keep her thinking of Aberforth’s weekend meeting for hours at a time, great enough to make her awkward and nervous in front of Rolanda, great enough to make the very smell of roses almost unbearable-

“Minerva? How did it go? Are you all right?”

Rolanda was eyeing her with sudden concern; she had been so unfocussed this past week… She blinked, and resumed making the unasked for cup of tea.

“Very pleasantly,” she said shortly.

“’Pleasantly?’” Rolanda repeated incredulously. “Goodness, there was me thinking he was a knight in shining armour! But if he was only ‘pleasant…’”

“He’s a real gentleman,” the Headmistress protested. “He was very entertaining all evening - no, not that way, Rolanda,” she added as the flying instructor waggled her eyebrows wickedly. She smiled; in some ways her friend had never grown up.

“Well, then - aren’t you going to say anything more about it?”

“Very well. We dined at the Merlin’s Orb - perhaps you know it? He was perfectly dashing the entire time, and at least gave the impression of finding some of what I was saying interesting.”

Rolanda rolled her eyes, and took the proffered cup of tea whilst shaking her head in an exaggerated way. “I’ll take that to mean that he was enchanted, and unable to keep his eyes off you. Not surprising, if that‘s what you wore,” she added, nodding approvingly at Minerva’s fitted blue robes.

The Headmistress ignored her, and curled one hand around the golden phoenix at her neck. In truth, Aberforth had seemed somewhat less than enchanted - rather distracted to the point of singeing his beard in the candle between them. He had spoken in fits and starts, and had chosen some rather odd topics of conversation-

“How do you think a man should show what he feels?” he had asked suddenly, nervously, gazing across the table with clouded eyes.

Unusual for anybody, let alone the reserved Aberforth… But no, he had long since ceased to be reserved around her… She hadn’t known what he meant.

“I mean… do you think he should be very private about it?”

“No,” she had said at once, burying her confusion. “I think he should be as public as possible. Being private about it almost suggests that he is ashamed.”

Yet the ambiguity of it all remained with her. Exactly what had been discussed was hard to pin-point, and it had only served to make her feel still more uneasy. Her thoughts persisted in their rebellion against circumstances, dwelling on Albus being alive far more than on Aberforth being in love. Would her mind ever accept the difference between what was possible and what was not?

She forced the unease away, and returned her focus to Rolanda, who was now smiling mistily and fumbling inside one of her pockets.

“I’m so happy for you,” she said quietly. “I can’t think of anything better that could have happened. Minerva, I honestly don’t think I can ever really know you; I thought you would dither far longer than this.”

The Headmistress laid aside her stick and sank into the other armchair. “Yes… I suppose you could say I’ve rushed into it-”

“Oh no! It’s about time you rushed into something! Especially when it’s something as wonderful as this. You should have seen Poppy the other day, when she got the message. And of course, when I told the students about it - not all about it of course - they were soon buzzing about it. It’s a fantastic idea. I’m ordering Rosmerta’s best punch-”

Minerva felt her smile become fixed. “Rolanda-”

“-Now don’t say that that would be a bad example to a students - you’re the one who decided to include them in the first place-”

“Rolanda-”

“-Slughorn wants to invite half the Ministry-”

“-I don’t-”

“-You’ve been so secretive about it-”

“-Precisely what have you told the students?”

Surely this wasn’t what it sounded like. Surely Rolanda hadn’t been discussing the Headmistress’s personal relationships with students! Were the Houses now sitting in judgement? But no, Rolanda wouldn’t have-

Her friend looked at her with wide, puzzled eyes. “Just about Saturday, that’s all.”

“Saturday?”

The flying instructor gave her a frown. “Minerva, there’s no point in being secretive after we’ve been informed about it!”

“About what?”

The frown dissolved into an expression of disbelief. “You don’t know? Surely, he would have-” She cut herself off, as if a thought had struck her. Mischief swept across her face - and the next moment, Rolanda was talking about the weather.

“I’m surprised how hot it’s been recently. Very good weather for flying. I was thinking about moving the Flying lessons forward-”

“Rolanda!”

“Hm?” she responded innocently.

Alarm was beginning to fray the edges of Minerva’s mind. The sensation of being in the dark about something was extremely unwelcome, and Rolanda’s previous words seemed to be making less and less sense. They had been speaking about Aberforth… surely Aberforth wasn’t planning something which involved the students?

“Don’t change the subject! What were you saying about Saturday?”

Her friend’s face twitched, as though she was suppressing a grin. The hawk-eyes flashed with some momentous piece of knowledge. “Well, I really must be off-”

“Rolanda!”

“-Thank you for the tea-”

“Rolanda Hooch, you come back here this instant and-”

The tapestry swung shut, and Minerva found herself quite literally sitting in the dark.

---

Silence.

The silence of the library was a heavy, gravid one, bound up with the inscrutable silence of books and dust. Dim light reflected off the individual motes in the air as they swirled from unknown movements. It was a silence which dominated everything, overriding the scratching of Madam Pince’s quill and the rustling of turned pages. The late hour only seemed to emphasise the feeling of being under the power of something strong and imperturbable, and perhaps that was why only one student was to be found there: a pale boy with old-fashioned spectacles and a shock of auburn hair.

Albus turned the pages of the tome before him, wearily, without interest. Tranfiguration’s hold on him had never been weaker, and alchemy was without its attractions. There was some advantage in knowing that alchemy was so obscure as to be judged harmless, and so in the reach of any student, but all he could think of when seeing engravings of the Alchemical Wedding was Aberforth and Minerva, Sol and Luna, Aberforth and Minerva, the Hermaphrodite, Aberforth and Minerva as one, sinking into one another as one day they surely must...

How well a distracted mind warped the irrelevant into unnecessary pain! He closed the book and stared unseeingly at the wall. It seemed to gaze right back at him with equal emptiness. What was there to be done? He couldn’t stay at Hogwarts, not after the end of school; there would be no joy in it at all. Perhaps-

“Brian?”

Eric’s sudden appearance beside him made him start. Looking up, he saw that the Weasley was looking rather scared and concerned; he tried to arrange his face into a more normal expression.

“Hello.”

Eric stared at him, but then grinned. “Typical. You’re such a book-worm. I knew you’d be in here, missing all the news!”

“Shhh, Madam Pince-”

“-Is gone. You didn’t notice her go? Too busy reading, I guess.”

“What news am I missing, then?” Albus tried to look vaguely interested.

“A ball!” Eric made a face. “Everyone’s invited.”

“A Yule Ball?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s just a ball. Hooch came round all the Houses a few hours ago, putting up notices about it on all the walls. It’s this Saturday. There’s going to be a live band, and everything.”

Inwardly bored, Albus forced Brian’s face into an expression of alarm. “But that’s late notice! I haven’t got any dress robes! And - and we’re not supposed to-?”

“Have a date?”

Eric appeared equally alarmed at the idea.

“Merlin, I hope not! I know some of the older years are - but then, Mark’s going out with Anna - he told me.”

“We don’t have to do what Mark does-”

There was a creak as the library door opened, and Albus dropped his voice lower, suspecting Madam Pince back on the prowl. He opened his mouth to say something more, but then realised that the footsteps were those of several people, not one. Eric’s eyes went past him and widened-

“Avada Kedavra!”

Green light flashed blindingly, and something hit him hard in the stomach, sending him flying off his chair. There was a crash as a bookcase tumbled over, and a scream of laughter. Cruel fingers wrenched his hair - another curse was mumbled, and he heard Eric give a cry-

“Crucio!”

This time, the pain was real, stabbing, obscuring of all else. His body went limp as someone rammed a fist into his nose. Blinking away green spots, and resisting the urge to groan, Albus opened one eye long enough to see Ozzy’s smiling face.

“Back with your friends?” he said thickly, through the blood, and a savage kick landed in his groin. He remembered the wand in his hands-

“Petrificus Totalus-”

A dark shape toppled over, but the voice which had cried the curses cackled. “Put some balls into it, Potter-”

Another blow impacted on his nose; he felt it break-

“Sectumsempra!”

Eric suddenly gave a scream of agony, and concern for not appearing too knowledgeable flew out of Albus’s mind - these boys, whoever they were, were quite willing, and quite capable of killing-

-The old Auror training came in useful. He dropped below another punch and flipped backwards, twisting so that his wand’s point inscribed a circle-

“Incendia Undo!”

Flame erupted in a volcanic wave that swept everything backwards. Ozzy screeched in terror, and someone else swore.

“Where’d you learn that, Potter?” called the voice, undaunted. “Aren’t we a clever boy-?”

He could see them now, cowed against the hovering flames. Six Slytherins - all Sixth-Years at least - faces twisted in malice and hatred. One boy was standing mere inches from the flames, twirling his wand between his fingers and looking only mildly ruffled. Albus risked a glance to his right - Eric was on the floor, blood soaking into the floorboards and eyes glazed. Worried, he took a step towards him, but the calm boy’s voice halted him.

“We’re not messing around, Potter. Snape’ll have your head within a few hours. Avada Kedavra!”

Albus leapt sideways, and once again the curse smashed into a bookcase. Burning pages flew through the air-

“Ira Tempestas!”

The air sizzled. The Slytherins braced themselves, but the crackling feeling merely remained. Their leader laughed.

“Best not be too ambitious, eh? Now-”

The lightning screamed its way across the room, missing the boy’s head by millimetres, blackening his hair. The other Slytherins screamed and tried to bound aside, but the electrical storm danced all around the library, deadly bolts hissing past into the Restricted Section, engulfing the desks and lighting the room with flame. Albus narrowed his eyes and watched; he had no intention of killing, and had aimed the spell too precisely for mistakes to be made, but there was nothing to prevent a frightened enemy from jumping into death.

The leader of the Slytherins stood, apparently paralysed with fear and fury. Then-

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

-Too fast, too unexpected-

-A desk flew across the room of its own accord, taking the curse and shattering-

-Splinters of wood-

He did not understand at first, but then another shape appeared through the smoke, the completely unexpected shape of Martha Read-

“STUPEFY! STUPEFY!”

The Slytherins were as unprepared as he was; both Ozzy and another boy were unconscious before they had hit the floor, before they had even turned around-

“No you don’t, you horrible old bat!” snarled the leader, turning his wand on the professor, who looked strangely relaxed about the situation-

“STUPEFY!”

The spell missed, and the boy danced away, eyes mad and rolling. “I’ll not be stopped, you old whore! You have no authority over me, over the Neo-Dark-”

Martha Read did nothing but raise her eyebrows, completely defying Albus’s previous estimate of her personality. Standing there, wand tracking the movement of the Sixth-Year, she looked cold and strong, oddly intimidating. The fact that the library was all but an inferno did not appear to perturb her.

“Mr Blaine, I presume? I’m to believe that you are now synonymous with the Neo-Dark and ‘beyond my authority?’ You are already in far more trouble than you can imagine, Mr Blaine; I advise you to put that wand down now.”

The boy who was apparently Jonathan Blaine spat, spat a large gobbet of saliva which landed at the professor’s feet. “What? Expulsion? It’d be an effin’ release-”

“Azkaban,” she corrected icily. “For attempted murder.”

Blaine danced with fury. “I’d escape. I’d get out. I’d come back and raze this place to the ground-”

“I suppose you got these inflated ideas from reading that book. The Headmistress-”

“-That old hag can do nothing.” Blaine jabbed his finger at Brian. “There are so many of us! You couldn’t imagine - hundreds and hundreds, and we’d all kill the brat for him-”

Martha’s face twitched. “You’ve been in contact with-”

“Of course I have! Why else would I bother?” He gave her a sharp, searching look. Albus eyed her warily; something was being hidden here-

“Snape-”

Blaine caught Brian’s wince and grinned. “Have you met him?” he asked teasingly.

Martha flinched. “Yes,” she whispered.

Albus froze, and stared between the professor and the boy and back again, mind working furiously. So Snape was Ozzy’s ‘man in the woods,’ and he probably was enacting some sort of continuing revenge-

“I thought I knew him very well,” she continued, “but then he did things which I could never forgive - things which no one should ever forgive. Things which it is incredibly foolish of you to try and emulate.” Her voice became harsh. “I rather think Azkaban will be the destination for your friends as well. Now, hand over the wand.”

“No-”

“Stupefy!”

Blaine dropped limply to the ground. Remembering Eric, Albus rushed over to his friend’s body, coughing as ash dirtied his mouth. He gasped as he reached him; a large gash, deep and vivid with blood, had been opened in his chest, and the young Weasley’s robes were stained scarlet. Hands slippery with sweat, Albus tried to perform a diagnostic spell, but the professor batted him away, and began to croon an incantation.

He barely saw the wounds as they knit together, barely felt it as his nose was mended; only one thought now occupied his mind. He stared at the professor’s bent head.

“You knew Snape?”

Martha didn’t look up. “I don’t believe that to be any of your business, Mr Potter.”

Albus remained silent, but angled his head so as to see her eyes. He reached out mentally, grazing the surface of something familiar-

Her head snapped upwards, and he retracted. She looked both shaken and furious, apparently unable to speak for several moments.

“Mr Potter,” she said stiffly, finally. “It is not courteous to delve uninvited into the minds of others.”

“My apologies, Professor.”

“Only apologise when you are sincere,” she snapped; he realised he had sounded as smooth and slick as he had in Minerva’s office.

Nothing more was said, and Eric’s groans began to fill the ruined library. Martha levitated the bodies of the Slytherins outside, piling them unceremoniously the corridor, and directed Eric to Madam Pomfrey. A glance from her held Albus back, and in a few moments, they were walking up the Headmistress’s office, the Slytherins floating ominously along behind them.

[Apocalypticat]

Early the next morning, the Chief Auror declined a cup of tea, and sat waiting for Brian’s appearance in the Headmistress’s office. The exhaustion of the last few hours was beginning to wear off, and the fury was beginning to set in.

To be summoned at dawn to Hogwarts, told of an attack on his son, and then to spend several tedious hours conducting initial interviews with the Slytherins involved was certainly more than enough to anger him, especially as Blaine had been so resolutely mum on anything of importance, and had insisted on showing off his Dark Mark tattoos unasked for. Yet no, that was not all. He had arrived to discover not only his son keeping secrets from him, but also the Headmistress.

His hands closed over the letters once again, and his fingers traced the cut outs gingerly.

…You must appeal to your father.

Only, Brian hadn’t appealed to his father. He had not told Harry about it at all, had decided that the matter of his safety was completely unimportant, had knowingly kept information from the Chief Auror, who happened to write letters to him every weekend! No, it had been left to Minerva McGonagall to lay it all before him - lay it all before him after not one, but two incidents had happened.

Why hadn’t Ozzy Herrford been expelled and reported to the Aurors?

Oh, it was because of a technicality, because it wasn’t actually term-time, that first time, so expulsion had been impossible, and she had been so distracted by the danger the school was in, hadn’t she, so very distracted-

Harry crushed the paper in his fist and shot a glare at Minerva, who was standing at the window, back towards him. There was something about the rigid way she was standing that suggested that she was more than aware of his anger, and there had been something in her tone of voice as she was telling him that had implied that she knew full well that she had no excuse, and had been struggling to find one. Snape! Snape after his son, and he had not known! Snape, playing the Slytherin House like a game, and nobody had bothered to inform him.

The knock on door came. Minerva said her assent, and the door opened.

The sight of Brian, sporting a black eye and a swollen, bent nose, had the Chief Auror torn between greater heights of rage and paternal empathy. The boy was pale, drawn, and the blue eyes behind their spectacles hardly dared meet his gaze.

“You decided not to tell me,” Harry heard himself say softly. “May I ask, why?”

Brian shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“And so you succeeded in worrying me far more, by allowing yourself to be subject to two completely preventable attacks.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s just not good enough.”

Harry stood, and began to pace the room. One part of him wanted to draw the boy into his arms and sooth away the hurt, but that wouldn’t do. Nor could he focus on the pride that swelled within him when he remembered Martha’s brief words on how well his son had defended himself, how capable he was, so well versed in defence…

Nevertheless, he found himself laying one hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m just scared for you. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Brian brushed his flaming hair out of his eyes, and regarded him with a blank face which somehow expressed far more emotion by being blank than by any other means. Harry was suddenly struck by how thin and slight Brian was, how small in height, how vulnerable in every appearance… His arms closed around him automatically.

His son returned the hug tightly, almost desperately. Harry eyed his crooked nose.

“What happened there?”

“Got hit.”

“Couldn’t Madam Pomfrey straighten it?”

“No, she said she couldn’t. What’s happening to the Slytherins?”

Harry drew back, sighing. “Well, the ones that attacked you… that will be decided back at HQ. There will probably be a trial, and you’ll be required to give evidence. I’m hoping you’ll be a lot less reticent with a court than you have been with me. As for the rest of House - I understand Professors McGonagall and Slughorn will be having a talk with them at some point today.”

Brian fixed him with a shrewd look. “Was Blaine really in contact with-”

Harry interrupted; the idea of having Snape’s name spoken in Dumbledore’s old office was somehow obscene. “We’re not sure. He wouldn’t give me any real information - it will be left to us to draw it out of him back at Ministry.”

The boy was silent, and his expression was so solemn that Harry was suddenly inclined to lighten the moment.

“Looking forward to the ball?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Minerva turn round.

“The ball?” repeated Brian confusedly. “How do you know about that?”

“I’ve been invited, that’s why! Your mother was too, but she probably won’t be able to come because of David.”

His son’s expression softened at the mention of his brother. “I have no dress robes-”

“You do now, I picked some up for you yesterday.” Harry reached for the package underneath his chair. “Don’t panic - purple and gold, just as you like it. If they don’t fit-”

“Ball?” Minerva sounded puzzled. “What ball?”

The Chief Auror stared at her. “The ball… the ball on Saturday.”

“I know nothing about it.”

Brian’s small reddish eyebrows came together in a frown. Harry rolled his eyes, and patted him on the shoulder. “Have a good time, okay? I’ll see you on Saturday.”

With that, he strode from the room, leaving two very baffled people behind him.

---

The full truth of it all only seeped through in the days that followed. Minerva was half-inclined to disbelieve it when she heard about it; it seemed so out of character, and so hastily arranged that she wouldn’t have been surprised if it had turned out to be some sort of prank originating from the Weasley twins. As time passed, however, the more indisputable it became; the older years rushed around frantically, arranging dates, with several hormonal outbursts occurring in the corridors, and Gladrags Wizardwear in Hogmeade was rapidly swamped by pupils desperate to get hold of dress robes. No, the truth was out:

Aberforth had arranged a ball.

Aberforth had arranged a ball, behind her back and yet in her name, inviting virtually everybody, letting everybody else in on the secret before her, only thinking to inform her personally with a note four days before:

Minerva,

Have awwanged a ball in oner of you on Saterday from six o’clock onwords. Hop you don’t mind.

Love,

Aberforth

Assuming that ‘oner’ was supposed to be ‘honour,’ it did seem as though he had taken her comments about showing one’s feelings publicly to heart. She hoped nothing too demonstrative would happen at the ball; exactly what Aberforth would feel to be public enough was unknown - perhaps it would simply consist of dancing with her, or perhaps he would kiss her in public, or perhaps-

She refused to think about it. There were other things to concentrate on - for example, the confrontation with Slytherin, which had been less of a confrontation than a lecture accompanied by a collective ‘grassing’ on Brian’s attackers, who appeared to have done both everything and nothing. Of course, Slughorn had been overly melodramatic, insisting on ripping up the poster of Voldemort in front of them, and then retelling the story of the war with himself as the centre actor.

However, the meeting had not been entirely without achievement. Minerva was satisfied that most of Slytherin House had regarded Blaine and his companions as loners and weirdoes, and Slughorn had succeeded in extracting the source of the poster and various pseudo-Dark books (which had been more about sprinkling rat’s blood around than real mischief) from them, which turned out to be a little shop in Hogmeade. Slughorn had investigated the shop, which claimed to sell “alternative clothing and resources for the alternative mind,” and had come back shaking his head in distress - but she herself had visited it, and found it to be everything which Molly Weasley would have disapproved of, but mainly harmless, save for a few semi-questionable items where the concept of ‘teen rebellion’ had been taken perhaps a little too far.

Exactly how Blaine had gotten hold of The Dark Manifesto, and a few other of the more serious books, was still unknown. The possibility of Snape directly sending them to him was one which did not go unvoiced.

Then there was the recent row between Martha and Sybil, with the latter claiming that the former now thought herself distinctly above her, and the former continuing to lock herself away with an illness which Poppy doubted the existence of. And then there was the matter of Rolanda’s Flying lessons, whether they should be brought forward or not. And of course there was the letter from the Ministry about what had happened, plus updates from Harry…

These important issues were ones which Minerva continued to focus on, even when the day of the ball was finally reached, even when she was standing in front of a mirror, experimenting with different sets of robes. The ball had crept up on her so fast, that she still felt barely prepared. In some ways, maybe she had occupied her thoughts too much, but then…

Thinking of anything else only brought worry. If she thought of Aberforth, then she could only wonder what he was going to do, ponder unhappily on the subject of Rolanda’s words, or find herself attempting to burgeon a love that shouldn’t have needed burgeoning. She loved him, oh how she loved him… How would she feel if he was not there? Despairing, and miserable beyond description…

The delving grew more desperate. Indeed, why was she delving? She applied her make-up so distractedly that twice she had to redo it.

Albus…

Her fingers slipped on the clasp of her robes. She had chosen red and gold, in the old Gryffindor tradition… Perhaps that wasn’t a good idea? Would it be appropriate for the Headmistress to wear the colours of one House? No matter, it was too late now anyway, only ten to six.

…My darling…

The clasp pricked her. She paused, halting both the rush of preparation and of thought in order to watch the blood pool on the end of her finger. Why on earth was she so nervous? This was a ball, nothing but a ball. She sucked her finger, and the metallic tang of blood flooded her mouth.

Voices sounded outside the tapestry door. Rolanda and Poppy were whispering to each other…

“Come in,” she said, and her friends burst through.

Rolanda was in yellow dress robes with a gathered bodice; the result was so blinding that at first Poppy’s subtler green was virtually invisible next to her. Rolanda was full of irrepressible excitement, talking so fast that Minerva only caught a few random phrases about how well the Great Hall had been decorated for the occasion, and about whether or not the robes were too bright for her. Poppy, however, appeared close to tears.

“Poppy!”

The Healer wiped her eyes, smiling weakly. “S-Sorry, I’m just being silly. You must be so nervous!”

“It’s just a ball,” said Minerva steadily, privately even more alarmed. “We shall spend most of the evening thoroughly bored.”

Poppy sniffed, and suddenly enveloped her in a hug. “Alastor will be waiting for me,” she whispered.

“‘Alastor will be waiting for me,’” imitated Rolanda, smirking. “Honestly, I can’t believe how you two have dates and I don’t! I, Matchmaker of the Universe.”

Minerva effected a laugh. “Name one couple you matched together, Rolanda.”

“Well, in my head…”

“It’s time for us to go down now,” Poppy said, drawing back, eyes still incomprehensibly moist.

---

The foyer was crowded to the point when breathing became difficult; nobody had been allowed into the Great Hall yet, and students and faculty alike were forced against the wall by the weight of people. A natural space cleared its way around the Chief Auror, who was talking casually with Ron and Hermione, all resplendent in vivid dress robes. Another space appeared around Mad-Eye Moody, who stood at the bottom of the stairs, glaring at anyone who dared stare at the sight of the scarred ex-Auror in midnight blue robes and a black top hat. Lupin and Tonks could be seen making their way up to the main doors from the grounds, and Abigail was barrelling her way through the crowd, dragging a reluctant Benjamin Stubbs along behind her.

There was a sensation when the photographers and reporters arrived, trying to reach the Chief Auror, who promptly turned his back on them and marched away. Another sensation was created when the inexorable Madam Pomfrey was seen sinking into Moody’s embrace, and yet another when the formidable Professor McGonagall was spotted proceeding down the stairs, arm in arm with Madam Hooch.

Albus stood on tip-toes, trying to see her before she sank into the throng. His breath came more quickly as he saw her, her hair loose except for tendrils of gold woven into her locks, and her magnificent robes bringing out the colour in her cheeks. Heart beating painfully, he watched her until she could no longer be seen, and until Eric began to drag him towards the opening doors of the Great Hall.

The enchanted sky was clear, sparkling with stars. The House benches were nowhere to be seen, instead there were buffet tables lit with fairy-lanterns, and magical streamers extending from the ceiling to the floor. A fountain, exquisite with classical figures and montages, was spewing what looked to be punch out into a large basin. A stage stood at the other end of the hall, and piano-music was originating seemingly from the air itself.

“Wow,” whispered Eric, but Albus barely heard him. He fingered the medallion which had arrived by owl that morning, the medallion showing a phoenix rampant which the Order had once given him to mark him as their leader. Minerva had found it, had wrapped it with her own two delicate hands, had written him a note about it…

“Hey, who’s that with the Headmistress?”

He looked up. Aberforth was standing next to Minerva, saying something to her with eyes that danced and glowed as much as the sky above. Albus couldn’t recall ever seeing him so well-groomed; the splendour of the other guests paled beside him. The grizzled hair had been tamed, and he was wearing black dress robes and a cravat, looking more as though he was attending a wedding rather than a ball. Something clenched inside Albus’s chest; he looked away.

“D’you reckon that stuff in the fountain is alcoholic?” Eric asked.

He suddenly hoped that it was. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Minerva and Aberforth still talking, Minerva asking him something, him responding with a laugh and an uncharacteristic wave of the hand-

The piano music had stopped, and there was an abrupt collective scream from the students; a band had arrived on stage, leather-clad and sneering fashionably. The crowd moved forward-

“Ooh,” said Eric, tugging Brian’s arm. “It’s Eclipse!”

Albus didn’t know who Eclipse were, and didn’t much care. There was a roar of an instrument, someone cheered, and something fast and ferocious which Eric screamed was industrial thrash began. Catching Harry’s distant eye, Albus forced Brian to dance as wildly as possible, half hoping that the music would drown everything else out. The people around him became a blur as the song worked them into a frenzy. Time blurred as the song changed into another, and another. He could hear Eric shrieking out some of the lyrics, something about forbidden fruit and wishes unfulfilled…

He did not look at Minerva and his brother until the band were finished, and when he did, to his relief they were merely selecting items from the buffet, chatting with the other adults. Ear-drums still thrumming to the sound of the music, he moved forwards and grabbed a sausage and a paper plate. Eric babbled at him ineffectually, and gasped when Albus snatched a glass of punch and drank it in one gulp.

The break lasted almost too long; there was nothing to distract him from the way Aberforth plucked at Minerva’s shoulders every now and then, or curled a finger in her hair. She kept on looking up and away from him, eyes searching the crowd, but by no means seemed as though she was objecting to his attentions. He sighed with relief when music started again - calm, ballroom music, emanating this time from a set of musicians who were demure enough to raise their eyebrows at what Eclipse had left on-stage.

No, this was no relief. Feeling sick, he gulped down some more punch as Aberforth took Minerva’s hand and led her onto the dance-floor, twirling her around him like a flower. For a few, agonising moments, they were the only couple dancing, but then the faculty and adults moved in, followed by the older students. The rest of the world faded to insignificance compared to the first couple, but at least now his view was occasionally blocked.

Most of the First-Years were without dates, and retreated into chattering huddles. Eric seemed determined to drink more punch than Brian, and was soon giggling at the way Brian’s funny medallion glinted in the light. Albus ignored him, and tried to keep his face impassive as he watched Minerva whisper something in Aberforth’s ear. Merlin, this was torture.

To distract himself, he tried to watch Alastor and Poppy dancing instead, Poppy weaving expertly out of the way of Alastor’s leg, and Harry dancing reluctantly with a blonde witch who kept on insisting that they paused for photographs. Abigail Lupin and Benjamin Stubbs were twirling beside Tonks and Remus in a bizarre echo of the older generation. The effort of watching them was exhausting. -

“Enough!”

Aberforth’s voice turned his head. His brother had stopped dancing, and was clutching Minerva’s beautiful hands.

“Enough, it is time.”

The wizard let go of one hand to withdraw his wand from his pocket. Minerva’s expression was one of bewilderment as he raised it into the air-

BANG!

A burst of golden stars erupted over the heads of the crowd. The musicians were silenced, chatter ceased. All eyes turned towards Aberforth and Minerva, the latter flushing. Albus felt something electric shoot down his spine, just as his brother turned back to address the Headmistress as though unaware of the attention he had attracted-

“You told me a man should be a public about his feelings,” he said softly, but every word was heard. “Aye, I fully intend to be. Minerva, Minerva-”

His eyes! How could she not be overwhelmed by them?

“-When a man loves a woman, he shouldn’t be ashamed. I am not ashamed - how could I be,” he added thickly, “how could I be when you are that woman? My love, my treasure-”

Albus saw him drop to one knee as if from a distance, and his own shanks trembled. Minerva’s mouth was opening, her eyes were stunned. A camera flashed as the box was proffered, as the ring was revealed. Aberforth’s soul was on show. The crowd was now an audience, a gasping, excited audience-

-Rolanda was smiling, Poppy was crying - yes, they had known all along-

-His vision swam, everything blurred except for Minerva’s shocked face; this was it, this was the doom he had foreseen-

“Will you marry me?”

He took a step backwards, he could not see this, he could not bear this-

-Those emerald eyes. Her gaze locked with his, she was staring straight at him, face white and desperate… That invisible thread connected them, pausing the scene, excluding all else. Boy and woman, but a prelude to the marriage between man and woman. The world waited, the entire universe waited, when the answer was inevitable, when hands were already readying for applause-

“I… I can’t.”

[Apocalypticat]

CHAPTER 20: Agonies And Endearments

He couldn’t breath. No one breathed. Aberforth’s joyful expression did not change, as though the answer had not yet seeped through. No, it was impossible, he had imagined it, Minerva and Aberforth were in love-

“I’m s-sorry.” Minerva was gulping, eyes overflowing. “I’m sorry, Aberforth, I c-can’t.”

Aberforth’s head snapped backwards, as though he had been slapped. He was off his knees and staggering, eyes round. His expression showed him to be in the depths of hell.

“Why?”

He never said it, but his face asked it. Minerva was weeping now, weeping when Poppy had stopped, and Poppy and Rolanda were simply staring, beyond shock, beyond expression of shock-

“I’m in love with someone else.”

Flooded eyes turned towards him. Albus felt completely numb as his brother’s face suddenly contorted in grief.

The ring was discarded, flung away into the silent crowd. Blue eyes blazed with tears and rage.

“You’re in love with someone dead!”

The pain exploded.

“NOBODY COULD MEASURE UP, NOBODY COULD EVER BLOODY MEASURE UP-”

Gulping now, as though the voice‘s owner was at a loss as to how convey anything more. Albus found himself mesmerised by the way Aberforth’s craggy face seemed unable to close back up, unable to conceal the emotions it had been so hard to reveal. No, the pain before them all was raw, much too raw to hide, and Albus could see how it was-

-He had been lonely for so long. He was without companions, and without family, for all he had was a brother he hated. The Hog’s Head was all there was, all that there was which he could submerge himself into. Loneliness was his destiny. Then he had met her, and he had dared to believe, and he had opened up a door that no one had ever had the key to before, opened it up when before he closed it for his own protection. He had let her see the self behind the shell, and had invited her in. And she had stepped in, and had seen him, and had rejected him-

His brother…His Erik had torn off the mask before the entire world, because he had believed that that was what Minerva had wanted…

Albus moved forward, eyes heavy with the weight of suppressed water. He could barely comprehend what had happened, could only understand that his brother - the wire-haired toddler, the sullen little boy, the withdrawn old man - had been damaged, perhaps irreparably. His mouth moved, but no sound came out-

-In the dreadful silence which follows every public abomination, the auburn-haired boy reached out a faltering hand into the empty space-

-And then the old man wheeled about, and tore from the Great Hall, shoving the stunned observers aside. His black cloak twisted and contorted in the wind of his passing, a visual scream which would find no other expression, and he was gone, fleeing from a public Hell back into a private one.

---

Minerva’s legs crumpled beneath her. As she fell, all she could see through her tears was the flying black cloak passing through the doors, and a boy with half-moon spectacles, countenance appalled. Voices sounded in her ears; Rolanda and Poppy were beside her, saying things which did not matter, clutching her, pulling her up when fainting was most welcome…

… Faces passed before her eyes. Some were the random, impersonal faces of students, too aghast to give any kind of coherent response, others were the faces of those she knew - all dismayed, all astonished. There was Alastor, thunderous with rage, both eyes fixed in the same direction for once, piercing her with accusations… There was Harry, reduced to a terrified student again, completely without understanding, and Filius, miniature face shining with tears. Rolanda, poor Rolanda, grin now one of horror, and dearest Poppy, bawling beyond control. Even Sybil, contemptuous Sybil, was looking shocked…

Too miserable to make herself care for her audience, Minerva knuckled her fists into her eyes, making no attempt to stem the flow. She deserved this, she deserved unhappiness - how could she have led poor, besotted Aberforth on when she had known that it would come to this, and that the answer had already been predetermined? Loathing for herself bubbled in her throat; she was sick at herself-

-Albus - what had he thought? What could he feel other than hatred for the woman who had done his brother such injury?

Her sobs increased; her thoughts showed how terrible she was - that she was thinking of Albus when Aberforth… Was that embrace Poppy’s, or Rolanda’s? No, she deserved nothing, she must struggle-

“M-Minerva, please,” came Poppy’s sodden voice, and she ceased.

“Oh Merlin, oh Merlin,” Rolanda was repeating into her ear-

Moody’s voice rose above them, harsh:

“-She led him on, for Merlin’s sake; by thunder he would have done whatever she wanted! To hear him talk-”

Poppy was making some sounds of protest, but there were no words, there was no excuse-

“I thought I l-loved him, I thought I did,” she was saying, to whoever was listening.

-Hands were bundling her away from the commotion. Opening her eyes to the fractured light her tears had reduced the ball to, Minerva could see blurs that were people hurrying off; the ball was dissolving, the guests draining away… Was that auburn smudge Albus?

“You’re in love with someone dead!”

Had he realised?

She was out of the Great Hall now, and being led up the stairs. Poppy and Rolanda were speaking fitfully, evidently at a loss as to what to say. She couldn’t blame them; when the time came for speaking, she would not know what words to use either… Stairs passed away in a blind haze, they were heading to her office…

She halted suddenly, in a corridor, and leant against the wall, trying to quell the sobbing enough for speech. Poppy mumbled something, and drew an arm around her.

“Minerva-”

“Y-You knew, didn’t you?” The Headmistress wished she had her stick with her; she’d dared leave it behind for the ball, and now her legs were failing her… “You knew he was g-going to propose.”

As she blinked away tears, she could see Poppy and Rolanda exchanging a horrified glance. The Healer dissolved into sobs all over again.

“Y-Yes, yes we did-”

“I m-mean, why else would he arrange a ball?” Roland wiped her eyes. “Or w-we thought he’d already proposed, and that you were g-going to announce it… We thought-”

“As did I,” Minerva choked out, swaying slightly. “I thought…”

What precisely she thought, she could no longer articulate; the friends moved on, supporting each other into the office, and through the tapestry into her private chambers which they had left so enthusiastically only hours before. Once they were inside, Minerva collapsed into a chair. She suddenly wished Poppy and Rolanda weren’t there; she wanted to go to bed and cry herself into slumberous release. Her grief was too great to conceal, but too great to fully show - she was no longer Minerva McGonagall, no longer even just Minerva or a person at all; she had become an essence, a memory incarcerated into a body, with one painful moment filling her up to the pores and drowning all else-

No, she no longer wanted to be Minerva McGonagall.

Fur rippled over her body; Rolanda gave a cry and drew the transforming Minerva into her arms. The tabby cat nuzzled its head into her chest, and gave a piteous mew. The flying instructor stroked the patterned fur helplessly.

“Minerva, I honestly believed you loved him,” she whispered. “All the dinners, all the outings! Those two weeks in Paris! I thought…”

Poppy collapsed into the chair Minerva had just vacated, head in her hands. “Why did you refuse him?”

The Headmistress closed her feline eyes. Perhaps that was part of the reason why she had become her Animagus form: to escape answering the important questions. Cats could not cry, she realised distantly. Cats could only wag their tails and tremble, and give no expression to whatever trauma they had suffered - no, caused themselves.

“Was what Aberforth said true?”

She opened her eyes, and tried to communicate it all with a stare.

“Oh Minerva… I thought you’d got over him!”

She let a growl rumble in her throat. Rolanda stroked her, trying to sooth her-

“You mean that that’s not possible?”

A mew in reply.

Poppy suddenly shot to her feet, two pink blotches beginning to form on her cheeks. Human eyes glared at feline ones.

“He’s been dead for twenty years! You seemed to get over him! Merlin, I half agree with Alastor; you really led him on-”

“Poppy!”

The flying instructor scrabbled, but the cat had already flown out of her arms, and was tearing out of the room. Poppy lurched forward, but the tabby was already through the tapestry.

“Minerva, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

But Minerva no longer existed. The human surrendered to the cat, and nobody had ever given the tabby a name.

---

Eric Weasley drifted from the ball in a daze. The alcohol had worn off; now it was the event that had stupefied him, and made him feel so shocked. Everywhere he looked, stunned students were leaving the Great Hall in droves, hardly daring to say anything, but whispers were rising the ceiling, scandalised, frightened whispers…

Eric was aware that old images and ideas had been shattered; the Headmistress was no longer a remote, stern figure, but a tearful, half-hysterical woman, and the expression of the man who had fled the Great Hall so dramatically had had a strength of sorrow which seemed out of place for Hogwarts - too serious, too real. It occurred to him that perhaps the proposal had been the whole point of the ball, and that the appearance of Eclipse had been cursory, just to please him and his friends…

A pang of worry shot through his stomach. His friends… Brian. He’d been strange the whole ball, barely saying a word or acknowledging what anyone was saying to him, and then when… when what had happened had happened, he had seemed paralysed, white and staring even as Professor McGonagall was being half-carried out of the ball. Then before Eric had been able to say a word to him, he’d dashed off to Merlin-knows-where.

Eric quickened his pace. Brian had always been funny, he thought distractedly. He had always been concerned for him; he hadn’t seemed quite real - and so withdrawn, with that depressive air about him. There was no telling what effect something like this might have on him-

“Eric!”

Mark Scott and Cal Smith were trotting up to him. Mark looked flushed and oddly excited, whilst Cal appeared just about as shocked as Eric felt.

“I’m going to find Brian - he rushed off-”

“Oh blow Brian,” said Mark irritably. “Merlin, can you believe what just happened? Who’d have thought that the old hag had a boyfriend-”

Anger suddenly flooded him. He didn’t like how excited Mark looked, as though what had happened had been a Quidditch match rather than something sad and serious.

“Don’t talk about it like that! It was horrible. I’m glad it’s over.”

Mark raised his eyebrows. “Calm down,” he said mildly. “And why all the worry about Brian?”

Eric looked at him helplessly. He didn’t have the words to express what he thought about Brian - he wasn’t as clever as him; Brian would probably have been able to convey it. There was also no way he could tell Mark such thoughts - how sensitive Brian was… how lonely and sad, as if something terrible had happened to him long ago… something so terrible that they all had to pretend that it hadn’t ever occurred, and cover it up with jokes and laughter… And the way Brian was sometimes so solemn, like a miniature adult rather than another boy…

“He’s probably back at the Common Room anyway. Cal, come on. Everyone will be talking about it back upstairs.”

The boys fought their way through the throng, struggling to reach the main stairs. Eric thought he glimpsed Brian on the moving flights some floors above, but there was no telling from such a distance. The first few floors were crowded as students rushed to their Common Rooms, but the way grew easier as they went on; Gryffindor Common Room was on the seventh floor, and pupils from other Houses soon trickled away. They reached the Fat Lady just as Eric glimpsed it conceal Brian from view.

As Mark had said, the Common Room was packed with students still in their dress robes, noisily discussing what had just happened. Mark looked as though he wanted to sit down and join in, but Eric pulled him towards the boy’s dormitories after Brian, furiously wanting him to be concerned…

Brian was standing stock-still in the middle of their dormitory, head bowed, looking even iller than he had down in the Great Hall. He was muttering to himself, and did not appear to register their arrival next to him.

“Erm, hello?” Mark clicked his fingers, but Brian did not respond.

“Oh Merlin, no, she couldn’t have meant that…”

Eric bent down slightly, so that he could see blue eyes behind their spectacles and the curtain of auburn hair. They were wild and crazed, seemingly staring at something that nobody else could see.

“Brian?” he said, cautiously.

The other boy jumped, and looked up at him distantly, apparently still not really seeing him.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes… yes I’m fine…” Brian’s face contradicted his words.

“You don’t look very well. Do you want me to take you to Madam Pomfrey?”

“No, no… that will not be… will not be required…” Brian closed his eyes, and swayed. Sweat shone on his forehead; Eric got the distinct impression of a mind racing beyond all endurance.

Mark was staring in grotesque fascination. “Blimey…he’s gone cuckoo.”

“No, perhaps he really is ill,” suggested Cal, stepping back slightly, as though afraid that it was contagious.

“Brian?” Eric tried again.

His friend was ignoring him once more; instead of responding, he ran his fingers through his long hair, and then removed his glasses before putting them back on again, all the while mumbling something beyond the reach of hearing. The other boys exchanged glances.

“Did he drink any of that punch?” Mark offered, suddenly. “I know some of the Hufflepuffs drank too much…”

“Yes,” agreed Eric slowly. “Yes, he did…”

“Then perhaps he’s drunk.”

Brian seemed to remember them.

“I wish I was,” he breathed, keeling over onto the nearest bed. “Merlin, I wish I was… he cannot have meant me…”

“Who cannot have meant you?” Eric asked, at a loss, but Brian turned over, mumbling into the pillow, fingers twisting the fabric, and his whole body trembling with apparent agitation.

“The photos… I am dead, I am dead…”

Eric bit his lip with worry. Perhaps Brian was on the verge of succumbing to some debilitating wizarding disease…

“Oh, leave him be,” sniffed Mark, glaring at the huddled body scornfully. “Mr High-And-Mighty Potter’s just punch-drunk. Of course he’s not going to make any sense.”

With that, both Mark and Cal scurried away back down to the Common Room, the occupants of which being already engaged in the task of trivialising events, turning reality into fiction, and fiction into myth, and myth into scandalous fantasy. Eric, however, remained some time in the dormitory, watching his friend shudder and shake, whilst murmuring both agony and endearments into a pillow.

[Apocalypticat]

A day passed.

Sunday’s clear skies were not enough to erase the events of the previous evening. Her foolishness, and the defiance she had shown to the resolute reality that would not bend to her will, were not to be undone by the mere movement of time. Aberforth’s agonised face was the first image that came to her waking mind, and it remained in her mind still, as the day drew to a close. What sleep she had enjoyed had brought only a temporal release.

Nature laughed at her. This was not the first time in her life that she had noticed a disparity between events and the weather, but she couldn’t remember it being quite so cruelly obvious before. The sun made the lake sparkle serenely, with its waters undisturbed even by the Giant Squid, and the only clouds which dared scud by were white and pure, as innocent as something a child would make using cotton wool. It was almost as if she was being shown a picture of the happiness which she had rejected.

She had woken up to find herself wet, and nestled under a bush, feline form still intact. Poppy’s words still seared her, and prevented her from seeking out any company. Rolanda had been up to her office, but she had made so clear that she wanted to be alone that her friend had left after only fifteen minutes. Filius had come by, squeaking his presence from behind the door, but she had pretended absence, and he had gone away dissatisfied. She didn’t attend breakfast, lunch or dinner, and wouldn’t have eaten at all if some very subdued House-Elves hadn’t brought some food to her.

She ate mechanically, without appetite. She wondered what Aberforth was doing, whether he was running the pub as usual, what he would say if they were to suddenly encounter one another. Roses drooped and died all around her. She wanted to throw them away, but that would involve touching them, and that would be unbearable. The image of her callously flinging the flowers in the fire was one which displeased her, and so did not occur.

For once, work could not keep her occupied. Another Minerva, in another reality, would have been decidedly ashamed as to how she spent her time: doing nothing, saying nothing, thinking nothing. Books were uninteresting, Transfiguration a bore. Fawkes was presumably with Albus; his uplifting song was notable only by the lack of it. In some ways, this was a good thing; the phoenix could only have reminded her of the brothers.

At last, as the sun set and the need for candles grew, she moved herself to do something, to pick up a quill, and write. She addressed the letter to Albus, and wrote an apology. The true apology was owed to Aberforth, but she doubted he would read the letter once he saw who it was from, and so she wrote it to his brother instead. She explained all she had felt - her affection for both siblings, her inability to give Aberforth his proper place in her heart, her continuing love for Albus… She would not send it, she would simply write it.

She continued writing even when the office was completely dark, continued on for five feet of parchment. Afterwards, she rolled it up and sealed it, and placed it in a drawer, never to be touched again. Then, on a new piece of parchment-

Albus,

I know what you must think of me, and I do not expect you to forgive me for how I treated Aberforth. I will not intrude on your company and patience further, but I wish you to know that I did not intentionally deceive your brother. I had genuine love for him, and had no wish to make him unhappy.

Minerva

There was nothing else she could write. What could she express, other than ineffectual regret? Confessions would now have to be penned to Eleanor Reeves.

Wearily, she turned her eyes to clock. No, it was too late to toil up to the Owlery. The letter would be sent the following morning. Feeling strangely purged, she retired to bed.

---

The next few days were an incomprehensible mixture of pleasure and pain to Albus. Once his thought and emotions were under his control, the gossip of the students became both more apparent and more trying. Words passed from House to House and down the corridors like darts, infused with more poison than benevolence. Several times, he had had to bite back his own words in order to preserve his secret - a secret already at risk from the turmoil he had been in immediately after it all.

Nothing had been heard of Aberforth, and he himself had not the knowledge to even guess what state his brother was in. Aberforth had never before gone so far down the path of openness as to be rejected; his reaction could not be gauged. There was little way of finding out, as he very much doubted that the letters of a man who was supposed to be dead would be appreciated…

…A man who was supposed to be dead…

Minerva had not been seen since Saturday; to all appearances she was holed up in her office, not even emerging for food. His soul trembled with pity for the pair of them, pity for the goddess, and pity for the mortal she had refused… He recalled her note with unhappiness; he had sent a reply back immediately, effusive in its denial of him not wanting her to ‘intrude on his company,’ and as comforting and understanding as words could be shaped into. There had not yet been a response.

An emotion gnawed at him, not one that was appropriate - indeed, he was guilty for experiencing guilt… Conclusions should not be leapt to…

Yet…

Aberforth’s accusation resounded in his head. If the suggestion was true, that Minerva was in love with someone dead…

Logically, the pieces all came together. How beautifully it all fit, with her behaviour and her words all seeming to imply… Albus dared not consider it, how dare he consider it when his brother..? How dare he presume..?

A silly, inappropriate idea. Aberforth was his main concern…

For this reason, he was walking up to the Headmistress’s office with some trepidation. A chance remark by Poppy in a corridor had informed him that today was the day that Minerva would be visiting a woman called Eleanor Reeves; he planned to take advantage of her absence by using the head teacher‘s Floo connection to go to Hogmeade and investigate Aberforth‘s condition himself. The plan depended on Minerva being absent - were she not, then a conversation would follow, and he was not yet ready for one, not when his mind was almost overwhelmed by misery, anxiety, and fanciful speculation…

He was soon riding the moving staircase to his old office, attempting to imagine Aberforth the jilted lover. The more he thought about, the greater the weight of guilt he felt for thinking of anything else. How could he have forgotten the quiet young man riding beside him in a thestral carriage, or the little boy who had once felt the need to hide behind his older brother at the sight of a dog?

Albus heaved a sigh. He had always failed Aberforth… had never understood him, had never drawn him out of himself, and had always been too busy to really pay much attention to him. Another mistake to look back on and regret…

The office was mercifully silent; the portraits had all gone on walk-about, and Minerva was indeed absent. The draft caused by opening the door made various ornaments tinkle, and swept a variety of letters off the desk. Curiously, Albus picked them up, glancing through them as he returned them to their place. There was one from Harry, talking about how Blaine was continuing to be difficult, one from the Ministry, urging regular check-ups on the core, and a third from the mysterious Eleanor Reeves…

His eyes caught a phrase:

…Poppy is right when she says twenty years is a long time, but the deepest of affections can last far longer…

He snatched the letter back up, breath catching in his throat. He scanned paragraphs, caught his own name-

…I rather get the impression that you are not informing me of everything… Have you discovered something new about Albus which led to a resurgence in your feelings? I would urge you to speak about it with Aberforth…

…Any physical resemblance to Albus is understandably disturbing, would certainly remind you of him…

…I have to admit being rather surprised… I myself thought you were over your grief… twenty years is far greater a time than I expected would needed for recovery…

…It was very unwise of him to court you with images of his brother…

The air hissed between his teeth. Albus squeezed his eyes shut, and crumpled the letter to his chest. …Confirmation…Apparent confirmation… Could she really harbour feelings for him, emotions strong enough to be gratified by a photo album crammed full of a man she had had affection for? The way their eyes had met, just as Aberforth had waited for a response to his proposal… Merlin, could it be..?

Out of the corner of his eye, the Sorting Hat twitched. He needed no further urging; he snatched the hat off its shelf and rammed it on, nearly ripping the rip off in his haste.

“Have we found something out?”

Does she love me? Albus thought desperately, clenching his hands into fists. Has she loved me all this time?

The Sorting Hat made an approving noise. “Less of the dignity, more of the feeling! You’re well on the way to sorting yourself out, I must say. But hush, let me see what has happened…”

Yet his mind was full of Minerva, full of the goddess. There was no dark recess of his brain that had not been saturated in Minerva, Minerva gazing lovingly at him, and letting him curl his fingers in her hair… Guilt was a hard surface that the softness of his thoughts bounced off of. Yes, Aberforth, Aberforth and his rejection…

“Oh yes. Well, I saw you reveal yourself to her - I was watching. About time too, Albus, though you might have done it more delicately. As to your question… well, I’d say the answer is pretty obvious.”

Something exploded inside of him. Oh Merlin, please!

“I’m not Merlin. Merlin’s dead, and cannot help you. Honestly, Albus, you exasperate me. You spend your whole time saying some very fine, sensible things, but then you completely fail to act upon them.”

His soul was reeling. My darling, my dearest, my goddess..!

“Why, thank you,” said the hat snidely. “Though I’ve always thought of myself as male, by the way-”

No, no! What can I do, I am still Brian, I am still trapped-

“Only as much as you want to be.”

Albus was tempted to fling the hat off and stamp on it, but phoenix song seemed to filling his ribcage, buoying him up to the sky. To know that Minerva had loved him-

-But my body-

He came back down to earth, gradually. Yes, Brian Potter, blasted boy that he was, still existed, still imprisoned him, no matter what the Sorting Hat said-

“Albus,” snapped the hat. “What House did I place you in?”

Gryffindor, but how that is relevant-

“You’re not acting like one. Bold and full of daring, Ex-Headmaster Dumbledore.”

You think I don’t fight for her?

“Finally! The fellow gets it! And I also told you that you had Slytherin cunning - so please do me a favour, and use it!”

Albus took the hat off, spirit full of fire. No, it was true, his passion was insurmountable, it was beyond being stopped by obstacles, no matter how huge they were! He would find a way to woo Minerva, yes, he would presume to do just that! Could he surrender a goddess so easily? Of course not!

Yet… no way occurred to him. There was no way of returning him to his adult body, and-

…Slytherin cunning…

He exited the office, original resolution of visiting Aberforth entirely forgotten.

---

Hagrid shoved his large hands into his pockets, out of the reach of the icy wind. Few others were to be found on Hogmeade’s streets in such unforgiving weather; all were at home, or else finding headaches and dubious company in the pubs. The Three Broomsticks would be packed, and Rosmerta’s Butterbeer would be warming the stomachs of the late-night regulars, just as the hours passed into the next day. The Hog’s Head, however, the half-giant knew to be empty… it had been empty this past week…

His meandering, troubled footsteps took him past Honeydukes and Zonko’s, down the cold, cobbled streets to where the grisly sign creaked in the gale. The dusty windows of The Hog’s Head were boarded up, and the gaps between the boards gaped emptily, enforcing absence.

Hagrid stopped, and stared sadly at the door.

CLOZED

He hesitated before knocking, but remembered who Aberforth was: Dumbledore’s brother. He had a duty to offer an ear, or at least a drinking partner…

The knock sounded hollowly. He waited, as the wind whistled ominously through the eaves, howling past the corners. No response.

“Aberforth?”

There was still nothing, and it occurred to him that there was a kind of deserted hostility about the place. Shuddering, and suddenly wishing for the warmth of The Three Broomsticks, he departed.

Above him, two narrow eyes watched. An attentive listener would have heard footsteps, and the sound of a bottle being opened.

---

Moaning Myrtle often considered it odd, how her toilets attracted more Potions enthusiasts than actual bladder-pained students. She could quite clearly remember that sweet Potter boy and that uncouth Weasley placing a cauldron on that same toilet… And who could forget the hilarious Granger girl with her furry ears and whiskers?

She said as much to this newcomer, this skinny boy with too much hair and quaint little spectacles, but he was rather rude, poring over his potion, ignoring her. Boys. Myrtle was half inclined to cry about it, but he had been so sympathetic about her death that she decided not to. Perhaps he was still thinking about how horrible it had been.

She fantasised this way for several minutes, sitting in the U-Bend. Perhaps, she kept on peeking, she would see him drop a few empathetic tears into his potion, and then perhaps he would want to talk with her, tell her about himself… She giggled at the idea…

His name was Potter!

Oh, well, she had known his father as well, his heroic father who had avenged her death… She got quite emotional; she had to float around the pipes and hiccup for a bit. And this boy, this son of his… Another giggle. Oh, there was definite advantage to hovering around, seeing so many people growing up when she never had - he was going to be good-looking, she could tell, frightfully good-looking…

He still wouldn’t speak to her! He was too focussed on his potion… but so polite in telling her not to disturb him! Of course, he was a genius at work, and she was his muse…

“What are you making?” she’d asked eventually.

“Aging Potion,” he had said, not even looking up from the cauldron.

“Oooh,” she’d whispered, floating as close to him as she dared. “What do you want to make that for? You don’t want to become an ugly old man!”

His answer was so incomprehensible!

“You’re wrong,” he’d responded. “That is exactly what I want to be.”

[orlevy]

this story is brilliant, I read the first chapter and I thought I'd hate it - that's exactly the sort of angst I can't take, the hopeless kind.

But now, it seems like there's hope for Albus yet.

[DaBao]

My goodness woman, UPDATE SOON!!! I'm dying of anticipation... Ack. PLEASE, this is killing me inside waiting and I've just finished reading that last chapter of yours.
You're a really great author, now... Once more I will ask you to update when you can.
Hn, the last time I felt like this was at least two or perhaps three years ago and the author never finished again. Please don't do that to me.


-Da Bao

[Apocalypticat]

Wow! Reviewers! Thankies, and here's your update, Dabao!

CHAPTER 21: Absinthe

Minerva McGonagall kneaded her temples, and attempted to expel Filius’s sympathetic face and high-pitched voice from her mind. The Deputy Headmaster had at last succeeded in penetrating her sanctuary, as his superior eventually realised that solitude was an impediment to a number of important forms. Her emotions had dominated the school for long enough, and so the miniature wizard had managed to unwittingly plant another barb-

“I’m terribly sorry about what happened. If there’s anything I can do-”

No, there was nothing that Filius could do. Even Eleanor Reeves seemed at a total loss; her visit to her counsellor had been nothing but a series of extended silences, accompanied by tears, and the unpleasant sensation of sitting a few feet away from someone whose assessment she had so dramatically defied, and who no longer understood her. Their conversation had been stunted by her inability to divulge the whole story - and without that vital ingredient, Eleanor found her behaviour just as unfathomable as everyone else.

“You loved him?”

“Yes!”

“But you experienced a resurgence of feelings for Albus?”

“Yes!”

“And there was no obvious trigger?”

She had shaken her head, unable to go so far as to verbally deceive a woman who had helped her out of a previous abyss. Once again, she was alone. She doubted that she could make either Poppy or Rolanda believe that Brian was Albus, and there was no telling what damage the truth could do to Harry and Ginny - and there was no justification in passing information on that would undoubtedly eventually reach them. As for Albus himself…

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

Wondering if Filius had made some sort of general announcement in the staff room that the Headmistress was now available to sympathise with, wearily she called her assent. Perhaps she was due for a bone-crushing hug from Hagrid, or else the smug satisfaction of Sybil?

Martha Read’s entrance sent her heart plummeting. Stiffly, she twisted her face into a smile. Martha swept towards the desk, watching her coldly, not attempting to return the Headmistress’s grimace. Cold eyes scanned her; a muscle twitched in one cheek. Had the resentment descended that far, had the ball just added a dash of contempt into their relationship?

The Transfiguration professor sat down, still observing her quietly. Minerva thought vaguely that this was quite unusual for Martha, who would usually be either gushing or complaining before she even entered the room - but then, she had been so curt and organised on the subject of the attack on the person of Brian…

“Martha, what can I do for you?”

The other woman appeared to consider her words before answering. “I would like to ensure that the events of a fortnight ago do not occur again.”

The Headmistress blinked, and tried to focus.

“A fortnight..? I’m afraid-”

“I am of course referring to the attempt made on the life of Mr Potter.”

She felt herself being swept away by such organisation, such a keen focus on significant events that used to be so characteristic of herself…

“Although the culprits are now in the hands of the Ministry, I’m aware that guarantees of safety can never be made, and would like to give personal lessons to Mr Potter on the subject of self-defence. I believe he shows great potential-”

Minerva held up a hand, in order to stem the flood. Confused, she searched Martha’s eyes, suddenly feeling as though this efficient woman before her was a complete stranger. “Martha… Have you any specific reason to feel continuing concern for Mr Potter? And your area of expertise is Transfiguration; Professor Brady-”

“-Is hopelessly mediocre as a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.”

A flash of her old temper restored her scattered thoughts.

“I rather think that that is an evaluation best reached by the inspectors or myself, Martha. What particular qualifications do you have in the area?”

The Transfiguration professor remained silent, but her jaw tightened.

“I’ll repeat myself: what reasons do you have to fear for Mr Potter?”

“Let’s not pretend ignorance. The neo-Dark movement has a focus in a person once believed to be lurking in that forest. Whether or not he is or was actually there is irrelevant; unsavoury elements have already been attracted to Hogwarts because of it. Only last week Hagrid had to remove a member of the public who was wandering around the grounds.”

The Headmistress shifted in her seat, anger growing. Martha spoke as though she was in charge of the castle and its affairs! Yes, there would always be some who would try and exploit her period of weakness… No, the woman was speaking sense; this was her prejudice back again with her pain-

“Your manner has been very different, recently,” she said aloud, unable to curb her tongue. “I suppose you think my personal affairs have rendered me incapable of looking after Hogwarts and its interests.”

For the first time, Martha looked uncomfortable. “By no means-”

“Forgive me.”

Minerva rested her head in her hands, trying to quell the unreasonable rage within her. Fury and misery were all too easily wedded, not to mention exhaustion… Weak sunlight shimmered around her.

“That was out of line,” she croaked. “Forgive me. It is a sensible suggestion, though I still see no reason why Professor Brady should not give the lessons instead. I’m sure Mr Potter’s father would greatly approve of the idea. I will endeavour to have it arranged as soon as possible.”

After the Transfiguration professor had left, Minerva closed her eyes and leant backwards, distantly feeling that she had misjudged Martha - but then, she had misjudged everything. Those who prided themselves on strength had none when it counted, and those who appeared weak concealed a heartwood which could endure all, and carry them into prominence… And what was there left to think about the tribulations of love?

The roses had died.

---

Rolanda Hooch’s legs directed her without the conscious intervention of her brain, and she knew better than to interrupt their course down the darkened Hogmeade main street, even when they strode right past The Three Broomsticks. This was by no means the first time this had happened, and there was a wisdom in it, even if it was a rather impulsive one.

Hoochy, she goes - where the wind blows…

Even Poppy’s old rhyme, flitting randomly through her brain, brought only a weak smile to her face. Rolanda was in an unusually pensive mood - one she disliked as a rule; “a life without humour was a life without meaning,” as her father had often said, but there was no escaping the heavy sadness that the past week had wrought on her, on everyone. Who could sit and cheerily eat breakfast in the Great Hall, when the memory of Aberforth racing away through the doors was still so fresh? How could anybody fail to lose their temper at the First-Years who gossiped about Minerva as though she was a nameless person in a magazine? Even she, Flying instructor and broom enthusiast, could admit that the emotions that a Quidditch match aroused were not quite as hideously real as those that the ball had. In some ways she shared the stunned innocence of the less malicious of the students; how could anything of that sort have happened at Hogwarts?

Naïve, as she had been present first when Myrtle’s body was discovered in the girl’s toilets, and then when Dumbledore had plummeted from the Astronomy Tower, when abstract ideas such as war and murder had manifested within the school itself. Only a child could be gullible enough to believe that mortar and stone could be a barrier against the less pleasant aspects of the world.

Her thoughts did not improve when she saw the building that her feet were taking her towards - the abandoned Hog’s Head, as dormant as when Hagrid had ventured to its door. The regulars had stopped wandering up and peering hopefully at the ‘Clozed’ sign, and had either defaulted to The Three Broomsticks or remained indoors.

Rolanda stopped, and was about to force her feet away again when there was a crash from around the back of the pub, and a sudden movement in the shadows. Nervously, she stepped forwards, creeping around the side of the building along the derelict fence-

The side gate creaked open. Whoever had opened it had leaned their full weight against it; a dark figure crashed to the floor. An obscenity floated on the night wind, and the figure began to struggle upwards, just as she moved closer.

“Aberforth?”

Her mouth realised before her eyes did. The man leaning against the fence was at first unrecognisable as the well-dressed wizard of the week before; his robes were filthy and unkempt, and his beard and hair had somehow managed to surpass their previous grizzled states to descend into a chaos of tangles. Bloodshot eyes gleamed dimly in the darkness; the night reduced him to a blot. A few seconds passed before she realised that he was cradling a bottle to his chest, or that the dulled blue eyes were unfocussed.

Appalled, she watched as he took a slurp, sucking like a baby. Liquid gurgled against the glass. The sight was so horrendous that the flying instructor found herself striding towards him, with the vague aim of dashing the bottle out of his grasp.

“Who’sh that?”

The smell of alcohol wafting from was enough to make her feel dizzy. She stopped belatedly, the idea of direct action losing its appeal.

“Rolanda Hooch.”

His face twitched and he took another gulp, seemingly remembering something unpleasant to do with her. The old wizard took a tentative step away from the fence, swayed, and retreated back to it, muttering. Rolanda struggled for words.

“You can’t do this. You’re the barman!”

Yet again, she found her naivety flabbergasted. She felt a kind of blank horror; she could not progress from that simple fact, that eternal image of the sober barman. Aberforth spent his days watching people get drunk, and curled his lip in contempt whenever it happened. Abstemious eyes had rested on her whenever she had had one too many - and how many times had she seen him boot the likes of Mundungus Fletcher out whenever they became a little merry? Before the fiasco with Minerva, sober had been the most positive word she had assigned to him; other words such as bitter, cantankerous and humourless had aligned themselves perfectly. How had she judged that such a man would react to the aforementioned fiasco? Why, with reservation; he would withdraw, and then emerge with a soul of steel…

But no, she was leaping to conclusions - a one-off, surely-

“That’sh what I am,” Aberforth responded. He laughed, wretchedly. “Never could have been… anything else.”

He began to meander back through the gate. Rolanda was seized with an urge to ensure his safety; Merlin knew how many things he could fall over in the darkness. The flying instructor fumbled for her wand.

“Lumos.”

The narrow shaft of light produced barely penetrated the night, but it was enough. She followed him through the gate into a very small and cluttered garden, tufts of grass concealing flowerpots and bricks, and a compost heap which seemed determined to consume as much space as possible. A ghostly shape stirred near one end; she jumped, but the sound of a goat’s bleating reassured her. Looking ahead, she could see Aberforth disappearing inside - the old wizard apparently picking his way easily around the obstacles even whilst inebriated.

The door was falling off its hinges, and the equally pitch stairwell inside was manifest with cobwebs; Rolanda repaired and cleared as she passed, wondering why Aberforth hadn’t done so before. An ominous feeling settled in her stomach as her foot knocked against something which chinked and sloshed. Pushing away the persistant suspicion, she followed the staggering wizard up the stairs.

Rolanda had never been inside Aberforth’s living quarters - there had been no reason to do so, and the idea of the barman being anywhere other than at his post had simply not occurred to her. Nevertheless the imagined alternative formed and shattered in mind the moment she entered.

There was only two rooms, spacious but dank and cold, cobwebs lurking in the corners. A moth-eaten sofa crouched like a waiting beast, sagging and resplendent with filth, and the tiny kitchen area was awash with dirty dishes. Threadbare curtains flapped at the grimy window, and the sparse furniture looked battered, second-hand. The marks of poverty were everywhere; Rolanda couldn’t help but remember in contrast the old Headmaster in his magnificent robes. The stench of goats floated in the air, and something which looked suspiciously like goat-faeces lay in a heap beside the sofa. On the sofa itself lay an actual living goat, grey and grizzled with age. All this would have been quite enough without the bottles.

They were everywhere, on every surface, and piled on the floor. Shards of glass decorated the floorboards and the walls were stained, as though several times a bottle had been thrown in rage. Rolanda gaped at the bottles, calculating pints and units, reading faded labels: Ogden’s Old Firewhisky, Mulled Mead, Elderflower Wine, Redcurrant Rum, Single Malt Whisky, Crowley’s Gin, Hecate’s Absinthe…

“Oi.” Aberforth had noticed her. He pointed an unsteady finger. “Get out.”

Worst suspicions confirmed, Rolanda sank down onto the sofa, beside the goat, which promptly began to nibble the edge of her robe. She ignored it as well as Aberforth, and continued to gape, at a loss for words. This man, she thought suddenly, is Albus Dumbledore’s brother. She tried to imagine the former Headmaster visiting here, having a cup of tea on the same ruined sofa. The image was impossible.

Why? Why had Albus waltzed around in sumptuous robes whilst his brother suffered this? Surely he had offered help-

-And Aberforth had refused it, had stood on his battered pride like a general sitting on a nag! That was one question answered, and the other was almost redundant, but still her brain asked it, as did her mouth-

“What have you done to yourself?”

Aberforth frowned and took another swig from the bottle.

“Did you…?” Rolanda gestured helplessly at the bottles. “Did you drink all this in a week? Are you drinking your entire stock?”

The barman slumped onto the sofa as well, beside her with the goat between them. He stroked it absent-mindedly, but a spasm of pain crossed his face; he knocked back another gulp. In that moment when his countenance wasn’t set into a glower, the resemblance to Albus was horribly clear - had that been what Minerva had seen? Or had she loved this unhappy, scowling man?

The professor found herself patting him on the back, empathy too deep for words. Aberforth gave her a blank look, and withdrew another bottle from his stained robes.

“Whisky?”

Why not, she thought, uncorking the bottle wearily. He needed help, and the only help she could offer was company.

The silence stretched - now words were needed.

“Mad-Eye and Poppy are officially a couple now,” she said irrelevantly.

Aberforth grunted.

“He’s liked her for years,” she added.

His knuckles whitened around the neck of the bottle. “Bloody Auror. Comin’ here, interferin’…”

“Am I interfering?”

Blue eyes found hers. “Not offerin’ opinions are you? Not givin’ me an effin’ speech.”

“Mad-Eye gave you a speech?”

Aberforth’s gaze hardened. “Told me what I ought to think. Acted like that bloody eye could see into my soul or summin’.”

“He was probably trying to help,” said Rolanda awkwardly, shifting on the sofa and pulling her robe out of the goat’s reach.

“Hah. Nobody can help. And the only reason why people try to help is to feel good about themselves, like saints… Real little heroes, they are.”

She said nothing.

“I don’t need help, woman.”

“I think you do.”

His look was poisonous. “You’re her friend-” His voice trembled. “She’s probably told you all about me-”

“No-”

“-What a miserable old git I am-”

“-Certainly not-”

“-How I fail to compare-”

“Aberforth, stop it!” Rolanda grasped one of his gnarled hands, wanting him to believe. “She’s said nothing of the sort, and I know she thinks nothing of the sort! Do you think I came here to laugh at you? And if - if you think I’m in her confidence right now then you’re wrong. Neither me nor Poppy know why what happened happened; she won’t speak to us, she just locks herself up and cries, just like after Dumbledore-”

“My name’s Dumbledore,” said the old wizard hollowly.

“-Albus-”

He groaned as though the name had wounded him, and snatched his hand away, bowing his head. She expected him to eject her angrily back onto the street, but instead he was merely silent and still. Then-

“No. No. He was Dumbledore. I am nothing. I’m jus’ a miserable old sod; there’sh no wonder in it turning out like thish…” He pierced her with a look. “D’you think I enjoy thish - bein’ a creature of envy? D’you think I like him always - winning - at - everything, even when he’s dead-”

“Ab-”

Confused eyes stared at her. “I - I did everythin’ - I knew she wouldn’t love me like she loved him, but I thought - and that was all, that was my best-”

Stunned, Rolanda could only gaze back. She felt as though she had stumbled across someone’s diary and had a page read to her aloud. Was Aberforth now too drunk to realise she was there, or had he decided to rave about his private life to a woman who had once impulsively accused him of harassing the very female who was involved in it? Hearing this was obscene, wrong, wicked. She could not listen.

She was up, striding towards the door-

“Funny, how that happens,” he remarked bitterly. “The moment I shtart bein’ me, people walk away.”

He might as well have lassoed her; horror drove her back into her seat. No, she protested mentally, as he gave her a twisted smile. No, she was a child still - she was a little girl - he needed someone mature to listen and help, someone emotionally sensitive-

“She’s shaid not a word about me?” he was asking, laying aside the bottle and opening another.

Panicked, she struggled to think. “After the ball-”

“I heard - apparently she thought she loved me.”

“She did - I’m sure-”

“No.”

Aberforth looked at her with a face grey with despair. He suddenly threw back his head and downed the contents of the new bottle in several vast gulps. Afterwards, he closed his eyes and Rolanda saw the line of his mouth wriggle suspiciously. An awkward silence followed. More than ever, she wanted to flee, regretting that she’d ever gone after him in the first place, but she was frozen to the sofa.

Eventually, he fumbled in his robes. The witch expected another bottle to emerge, but instead his hand clutched a battered old wand. He stared at the point meditatively, and then dragged the goat into his arms.

The animal bleated and nuzzled against its master. Rolanda wondered if he was about to cast some of the fabled ‘experimental charms,’ but he merely buried his weathered face in the goat’s fur. After crooning something secret in its ear, he drew back, and raised his wand.

He gazed at Rolanda, wand still held aloft. “Thank you for comin.’ I appreshiate it.”

Was this the desired dismissal? She rose-

-He spun the wand round, so that the tip touched his head-

-Disbelief-

“Avada-”

“EXPELLIARMUS!”

Aberforth’s wand described a semi-circle, sailing into the air, but Rolanda lunged forward and grabbed one of his wrists, as though he was still holding one, still on the brink - and he was, he would always remain there; he was now a ghost, with a white, shocked face that echoed her own-

-His other hand ripped open his robes as he wrenched her free, darted across the room towards his wand. She threw herself across the coffee table, bottles smashing as she grasped at his triumphant fist-

He rested the point of the deadly wand against his exposed chest, and flung her to one side-

“Diffindo! Diffindo! Av-”

-She knocked it out of his hands again, but the Severing Charm had sliced through his torso - blood was gushing over his robes-

He swayed, and sank to the floor. Rolanda half fell towards him, watching numbly as his ragged undershirt grew scarlet and sodden. Her own wand moved through the air agonisingly slowly; his face was growing slack and absent, he was willing himself into oblivion…

“Tela Resarcio!”

The tip of the wood was reddened with his blood, but the gaping wounds began to close up, albeit untidily. Aberforth’s eyelids fluttered, but her eyes were mesmerised by crimson… She found herself shaking, unable to erase the image of the man before her turning his wand on himself.

As the gashes sealed, she spelled him into Poppy’s often lauded ‘recovery sleep,’ and levitated him onto the sofa. Then she sat back, and stared at him, thoughts as incoherent as her words would have been. The lethal wand rested now in her own pocket; the idea of returning it to Aberforth was absurd. What was there to be done? She would have to tell-

-Not Minerva; Merlin, that would just about undo her-

-Poppy, though, Poppy and perhaps Hagrid, perhaps Alastor - and she would keep on visiting, she would keep on making sure that the bloodstained man over there was alive-

She bowed her head and wept. A few feet away, Aberforth slept, dead to the world.

[Apocalypticat]

Another two weeks passed before enough Aging Potion had been brewed for the plan to be valid. Brian dodged Eric’s worried gazes, and disappeared from the Common Room entirely, only to be seen in lessons and last thing at night - and, every now and then, with the bored Professor Brady, whose enthusiasm for teaching Brian self-defence was soon surpassed by his desire for coffee. Similarly, both Madams Pomfrey and Hooch began to be rarely seen, and when they were, it was together in an anxious huddle. Once, Moody was to be glimpsed having some sort of argument with the former out on the grounds, with the latter waving her hands in supplication behind them. Brian expressed an interest which Eric couldn’t help but think seemed completely superficial, and then disappeared again.

As the potion neared completion, Albus suspected that his friend spotted other peculiarities, such as that of Brian receiving a package from Gladrags Wizardwear containing august robes that were many sizes too big for him, or being found muttering under his breath about how roses were now “out of the question.” There was no helping it, and he felt too distracted, too nervous and stretched to the limit, to pay much attention to Eric’s puzzled frowns.

Minerva,

Are you free on Saturday afternoon? I feel that I might risk inconveniencing you.

Words cannot express my sorrow at how I daresay you are currently feeling. I repeat that I am not angry over what happened concerning my brother, merely concerned. Both of you have my affection.

I hope that you have not decided never to write to me; you never responded to my last letter.

His daring faltered; had the ‘affection’ comment been enough? No, he would write more-

My dearest, I look forward to our meeting.

Yours,

Albus

He had not the audacity to write ‘love,’ not even when the Sorting Hat was so amazingly confident of his feelings being reciprocated, but hoped the reader might sense his sincerity in the ‘yours.’ He read over the letter critically, knowing that he was allowing verbosity to obscure the emotions within. Nevertheless, he sent it off, and received:

Dear Albus,

I will be available on Saturday.

I will continue to write, if you are sure that you desire it.

Minerva

Did it not exist, or was it also obscured? Parchment yielded nothing; only the meeting would reveal if there was anything to reveal.

Minerva! His darling Minerva, whom he had not even glimpsed for weeks! And he was to go as himself..!

Saturday morning found him in a state of quivering nerves and anticipation. He played Wizard’s Chess with Eric impatiently, won absent-mindedly, and attempted to feign interest in Cal’s jokes. Brian was a point of tension in a sea of relaxed contentment; the other Gryffindors were wasting the weekend happily, seemingly oblivious to his sweating palms and churning stomach. He checked the potion spasmodically, whenever Eric left him alone.

The young Weasley was apparently determined to have Brian enjoy himself. Whilst he grinned when Albus’s persona accepted the invitation to go flying in the run-up to lunchtime, he seemed less happy when Brian went shooting off all over the pitch, diving savagely, brushing the grass daringly with his broomstick and wildly weaving in and out of the goalposts until the watching Mark asked whether the Potter boy was mad or suicidal. Mad was the best guess, Albus thought, doing a mid-air roll. He tried to lose himself in the wind, but Eric’s cries of fear urged him down before he could.

“What the hell were you doing?”

They were walking across the grounds towards the main building, broomsticks over their shoulders. Eric was looking furious; Albus arranged Brian‘s expression into one of confusion.

“What-”

“You know what I mean! You could have got yourself killed!”

The artifice was failing, and so he dropped it. Eric’s cheeks were as red as his hair.

“Listen - I don’t know what’s wrong with you at the moment, but we’re mates, yeah? You can tell me what’s up, whatever it is! If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine too! But don’t go pulling stupid stunts like that!”

Touched by the boy’s loyalty to Brian, Albus remained silent. Their journey up into the school and into the Great Hall for lunch passed without a word, and Eric kept on shooting Brian frightened sideways glances, as if wondering if he had offended him. Albus tried to smile in response, but his face felt like lead. The chatter of the other students seemed far away, irrelevant, and he picked at his food, forcing himself to eat for the Weasley’s sake. His eyes were constantly drawn to the Headmistress’s empty chair, the throne of the goddess. The world was unreal; in less than a couple of hours he would be making an attempt that should have been made in another lifetime…

He left early, unable to restrain himself even for Eric’s feelings. The rest of the student body was still at the House benches as he exited the Great Hall, the churning inside him reaching a crescendo. Corridors passed away quickly; soon he was outside the girl’s toilets.

As he opened the door, Myrtle gave a squeal of welcome. He looked at her narrowly; it would not do to have her present when Brian shed his youthful body.

“Oh! Are you back to visit me?” the ghost giggled. “You’re such a little charmer!”

“Myrtle?” He made his voice low and flattering. “Could you perhaps give me some assistance?”

Myrtle blushed silver, and stared at him fondly. “Anything for Mr Potter!”

“Could you possible keep watch outside the door whilst I do something?”

Her face fell slightly, but she nodded, and promptly floated through the wall. Albus immediately turned to the potion, which was the correct shade of indigo, and bubbling nicely. A vial stood ready by the sink, but there were other things to be checked first. He found the bag stored as he had left it, beside the door. The robes and Harry’s old invisibility cloak lay rolled inside, as did the bunch of forget-me-nots he had decided on. Wondering if they would be worthy of Minerva, he transferred them to the sink before reaching for the vial.

He set the cauldron to the simmer, and scooped up as much as he could into the vial. He left the door of the cubicle open, rested the vial by the sink, and slipped off his robes, leaving only the phoenix medallion hanging at his chest.

Brian’s pale, lean body confronted him from the mirror, naked as the day he was born. Albus smiled at it, for a moment glorying in the unspoilt flesh which only youth could give. Then he raised the vial to his lips.

“Oooh…”

Myrtle’s whisper was followed by the sound of hyperventilating. Albus spotted her silver, delighted face peeping through the door.

“Myrtle!”

“Sorry!”

He waited, to make sure that she was definitely gone, before drinking the contents of the vial in one go. Noting vaguely that it tasted oddly like hot chocolate, he watched the mirror for signs of the change.

He felt it before he saw it; he felt his spinal column stretch, his ribcage expand. His limbs lengthened, and a prickling spreading over his jaw told him that his beard had started to grow. The reflection’s form grew indistinct, slightly misshapen. Fascinated, he watched the years ease their way on. Soon, a young man replaced the boy in the mirror, a young man with long auburn hair and a soft, downy beard.

He slipped his adult robes on before taking another dose, stumbling and awkward at the change in his proportions. He had chosen purple trimmed with silver, embroidered with shining stars - robes which he would have worn in a previous life, robes which suited him. He savoured what he estimated to be his early twenties in the mirror before refilling the vial.

Time fast-forwarded. This time he approached a Muggle’s middle age, a wizard’s continuing youth. Another dose, and his beard fell to his waist, as did his hair. Old, remembered lines reappeared to mar his face, but they were beautiful in their familiarity. The last scoop of the potion flung him into late wizarding middle age; grey began to curl itself in his hair and the lines deepened. His estimation was the late eighties, early nineties. This was Albus Dumbledore before he had gone to fight Grindelwald.

Not enough Aging Potion had been made to restore him to the old man he had been in the years before his death, but it was enough; the boy was gone and the man was clear to see. Were there disadvantages in wooing Minerva over fifty years younger than he would have been? He could not care. A strange nostalgia and wonder for his old form gripped him; the reflection held him a few minutes more before he took up the forget-me-nots and retrieved Brian’s wand.

He hid Brian’s school-robes in the bag, and bundled them inside the cubicle. The invisibility cloak he withdrew, and a picture of himself came to him:

“I don’t need a cloak to become invisible.”

He would condescend to do so now! He wrapped the cloak around him; his reflection vanished. Looking at the empty space in the mirror where his image had been, Albus paused. Would that be all he would be to Minerva in the end, after so much? Was it even possible for her to accept the onion he had become, the man within a boy within a man? Had the Sorting Hat been false in its confidence? He had no idea what he was going to say to her. Would words even suffice? It was too late to draw back. Could any man now surrender?

Myrtle started when he opened the door, and stared right through him.

“Mr Potter? Where are you hiding?”

She floated inside the girl’s toilets, and let out a piercing shriek. Outside, the portraits shivered. A reclining maiden looked up, and a group of wizards paused at their card game, exchanging nervous glances. An old witch shuddered and jumped. An unseen presence passed them by, an unseen presence which occasionally dropped blue petals.

---

She had turned all of the head teachers’ paintings over in preparation, and had found herself resisting the urge to change into more attractive robes. Such a desire filled her with shame, and so she waited tensely at her desk, fiddling with forms and sorting papers.

Thank Merlin the roses were gone. Poppy had removed them for her, continuing to apologise profusely for what she had said straight after the ball - but the accusation was more than just. The same accusation was facing her today. This meeting with Albus was bound to be painful, even without the roses, but still, at least they were gone. At least they were gone.

His letter was baffling in its lack of hostility, in its support, in its… warmth?

Both of you have my affection… My dearest…

Of course, the affection was clearly platonic, and she despised herself for welcoming that extra ‘est.’ Three letters meant nothing… ‘Dear’ was a term he applied to anybody. Why, why did she devote part of her mind to Albus when Aberforth was all she should think of? Yet Albus was the reason-

No, the blame was hers. The secret was hers to bear; Poppy and Rolanda had seemingly taken the hint - now they moved together as one, worried eyes fixed elsewhere. She could not extract the reason from either of them, not that she had any right to-

That Albus did not blame her was inconceivable. What brother could see a woman treat a sibling so badly and even have any patience for a cordial acquaintance with her-

So her thoughts moved, disjointed, restless. So had they been for the past two weeks; the letter had merely intensified it all. She was an enigma to Eleanor, agony to Aberforth, abomination to Albus and a frustration for her friends. Nothing could persuade her to return yet to the Great Hall - that much would be unbearable. No, let all who demanded to see her come and find her…

Like Alastor.

That thought made the Headmistress wince. Moody had not turned up in person, but a letter from him had conjured his furious presence so vividly for her that she had thrown it in the fire straight after reading it. The ex-Auror had said all that she had thought, all that her mind had accused her of at night. She knew Moody had a kind of rough liking for Aberforth - perhaps it was because, like for her, he reminded him of Albus.

Albus, with his flowing white hair and beard, and twinkling blue eyes. Albus, a boy with an innocent face, but with the same eyes. Two realities endlessly colliding. A dream and a nightmare rolled into one. A wish both granted and denied. He was always with her, but a what if that remained a what if. Aberforth was also always with her, but as a spectre of guilt…

When the knock on the door came, she could not help it, she could not sit remotely at her desk. Instead, she crossed the room, and opened the door into empty air. The moving stairs stretched beneath her, mockingly vacant-

“Minerva.”

A silver cloak was swept off, and the Headmistress found herself staring into the face which had haunted her for twenty years, a face with eyes as blue as the forget-me-nots below.

[Apocalypticat]

Have another; I'm not evil enough to leave it there.

CHAPTER 22: Rapture

The room spun. Around her revolved a dozen Minervas - a young girl attending her first Transfiguration lesson, a woman going over the school’s finances with Him, an older, more decrepit person gazing blearily at a dormant portrait, trying to hold back her tears, a headmistress arguing with a solemn boy - and all the time, Him, Albus Dumbledore, looming up at her, a life no longer in the abstract-

She swooned; for a few moments the world was reduced to Albus’s worried blue eyes - and then the touch, the touch of his familiar hand on her shoulder-

“Minerva!”

Only his grasp kept her standing. Speechless, she ran her eyes over his crooked nose, those beloved lines, that hair that was auburn again - a face that was no death’s head, a body that was no spectre of the grave! Had she truly believed it until this moment, had she ever accepted that he was back until he stood before her?

And no boy, but a man - and she, a woman-

“Minerva…”

His handsome face was creased into an expression of worry. The blood rushed to her face, but fascination kept her eyes on his…

“I know this must be a tremendous shock - I should have anticipated it. My dear, I only wished to surprise you.”

“You’ve… succeeded,” she said weakly, trying to steady herself. His hand fell from her shoulder; her skin seemed to burn under her robes where it had touched. Suddenly, the thought of Aberforth came to her, sobering her with what felt like a jet of cold water. Her eyes dropped-

“For you, my dear. A little present.”

He thrust the forget-me-nots at her. Minerva gaped at them, and stared into his sincere, friendly face in confusion. He proffered them more firmly; she took them and held them with the sensation of nothing being quite real. The blue of the flowers seemed to be the brightest thing in the room, next to his eyes. Forget-me-nots.

“How could I?” she whispered aloud. “Thank you.”

She dared look up, and thought she saw a flash of surprise in the aforementioned eyes. At that point, the same holy hand that had touched her shoulder suddenly took her own, enclosing it.

“I forget my manners; you have had a shock, and still I keep you standing.”

He tugged her over towards the desk and the chair, obviously intending to lead her to it as though they weren’t in an office but at a ball. Minerva allowed herself to be led, feeling as though he could have led her off a cliff and she would not have minded. The forget-me-nots made her oblivious to everything, until Albus let go of her hand and gestured at the chair with a small bow. The sight of the head teacher’s chair sent a pang through her; could she have the audacity to take his right-?

“That’s not my chair,” she said softly. “You have the greater right to sit in it.”

“Most certainly not. I am no longer Headmaster, and I see no reason why I should still occupy a chair more suited to a fair lady.”

She blushed again, and sat, unable to protest. He dragged the other chair around so that they sat behind the desk together, as though intent on conversation - intimacy? No, interrogation… A sick horror welled up within her. Truth - as much as she could reveal - was tantamount; she would make no excuses, she would not cozen him into sympathy-

“Albus, I - I do not - I will not lie to you-”

He sat up straight, with wide eyes.

“-I treated your brother appallingly - why you should give me flowers - my actions are beyond all justification-”

She was leaning forward in her chair, knuckles whitening over the arms, forget-me-nots almost cascading out of her lap - her desperation was contradicting her, her words betrayed her as insufferable… Tension and no doubt, anger, had made him rigid in his seat; the sight choked her-

“-I shamed him publicly - I led him to believe-”

To her astonishment, Albus leaned forward and snatched up her hand again, seemingly almost as desperate as herself - and that was surely just a strange idea of hers; Albus was never desperate-

“My dearest Minerva, do not for one second feel that I hold you accountable for what occurred! I rather get the impression that my brother overestimated the depth of your attachment-”

“-Due to my behaviour-”

“-Which was natural for a woman in love. There are, after all, degrees of love, just as there are of anything in the world. What occurred was a catastrophe for the pair of you, for which there is no blame that can be attributed to anyone. Alas, words do not suffice, but I offer my condolences, such as they are.”

His look was almost tender, and he curled his fingers in her own. The blood burned in her face. Of course, how could she have presumed to predict his reaction? No, he was concealing it, surely. But what motives were there for doing so?

“Albus - please, your brother-”

“-Is beyond my aid. I doubt that my appearance would be taken to be genuine, or that it would be welcome. I can only hope…”

Worry flashed across his face; Minerva sensed him smooth it away before continuing.

“Forgive me for inconveniencing you - I’m aware that after such events, privacy is a precious thing-”

“Oh - no, no!” Still stunned, she gazed at his form wonderingly, and then stared at their interlocked fingers, delighting in his touch in spite of guilt… As if sensing her stare, he suddenly drew his hand away, leaving her own bereft. Another kind of coldness settled in her; she was reminded of such things as propriety, and the amiable distance of a friendship. She did not want amiable distance. The forget-me-nots sat in her lap boldly, suggestive of ideas best not thought of - but nevertheless, why forget-me-nots? Was he concerned that he did not retain a place in her memory? If so, why was he concerned? A natural desire? After all, he was dead to all but her…

“May I ask..?”

His voice was low and tentative. For the first time in her life, Minerva saw Albus Dumbledore hesitate.

“May I ask… have you been in contact with him since?”

Before she could answer, he shook his head and blinked rapidly. “No, no - don’t answer that; forgive me, that was uncalled for. I was wondering - should you be willing to continue with the engagement-”

“Albus, you are entitled to ask whatever you may on the subject. And I refused the engagement.”

“Ah,” he said, looking more uncharacteristically awkward than ever, twisting his hands together. “I meant that you may not have decided to break off the connection - if you still hold it in esteem - to enquire, out of curiosity - and care of the familial bond, of course - if your association, that is to say, your ardour remains, that there might be some salvage…”

The Headmistress blinked. First hesitation, and now a very strange beating about the bush, as though he could not bring himself to be fully open… He was embarrassed, she realised, embarrassed by how he had asked about her emotions rather than some administrational problem. The cool logic of it calmed her slightly; she tried to blot out the memory of Aberforth‘s face.

“No,” she said heavily. “I have not been in contact with him since… I do not believe it to be ‘salvageable’ in any sense of the word.”

“Your affection…”

An almost uncontrollable urge to say that her affection had been completely transferred to another man held her silent for a moment. Truth, repeated her mind piously, truth.

“To some degree remains.”

His silence was as abrupt as her own, and the muscles in his face stiffened. Was rage now setting in? Would his gaze turn to ice, condemn her as it had condemned Barty Crouch? One fist clenched. When he next spoke, it was in fits and starts, as if every word was wrenched from him, and in a voice of restrained calm:

“Then - then - pardon me for my presumption - I would advise you-”

She heard him swallow.

“-I would advise you to - to make contact, to see whether his feelings remain unchanged-”

Minerva found herself sitting up straight and staring right into the clouded sapphire. “I have no doubt that he now loathes me, not without cause, and I will not once again fool myself into emotions of less strength than what he deserves.”

“Fool yourself?”

The slip of the tongue hung in the air between them, making the air gravid, heavy. For one wild second, she thought she detected an expression of relief from him. She searched for an excuse-

“An old woman responds foolishly to flattery,” she ended up saying harshly.

Albus abruptly seized her hand again; now that she was not dazed by his touch, she could be perplexed about it, even whilst wishing he would pull her out of his seat and into his arms…

“I’m not aware of this ‘old woman’ you are talking about, Minerva. She sounds thoroughly unpleasant, but I’m quite sure I’ve never met her.”

“She is and I’m afraid you have.”

“I don’t believe it.” His eyes flashed frighteningly, his grip crushed her fingers.

“You must believe it. You’re flattering her now, and I’ve just said that flattery makes her foolish.”

“Then I will flatter all the more; I would adore her to be foolish.”

Her breath was stolen away so suddenly that the words in her throat died. Shaken, she stared at him, and again there was that awkwardness - and again, something said which reduced them both to silence, something which held disproportionate meaning to what he had intended-

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

Minerva was vaguely shocked to hear herself say something so banal in the middle of it all. Albus gave her a blank look.

“And - and perhaps we should go into the private chambers - the office isn’t exactly comfortable-”

“Of course, my dear.”

He rose and walked to the tapestry with what Minerva couldn’t help as see as a chivalrous kind of grace; there was the aura of a knight about him as he waited for her to hobble over - she had the impression that his reaction would be extreme if she so much as dropped a handkerchief. A ridiculous notion, and she brushed it aside before entering her private chamber. She sensed him follow her; the concept sent a shiver up her spine.

Upon reaching the living room, she could not help but turn and see him anew in the guttering glow of the candles, auburn glinting and dancing with a greater flame. His eyes met hers and she turned away under the pretence of making some tea; the impact of his returned gaze had reddened her cheeks again, especially when his look… No, it was her foolishness again - the idea of Albus looking at her tenderly was absurd. She made the tea hurriedly, noting that she still remembered to give him three sugars, as though twenty years had made no impression at all.

“Thank you,” he said as she handed his cup to him. He sat, took a sip, and looked at her over the rim of the cup; she suddenly knew that he was having the same thought as her.

Sitting, she searched for words. The subject was obvious - their only connection was Transfiguration, so Transfiguration it would be.

“Is your research going well?”

“Rather badly, I’m afraid.”

“If you need equipment-”

He shook his head, but his gaze deepened, increasing in intensity. “No,” he whispered, “I do not need equipment. I need inspiration.”

“Inspiration?”

“Yes. I require no less than divine intervention. A muse. A goddess.”

His expression forbade her to look away, so she remained fixed by his eyes, more completely hypnotised than a vole by a weasel’s dance. Merlin, Merlin… She felt herself trembling, and something inside which she took to be her vanity was quivering too, whispering suggestions. The world seemed to pale with her face, but his voice intoxicated her:

“Of course… I speak as though such a divinity would be my servant, but my belief is that it would be the reverse. Man is at the mercy of the divine, he is a subject to his passions - a slave to them in fact, a slave to the muse. He merely has trouble expressing them.”

“No doubt… that some Greek poets would agree with you,” she gasped.

“Ah, but I was more thinking of Rome, not Greece.”

Words. The air was thick was them, heavy with them; she could add no more, was incapable of doing so - her mind was racing, struggling to comprehend. He could not be flirting with her, no certainly that concept was preposterous, even if it sated her with sweetness - it was all her own emotions, her own twisted perception… Those wise, powerful eyes were watching her and she was saying nothing-

Trying to bury the silence, she took a gulp of tea, deliberately tilting the cup up so as to hide him from view. The sight of him was distracting and perplexing in itself; his existence - the mere fact of his life - still transfixed a part of her, filling her with an insidious joy which ignored all circumstances. Her thoughts were moving in a fit of histrionics - she wanted him to know her grief, to reach his hand into the very depths of it and suffer with her, realise how much his return meant.

But his words! Idle philosophy of course, but so many undercurrents to fuel her imagination, so many alternative interpretations. Silliness. Though why on earth he was discussing notions rather than facts-

“Minerva…”

She looked up, and in that startled second saw that his face held more words, utterances which transformed his eyes into those of a frightened boy’s-

“Albus, I-”

At once, he rose from his seat and turned away almost brusquely, before walking over to the window. He laid one hand on the sill and spoke to the pane.

“Forgive me. I was about to say something improper.”

Her body acted before her mind. She got up and dared move towards him. “Improper? When have you ever been improper?”

“Ever since the circumstances became so, my dear.”

“What were you going to say?”

“Something presumptuous. You must forgive an old man his foolishness.”

She laughed. “Then you must forgive an old woman her curiosity and, what‘s more, satisfy it.”

“You are most certainly not an old woman.”

Moving round beside him, she could see that his face was now blank and closed. Impulsively, she pulled the pins out of her hair; her bun dissolved, and the grey hair tumbled around her shoulders. She saw his eyes widen, dart towards her, and then back again.

“I’m afraid the colour of my hair contradicts you.”

“Nevertheless, you are not old. You shall never be old to me.”

A tremor went through her. “I rather think that when Brian is a little older himself-”

The spectacles flashed and he whirled around, both hands descending upon her shoulders. He leaned forward, and, for one wild second, fantasy seemed to become possibility-

“Not another word,” he said hoarsely, quietly. “Say nothing more about Brian, and say nothing more about the future. The past and present are all that matter. Do you not think that that possibility does not torture me? Or that my salvation was always that I would leave others behind and not the other way around? I dare not envisage such a day when I might lose you, when I might lose Harry - Minerva, Minerva, you were my student! I held Harry in my arms as a baby newly orphaned!”

[Apocalypticat]

The grip on her shoulders had tightened. She had never seen him so profoundly agitated, nor ever so insecure… The serenity she associated with him was shaken, his expression twisted.

“Albus…”

He let go. “Forgive me,” he repeated, and turned away.

“I do not,” the Headmistress heard herself say. “I believe the saying is to ‘forgive and forget,’ and I got the impression that the flowers meant you did not wish for me to forget anything.”

“Perhaps, however, you wish to, my dear. It is understandable. The War-”

“Is the least of my memories to do with you.”

He stiffened. “And what is the greatest?”

Minerva smiled vacantly. In truth, two memories flew to her, but one would always be unspoken. To tell a great man that he was great was a pointless exercise; the past was a thing which she hugged to herself, strengthened by hindsight. Words of over sixty years before sounded in her head, words she had penned herself as a seventeen year-old:

I believe that there are times when history is seen most clearly, not as an abstract idea, but a revolution occurring right before the eyes, a revolution that will become intangible to future generations - a tragedy or a glory distantly impressive which will not have the same meaning to our generation. I must believe it, because tonight I can barely write out of both hope and despair, for Professor Dumbledore has gone to Germany, and he might not be seen again.

Of course, he had returned, and although that absence had been fruitless, the speech of his departure had been utterly true; he had thrown down Grindelwald. But that was an intangible event. What she recalled was his departure, the first time he had gone into the breathless night without her - his determination, his courage, the way he was unshakeable in spite of Dippet’s pleadings, his words on his enemy-

“Our roads have long been converging on the same spot, my friend. We will trace each other’s steps until the end, and that is all I can promise. He has marked me for his own, and I have marked him in turn; such is enmity. If anything, his hate will be his downfall.”

She doubted her ability to express the majesty of her perceptions, and she knew he would be the image of baffled modesty if she tried. No, the other memory would be more appropriate; more mundane, but precious in its simplicity.

“I would have to say one of my Animagus lessons with you. It was some time before Christmas, and I had just managed a full transformation. Do you remember, we got completely side-tracked and began talking about Shakespeare…”

Albus frowned in vague remembrance. “Yes, that does ring a bell…”

“You had lent me some of his sonnets; you had quoted one the lesson before and I had asked about it… I was a child then.”

The revelation came to her with a shocking abruptness, for the man before her had looked the same as he did now, but the girl he had taught was gone. Yes, she had been a child, barely out over the stage of wearing bows in her hair, and now the life and energy of those years were dissipating. An inward sigh at that; she remembered Rolanda and Poppy being stunned at the idea of her expressing such sentiments, and she was herself astonished. Albus had been over one hundred and fifty when he had died, and he had retained the vitality of youth. Was it her attitude that was at fault? Or was it more of a question of the toll of misery? She realised that he was looking at her sympathetically, as though he understood.

“Minerva, age comes to us all. I look back upon those years with the same nostalgia.”

“Of course, but one cannot deny the depression that fact can cause.”

“No, but we can look back upon those years as a wonderful joy, not one to be experienced again, and so all the more uplifting for it. Well, I speak generally. Why the rules should fail to apply to me, I am as at a loss as you are.”

“Albus Dumbledore, at a loss!”

“Indeed!”

He smiled, but she could not push away the sadness, could not ignore the fact that he was restored and she was a husk. She fingered a strand of silver. “Now ‘sable curls all silver'd o'er with white…’”

“Ah but ‘the brightness of her cheek would shame those stars.’”

“’Nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence.”

“‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds…’”

His voice trailed off. Then silence, an unbreakable silence, with the air ringing as though a bell had just been struck. Her breath ceased, and indeed the whole world ceased - the globe ceased turning, the students to move, the sun its descent. Clarity and confusion were as one; the atmosphere was a lake disturbed, but the cause of its ripples was swimming up towards them, about to rear a glowing face above the surface of it all. She became conscious that reality was just that, a surface, beneath which the true tides of life approached, tides comprised of emotions which could not be restricted to syllables or idioms. Someone had just shouted, screamed at the top of their lungs, and at last the echoes had reached the open air.

His face knew that he had been the one to scream - it was whitening to the colour of his old beard. All certainty had shattered; the twinkle was gone, the eyes hiding behind their spectacles. A kind of subjective horror seemed to still his features, yet the tempest of it rocked her, forced her back into her seat as effectively as though she had been shoved.

Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds…

They were talking about her looks, not love. Or were they one and the same to him? Or did he divorce them so utterly that his affection grew thereat? Was-

She knew she had to leave, had to throw herself off a non-existent Astronomy Tower, for this was the summit, the peak of possibility, when joy was an attainable thing, and the fall would destroy her, for when he retracted, when he reiterated, when he redefined, when reality was reasserted-

His mouth worked and she rose in terror, but the mien was of capitulation to the inexorable-

“‘…But bears it out even to the edge of doom,’” he said softly.

-Silence, and the quivering polarity of ecstasy and disaster-

-His long fingers reached up to cover his eyes.

“I have violated-”

-No, exalted-

“-So asinine-”

-Never-

“-I cannot repress-”

-The edge of doom-

“-Merlin, forgive me, for I both defy and deify you…” He lowered his hands and met her unsteady gaze with boy’s eyes. “Minerva, I-”

Suddenly, his aspect changed. The boy of the eyes seemed to spread outwards, and his features became like molten wax. Lines smoothed and the beard vanished. All at once, a youngster was standing across the room from her, swathed in robes both too big and too grand, and enlarged spectacles sliding down his nose.

Minerva gave an involuntary cry. Coherence, already severely challenged, was utterly gone. A new awkwardness permeated the room; their glances avoided the other, for the change had created a sense of perversion and impropriety which forbade either reaction or recognition-

“Minerva…” The boyish voice faltered.

She could only attempt to inject her feelings into her expression; a sickness settled in her stomach at the idea of meeting the young voice with her own old one. An impenetrable wall had been thrown up between them - for the shallow reason of appearance! Could they not discuss..? No, her office literally hung around her neck, pulling her down, in spite of her love and anticipation straining her almost across the room, for Albus was gone and Brian stood in his place-

“I’m sorry.”

He was turning away, and withdrawing the invisibility cloak from his over-sized robes. Another fruitless departure, and she could not bear it; she struggled against the guilt-

“Don’t be.”

He gazed at her, and then disappeared under the cloak. The tapestry flapped, and she was alone. She cried, but her face did not crumple.

---

The rapture of agony was over, and he had now subsided into listlessness.

Rolanda eyed Aberforth warily, sipping her tea without enjoyment. The old wizard was thin and drawn, with only the occasional flicker of his eyes betraying any sign of life. Upon waking from his recovery sleep, he had reached mindlessly for the bottle, and proved so intractable on the subject of abstinence that Rolanda had given up. For one thing, who was she to be giving lectures on abstinence?

Not that he had ever pointed that out. The flying instructor found herself wishing that he would, just so that there was some sign that the cantankerous old bugger was still functioning. No, not one word. Poppy’s passionate speech about the promise of life as opposed to death had elicited only a grunt, and only subsequent glares at the Healer had indicated that Poppy’s company was undesirable. Even the unwelcome and unexpected appearance of Moody - who simply would not accept that Poppy and Rolanda had the situation under control - had aroused nothing more than a derisive mutter.

“He’s going under,” Poppy had commented only the other day.

“What does that mean?” she’d asked.

“Unless he stops drinking, starts eating and getting some fresh air, and regains at least some optimism, then this is how he will kill himself. He’d not be the first to simply pine away.”

A surge of irrational anger had flooded her. Poppy was so matter-of-fact, so calm-

“You sound like he’s a hopeless case!”

Then her friend’s eyes had started with tears, proving her all wrong.

“Of course not! I would never think that of anyone! I simply think that it is something which he must pull through himself. There’s little either of us can do for him.”

Nevertheless, here she was again for the fifth time in as many days, sat awkwardly on his sofa, watching him drink. The squalid room was somewhat cleaner and less cluttered, but there were always new bottles to be taken away. She had even burst into tears once, and he had simply stared at her as if bewildered. Fury at Poppy was all very well, but she personally felt quite certain that one day her visit would be greeted by a body instead of a man, a corpse that would probably still be clutching another wretched bottle.

“The weather’s pretty awful, isn’t it?”

Anything to draw a response from him. Right now, he was slumped against the arm, bleary-eyed and hugging the absinthe as though it was a child.

“I think the next Quidditch match will take place in a storm.”

No response, of course.

“Pomona’s growing a new batch of mandrakes.”

Nothing.

“Do you know Horace Slughorn?”

Zilch.

“When are you going to feed your goats?”

At last, a flash of interest. He had looked up at her.

“Been feedin’ the ones here. Will be feedin’ the othersh today.”

The longest sentence he had spoken in weeks, and the triumph she felt was completely hollow.

“What others?”

“Out in my field.”

“What field?”

He gave her a narrow-eyed, almost shrewd look then. She got the sense that she had asked something dangerously personal.

“Come.”

The response and the surging exit from his seat were so unexpected that at first she did not move, and he had to halt and beckon her with a hand before she managed to follow him. Floorboards creaked and they descended into the filthy stairwell. Rolanda expected him to move outside, but instead he bent and groped about the floor, before seizing a dusty bottle and shoving it at her.

“I thought you were going to show me your field,” she said reproachfully.

He gave her a twisted smile. “I am. It’sh a portkey. Quick.”

She reached out, hesitated, and then placed her hand beside his own on the neck of the bottle. Her pelvis jerked and all dissolved except for Aberforth, who was giving her the same oddly calculating look as he had before. She smiled tentatively, ignoring the winds whipping at her, feeling strangely pleased at such scrutiny - at least he was showing some awareness of his surroundings-

-The spiralling movement of the portkey’s force suddenly became more purposeful. Rolanda braced herself in readiness, spreading her feet apart and extending one hand out for balance. Colours and shapes refocused. Her boots feet hit earthy ground. The bottle slipped from Aberforth’s hands and dropped onto damp grass.

The landscape around her now was wild and violent, a blasted heath obscured by fog. A crumbling stone wall lurked to left, plagued by gnarled leafless trees which stretched dark benighted fingers into a grey sky. Thorns and nettles curled beside a brackish stream, and a mass of twisted gorse opposed the wall from the right. Crags pierced the ground as if the earth beneath had buckled with unseen contortions, sharp and savage. The indistinct shapes of goats moved upon the plain, vaporous in the mist made bloody by an invisible setting sun. The air was cold, bracing, carving her cheeks into a part of the place, which in turn was unforgiving, harsh, untameable…

A strange thrill coursed through her. There was a distant glory in the sheer desolation of it all, a dark beauty in the utter indifference with which the scenery regarded its puny visitors which could not be denied. This was Scotland at its most feral, its most impressive; a land of wolves and wraiths, raw with the extremes of life or death.

Aberforth was standing and watching her, as if waiting for her reaction. She made no attempt to restrain it.

“It’s beautiful.”

His eyebrows quirked.

“Well, perhaps beautiful is the wrong word… Magnificent.”

He stared at her, and said nothing, but the silence seemed one of approval. The mist shimmered, and goats bleated. Far away, a church bell chimed.

[lemonygingersnaps]

I love this and I am so glad that you are back! I can't wait for more!

[DaBao]

Yes, I really do love this. I can barely wait for more, you have me eagerly waiting at the edge of my seat. Please update when you can!

[Apocalypticat]

Thank you! Another update:

CHAPTER 23: Pilgrimage

Halloween, 1855.

They had risen in time for midnight, chilled fingers slipping excitedly over the clasps of their robes - midnight was the hour, their hour. Only once a year, mind, and only if the professors did not notice. Sniggers had to be suppressed, giggles stifled and Severing Charms whispered as they slashed their old outer robes to rags. Had it been William Potter who had opened the window and flown out, brazenly traversing the cold, quivering air? Fitzwilliam Abercrombie had been Grand Sorcerer that year; he had had to hold on the battered hat to keep the gale from sweeping it from his head. Gryffindor led Grffindor by the hand, until they met the other Houses out in the grounds, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. No prowling caretakers in those days, no night-stalkers to fear. The girls had separated, had gone off to the lake for the sake of propriety; shame was the only bar to that night’s freedom.

The moon peeped through the darkness, setting her glowing visage past the clouds to stare down at their circle, and Abercrombie had greeted her with raised hands. The wind’s howl set them into silence, and they had fixed their eyes on the Grand Sorcerer. The battered hat ceased to be ridiculous; tonight he was not another boy but the focus for their frenzy. When the intonation came-

“Merlin! Wake up!”

-Everyone had listened, had shivered not from the cold but from anticipation - every year they thought they could hear the Old Sleeper stirring in the bowels of the earth, listening, his voice reverberating up to them…

“I hear him!”

Abercrombie flung off his robes, bared his shining white body to the pale face above. A delightful contrast played over his lithe form, light accompanied by shadows which darkened between his legs. One steps, two steps - the dance that wasn’t a dance, but more a way of speaking without using the tongue, a language which unrobed them all, so that an observant teacher would have spotted naked youths leaping in ecstasy in the shadow of the trees…

Had they believed it?

No, belief was too specific a word. One did not believe in a heart-beat, one could not have so fragile a thing as faith in the forces which had urged them outdoors and demanded their surrender. He could perhaps rationalise it only hesitantly, as an outpouring of youthful fervour that could find no other outlet; the breaking of a dam behind which waters swirled and boiled…

Of course, the professors had known. Even the Headmaster had known. They had known together in a powerful, unspoken pact until some years after Albus had left Hogwarts, when a careless word had fixed the school in the glare of an unsympathetic world. Scandal, horror. Whispers of ‘insanity’ and ‘unspeakable eroticism.’ The castle became a cage.

The same gale howled outside, and the same moon shone, but the dormitory was silent and still, filled with bodies at rest. His emotions were carried to another extremity, the depths rather than the heights. Eric’s faint snoring and raw memories were half-hearted means of escape; in reality he was willingly transfixed by the image of himself confessing to Minerva, her words, her expression…

“Minerva!”

The glazed shock in her eyes, the way she had stumbled, putting out arms wasted to sticks in order to steady herself… Her willingness to be elderly… The least selfish part of him worried and gnawed over it, especially in the last instance. Minerva McGonagall was fiery and independent, a bulwark against everything, including time, but the Headmistress she had become was resignedly retreating into the night. She had thrust the idea at him, had demanded acknowledgement of her silvered hair and years, and the ball had been engraved into her face for half the time they had been together-

Of course, fool that he was, he had asked her about Aberforth, had been paralysed by obligation and love, had only managed to keep his love unselfish by waffling. Was she lying in bed, remembering it too? Was she comparing his professed affection to her with his urgings on behalf of his brother, spotting contradictions? Would she know him to be insincere and condemn him for it? Albus curled his hands in the pillow and turned over. Then there was the wall of time which stretched between them.

“…When Brian is a little older himself…”

The terror of it had worn his soul ragged; his decision to ‘unmask’ had not been a conscious one. The goddess now held his secret fears, if nothing else, and the thought would have been comforting, were it not unable to erase the pinnacle of the disaster-

He had told her! He had addressed her, a man to a woman-

-And had sunk again to a boy-

-Her face hovered above him, stunned, cheeks drained, soft lips parted to expel a wavering cry that continued to ring in his ears, and he held onto it as if it was a code to be deciphered…

“Don’t be.”

He let a shadow of irony pass over his consciousness. Indeed, he no longer was; he could no longer exist or be in any sense until her reply was known. Once again an essential conversation had been cut off, interrupted by external circumstances. His thoughts seemed to burn a hole through the bed-hangings and pierce Brian’s schoolbag to the parchment; mentally, he managed to ready a quill before imagination failed. What had to be communicated was such that words were inadequate. Who could calmly set it all down in a letter? Who could then blithely send it, and endure the idea of it being read?

Frustration translated itself into movement. He forced Brian’s body upright so suddenly that the air purpled and his head swam. He reached for his glasses and sat still, hands on his temples. After a moment, the purple faded, and he found himself walking between the lines of beds towards the window.

The moon was extraordinarily bright; he looked away from the sky and down at the grounds, oddly stark and crystalline in the glow. He let his gaze drift over to the lake and the dappled light playing across its surface, thinking to mesmerise himself out of thought - but his eye was caught, not by the light, but by a brighter silver abruptly moving into view. He watched it pass in the vague direction of Hagrid’s hut before halting, as if waiting for something.

The tip of Brian’s nose touched the pane. Was that the Bloody Baron? Yes, it was; now that he squinted, he could even see the brighter patches of silver that marked the ghost’s bloodstains. Curiosity subdued him, and kept him still at his post for five minutes - before the dark blot of another, human figure raced across the grass. Albus saw the ghost turn and move to meet whoever it was-

He shoved his glasses up his nose and strained but distance made identification impossible; the other figure was only vaguely illuminated by the Baron. Ghost and human moved together, heads bent, as if in conversation. At one point, the human jerked backwards, as though suddenly surprised, and the Baron’s hovering grew agitated. After that, the ghost began to glide back in the direction of the castle, whilst the figure set off towards the Forbidden Forest, an urgent purpose in its movement. Both the Bloody Baron and his unknown companion disappeared from view, and Albus turned away from the window.

A wave of exhaustion forced Brian’s feet back to his bed. Stumbling past his trunk, he wondered at the direction of the unknown figure. Why the Forbidden Forest? He attempted to engage his mind with the problem, but the tumult of emotion the scene had released him from came back again in full force; he sank back between the sheets in a daze.

Albus’s mind whirred around for a few more minutes until he willed himself to sleep, until the Bloody Baron became Minerva, shining silver as she waited for Aberforth to join her out in the grounds…

---

“Brian! Mate, you’re going to be late!”

Eric was shaking him awake. The Weasley was a red blur; he fumbled for his glasses.

“What time is it?”

“Breakfast-time!” said Eric helpfully, drawing back in order to pull on his robes. “And today is Halloween! We’ve got the Feast later on! I wonder if it’s true that McGonagall’s arranged that Vampire Theatre everyone’s been going on about-”

Albus sat up. The dormitory was empty except for himself and Eric, who was now hunting around for a brush. Sunlight was shining through the windows - with a jolt, he remembered the Bloody Baron’s mysterious meeting. He would have to write to Minerva, tell her about it-

He fell back onto the pillow. Minerva! The words of the day before impacted on him all over again. He covered his face and groaned.

“Hey, are you all right?”

Albus peeped through his fingers to see Eric’s concerned face. It occurred to him that poor Eric always looked concerned around Brian. With an effort, he removed his hands and feigned a smile.

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

The other boy seemed unconvinced. “Are you sure? You’ve been very strange recently.”

“Even stranger than usual?”

Eric didn’t smile. Instead, he bit his lip, and sank down on the side of Brian’s bed. “Yesterday…” His voice drifted off. Albus felt a small twinge of foreboding.

“Yes?”

“Yesterday - on the Quidditch pitch - when you…” The Weasley licked his lips nervously, in a way which recalled a young Arthur so exactly that Albus blinked. “I mean, if I upset you, I didn’t mean-”

Albus quelled another groan. How many more emotional complications would he have to face today? Of course, this was entirely his own fault; he had allowed his love for Minerva to get in the way of artifice, had been careless in the brewing of the Aging potion. Such frequent disappearance was bound to come under scrutiny, and the episode on the Quidditch pitch had hardly helped matters. Savagely twisting his face into what was hopefully an expression of cheerful solemnity, he forced out a chuckle.

“You didn’t upset me! I was just in a bit of a funny mood yesterday, that’s all.”

Eric’s ginger brows knotted. “To the point of nearly killing yourself on a broomstick?”

“Well-”

“And where did you go? I was walking around looking for you for ages.”

“Just for a walk. I just wanted to get away from it all.”

“But why?” The other boy stared awkwardly at his hands. “Don’t you like it here? Is it because - is it because of Mark?”

“Mark?” repeated Albus, nonplussed.

“You know. The way he’s so…” Eric ran a hand through his red hair. “Look, I’ve told him to leave you alone. I don’t think he really means to-”

“Mark doesn’t bother me,” said Albus quickly. “It’s nothing to do with him. I don’t care what he says or thinks. And I do like it here.” He searched for an alternate excuse. “I just feel nervous around a lot of people. I don’t mean anything by it; I just sometimes need to be alone.”

His companion’s face was an open book. Worry turned to relief and relief turned to a sort of amazed understanding; the ex-Headmaster could almost see the logic slotting itself in. How easy it was to force the stereotype of the coy introvert! Eric was still absorbing it whilst he got dressed, and was still nodding at the apparent revelation on the way down to breakfast.

As they approached the Great Hall, Albus could feel himself tensing and slowing in spite of himself. Minerva would not be at breakfast, but there was the expectation of the post to deal with, and the sight of her empty seat to transfix him. Eric had to half-steer him to his seat as he stared up between the crowded benches at the High Table. Hagrid was sighing and shaking his head at the sight of the Headmistress’s vacant chair, and Poppy and Rolanda were huddled together, whispering.

He dug reluctantly into his bacon, and waited impatiently for the post. Eric chattered irrelevantly, too blithely relieved to notice that he was eliciting little more than nods and grunts. Luckily, a distraction was provided by the arrival of Daniel Glover through the main doors - the sight of him had Eric leaping up from the bench and the younger half of Gryffindor House noisy with greeting. Albus pretended pleased surprise, but was not required to do any welcoming. Eric sank into conversation with Daniel, and Brian was conveniently forgotten. When the moment came for the owls to stream through the windows, Albus abandoned his breakfast completely, waiting for the owl that would swoop towards him with words from Minerva…

Two letters dropped into his lap. He ripped open the first without looking at the writing on the envelope; he was disappointed to see Harry’s untidy scrawl:

Brian,

Just a quick note to let you know that the Ministry will be summoning you to Blaine’s hearing. We finally managed to get something out of him, but the result was disappointing. It seems that he wasn’t in contact with Snape directly, but merely appealing to him and hoping to win favour by killing you. The trial will be the real moment of revelation; it’s a bizarre quirk of the law that Veritaserum can only be administered to an underage defendant before an official trial, and of course Blaine’s charming father is exploiting every loophole there is.

The trial is taking place this coming Saturday. The Ministry will be sending you some forms to sign and other such fun.

Don’t be nervous; they’ll only want a testimony of what happened.

Love,

Dad

Examining the other envelope, Albus’s heart sank. The second letter bore the seal of the Ministry.

Dear Mr Potter,

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, of the Ministry of Magic, formally summons you as a witness in the trial of Mr Jonathan Blaine to take place in Wizengamot Courtroom Five on Level Ten at precisely four o’clock on Saturday 7th of November 2016.

We enclose the appropriate forms. These need to be signed and returned to us by the 4th of November.

We note that we have already received the consent of your parent/guardian(s).

Yours sincerely,

Ms Susan Bones

He couldn’t even manage a smile at the name; disappointment weighted him. Why was there no letter from Minerva? Was this her way of letting him know that she wasn’t interested?

“…I’d say the answer is pretty obvious.”

The Sorting Hat’s voice came back to him, stoked a fire inside of him. The students around him became nothing more than indistinct voices, ones which advised him to throw caution to the wind. His body moved without any conscious intervention; he found himself getting up and sprinting back down the Hall, stuffing the irrelevant letters into his pocket. Eric’s startled face flashed by, but the knowledge that he was undoing all the painstaking reassurances of mere minutes before could not restrain him. The need to do something bold and audacious urged him back up the stairs to the dormitories.

This was too much, he realised. The feelings he bore, the fear, the love… it was all far too much repress, to constrain for any amount of time. He needed to act, to leave Minerva in no doubt about the scale of his affections. His thoughts raced beyond his legs and up to the Gryffindor Common Room. By the time he himself followed, impatience made him snappish with the Fat Lady, and he dashed past the last stragglers in the Common Room without a glance.

Fortunately, the dormitory was empty. His trembling fingers found a quill and some parchment. Fawkes, sensing his urgency, was fluttering on the pillow, giving little chirps of agitation. He needed an answer, even if it was a negative one - he needed to have a response from her. He would force a ‘no’ from her, if need be…

For a few brief seconds, his doubts of the night before came back to him, but Fawkes let out a few melodious notes, and he found himself writing:

My dearest Minerva,

“He loves but little who can say and count in words, how much he loves.” 1

Nevertheless, I will attempt to frame my feelings with as much coherence as the heart will allow. Know only that you are the point towards which my ‘mettle’ ever turns, the shrine to which my thoughts ever make their pilgrimage. To know myself is to know my love for you. I have thought of our friendship over the years as deepening into something greater - perhaps not even consciously, but as part of life itself; I thought myself lonely when in truth I had the world in you.

If I gave no sign before, then it was because I was too foolish to be Love’s fool, and too busy to know my own business. The Earth cannot know that it loves the sun when it orbits it every moment.

Minerva, my goddess - try and see beyond the expression to what is expressed. As I write this, I know it to be a useless echo of what I truly feel. We fools who love can never do it justice in words.

If so wanted, yours forever with the deepest love possible,

Albus

Before he could convince himself to do otherwise, Albus rolled up the parchment and offered it to Fawkes. Brown avian eyes stared teasingly at him; he had the odd thought, not for the first time, that the phoenix knew more about what was going on than him. The bird took the letter in his beak and vanished in a burst of fire. For a moment, Albus stood frozen, feeling fear stiffen his limbs. What had he written? What had he done? Merlin, he had already told her, and she had already refused to answer - to pester her again-!

-Though, of course, what did he expect when the hand that wrote to her was a child’s? Holding up one hand, he flexed his long bony fingers and loathed their smoothness. Ageing Potion was needed, and another gruelling two weeks of anxiety and brewing. Could he bear the waiting all over again? Would Minerva give him her reply before the two weeks were up or only when they were face to face again?

Standing still, he mentally opened Brian‘s trunk and compiled a list of ingredients. He had enough belladonna for another batch of potion, and there was no problem in getting any more; belladonna was one ingredient free for students to take. The Apothecary had only allowed orders of bicorn horns to be in sets of five, so again there was enough - but salamander fang would have to ordered again, and so would Graphorn gizzard. List completed, he let the castle walls imprison him again. Tedium encroached; he snatched a tired hand through his auburn hair. Moving to put the parchment and quill back, he bent to the trunk. A flicker of movement caught his eye-

A tabby cat sat watching him a few feet away.

His spine seemed to turn to ice. He stayed in his absurd position, half-twisted round, attempting to control his face, the feline eyes searing him with their vast pupils. Dazed, he wondered whether it was possible that she had read the letter - to arrive so soon, to sit so still as though she had had time to observe him-

-What did she think?

His heart climbed into mouth. The cat crouched, pupils vast enough to swallow the whole castle. Her claws were kneading the carpet, paws fidgeting rhythmically in a nerve-wracking beat - did she feel the same terror that he did? Why did she not reveal herself?

“Minerva,” he whispered.

She kneaded more desperately, let out a tiny, mewling noise. Obscurely, he understood. He could not be in his own form, so neither would she. He unravelled himself, in more ways than one, and took an uneasy seat on the bed. The cat’s eyes followed, gaze so intense that the pain of it forced his own eyes away. He licked his lips nervously and stared at his hands. The silence of the feline nearby was an inexorable void.

“About - about the letter I wrote-”

The tabby launched herself upwards and into his lap. Surprise choked off whatever nonsense he had been planning to say. There was a twinge of pleasure, pleasure at the sensation of Minerva’s weight on his legs. A feline head nuzzled into his chest, and a deep rumbling reverberated through his sternum - was that a purr or a growl? Tentatively, he brushed his hand against her whiskers, burying his fingers in her fur. All at once, he ceased to be ice; warmth filled him, and he had the absurd, wonderful thought about how beautiful it would be if he could undo his shirt and tuck the tabby against his heart. The rumbling continued, he took a quick look at her eyes-

-Paralysing emerald-

“Is this… your answer?”

The rumbling stopped, and the cat threw back her head and looked at him seriously.

“Yes?”

A mew.

He withdrew his hands as though stung, and slid his fingers up behind his glasses, blinding himself. His heart drummed, and a bubble was swelling inside him, swelling and swelling until he could almost anticipate the agony of it being broken - he realised that he was trembling-

“A yes… to what I offer?”

Claws dug into his thighs; he felt her purring and kneading-

He snatched up one paw, the claws still extended, and raked it across his chest just as the bubble began to rupture-

Minerva yowled and nuzzled; he understood - she could not give her answer yet, and realised that he would never accept it otherwise - for all his principles, words were the key to belief! He looked down again - the purring, the nuzzling - surely it confirmed-? Inside, the fire roared into an inferno.

[Apocalypticat]

…To know myself is to know my love for you…

…Yours forever with the deepest love possible…

She brushed her cheek against the drying ink, taking the words into herself, absorbing them, loving the parchment his hands had touched… A sigh came out, a beautiful, relieved exhalation - and then she wrenched the letter away as her vision began to swim again. She could not spoil the sublime with tears! Yet she was doing so, if not the letter then the moment. Yes, she was crying, as if Minerva McGonagall was a wallflower, who shrank and trembled like an autumn leaf at every height of emotion!

She could not bring herself to care; light seemed to feel every pore, refracting and reflecting, increasing in power as it rebounded off her thoughts and memories. Her love had magnified itself, if possible, so that it became almost a spiritual thing, transcending the physical so that the castle was irrelevant; there was just a space inhabited by herself and Albus. But that was a contradiction - Hogwarts was no longer dreary, the grounds no longer depressing, autumn no longer dying…

He loved her!

Loved her when she did not deserve it, when she had not dared ask for it, when she was old… Quite suddenly, the future did not stretch ahead of her, featureless and bleak. There was only the present, and a past which did not have to be preserved as the two were now brilliantly melded. Even now perhaps he caressed her in his mind! Minerva McGonagall, the darling of his thoughts-

Absent-mindedly applying make-up for the first time in weeks, she replayed the first reading of the letter. Again her fingers blindly broke the seal, and again the contents hammered her skull, beating against stunned disbelief… And once more the words rode a rush of blood to her face, invisible arms hugging her close. Love, love, love. The word: an ineffectual heaven. The reality: beyond expression even in thought…

And he, a boy, had been a blank, shocked face with sapphires for eyes. The image would always be with her with a frightening clarity; never had she felt the barrier of form more painfully than then. Where there should have been embrace-

But no, it was no less sublime for that! She had nuzzled her head against his chest, had loved the soul within so much that any inadequacy was swept away. And the way he had dragged her claws across…

She set the make-up down and shivered slightly, rubbing the tips of her fingers together. There had been something so raw, so sensual in his movement… delirium in his expression… Another shiver. She repressed the urge to pull out her bun.

Trying to pull herself together, Minerva surveyed herself in the mirror. Make-up was not the only first for many weeks. She was wearing the golden phoenix Aberforth had given her - it no longer felt wrong to wear it, and indeed it had never been wrong. How could it be wrong when Aberforth had given it knowing what its symbolism meant to her? The robes she felt most like wearing were the triumphant scarlet set Eleanor Reeves had bought her, but the switch from black to red was too harsh; instead she had opted for a sober green. Watching to make sure that the robes weren’t too loose around the middle, her eyes drifted upwards - were unexpectedly caught by her own eyes.

They danced and shone, almost over-bright, making the old face merely a mask to youth. Years no longer existed. Her cheeks were flushed, and the lines on her brow had eased out, relaxed into nothingness. With a start, the thought came to her that she was looking at a beautiful woman, joy and vigour written all over her face. She felt suddenly confident that she could manage without a stick; only the sternest mental Poppy made her reach for it. Tucking the letter inside her robes, like a talisman, she left the office.

Ashes to ashes, she thought as the gargoyle leapt to guard the entrance. The password seemed completely inappropriate now that everything seemed so wonderful, so alive. She would have to come up with something else, something more suitably uplifting-

“Headmistress!”

Filius was standing in the middle of the corridor, having apparently halted mid-journey, gaping at her. The sight was the last straw; a laugh erupted from her, lifting joyfully into the air, ringing like a bell. The miniature wizard looked pleasantly stunned.

“Are you coming to the Feast?”

“Yes, indeed I am, Filius!”

She smiled and he smiled with her; she felt as though her happiness was enough to drag the world along. He tottered excitedly beside her as they walked down the flights of stairs, nodding to himself and sneaking astonished glances at her.

“Splendid!” he squeaked, several times.

“Yes,” she agreed thickly, suddenly moved to tears all over again.

“Headmistress?”

Another moment of pure laughter. Filius blinked confusedly but continued to grin.

The Great Hall fell into a baffled hush as soon as she entered; pupils closest the doors were silent before their companions noticed, and a kind of Mexican wave of sound spread over the student body. Then the whispering began, a sibilant buzzing that followed her up to the High Table. She could not care, refused to care - nothing could tarnish the auburn of the boy sitting still at the Gryffindor table-

Floating candles and pumpkins danced out of her way as she passed, their glow dazzling. The festivities matched and amplified her mood, but she still held that nothing shone more brightly than the colour auburn-

“Headmistress?”

At last, within a few feet of it, she noticed the High Table. Slughorn had spoken and was staring at her with wide and amazed eyes. Next to him, Sybil was looking scandalised, but Hagrid, next to her, was the picture of incredulous happiness. His bearded face beamed - but it was Poppy and Rolanda whom Minerva’s gaze went to. Both the Healer and the Flying instructor were looking thunderstruck; Poppy’s entire body seemed slack with shock, and Rolanda was craning forward almost out of her seat, open-mouthed. Minerva felt a twinge; she had not been particularly social over the last few weeks. She tried to smile an apology, but Rolanda’s mouth fell open a few more inches.

Passing Martha Read, the Headmistress spotted a smile flash its way across her face before it was suppressed, and approached her seat with a sudden fear that the whole day had been a dream. Martha Read pleased that she was back? Rolanda Hooch speechless? Surely a fantasy. She reminded herself by looking into his eyes as she spread her arms wide-

“Let the Feast begin!”

Down she sat, between Filius and Rolanda. The latter gave a small, choking cry.

“Minerva.” Poppy was sweeping an expert eye over her. “You look wonderful!”

She chuckled; Rolanda was stunned into speech.

“You - you never eat down here any more!”

“I felt it was time for a change.”

“You - you’re-”

“I’m so glad,” said Poppy softly. “You seemed so unhappy before… but tonight…”

“Has something happened?”

Minerva blinked. Did Rolanda think that she and Aberforth had settled their issues? She fought to keep her eyes away from the Gryffindor table.

“Nothing other than a change of heart.”

“You should have these changes of heart more often,” said Poppy, looking serious. “I was worried sick.” A thought seemed to strike her. “You aren’t… putting up a pretence for my sake, are you?”

“Most certainly not!” She tried to convey her mood adequately, without giving away the reason. “I just feel… happy. Happier than I’ve ever felt before.”

Water obscured her vision again. The weight of years of misery was dissipating wetly, she knew. There no other release for such a crescendo of ecstasy. She turned her head to hide it, pretended to peruse the decorations.

Her friends exchanged a glance. Minerva took the opportunity to sneak a look at Albus, whose fingers were fumbling his menu irreverently as his eyes met hers. Not for the first time, an invisible thread seemed to link them, drawing them together imperceptibly. Distance could not dim what she saw in his eyes. Next to him, Eric Weasley was watching him curiously; she realised that the same might be happening with the faculty, and wrenched her gaze away. Looking up, the face of Martha Read stood out at her.

She felt herself blush - but then she realised that Martha’s intense, shrewd look was not directed at herself. No, that suspicious expression was aimed at the same boy whose eyes had just defied all obstacles…

The Headmistress shivered, suddenly felt uneasy. Throughout the Feast, punctuated by Hagrid’s guffaws and Sybil’s sniffs - and even throughout the Vampire Theatre, featuring buxom young women called Lucretia and amorous vampires - Martha’s stare was fixed unblinkingly on Brian Potter.

---

The week began to ease its way by. Careful observers would have spotted a bundle of forget-me-nots appearing outside the Headmistress’s door early every morning, and once even a forget-me-not which had seemingly been transfigured purely out of crystal, and which glowed and pulsed with a divine array of lights. However, equally studious watchers would not have spotted any mysterious letters passing between the young Brian Potter and the old Professor McGonagall; the silence hung between them like a bell, one which quivered in the agonisingly delightful expectation of being struck.

---

He did not want their wretched justice, their blasted show-trial that would be nothing more than a decorative convention. He hoped he would be able to show off his Dark Marks, shatter their petty snobbish calm, force in their faces all that they were denying. They would remember the name of Jonathan Blaine.

He paced his cell, penning sentences alternately, disdaining the hard wooden chair they had given him. Merlin, he felt nothing but contempt for the stupidly kind wardens who would not deny ‘the poor young boy’ his ‘bit of paper.’ Contempt also for that pathetic, warped morality their ‘counsellor’ tried to force on him. He didn’t give a damn about Muggleborns and the subhuman Muggles themselves. He gave even less of a damn about the Unforgiveables being ‘unforgivable.’ That was their term, it was only unforgivable through their perceptions. Unforgiveable. Would he care if no one ‘forgave’ him?

The loss of his wand bothered him the most. Even if he hadn’t managed to escape, a wand would have allowed for a bit of enacted revenge, perhaps on some of the mice that scurried around. Crucio, crucio. That kid would have made the same agonised squeaking. A flash of green light for that horrible old whore. Then a Severing Charm, so he could send ‘presents’ to members of her family, if she had one. The thought made him grin.

Yet he did not waste his time fantasising. He was ever writing letters, leading a correspondence. He had written to his hero many times:

Lord,

That had made him think quite a bit. To write the name ‘Severus Snape’ seemed disrespectful, and ‘Mr Snape’ was banal. He had decided to recognise him for what he was, the next Lord… Ozzy would have gone for something overly grandiose, he thought acidly. Something ridiculous, like ‘Sergeant of the Neo-Dark.’

Lord,

I await your command. I remain unfortunately in the hands of my captors, blasphemers and Muggle-lovers. When I have gone to Azkaban, I will break out and join you as your humble servant.

Your faithful follower,

Jonathan Blaine

There was never any response. The letters from his father were more fruitful:

Jonathan,

I am hiring the best defence lawyer I can, one who see through the mask as we do. I found him only through the help of a fellow is both most interesting and most interested in you. I have spoken of my friend Maurice before, but he recently introduced me of a man rising to great eminence in the name of the Neo-Dark, who receives instructions from our Lord Snape directly. His more… amorous friends term him ‘Snape’s Lieutenant.’

Less formally, he is the bastard of Antonin Dolohov, one of the old Death Eaters. He is extremely powerful, not least because he appears to be marshalling our kind with greater purpose than ever before. It is fortunate that I had the pleasure of meeting him.

He expressed great interest in your predicament, and you may expect a letter from him soon. I also enclose a copy of a book of his, charmed to look like a schoolbook if viewed by prying eyes.

Father

‘Snape’s Lieutenant?’ Receives instructions from our Lord Snape…marshalling our kind with greater purpose than ever before… Exciting, encouraging news!

And the book was wonderful, beautiful. Whenever he was bored, he fingered its crisp, sacred pages, read the title: The Neo Manifesto: The Dark Revisited. Then there were the glorious chapters themselves. The Dark Manifesto - Analysis was illuminating, burning with a faith which seemed to leap off the page, and Light and the Decline of Society echoed his feelings so perfectly that he felt as though the author had read his mind. His favourite section was entitled The Dark Legacy, detailing the exploits of the new generation of Dark, illustrated with photos depicting everything from grim-looking scarred men skneeling beside Tom Riddle Senior’s grave to tattooed fanatical teenagers circling a cringing Muggle. Less indulgently, the most valuable section had been written by Snape himself, in the Words of the New Lord, setting it out, how the Dark would rise again, how Light would fail…

An owl tapped at the tiny window of his cell. He stopped pacing and opened it as far as it would go, just enough to allow the owl in. His heart leapt when he saw that the writing on the envelope was different - was this the writing of the infamous Aloysius Dolohov?

He ripped it open, read it twice. Then he laughed.

[lemonygingersnaps]

That is a very evil CLIFFIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

[Apocalypticat]

CHAPTER 24: It Matters Not

The day of the trial dawned clear and cold.

Reporters jostled for space inside the small area allotted to them in Courtroom Five, and camera-men prowled the Atrium, circling the Fountain of Victory with impatience. Inside, Quick-Quotes quills skimmed across parchment, recording the dour faces of Wizengamot judges as they assembled, weighed down with heavy purple robes, the appearance of the witnesses as they arrived. The Quibbler snatched a photo of a detached-looking Martha Read as she made her way into the Courtroom, and the Daily Prophet grabbed one of the defendant’s father – Mr Blaine, eyebrows knotted together in fury, the tall, pale image of his son. What did he have to say?

Why, that he had full confidence that his son would be exonerated if justice had any part in the matter. His expression did not match his words.

Then the whisper got round. Was it true that Brian Potter was a witness?

Yes, it was true – and goodness, what an opportunity – there were father and son together marching through the Atrium, the Chief Auror striding impressively, studiously avoiding the Fountain of Victory. Nevertheless, one magazine managed to get an interesting, rather artistic photo of the Chief Auror’s head apparently inches from, and in the same profile as the statue of his younger self on the Fountain - for which the camera-man later seized the prestigious Photo of the Year Award; the judges praising the picture as a “thrilling portrait of heroism.” What did he have to say?

Why, only the disappointing ‘no comment’ – but of course that was right; this was the private virtue, the public humility. There was not a jot of vanity in him. A great man.

But this time all the juice was with the son. Countless quills described his hair, his modest black robes, his expression, savouring the look of blank resolution. “The Face of Justice,” claimed one hysterical headline. What about him?

Why, nothing at all! Obviously too intent on his purpose to stop. Was he nervous? Apprehensive? A magazine article: “Brian Potter and the Weight of Fame.” That face was still not his father’s, those eyes not his mother’s. Perhaps a piece on paternity – “Bedchamber of Secrets: Continuing Doubts?” He took up the box with a quiet determination.

The reporters attempted to record the weight of it all, the impressive formality. Excitement when the defendant appeared, bound in his chair! Ah, now there came a difficulty. Two alternate descriptions for two alternate verdicts. “Jonathan Blaine, sixteen, his face a passionate appeal for sympathy but his air of righteous defiance, was an admirable and stirring sight in Courtroom Five yesterday afternoon…” “Jonathan Blaine, sixteen, eyes rolling and mad, inflamed with hideous fervour, struggled as his sentence was pronounced…”

The defence lawyer was incredibly smooth! On he went, about perceptions of justice and self-defence – the Potter boy attacked first – but then the boy himself gave testimony in such a quiet voice that their hearts positively melted! Professor Read was uninteresting, giving evidence without elaboration. What was interesting was the way her eyes spiralled round at Brian with suspicion – conflict between teacher and student? A idea to ponder. Mr Blaine, glaring and proud. His son, drinking the Veritaserum with reluctance.

Snape! A mention of Snape! Reporters whispered and bustled. They would have to dig out those old photos again, the sinister ones of him in his black cape. Was the defendant in contact with him? Oh, he was not! Disappointing, but they could see the way the trial was going now. Blaine was flushing as he quoted his letters to the menace. What scandal!

Only three years in Azkaban – he was too young for much more. Mr Blaine was shouting, screaming, telling them they were all warped and twisted. The Daily Prophet ran the story-

“Jonathan Blaine, sixteen, eyes rolling and mad, inflamed with hideous fervour, struggled as his sentence was pronounced…”

---

When Rolanda Hooch next visited Aberforth, she was surprised to find him outside, pottering around the garden and poking the bestial compost heap with a stick. A bottle hung from one withered hand, and looking at him, she could tell that today was one of his bad days; his eyes were even more bloodshot than usual, and his gait was extremely unsteady. His robes were thin and ragged, and looked totally inappropriate for the cold November snap.

Her mood sank, and she realised that she’d been hoping for an improvement following the episode on the heath. What had she been expecting, she berated herself, Aberforth cheerfully shopping for early Christmas presents? She staggered over an abandoned wheelbarrow and hoisted her cloak out of the reach of the wandering goat.

“Good day.”

Aberforth grunted, and flung a piece of barbed wire onto the compost heap.

“Having a clear-up?”

No response, other than a vague nod. The air stung her face; it was as if his coldness was in the air itself. She noticed a small pile of bound books and what looked like a cloak perched on the step outside the door.

“Stuff to burn?”

He said nothing, and did not look at her. He tucked the bottle under one arm, seized a spade, and attacked the compost. Rolanda leaned against the wall and watched, before it became apparent that the compost was winning.

“Need help?”

“Need you to light the fire,” he said, without turning round.

She frowned. “How were you going to light it if I hadn’t turned up?”

A shrug. The old wizard wheeled round, back in the direction of the pile. Taking a swig from the bottle, he lifted up the first book. For a moment, he stared at the cover, as if lost in thought. Then the faded blue eyes came up, and there was a nod.

Rolanda lifted her wand. “Incendio!”

The compost burst into flames with a ferocity which startled her. The heap seemed to groan in surrender as the flames licked over the muck and twisted branches. A heavy, earthy odour drifted upwards - the smell of something rotting. The scent made her step back and wrinkle her nose, but Aberforth took a convulsive step towards it, the book held aloft.

With trembling fingers, he wrenched the covers apart, and tore out a photo. Rolanda caught sight of it before the gnarled hand dropped into the centre of the inferno - the image of Minerva, garbed in gold, head leant against Aberforth’s shoulder, with the Eiffel Tower in the background - and he, smiling, eyes filled with a future which did not happen-

The Flying instructor froze, again feeling like an intruder. The old wizard’s face was blank and closed, but every now and then a tremor passed over it, like a ripple across a lake. Another photo was given to the fire - Minerva posing in a hotel room - and another, and another. She simultaneously wanted to stop him and to urge him on; she could not bear to see Minerva and his love for her disappearing in the flames, but at the same time she knew this was right, and that any kind of peace for him would come out of ashes-

He paused, a photo in mid-air. The ripples raced, and became waves. Unseen water boiled; his face twisted… This was one he loved, she realised. The picture showed Minerva with her hair down, lips grazing his neck-

“Keep it,” she heard herself say.

He flung it into the flames with a greater fury than ever.

Then the other book came out, and more photos disappeared. An eternity seemed to pass before he was finished, before he reached for what she’d thought was a cloak-

-Black dress robes flying as their owner raced out of the Hall-

He was scrunching them up, about to give them to fiery maw as well-

“Don’t!”

She grabbed his arm. He glared at her.

“Don’t. You looked so nice in them!”

Aberforth looked at her as though she was mentally subnormal. “It mattersh not.”

“But-”

His eyes flashed. “Unhand me, woman! It’sh none of your business what I do with my thingsh!”

She withdrew, instantly. He was right, after all. It was none of her business. She stumbled over a hidden brick, and took a few, tottering steps back. Looking up, she was astonished to see Aberforth standing rigid, robes clutched to his chest, as if release from her grip had had the contradictory effect of rooting him to the spot. He stared at her, eyes wide.

“I musht, you undershtand? I won’t - I won’t be wearing theshe again.”

“How do you know that?” she protested. “You never know. You might meet someone else.”

“Oh?” he said, sarcastically. “There’sh a demand for drunken old gitsh, ish there?”

“You’re only drunken because you keep drinking, you’re only as old as you think you are, and you’re not a git.”

“You don’t really believe that,” he snapped. “What you’re doing - it’sh all charity.”

A lump came into her throat. “It’s not. And I believe every word I say, thank you very much.”

His lip curled. At that execrable sight, the weight in her chest suddenly burst, and she found herself striding forwards, furious, right up to him, so that her nose was level with his grizzled beard. She glared upwards, straight into the bloodshot eyes.

“Now you listen to me, Aberforth! My name is Rolanda Hooch! If I say you’re not a git, then you aren’t, and if I say that it’s possible for you to meet someone else, then it is! Don’t you dare sneer at me like that! You are completely, and utterly wrong!”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” she whispered. Closeness to tears made her impulsive. She rose onto tip-toes, and pecked him on the cheek.

Aberforth dropped the robes. They fell onto the autumn leaves with a crisp rustle which the roar of the fire could not quite conceal. A few seconds later, the bottle fell beside them, and there was a steady glug as amber liquid spurted out onto the frozen earth. Above them, Aberforth gazed at her, apparently stunned into silence, the blood draining from his face. One hand rose to his cheek, and touched the spot…

She shot him one final glare, and turned away, towards the gate.

---

Today was the day of joy or despair.

He had made enough Ageing Potion for at least five doses this time – even if today was a complete disaster, being old again could come in use. Five cauldrons simmered in the cubicles, and he moved between them alternately, checking consistency and colour. Myrtle was sulking by the mirror, picking ghostly spots.

“You’re going to disappear again.”

She flung the accusation bitterly, eyes large and hurt. He nodded distractedly and she pouted.

“You’re using me.”

“Myrtle, I don’t ask anything of you other than not to tell anyone about this.”

Leaving the potions, he fiddled with the bunch of flowers lying in the basin. He had gone for some variety this time; although the centre was formed of forget-me-nots, other flowers threw out their scent and colour cheerfully, everything from violets to white chrysanthemums. He arranged the petals worriedly, wondering if it was enough.

“You’re ignoring me.”

Albus sighed, and stared at Brian’s pale face in the mirror, trying to reassure himself. Minerva had been different ever since he had written her that letter, he reminded himself firmly. She had floated around the school with an air of gay abandon, eyes glittering and cheeks pink, not quite as gaunt as before. The sight had uplifted him; he had basked in her replenished beauty as though it was the sun. The gifts lain outside her door had all been apparently accepted, and only the other day Rolanda had been wondering aloud to Poppy about where the crystal forget-me-not sitting on Minerva’s desk had come from. Logically, rejection seemed less and less likely.

“You’re still ignoring me!”

Why, though? Brian’s large eyes stared back at him. What did she see there? When his body was old, what did she see then? Before his death, he had been nothing but eccentric and secretive. Now he was being secretive on a much grander scale, deceiving everyone with his false identity. Who could find such a frustration appealing?

Myrtle let out a piercing wail, and Albus turned around.

“I’m sorry, Myrtle. I’m just very worried about something.”

“What?” The ghost wiped away some spectral tears.

“Nothing you should know.”

“Oooh!” she cried, as he began decanting some potion into a vial. “Is it a girl?”

Albus gave the bubbling potion a wry smile. Myrtle giggled.

“I’m right, aren’t I! It is a girl!” Her tone turned sulky. “What’s she like?”

“Beautiful.”

“Is that it?”

He didn’t answer until the entire amount of potion had been stored in vials. He bundled the four unneeded vials into Brian’s schoolbag, and reached for the bag containing his adult robes.

“No. She is exquisite in every way.”

Myrtle took him off. “Ooh, ‘exquisite.’ That’s a big word for a young boy like you.”

At that moment, Albus withdrew the robes from the bag. They were a rich midnight blue, so dark that it was almost black, embroidered with silver signs and sigils. His fingers traced the zodiac, an alchemical circle, the constellation of Sagittarius. The robes were so longer that, holding them up, they ran past Brian’s feet for at least a foot onto the floor. Myrtle rose a pair of transparent eyebrows.

“Goodness, they’re a bit big and grand for you!”

“I like big and grand,” he muttered. “Myrtle, could you possibly-“

Her face crumpled. “You want me to go away!”

“I’m getting undressed!”

She flushed silver and reluctantly swooped away through the wall. He waited for as long as his nerves would allow, and then ripped off Brian’s robes, slipping into the adult ones, taking care not to tangle the medallion at his chest. Brian looked so ridiculous in the oversized robes that Albus stared at his reflection is disbelief. How could Minerva ever like..?

He started gulping back the potion. This time he had enough to return him to true old age, but he deliberately stopped short, not wanting to risk the worst of his lines when he could gain a look which was unmistakeably mature but in no way dilapidated. Feeling the pleasant weight of his hair and beard on his shoulders, he tapped himself with his wand.

Instantly the Disillusionment Charm rendered him a human chameleon. Before he had used the invisibility cloak for the sake of a little drama in his appearance, but Minerva’s shock had been so great that he thought better of repeating it. A Disillusionment Charm was a little more subtle in its removal, and the last thing he wanted was to endanger the Headmistress’s regained health. Shoving Brian’s bag into a cubicle, he cautiously opened the door.

Flights of stairs soon passed away. He tried to prepare words in his head, expressions of romance, but everything he thought seemed hopelessly inadequate. The same old sickening curdling in his stomach had him pausing for breath at intervals; he was strangely conscious of how quick his breath was coming, the weight of the medallion around his neck. Steady, old boy.

Though he was not old. By Merlin, he had no sense of time any more.

Only one note had come from Minerva in the previous two weeks – one containing the password to her office. He halted outside the gargoyle and spoke it, having no need to refer to the note; it was so immediately memorable-

“Love not lost.”

The gargoyle sprang aside, and he allowed himself no pause, but was rushing up the stairs, removing the Charm as he went-

-The door opened, and she was there, the goddess, also dressed in blue, but a pale, sky-coloured blue…

“Albus.”

His name stopped him on the threshold. His mouth went completely dry. Minerva was blushing, beautifully, and those glowing eyes fixed him, shyly but with a power, the power of fire burning softly beneath a well of water…

“Minerva.”

He thrust the flowers at her, half-mechanically. Her eyes darted down, and a smile graced her lips. Dumbly, he watched her take them and bring the flowers to her nose, drinking the smell in. The spell of her presence held him so still that, for a few alarming moments, balance was seriously endangered; he was the one rigid element in a sensuous, curving world…

“Come in.”

They stepped in together, Minerva walking straight to the desk and setting the flowers down. Albus tried to wrench his eyes away so as to check that the portraits were not present, but failed and resorted to listening for the sound of fake snoring. There was nothing but silence as she turned around, back to him, nothing but silence between them, but everywhere the suspense of an unanswered question crackled…

She walked towards him, looks arch and determined. He explored her face mentally. He thought he glimpsed a flash of fear in her eyes as she continued towards him, inches disappearing until her presence overrode his own-

She stopped, and so did his soul. Her hand came up, brushed his cheek. Convulsively, he grabbed it, held it, would never let go-

“No, not in here,” she whispered. She closed her hand around his, and led him through the tapestry into her private chambers. They didn’t manage to reach the living room proper; Minerva spun around again, and dragged her fingers through his hair-

-And he leaned forward and kissed her as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

[Apocalypticat]

Minerva felt him tremble as soon as their lips parted, saw his eyes moisten. A feeling of utter peace enveloped her; this tumult was blissful, even as her body trembled with his. Her hand cupped his cheek, caressed it slowly, for the moment was to be savoured, and she adored the way he leant against her hand and closed his eyes slightly, as though he were a cat.

They gazed at one another, silent with profundity. His eyes were a little boy’s again, even as the love of a man radiated off him. His expression was intense, different, the brows down in a passion - there was none of the wise distance, the philosophical calm. She coiled her fingers in his beard. When she spoke, the words were redundant:

“I love you.”

He seized her hand and kissed its back with uncharacteristic violence. Their second kiss was not as innocent or tentative as the first; she was left gasping. She directed him speechlessly into the living room, where he flung himself into an armchair and looked at her, and the look had her gravitating into his arms. She lit the fire and whispered nox to all the other lights - in the dimness, he would be hers, her secret. When all else was indistinct, who could say that they were not merging into one?

For a few seconds, she immersed herself in his presence, feeling his body beneath and around her. Here was the summit of both fantasy and safety - for what could be better, or safer, than being in Albus Dumbledore’s arms? Looking up, she could see the firelight dancing off the auburn, setting a halo of motes of light around his glowing face, giving him the image of a graven god rather than a human. The blue eyes held, if not stars, then supernovas. Lightly, she traced his profile with one finger, lingering over the mouth and the proud, crooked nose.

“How long?” she whispered.

“Forever,” he said, abruptly, looking at her with a kind of aching rapture. “Or forever in forever’s throw, but I did not know it for many years.”

There was no need for her to say anything, so she said nothing. She noticed that his voice had become dry

“I - I used to talk to Harry about love - about the room at the Ministry, containing a force more wonderful and more terrible than death. I have been in that room so long now that it is hard to know when I passed through the door, and I doubt that I was aware of doing so when it happened. I confess… I despise myself for not realising-”

Her throat tightened. “Neither did I.”

The lost years still stung. A small picture of herself came to her - the image of herself, dressed in a dead man’s dressing gown, dashing through the darkness… After all the pain, that man was here, in front of her, his arms around her. Yet he could never know the gap between, or share in the old despair. He could never realise the dread moment when his death had gone from concept to reality. The hurt returned more powerfully; now that he was in her reach, the idea of losing him…

“Albus - when Harry told me you were dead, that… that he had killed you… I realised then.” A pause, a struggle to convey. “I - I did many stupid, silly things… Shameful things.”

His face suddenly calm and strong, he slid one finger behind her glasses and brushed away an escaping tear. Her voice wobbled.

“If you knew…”

“Tell me.”

She felt the empathy leap from him, and tried to catch it.

“The funeral… And then… After we’d won, at the party - you weren’t there - and afterwards, straight after you died, Harry was trying - he came to me…”

She paused, and tried to gather her thoughts. The memories transported her back, threatening to snatch her away from him.

“I could do nothing. I had nothing to say to him. I asked him again about what was going on, and he said he couldn’t tell me. And then we both just sat there, and I said nothing, and he just looked around the office like a little lost boy… After the victory party, I know he went walking up to your tomb on his own…”

His face twitched, but he brushed her cheek and began to undo her bun. She laid her head back, allowing herself to be soothed.

“My dear… I believe we were talking about you, not Harry.”

Minerva sighed. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Start at my death. You… grieved?”

She looked up in disbelief. The blue stared back innocently.

“Albus Dumbledore! Of course I grieved! I had lost the man I loved, obviously I grieved! I was a living wreck for months, if not years! Poppy ended up referring me to a counsellor! How dare you sit here and doubt that I grieved!”

He said nothing but drew her into a hug. When he pulled back, his eyes were watery. “I had no intention of suggesting-”

“I know.”

There was a silence, in which warmth wafted from the fire, and nothing moved except the flames. Minerva watched his face, watched the muscles beginning to tense.

“To know the depth of what you felt… to know that makes me even more relieved to know that you did not stop yourself from living, so to speak. Had I been truly dead, I would have wished you every happiness-”

He was looking strangely disturbed, as though two opposing forces divided his mind. Realisation came to her.

“This is about Aberforth, isn’t it?”

No response. She twisted round in his lap, cupped his face desperately.

“Albus,” she said slowly and clearly. “I did not love him. I believed that I did - and if I am honest, there was some affection there… But it was affection for the bits of him that were you.”

The bespectacled eyes looked startled. “Minerva-”

“I did not mean for it to go as far as it did. But I was a foolish old woman, who, as I have already said, responds rather badly to flattery.”

“My darling-”

“I never meant-”

“Minerva!” He set one hand under her chin and forced her head upwards. The sapphires bored into her, spreading their serenity through her until she went limp. He said nothing, but she felt instantly reassured and calmed. There was another pleasant pause, perhaps lasting an hour - a golden hour in which union was not verbal... The beauty of it escalated until it had to be broken.

“Minerva?”

“Yes?”

“The photo album-”

“-Was a present from Aberforth.”

He looked so flabbergasted at that that she repressed a laugh.

“Yes… I was rather surprised by it as well.”

“I did think that the writing seemed familiar at the time, but…” His voice drifted off.

“I look at it every day,” she said softly.

She felt him stiffen slightly beneath her, and felt his hands brush through her hair. His fingers touched at her lips, inflaming them…

“Why?”

She kissed one finger. “Because I want you all to myself.”

His breathing came more rapidly; he was pressing her against his chest and still tracing her lips with his fingers. “Alas… I never took you as… greedy-”

“Women are very possessive.”

“Men are their possessions,” he whispered. A sudden movement, both violent and gentle, reversed their positions; he straddled her, and she was beneath. There was breathless moment in which he froze, for once transparent in his thoughts: had he taken a liberty? She eased away the worry lines with her fingers, and his eyes traced and scanned her, savoured her. The gold medallion fell forward and touched her nose.

“Do you wear that all the time?”

“Yes.”

She thought of asking why, but then realised that she already knew: he wore it because the Order gave it to him, because it was his burden to bear. Underneath all the humour and dottiness, there would always be a core of gravity. The thought sobered her slightly; he seemed to her the embodiment of fractured innocence.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, pressing his face against hers so that her whole vision was filled with one bespectacled blue eye. The twinkle contradicted her.

“Nothing of any importance.”

“Ah, but that would depend on one’s point of view. And it is my belief that your thoughts are extremely important.”

“I was thinking about you.”

He put a hand to his heart in mock-hurt, but she saw the twinkle dim. “And I am unimportant?”

“No. Only my perceptions of you are. I was thinking that externally you seem very light-hearted, but I get the impression that you are actually very serious.”

He brushed his mouth against hers. “My dear, I would like to say that you have discovered my secret, but I’m afraid I’m unaware as to what my secret is.”

“There should be a book. The Mystery of Albus Dumbledore.”

“Alas, more mysterious than ever. You kiss a corpse, Minerva.”

“Necrophilia.”

“Mm.”

There were a few more delirious minutes in which there was nothing but sensation and love. She knew, without having to think about it, that it would not be like this the next time they met. This was all too fast, too furious. The next time he came, he would spin it out - be deliberately courteous, slower in intimacy. There would be less of a need; right now they were locked together in a tenderness sharpened by years of grief and separation.

“So much time…” he whispered, echoing her thoughts.

“Lost.”

Long fingers picked out tendrils of silver hair, as though noticing them for the first time. “Too young…”

“Too old.”

“It matters not.”

She pushed him to one side of the armchair, and settled herself on his lap. Minerva’s defiance rose to meet his; she felt abruptly contemptuous of it all - the difficulties, the seriousness, the time lost. Determined to be playful, she plucked his glasses off and replaced them with her own. He blinked owlishly at her. Squinting through Albus’s half-moons, she laughed.

“They don’t suit you. You look very severe and solemn - like some dour old Ravenclaw.”

He wagged a finger. “Most impolitic, Headmistress. I might say that you look a bit like Madam Pince in mine.”

“Oh? And do you find little old Irma attractive?”

“Goodness, yes,” he teased, switching the glasses back. “Why else would one bother going to the library?”

“Oh indeed! Well I shall go skipping off to Horace, then.”

“Minerva McGonagall skipping anywhere would be a divine sight.”

She closed her eyes and quelled the banter with a kiss. She noted that his lips were unexpectedly soft - yet forceful, undeniable. Could she ever deny them? She leant, and felt that splendid sexual contrast between them - soft and firm, feminine and masculine. Yin and Yang. Was she the night to his day? Hair which had once been jet black curled together with the auburn. She remembered the unstable core - his purple leaping towards her blue, tendrils of desire…

Time?

“It matters not.”

No, it did not; it was irrelevant-

Soft lips, seeming to be growing softer by the second - and the weight beneath her seemed diminished - panic; he was leaving her-

-He wrenched his face away; she opened her eyes in disappointment-

Brian Potter.

His smooth, hairless face still bore her mark, and she could see it clearly in her mind’s eye: the Hogwarts Headmistress on top of and wrapped around her student like a snake-

Repulsed, she sprang off his lap. The boy hunched and huddled in his over-sized robes, mouth twisted in anger and sadness. The sapphire became flint; she could feel his bitter fury expanding to fill the room. Breathless, she tried to reassure herself by trying to find the man in him - spotting the features that made him Albus and not Brian…

“Sorry.”

The youthful voice quivered. The anger was gone; he now looked depressed.

“It was going to wear off eventually.”

“That was not three hours.”

Minerva stared blankly at the clock over the mantelpiece. “It was.”

“I did not feel it.”

“I’m afraid it was because we were hopeless romantics and spent a great deal of time staring into each others’ eyes.”

That elicited a grin from him. Then the silence came again, but this time it was an agonising silence inhabited by an old woman and a boy… Doubt seized her. Could they only love within the confines of a potion? How old was Albus, in real terms? Seeing a boy with lips swollen from her attentions was highly unsettling. She spoke, in spite of herself-

“We cannot do this.”

His young blue eyes pierced her.

“We have always been taught to value the inner over the outer. Why should this not apply to us?”

“It’s different. I am old and you are young.”

“No,” he said gently. “I am old inside, and it is that which we judge.”

“It would be perverse of me-”

“Most certainly not. I assume you love me and not this body.”

“Of course, but to express my love I could not ignore your body.” She stopped, tried to get her thoughts in order. “Albus, I cannot love across an abyss any longer. Death was bad enough, but the comparative nearness of physical distance would be torturous.”

“My dearest! I suggest nothing of the sort, though I would hasten to add that we would have had the same problem on the other side of my grave.”

“Why?”

“The situation was reversed. I was old, and you-”

“Ridiculous! It is completely different; the gap was far less.”

He sighed and looked weary. “Minerva, I do not deceive myself. I know that love’s aspect is both spiritual and physical; your feelings-”

“If you were an Inferius I would love you.”

He blinked, and his eyes twinkled.

“Then what precisely are we arguing about?”

She threw up her hands. “Merlin knows!”

He stood up, the sapphire burning in his face in a way which contradicted his apparent youth. The sight eased her; no ordinary twelve year-old could have such intense emotions, surely?

“When shall we next meet?”

---

Brian returned the Gryffindor Common Room late, robes slightly rumpled. To Eric’s eyes he looked feverish, his eyes too bright and his usually pale face flushed. He collapsed into an armchair without saying a word, and stared into the fire with an air of great distance. His expression was dazed.

“You all right?”

The other boy looked at him without seeing him, and smiled vaguely. “Yes.”

“Really?”

The blue eyes regained some focus. “Professor McGonagall’s given me detention.”

Eric raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“Yes. She heard me swearing at Mrs Norris.”

“When have you got it?”

Brian grinned and looked bizarrely ecstatic.

“Next Saturday. And the Saturday after that, and the Saturday after that…”