Chapter Two:  Minerva’s Ministrations

Professor McGonagall looked around her at the students who remained in the Great Hall. She refused to let her eyes wander to the accumulation of Weasleys gathered in the center of the stone floor–she didn’t want to accept their reason for being there. Over the years Arthur and Molly had become much more to her than previous students or members of the Order. In her mind the Weasley family symbolized far more than that: the family she’d wished for and never had. In a way she’d let herself live vicariously through the Weasleys sharing their joys and triumphs, empathizing in their times of sadness.

She watched Arthur and Molly as teenagers and knew they had something special. Quirky, inquisitive Arthur was the perfect match for the bright, no-nonsense witch with the fiery disposition. Minerva caught them more than once behind tapestries and in empty corridors with crumpled robes and rosy, embarrassed looks. Any other professor would have sent them straight to detention, but she sent them off with stern warnings and admonishments about Gryffindor character. Off they’d scurry, “Yes, Professor!” in unison.

Minerva smiled at the memories. Who would have guessed at the time Arthur and Molly would marry and go on to have seven beautiful children? Her eyes betrayed her as they moved to the scene of Weasley siblings gathered on the floor. Now there were just six children–such a needless tragedy. Of all the senseless things to happen, Fred wasn’t killed in a vicious duel as he might have imagined but by the explosion of a stone wall. As his brother Ron was so fond of saying, ‘Bloody Hell!’

She moved to the Weasleys without realizing her feet were in motion. She focused her attention on George who was clearly the person most in need of support. “George,” she asked lovingly, “is there anything I can do for you?”

George looked up from his position beside his dead brother, incredulous. “Is there anything you can DO for me?” he snapped as his eyes focused on the matronly Transfiguration professor. As realization dawned on what he had said to McGonagall, George’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “How about turning back time, Professor?” he whispered, “How about bringing him back to me,” he begged, knowing nothing he said could change the events of the past day.

George laid his head on Fred’s chest and moaned. He appeared lightheaded from the intensity of his grief. Bill and Charlie moved along beside him, carefully supporting him in the way only brothers can. Minerva looked to Fred’s feet and saw Ron gently holding Ginny, who was weeping quietly. The girl had been through so much–Minerva wasn’t sure who was suffering more at the moment, Ginny or George.

“Minerva.”

McGonagall turned and saw Arthur for the first time in several hours. The man was ragged and weary. He looked at the remnants of his family huddled around the remains of his son and closed his eyes in defeat. “Arthur,” she gasped, “I’m so very sorry. I don’t have adequate words to say.”

“That’s fine, Minerva.” Arthur stated, “There is no word to describe this situation.” Arthur tipped his head, motioning Minerva to the edge of the room away from his children. “Children,” Arthur stated not addressing any one in particular, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Ron called after him, “Da…”, but Arthur and the professor were already weaving their way toward the front of the room. He returned his attention to Ginny trusting his father’s word he would return shortly.

* * *

Arthur’s next action shocked Minerva–for a moment she wasn’t sure how to respond. As they moved toward the staff table, she surmised Arthur was moving away from the children to discuss details about Fred. Instead, he turned quickly and grabbed her, enveloping her in his full embrace. For a moment she stood frozen, arms at her sides, stunned; she hadn’t expected this from him. But that moment passed as quickly as a heartbeat, and the matron returned the hug she knew her student so desperately needed. They remained that way for a long time.

“What will we do?” he murmured, obviously looking to McGonagall for some sort of direction.

Minerva straightened her arms separating them, forcing Arthur to look at her. She gently placed her hands on Arthur’s robe sleeves, looking into his eyes. “You will put one foot in front of the other. You will live,” she stated simply. “Have you found Molly yet?”

“No,” he said as he stepped away from the woman he respected above all others at Hogwarts. “I feel as if I’ve been searching for her for hours.”

“Based on my observations, I believe when you find her she’ll say the same to you, Arthur, dear.” With those words, the hint of a weak smile formed on Arthur’s lips. Minerva knew he had entered the Great Hall looking for his wife. When he didn’t find her there with the rest of his family he had nearly broken down. “It seems so boorish to tell you this now, Arthur, but what you have with Molly–your family…the love you all have for one another…”

“Yes,” Arthur murmured, “the closeness will be our strength, but it may also be our weakness.” He glanced over at George as he finished his thought. “I’m just not sure how some of us will go on.”

* * *

The aside with Arthur convinced Minerva to take a much-deserved break. She examined the room looking for situations that might require her attention. She saw none. With the stealth of a cat, she sought out Madam Pomfrey and whispered into her ear as she worked, “I’ll be in the Headmaster’s office if you need me.”

Poppy gave her a brief nod in acknowledgement. She knew she’d have a bit of privacy if she left the Great Hall quickly.

After nearly two terms as Headmistress, McGonagall still didn’t consider the office her own. She maintained the space she kept as Transfiguration Professor–somehow moving her things into Dumbledore’s office seemed like an insult to his memory. Moving quickly along the demolished hallways she caught glimpses of house elves starting the process of cleaning and rebuilding the school–something she’d yet to give much thought. The weight of the dead on her shoulders was enough. The walls of Hogwarts could wait.

Almost a year ago she’d fought that unexpected battle in the Astronomy tower–that deadly skirmish–the Death Eater student, the traitorous, murdering Professor…the loss of her dear friend. She was so sure Dumbledore’s portrait would animate and lead her through the mountain of paperwork created by his death; she was sure he’d return to explain the loose ends.

But he hadn’t.

He slept. He snored. He sat in his bloody rocking chair, defying all the rules. No one understood why he continued to sleep. Surely he wasn’t still alive or he wouldn’t be in the portrait? To this day confusion over Albus’ death still left her frustrated and miserable. She hadn’t loved the man, but he had been her dearest friend. So in a way, she had loved him. And the quest or job or whatever nonsense he left for Harry. Albus had no right to tell the boy to keep secrets from the Order. She was sure if Dumbledore realized he was about to die he’d never have told Harry to keep secrets…

She rounded the corner of the deserted corridor and continued to the statue of the gargoyle. Before she’d even muttered “Puddlemere United,” the gargoyle leapt back to reveal the spiral staircase. She narrowed her glance at the statue. She supposed even the gargoyle knew the office was safe from intruders at the moment. She decided against the reprimand and continued up the stairs.

* * *

McGonagall walked to the claw-foot desk and sensed something amiss. She looked around wary of what she might see, yet she could find nothing out-of-order. Even the portraits, who were celebrating with gusto earlier, were eerily silent. She poured herself tea from the kettle left on the sideboard by one of the house elves and settled into her chair. Having a kip seemed almost criminal considering the circumstances, however her aging body begged for rest.

“Considering the events that have transpired here over the past hours, I’d say you were bearing up rather well.”

Minerva opened one eye, positive she had dreamed the proclamation that seemed to reverberate through her office. Nerves, she thought, and age was surely to blame for the hallucination.

“I should be insulted if you were to pass me off as a mere hallucination, Minerva.”

With that, Minerva shot from her chair and stalked to the previously-sleeping portrait of Albus Dumbledore. The long hours and physical exertion caught up with her. No longer able to control her emotions, she seethed with anger, “INSULTED? Why on earth should you be insulted?” The words from her mouth were otherworldly, not her own.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? Tell me that, Albus! Eleven months you’ve sat and rocked in your bloody chair!” McGonagall shrieked, spraying spittle up towards the frame of the portrait of her dearest companion.

Dumbledore observed the tirade as if he were watching a very droll wizard chess match. He offered nothing in return. His calm silence only fueled the rage of the current headmistress.

“If you weren’t already dead, I should like to curse you myself! The war, Harry disappearing, You-Know-Who, the Order, so many things have happened that you might have helped!”

With her statement about the curse, a gleam sparkled in the wizard’s blue eyes. He worked to keep himself from chuckling. He had many things to explain to his friend–in time she would forgive him for his error of omission.

“I waited to send Harry back, Minerva. It was quite lovely, actually. I’d never been to King’s Cross before–incredibly illuminating,” quipped Dumbledore.

Minerva was incredulous. “K-King’s Cross?”

“Harry chose to make his In-Between into King’s Cross. I waited for him there.”

Confusion clouded McGonagall’s countenance. Dumbledore’s words took a moment to register with her. As she realized what Albus was explaining to her, she looked at him in disbelief, “You’ve been waiting to cross over for all this time? Because of Harry? But…”

Dumbledore stopped her with the raise of his hand before she finished her sentence. “I needed to be there to explain what was happening to him, Minerva. I needed to make sure he crossed back to where he belonged.”

McGonagall was stunned. For the first time in ages, she felt as if she were a mere observer in a room full of strangers. Who was this man in front of her? Obviously he had kept things from her, but she never imagined he would omit information as crucial as the need for Harry to die and resurrect himself to defeat Voldemort. Instead of gaping at the man in the portrait in astonishment as she was doing at the moment, Minerva conjured a squashy chair and afghan settled herself into it. She was waiting for an explanation. Assuming she’d remain there for awhile, she turned back to the desk with a flick of her wand and called, “Accio, teacup!”

Dumbledore obliged.

* * *

Harry sat on the lake shore watching the sun rise. He, Ron and Hermione had come here earlier to return the Elder Wand to its rightful owner. Together they had placed the wand in Dumbledore’s tomb and resealed it; saying goodbye once more to their revered headmaster. As they completed their task, Harry looked to Ron and Hermione. They seemed to understand his need for privacy. “Harry,” Hermione said as she reached over and hugged him tightly, “stay here as long as you want. Use your cloak and I’ll try to deter the Ministry officials.”

“Thanks, Hermione.”

Ron raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘Are you sure, Mate?’, but Harry nodded his head toward the school and watched as Ron put his arm around Hermione and turned her back toward the Great Hall. Thanks to one of Hermione’s clever warming charms Harry had been sitting out on the bank for several hours in relative peace. Despite his grief over the deaths of his friends and the obvious suffering of his foster family, Harry was feeling somewhat odd. He realized the day was dawning–and he was still alive. Voldemort was gone and he was still alive, left to do the things he’d never allowed himself to consider. Life beyond school, a house, a family…

Ginny.

When he returned from King’s Cross he’d done so for Ginny. Somewhat ashamed, he realized Ron or Hermione hadn’t crossed his mind as he considered the decision; Ginny was the reason for his return from the allure of the weightless world of In-Between. He’d thought of the flowery scent of her hair, the glint of her hair in the sun as she zoomed through the air on her broom, the softness of her lips…things he couldn’t bear to leave behind.

As the night turned into day, he sat watching waves gently lap at the water line while thinking of what he might say to the witch he knew he loved. Considering he and Ginny hadn’t professed such deep feelings for each other, Harry was troubled with how to approach her. She just lost her brother. She just watched him die and brought back to life. He was reasonably sure Ginny had sensed him as he walked past her on his way into the forest…Harry knew she’d have strong words for him when he explained the events of the past day.

Blimey! He knew she had strong words for him about being stuck at Hogwarts! He didn’t have just an evening to atone for; he had an entire year to make up to her–a year and the loss of a brother.

The sound of someone approaching pulled Harry from his reverie. He looked behind his shoulder and hoped the intruder would pass his sanctuary and leave him undisturbed. A second later he changed his mind.

“Harry!” Ginny called in a hoarse whisper. “Harry! I know you’re out here! Hermione told me where they left you!” Harry sat, suddenly unable to speak as Ginny stopped about twenty yards from him. The sight of her had taken his breath away. She turned to explore farther down the bank calling softly, “Harry, please…I need you!”

Her plea was all Harry needed to come to his senses. He jumped up and closed the distance between them in seconds. As he moved in behind her, he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak stuffing it into his pocket and caught her up in his arms. Ginny shrieked. “Don’t be scared, love, it’s me,” he breathed into her ear, inhaling the scent of her hair and skin.

“Harry, have you been out here all night?” Ginny asked and turned, searching his eyes for clues about his state of mind. “I’ve gone mad trying to find you.” She buried her head in his neck, breathing in his scent. Even though he smelled of sweat, battle and death, under it all he was still Harry and his scent would always comfort her. She moaned against his neck, “I thought I’d lost you. I was ready to die.”

Harry pulled away from her, brushing her hair away from her forehead. He ran his hand lightly down her smooth cheek, catching her chin in both palms. When they were forehead to forehead and nose to nose he whispered, “I love you, Ginny Weasley. I will never leave you. Never again.”

Ginny gulped. Something about the way he was holding her was causing her knees to buckle. A warm, electric feeling shot through her body. “D-Do you promise me?”

“I promise. Never.” affirmed Harry. “Your Bat-Bogey hex and the threat of your brothers combined wouldn’t make me break it,” he mused as he caught her lips in a kiss, which Ginny deepened. Breathless, he ran his hand along her back and into her hair, pressing his body closer to hers. After several long, glorious minutes they looked deep into each other’s eyes. “I have things I need to tell you, though,” he intimated.

“I can’t fathom,” Ginny whispered, considering the long hours of the past day as well as the seemingly endless school terms. Now that Voldemort was gone Harry’s secrets didn’t seem quite so important. She surmised there was much more than she, her parents or the Order ever imagined–she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the horrifying details. She was sure that Harry was alive–and hers. She nestled into Harry’s chest and uttered the words she’d longed to say for months, “Harry James Potter, I love you.”

The beast inside Harry’s chest purred. He had nothing but time.

* * *

Minerva sat in her office, grateful for the squashy armchair. What Dumbledore had explained to her about Tom Riddle, the horcruxes, Harry’s search, the Hallows, Snape’s affiliation and finally his deduction that Harry himself was the final horcrux had immobilized her. The story was too much to comprehend.

She thought of her favorite student–poor Harry. How the boy must’ve suffered knowing he was being sent like a lamb to slaughter. And yet, he had saved them from Voldemort. Not yet eighteen and he was about to receive an Order of Merlin, First Class.

McGonagall tucked herself up into her chair, drawing her legs up under the afghan, considering the particulars of Harry’s battle with Voldemort. So many people had died at the hands of the Death Eaters. The lives lost were so unnecessary, considering the final battle was waged between just two men. She sighed, dreaming about what may have happened if she'd been more prepared–if she could just sidestep fate and alter the course of time.

“But what if,” she wondered aloud, sitting up straight in the chair. “Surely it’s not possible…” she muttered to no one in particular as she turned and singled out a familiar box on the credenza behind her desk.