A New Leaf

"I recall a time when this place was a school." Madam Sprout's voice was low and tired as she looked up from her brew. Several pairs of eyes, all creased with overwork, followed the sound to where she sat. Some of the women nodded, others chuckled. Most just continued the tasks set upon them by Poppy Pomfrey, who rushed through the makeshift hospital in a constant blur of motion.

Rosmerta smiled ruefully up from the bandages she was changing. "I'm used to my customers being flat on their arses from fire whiskey," she added in dark tones, looking down at the young wizard, his wounds bleeding through the clean white bandages. "Not like this."

"S'more dead than living in Hogsmeade, now," whispered a village girl, one of several McGonagall had recruited to help with the overflow of casualties.

When Hogsmeade had fallen, there was no question, no discussion. Too many for St. Mungo's, she'd said through tight lips. Send only the worst cases there. We'll take the rest.

And now, with the start of school delayed, Hogwarts Hospital had been born, refuge for the refugee, with teachers doubling as triage nurses and as many harried medwitches as could be spared from the nearby cities rotating in and out as they could.

Poppy returned with several bundles in her arms as she gave orders to the town girls. "Elsie, get to work on Mr. Fitzhugh's poultices. They need to be changed every four hours." As the girl hustled, she turned to Sprout. "We need that blood staunch, Sprout."

"Herbs don't grow on trees, Poppy," the harried herbology teacher muttered. "And the longer you keep me away from my greenhouses..."

"You'll have to make due with your reserves," was the response she got from Pomfrey as she hustled through the door to yell at a patient who'd gotten up from his bed.

Sprout grunted, turning to Rosmerta, who'd stepped up to help her with the bottles. "Make due, says she. Let's see how she makes due when my latest crop comes up pre-dried and useless."

"There's too much for us," Martha groaned as she struggled with a bedpan. Tall, with gray-streaked brown hair and a thick build, Martha had been a housekeeper at the Three Broomsticks for years. When Rosmerta had come to Hogwarts, she'd followed, providing much needed strength and stamina amongst the volunteers. Rosmerta and Sprout gave the sturdy woman a clear path to the lavatory door. "All these beds, they just keep filling up. And no more help than what we can get from people with no training, most of 'em sick themselves."

"War means wounded, Mar," Rosmerta supplied, filling a tiny vial full of thick amber liquid. "It goes with the territory."

"War's over, they say," came a harsh voice from the loo, over the sound of flushing waste. "Hurrah, they say, evil is defeated."

"Couldn't tell it from here," said Sprout, surveying the room, crowded with wounded.

"Course, some beds could be freed," Martha reemerged from the water closet with a pointed glance toward the thin, pale woman who occupied the farthest bed, just under the window. "If certain people would just see reason. I mean, taking space away from the wizards when she should be in--"

"Where, indeed, do you think she should go, Mrs. Hatfield?" The tired brogue silenced all conversation as Minerva McGonagall swept into the room. She wore no hat, just her faded robes and a gray apron. Her hands were full of scrolls as she was obviously on the way to the record room. With another person, one might have expected an air of disorientation, haggard confusion from the burden of so many responsibilities, but McGonagall's eyes were sharp and focused as always as she bore into the heavy-set woman with a gaze that suggested she was in no mood for controversy.

If Martha was intimidated by McGonagall's imperious tone, it didn't show in her stance. She set the bedpan back in its spot and wiped her hands on her apron, raising herself to full height as she addressed the newly-minted Headmistress of Hogwarts. "Seems to me, Muggles should ought to be in Muggle hospitals, not taking up space from wizards and witches who need care." She nodded at the Muggle woman who, though awake, ignored the slights as she stared listlessly through the window at the gray afternoon sky.

"I see, Martha," Minerva said. "And upon what medical training do you base your diagnosis? Twenty years sweeping floors at the Three Broomsticks?"

"At least I'm doing something," she started, but Rosmerta stepped between them, turning a smiling face to McGonagall.

"Minerva, we are very short on beds, and Poppy has done everything she can for her." Rosmerta's voice, honeyed with years of placating unruly customers, had a calming effect on both women. It was as if the anger in Minerva's face was all that was keeping it aloft, and her entire expression fell as she shook her head tiredly.

"I know, I know. And, for what it's worth, I've already given the order for her to be moved." McGonagall looked over to the window. Long silver streaks of rain were cutting through the fog on the glass. The Muggle woman said nothing, hardly moving, hardly breathing. She was thin, too thin to be released, and unable to gain weight. Potions were having no impact on her, and she would not keep food down.

"How are you today, Petunia?" Minerva said softly in her direction.

Petunia Dursley did not move. She continued to stare out the window at the rain, silent as she had been since the scout teams had found her, starving, chained and beaten, in a dungeon below Lucius Malfoy's home. It had already been four days after the last battle when they found her. It had been longer since her captors stopped feeding her. Longer still since she'd seen daylight and safety and a kind face.

She'd had no idea what had happened to her husband, who tried in vain to fight the Death Eaters when they attacked. She'd had no idea that her own son, blinded by the prospect of having power over his magical cousin, had betrayed her to the very men from whom she'd protected Harry all his life and had then turned around and gotten himself killed as payment for his reward.

And she'd had no idea at all that somehow, despite everything, despite the horrible things done to Harry once he was no longer under her protection, her nephew had survived. At great cost to Hogwarts, through the sacrifice of its ancient and powerful headmaster.

Voldemort had fallen, once and for all.

And now all there was left to do was clean up the mess he and his followers had left behind in the last all-out battle.

No, when she was rescued, Petunia Dursley had had no idea any of this had happened or why Voldemort had chosen to keep her captive rather than kill her outright. What had happened to her in her captivity remained a secret, locked up behind those blank eyes, that too-thin face, and those tightly pursed lips.

There wasn't a Muggle hospital in the world, Minerva knew, that could cure what had wounded Petunia Dursley. She fought against her own anger, at the Dursley boy for his stupidity, at Albus, rest his soul, for believing a Squib and an idiot were adequate protection for the Dursleys, at herself for never fully understanding the vulnerability Harry's Muggle family had been to them all.

It was Dudley, armed with Quik-Spells and sheer bulk, who had surprised Harry that night, delivered him right into the Death Eater's hands. Had the boy known he was signing his death warrant? Did he realize what would be done to his parents, thanks to his betrayal? Or was he just truly that stupid?

"Poor thing," Rosmerta whispered, following Minerva's gaze. The others had returned to their work, none wanting to incur the wrath of McGonagall, who was overworked and on a short tether these days. "She barely eats, now."

"Who blames her?" Minerva matched the barkeep's low tones. "Merlin knows what was done to her, down there in Malfoy's dungeon."

"The Boy still hasn't come by to see her, has he?"

Minerva shook her head. "He needs time, Rosmerta. There's a lot of bad blood there, between Harry and his aunt. But we will do right by her. The woman's lost enough in this life. Sister, husband, child." Minerva's eyes narrowed, hard with the memory of her own losses. "We'll do right by her."

The object of their discussion remained silently oblivious long after the two women had gone back to their duties, silent when the orderlies came round after supper to gather her up, and silent still when she was deposited along with her meager possessions in her new room in the Headmistress's suite.

***

A scream woke Minerva from her sleep. She'd been dreaming of the Sorting Ceremony, all those names she'd read, term after term. In her dream, each first year had come up, fresh-faced and nervous, to try on the Sorting Hat. And each child had aged and decayed as the hat chose their Houses, until the students who walked off the stage were hunched and sickly, dying before they even had a chance to live.

It took a moment for her to get her bearings. Poppy had told her the Dursley woman might have nightmares, that she'd stumbled a time or two out of her bed in hospital wing in the dead of night, trying to run on those weak-kneed twigs that vaguely resembled legs.

Minerva threw on her robe, pulling it tightly around her as she made her way to Petunia's room. The woman was asleep, tossing violently on the thick cotton sheets of Minerva's spare bed. The older woman was at her bedside in no time, a quick lumos illuminating the room and the thin woman's face, casting shadows into the deep hollows around her eyes and under her cheekbones.

"Petunia," she urged, grasping the frantic woman by the shoulders as she struggled against her. The tone of her voice cut through the haze, and for a moment it seemed as if she recognized her. Or at least, it seemed she was coherent, aware of her surroundings. Petunia Dursley shook hard in Minerva's grasp, her emaciated frame unexpectedly solid, her breathing staggered and hard. "It was just a dream," Minerva added in a gentler tone. "You're safe here." She hesitated for a breath. Was that really true? Were they safe now, now that everything that needed to be done to stop Voldemort had been done? Did the fall of one great force of evil truly create safety?

Or did it just make people more aware that evil can never truly be conquered?

She stroked Petunia's hair. It was longer than she remembered it, with strands of gray mingled in the thick tresses. She'd obviously colored it before, and in her incarceration the gray had grown out. Or maybe her ordeal had just aged her? Either way, she seemed old and tired. She turned to Minerva, a flickering of gratitude in her eyes.

"He's dead?" Petunia whispered.

The words were barely audible, but undeniable. Minerva held her breath for a long moment. She wasn't sure to whom the woman was referring. Voldemort? Lucius Malfoy? Harry?

"The Death Eaters and their Master have been destroyed," she said carefully. She dared not bring up Petunia's family at this moment. Since she'd been moved from hospital wing, Petunia had made slow progress, but this was the most hopeful sign in weeks. "The war is over."

"Harry?"

"He's in London, with the Order, helping out with the reconstruction of the Ministry."

"He's safe?" There was a look on her face, the expression of a runner who'd come so far, faced so much, and upon learning her task safely completed, was ready to pass out in exhaustion.

"Yes, he's safe."

Petunia nodded, and sunk her head in the pillow. "I'll tell Lily he's safe," she murmured as she fell back into a deep sleep.

Minerva's eyes caught a dark spot just below Petunia's collarbone as her nightgown fell slightly open. A long, ugly scar was cut into her pale skin in the shape of a Death Eater's mark. She shuddered in spite of herself, and pulled the covers over the sleeping woman.

"Good night," she whispered as she extinguished the light and returned to her own room.

She'd not sleep well tonight at all.

***

A light snow was dusting the landscape when the students finally arrived. There were fewer than normal, and the smallest class of first years Minerva had seen since the days of Grindelwald. It was unnerving to see so many empty chairs at the House tables, Slytherin almost completely empty, and she asked the students to move to the front of the tables as Sprout presided over the Sorting Ceremony. She'd surprised a great many by not appointing Flitwick her deputy, but they'd had a long talk over it before start of term and agreed that Sprout was the finest candidate. Besides, Flitwick had enough on his plate, teaching Charms and DADA, that he couldn't even begin to handle the extra workload.

The High Table seemed as deserted as the others, with so many familiar faces and old friends no longer present. Poppy had been tapped to teach potions, a job she loathed, and even Pince had been pried from her precious books to teach Arithmancy and Numerology. Minerva, in addition to teaching Transfigurations, was also teaching the small Muggle Studies class. Divinations had been completely removed from the curriculum this term.

It was all she could do, she reminded herself as she reviewed her Start of Term speech in her mind, to keep this school opened. The wounds were too fresh, and not enough people felt safe letting their children out of their sight with the specter of Voldemort still in their minds.

She looked as another first year was assigned to Gryffindor House. Ginny Weasley, the last of the lot, applauded ferociously as the nervous boy took his place among his peers. At seventeen, she'd blossomed into a fine beauty, her hair the legendary Weasley red, her eyes focused and confident. She'd been Minerva's first and only thought for head girl. The Creavey boys were gone. Their parents had sent a lovely note, explaining the boys would be going to Muggle school for the time being, and thanking her for the good care she'd taken of them.

Not a word about Colin being petrified by a basilisk in his first year, or both boys being part of the clandestine "Dumbledore's Army." Just a polite, generic note like all the other polite, generic notes that translated roughly into, "We don't feel safe sending our children to your school anymore."

She smiled blandly as Sprout read the last name and placed the old hat on the chubby girl's head. "Slytherin!" it shouted and there was mild applause from the last remaining Slytherin hold-outs, the ones whose parents hadn't been involved with You-Know-Who, or who just refused to be caught up in the paranoia that was keeping wizard children out of Hogwarts.

She applauded too, as the girl went out to her table, then stood to deliver her speech. A hush fell over the students. She drew in a long breath. This was not how she'd envisioned her first Welcoming Feast as Headmistress, looking out at a skeletal field of faces, presiding over a parliament of ghosts. Her smile lines seemed to sink deeper in her face, no longer amused, as she nodded to the sturdy contingency of students.

"Thank you, all of you, for being here. I have several announcements before we begin the Feast, but first I want to tell you how happy I am that you have chosen to return to Hogwarts this term." She looked out at the individual faces, most she recognized, some new. "I know we have all been through a lot this last year. Many of us have lost people we love. I know it is difficult, after such an ordeal, to return to the normalcy of the school term." Her lips turned upwards as she caught Ginny Weasley's eye. "However, as many of you who are returning can attest, we will not allow difficult circumstances to lower our standards. I trust you will all put forth the sort of effort for which Hogwarts students are renowned, and I am certain that this will be a fine and productive year." She saw Ginny's knowing grin. The girl's shoulders shook slightly with a chuckle. "I see some of you have already figured out that I expect nothing less from each of you than your very best." She lifted her glass in toast. "Before I introduce our staff for this term, I would ask you all to join me in a toast to our fallen friends. May we who must continue honor their memories, so that their sacrifice will not have been in vain. To the fallen!"

"To the fallen!" Every voice in the room joined her in toast, then she continued with the introductions.

***

Petunia was reading on the settee when Minerva returned from the Feast. In the months since she'd arrived at Hogwarts, she'd gained only a few pounds. She looked up from her book and nodded to the older woman. She still didn't speak much, even now that the weakness was gone and she could take short trips around the grounds in good weather. She mostly read volumes borrowed from Minerva's small but well-stocked library, burying herself in historical books mainly. The healer from St. Mungo's had been impressed with her improvement and had agreed with Minerva's assessment that the combination of company and solitude she got in private quarters were a great boon to her recovery.

After that time she'd asked of Harry's welfare, they'd barely spoken of the incident that brought Petunia to Hogwarts. She'd been told, slowly, carefully, of the fates of her husband and son. Petunia took it surprisingly well, as if she'd known all along that they would not survive. Harry had not, as of yet, visited his aunt, though he included short, perfunctory queries in his letters to McGonagall, asking after her health.

She'd proven a fairly decent houseguest, all things considered. Minerva came home at the end of her long days often to find tea brewing, or perhaps the mess she'd left in her morning rush tidied for her. If Petunia was up, she'd ask about her day, listening intently to the news of the school and hospital, of which patient had been released, and what funny thing someone had said. She spoke little of herself, and nothing at all of her experiences in captivity.

Still, she smiled once in a while, and managed to eat a little more than she had in hospital. And tonight, as she sat next to the window watching the snowfall against a clear, moonlit sky, Petunia Dursley looked as close to content as Minerva had seen since she'd come to Hogwarts.

"How was the speech?" she asked softly, replacing her bookmark and setting the book face down on the end table.

"Too long, as tradition demands." Minerva shrugged off her heavy outer robes, placing her hat on the table as she eased into the chair across from Petunia. Her muscles ached as she lifted her feet onto the ottoman and rested her head against the cushions. "I do believe the students were almost as bored by it as I was."

"I'm sure it was excellent," Petunia remarked. She eased herself forward, a concerned look on her face. "Professor?" she asked hesitantly.

"Mmmm?"

"Are you certain...he is gone? You-Know-Who? I mean, have they confirmed it?"

Minerva cracked open her eyelids. She wasn't certain she was up to this particular conversation, but the Dursley woman was watching her with anxious concentration. It was the first time she'd brought up The Incident since that night after leaving hospital wing, and Minerva McGonagall wasn't going to let a little thing like sheer exhaustion keep her from taking advantage of the moment.

"After last time, we took no chances. His remains were found, cleansed, spelled, and warded. Then our most powerful wizards, using the most powerful of protection spells, destroyed them. His hideouts, along with all his possessions we could find, were destroyed, and the grounds cleansed and warded against future use by any of his followers." McGonagall nodded her head grimly. "He's as gone as we can make him."

"So...Harry is safe?"

"As safe as any 19-year-old boy in London can be." She tried for a light tone, but could only manage a second-rate jocularity.

"That's good." Petunia stretched, her eyes not meeting Minerva's. "Professor?"

Minerva had just closed her eyes again, fighting the urge to fall asleep right there in her chair. "You can call me Minerva, you know."

"Sorry. Minerva?"

"Yes?"

The younger woman stretched her legs forward, swiveling into an upright, seated position on the settee. "So, he is...protected, now?"

"Petunia," Minerva tried to keep from sounding cross. This was more than Petunia had opened up in weeks. But did she have to wait until Minerva was on the brink of passing out to bring it up for discussion? "Harry is in auror training. He is surrounded by the most paranoid, suspicious, mistrustful wizards there are. He couldn't be safer."

"Good." The single syllable was uttered so quietly Minerva was uncertain whether she'd heard or imagined it. "You've been a wonderful host," Petunia added, sounding slightly more like the woman Minerva remembered from Privet Drive. "I don't think I've properly thanked you for all your kindness."

"Nonsense." Minerva yawned widely, her hand darting to her mouth out of politeness. "You've been no bother at all."

"I just didn't want it to go unsaid. But look at me, keeping you up when you're so tired." She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a letter. "Will you post this in the morning?" She smiled shyly. "I don't feel...comfortable around all those birds."

Minerva reached forward to take the letter. She couldn't help but notice it was addressed to Harry. "It's no problem at all. For what it's worth," she added through another yawn as she stood to leave. "As much time as I spend in cat form, I am far too comfortable around all those birds." She winked at Petunia as she headed for her bedroom door. "The birds on the other hand...well, they're not very comfortable around me." She laughed, pausing in the doorway. "Good night, Petunia. Sleep well."

"You too, Professor. Thank you again, for everything you've done."

Minerva had only taken a few steps into her bedroom when she remembered she'd forgotten to remind Petunia about the change in breakfast now that the school term had begun. She returned to the sitting room just in time to see Petunia, perched on her tiny balcony, about to leap.

Unfortunately for her, the first words from Minerva's mouth were not a spell. "Petunia!" she yelled, reaching for her wand as she ran towards the balcony. It was enough time for the woman to jump, past the railing, off the high tower where the Headmistress's private quarters were located. Minerva skidded to the balcony, her wand out, just in time to see Petunia crashing toward a stone balcony below. She didn't think, she didn't plan. She transfigured the balcony into an enormous cushion.

It wasn't clean or pretty, but it softened the blow of impact. Minerva was in cat form before she knew it, leaping from ledge to balcony to rail in a frantic effort to get below. When she resumed her human form, she was out of breath, just next to the stunned form of Petunia Dursley. She was already beginning to bruise, and her arm was twisted in a grotesque way.

Several students in the Hufflepuff dormitory, upon hearing the commotion, had come to their windows. It was, after all, the Hufflepuff balcony she'd transfigured. Minerva turned fiercely to the students. "You," she said to the prefect, who'd pushed her way through the crowd to the window. "Get Madam Pomfrey immediately. The rest of you, go back to bed. Right away."

She rocked on her knees as she cradled Petunia's head. The woman was unconscious, but breathing. "You stupid woman," Minerva whispered in a trembling voice as she waited for Poppy to come. "You stupid, stupid woman."

At least, she thought with a burst of morbid and completely inappropriate humor, she was no longer in danger of falling asleep.

***

"Two cracked ribs, a broken arm, and a multitude of bruises." Poppy Pomfrey sounded as if she'd just delivered a grocery order. "Fool woman is lucky to be alive." She nodded to Minerva, who was seated in the chair just outside the ward where Petunia Dursley was recovering from her injuries. "She'll heal."

"I should have known," Minerva muttered. Her adrenaline rush, now a half-hour in the past, had abandoned her, leaving her bone tired and depressed. "I should have known something was up."

"And now you add mind-reading to your considerable list of talents, Headmistress?" Pomfrey stood across from her, still in her night robe and hair net. "You go back to your rooms and get some sleep. Or you'll be the next one I'm treating in the middle of the night."

"I'm fine."

"You're exhausted, and you've had a very upsetting night. I can give you a potion, if you think you need--"

"No, Poppy," she sighed. "No potion. I'll sleep through the day if you do."

"No harm in that," the healer said harshly. "Can't imagine you've slept much through the night lately, so why not the day?"

"What's this?" Sprout had just burst through the door. "Sorry I'm late. Had to get my kids back under control. Hufflepuff isn't usually the scene of midnight escapades." She winked at Minerva, stifling a yawn. "We leave that to the Gryffindors. How's the Dursley woman?"

"Healing from a severe attack of stupidity," Poppy said. "Now, will you kindly do your duties as Deputy Headmistress and get this woman out of here?"

"I'm fine, Poppy, and please don't forget who's in charge here."

But Sprout was already putting a hand on Minerva's shoulders. "She is," she said, nodding toward Pomfrey. "Now, here we are, love. You come on. I'll get someone to cover your morning classes."

"I'm not missing my first day of Transfigurations..."

"And I'll get those letters done you were working on..." She was leading a protesting Minerva to the door of hospital wing, nodding to Poppy as she did.

"But..."

"And you'll take the morning off. There, no trouble at all."

Poppy Pomfrey watched as the short, round woman herded the Headmistress off, all protests and denials, to a good night's sleep--whether she wanted it or not. As she turned back to her ward, dwindling with the final wounded from Hogsmeade who hadn't been released or transferred, she realized belatedly that she wholeheartedly approved of Madam Sprout as Deputy Headmistress.

***

The sun was streaming into her bedroom window when she awoke the next morning. Minerva had sunk into a heavy, dreamless sleep, aided no doubt by the potion Sprout had doused on her pillowcase while she was changing for bed. It had already taken effect before Minerva noticed, and by then she was too drowsy to be angry with her deputy.

Now, though, as the sounds of the school greeted her, tired though she still was, Minerva found herself regretting the extra hours of sleep. She hurried out of bed, pulling her robe and slippers on in a flash as she headed to her dressing room. On the mirror, Sprout had scrawled in shimmering gold letters: "This is a mutiny. You are taking a mandatory day off. Any appearance by you in an official capacity will be dealt with swiftly and severely. Sprout."

She had to laugh as the letters magically wiped themselves away, to be replaced by, "I'm serious, Kit. And Poppy will back me up."

Minerva thought of the team of Sprout and Pomfrey, trying her to a beach chair in the Room of Requirement, shoving a frozen daiquiri in her clenched fist, and forcing her to relax while a band of house elves played calypso tune in the background. It would be just like them to try something that outrageous. She wasn't certain they would go through with their threat, but knowing Sprout as she did Minerva decided not to risk it.

She padded into the sitting room, unsure what to do with herself. It had been months since she'd had a day all her own, with no meetings or conferences or backlog of work demanding her time. It wasn't until she saw the window that she remembered why she was being forced to relax. She halted, statue-like, in the doorway, staring at the window. Sprout had shut it in the night, and tidied up some from the mess she'd made chasing Petunia into the night.

The letter she'd been asked to post was still on the table where she'd set it the night before.

To Harry.

Minerva felt a weight form in the pit of her stomach as she realized what it was, and why she'd been asked to post it. She picked up the envelope, dropping into her favorite chair with a heavy heart. What if she'd posted it? She couldn't send Harry this letter...this...

She didn't think. Her hands ripped open the letter without her mind's consent, fueled by a desperate need to know what had happened, how she'd been so wrong, so blind. Any concern for privacy seemed justified by what she'd seen, what Petunia had done. She wasn't about to put Harry through this, not if she could stop it.

Harry:

I'm sorry to say this to you in a letter. I cannot, should not, explain this to you in person. I know who you are, what kind of person you are, and I fear terribly your forgiveness. You are right to hate me, and to forget me, and I will not tempt your nobility by giving you a chance to pity me.

You are safe now. The thing that murdered your family, and mine, is gone. You are among people who love you. My obligation to you is done.

I will not apologize. I did what I did for my own reasons, because of who I am.

I do this now, what I do and what I will do, for the same reasons.

In Greater Whinging, there is a storage house where I have rented a space for years. Your grandparents' belongings are stored there, as are what I have of your mother's possessions. They are boxed neatly and labeled, so that you will know what they are. This is your inheritance. I have written the name and address of the storage house on a separate piece of paper. The space is rented under the name "Evans." You should have no trouble accessing it, as I put your name as a co-owner on the space years ago.

As for the house. Please sell it and do what you will with the money. Give it to charity, use it for your education, go on holiday. I do not care what you do with it. It belongs to you now.

Finally, just one more important thing. I want you to know that your parents loved you. They adored you, and wanted the world for you. You will always have their love, in lieu of that I never gave you. I want you to understand that, deeply, to the core of your being. Your parents...loved you.

Perhaps, soon, I will ask them for their forgiveness. In the meantime, I have done my duty by you. I won't bother you any more.

Petunia Evans Dursley

Minerva let the letter drop to her side, her eyes closing tiredly as she pondered what she'd read.

The woman was a complete mystery to her. No apology, no regret. Did she feel anything at all? Where was her soul, her compassion?

Or had she just stopped feeling anything at all? Was the stress of what she'd undergone, what she'd lost to magic, too much for any shred of emotion to continue to will its own existence?

She sighed, unsure whether she was holding a suicide note or a last will and testament. For the first time, she wondered if Harry had been notified of what his aunt had done. Poppy would have sent an owl, she felt sure, or Sprout. Would the boy come?

Minerva moved to her desk, opening up the lacquer parchment box Hagrid had given her several Christmases ago, and pulled out several sheets of parchment. She had several owls to write.

***

She was hurrying between third year Transfigurations and fifth year Muggle Studies when Sprout came bustling to her side. "Headmistress!"

Minerva didn't slow her pace. She was still considering the lesson she was to teach on Parliament and how she could possibly get students who still confused televisions and telephones to understand the complexities of Muggle government. "If it's Hancock's about the bill, tell them we're paid up through the 27^th and not to bother us before then."

"No, Minerva," Sprout gasped as she matched the taller woman's pace. "It's Figgy."

McGonagall stopped, a curious expression on her face. "Excuse me?"

"Arabella Figg," Sprout panted. "At the front gate. The front gate, if you know what I mean." She lifted her eyebrows meaningfully. "And she's driving a lorry!"

"Send someone out to fetch her, then." Minerva gave her a look as if a Squib driving a lorry to the hidden gates of Hogwarts were a perfectly normal and natural occurrence. "Have her drive it up to the front entrance. I'll get my Muggle Studies students to help unload." She grinned at Sprout's confused look. "We can do Parliament any day, Sprout. How often will they get to study Muggle modes of transportation first hand?"

Sprout laughed, and hurried off to let Mrs. Figg in.

Minerva let out a heavy breath. She still wasn't sure if this was the right idea, but Petunia's psychologist seemed to think it would help. It had been three days getting the lorry here, and would be even longer before the rest arrived. She hoped it would be enough. In the meantime, at least the House of Commons could be postponed one more lesson.

***

Dr. Massengale was still there when Minerva arrived in hospital wing that evening. She was yelling at Hermes Marlowe, the healer in from St. Mungo's, about memory spells and their relative uselessness in psychological healing when she saw the Headmistress enter the room.

"Oh, don't stop on my account," Minerva said.

"Professor." Rachel Massengale was a Muggle psychologist who happened to be married to a wizard. She'd volunteered her time to help with the Hogsmeade survivors, and had proven more than useful with Petunia Dursley in particular. She brushed graying strands of blonde hair from her pretty face, now creased with exhaustion and frustration. "Can you please explain to my esteemed colleague that we just don't go around mind-wiping trauma patients?"

"And can you please explain to the good doctor here," Marlowe growled through his handlebar moustache. "That memory charms are perfectly safe, and are used all the time, and if she'd let us use one on the Muggle woman earlier we might not still be here arguing about it."

"You can't just wipe the memory of her family's murder and her subsequent kidnapping and torture." It was an old argument, one they'd been having for months. "She needs to deal with what has happened."

"By throwing herself from a tower window?" the wizard healer asked with a snort. "So much for memory charms. Maybe we should use Muggle psychology on all our wounded. We could have a day off, right after the funerals."

"Enough!" McGonagall's headache was pounding against her skull. "Enough, already."

Marlowe looked sheepish, the creases around his eyes gray and dark as he wiped his forehead with an embroidered handkerchief. "Sorry, then, Rachel," he said. "Long week, you know?'

Massengale nodded, looking as though she'd had more than her share of bad days, too.

"Rachel," Minerva continued. "Have you made any headway with her at all?"

"She's still not eating properly, and she's barely talking at all. I'm tempted to bring her to a Muggle facility, but we both know that's not a good idea. There are things that happened to her that she couldn't possibly discuss with a normal psychologist." She cast an apologetic glance to Marlowe. "On the surface, a memory charm seems the best thing, but it would only heal the symptoms. Her trauma is still there, underneath it all, and unless she comes to terms with it..."

"She'll be like that scar on her chest?" Minerva sighed.

"Exactly."

Marlowe shook his head. "Ruddy Death Eaters," he scowled. "Nothing will get that thing off her."

Minerva shuddered, then shook herself. "Actually, Doctors, I wanted to let you know that the delivery I discussed with you has arrived from Greater Whinging."

"And from London?" Marlowe asked.

"I got an owl from Harry this morning. He'll be in this weekend." Nodding to Dr. Massengale, she said, "The room's all set up, then. Just like you suggested."

"Good." The Muggle psychologist stretched her neck slightly, then turned to her wizarding counterpart. "We'll try this, Hermes. If we don't get the results we want, then talk to me afterwards." She groaned. "And we'll discuss limited memory modification. But only if this doesn't work."

"Agreed," the older gentleman said with a sad look towards the ward behind them. It was empty save for the thin Muggle woman, staring out the same window she'd stared out of weeks before.

"Agreed," Minerva said.

***

It was odd how things turned out. For instance, Petunia Dursley had no doubt spent a great deal of her husband's money on clothes and hair, fancy frocks and elaborate hairstyles that took hours to perfect.

But as she sat in the chair near her bed, looking out onto the snowy grounds, she seemed to Minerva to be younger and prettier than she'd ever been. Her hair had been brushed by one of the aides, and she wore borrowed robes of a deep blue color. There was barely any expression on her face at all, just high cheekbones, pronounced jaw, and somber eyes staring forward as she watched the thoughts only her eyes could see.

Maybe it was all those evenings she'd spent with her, reading quietly in her sitting room, that made Minerva notice the trembling of Petunia Dursley's hands as she gripped the chair. Maybe it was the memory of how she'd begun to smile once and again, while staying in her rooms, that made Minerva aware of the profound sadness in that face.

Maybe it was her own loneliness. Quiet though she was, Petunia Dursley had been a lovely houseguest, and Minerva had gotten quite used to the peaceful companionship she provided. To the simple discussion of books and crafts, of Minerva's painting and Petunia's sewing, of places they'd been and music they enjoyed. She'd been so quietly fixed into the back of Minerva's chaotic life that the loss of her presence had been a surprising blow.

And now guilt mixed with the loneliness she felt as she hovered at the edge of hospital wing. Harry would be here in the morning, and hopefully Dr. Massengale's plan would work. But what then? She worried for Petunia. It seemed an odd thing, to worry about a woman who had so terribly neglected and abused a child, but she did. Worried because, without her husband and son, Petunia did not seem so much the horrible creature she'd been when they dropped Harry on her doorstep almost twenty years before. Perhaps she'd been broken by Malfoy's treatment of her in his dungeon. Or maybe that had never been her at all, just a mask she wore to fit into her Muggle reality.

"You'll make yourself sick if you worry any more." Poppy Pomfrey stood behind Minerva, her soft voice just in her left ear. Minerva wondered how long she'd been standing there.

"I was just going back to my rooms. I wanted to..."

"Check on her. Make sure she's all right." Pomfrey lifted her eyebrows. "Same thing you've said every night since we brought her in here."

Minerva rubbed her eyes. "I know, I know. But I feel--"

"Responsible?" Poppy seemed to spit the word out. "Don't you dare, Minerva McGonagall. You did not do this to her, and you were not responsible for what happened last week in your quarters."

"I should have known something was wrong..."

"We've discussed this already. Look, you can't fix everything. You can't stop bad things from happening." Pomfrey's arms were folded across her chest. "You can't be--"

"Dumbledore?" Minerva barely spoke the name, but it hit with the force of a hurricane. "I can't be Dumbledore. I can't just walk into a room and fix the situation."

"Minerva..."

But the stress of the last few months was having its toll on Minerva, and she continued without missing a beat. "I can't find miracles around every corner, Poppy. I have bills that are overdue, and tuition is down, and I don't know how we'll get teachers for next term when we can barely fill the classrooms, and then I have Petunia wanting to die and I can't help her and I--"

She spoke the last words into Poppy's waiting embrace, and it all seemed to come out in one big burst. Her anger, her frustration, her fears. She let Pomfrey lead her into the private office, where she collapsed into a chair, her head pounding and heart racing.

Poppy said nothing, just went to her desk and pulled out a bottle of fire whiskey. She poured a small amount into a glass and handed it to Minerva. "For medicinal purposes," she said.

Minerva let out a weak chuckle, and downed the contents in one gulp. It burned like hell, but that was good, somehow. She could feel it tracing a path down her throat and into her chest, where it spread quickly throughout her body. With a soft groan, she said, "I'm so sorry, Poppy."

"Nonsense, don't know why you didn't go off on someone sooner. It's long overdue." Pomfrey recapped the bottle and put it back into her desk before sitting down in her own chair. "Now, first of all, are you calmer now?"

Minerva nodded, embarrassed by her own emotional outburst.

"Good, now, let's address some things here. Bills will be paid when they get paid. That's how this school is run."

"But it's never been this--"

"Yes, it has, Minerva McGonagall, and you know it. We've always run on a tight budget here, as you'd know from your years as deputy, that is, if your brain were functioning properly. As for teachers. You have all the teachers you need..."

"Running themselves ragged, teaching double loads, without a pay increase since the war began..."

"And we're still here, Headmistress." Pomfrey's words were emphasized by her knuckles rapping on the wooden desktop. "We're still here, and here is where we'll stay. Hogwarts is the only home most of us have had for decades." Her expression softened as she caught Minerva's eyes. "We're not going to abandon her because of a pay raise."

"Thank you," Minerva whispered.

"And as for students...just hang on. The parents will come around. Hogwarts is the finest school of its kind in Britain, perhaps in the world. They'll come back, Minerva, I know it."

"How much of that reputation was Hogwarts, and how much of it Dumbledore?" Minerva's eyes did not meet those of her friend. "Poppy, I can't do what he did. I try, and I just can't. I think to myself everyday, Albus would have had an answer to this. Albus would have had a solution. But I can't do it, no matter how hard I try." She shook her head. "I don't know if Hogwarts can survive without Dumbledore, Poppy. And I can't be Dumbledore."

"And you shouldn't try. I've been watching you these past few months, and I see you struggling with it. You're trying to run this school like Dumbledore would have, and it's killing you."

"Don't be dramatic."

But Pomfrey was not going to be swayed. "Dumbledore chose you as his successor for a reason. He knew you could handle this place, and all the chaos with it, in your own way. He never wanted you to become a female version of him." She stood, crossing the distance between them to take Minerva's hands in hers. "You can't be the next Dumbledore, Minerva. You have to be the next McGonagall. And I assure you, Headmistress McGonagall can keep Hogwarts alive and thriving. I know that. Albus knew it, too." She lifted Minerva's chin so the woman was looking straight into her eyes. "Now the only thing left, Minerva McGonagall, is for you to know it."

***

"I'm not feeling up to a walk," Petunia muttered as she shuffled nonetheless down the corridor between Minerva and Dr. Massengale. She wore the Muggle dress Rachel had brought from a nearby village, and her hair had been swept up into a French twist by one of the local girls. Rachel had insisted she put on makeup and get herself looking her best.

They hadn't told her about Harry. She seemed to pull away from any discussion of her past, more so since the jump. It was drastic, surprising her like this, and both Minerva and Rachel felt the strain of the moments passing as they walked towards the Room of Requirement with their patient in tow.

The hallways were clear, with most of the students and faculty off to the first Hogsmeade weekend of the term. It seemed odd to be sending them, but Rosmerta had insisted and Sprout agreed. A sense of normalcy was the best thing for the children, and she'd even asked Sprout to bring her a few items back from the newly restored Honeydukes.

But Petunia knew nothing of the joys of browsing through Honeydukes, or sipping gillywater in the back room of the Three Broomsticks while friends laughed and gossiped all about you. Minerva held back a nostalgic sigh of regret as they neared the door to the Room of Requirement. There would be visits to Hogsmeade later, she reminded herself.

"You have a visitor, Petunia," Rachel said as she opened the door. "We didn't want to get your hopes up, but we thought you might prefer to visit in private."

There was a loud gasp as Petunia looked through the doorframe into the room. It was amazing, even to Minerva, who'd been expecting it. The room seemed an exact replica of a 1960s Muggle living room, with an overstuffed faded sofa, an enormous television in a polished wooden case. Pictures scattered about every flat surface, framed in silver and mahogany, of two young girls smiling and laughing in sepia-toned stillness. Minerva stepped quietly into the room behind Petunia and Rachel, her eyes catching on one picture of two girls, a tall brunette and a shorter redhead, weaving chains of picked daisies on a hillside. They couldn't have been more than nine or ten years old, yet they seemed so serious in their tasks.

"Dear god," Petunia whispered as she sank into the large cream-colored couch. "Dear god in heaven."

"Did we get it right?" It was Harry, coming out from the shadows. He was almost a half-inch taller than Minerva remembered him, dressed in his dark robes and somber as he addressed them. His hair still mussed the way it always did, but his eyes held the dark sobriety that so many of her former students now owned. "Does it look like my grandparents' home, Aunt Petunia?"

She nodded, dazed, as Harry crossed the room to sit beside her on the sofa. Rachel put a hand on Minerva's shoulder, and the two women held back, silent, in the shadows.

"Yes." Petunia trembled as she looked around her at the relics of her youth, not looking into Harry's face as she surveyed the room. "The telly was over that way," she said, "and the bookshelf back there, but otherwise, it looks perfect."

"I was looking through the pictures. The ones of you and my mother." He pulled a small framed picture from his robe and showed it to the woman sitting next to him. "Where was this one taken?" he asked gently.

Petunia looked as if she would crumble under her own gravity. Her eyes closed, trying as she would to avoid the picture, but Harry held it there before her, unyielding. Minerva struggled to resist the urge to say something. Rachel's steady hand on her arm assured her it was going okay.

"Dover," the Muggle woman finally said. "We took the ferry over to Calais, and Dad...your grandfather shot that picture of us on the deck, looking out over the Channel."

"Mum looks seasick."

A small smile crossed Petunia's lips. "She never handled water well. Dad insisted on teaching us both to swim, but I did better on boats than she did. Course, she did better in everything else." She halted, suddenly aware that she was carrying on what seemed to be a normal, natural conversation with her nephew. "Why are you here?"

"To see you." It was a plain answer, no hint of emotion or accusation.

"You didn't have to come," she whispered.

"You're family." It seemed the simplest of answers, but somehow the affect it had on Petunia Dursley was profound. She stared at him, her eyes wide as he met her gaze head on. There was no exuberant reunion of relatives, no heart-wrenching protestations of apology and forgiveness. Just that one word. Family. And it changed everything, if only subtly. "Tell me about that one, over there." He pointed to the large photo atop the television, and neither seemed to notice when his hand rested on hers as she began to tell the story behind the pictures.

***

The letter from Dr. Massengale took her by surprise. Minerva rubbed her eyes. She'd spent the last twenty minutes sorting through the stack of correspondence she couldn't foist off on Sprout, wishing she was the type to put off until tomorrow. But tomorrow she had a special N.E.W.T. preparation seminar after regular hours, and she still had Muggle Studies scrolls to grade.

That Rachel would correspond in writing was unusual, as were the copied letters she included in the bundle she'd sent. Correspondence between Massengale and the senior staff at St. Mungo's, describing the work being done at Hogwarts, complimenting Poppy Pomfrey especially on her work, and to Minerva's great astonishment, raising the suggestion that this might evolve into a permanent situation.

The note attached to the letters was penned in Dr. Massengale's surprisingly legible script, a simple note that read:

Minerva,

I wanted to you to know how the good work you and your staff are doing is being received in the "Real World." Ambrose and I have been talking for years about my moving my practice more into the wizarding world, and I think we may have stumbled upon a solution to a lot of problems.

If nothing else, the tragedy in Hogsmeade has alerted all of us to a real need for quality medical care in the more remote areas. My colleagues at St. Mungo's were impressed, as I continue to be, by the effort and care your staff took in extending themselves for your community in its time of need.

I know Hogwarts has a tradition of excellence and service. I know that from working so closely with your staff and from my experience with you. I believe, if we are all willing to think along more creative lines, we may be able to reinvigorate the tradition of Hogwarts while adapting to the needs of the future.

I'd love to have you join me next week in London for a brainstorming session. I've invited several staff members from St. Mungo's, as well as business leaders from Hogsmeade and a representative from the Ministry of Magic, for a brainstorming session about setting up a permanent medical facility in the Hogsmeade area. I think you know where I'm going with this, Minerva, and I hope you'll hear me out.

It's important to me that you comprehend the depth of my respect and admiration for you and your staff, and I look forward to discussing this idea with you next week.

My best regards,

Rachel Massengale, PhD

Minerva stared at the letter, reading and rereading it until the words were partially memorized. She felt the internal struggle beginning, between tradition and progress, between past and future. She sighed heavily, placing the bundle of correspondence back into the big paper envelope, and marking yet another quick staff meeting on tomorrow's calendar.

***

"You can't be SERIOUS!"

Minerva looked up from her cards, a terribly annoyed expression creasing her already strained facial muscles. "Do you mind not laughing so?" she snapped, looking back at her abysmal hand. "It's impossible to concentrate with you going on like some demented hyena."

Petunia squinted her eyes shut, trying to reign in her laughter as she pressed the Muggle Studies text to her chest. "I'm sorry, Minerva, but this is the funniest thing I've ever read." She held the book up to read, but put it back down at McGonagall's scowl. "Sorry," she added contritely.

"Hit me," Minerva said finally, and Petunia laid down the card. She dropped her hand and groaned. "Twenty-two. Damn, girl, I thought you said this game was amusing."

"It is when you win. Wait until I teach you bridge," she added.

"You are not teaching me any more card games." Minerva shoved the offending cards towards Petunia, who shuffled them back into the deck. It was a clear, warm Sunday afternoon, and she was enjoying the fact that most of the faculty and staff were off enjoying the day. For once, she'd managed to steal a few hours for herself, and Petunia's company was a welcome relief from contracts and negotiations and alumni meetings.

They sat in the staff lounge, part of the increasing time Petunia was staying away from hospital wing during her recovery. That first afternoon with Harry, so many months ago, had proven the break they needed, and afterwards, Petunia began opening up more and more. Between Dr. Massengale and Dr. Marlowe, she'd been treated with a combination of therapy and magic, reliving the trauma slowly, sharing the horrors she'd experienced, the guilt she felt, and the grief that threatened to overwhelm her.

Harry visited often now, sometimes bringing Hermione or Ron. Usually though, he came alone, spending hours with his aunt amongst the relics of their family, asking her questions, listening to her stories, telling his own.

And Petunia Evans Dursley seemed to blossom through that harsh first winter at Hogwarts, sliding backwards at times, but for the most part pushing through the darkness as if being born anew with the spring.

Minerva found herself looking forward to their all-too-infrequent visits together, sharing tea and discussing the events of the day. She found herself enjoying the different perspective Petunia provided on life at Hogwarts, now that she was healing from her wounds both physical and emotional.

She still didn't eat enough, Minerva noticed as she stared at the biscuits, untouched on Petunia's plate. "You didn't take even a bite," she scolded softly.

Petunia glanced uncomfortably at the biscuits. "I had some tea," she offered.

"You need to eat." It was becoming an old argument between them. For some reason, food had become a major sticking point in Petunia's guilt, a symbol of everything that had been done to her and worse, everything she had done to Harry. It was hard, and they talked about it often, in quieter moments, but Petunia was still rail-thin. "Just a nibble, please?" she added.

Petunia smiled weakly. She didn't have to say a word. It was all over her long face. The cookies looked repulsive to her, as did most of the food she forced herself to eat. She picked up the biscuit gingerly, a simple shortbread thing, and lifted it to her lips. Closing her eyes, she took the tiniest bite and swallowed hard, followed by a large sip of tea. The upward glance, so self-conscious, was a cry for kindness.

Minerva put her hand over Petunia's, allowing the warmth to flow through into the shaking fingers she held. "It'll take time."

"They used to..." Her voice was a shadow of itself, low, whispering into the cookie she still held in a trembling hand. "They used to eat in front of me, back there, in that place." She shut her eyes tightly, as if trying to hide from a particularly unsavory sight. "Lavish banquets, several of them, all in masque. Me, sitting in my own filth. Watching them as they laughed at me, throwing food to their animals. Those horrible...terrible elf things...they'd have them spray me with scent. They said I offended their nostrils." She dropped the cookie back onto the place, averting her eyes, trying to pull her hand from Minerva's tight, reassuring grip. "I was so hungry," Petunia breathed. "I would have killed for the scraps their dogs wouldn't eat. I used to beg them to kill me. I never understood why they kept me alive." She wiped her eyes quickly. "I still don't."

"But they did, Petunia, and you have a chance to recover." Minerva did not allow the younger woman to pull her hand away. It was rare that Petunia opened up to this degree. She didn't want to let that go.

"You've been so kind to me." It was another standard phrase Petunia used, often before a declaration that she did not deserve such treatment. Minerva understood the guilt the woman felt and believed some of it to be justified, but the degree to which Petunia had internalized her guilt was somewhat frightening. "I want to get better," she continued. "I hate being a burden on you..."

"You are not a burden on me, or on this school."

"I have nowhere to go," Petunia sighed, staring straight at Minerva with the most desolate expression the witch had ever seen on a human face. "I have nowhere to go, and it's time we stopped tap-dancing around the truth. My family is dead, and my life is in shambles. I won't ask Harry for charity, and I can't make it on my own right now. I know how dependent I am on your generosity. But I never thought...I mean, after all I did, the way I treated Harry for all those years, the fact that my...s-son...betrayed us all." She stopped here, a slight gagging noise interrupting her words. Minerva had come to understand that this was her body's reaction to emotion, one of the reasons it was so hard for Petunia to eat and keep down food. She waited patiently for Petunia to calm down, for her breathing to steady, and for her to begin speaking again. "I never thought for a moment you would be so kind about it," she finished in a subdued tone.

"We've all lost people we love, child," was Minerva's gentle response. She reached out to brush the tear from Petunia's cheek. "And we've all been betrayed by people whom we thought we could trust. It's never easy. But if we can't reach out to each other, help each other, care about each other," she allowed a small smile to play on her lips, just enough, before continuing, "then we are no better than the monsters who tortured you, or the monsters who murdered our loved ones." She pressed her palm against Petunia's cheek, and the younger woman rested slightly against the warmth of her hand. "If we can be friends, my dear, then there's hope for all of us, Muggle and Wizard alike, don't you think?"

Petunia smiled up at her, nodding. "Yes. Yes, I think you have a point."

***

"I recall a time when this place was a school." Madam Sprout's voice sparkled with humor as she carried a load of cuttings from her greenhouse into the new medicinal herb garden in the hospital wing.

"I recall a time when you could navigate the halls without running into a construction crew," Pomfrey chuckled. "Still, progress is progress," she said. Nobody could doubt for a moment that Poppy Pomfrey was elated when the news of the expansion came their way. Though she groused and mumbled about being taken over by big city doctors, her near-giddiness at each new phase of development was contagious.

The excitement generated by this new phase of Hogwarts' history was palpable and the support they were getting from parents and alumni alike, many of whom wanted to know if the healing arts curriculum would be expanded to include practical internships at the hospital, had indeed reinvigorated both staff and student body. A series of grants offered by St. Mungo's were already beginning to pull Hogwarts out of debt, and the new class of students registering for fall term had already exceeded their expectations.

"Seems as if everything's turning out for the best," Sprout said, with a nod towards the back of the ward, where Minerva McGonagall and Petunia Dursley sat discussing her appointment of Petunia as the new Muggle Studies teacher for fall term.

"Hmmph," was all Poppy said.

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking, too," Sprout agreed. She grinned at the two women, oblivious in their animated chat, neither aware of anyone but each other. "It's about time, too," she added, and returned to her precious cuttings.

***

"You don't have to do this."

"I want to." Minerva led Petunia back to the room she'd occupied so many months before. Several items from the Evans home had been brought in, things she'd shown to her or expressed a fondness for. Books Minerva thought she'd like. Photos of her parents. "You just get settled in. I'll have dinner on in about half an hour." She smiled as she closed the door behind her, looking again on the woman who'd come so far in so short a time. "Welcome back, Petunia."

Petunia smiled as she sat on the bed, resting back on her outstretched hands. "Thank you, Minerva. For everything." It seemed so long ago that she'd come here, scared and broken. And now she laughed, and smiled, more frequently than either could have predicted almost a year before. When the time came again that she could be on her own, away from hospital wing, Minerva had insisted Petunia occupy her old room. Petunia had balked, saying it was an imposition, but Minerva insisted.

Neither spoke of what they really felt, not openly anyway. They spoke instead of space restrictions, what with the renovations closing off so much of the castle. They spoke of Petunia's studies to get her emergency certification in time for the fall term, and how she would benefit from the additional privacy and 24-hour access to her teaching mentor. They spoke of everything and nothing, and before either was aware of it, Petunia had been comfortably moved back into her room in the Headmistress's suite.

And Minerva found herself feeling lighter and more hopeful than she had in months, as she pulled out the ingredients and started preparing a simple meal for them both. Poppy had given her strict instructions on Petunia's dietary requirements; the woman still didn't eat enough, and probably would never get back to full weight. But it seemed a small consideration compared to the pleasure of having company again. She caught herself humming as she spelled the pot for the soup, and chided herself for her silliness.

Petunia was dressed in soft blue robe when she came out, showered and relaxed. Minerva couldn't help smiling at the picture she presented, her hair sleek and damp, folded in a robe far too large for her slender frame.

"Thought I'd make myself comfortable," she said shyly. "It's so hard to take a decent shower in hospital wing, and you have that lovely tub..."

"No, not at all." She found herself staring, unable to think of anything to say as she watched the light from the fire playing in Petunia's damp hair. Minerva didn't know how long they'd stood there, silently watching each other, when the whistle from the teapot startled her. "Erm, better get that," she muttered, feeling three kinds the fool.

"Let me help," Petunia said, moving beside her to stir the pot of soup. She didn't seem to care that the soup was stirring itself. She stood next to Minerva, smelling of jasmine, still exuding warmth from the bath.

Minerva held her breath, not wanting to feel what she couldn't resist feeling, not wanting to admit to herself that her enjoyment of Petunia's company was no longer simply platonic. Petunia had blossomed, yes, but so had Minerva in those first months of struggle after Albus's death. She'd found herself reevaluating her life, and realizing that loneliness was no longer something she found acceptable. In her efforts to become, as Poppy had suggested, "the next McGonagall," she'd discovered a deeply hidden and overpowering need to be connected, to her school, to her friends, and to her world. She could no longer hide behind the coolness that had served her so well for decades. Coolness had melted in the flames of war, and now she wanted warmth. The warmth of friendship, of family and companionship.

She wanted Petunia, and she could hardly bear to be close to her without touching her. She drew in a deep breath, feeling guilty about her desires, knowing how vulnerable Petunia still was and ashamed that she might be taking advantage of that vulnerability. She wanted to tell her, to give her the chance to leave gracefully if that was what she wanted, but Minerva couldn't bring herself to say the words.

Loneliness bore down on her, and stilled her tongue.

"It smells delicious," Petunia murmured, peering into the pot of vegetables simmering on the stove. With a mischievous smile, she added, "And I'm actually feeling rather hungry tonight."

"Good," Minerva attempted a scolding tone, tempered with lightness and humor. But the syllable sounded hoarse to her ears. "I'd hate to have to bring Poppy a negative report on your first day out."

"Heaven forbid. Shall I set the table?" Petunia didn't wait for an answer as she spun away from the stove, reaching up into the cabinet for two glasses to set on the tiny kitchen table. Minerva watched as she quickly laid out the plates and silverware, folded napkins and straightened the bowl of fruit that she used as a centerpiece. So fancy for a weeknight, she thought, but smiled at the efforts.

This was civilization, she thought. This was health. Setting the table for a mid-week meal, using cloth napkins and sharing conversation with someone you loved over a home-cooked meal.

She realized what her expression was saying as Petunia turned suddenly to ask a question. She knew her thoughts were written all over her features, for Petunia's eyes widened, a blush spreading from her throat to her forehead as their eyes locked.

Minerva was the first to turn away, mumbled apologies tumbling from her lips as she searched for anything to distract her. Petunia closed the gap between them, her thin pale hand stopping Minerva's escape as she moved closer, face to face. "Minerva?" she whispered. Her eyes were enormous, full of curiosity and wonder and shock.

Petunia's fingers seemed to burn her skin. She dipped her cheek low, brushing her skin against that caress. A thrill of contact shot through her as her lips made contact with the other woman's fingertips, soft and sure as they traced her mouth.

It was Minerva who was trembling now, trembling as the younger woman stroked a single finger along her jaw line, lifting her chin to gaze at her. "Minerva?" she asked again, her voice low and smooth.

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "I should have told you...before."

"I didn't know." There was no accusation, no clue if Petunia returned her feelings. She felt the urge to push, to know immediately, but Minerva knew only too well how fragile Petunia still was. She wouldn't push.

"If you're uncomfortable, I can find some other arrangements. Another room," she clarified. "Where you can live. If you don't feel...right...staying here." Stupid, Minerva chided silently. Stupid, stupid woman. She should have told her, given her the opportunity to say no before moving her things into the spare room. Give her the chance not to feel obligated. Not to feel pressured.

She was still scolding herself when Petunia moved closer to her, brushing her lips gently against hers. It was the softest of kisses, barely registering as a real kiss, more like something from a daydream. She held her breath, holding still as Petunia explored the kiss, adjusting her position slightly, closing her eyes as she deepened the contact.

Minerva wrapped her arms around Petunia, pulling her into a warm embrace, unable to resist the urge to press her body against the younger woman's, to pour her emotion, her loneliness and grief, into that one, perfect kiss.

And dinner was forgotten as they kissed, wrapping themselves in the sensation of joyful exploration until the smell of burning soup forced them apart, laughing, to salvage dinner. And they ate their spoiled dinner, staring at each other and tentatively touching, both stunned and amazed at this unexpected happiness.

And they walked together to Minerva's bedroom, hand in hand, as they kissed more. Petunia loosened the careful bun that held McGonagall's hair captive, and Minerva untied the robes that hid her young lady's body from her. And they touched, lying in the filtered moonlight on Minerva's bed, sharing the history their bodies told, the scars and the wrinkles, the curves and the planes. And they created a connection between them, with mind and body and spirit and curiosity, as they gave each other the pleasures she'd so long denied.

And when their lovemaking was done, and their passions were spent for the moment, they lay together in silence, wrapped in each other's arms, tears glistening on their skin, Minerva's on Petunia's and vice versa. Minerva brushed her lips, tenderly, over the Death Eater scar on her chest. It had faded to pale pink against Petunia's cream-colored skin. It was the one aspect of her captivity Petunia never discussed, and might never share with her.

But tonight, in the moonlight of their first night together, it seemed enough to acknowledge the thing that brought them together, to remind themselves that from tragedy can blossom, full-grown, bliss.

And they slept in each others' arms, joyously unconcerned by the world around them, a heady chrysalis of sensual pleasure and emotional sanctuary wrapped around them, for the rest of the night at least.

And when they woke, it felt for the first time that the true dawn had come at last.

***

"I'm so happy to see so many of you here at the beginning of this term." Minerva looked out at the sea of faces, four long tables filled with children ranging from eleven years to seventeen, some excited, many just looking tired and ready for the banquet to begin. "As you know, there are many changes at Hogwarts this term, and I trust you will be patient and mindful of the crews that are working here on the new hospital."

She talked through the announcements, warnings of the Forbidden Forest, explanation of the rules, things she could recite in her dreams from so many years of hearing Albus Dumbledore say the same things. But now they had a different flavor, her personal touches here and there, new little jokes that would soon become old. And she felt a confidence returning to her that she hadn't had the previous year.

"I'm happy to announce two new members of our staff," she added. It had been tedious work, head-banging-against-brick-walls work, to convince the Ministry to allow Muggle teachers, but it was worth the effort. "Dr. Rachel Massengale will be teaching a basic healing arts class as well as assisting with the development of the Hogwarts Healing Center." She waited as the polite applause to end. "And Petunia Dursley will be taking over the Muggle Studies department." More polite applause. It barely bothered Minerva as she watched Petunia basking, shyly, in the attention. It was just a new beginning, she thought. A new beginning for Petunia, for Hogwarts. She couldn't run this school as Dumbledore did, but by Merlin, she'd run it.

And run it well. With a few more reminders about rule-breaking, Minerva felt it was time to let these hungry children eat. She raised her hands and the hall was filled with an abundance of food. She sat down, a nod to Sprout who was seated to her right. She leaned over and saw Petunia, somewhat ashen but steady, adding a modest bit of meat and vegetables to her plate. She smiled at her, and was graced with a warm smile in return.

Turning to her own meal, she was surprised to see a tiny object on the empty plate.

"What's that?" Sprout asked, leaning over to get some mashed potatoes.

"A Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean," Minerva laughed. She popped it into her mouth, grimacing as she bit into it. With a lift of her eyebrows, she cast a tired glance at Sprout. "Alas. Earwax," she said in a terrifyingly accurate impersonation of Albus Dumbledore.

Sprout stared at her for a long moment, then burst into laughter.

It was an excellent start to a new school year.

The End