Here Be Monsters

Saturday, 29 June 1996

1031 GMT

That went even worse than I was expecting.

I dry my eyes and pull myself together with the help of several lemon drops. Severus' hurt still seems to vibrate in the air like a poisonous aura. Whatever else you can say about the man, he certainly has quite a presence.

I rise wearily and make my way to my private lavatory. I am splashing cold water on my face and hands when I hear the first burst of music echoing from the stairway leading to the back corridors of the castle. It sounds like some kind of vintage muggle rock. After a moment I recognize the unmistakeable tones of Elvis Presley.

I return to my office just as a small, generally overlooked door in the wall near my desk opens to admit a house elf wearing a long black dress and white apron. She is carrying a largish feather duster in one hand and a muggle boom box in the other. From the box the sounds of Elvis Presley singing about hound dogs blare into the chamber. When she sees me she immediately turns the music off and gives an apologetic half-bow.

"Master Albus, I was not expecting to be seeing you here. I will be coming back later."

"That is quite all right Iris, quite all right." I raise my hands to calm the elf, who is hastily gathering up her boom box - a gift from me last Christmas and one of the few pieces of muggle technology enchanted to work inside the wards of Hogwarts.

"You are being sure, Master Albus?" she asks doubtfully. "Iris is needing to finish her cleaning."

"Go about whatever you need to do Iris, I will not be in your way."

"You are never being in the way, Master Albus," she remonstrates, walking over to Fawkes and producing a treat (highly concentrated peppermint) from a pocket of her dress. Fawkes chirps in greeting and soars to the edge of my desk to take it from her hand.

"I thought you would be taking today off, Iris." I walk over to the windows and stare vacantly out at the Quidditch pitch.

"Taking the day off. Master Albus!" Iris is clearly scandalized. Although she, like Dobby, is a free elf, she has not lost the house elf's sense of duty. She has taken care of my office and private chambers for many years now, as well as helping with several of my experiments. In addition to a passion for muggle music of all types, Iris loves to tinker with equipment, both magical and mundane. It is very useful to have a handyelf at my beck and call.

"I should have known better. Forgive me."

"Yes, you should have been knowing better Master Albus," she replies as she climbs onto my chair and starts to dust my desk.

"Have you finished with those components and parts I laid out for you?" I am not interested in the answer, really, but I need to talk to someone at the moment.

"Yes, Master Albus, Iris has fixed the scales naughty Harry Potter broke."

Fawkes hisses grumpily at that. Unlike Severus, though, Iris is not startled by the phoenix. She smiles at him and continues lightly, "Now don't be getting mad at Iris, Fawksie. Iris is knowing that Harry Potter is being good boy." She chucks Fawkes playfully under the beak with her duster. "He is just having temper tantrum, is all."

Fawkes evidently decides to accept that, as he lofts back to his perch with no more fuss.

To my surprise, Iris stops her dusting and climbs down from my chair. She approaches me with a look of indecision.

"Yes, Iris?" Whatever she wants to talk about, it can't be as bad as my last conversation.

"Master Albus," she pauses, clearly not sure if she should go on.

"Go ahead Iris, say whatever you wish."

"Master Albus," she takes a deep breath, "Harry Potter is being good boy, but he is also being VERY naughty to be yelling at you and breaking your pretty things. We are all being agreed."

"All, Iris?" It seems that the affairs of my office are even more common knowledge than I had feared.

"All us house elves. Even Dobby is agreeing!"

Now that IS something.

"I appreciate you saying so, Iris."

"We are all talking about it, when we are making the Leavetaking Feast," Iris continues, "and we are deciding that Master Albus should DO something about it."

"Professor Snape would probably agree with you." I say.

"Iris is not knowing about that, Master Albus," says the elf, clearly not comfortable with the idea of being in concert with Snape, "but we are thinking we know what you should do."

//This I have to hear.//

Tom, I didn't know you had a sense of humor.

"And what might that be, Iris."

"Well," Iris purses her lips, "there is three things Master Albus must be making naughty Harry Potter do."

"I am very interested to hear them." And I really am.

"First, Master Albus must make Harry Potter eat more. Harry Potter is being much too thin. It is no wonder he is being cranky. Master Albus must tell him that house elves will make Harry Potter good food and Harry Potter will eat it. Two helpings each meal, at least."

Odd, I didn't know Molly Weasley had any house elf relatives.

"Go on, Iris," I say.

"Second, Master Albus must be making Harry Potter drink lots of milk."

Excellent creature. "Warm milk I suppose, Iris?"

"That's right Master Albus. It being good to settle Harry Potter's tummy."

"Why would he need that, Iris?" Suddenly this is getting a little more serious than I expected.

"Dobby is saying Harry Potter blames himself for everything. Dobby is saying Harry Potter thinks he causes all his friends to hurt. That is being bad for anyone's tummy."

"Is that so, Iris?"

Kind, loving Dobby. I didn't know he saw so much. And I had the nerve to talk about Sirius' attitude toward house elves!

"That is right, Master Albus."

"And the third thing?"

"Master Albus must be making Harry Potter take a nap every afternoon." Iris says firmly.

"A nap?" For some reason, that suggestion disturbs me much more than the last one.

"Yes, a nap." Suddenly Iris looks very sad. She moves toward me, and her voice grows soft, as if she is telling a secret. "Dobby says that Harry Potter is never sleeping good. Dobby says that even when Harry Potter is not having really bad nightmares about ... HIM.." Iris's whole body shudders, "he cries and groans in his sleep. Is being very bad. When young ones are not sleeping, they are getting very cranky. Iris has seen it many, many times." She nods sagely.

Dobby, I will buy you a mountain of socks. And I will personally make sure that NONE of them have mates.

"So," I find that the lump in my throat is so large I have to force the words out, "the house elves have decided a nap would help."

"Yes. We are arguing a long time about how long every day. We are thinking at first an hour. But Dobby is saying that Master Albus will probably fix it so Harry Potter can play Quidditch again, and we are not wanting to cut into his practice time. So we are deciding a half-hour nap every day."

Wonderful creatures. I wonder if house elves could repel Dementors?

"Please," Iris continues, "no be telling Dobby I told you, Master Albus."

"Dobby? Why would I tell Dobby?" House elf intrigues?

"Dobby is wanting to come to you, but I am not being sure when he will get up the courage. He is wanting to ask you to send an owl to Miss Hermione."

"Hermione Granger?" This is getting complicated. "Why would Ms. Granger be involved?"

"Well, Miss Hermione, she is liking to knit..." she pauses awkwardly.

I nod to encourage Iris. I am aware of Hermione's noble but perhaps mischanneled ambitions to free the Gryffindor elves by leaving knitted hats and socks laying around for them to pick up.

"Dobby is thinking that maybe Miss Hermione would like to knit Harry Potter a blanket for his naps. It would be giving her something nice to do."

And stop her from upsetting the Gryffindor elves. I had no idea house elves could be so devious. Slytherins beware.

"And would Dobby tuck Harry in for his nap every day?" I know I am making a little fun, but Iris has cheered me up so that I can't resist.

"Oh no, Master Albus," Iris replies seriously. "Miss Ginny would be wanting to do that!"

"Ginny Weasely?" I ask slowly.

"Yes, Master Albus," Iris nods, "the girl Wheezey. She is wanting very much to be Harry Potter's other Wheezey. He already has one, you are knowing."

"Yes, I am aware of that."

"But she is wanting to ACT like she does not want to be Harry Potter's other Wheezey. And Harry Potter is not wanting to pay attention to her anyway. Why are humans being so stupid, Master Albus?"

If I knew that I would maybe be as wise as people think I am.

"I don't know, Iris."

"Iris is not knowing, either. Is Master Albus going to the luncheon?"

"What?" Suddenly warnings of an important date forgotten begin to flash in my mind.

"The luncheon in the garden. Master Albus goes every year."

Gads. The staff Leavetaking Luncheon. The teachers always gather in the garden for a final meal on departure day. In the stress of the morning, I had completely forgotten. I just barely have time to get there.

"Yes I will be going Iris. I am leaving now. Can you watch Fawkes? He is still a little touchy from his Burning."

"I am knowing Master Albus. That is why I am bringing him some music. It will be helping him feel better." She produces a tape from her pocket and switches it with the one in the boom box.

As I depart hurriedly down the stairs, the opening strains of the music follow me. Of course it is Stravinsky, "The Firebird Suite."

1106 GMT

I arrive just a few minutes late, having been delayed by Argus Filch who wanted to air a passle of complaints about the state in which the departing students had left the corridors. It is the first time I can ever recall having been late for the dinner, but no one seems to have noticed. Given the bizarre nature of the year, such a small departure from tradition probably does not seem worth marking.

Severus has not deigned to appear, which sends a pang of regret through my chest. Most everyone else is here though, except for Firenze, our newest faculty member. I suppose he still feels uncomfortable mingling too closely with humans.

Despite the dark news confirming Voldemort's return, everyone seems in a good mood. The lifting of the cloud represented by Umbridge has made even the gloom of uncertainty seem sunny. Dear old Flitwick is holding court in one corner of the garden, while Sybill Trelawney has ensconced herself in another. I am pleased to see that Minerva McGonagall has already arrived and is looking much stronger. She is currently talking pleasantly with Poppy Pomfrey and Professor Sprout.

I hurry to take my place beside Minerva, nodding pleasantly to all and sundry as I pass. Iris has managed to put me in a good mood, something I would not have believed possible after my disastrous encounter with Severus. I have said my usual few words and declared the meal begun before I first turn to talk with Professor McGonagall.

And my good mood comes crashing down like a badly enchanted broomstick.

"Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore," she greets me politely. But upon meeting my gaze her pleasant expression falters. Her eyes are clear and strong, but there are darker shadows lurking deep within them. Minerva likes to pretend to be stern, but I have learned over the years to read her moods. And now she is deeply troubled. Troubled and worried.

"Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall," I reply in the same polite tone. I give her a small nod to show that I have recognized her dissembling.

The smile she gives me in return is much fainter than I would like.

The conversation at the end of the table nearest Trelawney suddenly falters. I turn to see that Severus has stalked into the garden wearing an expression that would send gargoyles scurrying.

//Things bid well to get interesting again.//

Severus, please don't.

He does not approach me for the nonce, preferring to take a seat near a clearly flustered divinations teacher and proceed to eat grimly as if this were a meal before joining battle.

I am very much afraid that is the way he sees it.

Nevertheless the luncheon proceeds pleasantly enough for the next hour or so. Minerva manages to brighten up, at least when speaking to other staff, and I gradually draw my attention away from the glowering Snape. The strange presence that has stirred...

that Snape has awoken...

in my heart is quiet.

Unfortunately it is over all too soon. As the luncheon draws to a close Severus rises and sweeps in very like the great black bat of Quirrell's observation.

"Professor McGonagall, Headmaster," he bows briefly, his eyes as cold as ice chips, "have you both a moment?"

"A very brief one, Severus," I say quickly but brightly, hoping against hope that this is not what I think it is.

"Have you had a chance to speak with Professor McGonagall about the ... problem we discussed this morning, Headmaster?" Snape's lip curls, the expression in his eyes is vicious.

Please don't do this Severus. Haven't you been hurt enough?

"No, I have not had the chance, Severus," I say in resignation. I glance at Minerva, who is looking extremely apprehensive - as well she might.

"I was thinking that perhaps the three of us would be well advised to discuss it." Snape's voice is level, but I sense a cold fire radiating from him that would do credit to a Dementor.

I start to reject the idea at once, but catch myself. Severus is determined, and will keep at this until he has completely bloodied himself, or me, one way or the other. "Very well Severus. Perhaps the three of us should speak together, if you feel it is important."

"I do." His lips compress tightly. I would have expected the absence of his usual sneer to be attractive, but the look of sour determination on his face now only fills me with dismay.

Why are you so determined to destroy yourself, Severus?

//Because he wants to deny you the pleasure, Headmaster.//

Tom, I really dislike you very much.

"I would be happy to meet about any issue you find important, Severus," Minerva offers, her voice wary. Her expression shows that she is only too aware that anything Snape is pushing so hard can't be pleasant.

"Very well. Why don't you both dine with me this evening. Shall we say six?"

"I would be glad to, Albus." Minerva's expression is as close to pleading as her face ever gets. She obviously needs to speak with me privately. I catch her eye and nod briefly to show I understand.

"I will be there, Professor," Snape states flatly.

"Very well then," I try very hard to keep the dread from my voice, "until six."

1223 GMT

As I had hoped, Iris is still busily cleaning when I return. If I am going to salvage anything from this developing horror of a day, I will have to move quickly. "Iris, I need you to do something for me at once."

"Anything you are asking, Master Albus," she replies brightly, leaving off dusting around the fire grate to come over to where I am standing.

"Go at once and find Professor McGonagall. Tell her we need to meet this afternoon at three if she is able. She will be able to find me in the old transfigurations classroom."

"I will be going at once, Master Albus. What will you be wanting. Tea? Cakes?"

"Something simple, Iris," I say despairingly, knowing that the good elf will likely produce something to rival high tea at the Ministry. Then again, there is probably still a good deal of food left over from the Leavetaking Feast and it never does to be wasteful.

"As you are asking, Master Albus. Oh, and you might be wanting to let Fawksie sleep," she points to the phoenix, who is indeed sleeping with his head under one wing, "the music be doing the trick."

I decide to take her advice and retire to my sitting room, where I try desperately to make plans for the upcoming trek to Beuxbatons. Unfortunately, my mind refuses to focus on the task at hand. Before long I rise and head on tiptoe back into my office, going to a section of the wooden paneling that is decorated with pictures of the house mascots. I press them in a pre-defined order - badger twice, serpent once, raven thrice, badger once, gryffin thrice, badger twice. My hand still resting on the Hufflepuff symbol, I let myself smile. This is one of my favorite jokes, albeit one to myself.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good," I whisper. A section of the paneling slides back, revealing a largish set of shelves filled with paraphernalia. I look forward to showing this to Harry one day. I have often imagined the smile it will elicit when he finds that the password to the Marauders' Map has other uses. Of course, I will have to make sure he is in a calm mood. The objects in this cabinet tend to be both delicate and irreplaceable.

//Ah yes, the Headmaster's Hutch of Dirty Tricks.//

SECRET tricks, Tom, SECRET tricks.

I retrieve a bowl like a pensieve except formed of black material, along with several small crystal vials filled with brightly colored liquids.

Oh the joyous days Harry and I could have exploring the entertaining uses of the ancient, rare, and/or illegal tools I have gathered over the last century! Why we could spend entire afternoons while I tell him stories of how I came to assemble my collection. The dark bowl in my hand -- it is called a Mnemosynator -- me from a crypt below Istanbul. I imagine the sound of Harry's beautiful laughter as I relate how I dealt with the lamia set to guard the room.

Enough pleasant fantasizing. Time for work.

I move silently back into my sitting room and clear a spot on the table. Breathing complex incantations under my breath, I carefully apply drops of the rare potions and ingredients in the vials to the bottom of the Mnemosynator. This is the most trying part of process, and one I do not relish. Although I am far from unaccomplished in the field of potions and alchemy, my talent does not approach Severus'. I have often thought that one of that stubborn man's most infuriating traits is his persistent desire to teach DADA rather than relaxing and enjoying his gifts in a difficult and demanding arena.

Nevertheless, before long the various liquids have combined into a small pool of something with a bluish color and the apparent consistency of mercury. The difficult part over, I let myself relax for a moment before touching my wand to my temple and carefully withdrawing the memories I need. Placing the memory fluid on the bottom of the Mnemosynator, I briskly chant another set of incantations. The two small puddles quiver, then slide together and merge briefly. After a moment they slide apart. The memory fluid is unchanged, but the other has taken on the color of healthy grass.

Picking up an empty vial, I gather the green liquid with a quick spell. Then, with some reluctance, I replace the troubling memories in my head. I long for the relief of my pensieve, but I need access to these specifics.

Besides, I don't deserve relief from this.

I still have a little while before my meeting with Minerva, so I quietly replace the Mnemosynator and potions in their secret hideaway, slip the newly created liquid into a pocket of my robes, and decide to go for a walk to gather my thoughts. I deliberately skirt through the older sections of the castle. The portraits here are less well known, even to me, and less likely to wish to engage me in random conversation. I am also less likely to run into Argus Filch or one of the familiar ghosts. Sometimes even an empty Hogwarts can be a surprisingly crowded place.

My walk also does little to clear my head. There is so much happening at once - more even than in the First War, more even than in Grindlewald's time. The mess at the ministry seems to be getting worse by the day, at least as far as I can tell from Arthur Weasley's communications. I have no love for Fudge, and every desire to see him and his subordinates - especially one Dolores Umbridge - receive their just deserts. However disarray in the government is one of the worst things that could occur right now. I am even beginning to wonder for the first time if I made the right decision by not stepping into the Ministry myself when people urged me to do so, years ago. At the time I felt my place was at Hogwarts. I still feel that way. But the present crisis bids fair to endanger all of Wizarding Europe. Was I too arrogant? Should I have left Hogwarts in Minerva's capable hands and moved on to another post?

No, I have no business in the Ministry. It is a world that I could never have stomached, and trying to adapt to it would have been a disaster. For many people.

As if the current situation hasn't been a catastrophe beyond reckoning.

Sirius, why couldn't you have stayed at Grimmauld Place like I told you? Of all the things that could have happened to Harry, your death was the worst.

The thought of the Ministry also reminds me of the turmoil in the Weasley family.

Percy, Percy. You have hurt your family so badly. And you have disappointed me to the core.

//Perhaps the esteemed Hat made a mistake there, eh Professor.// Tom's voice gloats. //Our young lion seems to have some distinct snakelike characteristics.//

No, the Hat did not make a mistake. Sortings are not simple matters of recognition, but hard calls of judgment. Percy has the full bravery of a Gryffindor.

It's just that he is too foolish to understand the right causes to which to put that bravery.

//Now, now. Are we perhaps letting the Hat off the hook? Yet another case of rampant sentimentality, Professor?//

I really don't know. In truth, I have sometimes wondered if single sortings at entrance are wise. Given the tendency of people to grow and change, maybe we should re-sort everyone every year - including the Heads of House. Wouldn't that raise howls if I proposed it!

I find that I have directed my steps toward the old transfigurations classroom without even meaning to. I suppose it is natural. After all, I taught in this room for decades. Even now as I approach the voices of former students seem to echo through the dingy and now little-used corridor.

I enter the room to find that it has been freshly cleaned and the windows opened. One thing I always liked about the classroom was its abundance of windows, which now let in solid streams of sunlight. The furniture was removed from the room long ago, but the house elves have set up a couple of small tables with two large old-fashioned wooden chairs. They have even remembered a stool for Minerva. As I feared one of the tables is groaning under the weight of various treats and candies, not to mention a distinctly ornate tea service.

Well, it seldom pays to argue with house elves. That reminds me that I still have to decide on the fate of Kreacher, the traitor who betrayed Harry into Voldemort's hands. The last of the Black family being deceased, he is technically free, but completely insane. He currently resides in the bowels of Hogwarts castle, watched over by our own house elves.

I am helping myself to the tea when Minerva enters. She is walking much better now than she was just a few days ago, but I fear she has still not regained her full strength.

Even this early in the afternoon signs of tiredness are showing on her face. Still, she accepts tea and candy with a smile. I draw up a chair near to hers and make a point to maintain eye contact. Minerva has a way of relying on her on strength far too much - something I might say for many people around Hogwarts.

"Thank you Albus," she says as she arranges her refreshments on a small table the elves have placed near her chair, "I assume you felt that we should discuss strategy concerning whatever it is that is bothering Severus?"

"Quite right, Professor McGonagall." I cannot resist smiling and attempting a small jab, "Are you quite sure you don't have a seer's talent."

Minerva snorts. Despite her kindness toward Professor Trelawney this year, and her ready acceptance of the centaur Firenze, she has made not secret of her low opinion of divination as a branch of magical studies. "Hardly Albus. But even Severus is not in the habit of being so insistent on a Leavetaking Day, and at a Leavetaking Luncheon, without good reason. And it must be something delicate, or else you would have called all three of us together at once."

"Once again I am deeply impressed by your powers of analysis, my dear Minerva," I respond in all truth. "However, before we get to that matter, am I correct in sensing there is something you about which you wish to speak with me, first?"

"My powers of analysis indeed! Albus, it is impossible to keep anything in this castle hidden from you, isn't it?"

"Oh, it is indeed possible, Minerva,"

The last four years have provided several examples of THAT

"but it IS difficult." I finish. "However, I did not think you were attempting to keep it particularly concealed."

"I wasn't," she admitted. She frowns then and takes a deep sip of her tea, her expression uncharacteristically unsure. "But it is not easy to admit my mistakes."

Minerva, compared to me what do you have to admit?

"Don't flay yourself, Professor," I offer her another cake, "Just say whatever it is that needs to be said, then I will do the same."

She sighs and shifts as if finding it difficult to arrange herself in a comfortable position. "It probably won't surprise you to hear that it's about Harry Potter."

The thing in my heart suddenly uncurls and sits up on its haunches.

"I am never surprised to hear that anything in this castle has to do with Harry," I say in my calmest voice.

DON'T LET THERE BE ANYTHING ELSE! DON'T TELL ME I'VE LET MORE PAIN FALL ON HARRY!

"What in particular has happened?" I put my cup aside, and I am absurdly proud that my hands are so steady that the china does not even clink.

The thing in my heart shifts restlessly.

"I had a conversation with Hermione Granger this morning," Minerva smiles in her peculiar way that conveys both deep compassion and stern determination in one expression. "It confirmed something I had been suspecting for a while, ever since certain practices of Dolores Umbridge's came to my attention."

"Practices Minerva?" There are many that come to mind.

"Her rather intense method for assigning lines." The compassion is completely gone from Minerva's smile now.

"Ah yes, that infamous quill." Once she had gained a firm grip on the school, Umbridge had used the quill on several students. I can only imagine what the reaction of the parents will be. I am looking forward to redirecting Howlers in the direction of Fudge and the Ministry.

I am also looking forward to observing the longer-term results of Fudge's obstinence and Umbridge's ... sadism. I am not by nature a vindictive man, and many times I have had to stand silent in the face of unfairness that has made my heart burn like fever. My dislike of violence and my distrust of revenge were the main reasons that I retrieved Umbridge from the ministrations of the centaurs, much as she deserved to remain with them. Still, a passion for revenge is not the same as a liking for justice. And after this year there are many people for whom justice is overdue.

"It occurred to me that she probably used that method during Harry's detentions earlier in the year." Minerva's smile is completely gone now.

"Please I go on," I reply, my stomach suddenly convulsing as I remember watching Harry's detentions

OH HARRY YOUR POOR HAND

from afar, frozen from interfering by political necessity and varieties of calculated reasoning that did not keep me from retching

HARRY OH MY HARRY

as I observed Harry's blood splattering on parchment while Umbridge

HAGTOADVILEVILEVILETOADHAG

looked on and gloated.

Some people are very lucky I am not by nature a vindictive man.

Suddenly Minerva's face is twisted by an emotion I am all too familiar with. It is one I have been battling constantly nearly all of this terrible, terrible year. It is anger - the kind of anger directed inward at one's one horrid mistakes.

"Albus," McGonagall says in a tightly controlled tone, "he came to me for help and I refused. I turned a deaf ear to him and sent him to that monster."

I have picked up my teacup again, but at that I set it down so fast the crack of abused china fills the room.

It takes me a brief moment to compose myself as a flash of rage nearly causes me to roar

"YOU DID WHAT!?" The creature in my heart has let out a bellow that I choke down with all my might.

Control yourself Albus. This is Minerva, not Severus.

"I find myself doubting that, Professor McGonagall." If she notes that I do not use her given name, she gives no sign. "Please tell me everything."

"She didn't bother to inform him of the detentions herself, she sent me a message about it. When I told him he asked if there wasn't something I could do, since he had only spoken the truth. I told him it was not about truth or falsehood but about keeping his head down and his mouth closed. I even said she was his teacher and had every right to give him detentions." McGonagall speaks flatly with the tone of one relating simple facts. But her hands twist in her lap.

I feel myself relaxing. I even manage a sad smile. "Minerva, you had no way of knowing what was going to happen. And that was good advice that Harry would have done well to heed."

Her hands continue to twist. "But later Albus, when the problems continued ... I went to him and told him he must get his temper under control. I even took points from him!"

//Well, that was remarkably stupid if I do say so.//

Tom, do shut up.

"I regretted doing it that very night," Minerva continues, "but I was so tired Albus, with Umbridge and the Order and all, and when I heard he had blown up yet again... I was the one who should have kept my temper under control."

"You meant well, Minerva." I reach over and lay my hand on her shoulder. She smiles sadly.

"Later, after things began to get very bad, I started to hear rumors. I did not want to believe them."

Kindhearted Minerva. As stern as you like to pretend you are you cannot quite believe the depth of human evil, can you?

"Then," she continues, and I see she is fighting to get words out, "I started to see students bleeding ... bleeding Albus! ... from their hands, and I knew it was true. And I remembered all those detentions and I..." she chokes and wipes the corner of her eyes.

"You suspected the same had happened to Harry." I finish for her softly.

She nods. "And so this morning I managed to corner Hermione Granger and she told me... she told me the monster had made him carve his hand every night! The very night I took points from him he had to go and slice his skin open!" She lowers her head and buries her face in her hands.

So much guilt. So little fault.

I squeeze her shoulder. "And now you are blaming yourself, wondering why he did not come to you?"

She nods slowly, then raises her head and wipes her eyes once more. "I can't help but think that if I had been more patient with him... I knew what he had been through Albus, why did I have to be so abrupt?"

"You were tired," I say softly, "and the strain was too much. We cannot shoulder the evils of the world, Minerva."

Unless, of course, like me you cause so many of them.

"I would have HELPED him Albus." Her face contorts and I can see she is doing her utmost to keep from openly crying. "I would have! If he had come to me, if he had shown me, I never would have allowed...." she lowers her head again.

"Minerva..."

"That day on the Quidditch Pitch," she continues softly, "when she gave him the lifetime ban - he just stood there Albus. I wanted to say something, DO something. But I was so stunned... Why can't I ever speak up when I should? Especially about Harry?" She looks at me, and now there is a dark shadow once again in her eyes - a shadow of memory.

Why didn't you stop me from leaving him at Privet Drive? That is what you are thinking, isn't it Minerva.

//Very good question.//

SILENCE!

"We will have the ban off, Minerva," I say.

//Not that he is likely to have time to play Quidditch at any point in the near future.//

Maybe not. But we WILL have the ban off.

She nods. "But why did he just look at me Albus? I wanted him to cry, to yell, to do something! But he just looked at me. Looked at me like he knew I was useless and not to be trusted."

"Minerva, I..."

What can I say? I watched it all from afar. Watched it all and I was not thinking of you, Minerva. All I wanted to do was fold Harry in my arms and let him sob.

But I did not do anything either.

//My you are a useless bunch.//

I don't have a reply for that.

"And then I heard about that quill and..."

"He was protecting you Minerva." I speak softly but sharply. This is spiraling out of control and I will not have her crucifying herself.

"What?" She looks at me puzzled.

"Harry knew you would help him."

Well, that is not exactly true. But I know you would have.

"He knew you would help him," I continued, "and he was afraid that Umbridge would sack you. So he said nothing."

I won't get in to why he did not come to me, although the very bones in my body ached to see him come running up the stairs to my office.

"He was protecting me?" Her tone is half-wondering, half-angry. "How DARE he!"

I fight back a smile. This is much better.

"I am the Head of Gryffindor! It is my place to protect him!" Spots of color have appeared on Minerva's cheeks. "What was that boy thinking?!"

"Or not thinking, as the case may be." I finish, smiling.

"How DARE he protect me when that hag was torturing him! I'll give him something to protect when I get my hands on him!"

Oh yes, this is much better.

Then I feel my smile slip.

"Harry is not very good when it comes to asking for help, Minerva." I reach for my teacup, and this time it rattles appreciatively as I lift it. "That is my fault. I left him with the Dursley's, and they taught him never to admit weakness."

Minerva is looking at me sadly. However, she makes no move to contradict or argue. I have long known how she feels about that decision, although she rarely mentions it.

I try to comfort myself with the thought that she does not know my full reasons. No one does, except now Harry. But my effort at self-justification rings so hollow even in my own head that I abandon it before it really starts.

"I am afraid I have made things worse, Minerva. I do not know how he will ever trust us again." Tears burn in my eyes, but I manage to retain my calm.

McGonagall now reaches out and places her hand on my shoulder. "Sirius?"

"It is the worst thing that could have happened, bar maybe the death of Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger." I take a shuddering breath and reach from a lemon drop. The elves have thoughtfully left a crystal jar full of them on the tea table.

"It is going to be difficult, Albus." She takes a breath of her own. "We need to have him out of there, quickly. And over the summer, maybe we should talk with him?"

"We must," I say.

And now things get extremely bad.

"Something has happened - something terrible." I offer her a lemon drop, which she accepts absent-mindedly.

"So finally we get to Severus." Her expression is grim but not without humor.

I bite back a bitter chuckle. How naturally the thought of disaster and Severus Snape go together.

"Yes." I reach into a pocket of my robes and pull out the vial of green liquid. "To save time, I prepared this."

"A memoria extract," she says immediately, "from your pensieve?"

"No, from my mind. It contains several key scenes that you can see better than I can describe. And it might be best if you absorbed them directly. Do you mind?"

"Not at all." She takes the vial and swallows the contents quickly. Then she leans back in her chair and closes her eyes while her mind assimilates the memories I have copied from my brain.

"Oh no." She breaths softly. "Harry!" Her hands clench again, and this time stray tears do roll down her face. She is reliving the scene with Harry in my office.

Now she relaxes as her mind moves on to my recent encounter with Snape.

She does not stay relaxed long.

"WHAT?!" Her shout is almost enough to set the china rattling. I can only assume she has reached the part about Harry's use of the Cruciatus Curse. Tears descend in steady streams as she progresses through the rest of the confrontation, hissing at various parts that I think I can identify as being Snape's least charitable comments.

Finally she opens her eyes, looking dazed. Silently, I offer her a handkerchief which she uses to wipe her face. I then offer her my hand, which she grips with fingers that feel like iron.

"Albus," her voice trembles, "you should have told me sooner! We should have spoken to Harry before he left. Oh the poor, poor child."

"He would not have listened," I explain, suddenly feeling every one of my years bearing down on me, "and I am not sure he will now. I am not sure what it will take to get him to listen."

"But we MUST speak with him. I can't imagine..." she smiles suddenly, a real smile. "He was not able to use it, was he? He was not able to torture Bellatrix, even after what she had done."

I squeeze her hand. I knew Minerva would see it.

"No," I say past a lump the size of London, "he was not."

"What a splendid Auror he will make!" she exclaims suddenly.

I can't help but laugh. "Harry is splendid in his own right. And what do you mean Auror? In case you haven't noticed, we have a Defense Against the Dark Arts position we can't keep filled!"

"Oh ho," her eyes dance merrily, "and I suppose you intend to chain him to the floor to keep him from flying off?"

"Something like that," I allow. "I suppose I'll settle for chaining up his broomstick. Of course I'll have to set up wards against summoning charms." The reminder of the Weasley twins' last escapade causes us both to spend several long seconds chuckling.

No, Harry cannot be flying off to work for the ministry. He and I have far too many enjoyable days to spend together.

Once he starts speaking to me again, that is.

//And once...I...am dead.//

Well, that too.

Frankly at the moment I think that dealing with Voldemort may prove the easier of the tasks.

"But what shall we do about Severus?" I ask softly.

"Don't tempt me with such an open-ended question," Minerva answers, her good humor not quite evaporated.

"I understand the temptation," I allow. "But we do have quite a problem."

"Yes." Suddenly she is completely serious. "I would not have imagined his hurt could run so very deep."

"As I told Harry, I had forgotten." I sigh. "Despite everything I said this morning, he is determined to worry this issue like...." the image I was about to use sticks in my throat.

"A dog with a bone?" Minerva finishes quietly.

SIRIUS. What I wouldn't give to have you back for Harry's sake. And mine.

"Yes."

"I know how you feel about the man, Albus," Minerva begins slowly, "but you have done everything to try and get him to back off with his feelings intact. I just don't see how to spare him."

"Neither do I." That is what is causing a burning sensation to build in my stomach.

"He won't be satisfied with anything less than a full trial." She snorts. "I think we can agree that after what Harry went through this year..."

"A trial would be out of the question regardless!" I almost growl.

Still.

Suddenly an idea has sprung up in my mind, rather like one of Professor Sprout's Mirage Cacti.

"Yes Albus?" She has known me a very long time, has Minerva.

I quickly outline my inspiration.

"I don't know," she says, "it probably would not work, Albus."

"No," I admit, "but nothing is likely to work and this has a better chance than most."

"We don't have much time." When Minerva sets out to play Devil's Advocate, she sometimes over does it.

"All the more reason to begin now. If you will excuse me, my dear Professor McGonagall? I have a great deal to do quickly and you need to get some rest if you are going to be in top form this evening!"

"REST," she explodes, "I'll have you know Albus Dumbledore..."

I leave her still remonstrating and hurry back to my office. Fawkes is awake and greets me cheerfully. I stroke his feathers and offer him a treat then ring a small chime, a different one than that I used to summon Professor Snape this morning. My desk is always well stocked with writing supplies - Iris sees to that - so I am almost finished scrawling quick notes when the house elf arrives.

"Master Albus is calling?" she inquires politely, looking with frank curiosity at the pile of envelopes on my desk. They are official Hogwarts stationary, with the Headmaster's seal and the urgent marking.

"Yes Iris. I need these delivered at once. Summon other elves to help if you need. It is vital that they all arrive to their recipients in the next few minutes."

"Iris is doing, Master Albus."

I hand her the stack, asking as I do, "How are things with Kreacher?"

"Well, they are being OK ... now." She turns to hurry off, but I catch her with my eye and she stops with a visible sigh.

"Now?"

"Well, when Dobby is finding out what Kreacher has done to Harry Potter, it is taking four strong house elves to be pulling him off." She turns to go again, but I clear my throat loudly.

"And how is Kreacher?"

"Well," she sighs again, "Kreacher is not being very handsome to start with, Master Albus."

"IRIS!"

"House elves be healing very fast, as Master Albus knows."

Indeed I do.

"So you are keeping Dobby away from Kreacher?"

"Oh yes Master Albus. After all, house elves are having enough work without cleaning up the floor - and the walls - and the ceiling."

I do not want to know.

"Just keep them apart Iris. We may need Kreacher yet."

"That is what we be telling Dobby!"

"And what did Dobby say?" I brace myself.

"He is saying that Master Albus could probably still be using Kreacher if he is not having his arms and legs."

//I have to admit, the elf has style.//

So he does.

"Is Master Albus wanting to talk to Dobby?" Iris asks a little fearfully.

"No," I say after a moment's consideration, "just keep them apart." The last thing I need is Dobby punishing himself after a reprimand.

"Is there anything else Master Albus, Iris should be going." The elf hoists the bundle of letters and looks at me with a faintly scolding expression.

"No, go on Iris. Make sure they are delivered."

"Iris is already saying ...."

"I know Iris," I chuckle softly, "I trust you. Just go."

The elf scurries off. I stroke Fawkes and lean back in my chair, planning my strategy for the evening.

This could be an absolute catastrophe.

And how else would it be different from everything else I've done this year?

How else indeed?

Despite everything, I find that my mood has lifted slightly.

Taking a piece of paper, I make a note for new research on whether house elves can repel dementors.