Fic: "All Things right and proper", Part III

[donnaimmaculata]

Title: All Things Right and Proper
Author: Donna Immaculata
Rating: R for darkish themes, language, some sexual contents and allusions to drug abuse
Pairings: Petunia Dursley/Vernon Dursley, Augusta Longbottom/Frank Longbottom Sr., Minerva McGonagall/Aberforth Dumbledore
Word Count: 24,700
Warnings: Vernon Dursley as a lust object. Yeah, I know.
Summary: Glimpses into the lives of Petunia, Minerva and Augusta during the events of The Deathly Hallows
Author's Notes: This was written for the hp_beholder fest on IJ for lyras. She asked for character studies, women kicking ass, plot, characters who aren't black or white, 'fade to black' rather than PWP, UST, working around canon, angst with hope, and I tried to squeeze in as many of her requests as possible.
I did squeeze in appearances of Remus, Sirius, Snape, Kingsley and Great Uncle Algie, some Weasleys, cats, goats, obscure crossovers, and divers alarums.

Part I
Part II


All Things Right and Proper
wrtten for lyras for the HP Beholder exchange
Part III

Ever since Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood had tried to steal Godric's sword from Dumbledore's office, the rules prohibiting any communication between students and teachers had been tightened. It had become almost impossible to talk to students without Snape or one of his spies and stooges breathing down her neck. Ironically enough, it was undoubtedly thanks to his many years of experience as a member of the Order and spy for Voldemort that Snape had become so very well-versed when it came to setting up and maintaining a network of disciplined and devoted henchmen.

Of course, Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood never came back to school after leaving for the break, and Minerva was glad for it. She knew that Ginny Weasley was safe with her parents, and she assumed - as she had never heard anything to disprove that assumption - that Luna was safe likewise. Neville Longbottom remained a bit of a worry. That boy had clearly developed a death wish and was giving Snape and his minions ample reason to punish him.

The problem was, as much as she wanted to protect these children, she couldn't suppress a feeling of triumph and wild joy whenever she encountered one of the many proofs of rebellion at Hogwarts, proofs of undying loyalty to the school and to Dumbledore. With an unerring instinct, she had known since the beginning of the school year that Neville Longbottom was one of the ringleaders of the rebellion, and she regretted that she had stopped the boy from joining her Transfiguration class in his sixth year. It would have been so much easier to communicate with him were he still her student.

The way things were she could only protect the children in the same way as the other teachers did: covering up misconduct, not giving detentions, keeping them out of the way of the Carrows and Snape.

She hated herself for it, but she avoided talking directly to Snape as much as possible. He knew she was in the Order, and she knew that he was a skilled Legillimens, and all she could do was keep her thoughts to herself and not give him any reason to interrogate her. Surprisingly, Snape didn't search the contact. He could easily try and corner her, but he seemed to acknowledge that she didn't want anything to do with him, and accepted it. Whenever there was a crisis - when she had to physically and at wand point stop Amycus or Alecto Carrow from torturing a student, Snape would appear on scene and they would circle each other like two cats; but there never were any repercussions.

Minerva sighed and took off her glasses, rubbing her tired eyes. It had become increasingly difficult to keep Augusta Longbottom informed about Neville; she didn't want to say too much, nor too little. Augusta seemed delighted to hear about Neville standing up to the Death Eaters who were running the school, and the fact that he had become a victim of torture in the process didn't signify much.

"My husband fought against Gellert Grindelwald and didn't complain about injuries, "Augusta had said. "My son fought against You-Know-Who, and he, also, did not complain."

Minerva didn't say anything, but her heart broke at the thought that Neville Longbottom, whom she would always remember as the little clumsy child carrying around an ugly toad, would meet the same fate as his grandfather and father.

She finished writing the note to Augusta, folded the parchment and slipped it into an envelope, sealing it magically. The note would be impossible to read without a password, and Augusta was the only person who knew it. Augusta would pick up the letter at the Hog's Head, where Minerva was heading to now. She was fairly sure that her late-night visits to Aberforth's bar were a favour grudgingly granted and that, some time soon, Snape would put an end to it. Every single time she sneaked out from the castle and crossed the grounds, heading for the lane to Hogsmeade and Apparating from there to Aberforth's goat stable, her heart was beating madly and she knew that she was taking a great risk, but she couldn't help herself. It was thrilling and a bit insane, and it was something that Sirius Black would have delighted in, and which Albus would have supported and which Harry Potter would have been caught and given detention for. It was exhilarating.

The stench inside the stable was almost unbearable. There was the sound of goats ruminating, one or two of them raised their heads lazily as she sneaked past them on tiptoe, heading for the door. She took a deep breath, focused, and felt her body tingle and quiver as it shrunk down and into the shape of a tabby cat.

The world changed. The smell of goat became even more overwhelming, but it wasn't unpleasant anymore. The goats, the hay stacks, the troughs - they were more than indistinct dark shapes now, she could see everything clearly. She leaped onto a milking stool by the door, sat down, wrapped her tail around her paws neatly and pricked up her ears to listen to the sounds from the bar. When Aberforth was alone and it was safe for her to come out, he would whistle "How can you mend a broken wand". She had disapproved of it, considering the lyrics rather inappropriate, but Aberforth had pointed out that he wouldn't be actually singing it. "The lyrics are all in your head, Professor Minerva," he had said, and, to her immense annoyance, she felt herself blush.

As a cat, her heart was always beating faster than as a human. It was perfectly normal, therefore, to feel it rap frantically against her ribcage, like a trapped bird. The thought of birds had barely passed her mind when Minerva's cat body reacted instinctively and automatically. She crouched down, scanning her surroundings carefully, the tip of her tail twitching. There were always swallow nests in stables, everyone knew that. And indeed, a swallow nest hung high above her head, attached to a roof beam. It was inhabited, she knew it. She could sense the life pulsating inside, and her body was crouching ever lower, her tail slashing the air, her pupils huge. It was too high to jump, she knew, but the feline in her did its best to ignore the voice of reason.

A sudden flood of light gushed over her. Minerva swirled around, meowing angrily, momentarily blinded. But her cat's eyes adjusted within seconds, and she saw Aberforth loom in the doorway. He was smirking down at her.

"Good evening, Professor Minerva. Would you like to come in?" He moved aside to make room for her. "I'm quite tempted to pick you up and carry you through, but I don't think that would be proper behaviour."

Minerva hissed and changed. "It most definitely wouldn't be," she said as primly as possible, considering that she had just been caught off guard and displaying a most embarrassing lack of self-control. "I thought we'd agreed you would whistle."

"That we did. But then I thought to myself, it is improper to whistle for a lady. So I came over to fetch you."

Minerva snorted. "How did you know I was here?"

Aberforth nodded in the direction of the goats. "They told me. Got nervous when you Apparated. Could hear them moving, all restless and anxious."

"You know, Aberforth, I will never understand your affection for these animals," said Minerva when they went through to the bar. She took off her hat and loosened some of the pins that were holding her hair in the tight bun, while Aberforth was pouring them drinks. "Why goats?"

"If I had a Knut for every time someone asks me that," said Aberforth, his voice gruff, but his eyes smiling. Minerva smiled back, and, in the next moment, hid her mouth by taking a deep sip of her drink. It burned down her throat.

"Your health, Professor Minerva," Aberforth raised his glass to her and drained it in one huge gulp. "Tell me, then, what's going on at Hogwarts?"

Minerva sighed. "It's getting worse and worse," she said, shaking her head sadly. "Neville Longbottom has apparently decided to follow into the footsteps of Harry Potter when it comes to talking back and disruptive behaviour. He gets punished every day, and he doesn't even try to hide the fact that he's the one leading the rebellion. I've tried to caution him, to tell him not to be stupid, but he's enjoying his role as designated hero much too much. The other students are egging him on, unsurprisingly, as does his grandmother." She sighed again. "I've never had much patience for Neville Longbottom, Aberforth," she said in a low voice, as though admitting to a shameful secret, "and I'm not sure I like that transformation much. If anyone had asked me six years ago which student I thought most likely to end up like Sirius Black, Neville's name would have been nowhere near the top of the list. Now, he's the prime candidate."

"Don't you think it's brave of him to stand up to the Death Eaters who run the school?"

"Perhaps. But it's also rather stupid to do it so openly. That's the problem with my Gryffindors, Aberforth: the lamentable lack of cunning," she smiled grimly. "The older I get, the more I see it that way."

"My brother was pretty outspoken against Dark wizards," said Aberforth, "and yet, he was also very cunning. Extremely cunning."

"You know, Aberforth, I think this is the first time I hear you speak well of your brother."

"I'm not. My brother has carefully trained these kids to become what they are. 'Dumbledore's Army', they call themselves. Hah!"

"We will never agree on that account, Aberforth," Minerva said. "You think your brother-"

"I think my brother has turned all these unfortunate young creatures into puppets in his master plan, which he then conveniently forgot to share with anyone! Secrets and lies, Minerva, that's what Albus was all about. Even from behind the grave he is still manipulating their silly little minds, twisting 'em and probing 'em so that they think they've got to do his bidding instead of thinking for themselves."

"They are thinking for themselves, Aberforth! They just happen to agree with Albus - as do I!"

"Well, you used to be his student, too! He has formed you-"

"Are you seriously suggesting," Minerva had risen from her stool, leaning across the bar, her voice rising threateningly, "that I, too have a 'silly little mind'? Am unable to think for myself?"

"Tell me then," Aberforth had likewise leaned in, his tall person towering over Minerva effortlessly, "has Albus ever let you in on his plans? Ever shared his insights and his conclusions with you? Ever trusted you?" He snorted. "Trust against trust, eh, Minerva?"

"I think you've got a very skewed view of what trust means, Aberforth. It doesn't mean that we have to share everything with another person. It doesn't mean that we trust them because of what they tell or not tell us. We trust them because of what they are."

"And what was he?"

"The noblest man I ever knew."

"Then, Professor Minerva," Aberforth said, straightening up so that she blinked at the sudden loss of closeness, "I fear you haven't met many noble men." He took both empty glasses and placed them carelessly into the sink, opening the tap to let cold water wash over them. "Why don't you just give me what you came here for and go back home? It's late."

Cursing herself inwardly, Minerva unbuttoned her cloak, pulled out the letter to Augusta from an inside pocket and placed it on the bar. Aberforth had taken the glasses from the sink and was polishing them again, using the same old rag as always. Underneath the gesture, behind his spectacles, behind the grizzly beard lay a sudden sadness. Driven by an impulse, Minerva stretched out a hand and touched his sleeve, very lightly.

"I think I have," she said.

Aberforth looked up. His eyes, a piercing blue like Albus', had an expression that his brother's eyes had never had. The silence in the room was so complete that she could hear the sound of the goats shuffling and chewing in their stable, even over the pounding of the blood in her ears.

"Allow me." His voice startled her. Aberforth had dropped the rag and the glass into the sink and walked around the bar, towards her. He held out his hand, and she took it automatically, allowing herself to be led to the door. He opened it and the goats looked up in unison. One gave a hesitant 'baa'.

"Good night, Professor Minerva," said Aberforth. "Have a safe journey home."

She wasn't quite sure how and when it happened, but just before the darkness of Apparating embraced her, she felt warmth and soft hair tickling her face and his mouth on hers, and in the next moment, he let her go and disappeared from view as she let herself being carried to the gate to Hogwarts.

She let several candles burn in her bedroom, getting undressed, freeing her hair from the tight knot, brushing it in front of the mirror, one long stroke after the other. When she eventually fell asleep, it was only to be haunted by dreams that, even though they had nothing to do with Snape, nor the Carrows, nor the bruised faces of tortured children, made her wake up restless and flushed and covered in cold sweat.

~*~

The sleepy village of Theddlethorpe All Saints didn't often know excitement. There had been the one time when the vicar's pigs had got into Mrs Brackety-Smoke's garden, and once the school children had given a concert where a very young boy recited a very rude poem without quite understanding what it was about (luckily, the local upholders of moral standards knew and they made sure to inform everyone), and of course the fiasco with the bypass road which didn't get built on schedule so that the entire traffic was redirected through the village and people had to jump out of the way of lorries coming at them at high speed.

The villagers had tried and failed to pay more attention to the little old lady living all alone in the overgrown cottage at the very outskirts of the village, where the paved road became a dirt track leading up to the forest. Some people thought in a very vague way that there was something odd about the old lady. Perhaps it was the fact that she was keeping herself to herself so much, or perhaps it was her choice of clothes, which were very odd indeed, even though no-one could describe them in detail, even if they tried. From time to time, the current generation of children would entertain themselves with the idea that she was a witch. They would gather together, form a miniature mob and then set off to the old lady's house to throw stones at the owl nesting in the old gnarled tree in the garden and shout 'Witch! Witch!'. But even before they arrived at the end of the long road, which, for some reason, seemed longer than it should be, sweating in the merciless glare of the sun, drenched to the bone by the sudden downpour of rain or freezing in the truly Antarctic cold, they lost interest in the undertaking and forgot what they had come for. They went fishing instead.

From time to time, Augusta Longbottom went for a walk around the grounds she considered hers and strengthened the protective spells there. For many years, the fields near her house had remained fallow, but a young farmer had now dared challenge his family's views that the place was 'cursed' and had begun cultivating it. Augusta liked the young man who reminded her somewhat of Frank and she let him be. His crops never fell victim to any pest, and the cows he let graze by the forest were the only ones in the area which had not suffered from the foot-and-mouth disease that had befallen British cattle a few years ago. (That didn't change the fact that he had to put his cows down nevertheless, as they had grazed in the vicinity of infected cattle. But that was hardly Augusta's fault.)

Since Harry Potter's survival of the duel with You-Know-Who after the Triwizard Tournament, the intervals in which Augusta renewed the spells had become shorter, and the spells increased in quantity and quality. She had begun studying ancient books that had been in her or her husband's family for centuries, often together with Enid. The dusty volumes would be scattered around her living room as she and her sister were sitting amidst them. Enid would be wearing her tall turban and a loose house robe, and they would both smoke one long thin cigarette after another.

She would always put the books away neatly after that. There was no need to display the lack of discipline to other people.

The spells that protected her cottage from intruders were not quite as loud and obnoxious as the Caterwauling Charm, but just as effective. It was new moon, and the night around her was pitch-black when Augusta was suddenly wakened by something that she could best describe as a change in the texture of the air. There was a lightness there that made it easy for her to literally rise from her bed without experiencing the usual aches and problems (they would catch up with her down tomorrow, she knew that). Grabbing her wand almost before she was awake, she floated gently to the opposite side of the room, from where she had a clear view through the window and over the garden.

There was no time to get dressed. Augusta threw her travelling cloak around her shoulders and jammed the vulture-topped hat on her head. She hung her handbag, containing some vital items, over her arm and was ready to leave when movement in the garden caught her eye. It was still very dark, but the Glowing Magnolia - a present from Algernon, bless him - began emitting a very clear, very pale light, whose most important property was the fact that it was much better visible from the distance than from close vicinity.

The man who had just set foot into her garden was naturally not aware of it. Assuming that he was standing in the shadow of a tree, he was as clearly illuminated as if he were standing under a street lamp. Augusta could see his face very distinctly and she shuddered in disgust and anger. It was Dawlish, the Auror who two years ago had tried to arrest Dumbledore and who, as rumour had it, was one of the first traitors to run over to You-Know-Who.

Augusta moved her wand in a delicate, flowing motion, sending out a signal that set off the sleeping shrubs and flowers. They began to move at once, swaying gently as though in a breeze, and there were sounds and smells rising up in the air that enchanted and hypnotised, and blurred a man's vision and his senses.

She could see Dawlish begin to sway likewise, like a man who had had too much wine, but he wasn't a trained Auror for nothing. With some difficultly, he shook off the trance and, looking around furtively, pulled out a broom from under his cloak. He could not Apparate into her house, and so he would try to fly in.

Augusta gripped her wand more tightly. She would have to face him - she couldn't outrun or outfly him, and she had to leave the protected area to be able to Disapparate. But the prospect didn't scare her. Her family - including her grandson - had faced much more serious opponents than Dawlish.

She lost view of him for a moment after he had mounted his broom and kicked off the ground. And then there he was, hovering right in front of her window. At a flick of her wand, the windowpane turned into a thin sheet of icy water, which burst open like a bubble the moment Dawlish released his first jinx. The water cascaded down him, freezing his lungs and stabbing him with thin ice shards as sharp as glass. He curled up like a worm on a hook, his mouth a perfect 'O' of shock, and his wand slipped in his fingers that were already glazing over with ice. He didn't drop his wand, however, and, in the next moment, a warming charm was drying his clothes and unfreezing his skin and muscles.

That moment was all Augusta needed. She floated up in the air again, still light-footed and weightless, pushed herself up from the wall and charged at the man. He raised his wand, pointing it directly at her, but it was too late. Her spell was already underway, propelled by the force of her own momentum and her burning anger. The broomstick jerked and twisted under him, suddenly more supple and bendy than a piece of wood should rightfully be, and Dawlish found himself suspended in mid-air sitting astride the back of a very large, very angry snake. As they dropped to the ground and into the Gnawing Nettles growing by the house wall, Augusta's owl emerged from the shadows, carrying a broom in his beak.

"About time, too!" Augusta panted, grabbing the broomstick and mounting it from her still airborne position. "The spell would not have kept me afloat for much longer."

She flew one or two circles over the house and garden before leaving them behind. Had any villager been up at that time of night, he would have been treated to the sight of the little old lady from Wishing Well Cottage speeding through the air on a broomstick, her long cloak and her high, thin cackle trailing after her.

~*~

There was a knock at the door.

Petunia, Vernon and Dudley looked at each other in surprise. Petunia, already in her nightdress and dressing gown, was wearing an apron and her yellow rubber gloves and was kneeling by the coffee table at which they had had dinner, polishing it and nagging at Vernon and Dudley who were playing a game of Exploding Snap and were in her way. It was too late for a social call, and in any case, Dedalus Diggle had been there just that morning and Hestia Jones two days previously. Apart from Minerva McGonagall, they were the only visitors the Dursleys ever had, and, according to Hestia, it was unlikely that Minerva McGonagall would have the time and the opportunity to pay them a visit any time soon.

"The situation at Hogwarts is escalating. Several students have disappeared and we know that they are leading an underground rebellion against the headmaster of the school."

"Sounds like they need some discipline, eh?" Vernon had rumbled. "Give them a good thrashing, see if that doesn't stop them."

"A good thrashing is what's set them off in the first place," Hestia had said coolly. "The students have been tortured, by order of the so-called headmaster, who is, in fact, working for You-Know-Who."

"…as Hestia has explained before, Dad," Dudley had said. "Have you forgotten? Or weren't you listening?"

"Working for Lord Whatshisname, is he? Why don't you people get rid of him, then? Lure him into a dark corner, bang him over the head with something or other-"

"…a frying pan, most likely," Dudley had muttered.

"-and that's that!" He had punched the armrest with his fist. "You people make it far too complicated."

Hestia had clenched her teeth, visibly fighting for control. "You can't simply lure the most powerful Dark wizard into a dark corner, Mr Dursley. You-Know-Who is much too clever to leave his hiding place - he sends out his minions."

"I wasn't talking about Vold- thingummy. But that headmaster, he's just one of the drones. Get him to abdicate."

"By luring him into a dark corner?"

"Why not!" Vernon had roared. "Why not! Got to make sacrifices! We are making sacrifices, why not you? You yourself," he pointed a thick finger at Hestia, "why not put on some nice dress and go and run into that headmaster in his office and then lure him into some dungeon or other? Pretty girl like you-"

"Dad!"

"That's enough, Vernon!" Petunia's sharp voice had rung loudly over Hestia's gasp and Dudley's stammered apologies. "Dudders, you bring Miss Jones to the door and then come straight back here, young man! Vernon, no more whiskey for you."

It was highly unlikely therefore, that Hestia Jones would come back anytime soon, especially that late at night. The Dursleys held their breath.

There was another knock at the door, this time with more force to it. Vernon's jaw was twitching, his moustache quivering. Dudley looked wide-eyed and pale. Petunia was clasping and unclasping her hands in her lap.

"Maybe it's the Muggles - I mean, our neighbours?" Dudley whispered. "Maybe some of the spells broke and they can come in now?"

"It's not that Voldy fellow, that's for sure," grumbled Vernon. "He's not one to knock, is he?"

The knock repeated a third time.

"I'll go and see who it is." Petunia stood up resolutely and walked to the door. Dudley jumped to his feet.

"Careful, Mum!"

"Don't worry, popkin," said Petunia, gripping the baseball club that was leaning against the wall, and unbolting the door. "Mummy will be all right."

Her club raised, Petunia yanked the door open, screaming "What do you want?!" at the top of her voice and ready to beat any intruder to a pulp. It took her several seconds for her blood-red vision to lift, and then, she recognised the only wizard she was truly happy to see. He was standing before her, tall and imposing, and gaping at her in astonishment.

"Ah, Mr Shacklebolt," Petunia said, lowering her club and smoothing down the front of her apron. "Good evening. Please come in."

Only then did she notice that Dudders was standing right by her side, his fists raised in the manly boxer pose she so much admired in her boy. Vernon was backing him up, holding an empty wine bottle over his head like a club.

"What are you doing, you silly boys?" Petunia said, leaning her baseball club against the wall again and stepping back to let in their visitor. "It's just Mr Shacklebolt... And he's brought a friend."

Vernon lowered his makeshift weapon, but he didn't abandon his hostile posture. Petunia knew that he had never forgiven Kingsley Shacklebolt that he had not volunteered as their protector instead of that halfwit of a wizard and that slip of a witch.

Kingsley Shacklebolt reached out a large hand to shake hers, but stopped dead at the sight of her yellow rubber gloves and waited for her to pull them off, his hand hovering uncertainly in the air. Tugging nervously at the elastic material, which seemed reluctant to come off, Petunia caught a glimpse of the man who was standing behind Shacklebolt, half-hidden in his shadow. He was quite tall and very skinny, and his pale, drawn face was carefully composed as he very clearly tried to not laugh. Petunia flushed with mortification and anger.

It was Dudders, that clever, darling boy, who stepped forward and shook Shacklebolt's hand. The atmosphere unfroze. Shacklebolt entered the house, where he was welcomed by a rather reluctant but not openly hostile Vernon, and began introducing his friend, who had stepped in behind him but remained standing by the door, as though poised to flee at any moment.

"Please, Mr and Mrs Dursley," said Shacklebolt in that calming voice Petunia couldn't but trust. "Allow me to introduce my friend Remus Lupin. He and I need your help."

Petunia pursed her lips disapprovingly, but she didn't say anything. She didn't like the sight of that Lupin. He seemed quiet and polite enough, but there was something about him that rubbed her the wrong way. First of all, he had quite obviously found her appearance comical - which was quite rich, coming from a man who was wearing what was basically a dress, and a very shabby and patched one, at that. And then there was an air of danger around him which she couldn't quite pinpoint. As polite as he was, she was sure that that man could strike unexpectedly and, if necessary, deadly. The calm gaze of his dark eyes sent chills down her spine.

"What kind of help?" asked Vernon even before they were all seated by the table. Petunia
put the kettle on and began taking out cups and saucers from the cupboard.

Shacklebolt and Lupin exchanged a look across the table. Shacklebolt spoke.

"I'm not sure whether you're aware that I… that we are on the run," he began.

"We are," blurted out Dudley. "Hestia told us. And it was on the ra- the wireless. We've been listening to it a lot." He pointed to the magically repaired radio on the windowsill, then frowned. "It was you, wasn't it?" He asked, looking from Shacklebolt to Lupin. "You were on the radio. Broadcasting. On Potterwatch."

Vernon snorted. "Potterwatch!" he muttered under his breath.

Lupin smiled. "That's right, Dudley" he said softly. "It is Dudley, right?"

Dudders nodded. "Are you a teacher?"

Lupin gave a short laugh. "Also right. Two out of two. What else can you guess, Dudley?"

"Dunno," Dudley shrugged. Petunia was watching him affectionately. Such a clever boy, able to guess the truth about people instantly, even if these people were wizards.

"You listen to Potterwatch?" asked Shacklebolt.

"We do. Hestia gave us the password for a broadcast and we have been listening ever since," said Dudley.

"That's… quite a surprise, really," said Lupin. "I'm impressed."

"Well, there's nothing else for us to do while we're locked up in this ruddy house, is there?" Vernon said.

Lupin's mouth twitched in that annoying not-quite-smile again. Petunia wanted to slap him. She got up and made tea instead. "If I'm not mistaken," she heard Lupin say, "you have not been locked up all the time. You've been leaving the house recently."

"How do you know?" asked Petunia and Dudley in unison.

"They've been spying on us, that's how!" Vernon shouted.

Lupin waved a hand dismissively. "You don't seriously think we're spying on you? We've got much more pressing things to do. No, it's quite simple, really: every time you leave a designated safe house, you leave traces on the spells and the enchantments surrounding it. Wizards leave more traces than Muggles." And the expressions on the faces of all three Dursleys told him that he hadn't make the matter any clearer, he continued: "Look, imagine the protective spells to be something physical, like a hedge surrounding the house. A hedge might be crossed many times before being completely destroyed, but every time someone forces his way through it, they will leave broken twigs and crushed leaves in their wake. If the person forcing their way through the hedge is a big and heavy man, they cause a greater deal of damage than someone who's small and slight. In magical terms, you are a lightweight. But you have nevertheless crushed the one or other leaf."

"We have fixed that now," said Shacklebolt. "The spells are back in place. But it is immensely important that you don't leave the house from now on."

"What, never?" asked Vernon, infusing his voice with as much sarcasm as he could.

"Until the war is over. It can't be long now - one way or another," said Lupin.

"One way or another," whispered Petunia, and as all four men turned around to look at her, she said: "Oh, what am I thinking, keeping you waiting for your tea!" She carried the pot to the table and began to pour it into the cups, her hand trembling.

"Let me give you a hand, Petunia," said Lupin, already half-raising from his chair.

"Stay away from me," she snarled with a forcefulness that shocked and astonished her. "And I don't remember being on first-name terms with you, Mr Lupin."

He sat back down, his face rather pale, but his voice was as calm as ever. "My apologies, Mrs Dursley. I didn't mean to be presumptuous. It's just," he shrugged, "I was friends with your sister at Hogwarts, and later. She always spoke of you as 'Petunia', of course. So I'm quite in the habit of thinking of you under your first name."

"Well, you bloody well better get into a new habit, then," Vernon snarled, and Petunia had never loved him more than in that moment, because all that she could do was sit there completely petrified, with thoughts running around in her head like a perverted kind of mantra: 'A friend of Lily, a friend of Lily, a friend of Lily…'

"And now, if you please, tell us what damn favour you need from us, and then bugger off. It's getting late."

"As we said, we're on the run," said Shacklebolt.

Petunia startled and rose to her feet. "Mr Shacklebolt, would you like a top-up?" she said, as though in trance. Everyone stared at her.

"Er… no, thank you, Mrs Dursley," Shacklebolt said slowly. "I'm fine."

"Petunia, dear, sit down." Vernon reached out and wrapped his fingers around her hand, squeezing gently. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

And indeed, while she let the rest of the conversation wash away over her, barely listening to Shacklebolt and Lupin explain that a woman they knew was also on the run, and that she was a very old lady who had been attacked by Death Eaters in her own home and had contacted them asking for help, and they thought it would be a good idea to install her in the safe house for the time being, where she could help keeping the magical protections up-to-date, and that her grandson was at Hogwarts, fighting, all Petunia could think was that she had seen a ghost: the ghost of her dead sister that had emerged to haunt her after all those years.

She didn't remember when the two men had left. She remembered Vernon helping her upstairs and putting her to bed. There was concern in his gaze as he looked down at her, before disappearing in the bathroom. She could hear him brush his teeth and gurgle and spit and that gave her enough time to climb out of bed and rummage through her handbag in search of the small plastic bag with the round white pills which she had learned to buy at the local pub. If indeed that old witch was moving in with them soon, Petunia might not have another chance to sneak to the pub again. She must be careful and keep the pills for special occasions only.

Coming across the ghost of your dead bay sister qualified as a special occasion. Petunia swallowed a pill and, in the secure knowledge that she'd feel better any minute now, climbed back into bed. Vernon wouldn't know a thing.

"You were very civil to that Shacklebolt bloke tonight, Petunia," said Vernon a few minutes later, as he was folding his trousers over the back of the chair. He sat down on the bed and began rolling off his socks. Petunia felt like giggling. She crawled over to her husband and, kneeling behind him, wrapped her arms around his massive chest.

"Are you jealous, Grumpy Bear?" she whispered against his neck. "You are, aren't you? You're a big fat jealous Grumpy-Bear."

Vernon grunted. "Of course I'm not jealous. You are my wife, Petunia. And if you just release your grip for one moment so that I can blow out that candle, I will show you just how much my wife you are."

"No, Vernon," she shook her head, feeling her cheeks burn.

"No?"

"Don't blow out the candle."

And as Vernon turned in her embrace and rolled on top of her, she thought that perhaps - very perhaps - their life in that house had one good thing to it.

~*~

They had conducted thorough searches of the entire castle and the grounds, but to no avail. Minerva was well aware that there were hidden corners aplenty at Hogwarts that no-one could find unless they wanted to be found, but she held her tongue. Neville Longbottom and with him an increasing number of students from Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff had simply disappeared.

"Don't lie to us!" spat Alecto Carrow, while her pig-faced brother was baring his teeth and twirling his wand in a manner that he apparently considered threatening. Minerva raised her eyebrows at the display.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Professor and Professor Carrow," she said, looking down her nose at them. "I have not the least idea where Mr Longbottom is hiding, nor how to find his hiding place. I don't know how else to explain that to you. Would it help if I were speaking more slowly?"

"Longbottom is in your House! You must know where he's gone to!" Amycus shouted, pointing his wand at her. "Tell us!"

"But unfortunately, as he didn't attend my Transfiguration classes and as any communication between teachers and students has been prohibited, I have, in fact, not exchanged any more words with Mr Longbottom in the course of the last year than you have. On the contrary, you have spoken to him much more often. Without any success, as it seems."

The brother and sister exchanged an exasperated look, turned away and headed for the door. "We are not giving up," Alecto spat, her hand on the door handle. "We're just…"

"…regrouping?" supplied Minerva. "I am glad to hear that. I shall like to see Neville Longbottom again and to shake his hand when I do. Good night to you."

The moment the door slammed shut behind them, Minerva sunk down into her chair, hiding her face in her hands. It was all very well, standing up to the dim-witted Carrows, but she wasn't sure how much longer she'd be able to carry on and, most importantly, how she would hold her own in the face of real danger. The solution was drawing nearer, she could feel it in her blood, in the air around her, in the castle. Hogwarts more than ever seemed like a sentient being, dormant still, but getting ready to rise. Filius and Pomona and Horace - they all knew, and they knew that Snape could feel it, too.

It had been a long while since she had last sneaked out of the castle at night. The Hog's Head wasn't quite the same safe haven that is used to be, before... before that night of which she didn't allow herself to think more than necessary. It was foolish to indulge in such adolescent ideas.

But Aberforth had proved true to his word and had been an ally and a friend to her, helping her to smuggle messages in and out of the castle and remain in touch with people like Augusta Longbottom, who was now on the run from the Ministry and had found refuge with the most unlikely of allies, and like Remus Lupin, whom she had always wished to see happy but knew that it would never be, and like Kingsley Shacklebolt, into whose skills and confidence she had considerable faith.

Under the cover of her best and most dangerous disguise, Minerva slinked along the walls, always in the shadows, down the seemingly endless staircases and to the underground lake, where the boats used to carry first-year students to the castle were moored. She fought a short internal battle with herself and finally decided that the risks of stealing a boat far outweighed the benefits. She disliked water as much as the next cat, but she also knew she was a good swimmer and so, after washing herself, stretching and flexing her muscles and generally putting the inevitable off as long as possible, she crouched down low, gave a short, angry meow and leapt into the cold water.

It wasn't as bad as she had imagined. The cat didn't like being in water, but Minerva had always rather liked to swim, and she focused on the pleasant memories that she had of lazy afternoons by the lake, when she was young and quick and able to outswim almost everyone else.

She wasn't quite so quick now, but the cat was doing fine, and she soon had left the grounds of Hogwarts and was heading for the other shore. She climbed up a grassy bank, looking as pathetic and shivering as any wet cat does, and, as soon as she had pulled her whole body out of the water, shifted back into her human shape. She might look just as pathetic and shiver just as much as a woman, but at least she could use her wand to get herself dry again. Soon, Minerva McGonagall was marching resolutely along the narrow path and to the outskirts of Hogsmeade. There, she stopped, turned around on the spot and Disapparated with barely a sound.

The familiar smell of goats seemed almost comforting. Minerva gave herself a few seconds to ponder the sheer ridiculousness of her behaviour, before she pushed open the door and stepped into the bar.

It was empty and dark. With a rising sense of dread, she lifted her wand, muttering a spell to scan her surroundings for traces of Dark magic. There were none. There was a voice, however, a very astonished and very familiar voice, addressing her from the shadows.

"Professor Minerva? What are you doing here?"

"Good evening, Aberforth," she said with as much dignity as she could master, considering that her hair was wet and messy, her robe damp and dirty and that there were mud and leaves sticking to her shoes. "Anytime, you've said. I am taking you at your word."

Aberforth laughed, a deep, rich laughter, such as she had not heard in a long time.

"Serves me right," he said, "trying to mess around with a cat. This way, Professor, tonight you'll have to keep me company upstairs. The bar's closed, the fire's died down - there's nothing left for us here."

His sitting room was surprisingly neat and comfortable. Minerva tried to ignore the painting of the girl over the fireplace, but as it was the most prominent item in the room, she couldn't pretend not to see it for longer than a few moments.

"Ariana didn't resemble either of you," Minerva said quietly, without looking at him. Aberforth smiled grimly.

"You don't know that. You don't know what she'd look like if she had a beard."

She laughed, quite suddenly and surprisingly to herself.

"Your hair is wet," Aberforth said. "What did you do? Swim here?"

"I did, as a matter of fact," Minerva admitted, almost cheerfully. It didn't matter how much she was giving away, how much he knew or guessed. Aberforth pulled a rug from the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders, brushing away wet strands of hair that clung to her neck.

"Thank you, Aberforth. This is really warm."

"Goat wool," he said, grinning. "Best in the world."

Minerva smiled, and she pulled her legs up, wrapping her arms around them, and rested her cheek on her knees. Aberforth was prodding the fire with an iron poker, and then he stepped over to her and sat down on the floor beside her. The lenses of his spectacles reflected the firelight, obscuring his eyes and giving him a rather ominous appearance. Minerva reached out and pulled the spectacles off his nose.

"It will be over soon," she said calmly.

"Yes. It will. He's won."

"Don't say that," she whispered. "Please don't say that."

Aberforth opened his mouth, but Minerva shook her head. "Please. I didn't come here to argue."

"Wasn't going to argue," said Aberforth, and she kissed him.

She had known he would be kissing back, but the sensation surprised her in its heat and intensity. And as she was lying beside him, on the thick carpet in front of the fireplace, and he was unbuttoning her dress, one button after another, Minerva knew that the things they argued about were not important. The ones they agreed on were.

~*~

Harry Potter's relatives were very clean and very odd. When Augusta had first arrived, escorted by Kingsley Shacklebolt, whose calm, composure and aptitude as a leader brought her to mind her Frank, as she told him at once, the Muggles eyed her suspiciously and rather insolently. She saw revulsion in the woman's face, and she was just as appalled herself. It didn't take her long to realise that the woman was running the house (as was right and proper), and she was amazed that she did so without the use of magic.

Augusta considered herself a reasonable woman. While stuck in that house with the Muggles, she could just as well try to be kind to them. To her unspeakable amazement, the Muggles rebuffed her very considerate offers to help them out with magic and insisted on lighting the fire and the candles with 'matches', carrying dishes and other household items in their hands instead of levitating them, and reading newspapers that had pictures in them that didn't move.

After some huffing and exchange of words and a very undignified outburst of rage from the Muggle man, Augusta finally settled for the role which she was apparently meant to play in that pantomime of a family life: the elderly aunt on a visit. It was pleasant enough not to have to do any housework, she had to admit that. She spent a major portion of her days sitting in the garden and writing long letters to her sister Enid (telling her everything about the Muggles' odd little quirks and habits), to Algernon (assuring him that no matter what would happen, she would not abandon the country of her fathers), to Frank and Alice (full of promises that the Dark wizards who had tortured and broken them would soon be conquered), to Neville (telling him how proud she was of him), to Aberforth Dumbledore (short, cryptic notes that kept him and through him her grandson informed about what was going on in the world) and to Kingsley Shacklebolt (confirming the arrival of his messages). Only Aberforth and Shacklebolt actually received their letters. The other letters were never sent off, and Augusta kept a rapidly growing stack in her room, determined to give them to their addressees in person and, in case of Frank and Alice, to read them to them one day.

It was important to remain in touch with Kingsley Shacklebolt, who, even though on the run himself, managed to set up and maintain a tightly-knit network of associates and allies throughout the entire wizarding world. He would send Augusta messages by owl and by Patronus, and hardly a day went by when she didn't tremble for the life of her trusted owl Thialfi.

She had been waiting for Thialfi to return with a message from Aberforth for days and had almost given up hope. Thialfi was very old and very wise and had served her family for many decades and it was unlikely that he would let himself be intercepted. Still, she was very worried, and it was the Muggle boy, of all people, who came up with the solution.

"Who are you writing to?" he asked, watching her sit in the rocking chair she had Transfigured from a footstool and pore over a piece of parchment.

Augusta raised her head and regarded him in silence. "To my son and daughter-in-law," she said eventually. "And don't mumble when you talk to me, young man."

"Are they fighting in that war, too?"

As always when someone asked about Frank and Alice, Augusta's heart gave a short, sudden spasm, and she raised her head proudly to answer. "They are not. They fought in the first war against You-Know-Who and were badly injured. They have been in St. Mungo's ever since."

"Saint what?" said the boy, frowning.

"St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries," Augusta said. "The best healers in the world are looking after them."

"When will they be healed?"

"Never. Their injuries are permanent. There is nothing anybody can do for them."

A confused expression appeared on the boy's big face. "But I thought you can do everything with magic, why not healing?"

"It is not always possible to heal injuries that have been inflicted by powerful magic. By Dark magic," said Augusta. "Didn't you know that?"

He shrugged. "I don't know much about magic."

"But… you are Harry Potter's cousin. Surely he must have told you something? How old are you?"

"Almost eighteen," said Dudley. "It's my birthday in three months."

"Eighteen," said Augusta thoughtfully. "As old as my Neville."

"Who's Neville?"

"You don't know who Neville is?" Augusta was quite taken aback. "You really are quite ignorant."

He shrugged again. "S'ppose so. But it's not my fault. No-one ever explains things."

"Neville is my grandson," said Augusta. "He's fighting against You-Know-Who's supporters at Hogwarts. He's had to go underground, but he is still fighting."

"All these people are fighting, only we're sitting here, doing nothing," Dudley muttered. "I want to do something. I want to help."

"You are a Muggle," Augusta said, but in a kind voice, "there's nothing you can do."

"Yeah, you keep say that. But what if there was? Like…" Dudley frowned, clearly casting around for ideas. She leaned back in her chair, waiting for him to come to the right conclusion himself.

"Like… your owl," he said eventually.

"What about my owl?"

"It's just an animal, right? Can't be very clever. And he carries important letters for you. I know that you and that Shacklebolt, that you were worried your owls can be intercepted. Why don't you use the post office to send letters?"

"The Muggle post?!" She was quite shocked. "We've got perfectly working methods of communication, thank you very much."

"Why not? It works. And that wizard Lord will hardly intercept that."

"What you are forgetting, young man, that even if we were to follow your eccentric idea, Mr Shacklebolt is on the run and does not have a Muggle address in any case."

"He doesn't need one. All he needs is a PO box," said Dudley. He sat down on an upturned crate by her chair and leaned in, his big face shining with enthusiasm. "I'll explain."

And it had worked. To Augusta's unspeakable amazement, the Muggle boy's - Dudley's - idea had worked. After his assignment as the protector of the Muggle Prime Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt was well well-versed when it came to the use of Muggle techniques and technologies, and he was open to ideas. He would send messages by Muggle post, which Dudley Dursley picked up at the local post office, and Augusta would write messages in turn which were delivered to something Dudley called the 'post office box' and which was a safe and reliable method of keeping in touch. She never embraced the method entirely, but she could put up with it. No-one could call her unreasonable.

Keeping in touch with Shacklebolt was of vital importance, because he was organising not only the entire what Dudley Dursley called 'logistics of the resistance movement', but also the escape routes of witches and wizards who tried to leave the country. It had long become apparent that most of the people who had been forced underground were interested in flight rather than fight. It was a disgrace how quickly the witches and wizards had given up, and Augusta didn't mind telling them so when two of Arthur Weasley's sons, together with a rather eccentric young man sporting an unusual hairstyle, paid them a visit one afternoon and broadcast their subversive wireless programme from the safe house. They invited her most kindly to share a few words of wisdom with the wizarding community, and she did, and more than just a few, reminding everybody that they had a duty to their families and their country.

"If you run away now, your children and your children's children will never have a home," she told them. "Take care of your families. Keep together and keep them safe."

The Dursleys were very reluctant to let Fred and George Weasley and the young man called Lee Jordan into the house. Despite his interest in Potterwatch, Dudley Dursley didn't leave his room for the entire duration of their stay. Petunia Dursley stayed in the kitchen, scrubbing the oven furiously, and Vernon Dursley was pacing the hall. After the nice young men had left, Vernon Dursley exploded in fury, shouting that he would not have any of that scum in the house. Augusta was about to jinx him, but restrained herself just in time. It would not do, setting a bad example to the whole wizarding community by hexing a defenceless Muggle.

Instead, she squared her shoulders and said very haughtily: "These young men have dedicated their lives to helping people like you and your family. They are trying to keep Muggles safe and bring Muggle-borns to safety."

Petunia Dursley rushed in from the kitchen.

"Muggle-borns to safety?" she asked, breathlessly.

"Yes, my dear woman, to safety. As you might know, Muggle-borns are being prosecuted by the Ministry and hunted down by You-Know-Who, and most of them are on the run and in hiding. Unless they have been already caught."

But the woman wasn't listening.

"Vernon," said Petunia Dursley, her lips very white, "Vernon. Muggle-borns… that means people like my sister. Like Lily."

Augusta was never quite sure what had happened there. From one day to another, the atmosphere in the house had changed. Vernon Dursley had become much more subdued, and Petunia Dursley, thin-lipped and fervent, had opened the door to refugees who were desperately trying to leave the country.

Augusta couldn't approve of their attitude. Fleeing was cowardly, no matter how great the danger. She helped nevertheless, albeit reluctantly, to smuggle the one or other Muggle-born or half-breed into the house, where Petunia fed them up a bit and she and Dudley put them on Muggle transport.

"If they travel the Muggle way, they'll never get discovered," Petunia said, and she was right.

"How come you've never thought of it yourself?" Dudley asked a Muggle-born woman who was sitting in their kitchen, watching Augusta Transfigure passport for her from an old Muggle newspaper. Augusta was using Petunia Dursley's passport as a pattern.

The woman shrugged. "I don't really know. It's not that simple. Once you're part of the wizarding community, you sort of… belong there. I'm not sure I can explain."

Petunia Dursley pursed her lips, but didn't say anything. Augusta huffed in indignation. "If you consider yourself part of the wizarding community, my dear, you shouldn't be running away."

The woman's eyes welled up with tears. "I know I shouldn't. But I can't stay here, watch everyone around me get killed. I'm just not strong enough."

"Well, let's just hope you'll be strong enough to come back and help rebuild our world as soon as You-Know-Who is gone," Augusta said. "You'll always be welcome back, don't forget that. There are too few of us as it is. We've got to forgive each other's mistake."

And that was that. Augusta's life settled into a routine which differed from all that she'd known before, and it wasn't all bad. She could be useful, and every night, before she went to sleep, she wrote a short letter to her Frank, telling him about her day.

Then, she burned it. It wouldn't do for Neville to find these letters when she was gone, they were private and meant only for her and her husband's eyes.

~*~

On the morning of May 1, Harry Potter broke into Gringotts and stole a dragon.

On the evening of May 1, Augusta Longbottom was startled by the sudden appearance of a silver goat which rushed into the living room when they were having dinner and spoke in Aberforth Dumbledore's gruff voice: "Harry Potter is fighting You-Know-Who at Hogwarts. Come quick."

Even though they couldn't see the Patronus, the Dursleys could tell that magic was happening. Augusta had jumped to her feet and was already half out of the door when she turned around one last time, saw Petunia's wide-eyed expression, Vernon's trembling moustache and Dudley, who was hunched in his seat, but who was the first one to speak.

"This is it, isn't it?

Augusta thrust her vulture-topped hat on her head and left without another word. Clutching her husband's hand in hers, Petunia watched from the living room window as she turned on the spot and disappeared into thin air. And for the first time since she had been dragged into this world, she felt that her fate and that of her family was in safe hands and that Lily's son had a chance to survive the power that had killed his parents.

The End