Chapter Thirty four

The next morning was sombre. Molly had used the Floo to inform them of Minerva's hospitalisation following her assault as Aurors tried to arrest Hagrid. Sirius and Remus had been sanguine, recalling Minerva's strength, but Ophelia saw their concern in their shared glances and silence. Ophelia chewed her lower lip and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She was glad to escape to her room to mull over her own thoughts. This was war. She'd experienced it before and suffered its demands and greed. As she sat on her bed, watching the clouds drift past the window, she wondered how she could feel so hurt and yet so understanding of what had happened. Minerva had come close to dying...the thought brought tears to her eyes...but deep down, she was hard: people died in war.

By mid-morning, she sauntered down to the lab to finish a batch of potions. The thought of work lifted her spirits, and she considered making a potion for Sirius, so he could visit Minerva. It would be easy enough to make Polyjuice. Her work occupied her until just after lunch and her stomach growled its impatience. Storing the full bottles in the rack, she turned off the camping stove and wiped down her workbench. Casting a critical eye over her workplace, she moved to the kitchen to make food.

Sirius joined her, the aroma enticing him in from the parlour. He smiled and sat down.

"Smells good," he rumbled.

"It's pumpkin soup," she supplied. "I suppose you'd like some?"

"Wouldn't dare to insult the cook by saying no."

"Very smooth," she chided good-humouredly.

The soup was delicious, and they ate in companionable silence. It seemed that they'd become accustomed to their new personas and roles. Sirius knew that his little Ophelia was gone, and Ophelia had relinquished her destructive grip on the idea that Sirius had been responsible for Regulus' destiny. It was a start to a new relationship. Sirius asked for seconds, but before she could dish out another portion, a strange, screeching howl reverberated around the house.

"Buckbeak! Stay here, and I'll go see what's wrong," he said with a smile.

A few moments later, Sirius darted into the kitchen and skipped over to open up a cupboard and pull out the first-aid kit. He caught her questioning look on the way out and shouted out his answer as he pounded back to the bottom of the stairs.

"Cut on leg... needs bandages!" He stopped on the bull-nose and fixed her with a pointed look. "If I'm not down in five minutes, come and rescue me." And then he was off, taking the stairs two at a time.

"He won't hurt you," she called out. "He knows who gets him his ferrets." That and the hippogriff was actually fond of Sirius.

She stayed to clean away the dishes, listening to Buckbeak clawing and pawing the attic floor, as well as his occasional screech, but it was odd that it sounded so much like a harsh laugh. Shrugging, she slipped out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Her eyes caught sight of something, but when she looked again, she was left staring at the elephant-foot umbrella stand at the bottom of the stairs. She rubbed her eyes and peered into the gloom, but there was nothing to see.

The food, the lab-work and the stress of the morning conspired to exhaust her, so she climbed the stairs to her room and settled down to nap. A smile curved her lips. She loved the freedom to just curl up under the covers and close her eyes on the world. It was a luxury she cherished.

oXo

Later, angry voices drifted up from the hallway; alert and curious, she scurried to the top of the stairs, but shied away when she saw some of the Order crammed into the narrow hallway. She could see Sirius, red and shaking with rage, held back by an agitated Remus, while the others were stoppered behind the struggling pair. A young witch with purple hair looked on with a pained expression; a tall, dark-skinned wizard looked on impassively, and she could see Alastor Moody, pale and exhausted, glowering at the scene before him. They all seemed to share a dark look and then slipped past the two wizards and headed out of the door.

"You have to stay here," Lupin pleaded, his voice edged with desperation.

"Bollocks to that!" Sirius roared, ripping his friend's hands from his shoulders and pushing him away. "This is my godson we're talking about!"

He shrugged off Remus' attempt to grab him and stormed over to the door, yanking it open hard enough to bang it against the wall, but an outraged Lupin seized him around his shoulders and dragged him away.

"Someone has to stay here to tell Dumbledore about Harry; he doesn't know what's going on!" Lupin shouted in his face, pressing his squirming friend into the perishing plaster. "Sirius! Please!" he begged softly, beseechingly.

"Is that it?" Sirius demanded furiously, spittle flying from his mouth and his eyes blazing. "I'm a messenger boy now?" He pushed savagely at his friend, causing him to strike the side of the stairs heavily, the back of his head hitting the wood with a dull thud.

Remus reached up to clutch the back of his head, grimacing in pain, while Sirius panted, his fists clenched tightly.

"Sirius..." he said softly, obviously distressed and sympathetic, but Sirius seemed oblivious.

"Kreacher!" Sirius bellowed. "Kreacher, get your worthless hide here!"

Ophelia inched down the stairs, her breath bated, she couldn't follow what was transpiring. Who was Sirius' godson, and why was he danger? She'd never seen the Order so agitated, nor had she ever seen Sirius and Remus fight; it stirred up old dreads and despair. Her eyes widened as the old and thin house-elf appeared, bowing before Sirius, his lips curved up in an obsequious smile.

"What does Master want?" he asked.

"Tell Dumbledore that Harry has gone to the Department of Mysteries, and the Order has gone after him."

"Yes, Master," the elf replied slyly, his small eyes glittering with malicious glee.

"Happy now, Moony?" Sirius asked viciously.

Lupin nodded unhappily and followed Sirius as he charged out of the house, his face twisted into an ugly scowl.

Ophelia quickly descended the stairs, her eyes latched onto the shuddering elf. At first, she was concerned, thinking that Sirius' harsh tone and manner had upset the aged elf, but as she approached, she saw that Kreacher was actually laughing. She rounded the bottom of the stairs, seeing his spiteful and hate-filled face. He saw her, his eyes widening and his little shoulders slumping. His lips moved soundlessly, and then he clutched at his hair and swayed on the spot. She stepped closer, her hand outstretched to touch the almost hysterical elf. Despite his lack of memory and the fact that he had taken pains to stay out of her way, she still recalled his many kindnesses. But his laugh and expression had chilled her.

She swallowed, and her fingers slipped over his pale and wrinkled skin. Kreacher let out a howl and scurried away into the kitchen; she followed and saw the cupboard door shut as he slipped under the sink. She hesitated; that had always been his sanctuary, and she had always respected it, but now she needed some answers.

The hinges screeched as she pulled open the small doors to reveal the tatty nest he'd built for himself; where were the plush pillows and the soft covers that he'd treasured? Were these scrappy remains all that he had? She saw him burrowing beneath a pile of ripped and stained towels, and she reached in to grab at an ankle; the elf shrieked and kicked her hand away. Wondering if he remembered how she had slapped him, she felt a flicker of shame and bit her lip as she withdrew her arm.

"Kreacher did as he was told," he mumbled from the shadows. "Kreacher is a good elf."

"Of course," she soothed. "You've always been a good elf, Kreacher."

"I did it for my master," Kreacher declared frantically before shrinking back at hearing his voice echo in the cupboard. "Did it for him... for him. For the house of Black."

Ophelia bit down hard on her lower lip; something was festering in Kreacher's mind, and it was oozing out in his desperate words.

"Kreacher," she said gently, "please come out."

She licked her lips and sat back on her haunches. "It's Ophelia, Kreacher," she uttered tremulously. "I used to live here, a long time ago."

The elf made no sound, but she was aware that other sounds had stopped. Kreacher was listening attentively. A few minutes slipped by, but the elf still refused to come out, and she wouldn't abuse her power and order him out.

"You served Regulus well, Kreacher," she said, her voice cracking. "He was very proud of you."

In the gloom, she saw the bundle shift, and his head popped up from the twisted fabric. He tentatively began to crawl out, and then his focus darted over her shoulder; his eyes widened, and with a shriek, he withdrew so quickly that his body hit the back wall of his cupboard. She turned, and her throat went dry at the sight of a very angry Dumbledore.

"Ophelia, please leave, I wish to speak with Kreacher." His voice was calm and level, but his blue eyes seemed to shimmer with a simmering fury.

"What has he done?" she asked while standing, instinctively placing her body between him and the cupboard.

"That is what I wish to determine, Ophelia; now, please go."

"Is this about Sirius' godson?" She licked her lips nervously; she had no idea what had made Kreacher so vehement or Dumbledore so angry, but after decades of enforced ignorance, she had the desperate urge to know.

"I will not ask you again."

His voice was quiet and his tone gentle, but it seemed that it carried some undeniable power, and her feet propelled her through the kitchen door and out into the hallway. Confused, she returned to her room; who was Sirius' godson, and what was the cause of such furious consternation? What could Kreacher have done to warrant Dumbledore's wrath? What had Sirius rushed off to do, and why was Lupin still unhappy with a perfectly reasonable alternative? She would ask Sirius when he returned and then take the time to discover, from the shattered remains of their previous existences, exactly who they were.

oXo

How he got back to Grimmauld Place, he would never know, but he was in the kitchen, holding a steaming cup of tea and trying not to feel. In the background, he was aware of people milling around, hearing their hushed whispers, and noting the discreet distance they maintained. He tightened his grip on the mug, relishing the warmth that seeped into his skin and the pain that connected him to this place.

His mind went over the image of Sirius falling backwards, his expression trapped in a surprised grimace, and then slipping past that tattered, fluttering fabric. He recalled grabbing and holding a frantic Harry and then steeling himself to say that Sirius was gone, that he was dead. He had tried to stop Harry from running after Bellatrix, he was sure that he had held the boy tight enough, but some treacherous thought bubbled up like oil, black and foul, and he wondered if he hadn't let Harry slip free to wreak his revenge upon the witch. He hastily lifted the mug and took a deep, scalding sip.

One by one, the Order members left, their mumbled mourning echoing forlornly and uselessly in the hallway; no one needed to be told, no one needed it to be defined. By the time the door closed for the last time, his tea had gone cold, and a murky film had developed atop the still liquid. He stared at it, trying to ponder the mysteries of cooling tea rather than think about the awesome thing that was Sirius' death.

He had heard Dumbledore explain what had happened, he had listened to his description of how Kreacher had connived and helped to seal Sirius' fate and how it was mere good fortune and Snape's quick thinking that had prevented Voldemort from succeeding. He had listened, and all the while he had slowly died, he should have been more demanding, more forceful, instead of allowing Sirius to leave the house.

He didn't dare move, he didn't dare lift his head, if he did, he feared he would fly apart, that he would shatter, explode. But he couldn't let this ruin him. Very carefully, he stood and carried the mug over to the sink to pour away the tepid tea; he watched how the sepia stain spread across the white basin before paling as it thinned and slipped down the plughole. He rinsed out the mug and placed it on the wooden draining board. Slowly, he turned and looked around the gloomy kitchen; chairs were at odd angles, their former occupants hasty to leave and tend to their own wounds and agonies. The door was open, and he could see through to the front door, and a small thought, a small hopeful thought, forced its way past the selfish numbness and offered itself as some brave but deluded comfort. He thought that at least now, Sirius was free.

He screamed and howled. He grabbed the clean mug and threw it, hearing it smash against the doorframe. His anger still needed some outlet, and he shoved the table aside, the screech of table and chair legs against the tiled floor akin to his own pained howl. Some guttural instinct was taking hold, some ancient and primitive need flooded through him, he was hurting and he needed to ease it. He pulled jars and tubs off the worktop; the china pots smashed, and their contents spilt or oozed across the floor. He yanked out the drawers and flung them across the kitchen and then, in an instant, his anger fled...the sticking drawer that had baffled Sirius was held in his trembling grip, refusing to slip free from its runners.

He recalled that day with vicious clarity. He collapsed against the worktop, his breath coming out in one, long, shuddering whine. He squeezed his eyes shut, and his mouth hung open as he slid down the unit and onto the floor to weep amongst the coffee grounds, sugar and shattered pottery.

Arms lifted him up, and through puffy and exhausted eyes, he saw a familiar face. Her face was white and her eyes wild, but her hands were gentle. She pulled him close, and he fell into her embrace, needing the warmth, needing the connection. Without a murmur, he let her guide him out of the devastated kitchen and upstairs. He listened contentedly and greedily to her words of comfort while she lowered him onto the spare bed and tucked him in. Such was his need that when Ophelia moved away, he gripped her wrist, keeping her by his side.

She studied Lupin as his eyes fluttered closed and the tight hold slackened. She hadn't resisted when he'd grabbed her nor complained about the pain as his fingers tightened; she knew what it felt like to be so desperate... to fear being alone more than death itself. When his hold relaxed and his breathing evened out, she pulled off his shoes, her forehead furrowing at the sight of his heel peeking through a hole in his threadbare socks. It was quite chilly in the bare room, so she padded to her own room down the hallway to collect a blanket. Her ears strained for noises in the hallway, and she glanced down at the front door, hoping that it would open to reveal Sirius.

She had so many questions and unresolved fears, but she'd get nothing out of Lupin tonight, so she resigned herself to waiting. She tucked him in and went back to the kitchen, taking in the mess. Food splattered and smeared the floor, some of it clung to the walls. Drawers lay broken, their contents strewn across the kitchen; chairs were knocked over, and the table rested on three legs, the fourth snapped and sticking out at an odd angle. A terrible dread was solidifying in her gut, and to keep it a bay, she began to clean the kitchen. She tried to ignore the feeling that she was destined to clean up everyone's mess.

oXo

Dumbledore felt drained. He sat in his office, staring at the empty chair that a seething Harry had sat in, and tried to order his feelings. The sun was streaming into his office, and behind him, Fawkes floundered in his pile of ash as he learnt, once again, how to perch. It was a terrible weight that crushed down upon him, and one that he could never unburden; it pained him that he was placing others under the same, inescapable weight. He ran a trembling hand down his beard and watched the sunlight coruscate on the shattered remains of his possessions. An idea was germinating in the mire of his troubled mind; he needed something, some symbol for himself that the 'Greater Good' was worth it and not just a euphemism for reasonable and justified acts of tyranny.

It was so simple, and that dark part of him that planned and plotted was satisfied that there would be little to lose through this act of selfless generosity. He stood and stepped over to the fireplace; Fawkes chirped enquiringly, and Dumbledore smiled at the baby phoenix. He collected a handful of Floo-powder and folded himself into the fireplace. Lifting his clenched hand and winking at his familiar, he flung down the powder down and disappeared.

oXo

The kitchen sparkled. The broken drawers were stacked as neatly as possible on the table and the damaged leg repaired with some twine that she'd found partially submerged in a pile of brown sugar. The contents of the drawers that weren't beyond repair were arranged neatly on the worktops, and the rest of the detritus had been swept up, cleaned up or wiped up and thrown away. She was trembling with exhaustion, but her mind was abuzz. She had worked furiously, pausing every so often to listen for the front door opening or some sound indicating that Lupin was awake. In those moments of awful silence, she had stood still, her senses straining and mind whirling. Where was Sirius? She had woken at the sound of Lupin wrecking the kitchen and there was no clue to what had precipitated his rampage, no subtle explanation, and no remedy for her frantic mind; just that terrible emptiness and looming horror that Sirius wasn't here.

She tried to distract herself by scraping up the hardened, syrupy mix of sugar and coffee from the tiled floor, but it seemed that her attempt just ground both sources of consternation deeper. She flung down her damp cloth and fell against the kitchen cupboard, her head resting against the smooth wood and her legs tucked under her. It would be too cruel if after all her efforts to adjust to the life she had worked so hard to flee and forget, she should lose those who would have made it all worthwhile. She had spent days thinking about Sirius, Severus, Dumbledore, the Order and countless others who had shone in her life. Her brain had ached as it pondered all that she'd cast aside in her selfish moment of weakness and all that she had done to secure it.

At times, she had wept and wailed, and at others, she had been comforted and laughed. But Ophelia had no delusions that she was the witch she could have been; too long in the Muggle world had sapped much of her skill, and she knew Voldemort would not spare much thought to such a broken thing as her. She shuddered against the cupboard; if he knew what she had done...she tried not to think about what he'd do. She swallowed the painful lump in her throat and closed her eyes on the tears. Her life as a Muggle may have left her feeling fractured and lacking, but she had been useful... and safe. Now that the Order knew what she knew, what use was she? All this pain...the agony of losing them...for what? A life of fear and hiding. She could return to the Muggle world, oblivious and happy...

But there was Severus... and the friends she'd made. There were still unanswered questions about her early life: her mother's death... and her father, but after forty years, she wasn't sure that the answers were as important as they had once been.

oXo

Minerva clutched her bruised ribs and hobbled across the ward to the bed opposite hers; on the white sheets slept a pale and unconscious witch, her hair, usually purple or pink, was limp and brown and splayed out over the starched pillow. She reached out and gently stroked the pale cheek, alarmed at how cool and clammy it felt beneath her fingers.

"Tonks?" she asked in a whisper. "Nymphadora!" she demanded louder, suddenly realising that she could have screamed in the empty ward.

She hadn't expected a response, but the lack of one still sent a chill down her spine. There was a faint shimmer of magic over Tonks' chest, and she knew that some charm kept the young witch's lungs working. Biting back on the despair and the sudden fear, she smoothed the wayward hair as best she could and wondered what had happened that should put her former pupil in St Mungo's in such a state that spells were keeping her alive. She struggled but managed to pull a chair closer to the stricken witch's bed and settled into the uncomfortable seat to begin her vigil.

In the silence, her mind swirled around the recent, painful revelation and incidents. The Ministry of Magic was slowly evolving into a defensive creature, lashing out at all who threatened it, imposing restrictions and countless other legislations that seemed so innocent in themselves, but were an ominous portent of the stranglehold the Ministry sought. She pulled a folded blanket from the bottom of Tonk's bed and draped it over her legs, trying to fend off the chill that had settled in her bones. She shuddered and tried to block out the dreadful images growing in her mind; Tonks was an Auror, and any number of things could have happened; no need to think that the Order was in peril. Resting her head against the hard chair back, she stared into space, her ribs still aching from spell damage and fighting the fatigue that continued to pester her. She had never felt quite so old.

A hand on her shoulder gently brought her back from her doze, and with a mix of chagrin and protesting muscles, she turned to look at who had woken her. Dumbledore smiled fondly at her, his blue eyes reflected such warmth that her pains melted away, and she felt her lips quirk up in a soft smile. She inhaled carefully and straightened in the vexingly uncomfortable chair. She gave the sleeping Tonks a long stare, and sighing softly, she noted that her condition had not altered.

"Nymphadora is stable and will stay here for a few weeks, recovering," Dumbledore supplied helpfully, noting Minerva's concerned stare. "The others are the walking wounded; Miss Granger gave Poppy some concern but will mend, and Mr Weasley has been put under observation for the next few days."

He spoke lightly; perhaps the events had numbed him, or maybe the fact that so much could have been lost and wasn't had elated him. Minerva sat silently, her eyes wide, breath coming in short, painful pants, fingers gripping the blanket's edge and her heart beating frantically.

"Alastor is enjoying taking Lucius Malfoy and several other Death Eaters into custody, and at long last, Minister Fudge can no longer deny that Lord Voldemort has returned."

"Albus, what happened?"

He turned his sapphire gaze upon her, and she saw such a torrent of pain and sorrow in their depths that it shattered her resolve, and she began to weep, hot tears running down her cheeks to drip from her chin.

"I have been foolish," he whispered thickly. "I thought that I knew what was right; I protected when I should have nurtured."

He closed his eyes and staggered away from her, his hand clutched against his face, hiding and stifling his anguish. He turned his back on her, and she watched with a breaking heart as the pain of his grief bent him double. Standing, her pain forgotten, she moved to hold him, her heavy arms wrapping around his shoulders. She felt his hand slide over her own, and his cold fingers gripped her hand as if it was the only thing stopping him from drowning in a maelstrom of despair.

Holding him until he straightened and slowly turned to smile appreciatively at her, she felt her hands slide down his arms to be captured in his grip and given a reassuring squeeze. She looked up and saw his pale face and his eyes, red and glittering from tears that he had refused to shed and his lips pursed together to hide how they would tremble. He was breathing hard to control his raging emotions, and she continued to hold his hand tightly...she could feel his body shaking under the strain.

"I knew that I should have explained... I should have trusted," he said bitterly. "I have asked so much and given so little in return, and now, it may be too late."

She couldn't understand what he was saying, but she could easily discern that something terrible had occurred. Swallowing nervously, she once more asked the question she dreaded having answered.

"What's happened, Albus?"

It seemed to take a great deal of effort for him to focus on her face, and then he gave a deep shudder before telling her of the awful events that had transpired.

"I knew the link between Harry and Tom was dangerous, that it was only a matter of time before Tom used the connection to his advantage. I never envisioned that he would use it quite so terribly effectively."

While he spoke, Minerva dragged another chair over and guided him into the seat before resuming her uncomfortable pose, her fingers still held in his hand.

"He created a scene for Harry, a scene where Sirius was being tortured and close to death in the Department of Mysteries...how foolish of me to think that I could have protected them both. Harry did what he could to verify the awful truth, and Kreacher supplied the last detail that would secure Harry's flight. Severus was afraid that Harry had indeed slipped free to rescue his Godfather, and he alerted the Order as soon as he was able."

Minerva was sobbing into her hand, using the blanket that she had earlier thrown aside to mop up the copious tears and muffle her dread. Terrible thoughts seeped through her mind, dreadful scenarios and awful images; she wasn't sure that she wanted to hear anymore, but those dreadful scenes made it an imperative. She crammed the pale blue blanket against her lips and braced herself.

"Sirius told Kreacher to inform me of what had happened and that he himself had left to rescue Harry. I was desperate and angry; I drew out the truth from the treacherous elf and sped to join them. You cannot imagine my fear and terror!" Shuddering, he paled further and seemed to struggle to breathe; Minerva gasped as his hand tightened painfully around her fingers. "I saw them; I rushed to stop them and..." He tried to smother his moan, but a bizarre mewling sound managed to erupt from his throat. His head lolled to the side, and his lips drew back as if in pain, and then, he let a sob free, the pressure too much to contain. "I saw him! I watched him die."

Minerva shook her head in disbelief, her mouth open and her lips twitching. Harry couldn't be dead; he just couldn't be. Her mind went blank, and only the sharp pain from her damaged ribs confirmed that she was able to feel...a harsh reminder that this was no nightmare.

"Sirius is dead; killed by Bellatrix LeStrange. I watched as he fell past the Veil; gone, lost, so terrible, so avoidable, so ... so foolish," he finished furiously.

Minerva took a desperate lungful of air; she had feared the very worst, and in that moment of hearing another name, she had felt relief; now, she was drowning in shame and despair, letting the horror and pain of Sirius' death creep through her. Next to her, Dumbledore rested his head in his hand, and she heard him breathing erratically. She wanted, needed, to hold him and have him hold her, to derive some comfort and support while the war battered and slashed at them. She wanted to relinquish her persona as a strong-willed woman and be human for just this one moment; she wanted to weep and scream, howl and be allowed to display her suffering. But she was cursed with a pride and pragmatism that went bone-deep, and instead of succumbing, she straightened.

"What about Harry?" she queried gently.

Dumbledore gave a stuttering sigh and lifted his heavy head. "Harry is remarkably unscathed," he said shakily, "but I fear that the events of this evening will have wounded him deeper than we can see or heal." He inhaled deeply and stiffened in the chair, his eyes staring straight ahead. "He is very angry with me, and I cannot blame him. I would have suffered his anger gladly rather than see the disappointment in his eyes that I was not the strong and wise man that he once considered me." His voice was empty and lifeless. "I have told him what he needs to know, in the hope that he will come to understand why I couldn't bring myself to tell him and possibly learn to forgive me for my weakness." His shoulders slumped and the cold fingers around her hand went limp. "He has lost almost everything, and there is so very little that I can do or offer."

"Give him what he needs," she said softly, smiling weakly.

He finally turned to look at her, his eyes lacking twinkle and sparkle. "And what is that, Minerva?"

"You say it often enough; give him love."

Dumbledore blinked very slowly and then sighed. He lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed them gently, affectionately. "Thank you, my dear."

Despite her trembling lips and painful ribs, she smiled at him and wondered why he distanced himself and felt compelled to deal with such tremendous and crippling grief alone: didn't he realise how much he was loved? She gave his hand a gentle and comforting squeeze, noting a tension in his shoulders and his lips set in a thin line.

"There is something that I have to do," he said simply.

Minerva frowned and studied the sapphire eyes boring into her, pleading for understanding, shining with gratitude and reflecting the affection that he held for her. She had known Dumbledore for nearly eighty years, and she had never had cause to doubt his judgment or intentions. She smiled again and nodded, pulling her hand so that her fingers slipped free from his grasp.

"I'll stay with Tonks," she said, her eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and mirth. "It'll make a refreshing change to have the peace and quiet."

He stood and smoothed down his ruffled beard, a familiar and comforting gesture. Minerva looked up at him, and they looked upon each other, seeing the same emotions flickering over their faces and that underlying hope that now Voldemort's return was no longer a myth, the world would turn in the right direction.

"Take care of yourself, Minerva; Hogwarts needs you."

With that, he turned and strode purposefully out of the ward, preparing to gratefully wash a part of his conscience clean.