The interment the next night was a solemn and touching affair. There was a procession of friends and neighbors, the wands of those magically endowed glowing blue, lighting the way. It was led by two ghosts playing bagpipes, Lester Mor and Evan Mor MacCrimmon, who had come from Skye to offer their services. Inachus Filch followed, guiding Da's coffin with a Mobiliarca Charm. Then came the family, the twins now wailing openly, threatening to drown out the strains of Flowers of the Forest, Mist Covered Mountains, and The Skye Boat Song.

As they entered the Crypt, Minerva was reminded painfully of the last time she had been there, to claim her wand, with her father reassuring her that his propping wards were intact on the high earthen walls, imbuing them with strength inside and out, though she could not see them. Now they would protect him, body and soul, as the wards of the mine had not.

The coffin was placed in a plain stone sarcophagus between Da's father, Cadwallader McGonagall, and his mother, Johanna Macnair McGonagall. Lord Macnair stepped up to it first, and with no need for a Sonorus charm to magnify his powerful voice, spoke with real affection for his childhood friend, cousin, and fellow mage. Other witches and wizards followed him, giving testament to the goodness, the honesty, the solid friendship of Jupiter John Cadwallader McGonagall. Inachus Filch spoke for the field hands--plain and brief. None could remember a fairer employer, a more generous hand at table, a readier refuge in time of need.

At the end, each of the sisters said a spell of blessing over their brother's body. As they did, fragments of stone flew off the sarcophagus, as if being chipped out by an unseen hand, and scenes from Jupiter McGonagall's's life appeared in relief on its sides. There was Jupiter the Beater, lofting a Bludger towards an unseen foe, Jupiter the Inventor with compass and straightedge poised over a sheet of parchment, Jupiter the Farmer, guiding a team of oxen over a rocky patch, the Lord of the Manor giving orders, the Host dispensing drinks at harvest, the Father, holding his new bairn up for all to admire, the Master of the Estate, sitting in judgment. These were his sisters' testament to their brother. It touched Minerva deeply and stirred her family pride.

Most of the crowd returned to the Great Hall for refreshments. As the evening went along, Minerva found herself feeling the healing love of family and friends as she never had before and believed she might almost be ready to accept whatever role her aunts might place on her. They had just opened another bottle of the best whisky. Toasts had been given and echoed, memories rehashed. Most of their neighbors and friends had long since gone home. The remaining company seemed resigned, almost content. Then Minerva heard a commotion at the far end of the Hall. It was Goodie Gudgeon, three sheets to the wind, arguing with, of all people, the Wizard-Thane himself. She made her way in the direction of the tirade, catching a word here and there.

"...toast...the new Laird..."

"...not yet time, Madam..."

"..now's the pair-fect time...yer ain father toasted my master at his faither's wake...

"...nae, nae...not with the succession in doubt..."

Minerva arrived at the site of the altercation just in time to catch her nurse as she swayed unsteadily about and guide her to a nearby chair.

As she settled in, legs splayed and head thrown back, Goodie shouted for all to hear, "In doot? Ye hae the laird's ane daughter right here. Say it to her face, if ye think she's no worthy..."

"What's the trouble, my Lord?" It was Charlamaine, tonight very much in command of her feelings and the situation.

"It's nothing, Mistress Campbell, only an old ha--er--witch who's had a little too much to drink. She needs a lie-down I think..."

"I'll not be goin anywhere till this is settled. Is my Mistress, or is she nae, to be proclaimed Laird of the Manor?" It took Minerva only a few seconds to realize that the 'Mistress' Goodie referred to was Minerva herself. All eyes turned to her scarlet face, then to the Thane's purpling one.

"That will be decided at the Reckoning I believe," he replied through clenched teeth.

During the quarrel others in the room had gradually ceased their conversations. The Thane's judgement rang out loud and clear in the silence. Charlamaine's lips parted in a half-smile, as if this was something she had been hoping for. Her son Cuthbert stepped forward, placing himself at Laird Macnair's right hand. He looked imposing in the Black Watch tartan, tall, almost regal, and at sixteen stone, thrice Minerva's weight. His jowls scraped clean, looked almost shiny like his hair, oiled and slicked back behind his ears. The two warlocks exchanged a brief glance that spoke worlds of approbation and manly understanding. In that moment Minerva saw she could not stand up to that tacit entente. It would be years before she came into her own magically. She knew nothing of farming, of ownership, of the politics of the landed gentry. Cuthbert's lips were parted, dark with the wine of success, as if he had already claimed the McGonagall fief. Minerva ducked her head and excused herself, pleading weariness. Unbidden, she retreated up the stairs to her room, like a little girl who has been told she's too young to stay up with the adults.

~*~

The next morning, Minerva woke in a fit of fear. She had slept like a corpse herself, but felt not at all rested. She knew that she couldn't raise the needed energy to fight both Cuthbert and Charlamaine. She confided her feelings to Donnie who was working in the office, owling thank-yous for the support and the flowers and other gifts.

"Don't let your mind run on it, dearie. If you're sure you're not cut out for farming, then perhaps it's just as well."

"But I feel like I'm letting Da down."

"Don't you think Cuthbert would make a good Laird?"

"No, I don't. He really doesn't know that much about farming, and he doesn't care about the workers. You saw how he treated that house elf at the last Reckoning. And Aunt Charlamaine's not much better. I wouldn't be surprised if she decided to dig up the whole mountainside, looking for more of her precious coal."

"You know she brought out a Mowser last week..."

"A what?"

"A Metal-Dowser. A wizard who's especially good at sensing underground minerals. He's supposed to send a report in time for the Reckoning tonight."

A witch whom Minerva recognized as one of the clean-up crew came to the office door. "One of the guests, Mistress, the tall one with the beard, he's come down to breakfast and wonders if you'd join him."

"Oh. Professor Dumbledore. I forgot he was staying over."

She walked into the kitchen. The table was laid sumptuously with scones, butter, and marmalade, a platter of sausage and eggs, hot porridge, and an assortment of dried fruits, and nuts to garnish it with. Belda Filch was just pouring their guest a cup of tea. Goodie Gudgeon was likely sleeping off her tipple, and not at all ashamed of it.

"Good morning, Professor. I hope you slept well."

"I did, although your gallery ghosts were rather overexuberant. They were hosting the MacCrimmons and kept calling for song after song. I was tempted to use a Silencing Spell on them."

"How ever did you manage to fall asleep?"

"Moss. And you, did you have a good night?"

"I slept like a log. But excuse me, Professor, did you say moss?"

He took a small tin out of his pocket. The letters MOSS were printed on the top. "Musikalisch Öhrenschützer für die Schreiende Stimme--earplugs," he explained. "An invention of a friend of mine." He turned the key and rolled back the lid. The contents looked greenish and fluffy--very like moss. "Just put a wad in each ear and it turns loud noise into a soothing lullaby--Brahms, mostly."

"Did your friend also invent a kind of fish that translates German?"

"LOKHS? That was his brother. Talented fellows, both of them. But they are not having a very good time of it these days."

"Why not?"

"They--and others of their kind--have made themselves a great enemy."

"Others--who are they?"

"Jewish emigrants, settled in Austria."

"And the enemy?"

"A man named Adolf Hitler." Minerva did not recognize the name and her face showed it. "But that is a story for another day. Let us address ourselves to Mistress Filch's excellent breakfast."

~*~

Afterwards, they went for a walk. It was a cloudy day, but no storm threatened.

"I met your aunts at the wake. They are a hardy and charming lot, with a great variety of talents and interests."

"Yes, it's good for the farm. Each of them is an expert at one thing."

"But none fit to rule the roost."

"There's at least one as would like to."

"Your Aunt Charlamaine. Yes, like most first-borns, she is ambitious, if I may say so."

"Aye, she'll be putting her son Cuthbert forward to run the farm at the Reckoning. He has had quite an advanced education."

"Yes, he told me that he studied under a host of learned magi: Pickingill and Petrovna and Clutterbuck. And met with Regardie in Paris and Weschke in Alsace...not to mention Mother Redcap..."

"And he just finished an apprenticeship in alchemy with someone named Flamel."

"Nicolas Flamel? Are you sure?"

Minerva nodded. "So you see, Professor, he's all that the family could ask for in a Laird of the manor: young, educated, well-spoken..."

"You talk as if he is up for the title. But I would think the law would require Lord Macnair to appoint someone only to be steward of the land...until you came of age."

"Oh, I'm sure Cuthbert is telling everybody he just wants to be of service to his dear young cousin. But I know my aunt. Once she gets control of the farm, she'll look for any way she can to keep it. And now that she has a son who's magically powerful, I fear she'll succeed."

"Is he really?"

"Is he what?"

"Magically powerful."

"Well, he says he--"

Professor Dumbledore waved a hand at her. "Oh, I know what he claims: Divination with Helena Petrovna, Dark Arts with Weschcke, et cetera and so forth. But Dorothy Clutterbuck doesn't take students so far as I know--she says she'd 'hex 'em as soon as look at 'em.' George Pickingill has been dead at least thirty years, and I shall eat my wand if your cousin is much over forty. And Nicolas Flamel? A course with him alone would take decades to complete. I ought to know. I have worked with him myself. A most demanding taskmaster. I tell you Minerva, here's no way on this green earth that your cousin studied under all of those people for the length of time needed to master their respective fields."

"But he--"

"No, my dear child. At best, Cuthbert Campbell is a dabbler, a jack of all trades and master of one--the art of braggadocio. My guess is he spent a few weeks with each of his so-called mentors, and when the work got too hard or proved to have no immediate reward, he moved on."

"But he's been experimenting with all sorts of spells to protect the mine. And Aunt Donnie thinks he may have discovered new minerals. He must be a decent alchemist at least."

"I am not saying he learned nothing at all in his travels. I am sure some of his teachers' art--if not their wisdom--rubbed off on him. But as the Muggles say, 'a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.'" He looked at her for a few seconds and smiled. "And it would seem that some of my own paltry knowledge has rubbed off on you, Minerva. I understand you were responsible for your father's facial transformation."

Minerva blushed. "Yes, I used the description from your book."

"Quite remarkable. He was badly maimed, was he not? Your mother was also impressed."

"My...you spoke to her?"

He nodded. "She visited the Great Hall privately after the wake. She wanted to thank her...her benefactor for taking her in...and wish him a happy afterlife."

"She still--she showed no signs--?"

"Of returning memory? I am afraid not. Of course, I am no Healer, but I would say that given what she went through, and for how long--what was it, twelve years?--of mental torture, she is lucky to have retained her sanity."

"Do you think there's a chance of her memory ever coming back?"

"There are patients in St. Mungo's who have suffered far less than she who are in much worse condition: completely unaware of themselves as mages or even as human beings. Lying in rows on their narrow beds, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, muttering sounds with no meaning and no thought content behind them. I think we should be grateful that your mother can function normally, and that, wonder of wonders, she yet retains her powers. Now I have a question for you. Do you think you can find it in your heart to forgive her her weakness, and move on to help clear her name?"

Minerva felt a great wave of heat pass through her. The heat turned to a feeling of strain in her forehead, her throat and her chest. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, "How can you ask that?" She took a breath and tried to calm herself. "I'm sorry, sir, but I've spent my entire life holding in my feelings, waiting, hoping for a normal mother who can teach me things, help me, just...be with me. And she's not here. She's deserted me. She doesn't know who I am, doesn't care about me. She's just a Mudblood, confused and...and ...weak. And how do I even know that she's innocent of Grandfather Wallace's death? Maybe my grandmother is right: maybe my mother went crazy that morning and thought she saw a demon or something and tried to kill it--but it was her father she killed. If so, I don't want to know that either."

Dumbledore looked at her for a minute. "And I ask you again, as I did the other day, is not the truth the most important thing?"

"Yes, it is, but I can see no way of finding it. Our last hope was the Seeking Glass, but my father tried that. He took things of my mother's and my grandfather's to the Crypt. All he could see were happy scenes of my mother as a child with my grandfather--nothing at all about that...last...day."

"But he was assuming that only your mother and grandfather were present on that day."

"What do you mean?"

"Let us consider for the moment that your mother's account is true, however hysterical she may have been when she told it. That there was someone else with her and her father that day, that she tried to defend herself and him against it, and that out of malice or revenge, this person placed a geas on a Pogrebin to haunt her for the rest of her days. That would explain why your father could not see that particular vision in the Glass."

"But what difference does it make? We don't know who the third person was and even if we did, we have no hope of finding something of his or hers to use."

"But we might make an educated guess. And there may be one such 'something' in my possession. Just an old man's idea, mind you, but a possibility. Will you trust me in this, Minerva?"

She looked at him for a long moment. "I will, Professor. I'll get Ma's brooch...and Grandfather's bag."

~*~

On her way down the stairs, with the knapsack over her shoulder and the brooch in her hand, she met her mother ascending them, The Stranger, as she had come to think of her.

"Hello, Miss McGonagall."

"H-hello...Miss..."

"They tell me my name is Wallace. But I'd very much like you to call me Iphigenia."

"I don't think I could do that."

"All right. Miss Wallace it is. I wanted you to know how sorry I am about your loss."

"Thank you."

"Did your father tell you about me--while you were at school?"

"Yes...um...no, he didn't."

"I seem to have been traveling over your property on my broom and I hit a downdraft and crashed into the roof of your home. Your family kindly took me in. Healer Kirk tells me I'm almost well enough to resume a normal life."

"What is--a normal life?"

"I don't know. I've been pretty much confined to the Keep all this time. Healer Kirk said I oughtn't to be left alone. She was afraid I might have some kind of seizure from the head injury. They tell me I have a mother in Blair Atholl, although I don't remember her. Healer Kirk has been most kind. She contacted her back when I had the accident and explained what happened. I'll be visiting her next week. Healer Kirk has offered to accompany me."

Healer Kirk this, Healer Kirk that. Didn't the woman have anything better to do than to dog her mother's footsteps? Minerva swallowed her resentment and forced a smile. "Do you know where you were heading when you crashed?"

The Stranger laughed. "I don't even remember where I was coming from. Perhaps my mother will be able to help me sort it out. She's a Muggle you know."

"Yeh...no, I didn't know."

"I'm looking forward to talking with her, though I must admit, I'm a little scared too.

"Why would you be scared?"

"I'm not sure--there's this feeling--oh--the past, you know. It can hold such--surprises. Why what's this?" She reached out and touched the brooch. "Something of yours? It looks somehow familiar."

Minerva's heart beat faster. She placed the brooch in her mother's outstretched hand. "You recognize it?"

Iffie Wallace turned the heavy oval of silver over in her hand, fingering the griffin rampant etched on it, holding a rose in its claw. "What is this?"

"It's part of my family crest. The griffin for courage, the flower for--um--loyalty." She could not bring herself to utter the word 'love'.

It is very much the shape and hue of one your father showed me, but his had an arm clasping a sword rising out of a rose like this one, and a motto arching over it. Something in Latin, I think." She laughed. "Languages were never my strong point...or perhaps it's the amnesia." She gave the brooch back to Minerva. "He...offered it to me...but of course, it was obviously a family heirloom...so...I couldn't..."

Minerva felt hollow and dry and cold inside. Her mother and father had worn the brooches at their wedding. They'd designed them together: her father's had the symbol of clan Wallace nestled in the McGonagall rose. He had added to the motto of William Wallace, "Pro Libertate," the words "et Amore"--for Freedom and Love. And he had offered it back to this witch--The Stranger. But she didn't remember. She didn't even recognize the sign of her own clan.

Minerva took a deep breath. "Well, I hope you have a safe trip...safer than that other one."

She left the Stranger standing there on the steps, crossed the Great Hall, and found a servant, polishing sconces by the front door. "Fionna, please go down to the gate. There's a man there, waiting for me. Professor Dumbledore. Please tell him I can't come with him today. Tell him...I...forgot I have to get ready for the Reckoning. Tell him, I'll owl him...when--if--I'm free."