The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of Dumbledore's office, catching motes of dust that drifted lazily through the air. The silver instruments atop the shelves whirred and clicked softly, their quiet activity doing little to ease the tension that had settled between the two figures standing near the desk.
Professor Minerva McGonagall stood with her hands clasped tightly behind her back, tartan robes perfectly pressed, lips drawn into a thin line of controlled irritation. She had been a teacher long enough to recognize when something was being deliberately avoided—and she did not appreciate it.
"Albus," she said at last, her voice measured but sharp, "there is something you have been evading for some time now."
Dumbledore looked up from the parchment he had been pretending to read. His blue eyes twinkled faintly, though McGonagall noted with interest that the usual humor behind them was muted.
"Have I?" he replied mildly. "I assure you—"
"No," she interrupted, turning to face him fully. "You have, and quite deliberately. And I am tired of pretending not to notice."
She began to pace.
"For the past three years, Severus Snape has vanished for most of the summer holidays," she said crisply. "Not merely a day or two—entire weeks at a time. During term, he disappears nearly every weekend. When he returns, he is exhausted, irritable—more than usual—and quite frequently has animal fur on his clothes."
Dumbledore folded his hands calmly. He did not speak.
McGonagall continued, her tone sharpening. "Not house-elf fur. Not Kneazle fur. Fur from creatures that do not belong anywhere near Hogwarts. Add to that the fact that you, Albus, have also been absent on many of the same weekends. And then, a few months ago, the two of you appeared together before the Wizengamot for a closed proceeding."
She stopped pacing and fixed him with a piercing stare, "I am not a fool."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and deliberate.
Just as Dumbledore drew a breath to answer, the door to the office burst open with a cheerful creak.
"Professor Dumbledore!" boomed Rubeus Hagrid, ducking slightly as he entered. "Sorry ter interrupt, sir, but there were a few hinky little creatures down by the greenhouses—nothin' serious! Got 'em settled an' sent on their way."
He paused, glancing between McGonagall's rigid posture and Dumbledore's uncharacteristic solemnity.
"...Er. Have I interrupted somethin'?"
Dumbledore smiled gently. "Not at all, Hagrid. Your timing is... impeccable, as always."
McGonagall gave Hagrid a brief nod but did not soften. Hagrid shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Well. If yeh don't need me, I'll—"
"Stay," Dumbledore said quietly.
Hagrid blinked. "Oh. Uh. Right."
Dumbledore turned back to McGonagall and sighed—an old, weary sound that surprised her more than anything else.
"You are correct, Minerva," he said at last. "I have been keeping something from you. Not out of mistrust, but because... it was not my story to tell."
McGonagall's eyebrows rose, but she remained silent.
"Severus," Dumbledore continued, "has been spending his summers and many of his weekends at Silverthorne Manor."
"The Silverthornes?" McGonagall questioned. "That explains nothing."
Dumbledore gestured for her to sit. Reluctantly, she did.
"He has been there," Dumbledore said gently, "because he has been tutoring a child. Privately. Intensively."
McGonagall frowned. "A child?"
"Yes," Dumbledore replied. "A young witch named Mavis Potter-Silverthorne."
The name hit like a thunderclap.
McGonagall stiffened. "Potter?"
"Yes."
"But—" She stopped herself, collecting her thoughts. "How?"
"Mavis," Dumbledore continued, "has been living with Alaric and Elarisse Silverthorne since she was five years old."
McGonagall stared. "Living with them?"
"They found her," Dumbledore said, his voice growing softer. "On a rainy night. Alone. Sitting on a park bench. She had run away."
Hagrid sucked in a sharp breath.
"She was clutching a small baby blanket in her hands," Dumbledore went on. "Hand-sewn. Enchanted. Made by her mother."
McGonagall pressed a hand to her mouth.
"Alaric and Elarisse took her in," Dumbledore said. "They fed her, clothed her, comforted her. And when it became clear that returning her would endanger her further, they blood-adopted her."
"Blood adoption," McGonagall whispered. "Irreversible."
"Yes," Dumbledore said. "She is now, legally and magically, Mavis Potter-Silverthorne."
Hagrid nodded solemnly. "I knew," he said gently. "Found out when she was seven."
McGonagall looked at him sharply. "You knew?"
"Aye," Hagrid said. "An' I can tell yeh, Professor—there ain't a safer place in the wizardin' world for that girl. She's loved. Properly loved."
He smiled faintly. "She calls 'em Mum an' Dad. An' means it."
McGonagall swallowed.
"And Severus?" she asked quietly.
"He tutors her in Potions," Dumbledore said. "From first principles through advanced alchemy. Not because she needs discipline—but because she has talent. And because she trusts him."
McGonagall closed her eyes briefly.
"And the fur?" she asked.
Hagrid chuckled. "That'd be the familiars."
McGonagall opened her eyes again. "Familiars?"
"Legendary ones," Dumbledore confirmed. "Multiple. Creatures most witches and wizards never encounter in a lifetime."
Hagrid's chest puffed slightly. "Alaric's the only Slytherin I ever respected," he said firmly. "Best creature handler I've ever seen. Got a Zouwu familiar, yeh know."
That drew a genuine flicker of surprise from McGonagall.
"And Sirius Black?" she asked suddenly.
Dumbledore nodded. "He is there as well. Recovering. Cared for by the Silverthornes."
McGonagall exhaled slowly, the tension draining from her shoulders.
"So," she said at last, "the child is safe. Loved. Educated. Protected. And Sirius Black is not alone."
"Yes," Dumbledore said. "All of that is true."
She looked at him then—really looked at him—and saw the weight he carried.
"You said you made a mistake," she said quietly.
Dumbledore bowed his head. "I did. Leaving Mavis with her relatives was a grave error in judgment. One I will regret for the rest of my life."
McGonagall straightened.
"Then I am glad," she said firmly, "that someone wiser than us intervened."
Hagrid grinned. "Hear, hear."
There was a moment of silence—this one not heavy, but thoughtful.
"At nearly nine," McGonagall said slowly, "she must be... extraordinary."
"She is," Dumbledore replied simply.
McGonagall stood. "I would like to meet her."
Dumbledore smiled.
"I was hoping you would say that," he said. "Come with me this weekend. Meet Mavis. Meet Alaric and Elarisse. See for yourself what has been built."
McGonagall nodded once, decisively.
"Yes," she said. "I think it is long past time."
Somewhere far away, at Silverthorne Manor, a young girl laughed—surrounded by family, magic, and creatures who loved her.
And for the first time in years, Minerva McGonagall felt something dangerously close to hope.15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiIkS6Uw1ro
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