“Begin at the beginning,” the King said gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop.”

"You know Petunia Evans, don't you, Severus?"

Severus frowned slightly. He was feeling warm, turning the soles of his boots towards the merrily burning logs in the fireplace, tasting ginger and cinnamon in the wine and very much anticipating sleep uninterrupted by students. He couldn't imagine why his counterpart would bring up such an out-of-place topic. He remembered, however, that McGonagall's non-sequiturs were among the most thought-out things she ever said, thus might be worth humouring.

"For the accepted definition of 'know', yes," he answered lazily.

There was a brief silence, as McGonagall waited for a follow-up question or, perhaps, couldn't decide on a question herself.

"How would you... characterise her in her younger years?"

"A waste of genetic material," he replied automatically. He was sure that the old witch was going somewhere with this, but wasn't willing to help her along.

"Actually, remember that chicken of Flitwick's – in her third year now, I think," he continued as an image leaped to his mind. "Ah, Fychan. She, minus her studiousness, might be the image you want."

"Gwendoline Fychan? Oh, my. Quite a character." McGonagall sighed and poured more of the hot brew into her mug. "Nonetheless, I hope the girl is off to a better future."

When the words finally linked themselves to their meaning in his head, Severus blinked and turned to look at her straight on.

"You've seen Petunia recently? How come?"

Minerva looked back at him appraisingly.

"I know what confidential conversations are," he assured her, frowning again. If she'd forgone Dumbledore's recommendations, it was between her and Dumbledore.

"Well, yes, I went to take a look." The witch reclined in her armchair and turned to study the fire, as if reading the memory from the flames. "And I'm not an expert on Muggles, of course. Still, my impression from all those years ago was reaffirmed. This girl and her husband are going to give us a headache one way or another; for all that their every parenting effort seems to be directed at their own child."

"One way or another? What can they do, send us a howler?" Severus remarked sceptically.

"Directly or indirectly, Severus. While a howler is not an option, people who would do that tend to have all kinds of other curious educational ideas." She took out her wand and rearranged the coals briskly. They flared to life with such enthusiasm that Severus had to withdraw his feet slightly. "Ones that teachers have to deal with, eventually, when it's too late. And life has to, when it's even later. Yet, it might be unwise to contradict the headmaster on whatever he declares 'no other choice'."

"Yes," Severus muttered. "I, for one, don't care to join the ranks of prisoners sans trial. Perhaps, there is a way to eschew teaching Po---"

"Wait, what prisoners? What are you talking about?" McGonagall interrupted.

"Tell me, to the best of your knowledge, were there any disagreements between Dumbledore and Sirius Black prior to the whole," he sighed heavily, "the Dark Lord versus the Potters business?"

"Not that I know of, no," Minerva said carefully, looking at Severus curiously. "But... He normally knows more than we do, doesn't he?"

Severus was silent after that, looking back at her, then began speaking anew.

"One of my acquaintances used to say: 'Don't spare your allies, for your enemies to beware'."

"Do I want to know who it was?"

"Karkaroff," he replied flatly. "Oh, he was rather ironic about it at the time. But I can't help but wonder..." he trailed off, and they lapsed into mutual silence once again.

The logs crackled and the inky-blue Christmas evening of 1986 turned into a dark night.