Acolyte Manor, drawing room.
The uneasy tension between Vinda and Professor McGonagall hung thick in the air, enough to catch even Professor Sprout's attention. She'd only known McGonagall for a short while and wasn't privy to Dumbledore's inner circle. She grasped the broad strokes of the acolytes' downfall but not the personal vendettas tangled up in it all.
Vinda had loved Grindelwald fiercely. Grindelwald had loved Dumbledore just as deeply. And Dumbledore? He'd loved Grindelwald too—until he betrayed him. McGonagall, a staunch admirer of Dumbledore and his right-hand woman, had played her part in that betrayal. The web of loyalties and heartbreaks was too knotted for even those involved to fully untangle.
"Hello, Ms. Vinda Rosier," Professor Sprout said, stepping in to shatter the silence. "I'm Pomona Sprout, the Herbology professor for young Mr. Grindelwald. And this is Minerva McGonagall, our Transfiguration expert."
Her words were stiff but practical—a safe way to navigate the unknown.
"Professors Sprout and McGonagall," Vinda replied, her voice steady. "Thank you for looking after Argus all this time." Her gaze, however, stayed locked on McGonagall.
They'd crossed paths before, more than once. Decades had slipped by like sand through fingers. Vinda's magic kept her looking eternally youthful, while McGonagall bore the weight of years, her face etched with lines from battles won and lost. They might as well have hailed from different worlds.
McGonagall caught herself, offering Argus a faint, apologetic smile before turning back to Vinda. A flicker of something like relief softened her eyes. "Ms. Rosier... it's been too long."
Vinda studied her quietly, then nodded. "You've changed. A lot."
"And you... you're exactly as I remember."
McGonagall steadied herself, piecing it together. She could see why Vinda's composure had cracked. The events of those years were a raw wound for her—the man she'd idolized locked away in Nurmengard, his grand vision crumbling to dust. McGonagall might have felt the same in her shoes. As one of the victors, her scars had faded with time. Expecting Vinda to brush it off was unrealistic.
"If you want to lash out, I wouldn't blame you," Vinda said, her tone even, though memories surged like a storm inside her.
McGonagall managed a small smile. "As a professor, staying young would undermine my authority with the students. I'm quite content with this version of myself."
Argus exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. It was rare to see Vinda rattled like that. The last time had been during the acolyte shop's opening, when she'd faced Dumbledore wand in hand. He'd half-expected her to draw on McGonagall right there—thank Merlin she hadn't. Vinda wasn't impulsive, and Sprout's presence had served as a timely buffer. For now, at least, no spells were flying.
Sprout shared Argus's quiet relief, though her grasp on the history was shallower. She edged between the two women, gently breaking their stare-down.
"It's getting late," she said. "Minerva and I have been out too long—Hogwarts can't fend for itself. We'll head back now."
"Mr. Grindelwald," McGonagall added, "don't forget your holiday assignments."
"Understood, Professor," Argus replied. He didn't press them to stay. Better to keep Vinda and McGonagall apart; one wrong word, and things could ignite. If a duel broke out, only Dumbledore might stop it—and even that wasn't guaranteed.
McGonagall offered a polite farewell to Argus and Vinda, then Apparated away with Sprout.
But as Argus watched them go, a daring thought sparked in his mind...
...
"Minerva? Pomona? Just back yourselves?"
Dumbledore's voice greeted them as they passed through the castle gates, the headmaster striding up from the grounds.
"Yes," McGonagall said quickly, before Sprout could speak. "Pomona and I popped to Hogsmeade for a drink." She had no intention of letting Dumbledore know about her covert work with the acolytes.
Sprout caught the hint and simply nodded a greeting, falling into step as the three entered the empty hall. Without the clamor of students, the castle felt hollow—almost spectral. But none of them were the type to spook easily; each was a formidable witch or wizard in their own right.
"Albus," McGonagall pressed, "you still haven't said why you're back so soon. Weren't you recruiting for next term?"
"Hagrid's our new Care of Magical Creatures professor," Dumbledore explained. "I'm here to sort the paperwork and clear his name properly. The poor man's been under a cloud for years."
Sprout beamed. "It's about time. With his passion for creatures, he'll be brilliant at it."
"And the Defense Against the Dark Arts post?" McGonagall asked. "We can't rely on Horace or Mr. Grindelwald subbing another year, surely."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Mr. Grindelwald's as gifted a teacher as he is a wizard."
McGonagall nodded vigorously. "His methods work wonders, especially for the average student. Under him, this year's OWL and NEWT pass rates hit decades-high marks—Defense Against the Dark Arts included. And in just two months! Far better than a full year of rote lectures."
"True enough," Dumbledore conceded, though his brow creased. He'd fretted over the practical gaps at first, but the results had silenced his doubts. Still, cramming theory for exams had limits. Magic demanded hands-on mastery; without it, students risked becoming book-smart but wand-weak. In a real fight, high scores meant nothing if you couldn't back them up. It'd leave them no better off than Muggles or Squibs.
Seeing Dumbledore's deepening frown, McGonagall's resolve hardened. She met his eyes. "Albus, hear me out. I have an idea—something we could try."