"I've Always Known"
Minerva McGonagall lay in bed, staring up at the scarlet canopy. She wore a nightgown, but evidently had not slept at all that night, or for a very long time, for that matter. Her face showed an expression like loss, but with a dash of bewilderment mixed in.
No longer able to stand her own insomnia, Minerva got up, sliding on slippers and a tartan robe, and sat by the window. Outside, it was gently snowing. The flakes drifted down to coat the grounds. They clung to the stately pines on the fringes of the Forbidden Forest, dusting them so that they looked like trees come to life from a painting. The white powder floated down to land softly on the Quidditch Pitch, to be trampled by the feet of early-morning players on the morrow. Flakes smoothed out the hills and formed a white blanket over them. Some drifted into the depths of the lake to be swallowed by the dark, icy waters. Beside the lake's shore, Minerva could see the ghostly outline of his white marble tomb.
Restlessly, Minerva went down the stairs to sit in his office. It would never be her office. She stared at all the portraits lining the walls, her eyes finally coming to rest on the final one. He slept peacefully, beard blowing up and down in time with his snoring, with a serenity that Minerva wished she could copy.
You don't belong here.
Let's face it: you will never feel right here now. Your mind will never be at ease knowing that this was his office. You can't even bring yourself to move the furniture into a more suitable arrangement! It was true; all of his possessions were gone, and the books that lined the shelves now were hers, but his desk remained in the same place. His bird's stand had not been moved, though the bird had left with his death. Even his classic chintz armchairs remained in front of his desk. You still think of it all as his, and you, stubborn woman, will never think of it as otherwise.
And the bedroom? That's definitely not yours. You remember it as the place where he slept. And you know you hate it. All true – she would move back to her own bedroom in a heartbeat, were it not occupied by the new Transfiguration Professor, Professor what's-her-face. Professor Connor, that was it. Minerva had tested her replacement extensively, until she was positive that Professor Connor knew almost as much about Transfiguration as she did. Honestly, Minerva knew she had just been venting some of her anxiety on the woman.
She had wanted to keep her study and bedroom, but she knew that the other staff members would have looked at her strangely if she had suggested that. So, she suffered through living in a space she knew wasn't hers.
You don't care about anything now either. You can't find a purpose in life. Distantly, Minerva acknowledged this thought. But wait – you don't want any purpose.
This was all true. Minerva buried her face in her hands. In the only way she knew to retaliate to her own thoughts, Minerva wondered, So? Is it wrong to feel lost without him?
No. He was the life blood of this school. You can't compare yourself to that. Things have changed since his death. It is not wrong to miss the old, but, dear, you forget the new.
Minerva knew that Hogwarts was suffering. The Order of the Phoenix assured her that things would be hectic now, with the approaching war, but Minerva knew it would be unjust to blame all of the school's suffering on the war. The only Professor with any animation these days was Professor Connor. Most of the Professors were in a stupefied state. Deaths take time to get used to – you can't expect the staff to just forget all about him.
Minerva also worried about her inadequacy as a Headmistress. She would never be like he was, but she felt she should be better. This school deserved a better Headmistress than she in the coming times. There would be deaths in students' families; she might even have to close the school. You can't do this.
"Minerva." And now your mind is playing tricks on you! "Minerva." Evidently this was not her mind. She glanced around, her eyes landing on his portrait; he was awake."You know you are competent enough, Minerva."
"Thank you. That means a lot."
"And, Minerva –"
She interrupted him.
"I already know, Albus. I think I've always known. I love you too."