Disclaimer: Not mine, of course.
A/N: Not very happy - I envy Minerva sometimes. Sorry for being a bad fan fiction writer, so here is a short character study of everyone's favourite professor. I hope you like her.
Minerva McGonagall sat in her chair, fiddling with the quill she was using to mark papers. She was so very tired, and the day hadn't even been a long one. Given, she had taken a class of rowdy third years, more interested in playing with their rats instead of transforming them into cups, and she'd had a trying meeting with Professor Slughorn, and then she'd been forced to give detention to a pair of sixth years who had decided that it was more fun to kiss in empty classrooms than obey the rules of bedtime, and then she'd managed to forget all about the pile of marking to be done.
But the day had really just been a normal one. Head of Gryffindor was a big responsibility, she was realising, and not something that she should ever have taken on so carelessly. She wholly regretted the moment that she had forgotten about plans and careful consideration and said 'yes' without thinking. She wouldn't give the job up though, that'd be weakness and defeat, and she really did love the responsibility of it, and she respected all of her students.
It was just so hard sometimes, to retire to her office at the end of a long day, alone with her thoughts. She didn't make a habit of collecting trinkets or pictures, or making her rooms needlessly elaborate. In fact, she lived in much the same comfort as she had done when she was a student, not too many years ago. Except she was more alone now.
She had always been alone though, in one way or another. She had friends when she was in school, many of them, whose company she enjoyed, and with whom she laughed freely. She'd had her family, who were so proud of her many achievements. She'd had even had some attention from the opposite sex.
She'd always liked her own, quiet company, and a book and a mug of tea. She'd managed to become too comfortable in only her own presence, where she was not subjected to stupidity or senselessness, where she always knew where she stood and what was going on. That was her downfall, and her making.
One by one, her friends had dropped away, uninterested in her solitary ways and lack of gossip, until she was left with only a select few, who knew when to leave her alone, who appreciated her dry humour, and did not shun her for it. Her father (her only surviving family) was not pleased with her for choosing teaching instead of using her admirable grades and intellect to gain standing in the Ministry, and eventually the letters between them dwindled to nothing. She had even tired her hand at love once, at Seventeen, and had decided that it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. When a kiss with a man she had believed herself in love with had left her with a feeling of immense disappointment and a desire to be on her own with her thoughts, she had left the whole thing alone.
She enjoyed the quietness, the hours that she could spend reading or learning without having to worry about spending her time worrying that she was upsetting someone or neglecting them. She had her students, and her morals and ideals and she had created a life where she could live by them . She could be a part of the Order of the Phoenix without having to worry that she was leaving someone who needed her more than they needed anyone else. And that was exactly what she had wanted.
And she knew that one day, someone would look at her life and think that it was such a waste. How can a life enjoyed ever be considered wasted?
Sometimes she did regret her decision, the path her life had taken. Those feelings didn't ever stay very long. She didn't have a husband, and she hadn't borne his children. Her name was her own, not some man's. But her family was bigger than anyone else's. She had sat at the weddings of students, and she would continue to do so as she was invited to them, as proud as any mother. She had comforted children, soothed them and taught them like a carer did. Sometimes those children did not have parents at all, and sometimes they had just been out of reach, but it hadn't ever mattered to her. She'd cared for them more than she'd cared for herself, and really, it was for them that she kept her composure and kept on.
Minerva McGonagall sank further into her chair, summoning a cushion for her back, marking done and a book rested in her lap, the soft smell of tea, and ink in the air. The patter of rain on the window was like an old friend, so she shut her eyes to the day, to the night, to the whisperings and to the past and to the future. She shut her eyes and was content to just be.