Author's Note: This story is kind of canon with my chapter story Waiting for the Storm, in that the relationship between Minerva and Nick is the same. I like to think that they've become friends over the years. Also, the painting mentioned is one that actually exists if you Google it.
The inside of the Gryffindor common room was lit by a large fire, the flames coloured a regular, but appropriate, golden-orange. The light leaped out from the fire place, hitting the curved walls and dragging itself across the red and gold coloured banners that were hung around, each one depicting a majestic lion. As majestic as each roaring beast, her fingers tapping against the stone that made up the sill, Minerva McGonagall stood, bathed in the light, her dark blue eyes staring out the window. It was drizzling slightly outside, the droplets falling against the glass pane, blurring the world beyond. Despite this, Minerva could see, dotted in the hills positioned in the distance, a string of lights, snaking their way towards the castle; the Hogwarts Express, bringing another load of students to another school year. Her heart quickened, the tapping of her fingers stopping as she watched the lights advancing. This was it. She took a deep breath and prepared to turn around.
"Minerva," a warm voice said from behind her.
The witch jumped, startled by the sudden appearance of another. Turning her head, she saw a man, not much older than her in appearance, but very different in many other ways. He was the colour of pale moonlight, his whole body shimmering, his feet lifted just above the ground. Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, the ghost of Gryffindor house, moved forward slowly, his bright face smiling, a gleam in his eyes.
"Or is it Madame Headmistress now?" he teased.
Minerva gave a smile, rolling her eyes.
"Minerva will suffice perfectly, thank you, Sir Nicholas," she said in response to his remark.
"In which case," the ghost said, gliding up beside her, "just plain "Nick" is good enough for me."
Minerva let out a laugh. Though she had spent many years in her youth as an occupant of Gryffindor Tower and during her time as Transfiguration teacher, before her appointment to headmistress, as it's head, she had only gotten to know Sir Nicholas during the past few years. Circumstances had brought them together and Minerva found that they got on rather well, sharing a love of deeper, philosophical thinking and conversations involving such things. As well as a common intellect, Nick had a kind, easy, good-humoured way of talking; when he spoke, Minerva always felt warmed and heartened, as well as feeling that she was being told the complete truth.
"What are you doing here?" Minerva inquired, not unkindly, merely curious.
"Well, I am the resident ghost, am I not?" Nick replied, opening up his arms in a mock display, "Surely the better question is what are you doing here, oh now-completely-neutral-one?"
Minerva smiled again, more to herself this time, and gave a shrug.
"Old habits, I suppose," she admitted.
She gazed around at the familiar common room, a slight longing present in her eyes.
"The hardest part of taking the job was letting this place go," she sighed.
Nick must've noticed the look on her face.
"I don't think it will ever let you go," he said kindly, "No one will ever be half the head that you were."
"Thank you," Minerva said softly, "but I hope, for Gryffindor's sake, that isn't true. Everything has it's time, doesn't it? It's somebody else's turn now."
"The new girl?" Nick said, a hint of doubt in his voice, "She's very young."
"So was I," Minerva responded calmly, "but age will come, as it always does. Aurora Sinistra is more than capable of handling things."
"Besides," she added, "the only other option was Rolanda Hooch. Now, I adore her, but you don't need to be a statistical genius to work out how that would end."
Nick shuddered.
"Anyone who's heard her talk about her plans to one day command a gnome army, under the banner of "The Great Gnome-an Empire", would not criticize your decision."
Minerva's eyes went back to the window; the lights were closer now, the tiny outline of a train almost visible through the haze. Both her hands spread flat against the window sill, she let her head hang forward, a sigh of tiredness echoing slowly from her lips. Sensing Nick was staring, she looked sideways and gave him a smile, attempting to show she was fine, before turning back to watch the train. Nick raised his eyebrows.
"And there hides the mind of tortured genius," he said, "Penny for your thoughts, my dear lady."
Minerva surveyed him, as if unsure whether to tell. Then she gave in.
"You can have it for free," she said, "I'm terrified."
"Right," Nick said, leaning his forearms against the window sill, in order to look up at her, "And is there anything in particular that inspires this current mood? It wouldn't have anything to do with your new position within the school, would it? Because that shouldn't worry you; you've done it before."
Minerva sighed loudly, almost angrily.
"I know, I know," she exclaimed, "I'm being silly. It's just that, I feel like this ship has been in the harbour for a long time and every time I go to get on it, it sails away again. Now I'm on the ship and I'm watching the harbour disappearing into the distance and I think, "oh god. I've never actually come this far. What am I doing?""
"She's using metaphors," Nick quipped, trying not to smile, "it must be bad."
Minerva pursed her lips and shot him a stoney look.
"You know, it's times like these that I wish you had a physical form," she said, "So I could push you."
"Such violence," Nick grinned, unable to help himself.
Still, he reached out a hand and laid it gently on her arm. It was a strange feeling, Minerva thought, looking at the black of her sleeve through her companion's almost transparent fingers. It was like a shadow had come over her, blocking the sun at only that point. Or like when one skims the surface of a pond with their fingers, not going beneath, feeling the cool, still water, but not really getting wet, on the border between dry land and another world. That was Nick, wasn't it? On the border between here and another world.
"You were born to lead," Nick said quietly, "Minerva, it was always accepted that you would take over once Albus had gone."
"Yes," Minerva muttered, "I know. His protege. His replacement."
Her voice was bitter, though not towards Albus. It more directed at herself, at life in general, at the situation in which she found herself.
"How can I be that?" she asked, "His replacement, I mean. It's like you said before, about me as head of house. No one will ever be the headmaster that Albus Dumbledore was. They called him the greatest, he was the greatest! How can I follow that?"
She looked out the window once more, as if searching for a way to get out, looking for something to help her escape. But all she found was the train. And it was moving in the wrong direction.
"What if I can't follow that?" she whispered, a layer of tears shimmering in her eyes.
The feeling of inadequacy she was experiencing had been building for days now, for weeks if she was being perfectly honest. It had struck her for the first time in her new office, as she had sat down and finally allowed everything to sink in. The war was over, the urgency and sense of danger that had been driving her was gone. Now she was the headmistress, rebuilding the fallen empire that was the greatest school in the world. Albus had built that empire. She had held the reigns for short periods of time, but had always passed them back to him. But he was gone; there was no one to pass the reigns to. And that scared her. Looking around the walls of her office, counting the rows of portraits, each one depicting a leader gone by, she felt overwhelmed by the burden of history that now fell upon her shoulders.
Nick's hand fell off her own as he floated away. Minerva watched as he stopped before a painting on the wall. Silently, he beckoned her over and then turned to gaze at the picture. Minerva, upon realizing which picture it was, felt her heart skip a beat. Immortalized in acrylic, was a young woman, her back to the painter, her eyes looking downwards, perhaps at the black cat that sat in the corner. She wore a heavy dress of pale pink, with a high collar and tiny flowers embroidered in various places, the large sleeves covering her thin arms all the way to her wrists. Her delicate fingers held a pointed hat, the detail in her painted grip almost leading the viewer to imagine her thumbs tapping against the worn brim. Her hair was dark, appearing more so because of her pale skin and the sunlight stained background. It was coiled on the top of her head in an intricate bun, a beautiful design completing what was already a beautiful woman. Minerva sighed, her hand almost subconsciously reaching up to tuck in loose strands from her own greying bun.
"That's you, isn't it?" Nick asked.
"Yes," Minerva replied, her voice coming from somewhere else, her eyes not leaving the painting, "From a long time ago."
"From what I can remember," Nick said knowingly, "it was from the very first year you spent as head of Gryffindor."
Minerva turned to him, her head slightly tilted.
"You remembered that?" she said, confused and also a little flattered.
"And more," Nick smiled, "It was painted by the Gryffindor head girl, a talented artist, as a thank you for the support you had given her over the year. By the order of the Headmaster, it was hung in the common room and here it has remained."
"I must have it taken down," Minerva whispered.
"Not in my afterlife!" Nick exclaimed, "It's a beautiful piece. But that's not why I brought it to your attention."
"No?" Minerva said, her eyes going back to the portrait, thinking about things she hadn't thought about in a long time.
"No," Nick said, "I also remember how terrified you were, that first year. You felt as if you knew nothing, that you were too young."
"But age came, as it always does," he continued, "and you grew into the most formidable, most admirable leader that Gryffindor house has ever had the fortunate to possess. You didn't come into that position as what you left it as, that is my point."
Minerva gazed at the face of her youth, tracing the line of her mouth with her eyes, following the folds and curves of the dress. Had that young girl suspected that she would one day be standing in front of her own image, many more years behind her, questioning her worth and having it spelled out by a ghost? The simple answer to that was no. At that point, Minerva had never even guessed that she might be headmistress; she had just taken it one day at a time. And that had been enough, she realized as she analyzed it now. As a young girl, her terror had been overcome by throwing herself into deep ends and swimming as fast as she could. As an older woman, Minerva found that approach less preferable. However, Nick's words hit home, somewhere inside of her; once again, he made sense of her confusion.
"One day at a time," she whispered to herself, remembering the unspoken mantra that had seen her through all those decades.
"Indeed," Nick said softly, "One day at a time."
The lights of the train had disappeared from view, as Minerva checked the window one last time, leaving a now darkened and empty sky behind. The students would have arrived by now and were probably beginning their journey by carriage or by boat towards the castle. Minerva took a deep breath.
"This is it," she said.
"Steady, old girl," Nick said, "you'll be fine.
"Thank you," Minerva said, in a voice so soft and so unsure, that it was almost as if the girl in the painting had stepped from art into the world.
Then she added "of course I will be," sounding much more like the strong lioness that had led so many for so long.