Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and co. I did create Brenna and Patrick McGonagall however.

Plot description:

She was getting old. Her life lay behind her, a scrapbook of love and heartbreak, joy and despair, tragedy and freedom. This is her story…the story of one of the greatest witches of the age-Minerva McGonagall. Canon compatible.

A/N: I'll keep this short, but as you can probably gather from the description, this is a story about the life of Professor McGonagall. Right now, I'm thinking it will be about five or six chapters long. I can't guarantee when it will be updated, but I will hope for once every week or two. Anyway, on with the story and I hope you enjoy!

Beginnings

She had never felt so old. Yet another year had begun at Hogwarts, and this year had a strange foreboding of being her last. She'd been Headmistress for nearly thirty years now and just yesterday Harry Potter's young daughter had started Hogwarts. She could scarcely believe it. Why, it seemed only yesterday Harry had started Hogwarts himself, and only days before that it'd been James. Why, that first year she'd taught James' father had been a seventh year! It was undeniable. She was old.

She buried her head in her hands. There was so much work to be done. Paperwork to sign, permission forms to verify, students to meet. The Ministry to deal with. The times were nearly as dark as they had been during the Second War. This time, however, the enemy was very different. The corruption in the Ministry had reached levels previously unseen. She desperately hoped the right candidate would be elected in the next election that spring, even if he was reluctant. The corruption had to be dealt with one way or another.

"Cheer up, Minerva," sniffed a painting on the wall in front of her. "You've not nearly as much to worry about as I did when I was Headmaster…you're a Gryffindor. Everyone loves you."

"Thank you, Phineas," she replied stiffly, "You've been such a help." She snorted, and turned back to her paperwork.

"Honestly, no appreciation," muttered Phineas disdainfully, his nose in the air. There was a deep throated chuckle from a portrait below and to the right of him.

"You be quiet, Albus Dumbledore," she huffed.

"But where's the fun in that?" he twinkled. She glared. "You mustn't get so stressed, my dear. That glare is not becoming." He reached down and tried unsuccessfully to remove a lemon drop from his beard.

"How can I not be, Albus! I'm old…too old for this." She threw up her hands and looked around the room.

"Not nearly as old as I was, Minerva."

"You're bloody Albus Dumbledore. Greatest wizard in the world and all that rot," she said incredulously. He chuckled.

"I have always found that taking time to one's self is the best cure for thinking too much. Whether it be to eat a lemon drop, knit a sock, or play Quidditch, whatever you take a fancy to, my dear."

"You're quite mad you know, Albus. Nearly as much help as Phineas." She went back to her paperwork and studiously ignored the protraits.

"We shall see, Minerva. One day you'll be quite mad too." He was still twinkling. Stupid old men.

By the end of the week, however, she was not so sure of this. The first week of term had proved to be one of the more…trying weeks she had endured as Headmistress. Lily and Hugo were proving to be nearly as much of a handful as their parents and twin uncles combined. In their first week of school, they'd set dungbombs all along the Charms corridor twice, stuck all of the bedpans to the hospital wing ceiling with Muggle super glue, painted moustaches on all of the Gryffindor third year's faces while they slept and decimated half the Potions classroom with a well placed Whizbang. There was no doubt about it; they would be trouble. Their antics were certainly causing headaches. Minerva already felt like she could use a holiday. It was this feeling, more than anything, that had kept Albus' advice in her head. But she was determined not to give in.

So it was very late and she was very tired when she finally managed to drag herself into bed that first Saturday of term. She traipsed through the day in a haze, too tired to properly concentrate and too busy to properly relax. It was not surprising, then, that she quickly found herself deep in dreamland.

"Minnie! Minnie! Look what I found! It's a pretty red ladybird! Look at the lovely spots, Minnie!" A little girl with shining eyes and pretty curls was holding her hand out, a tiny ladybug sitting in her palm. She was fascinated by it, her small mouth round with awe. Minnie grinned at her.

"She's lovely, Brenna. Put her back in the garden like a good girl. Mama doesn't like bugs, you know."

The little girl frowned, confused. "But she's not a bug, Minnie. She's a ladybird."

Minnie laughed. "Silly goose. Ladybirds are bugs."

The scene faded, and a boy laughed. Minnie spun around, and there was the same little girl, a bit older now, sitting on an older boy's lap. "Oooh. Tell it again, Pat! Tell it again!"

"I've already told it three times, Brenna," the boy sighed.

"Tell the story again, Patrick," said Minnie wistfully. "You're such a good storyteller. Just once more, please."

"Well, alright…but don't tell Papa we let Brenna stay up so late."

Suddenly, there were flames everywhere. Patrick yelled again and again, hanging out the window, for someone, anyone, to help them. His wand was snapped and burned, half ashes, and poor Minnie was only just eleven, Brenna even younger. Minnie was huddled in a corner, sobbing, Brenna was screaming and shrieking in another room. They couldn't get to her. There was no way. She screamed again. "Minnie! Patrick! Mama! Papa! Help!" But no help would come.

Back at Hogwarts, Minerva shot up with a gasp, her face tearstained, her breathing ragged. She hadn't thought, or dreamed of her family in years. Little Brenna had died in that housefire, and she hadn't spoken to Patrick since…but she wouldn't think of it. She determindly tried to go back to sleep.

But sleep would not come. The old memories haunted her until she was obliged to rise and seek out her old albums. She opened up the first one and gazed at the page full of pictures. There was Brenna with a ladybird, and there on Patrick's knee. And one of her with Patrick, about to leave for school. So many memories she had tried to forget.

She kept flipping.

And flipping.

And she could not help it.

She cried.