Disclaimer: None of it!
Albus Dumbledore paced across his office in what he knew to be his two hundredth trip that morning, blinking as he turned to the window and saw the sun slipping in through the curtains to shine and shimmer on his silvery beard.
Ah—he still had some lemon drops left, didn't he? The headmaster started to reach for one from the bowl on his desk, but instead turned and resumed his pacing. Even sweets couldn't distract Albus from the question that had been troubling him for the better part of…well, how long had it been now? Five years? Ten years? It was funny, Albus mused, how the years ran together when he'd lived through one hundred and fifty of them—and yet he could still remember the first time he'd set eyes on Minerva McGonagall, how her long hair had swung over her eyes as she'd scribbled furiously to finish an essay in his Transfiguration class. It was too bad, Albus mused, that she always wore it up in that severe bun these days…
His smile, all too brief in the first place, quickly faded. His age was the problem, wasn't it?—not to mention that they shared a close but comfortable headmaster-deputy sort of professional bond. Such a romantic relationship in those terms, Albus reminded himself, was strictly out-of-bounds. He wished fervently that he'd only lived eighty, ninety years…perhaps he wouldn't be so anxious now if he'd been born a few decades later. If only he'd been her classmate instead of her teacher…
"Dear, stop worrying," said Dilys Derwent from her portrait, looking down at him with some concern. Dumbledore allowed his lips to curve up in a small smile as he steepled his fingers together—attempts, she knew, to appear to be the confident, all-powerful headmaster Hogwarts expected. "I am fine, Dilys," he said, but continued to pace all the same.
Dumbledore soon became aware that the eyes of most of the subjects of the portraits were trained on his nervous, uneasy walk (and when had any of them ever seen the headmaster as other than cool and collected?). The old man finally threw his hands up in the air.
"I fear we have a problem," he said to no one in particular. Phineas raised an eyebrow in his portrait to the left of the headmaster. "Ah," he said. "I think you'll find that you're the only one with the problem, Dumbledore."
"He's nervous," Dilys explained to Phineas. "Poor dear. Will you tell her today, Albus?"
The headmaster folded his hands and sighed. "I've been meaning to tell her for far too long, Dilys. The only problem is that the right moment never comes up…and, to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I'd know what to say if that moment did arrive."
"I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave," sneered Phineas, earning nasty glares from both Dilys and Armando. It was Everard, however, who finally piped up with a solution.
"I believe you and Minerva share a common friendship with Mrs. Pomfrey, Albus. Surely she'd be willing to help you think of the right things to say—especially as she also knows what Minerva would be likely to accept."
Dumbledore said nothing for a while, letting the minutes trickle by in silence. Did Poppy know?
"I believe that Mrs. Pomfrey has a good indication of the feelings of all of the staff members on every imaginable subject," said Everard, in response to Dumbledore's silent question. "I think she's figured it out by now, Albus—especially considering that she's been a close friend of Minerva's for ages. Call her up," he urged. "Do you want to go on another ten years like this?"
It was this, more than anything else, that finally settled Dumbledore's mind. With a whispered incantation he sent a message to Poppy in the infirmary, politely requesting her in his office if she could spare the time.
A few minutes and several laps around the office later, Poppy appeared in the doorway. "I hear you've been having some trouble," she said at once, causing Albus to turn and glare at the portraits—Dilys, in particular, wore a slightly guilty expression.
This was a delicate situation; Albus decided to leave out names, though he strongly suspected that the healer knew everything anyway. When he pressed her to keep his confidences a secret, however, she readily agreed.
"What do you plan on telling her?" Poppy asked. Dumbledore cringed.
"My feelings are of, er—a somewhat personal nature," he said. Poppy airily brushed him away.
"Poppycock, Albus Dumbledore. You need to practice what you're going to say, down to the very last I Love You. Now, come on. Out with it."
-----
Minerva McGonagall hurried down the hallway, looking flustered. Although the school building was fairly empty due to both the Hogsmeade trip and the last rays of October sunshine spreading over the Hogwarts grounds, she'd already caught Peeves drawing obscene diagrams on the chalkboards in some of the third floor classrooms. It had taken her over an hour to erase all of the swear words and—ahem—other sketches, drawn by a most creative poltergeist. Minerva's ears burned as she remembered one in the History of Magic Classroom—a half-naked, stick figure deputy headmistress deep in a passionate liplock with an unmistakable headmaster stick figure.
After her run-in with Peeves' artistic talents, Professor McGonagall had turned a corner to find that redheaded Ronald Weasly and Lavender Brown glued together in a way that reminded her of another of the more immodest drawings. Another few minutes and she had glimpsed a very miserable-looking Hermione stalking down the corridor to the library. When would these teenagers learn? It was better to admit these kinds of feelings—after all, keeping them bottled up was most definitely unhealthy…
Oh.
Right.
Minerva was reminded that had been doing the same thing for the past…well, how long had it been now? Five years? Ten years? It was funny, she thought, how she could still remember her first glimpse of the true Dumbledore even after all this time—sitting at his desk and watching her scribble an essay, a stern façade hiding the friendly sparkle in his sapphire eyes…
Minerva shocked herself out of the reverie, feeling guilty. Dumbledore was her boss, after all—and no matter how many private picnics they held together on spring afternoons, it was a close platonic relationship too risqué to shatter with any teenage illusion. But, Minerva reminded herself, surely a schoolgirl crush didn't last six decades?
It was of no use, she decided, and picked up her pace. Albus would always think of her as his student—as a child, even a daughter. She realized that she was headed toward the headmaster's office and remembered that she had been meaning to talk with Albus about the intentions of Argus Filch to press a mandate through the school board permitting student whipping…
Minerva's heart thudded to a stop as she stopped outside the doorframe and quickly tucked herself behind it, out of sight and unable to believe what she was hearing.
Please be kind and let me know how I'm doing on my very first Harry Potter fic!