Hi All! This is a fic about Minerva McGonagall that I started thinking up shortly after finishing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I've got a fair amount of it written already (I was waiting until I could think up a reasonable title before I began posting it), and as a warning, I can tell already that it's going to be very long.

This story covers more or less Minerva's whole life, from her years at Hogwarts up until the end of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I've tried to keep things as chronologically accurate and plausible as possible, but I have moved events back a few years (according to the dates given on Wikipedia, at least, which cannot be relied upon in the first place if my history teachers haven't been lying to me for all these years). The main reason for this is because of World War II - JK Rowling has said that the Grindelwald's defeat coinciding with the end of WWII was not a coincidence, and I wanted to explore that idea... but I wanted Minerva to be a bit older than other sources have reckoned. So please forgive me for that.

As a warning to all MMAD fans: There will be tons of Dumbledore in this fic, as he is indeed one of the pivotal figures in Minerva's life. HOWEVER, Minerva will not be paired with him in this fic. I have always imagined him as much more of a father-figure to Minerva (considering he is supposed to be 80 years older than her). But I hope you will all decide to read and review anyway!

And before I shut up and let you start actually reading, a disclaimer is in order: Harry Potter and everything associated with it is the property of the horribly creative JK Rowling, whom I basically idolize. But you all know this already, so thank you for reading, and please enjoy!

The Sound of Silence

Prologue: Portrait

With a jolt, the witch jerked awake, as if torn from a horrifying dream. She stretched, eyes closed tightly, cursing herself for falling asleep at her desk again until her right hand suddenly hit something very hard. Craning her neck around, she frowned at a wall just a few feet to her right that most certainly was not supposed to be there. Only… She knocked on it, still frowning, trying to discern why this inexplicable wall did not extend outwards in either direction and why nothing seemed to exist to its right. Turning to her left, she was further perplexed to find another of these walls about the same distance away. With an impatient sigh, the witch turned to sit squarely in her chair, and straightened up so quickly that her spine cracked slightly.

Staring directly before her, the witch was startled to find herself at the same level as a number of portraits that she usually had to look up at to see from her desk. What was more, her desk was not in front of her. Biting her lip apprehensively, she leaned forward (if it could be called that – she had had the sudden, disorienting sensation that her state of being no longer extended to a third dimension) and peered down through her square spectacles to see her form slumped over her desk as if sleeping, a few candles burning only inches lower than they had been when she had lit them earlier that evening.

As the witch tried frantically to make her mind work – a difficult feat, as it appeared to have frozen – she felt a comforting hand on her shoulder and turned in her chair to see Albus Dumbledore smiling down at her.

'Hello, Minerva,' he said, his eyes twinkling merrily behind his half-moon spectacles.

Minerva blinked furiously, trying to make sense of everything that was happening. 'Albus! How…' She mouthed wordlessly for a few seconds, and finally mustered the courage to ask the question that would explain everything the fastest: 'Am I dead?'

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. 'Dead? Hmm… that's an interesting question, and I suppose the answer would rely entirely on your choice of perspective. As you probably have already noticed (although, given the circumstances, it might not have registered completely), your body expelled its last breath today at precisely ten hours and twenty-eight minutes in the evening. However, the fact that you and I are sitting here having this conversation in a place we both know exists as a very solid and reachable place in the material world might suggest otherwise.' He smiled kindly at the bewildered expression on the late Headmistress's face. 'To put it simply, a small portion of your soul has remained behind in this portrait to direct and support the next Headmaster or Headmistress of Hogwarts.'

'Right,' said Minerva, still quite unnerved, breathing deeply to try and regain her bearings. 'Right, so should I go get someone to, er, deal with my body, or…?' She stopped – the whole concept of being dead was still a bit much to try to deal with rationally.

'Oh, no,' said Dumbledore conversationally. 'No, I think that when you do not turn up at breakfast tomorrow, one of the teachers will have the sense to come up here to see if you are all right. As you are technically no longer the Headmistress, there will be no password to enter the office, at which point all the messy details will be taken care of by those who can take care of them.' He glanced at her. 'I assume Pomona will be taking over as Headmistress?'

'I… well, yes,' stammered Minerva, 'yes, as Deputy Headmistress I suppose she will. Which means we will need a new Herbology teacher…' For some reason, this rational conclusion calmed Minerva down a great deal, and to her surprise, a perfect candidate for the vacant position pushed its way to the foreground of her memory in the guise of a round-faced, forgetful boy whose abysmal Potions skills were more than made up for by his skill with plants…

'Excellent,' said Dumbledore, clapping his hands. 'Well, I think I shall be going back to my own portrait… Oh, and by the way, I might warn you right now that walking from portrait to portrait is a bit like walking through a sheet of ice water, or a ghost if you've ever had that chilling experience – it's rather unpleasant the first few times, but you learn to ignore it.'

A number of disappointed groans erupted from the various portraits around the room. 'Come now, Dumbledore, you've just spoiled the best part!' roared Fortescue from across the room, his corpulent, red face etched in disappointment.

'I'm merely giving a warning,' said Dumbledore politely, 'and I assure you that will not change the disgruntled look that I'm sure will appear on Minerva's face the first time she tries it. They take great enjoyment out of seeing new portraits' reactions,' he explained to Minerva, 'and I'm sorry to say that not a one of them had the courtesy to warn me before I tried walking into a neighbouring frame.' He smiled cheerfully at the surrounding portraits, some of whom rolled their eyes. 'And a fair warning doesn't ruin the horrible shock, does it, Severus?'

'No, it does not,' drawled the voice of Severus Snape from the portrait directly to the right of Minerva's. 'Now if you would all please just shut up, I'm trying to actually get some sleep here.'

'An excellent idea,' said Dumbledore brightly, edging towards the left edge of the frame (which Minerva now was able to differentiate from the wall she had assumed it was). 'I'm directly to your left, if you're curious. If you have any other questions or qualms about being dead, please don't hesitate to wake me up.' With a smile, he turned to step back into his portrait, his long silver hair glinting in the flickering light of the candles on the desk below.

'Albus,' said Minerva sharply. She suddenly felt rather foolish for having sat as if Stunned through all of this. Dumbledore turned and gave her a polite look. 'I'm sorry that I'm acting so…'

'Shocked? Disbelieving? Unnerved?' said Dumbledore quietly. 'Don't be ashamed of it, Minerva, you have every right to feel that way. It's a very strange thing to be dead, it takes getting used to, and it's not at all a sign of weakness to feel the way you do – it's quite a human reaction, actually.'

'But you didn't seem at all, well, affected by your death!' Minerva pointed out. 'When I spoke to you – well, your portrait, really – after you died, you seemed quite at ease.'

'I suppose the fact that I myself had arranged my own quick and painless death at the hands of a man I trusted made me much more prepared to face death than I'd imagine you feel, albeit you died a quick and painless and altogether natural death.' Dumbledore smiled kindly at his old friend.

Minerva could find nothing else to say, and instead nodded somewhat stiffly. Dumbledore, understanding that he was being excused, gave her a brief nod and wink, and stepped into the nothingness to the side of the frame and back into his own portrait.

The room was soon filled with the gentle snores of the other portraits, all of whom had fallen asleep shortly after realizing that Minerva had no intention of trying to walk into a different portrait that night. Minerva, for her part, stayed exactly where she was, staring down upon the office that had up until a few hours ago been hers, and trying to look anywhere but the desk, where her body still lay listlessly over a stack of paperwork she had been reading. The moon was a delicate sliver suspended outside the window in the inky sky; in a few hours' time, Hogwarts would be stirring, the students and teachers bustling downstairs to the Great Hall, through corridors and hallways that Minerva would never again stride through on the way to a class. The thought made her more than just a little wistful, and, staring out onto the jagged surface of the Forbidden Forest, silvery in the moonlight, Minerva let her mind drift back to the days when she herself had been just another student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…