The emerald flames that surrounded Minerva died quickly down and she stepped out of Professor Dumbledore's fireplace and towards where he stood in the middle of the living room floor of his summer home.

The first thing she noticed about the house was the immense amount of sunlight that poured into it through two story tall windows, making its golden hued wood paneling shine in a remarkable—and no doubt magical, fashion. It gave the house a very warm, welcoming feel. It suited Dumbledore perfectly.

"May I take it that you approve, Minerva?"

Minerva felt a familiar tingle crawl its way up her spine. He only ever used her given name when they were alone. It felt oddly . . . intimate.

She shoved the thought quickly away. Instead she nodded calmly at him , allowing her eyes to cast about the room and take in as much of it as possible. This was a gorgeous place—a far cry from her own home, which was distinctly gothic in architecture.

Dumbledore smiled. "I suppose I shall have to give you the grand tour then, or else we may find ourselves highly distracted by your curiosity. Best to get it out of the way before we start."

Minerva gave him what could only be described as a very cat-like smile.

He chuckled quietly and then commenced his tour. She was lead around from room to room in the house, told its history and even told about some of the stranger objects in each room. It was mesmerizing, this house. Much like her professor, Minerva found that the house was in a class entirely its own. She'd been expecting that, of course, but imagining something was never quite the same as actually seeing it.

He lead her into a room which was oddly, at least in this house, devoid of natural light. A potions set more complicated than even the one Professor Slughorn had on display in his classroom, sat on a table near this wall. It was currently in disuse but Minerva could see that it was well maintained.

It suddenly occurred to Minerva that this was probably the very room where her professor had discovered the twelve uses of dragon's blood. As soon as that thought occurred to her she found that she felt that if she were to try and speak, she would be unable to force words from her mouth. For the first time ever she felt very nervous to be around Professor Dumbledore. This man was famous—and for amazingly good reason. She had never felt this overwhelmed by her teacher, even at the times when her infatuation with him was at its most powerful. He was . . . brilliant did not even come close to describing it. She'd always admired him. Absolutely always. The fact that she admired him had lead just as much to her infatuation with him as how he charmed her. Right now, however, she did not admire him. She was awed by him. She hardly felt fit to stand near him, much less be receiving his help to become an animagus.

The feeling passed quickly as Dumbledore, sensing the sudden nervous stiffness towards him that her awe caused, lead her from the room. She quickly noticed, once her senses began to return from her and after she'd thoroughly scolded herself for behaving so irrationally that Dumbledore had not mentioned his discovery when they were in the room. In fact he'd never once mentioned it, or any of his other more astounding feats to her. Not ever. It was honestly something of a quandary to Minerva. She was not one who engaged in bragging by any means but she could not help but bring up some things on occasion, when they were appropriate. She was always proud of her accomplishments, she did not ignore them the way Dumbledore, bless his dear soul, seemed to. He was an amazingly humble person, at least at most times. She supposed that was part of his charm.

He lead her back through the pleasantly sun-flooded living room and up a flight of stairs, to the second story and a landing that overlooked the spacious living room from the second story. She paused for a moment to stare down at it from over the railing. A lake could be seen clearly in the distance though one of the windows, shimmering an almost unnatural blue in the afternoon sun. It would be easy to stare at something like this all day. She envied Professor Dumbledore, and wondered idly what it would be like to spend even a week or two in this house.

Dumbledore waited patiently for her at the entrance to a hallway. After a few moments of blissful staring where she took in everything she could of the living room, Minerva tore herself away from the landing that was overlooking the living room. She began following him down the hallway.

A door near to the left and near the hallway's entrance stood slightly ajar. Curious about the only room that Professor Dumbledore had lead her past without taking her in to view it, she peered through the slightly open door and caught sight of a rather magnificent looking bird.

"Professor, is that," she began as her legs carried her mindlessly through the doorway and to the bird, which was staring at her curiously from its golden perch. "Is that a phoenix?"

"Indeed it is," he replied, following after her.

"I had no idea that you had a phoenix, Professor," she breathed. "They're amazing creatures . . . What's its name?"

"His name is Fawkes," he answered.

She nodded at him then turned back to Fawkes, who still seemed to be considering her. She suddenly got the very odd feeling that Fawkes knew something she would have rather he didn't. At the same time Fawkes moved toward her and offered his beautiful red and gold head to her so she might pet him. She touched him tentatively, all the while thinking that the phoenix was both markedly dignified and entirely too sharp. Phoenixes were supposed to be incredibly loyal pets and she had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that the reason he was being so friendly was that he knew how she felt about Dumbledore.

"He seems to have taken a very quick liking to you," Dumbledore commented. Minerva wondered whether or not he could tell by Fawkes' behavior what was going on in Minerva's head—or more accurately her heart. She certainly hoped not. The last thing she wanted was for him to know any of what was happening in her head. If he ever did realize he would probably do what she knew what the smart thing, and distance himself from her. It would be the smart thing, she knew, but even so, she did not want it to happen. Despite what she knew was smart she also wanted to be with him as often as she could. She found herself constantly toeing a very thin line.

She ignored the sick feeling in her stomach and, still stroking Fawkes' plumage, began to look around the room. An unearthly beautiful song began to ring from Fawkes. Well, if nothing else, he seemed to approve of the way she felt about Albus, even if she herself did not. She wasn't sure how she felt about that.

There was nothing more beautiful than the song of a phoenix. She'd read that in a book once and now, hearing it for the first time in real life, she found she agreed. It reverberated through her and she found herself looking at Albus and her heart seemed to swell in her chest at the sight of him. Oh, Fawkes needed to stop. Fawkes needed to stop or she might find herself compelled to do something very stupid.

She lifted her hand from Fawkes, and with something of an effort—her insides were ringing pleasantly with song—she took a few steps away from him. The song flowing from Fawkes began to fade to an ending and Minerva found herself taking in her surroundings for the first time. There was a large bed made of the same wood that made up the paneling throughout the house. There was a portrait of four people sitting on a dresser not far away.

Minerva's cheeks's began to burn. This was Professor Dumbledore's bedroom. No wonder he had not been taking her into this room. She instantly hated her somewhat rash decision to simply barge into the room and began to quickly apologize to Professor Dumbledore, noting with satisfaction that she was at least not stammering or showing any other signs of her embarrassment. The older she got, the more she hated how her more powerful emotions managed to break through her normally calm, collected and decidedly straight-forward demeanor. At least right now the flush on her cheeks was all that had managed to weasel its way around her attempts to hold in her emotions.

Dumbledore raised a hand and she quickly ceased with her apology.

"There is no need to apologize, Minerva."

There was that damn shiver moving its way pleasantly up her spine.

"I have invited you into my home and you are welcome to wander wherever you may wish in it. I have complete and utter faith that a collected girl like yourself could not possibly cause any trouble."

"Thank you, Professor," she answered, not knowing what else to say. He was being to pleasant and polite. She was no good with pleasantries. She simply did not have the people skills for them. She preferred books.

A table full of chess pieces caught her eye, as she moved them around the room in an effort to avoid Dumbledore's gaze and keep her feelings of immense embarrassment at her rude behavior under control.

"You play chess?" she asked, her hazel eyes meeting his own eyes quickly. She loved chess. She'd only ever played her father, who beat her mercilessly every time they played, and her brother who she could beat about 50 or 60 percent of the time, but it was a favorite past time of hers. It sharpened the mind.

"For many years, now, yes. It's an occasional indulgement. As far as games go I prefer bowling."

Minerva's dark eyebrows shot up toward her hairline at the thought of Professor Dumbledore bowling. Somehow it was both oddly appropriate and intensely absurd. She could not decide what her opinion on the matter was.

"I take it you are fond of chess, then?" he asked.

"I play some," she told him. "Not as much as I'd like though. Nobody at school ever wants to play me."

"Quick and humiliating losses for them, I assume?" She nodded. "People do not generally wish to play an opponent they feel they cannot win against."

"I never win against my father."

Dumbledore pinned her with his crystal blue gaze. "You are a very uncommon caliber of young lady, Minerva. Your determination is both a great strength and terribly annoying to those of us who occasionally wish to dissuade you from something." His mind flashed back to the incident a year ago when he'd had to take her back to the hospital wing. He smiled fondly at the memory. He'd been quite upset with her over her uncharacteristically irresponsible behavior, but he'd had to admit, upon seeing himself, that it was very funny.

"I'll take that as a compliment," she replied shrewdly.

"As you should!" he told her, with a vehemence that was the exception in most people and the rule for Minerva's lovably eccentric teacher. "Now, there are at least three rooms in this house that you have not seen and we still need to get to work."

Minerva followed Dumbledore obediently out of the room, still glancing about as she left it. Her eyes fell again on the portrait that was on the dresser. In it she saw an older wizard with long white hair and a short, well trimmed beard, a middle-aged witch with hair the same color as Professor Dumbledore's, a rather messy looking boy that Minerva could only assume was the professor's thrice mentioned brother Aberforth and last of all, she saw a young, clean-shaven man with neat auburn hair down just past his shoulders standing very tall and waving.

Minerva took a sharp intake of breath and kept walking. She wondered how long sleep would be in coming tonight, now that she had the image of a young Professor Dumbledore—one only a year or two older than she—ingrained in her mind

/E/E/E/E/E/

"I'm home, Mother," said Minerva as she stepped out of the fireplace and into the study.

June McGonagall cast a wary glance over her shoulder at her youngest child, now the last child remaining in the house. As usual when she got back from her Professor's house, Minerva looked both vaguely joyful and vaguely depressed—with admiration and lovesickness showing and triumphing above both.

June had noticed her daughter's infatuation with her teacher from the moment Minerva had come home the year before. She was far sharper than her daughter liked to give her credit for and being a very emotional person herself she found that empathetic senses were sharper than even her mental ones. It had been quite obvious to her that Minerva had developed a schoolgirl crush on her favorite teacher. She'd actually thought it somewhat funny, especially considering how mad at Dumbledore Minerva had been.

Now it was less funny. Now her fifteen year old daughter was flooing over to that same teacher's house every few days and spending hours there. It worried June. It wasn't that she thought anything was going on—she had Dumbledore as a transfiguration teacher in her own days at Hogwarts and would have a hard time believing that he would engage in such a thing. It was just that this wasn't good for Minerva. June happened to think that she should be spending more time with her boyfriend, whom she personally quite approved of and was at least Minerva's own age, rather than a man eighty years her senior. This was only going to lead Minerva straight into trouble.

She'd mentioned once to her husband that they should perhaps consider putting a stop to Minerva's frequent visits to Dumbledore. He'd thought she was quite mad.

"Students fancy their teachers all the time, June," he'd told her, shaking his head. "I remember back when I was Hogwarts there was this one teacher, Professor Morven, that I fancied. She was married to another teacher too, Professor Laithe, but I just couldn't help myself. Kids will be kids."

And after that she knew she'd get no help from her husband on this. How very typical of him. He rarely saw past his own duties as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot or what was going on in the world of that damned sport quidditch (oh, why did she continue to let Minerva participate in that ghastly sport?). He had no idea how Minerva would come home from Dumbledore's with what looked to be the weight of the world on her shoulders. June was convinced she needed some time away from Professor Dumbledore.

Then again, perhaps her husband was right. She too had once fancied Professor Dumbledore when she was in school. He'd not been nearly as fond of her as he was of Minerva now ( a fact that would have made her magnificently jealous in those days) but the situations were hardly terribly different. June supposed that eventually Minerva would outgrow her feeling for Dumbledore and move on.

June watched her daughter move across, her long pony tail swinging as she moved. the room to grab a book on transfiguration, her long pony tail swinging as she moved. Minerva sat herself down on the couch, curled up around the book, reading. There would be no talking to her tonight. Especially given what she was reading. Albus Dumbledore was in a fair number of transfiguration books.

She might have decided that there was nothing to be done until Minerva simply got over Professor Dumbledore but in the meantime June would certainly still not like it.

/E/E/E/E/E/

"Checkmate, my dear."

Minerva deftly pushed herself back from the chess board, her mouth in its familiar line and her nostrils flaring.

Ever since Miner had discovered that Dumbledore played chess she'd challenged him for a game after they were through with every lesson. It had become something of a tradition for them. She'd began it because she'd thought it would be a good way to distract herself from the fact that she'd just spent hours alone with him. She got very into chess and while she was strategizing she found that there was little else on her mind. It seemed like an excellent way to wind down a lesson.

She'd been quite right, but not for the reason she'd thought. As it turned out, Albus Dumbledore was an incredibly frustrating person to play chess with. He always seemed to pull a win from no where. There had been times when Minerva had been authentically, genuinely, absolutely certain that she'd had him, but somehow he always managed to out-think her and put her into checkmate. She had no idea how he did it. It was perplexing and singularly frustrating. It seemed that he must be some sort of great strategist, but then why was it that she ever got the idea that she was on the verge of winning? Her father was a great strategist, of that there was no question in any witch or wizard alive's mind, and when she played him she never for one instant thought she would win. There was never the frustrating sensation of having victory snatched narrowly from her. As such, she found nothing more annoying than being beaten by Dumbledore, and after the third time this occurred she'd made a silent vow to herself that she would beat him one day, and spectacularly.

She lifted her eyes from the chess board and stared Dumbledore in the eyes. "I don't know how you beat me."

"If you did then I wouldn't have won."

"It's frustrating."

He inclined his head towards her slightly. "I can clearly see that, Minerva."

Her look darkened and he chuckled in that annoying way of his. Normally she found his airy demeanor charming. Right now, while she was in a distinctly bad temper, however, it was anything but charming. Still attractive she would admit, but not charming or endearing in the least.

"I swear, Professor, if it takes me until I'm old and wrinkled I'm going to beat you. Gratuitously."

Dumbledore shook his head, and it was obvious to her that there was something he thought quite obvious that she was missing. "I have no doubts about the truth of that, though I do doubt that you will be at all wrinkled when that comes to pass. I have been playing far longer than you have, but that will only save me for so long."

She was about to reply to him, when she heard someone calling her name from the fireplace. She looked over to see Malcolm's blonde head sitting in the now green flames of Professor Dumbledore's fireplace.

"Malcolm?"

"Hey, Min," he said with a grin, then to Dumbledore. "Hello, Professor. Sorry to just burst into your fireplace like this. I'm not interrupting am I? I tried your"—and by now he was quite clearly speaking to Minerva again—"house but your mother said you here working on your animagus stuff."

"No, you didn't interrupt," she answered him and moving towards the fire. She knelt down next to where Malcolm's head sat. "We were just finished. Is there something you want, Mal?"

"Just wondering if you wanted to come over here and spend the rest of the afternoon with me. It's a gorgeous day. We could spend most of it outside," he grinned at her again before adding, "I already asked your mum. She was quite pleased about the idea actually."

Minerva blushed. Her mother was exceptionally fond of Malcolm. It was one thing she would never argue with her about. Malcolm was something special.

"All right. I'll be right there then."

"Cool."

And Malcolm's head disappeared from the fire with a pop.

Minerva turned around to face Professor Dumbledore. "Well, I'll be going then, Professor. I'll see you Tuesday."

"Have fun with your young man, Minerva," he told her.

She hoped he did not notice her bright red cheeks as she flooed away to Malcolm's house.

Malcolm was waiting for her at the other end and helped her gently from the fireplace, brushing a bit of ash from her favorite tartan robes.

"Hey there," he greeted and kiss her softly.

"Hi," she returned, once they'd broken apart. They stood quietly in one another's arms for a few moments, their foreheads pressed together and staring into each other's eyes. The look in Malcolm's eyes was one of pure adoration and Minerva wished that she could shine him with such looks as often as he did her.

She wondered guiltily why she seemed to desire something with a man so much her senior that her affections went easily unnoticed. This thought was quickly pushed from her mind. She was here to enjoy her time with Malcolm, not wallow in her guilt.

"Let's go outside," she suggested.

They left the house, which was actually a large well maintained cottage, and walked hand in hand to their spot, which, like the cottage, was high on the slopes of a mountain. They lay down together under the single old hardy tree that somehow managed to grow at that height and simply looked at the surrounding mountain range. It was breathtaking and contrasted starkly with the peaceful lake and forest near Dumbledore's home.

It occurred, not for the first time, to Minerva that both of the settings matched their inhabitants terribly well.