"She's a lot stricter than Dumbledore ever was."

"More organized too. Makes class run better."

"Less fun though," grumbled Ryan White, a fifth year Gryffindor. "Dumbledore used to make us all laugh and all. I don't think she's got a funny bone in her body. It'd poison her."

"Oh, be reasonable, Rye," said his friend Alicia. "She's not that bad. Ever seen the way her mouth twitches sometimes when she catches one of the Weasley brothers pulling a joke on ol' Pringle?"

"No," said Ryan sourly.

"Well, it does," said Alicia. "My dad said she went to school with him. Pringle was caretaker back then too. I bet she hates him too."

"Well, that's cause you can't not hate Pringle and be human," laughed a tall blonde boy by the name of Richard.

"Since when did we agree she's human?" asked Ryan.

"Oh, you just don't like her because she gave you detention."

"And she took points from us!" Ryan retorted angrily. "What kind of Head of House does that? It's not right!"

"Dumbledore used to take points from us, too," Richard pointed out. "He didn't let us get away with anything either."

"He never took as many points away from us as she does," Ryan pressed. "He always used to give us these subtle little bits of help too. You could always tell he wanted us to win the House Cup . . ."

"McGonagall wants us to, too."

"I couldn't tell."

Richard sighed. There was no point in trying to change Ryan's mind. He was too stubborn for such things.

"At least she's hot," said Carl, who'd decided not to pursue a N.E.W.T. in transfigurations and dropped the class. He'd not had much to say up to that point, having had no reason to ever interact with Professor McGonagall.

"Eww," moaned Ryan. He made some very audit able gagging noises. "You can't be serious."

"I think she's very pretty," said Alicia.

Ryan began waving his arms as though if he did so enough he could physically stop his friends' words. "No, no, no. She's too . . . she's too uptight. That's not attractive at all. You try and approach a woman like that and she eats you for breakfast."

"I still think she looks nice," said Carl.

"Buns are not hot. Not at all."

"I betcha five galleons that Dumbledore doesn't mind them," remarked Richard with a small smile.

"Oh, God!" Ryan cried. "That's disgusting! Don't even say that!"

"Well, you've got to wonder," Richard pressed. "I mean, she never even taught here before now. Then all of the sudden she's our transfigurations teacher, Head of House and Deputy Headmistress. I mean, I'm not saying she's not good at her job, but how did she get it?"

"You think that Dumbledore appointed her because he's sleeping with her?" asked Carl incredulously.

"You shouldn't say things like that, Richard," Alicia scolded. "We've no good reason to think that. She's a great teacher and the school runs better now than it did before. Besides, it's just not nice."

"But what if it's true?"

"I'm sure it's not," said Carl. "From what I've heard you guys say, and from the changes I've seen in the school, it seems to me that she really deserves her job. Professor Dumbledore probably knew that. He did teach her as a student and all."

"All the more reason why we should stop talking like this. He's like a million years older than her. It's disgusting."

"Shut up, Ryan," snapped Richard sharply. He thought there really might be something to the idea that McGonagall and Dumbledore were having some secret affair. He wasn't the only one who thought so either. He'd heard other people talking the same way on occasion.

"Rye's right," said Alicia. "We shouldn't be talking about this. She's a very good teacher. It's rude."

"See? My two favorite words," said Ryan with a smug smile. "Now let's start talking about something that's not—hey, what's that?"

"Somebody's coming!" Alicia hissed, suddenly whispering.

"Shit!" snapped Richard quietly. "Wait . . . There's a secret passage behind the tapestry down the corridor! Mark Weasley showed it to me! Come on!"

The four took off as quickly as they could to the tapestry Richard had talked about. It was about five past nine o'clock and only prefects were allowed to still be out of their dormitories. If whoever was coming caught them, they'd all have detention.

They all piled in behind the tapestry, then stopped to keep from making any noise. In a couple of minutes whoever it was would be past and they could all escape to their dormitories for the night.

The clicking of boot heels on the stone floor grew louder and louder as whoever it was continued to walk briskly towards their location.

Ryan, by far the most curious and trouble-making member of the bunch, held up a single finger to his lips as the footsteps passed right in front of their tapestry, then stopped. Ryan, who had been reaching slowly for the edge of the tapestry to check and see who it was, stopped dead in his tracks. Silent prayers erupted in all of their heads. It was probably Pringle . . . and he'd have their heads for being out past when they should be, despite the fact that they were only out five minutes past when they should have been.

The tapestry was suddenly pulled back, and Ryan, Alicia, Richard and Carl were all revealed where they stood frozen to Professor McGonagall, who'd been on her way to the Headmaster's office to meet Albus for their planned game of chess.

"Curfew was five minute ago," she told them. "Now hurry back to your common rooms before I begin deducting points from both of your Houses."

"Yes, ma'am," said Carl, and the four of them hurried out from behind the tapestry and down the hall. They hung a left at an empty portrait of a wizard from the thirteenth century whose name none of them could ever quite remember and McGonagall disappeared from sight. They did not stop, however, not wanting her to come upon them again and find they were not doing as she had instructed.

They turned another corner together and Carl cast a quick glance over his shoulder to see if McGonagall was still out of sight. Seeing no trace of her, he broke the silence that would have reigned between he and his companions but for the sound of their hurried steps.

"You don't think she heard what we were talking about, do you?" he asked nervously.

"I hope not," Alicia worried. "Imagine how it would make her feel if she heard that!"

"That's assuming she feels at all."

"Ryan, that's awful!" scolded Alicia. "You shouldn't say those things. She's your Head of House! Have some respect."

"I agree," Carl seconded. "I'd never dream of talking about Professor Chantry the way either of you two talk about Professor McGonagall."

Ryan looked as though he was about to respond but Richard cut in instead.

"This is our turn. We'll see you guys in charms."

And with that the two took the indicated turn and separated from their companions.

"Hufflepuffs," Ryan muttered to himself, somewhat disgusted. What was it with them and respect, anyway?

/E/E/E/E/E/

Minerva was nearly to Albus' office when the sounds of voices drifted into her sharp ears. They weren't terribly close, perhaps two or three corridors away, but they were definitely there. It was probably a few students who'd lost track of the time and not noticed that curfew had just set in. She'd go send them to their common rooms, and then head over to Albus' office. Hopefully she would not be more than a few minutes late.

As she grew closer, the voices continued to become more clear and she was able to pick a few of the words they were saying. Including . . . her name and Albus's once or twice, as well! She quickened her pace. What were those kids saying?

" . . . Dumbledore appointed . . . sleeping with her?"

" . . . shouldn't say . . . we've no . . . great teacher . . . school . . . better now . . . not nice."

"But what . . . true?"

"I'm sure . . . From . . . I've heard . . . and . . . I've seen . . . school . . . she really . . . Professor Dumbledore . . . that . . . teach . . . student and . . ."

". . . more reason . . . stop talking . . . He's . . . million years . . . disgusting."

"Shut up, Ryan!"

". . . right. We shouldn't be . . . teacher. It's rude."

"See . . . favorite words. Now let's start talking about . . . hey, what's that?"

Then suddenly whoever it was that was lurking just down the corridor around the corner, suddenly began to whisper and Minerva could no longer make out what it was they were saying. Then she heard the sound of feet moving down the corridor and away from where she was. Obviously in her haste, she'd been too loud. They'd heard her and were now trying to get away and avoid trouble.

They probably think I'm Pringle, she thought with a slight bit of amusement. Or perhaps that assistant of his, Mr. Filch. They think they're going to be hung by their ankles from the ceiling . . .

She couldn't blame them for running. She would never forget the time Hermes and Dan had been caught by Pringle. They'd moaned about their strained and chaffed ankles for months. Minerva had only been glad that she'd had the sense to avoid breaking the rules. She certainly had not wanted to meet a similar fate.

You shouldn't have scared them like that at all, Minerva scolded herself. It's five minutes past curfew, not a terrible infraction at all and eavesdropping is rude.

She could not believe she had stooped to doing such a thing . . . Though if they had been saying what she thought they had, then perhaps it had not been such a bad thing. Could they really think she was sleeping with Albus? Could she really out any stock in broken bits of conversation?

Of course you can't, she thought angrily. You shouldn't have done it anyway. Now stop worrying about it! You'll begin to sound like your mother if you think like that!

And with that idle thought, Minerva effectively banished it from her mind. She would most certainly do nothing that resembled any of her mother's behavior in the least. She was not the type to worry about every little thing. It did not matter what the students said about such things. Children were quite prone to such gossip. Muriel had always thought that Professors Rayce and Slughorn had been involved. She was quite wrong about that. According to Albus, Professor Rayce had preferred sharing her bed with other women.

Besides, it was the minority of students who believed such things in a serious manner anyway. Most of them simply thought it a funny thing to speculate about, but never really took it seriously. She never had.

She heard the footsteps of the students stop just ahead. Turning a corner, she came to the corridor where the sounds of her footsteps had told her that they had stopped. There was a secret passage down this hallway, hidden behind a tapestry. Dan Weasley had found it in his first year at the school and had no doubt imparted that knowledge to his sons when they started at Hogwarts. Between Mark, Roger and Arthur the entirety of Gryffindor probably knew about that passage now. That was where the students were hiding.

She pulled back the tapestry. There were more of them than she'd thought there were. She was thinking two or three, but standing there frozen in the secret passage, looking at her as though she was the definition of doom were Ryan White, Richard Vance, Alicia Duffield and Carl Bradley. It seemed as though Ryan had been ready to peek out from behind the tapestry after she'd passed them by. Of course, that had not happened. It was no wonder they looked so shocked.

"Curfew was five minute ago. Now hurry back to your common rooms before I begin deducting points from both of your Houses."

"Yes, Ma'am," said Carl in a voice that sounded, surprisingly, more polite than scared.

Then the four of them hurried out past her from behind the tapestry and down corridors towards their common rooms. Minerva watched them disappear around a corner, then turned around and headed back towards Albus' office. She was already late and she was confident that her students would do as they were told. She did not think that any of them, with Ryan being the possible exception, wanted to invite more trouble upon themselves after having gotten off easy.

She reached the statue of the gargoyle that hid the Headmaster's office and stopped in front of it.

"Licorice wand," she said, hardly able to keep herself from rolling her eyes. Albus had had the same password since he'd become Headmaster last December yet she still could not believe he'd chosen to use a candy rather than something more practical—or at least less childish and silly.

The gargoyle leapt aside, then in an odd showing that Minerva was certain Albus had inspired, bowed to her. She stared at it for a second, hardly noticing the moving stairwell that had appeared behind it.

Someday I'm going to murder that man, and it will be very satisfying, Minerva thought, as she tore her eyes from the now stationary gargoyle and stepped onto the stairs.

Reaching the top of the stairwell, she stepped off of it and knocked sharply on the door, then waited for Albus' reply. It came almost immediately, and she opened the door and let herself into the circular office. It seemed to her that Albus had acquired more odd spinning objects since she'd last been in his office.

Of course, those were nothing compared to the other new editions in his office. Albus must have been ignoring his mail for the past few weeks because there was an entire quarter of his office simply covered in letters.

"What's all of this?" she asked, eyeing the mountain of parchment warily. She wondered how long he'd left his mail alone. She didn't get that much mail in a week—no two or three weeks at least. He got a lot more mail than she did, she knew, but by exactly how much she was not sure.

"My mail," he answered simply. "I've been quite busy, and have not been able to get to it within the past couple of days."

"That's two days worth of mail?" she asked, raising a thin black eyebrow. Did people really get that much mail? Albus may have been a celebrity, but honestly. That was a bit much.

"Three days, actually."

Minerva stared at him for a moment. He wasn't joking. Merlin's beard, he actually wasn't joking. He really got that much mail in three days.

Not certain how she wanted to respond to that, she turned to the chess board set up between two very posh and loudly colored chairs. Albus' chessmen stood quietly on the board, waiting for Minerva to set up her pieces and for them to begin their game.

"Turn the board around Albus," she told him, eyeing the setting warily.

Albus shot her a confused look, then complied. "Of course. Why?"

"Because I want the orange chair."

The look of confusion on Albus' faced became suddenly more exaggerated and he quit moving the chess board. "What?"

"I want the orange chair," she told him calmly, placing herself in the chair in question. "If I'm sitting in it, then I don't have to look at it and I won't be getting a headache from it."

"That hurts, Minerva," he told her, as he began moving the chess board again. "That happens to be my favorite chair."

"Which explains the worn seat cushion. It's still ghastly, though."

Albus sniffed and refrained from comment as he set the chess board back down. Sitting, he spread his hands, indicating to Minerva that she should begin setting up her pieces.

She did, occasionally glancing at the large pile of mail sitting near Albus desk.

"How do you manage to deal with all of that?" she asked him.

He smiled. "With a lot of pre-drafted letters."

"Like?"

"Well, there's the polite 'solve your own problems' letter, there's the 'I'm sorry I'm not looking for a wife' letter, the 'I've already got enough stuff' letter and the 'Minerva's very competent' letter."

Minerva set down one of her pawns on the board. "People are still giving you trouble about appointing me?" She felt guilty about that, like she should be able to somehow keep that from happening. They were complaining about her, after all. She felt as though she should be able to control that, to keep Albus from having to deal with it. "I've not received anything."

"That would be my doing," said Albus, wearing an odd look that she could not identify. "You don't want to read those letters."

"Are they really that bad?" she asked.

"Some of them are a bit rude.'

Minerva knew Albus. She knew that was his way of saying that he knew she was a bit sensitive about some things and that some of the letters were rather harsh. She wasn't certain how to feel about that. On the one hand, it was very sweet of him to be so concern—something which made her feel uncomfortably warm and affectionate towards him. On the other, there was some thing a little insulting about him trying to protect her from such things. She was a groan woman and the second most powerful authority at the school. She was well able to handle a bit of animosity.

Then, of course, there was the actual animosity. She'd never been a particularly charismatic or winning person. She had friends, very good friends, but over all, she'd never felt particularly well liked in life. This was just a reminder of that.

Maybe Albus was right to keep those letters from her. It was a touching gesture and did she really need to put herself through reading nasty letters just to prove that she could? Wasn't she more mature than that? That was like something she would have done at fourteen, not now.

"Do you need any help with the other letters then?" she asked, thinking to distract them from the other uncomfortable line of conversation.

"That's quite all right, my dear," he said with a gentle smile. "You do quite enough work as it is. I'd feel horribly guilty giving you more."

How was it that within the space of five minutes he managed to inspire so many emotions in her? Just two seconds ago she'd not been able to decide if she loved him or was insulted by him. Now he showed her yet more concern, thinking of her own workload before even considering his. Why was he so considerate and why did she always have to take it as though it was something special he did for her? She knew that was not true and it only made her heart behave in ways she did not want it too, feeding its stupid fantasies.

She needed to get off the subject of his mail. It was far too taxing. She couldn't avoid him saying things that made her remember why she'd fallen in love with him when she was sixteen.

She looked down at the chessboard, ready to forget the entire thing and start talking about something new and safe. Amazingly enough, this turned out to be far easier than she would have previously thought.

"What are they doing?" she asked indicating both her own and Albus' chessmen.

"I believe they're hugging."

"Why?" she asked incredulously, staring.

"They have not seen each other in a very long time," said Albus with a smile and a shrug.

"You mean they haven't beaten the life out of one another in a long time," she responded, pursing her lips. "It doesn't make sense."

"Affection comes in many different forms."

Minerva snorted in a very unladylike manner. "That sounds like something a twelve year old would think."

"Maybe twelve year olds are wiser than you give them credit for," said Albus, his eyes twinkling in the most annoying manner.

"So says the man with the maturity of a twelve year old," Minerva commented crossly. She directed her attention to her chessmen. "All right, all right. You've greeted one another. Now, I'd like to play."

Her own chessmen saluted and returned to their positions.

"Now that's better," she said with the smallest of smiles. She looked up at Albus. "You're going down old man. Make your move."