DISCLAIMER: J. K. Rowling's created these wonderful characters. I am merely releasing them from their state of enforced inactiveness for the time being...

BETA READER: Unfortunately snarkyroxy does not have time to beta my story anymore at the moment. A thousand thanks for your help with the previous chapters, snark.

But, in every end there lies a new beginning: welcome, Potion Mistress, and thank you very much for taking over. I could not continue this story without your help!

Chapter Four

Minerva McGonagall shivered as her mind returned to the here and now. It had been a similar night, clear and fresh – though uncharacteristically warm for April – and much like today she had stayed up very late. She, Albus, and Horace sat together for a long time, discussing what had happened.

Goodness. If Minerva imagined what might have been the outcome of that incident…. She didn't want to think about it.

One of her biggest fears had almost become true that night, and it was only thanks to James Potter's quick and considerate acting that nothing more had happened. Quite apart from the fact that things must have never gotten that far, in the first place.

Heavens! She had uttered these fears about admitting a werewolf to Hogwarts, but never would she have comprehended for them to come that close.

It had taken her some time to assimilate what had happened, to shake off the trepidation that had taken hold of her.

In a way, she herself, Head of Gryffindor House, had felt responsible for it, at least to some extent. It had been Gryffindor's quartet, after all. How had it come to all of this, at all? Nobody should have ever come close to Remus during the full-moon, but their precautionary measures had obviously failed completely. Had she been too lax with the students?

Looking back, she had to admit that yes, she had perhaps not been strict enough with the four boys. But hindsight is easier than foresight, and she had not believed any of them capable of serious misconduct. Well, not of this extent, in any case.

It had been a narrow escape. Minerva knew that very well, and she shuddered at the thought of it.

What had been of greatest concern for Minerva and her two colleagues had been the open enmity that had displayed itself in front of their eyes. They had to realise that they had been too quick at dismissing the relationship between 'her boys' and Severus Snape as simple childish dislike. These antipathies had developed into outright hatred over the years.

How can I have not seen it?, Minerva had asked herself back then, still almost dazed with shock about the near-catastrophe. She asked herself that question many times in the following years, but there was nothing to it. She had, quite simply, not seen it coming.

Should she have foreseen it? Minerva had quarrelled with that question extensively, coming to the conclusion that perhaps her judgement and her principles had been mellowed. It had been a relief to see the four of them so close together, seemingly all Gryffindor problem children taken care of. Remus and Sirius had more than once caused her a sleepless night, but also James and Peter had profited of the four boys' friendship.

What had they missed, for the situation to escalate like this? Yes, they had been pranksters, but this could hardly be called a prank anymore. 'Attempted murder!', the young Severus Snape had called it.

They had all been shocked, indeed, and it had been of little consolation that Sirius Black had not deliberately sent Snape to the Shrieking Shack – Albus had been certain of that. The boy had, however, put up with the mortal danger he had exposed his Slytherin classmate to. That alone had been reason to worry. Where had this hatred come from?

Minerva had been more than worried about Black's difficult behaviour. In his sixth year, the dispute with his pure-blooded and conservative family seemed to have reached new dimensions. The boy had even fallen out with his brother, Regulus. The familial tension was unsettling Sirius, and he had been short-tempered and angry most of the time. Minerva had feared he might lose himself in his hatred and anger, and she knew what these kinds of emotions could do to a man's soul. How much more endangered was a boy, barely out of his adolescence?

Unlike many people's beliefs, it didn't take very much for a wizard to dabble in the Dark Arts, not few did so dewy-eyed, neither having the worst of intentions, nor knowing the dangers of the path they set foot on. Sometimes, all it took was an incisive incident, strong emotions, and rash acting -- circumstances the most decent man knew. And once lost in the quicksand that was the dark arts, it was difficult to return.

It had been a close thing, Minerva knew it. Sirius had a character as unstable as Snape's. Not for nothing had they all believed in his guilt after that horrible night at Godric's Hollow. It hadn't been all too far off, at that time, to think of Sirius Black as a Death Eater and traitor. They had all been devastated about the news, of course, yet with the solid evidence provided and given his more than volatile character…. Yes, they had believed Sirius guilty, and none of them had spent a second thought about whether or not his sentence was justified. At least Minerva hadn't.

She shook her head in despair. Sirius had been innocent after all. They had been mistaken, had terribly wronged him. Twelve years in Azkaban for a crime not committed….

We should have known better, Minerva told herself. Sirius had changed after all, no matter how immature he still was where ever Severus Snape was concerned. But in this respect the two boys had been each other's equal in every way, and not even as grown men had they been able to put their antipathies aside.

This night's events had taken their toll on Sirius Black, though. He had become more mature, even if he had still stayed the big kid he'd always been. Minerva didn't dare think about what might have happened to the boy, had Albus expelled him from Hogwarts after that stunt he had pulled.

Sirius had been verily chastised for it. He hadn't seen sense about his misbehaviour, however, not regarding Snape in any case. Therefore, the Headmaster's assigned detention had probably had less influence on him than Remus Lupin's reaction, his disappointment about his friend's breach of trust.

Yes, the friendship between the four Gryffindors, up to then steadfast, had been shaken after this horrible night, apparently irretrievably. But Sirius had worked hard to rebuild his closeness to Remus Lupin, to regain his trust. It had taken time to rebuild their close friendship, then, however, the boys had become even more inseparable than before.

And Snape?

She had wanted to grab and shake him there in Albus' office, like one felt the urge to grab a boy who had just nearly broke his neck taking a dive with the broom snaffled out of his father's broom-shed. An irrational, instinctive urge to bring him to his senses, to make him realise the danger he had just escaped by hair's breadth. Goodness, what could have happened to him, sneaking out of the castle like that!

To say Severus Snape had reacted badly to all of this was an understatement. He had behaved impossibly during the following months, stubborn, rude, and refusing to work. He had, of course, not been able to talk with his Slytherin classmates about anything that had happened, not without risking whatever Albus had threatened him with. It hadn't kept him, however, from stirring things up and from trying to get Gryffindors into trouble.

Merlin, what a horrible time! These last months before term ended had been nerve-wracking, to say the least. Minerva did not like thinking back to them. All boys had been kept on short leash by their Heads of House – oh, yes, Minerva had let them know her disappointment - and yet their relationship had been cool, the tension between them noticeable. Especially Black and Snape had been on the verge of hexing each other almost all of the time. Never had Minerva been as relieved when the Hogwarts Express had safely reached London, King's Cross.

Minerva McGonagall sighed, put her glasses back on and resumed her task. She really shouldn't dwell on these old times. They were over and done with, and a lot of dust had settled on them.

For a while the Headmistress worked silently and quickly, charming the scrolls of parchment to address themselves to the respective witches and wizards. The pile of cards containing the Ministry Officials was soon replaced by the next one: former and recent colleagues. She was getting along with her task rapidly. If she kept that speed, she would be finished by daybreak.

And yet Minerva's mind seemed determined to remain a bit longer in the memory of that night. Not until much later had Minerva realised how Severus Snape must have felt betrayed by his teachers, who had seemingly treated him unfairly, to say the least.

Why do I now feel the need to justify our behaviour? she asked herself. Have I not been through with it already years ago? Apparently not….

Albus clearly had not made the decision easy for himself. He'd been in a dilemma. Any harsher punishment of Sirius Black – suspension or even an expulsion, both within the bounds of the school rules – would have inevitably led to the revelation of Remus Lupin's lycanthropy and thus to measures of repression by the Ministry for Magic. Everything Albus had risked for offering the talented boy a good education would have been pointless. His attempt to set a milestone for equal rights for the werewolf population would have failed. Quite apart from the fact that Remus would never have been able to cope with the consequences, not at that time.

We did the right thing back then, Minerva told herself. Why am I questioning it now of all times? This had been the only way to deal with it.

Yes, Albus had thought this through, and his decision had been fair, even mild – for all parties. And yet, had this night been one occasion – one of few – where Albus had made mistakes? Minerva had realised it. The first being his decision not to talk to the boys separately, another perhaps not to have punished Sirius Black more severely, the biggest, however, to have more or less blackmailed Severus Snape into silence – yes, blackmail, even if Albus' persuasive speeches were seldom recognisable as such.

It hadn't occurred to her until much later what effect this night might have had on the Slytherin boy. Her later colleague had never openly admitted anything to her, but from some of his actions Minerva could guess that he had not dealt all too well with all of it at that time.

Minerva knew there had been only two possibilities: either to give up having Remus Lupin at Hogwarts, or to keep his infection a secret, and thus to oblige everybody to keep silent. She knew, as well, that Severus Snape would not have agreed to it willingly, that any attempt to convince him would have been trying to achieve the impossible.

Albus had tried, repeatedly, to talk to Severus Snape later, as had Horace, but the damage had been done. From what Albus had told her, these talks had been like him talking to the walls, and Snape sitting it out, sullen and not in the least understanding. Oh, she could vividly imagine it. She had gotten to know a good part of Severus Snape herself, after all. In to one ear, out of the other, and an expression so indifferent you had a good mind to slap him just to get any reaction at all. Not even Horace had gotten through to him.

'A lost case,' Minerva had said, relieved that Remus Lupin would not expect any dire consequences. And had it not been Severus Snape's own fault, at least to some extent? He had had no right to be at the shack, no matter what, and if she were to be honest, Minerva laid most of the blame on him – now more than ever.

Minerva McGonagall sighed. She had not always thought that way. Of course, the boy should have never gotten into that danger, and it wasn't his fault but theirs for not having protected the school better from the werewolf in the shack.

But the fact remained that Snape had been illicitly out on the grounds after curfew. And now? It was difficult for her, even in hindsight, to feel pity for young Severus Snape. Heavens! The boy had become the murderer of Albus Dumbledore! How could she not be prejudiced against him now?

Suddenly Minerva recognised that she had once again interrupted her work to think about… him. Staring blankly at the bookcase across the room, she shifted in her seat and dejectedly wiped her face.

She still tried to understand, how things could have gotten to this stage with Snape. Over the years she had had to revise her opinion of the younger wizard several times in one or the other direction. And now it seemed she had to do it one last time. She didn't like to do so.

Yet it couldn't be helped. Minerva shuddered, suddenly all too conscious of the horrible attributes that were now inseparably associated to the name Severus Snape: Death Eater. Murderer.

Suddenly she shivered, feeling chilled to the bone. The office seemed to be so cold all of a sudden. Minerva McGonagall stood up. Wrapping her woollen shawl tighter around her shoulders, she stepped over to the fireplace, and with a quick flick of her wand lit a crackling fire.

For a while she just stood there motionless, staring into the dancing flames, watching how they licked at the logs like hungry tongues, feeling their heat on her skin. The heat was streaming through her, filling her with a pleasant, comforting warmth.

Many evenings she had spent in front of this fireplace, seated in one of the plush armchairs. Tenderly she now stroked the velvety back rest, let her fingers trail along the elaborate woodcarvings, tendrils of ivy twining around centaurs, unicorns and all other kinds of magical beings. Time-worn and old-fashioned these armchairs were, yet at the same time cosy beyond comparison.

They were painful mementos of the wizard who had regularly occupied them.

A hot teapot steaming between them, she and Albus had sat here for hours, discussing time tables and Quidditch programmes, the school's daily life as it concerned Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress.

She still remembered the occasion, when Albus had invited her here, for the first time. Still a young witch, only a few weeks into her new job as Transfiguration mistress, she had been terribly wound up, prior to this meeting. The great Albus Dumbledore, a prominent and powerful wizard, her predecessor as Transfiguration master and now Headmaster of Hogwarts had invited her to tea. Not to a tea with all members of staff, no, a personal meeting just between her and the Headmaster. She admired him, her great role model, and had been so afraid not to live up to his expectations.

It had been Albus who had persuaded her to apply for the position. How surprised she had been when the owl had brought her former teacher's letter. Never had she thought of a career as a teacher herself. And yet it had been this letter, Albus Dumbledore's encouragement that had torn her out of her monotonous daily routine at the Ministry's Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes; from a grey and sterile cubicle and heaps of dull case files into a beehive of a school.

Her life had taken quite a turn at that time and it had been Albus, who had guided her through undeniably challenging times as a young teacher. He had become her mentor, and later her friend. This evening in advent 1956 had only been the first of a series to follow, the beginning of a strong friendship. And now all that should be gone?

Minerva's fingers fiercely grabbed the back of the armchair, as she lowered her head, breathing deeply to fight the tears welling up in her eyes. Once again grief took hold of her heart, the loss of her friend tearing at it so hard that it physically hurt. A sob escaped her chest, yet she suppressed it, half underway, closing her eyes and taking slow, deep breaths to regain control again. She mustn't let herself go.

"At the end of even the darkest tunnel there is light, Minerva," Albus' voice suddenly sounded in her ears, warm and comforting, so real it made her heart stop for a moment, and caused her to instinctively turn around to him. Yet the room was empty, only the flames' ghostly shadows flickered across the walls, performing their dervish-like dances on furniture and objects, likewise.

Her eyes then narrowed, attentively scrutinising the very last in the row of portraits for movement or any other sign of consciousness. Yet there wasn't any.

"Albus?" she asked tentatively, suspecting that what she thought had happened was unreal, yet desperately clinging to the faint hope that the portrait had actually awaken. "Albus, are you awake?" she asked again, louder now, that irrational, desperate hope causing her voice to crack.

"Of course, he's not awake, witch!"

Minerva jumped at the sudden interruption, her hand instinctively reaching for the wand she carried. Somehow she'd actually thought herself to be alone in the office; alone with Albus, at least.

"You didn't honestly think having become a portrait only hours ago, he'd be out and about right away?" The voice, Minerva now recognised as Phineas Nigellus Black's impolite snarl, piped up again. "Dear me, you did!"

Stashing her wand back into its hidden holster - she could do without the unpleasant man discerning her edginess – Minerva glanced over to the dark and sinister wizard, whose portrait was hanging several positions to the left of Albus'. The wizard was well-known to her. Not for nothing, Phineas was of often referred to as Hogwarts' least popular headmaster. The man had no manners at all.

Droning out Black's ongoing sally of accusations and insults, Minerva processed the new information. She'd never actually thought about the nature of portraits and the magic working behind to keep their image alive. Reflecting on it, what Phineas had said actually made sense. Of course it would need time for the portrait to fully develop, for the relict of the deceased's aura to unfold.

"… to be at one's beck and call all the time!" Phineas' voice tore her out of her thoughts. "Humph! Now he can experience first hand!" The irritable wizard finished his tirade. "Serves him right, the old coot!" Then he slouched back into his chair, closing his eyes.

Disbelievingly, Minerva stared at the wall of portraits. The office was silent again. Albus, like the other portraits, was sound asleep. She could only hope he'd awake soon and provide her with consolation and moral support, if nothing else….

Sighing, Minerva was just about to turn around and return to the desk, when Phineas Nigellus cracked one eye open once more. "And don't disturb me again!" he snapped, giving her an unruly glare from under his bushy black brow, before going back to sleep, as if nothing had happened.

The wizard was a handful, probably testing her resolve like a boisterous child probed its limits. But somehow she'd have to count on his cooperation. His services were too important. She couldn't afford to fall out with the difficult man.

With a last sad glance at Albus' portrait, Minerva sat back into the chair behind the desk and resumed her work.

Concentrating harder on the task at hand, she divested herself once again efficiently from the distressing memories. Almost all of the professors' names were well known to her, either because they had been colleagues or because she herself had been taught by them as a young witch. Each card, each name was associated with a face, suddenly appearing in front of her inner eye, with a number of memories of pleasant as well as of difficult times.

The pile of cards was immense, even higher than that of the Ministry officials.

Already the very first card seemed to be exemplary of just how many generations of Hogwarts teachers were associated with the late Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore.

Duncan Anderson, resident in Aboyne, Aberdeenshire had once been Hogwarts' Arithmancy teacher. The small, stocky man, who always reminded Minerva more of a shoemaker than of a scientist, was a direct descendant of a Scottish family of mathematicians. His great-grandfather, who had been known also amongst Muggles as Davie-Do-a'-Thing, had back then cleared the harbour of Aberdeen from a large rock, obstructing the entrance. And Duncan had made a name for himself as publisher of a number of treatises on the compatibility of Divination and modern Arithmancy.

Minerva had met him only once, at a feast held at Hogwarts at Cuthbert Binns' seventy-fifth death day celebration, in the year 1958. According to Albus' narrations, Duncan had been a committed and popular teacher and much valued member of staff. He had hated to retire, yet his old age and his progressing narcolepsy had forced him to do so. Albus had often told her anecdotes, how he and his fellow students had tried to develop the most elaborate, bewitched contraptions to awaken the professor, in case he fell asleep during class.

Thinking on it, Minerva could very well imagine a young Albus Dumbledore in Arithmancy class, only waiting for his professor to fall asleep and the complicated construction of apparatuses and spells to spring into action. Yes, Albus had always been a bit of a scamp.

Minerva smiled sadly. With her inner eye she saw Albus, eye-twinkling and vivid, as if he were alive. How could he not be? Every moment she expected to hear his steps on the spiral staircase, expected the door to open and to admit Albus Dumbledore alive. It would not happen anymore.

Minerva carried on with her task: former teachers – from Anderson, the old, to Zingstfield, the limping – librarians – the rusty screech of Martha Rhubarb still echoing in her ears - caretakers and medi-wizards. The biggest part of cards, though, the biggest part by far, bore the inscription: former Defence against the Dark Arts teacher. Sheltenham, Grevenbroich, Ogarov, Quirrell, Lockhart and Umbridge, were only some of their names. Most of them had an addendum to their address, saying either 'deceased', 'address unknown' or 'no OWL Post Service available.'

Most of them Minerva had never really gotten to know, their faces were blurred in her memory, her recollections of them faded. Minerva worked through this group quickly, not wanting to linger any longer than necessary on this doomed position. She wouldn't call herself superstitious, but the course of history had shown that this post was indeed cursed. And Tom Marvolo Riddle had done a thorough job, indeed.

Minerva deliberately willed herself not to remember the very last in the row of Hogwarts' Defence teachers, too painful the emotions associated with his name. And so the last card under the letter S was quickly banished to the low side-table, the information it contained neglected.

Then the last card was sorted away, another pile worked through. Minerva wondered how many of the witches and wizards she had just addressed would visit Albus' funeral, and whether or not the aged Duncan Anderson would leave his small cottage at the Dee riverside once again for the travel into the Highlands, to Hogwarts.

She didn't like thinking about the funeral, not yet; not, when the pain and loss were still all too fresh. And yet, with the hours passing, the day of Albus' funeral was fast approaching, as well. Thinking of it made her blood run cold once again.

Once more Minerva glanced across the room at Albus' portrait, reluctantly admitting to herself the fact that she would never see the man again. No offered lemon drops anymore, no worldly wisdoms couched in cryptic phrases.

"Albus, I'll miss you," she whispered, "I miss you already."

The fire was still crackling, and yet Minerva felt cold shivers running down her back along her spine. It wasn't physical cold she felt, but an emotional chill, similar to the dreadful cold radiating from a Dementor. And wasn't that exactly how she felt? Re-living the worst, the most frightful memories? A nightmare come true.

But there was nothing for it, no spell to drive away the dread she felt. She had to face the demons frightening her. She had to leave them behind or learn to live with them. And now was the hour to begin with it.

Resolutely, Minerva stacked away the finished letters. With her cold and clammy fingers she had to grasp at the thin parchment several times, before she could actually take hold of it. A hot cup of tea might work wonders, she thought to herself, not only to warm her up a bit, but to calm her frayed nerves, as well.

She drew her wand out of the folds of her tartan plaid. Twice tapping the silver tea set next to her working place, she ordered a pot of tea from the kitchen, then stood in order to hover down the next pile of address cards from the shelf.

The members of staff were followed by people who had been given medals for special service to the school, students, head boys and girls, prefects.

One of the cards, ironically, still bore the name Tom Marvolo Riddle. It mentioned his affiliation to Slytherin House, his periods as Prefect and Head Boy, and his - wrongly bestowed - Special Award for Services to the School.

Ironic, how this card could mention a few innocent facts, and yet tell nothing of the person behind it.

Minerva stared at the bleached parchment for a while. She remembered the wizard, one year her junior, the boy he had been back then. Tom had been a mastermind, handsome and mysterious. Many of the girls had fancied him, yet he had not been interested in any of them ever, had only taken advantage of them, just to drop them like a hot potato, once they had served their purposes.

Tom Riddle. Only few knew about the connection between Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort, about the disappearance of a genius boy, and the resurrection of a megalomaniac, powerful wizard. The card didn't tell about it either.

This name he gave himself – Lord Voldemort – did not appear anywhere… a phantom, not tangible, but all the more powerful.

Minerva shivered. There was a reason to it that wizardkind did not speak his name, too horrible were the crimes connected with it.

"Fear of the name increases fear of the thing itself," Albus' voice sounded in her ears. So often he had encouraged her to use the disturbing name, yet Minerva could still only bring herself to do so in her stronger moments.

"Voldemort," she spoke into the dark and silent office, her voice trembling and hesitant, as if the name alone could summon the evil spirit behind.

Then Minerva quickly shoved the card away to the side-table as if it was tainted. This was only one card of many, after all….

The rest brought up more pleasant thoughts. They bore names of independent and successful men and women who had once occupied the small beds in the first-years' dormitories, who had cheered for their House's Quidditch team, who had marvelled at the wonders of magic. Generations of witches and wizards who had been educated here at Hogwarts, whose careers had found their beginning here in the same old classrooms, which were still in use today.

Suddenly, Minerva became very aware of the responsibility now placed on her shoulders. Not just the responsibility every teacher had towards his students, the commission to educate them, to guide them in their development from simple-minded children to mature and critically thinking adults. This task Minerva had accepted readily and with pleasure, when signing the contract with Albus about forty years ago. Admittedly it had been easier at times and more difficult at others, but she had always loved her job.

No, these days – and for quite some time now already – it meant a commitment to their moral education, and, weighing much heavier on Minerva's mind, a responsibility also for the students' well-being.

Hogwarts was not the safe haven anymore, it used to be. The last year had shown it more than once. There was no them and us anymore, no fronts easy to differentiate. The enemy was within these seemingly impregnable walls now, the war had taken an unforeseen turn.

Or perhaps it was not so much unforeseen, as she willed herself to believe now. It had been clear from the beginning that Hogwarts would be a main target, and they hadn't been naïve about the students, either. Sooner or later Voldemort had to take advantage of his minions' children. And yet nobody had anticipated this… nightmare.

Minerva wasn't one to dodge difficult tasks, or to give away responsibility placed on her shoulders, but she was afraid nonetheless of what was required of her. Hard times were to come, and the one man who had always been their guideline, their shining beacon, was gone.

Minerva didn't feel too confident just now to be a worthy successor of Albus Dumbledore. Would she make the right decisions? Did she possess the same great foresight Albus had always shown? She sure wasn't as diplomatic and rhetorically skilful as Albus, nor was she a born leader. Would her best be enough to overcome the imminent problems?

Her ponderings were disrupted by an audible plop that startled her. Weary and tense as she was, Minerva had her wand at hand immediately and had jumped up, facing the intruder in a position that enabled her to attack or defend as required.

There was no need to do either.

Chubby, the head house-elf of Hogwarts, had appeared on the little round carpet in the middle of the room, balancing a silver tray with a steaming pot of tea in front of him. The tray swayed worryingly, though, since the old house-elf seemed to be as startled with Minerva's abrupt reaction, as she had been with his sudden appearance.

She saved both of them from the accident about to happen by hovering the tray swiftly, yet carefully over to the desk. She couldn't prevent spilling some of the tea, though, since it took Chubby a second or two to let go of the tray, frightened as he was.

"Chubby is sorry, Headmistress! Chubby is sorry!" the little house-elf blubbered, bowing as deep as his flabby figure allowed him. "Chubby knows he must not disturb the Headmistress with no notice! Chubby will do better next time!"

"Oh, do stop it, Chubby!" Minerva interrupted his torrent of words rather crossly, yet more annoyed with her own jumpiness than with the house-elf's behaviour.

"Of course, Headmistress, of course!" Chubby had stopped bowing. His eyes were intently fixed on the detailed pattern of the colourful rug, he retreated step by step, muttering apologies and promises to do better in future. His limp, wrinkled ears were drooping miserably.

Oh, Merlin, Minerva thought, realising how her words had to have sounded to the house-elf. With Albus Dumbledore's death and her being Hogwarts' new Headmistress, the house-elves were now bound to her and she had just bollixed this visit up considerably. She would have to control herself better. Her curt and dry nature, however well-meant, was not the kind of behaviour the house-elves were used to. And it probably didn't open too many doors with witches and wizards, either.

"Wait, Chubby!" she asked the house-elf more gently now, removing the tea-stains on the carpet with a flick of her wand. "Thank you for the tea! It is well appreciated!"

The little creature paused, then hesitantly raised his head, looking at her intently as if trying to figure out what to think of that sudden change of tone. Slowly his ears straightened up. They really are ridiculously large, Minerva thought, a smile curving her lips.

The house-elf seemed to take that as a positive sign. He smiled, apologetically, taking a step forward, towards the desk once again. Minerva tried to give it the most friendly and heartening expression she could muster. "Is there something you wish to say, Chubby? You can tell me," she said, nodding encouragingly.

The little creature straightened his crooked back, and smoothed his chequered tea towel before beginning to speak. "The house-elves of Hogwarts welcome the new Headmistress and swear their allegiance to her," Chubby intoned solemnly, and Minerva felt cold shivers run down her spine at the significance of that vow.

Nothing before had made her new position clearer to her than this old, little house-elf's words: not her colleagues', nor the students' form of address, and definitely not the Minister's request of cooperation.

This moment seemed to have something holy to it. The house-elves had officially accepted her as Albus' successor, had even pledged their allegiance. What else could be a greater symbol of trust? Of course, the house-elves were duty-bound to the school anyway, but that did not spoil the moment for Minerva by any means. She still felt warm around her heart at these words that meant so much to her.

"Thank you, Chubby," she said, looking into the house-elf's big, trusting eyes. "I thank you for your oath of allegiance. Give my thanks to the other house-elves, as well."

Once again the house-elf bowed deeply, then he looked up and raised his shrill, rattling voice again. "We house-elves are sad and afraid because the old wizard has finally closed his eyes." Minerva could see these big, dark eyes water, but Chubby went on. "We are afraid, but we know we must serve the school, and we do so readily. The Headmistress must know that. We will not run away!"

The last words were spoken with a trembling voice, yet with a determined look in the house-elf's eyes that could not hold the tears anymore. Tears were running down the wrinkled cheeks and falling onto the little rug with a constant dripping sound.

Minerva, moved by that display of fear, grief and loyalty, felt her own resolve break down, as well. "Thank you, Chubby!" she managed once again with a half-steady voice. "The late Headmaster would be proud of you!"

It were the only words of consolation she could offer, grief-stricken as she was herself, yet they seemed to be enough for the little house-elf who beamed at her with tear-filled eyes, bowed once again and disappeared with another plop.

A/N: The night proceeds and so does Minerva in her ponderings…. What do you think about it? Please, leave me a review!

"Fear of the name increases fear of the thing itself." (direct quotation from 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone', chapter 17, p. 320; paperback UK edition).

Some random information: David Anderson, aka 'Davie do a' thing' is a historical person. He lived in Aberdeen in the 17th century, and was known for his eccentricity and his creativeness. He was a cousin of another popular citizen of Aberdeen by the name of Anderson: Alexander Anderson, who was a well-known mathematician at his time, researching on geometry and algebra. I just had to use them for my story;-)