It was not easy being Headmistress. That was a falsity Minerva McGonagall wanted nothing more than to correct. Admittedly, she had once happily believed it herself. What had she seen Albus Dumbledore do? Sit happily in his office, singing to himself, eating candy? Oh, occasionally he had to reprimand a student and attend a boring meeting at the Ministry, but that was it.
Oh, how wrong she had been! Why hadn't he warned her?
That day, Minerva had not even managed to eat breakfast. She had no idea where she had put her bowl of candy, and she had already to talk to two sixth-year girls who had been found magically setting each other's hair on fire in the girls' bathroom. Something over a boy. Always was.
One of her notes reminded her to follow up on this case. She could still smell the horrible scent of burning hair. One of her eyebrows had been singed off.
And then, in an hour, she had to go observe Nymphadora Lupin's lesson. Student teachers. Yuck. She could already see the entire ordeal in her mind.
Mrs. Lupin would be the very picture of nerves. Of course, prior to this she would be utterly confident in the mistaken belief that all her Auror experience had over-qualified her to teach Defense Against the Dart Arts. But the moment she stood in front of that classroom, all would go to waste. Approximately fifteen minutes into the lesson, she would scream, flip over a few desks, and run crying from the classroom.
Something inside Minerva stung. An old memory of the exact same thing.
She had been barely twenty-two at the time. Hogwarts. The very same classroom Transfiguration was still taught in. She had flounced into that classroom that morning, all ready for her lesson.
Headmaster Dippet had told her it was okay if it didn't go as planned.
But she hadn't listened.
It was supposed to have been simple. Third-years. There was nothing too terribly complex about third-year transfiguration. And it was a basic lesson turning an inanimate object into a living creature. Very, very simple to a witch that had earned impressive N.E.W.T.s in Transfiguration and had received further training under the most talented witches and wizards. So why wouldn't a third-year student be able to turn a jar into an armadillo?
And the lesson had gone well, besides. She had written the objective on the board in her most beautiful and easily-read writing. She had announced it verbally, besides. She had provided the necessary inspiring anticipatory set. She had given a demonstration.
And somehow that boy had wound up with the jar stuck on his fist. Another child was somehow glued to the ceiling.
She had screamed, flipped over three desks, and ran from the room.
Minerva sighed. She really didn't want to watch someone else do the exact same thing. But it was a duty of the Headmistress.
No, it was not an easy job.