Disclaimer: Everything you recognise as being related to Harry Potter was invented by JK Rowling. We just like to play with her ideas.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

23.Minerva McGonagall

Minerva McGonagall raised her arms, and pulled gently at the tartan scrunchie that secured her overtight bun. Her fingers slid underneath the tartan, reveling in the feel of silky smooth hair. She strode across the room, the resonance of her brisk footsteps echoing throughout the dusty chambers (she ought to find the time to at least perform a few simple cleaning spells). Underneath the window, through which the pale luminosity of the night-stars shone, lay her pride and joy, her baby, her easel.

She picked up the paintbrush which lay beside it, twirling it through her fingers, which, although aged and considerably more wrinkled than they had been twenty years ago, when she had first developed a love of painting, could still weave their own special type of magic.

Many people would be shocked to discover her love of painting, a pastime renowned for its beauty and finesse. The stern Transfiguration professor was illustrious for her stand against the Dark Lord, and, even more so, her ability to make seventh years, even Slytherins, quiver at the mere sight of her in a corridor. But to Minerva, painting was more than just a hobby. Painting was her way of expressing emotions. To her, it was a type of magic, more powerful, and more effective, than the uttering of spells under one's breath.

She dipped her paintbrush into the palette, every smooth motion of wrist illuminated by the moonlight. Minerva preferred to paint at night; something about the translucent beauty of the moon inspired her creative juices (though, at times, a steaming mug of coffee did help). She dragged it though the green first, each droplet clinging to her brush like a raindrop to a blade of fresh grass.

As Minerva lifted her paintbrush, she realised exactly how much the colour of the globules resembled that of the Slytherin banners that hung proudly amongst those of the other school houses in the Great Hall. To her, green was a sickly colour, the colour of wickedness and sin. Perhaps it was just her negative connotations of Slytherin house, and those who resided in its dreary dungeons. Four and a half years of teaching Draco Malfoy and his dim-witted cronies allowed you certain prejudices when it came to their house. Minerva knew that Pomona thought she was crazy, that green was a beautiful, natural colour, despite the fact that so many gits were allowed to besmirch it, but then again, Minerva secretly agreed with the musings of several students: her best friend was a 'batty old plant lady'

Green reminded her of other things as well, such as mushy peas drowned with gravy. Not that she would even mention such a horrid dish anymore, every since she had spat her dinner all over the table after Albus had whispered a crude joke about Umbridge in her ear.

Albus shared a lot of jokes with her; it was one of the things that she found attractive about him, his wicked sense of humour. She knew that many people thought him mental, perhaps even unstable, but to Minerva, his eccentricity was just a part of his charm. Not that she had ever managed to utter such truths. It stuck her as kind of ironic that while she managed to strike fear into many a person, even Tom Riddle (she found that hideous alias he had created for himself disconcerting), she could utter a few simple words to the one she loved.

She was painting without thinking really, just allowing the brush, guided subconsciously by her hand, to dance all over the canvas, as though it was performing a ballet, complete with miraculous leaps and twirls.

She leaned over, her long brown tresses falling in her eyes and obscuring her vision. For some reason, the moonlight that was flowing through the window seemed to shine directly on the pink, so she chose that next. Pink was also a colour she despised. It represented the colour of Lavender Brown's chipped nails as she held the latest copy of Witch Weekly under the desk. It was the colour of the flamingos that Hannah Abbott had accidentally conjured one lesson, and which Minerva had been forced to dispose of (she could only hope that the same incident did not occur during the OWL's). It was also the colour of Umbridge.

Pink really was the perfect colour for Umbridge. It was as sickly as the woman herself. Minerva loathed the woman, from the hideous bows that clashed with her hair to the feet that stormed down the corridor, looking for more innocent students to submit to unnecessary torture. It didn't help that the grumpy old toad insisted on making snide comments about Albus, and that she was powerless to impede them. Although if Umbridge said one more thing, than perhaps Severus would find a few bottles of his potions gone, and Minerva would find herself hovering over Umbridge's evening pumpkin juice, a malevolent grin marring her haughty features …

Next came yellow, bright and sunny. As she smeared the paint, far too vivid for the dimly lit room, across her painting, she pondered exactly why it was her favourite colour. Pomona had many snide comments relating to Minerva's love of yellow, most of them poking fun at her tartan clothes and room décor. But to Minerva, yellow was happiness. It was the colour of the sun, beating down on her back while she played Quidditch as a child (contrary to popular belief among her students, Minerva had ridden a broom before, and was not afraid of heights), the colour of sunflowers, the colour of cheese, melting on top of spaghetti.

The paint was spreading now, starting to form the silhouette of a person, although Minerva had no idea who it was reminiscent of. She knew the magic that resided in her fingers, and in the brush, would lead her to a conclusion eventually, and for now, she just wanted to enjoy the ride.

Yellow reminded her a lot of Albus Dumbledore himself too. It reminded her of trivial things, such as the Lemon Drops he was always offering (no matter how much she pretended she hated them, she loved them, simply because they reminded her of him – hence the packets stowed under her bed that no-one, not even her closest friends knew of). But really Albus was just yellow, not the colour, but a more a synonym for the feelings it provoked.

She was paying more deliberate attention to her painting now, watching, wide-eyed, as shapes and patterns formed. She was adding blue now, and it was giving a calming effect to her painting, much like it did in life. Blue didn't hold enough passion for her liking; it softened the brightness and the life that other colours were brave enough to possess. But there was one blue thing that she couldn't resist, no matter how much she tried … Albus' eyes.

Just the way that they twinkled drove her mad. Pomona and Rolanda could call her an obsessive freak (among other, more sardonic nicknames), all they wanted, but she knew that they really were empowering; they caused her heart to beat faster and to surge every time they connected with her deep, meaningful brown eyes.

The next colour that oozed from the tip of her paintbrush was purple, the colour of hope. Every time Hogwarts seemed in disarray, Albus would sweep through the door, wearing those bright purple robes that Minerva found all too ludicrous and exuberant, and everything was alright. She knew that he wore them because he found them to match his personality, and while she knew it was true … she couldn't help but be repulsed by the brightness of it all.

Then came orange, which frankly she hated. It reminded her of petty trivialities, such as Halloween, the one holiday of the year that irked her no end. It was a stupid holiday, doing nothing but causing several pumpkins to face unnecessary torture and encouraging young children to beg. Albus condoned it too, even though he knew how much it irked her, but she could never stay mad at him for long.

And lastly, there was red. Red conveyed so much to Minerva as she plastered broad stripes of it across her masterpiece, which was starting to take the form of a familiar face. Red meant love, and passion, two things that Minerva longed for and revelled in above all other. It was also the colour of angry, the colour or bravery and chivalry, the colour of a war.

Red was the colour of Arthur's blood, dripping from his wounds that one time she had visited him in hospital. Red was the colour of Harry's scar, showing just how much the poor boy had to suffer. Red was the colour her Gryffindors wore in pride when they won a Quidditch match and in shame when they lost their house points.

Red was everything Minerva was fighting for. And that's when she realised how much Albus and painting meant to her, and why they were her two great loves. They made her forget about all the tragedy that was currently tearing apart lives, and they made her happy, gave her something else to fight for …

Stunned with the sheer force of her revelation, Minerva placed her paintbrush down, ignoring the fact that giant drops of red were dripping to the floor like blood. She stepped back, ready to admire her painting.

A smile formed, first in the corners of her mouth, then spreading across her face. Albus smiled back at her, his blue eyes seeming to twinkle like the stars.

Without even realising, she had painted her one true love standing under a rainbow.

And the more Minerva mused, the more she realised how fitting that was. Albus was the quintessence of a rainbow; he signified every colour in full. Because like a rainbow, Albus stood for hope, for compassion, for love and trust.

"You know Minerva, if you wanted a rainbow, you could just conjure one"

Albus' voice broke through her thoughts. She turned around to find him standing there, looking exactly as the picture depicted him.

"How long have you been standing there?"

He did not answer; instead he looked at her curiously, the moonlight shining brightly on his snow-white beard.

"I'm curious," he said, "why did you paint me of all people?"

"Because … because," she stammered, in a completely uncharacteristic display. Minerva always knew what to say, and she rarely stumbled over her words.

"Because I love you"

The words came out bolder than she meant them to; she was almost blown over by the vigour behind them. She glanced at Albus, trying desperately to gauge his reaction. He was stroking his beard, almost as though some miraculous thought had come to him.

"I love you too"

They were some of the most simplistic words she had even heard him speak, but they seemed some of the most powerful she had ever heard erupt from his mouth.

And as their lips met in a passionate embrace, Minerva could feel her heart explode and she saw rainbows. They filled the shadowy night sky with blazes of colour as she kissed him, more passionately than she had ever kissed anyone before (and, once again, despite popular belief, she had kissed other people, and not just her crotchety old grandmother).

And when they pulled apart, both of them wearing colossal grins, Albus flicked his wand, and caused yet another rainbow to appear in the sky above them, as though shining down on them from heaven.

"A beautiful rainbow for a beautiful person," he said, pointing towards it with a graceful wave of him arm, before leaning down for yet another kiss.

"I don't need a rainbow, I've got you"

And as Minerva entwined her hands with his, she smiled, almost as brightly as the rainbow herself, thinking of what Pomona, Rolanda, and, even more hilariously, Umbridge, would think tomorrow morning.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By Cuban Sombrero Gal

Authors Note: Yeah, a nice fluffy ending for you all :)

Also, if you are wondering why I'm posting again, we are now offering a second round of character picking for people. So, if you're interested, please pop into the Reviews Lounge, and check out what characters are taken.