Hello again! I'm very sorry this update took ages, but real life has this annoying habit of getting in the way of my writing. Also, this chapter is a fair bit longer than the others, so hopefully you'll like that.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed...to pennypotter128, sorry, but Snape is dead. He may be mentioned in the future, but he will never actually physically appear in the story. Sorry about that :)
Oh, just one other: to sevy MMAD, no problem, and thanks for the great review! It's so encouraging to hear things like that. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

His Own Fault

Albus sat at his desk, tired but satisfied, and for more reason than one. The first was that, thankfully, he had received a letter of application for the Defence Against the Dark Arts post, and, in writing at least, the man seemed quite competent. His area of focus was mainly magical creatures, rather like Remus Lupin's had been when he had taught here. Albus had arranged an interview with the man the following afternoon.

The second reason Albus was feeling particularly happy was something he didn't quite know how to define; he only knew that it definitely had to do with Minerva. He admitted to himself that after their conversation he had felt lighter, more cheerful, and glad that he could help her. He admired her selflessness, it was one of the qualities he prized in her, one that made her a wonderful Deputy, but he sometimes wished that she undertook fewer tasks. She had lost weight, he thought, and under other circumstances he wouldn't have worried: it was natural for her to go though thin stages when she was coping with something particularly stressful. He would, Albus decided, watch her more carefully over the next little while.

But it was more than that. A friendly conversation with Filius or Horace didn't bring him the same happiness that a simple 'good morning' from Minerva did. He placed more weight and value on her friendship and words than he did on others', and Albus wondered why. She of course gave excellent advice, and was a truly wonderful person, but the same could be said of Pomona Sprout or Poppy Pomfrey. So why did he constantly find himself searching first for her and then for others when he entered a room?

The answer, Albus mused, was probably simple enough. He was closer to her than he was to anyone else on staff. She was dearer to him than he had ever let on, both to her and to himself. It would explain why her anger at him hurt him more than Horace's (although Horace's could never really be taken seriously) or even Filius'.

A trilling note from Fawkes jerked him from his reverie and made him take note of the time. Albus looked fondly at the magnificent bird and gently stroked his head. It was getting late, and he had a few things to take care of in the morning before the interview tomorrow afternoon. He climbed the stairs to his private rooms and readied himself for bed. He hoped there would be no disturbances tonight, both because he was tired and everyone else was tired too.

Albus' thoughts strayed to Ms Crawford's first night here. He had barely made it out into the corridor before Minerva, despite the fact that her chambers were farther away than his. The memory of her tousled hair and her face, worried and tense, half cast in shadow from the light of her wand, made him smile into his pillow. She looked quite good for her age, he thought, even for witches, who don't age as quickly as muggles do.

Albus then thought of her changed Boggart. It had been brave of her to take it on to spare Trudy, but really, had he expected anything less? He was fairly certain that Minerva had most been frightened of her brother's death, and Albus was sure that he would have heard if her brother, Bran, had died. So what had happened to change that? The most obvious solution was that she had been attacked by a dog, possibly while in her Animagus form. But she hadn't been seriously injured in the past several years, of that Albus was sure, and was a dog attack really more frightening than the murder of her dear brother?

Albus would simply have to ask her if he cared so much about it. He didn't want to pry, but as her friend, he was allowed to ask questions, and perhaps he could help. One thing he had learned about Minerva was that she rarely asked for aid, even if she had need of it.

His last decisive thought was that he ought to make sure Minerva didn't overexert herself in the coming days. She didn't need anyone to look after her, especially him; what shocked Albus was that he rather wanted to.

Minerva was awoken in the morning by the sunlight that streamed in through the window. Rather than getting out of bed and preparing for the day, as was her custom, she lay in bed for a while to think.

Minerva had never spent an entire summer at Hogwarts, not in all of her forty-plus years working as a teacher. The usual custom was that the staff remained about a week after the students had gone home, sometimes less, to tie up loose ends, record marks, file reports, that sort of thing. As deputy, Minerva was usually one of the last to vacate the castle, excluding Mr Filch, who stayed all year round. Dumbledore, being headmaster, was also usually one of the last few to leave as well, although Minerva had no idea where he went during the summer. However, this did usually mean that the two of them had a few days alone together before the summer separation. If she was being honest with herself, Minerva knew that she enjoyed those few days very much.

This year, however, given the 'state of things' (that was how Albus had put it to her, which she interpreted to mean the fact that the castle was falling apart and none of the teachers had actually got much teaching done during the year that Severus was headmaster), few teachers had actually had left. To her own surprise (and annoyance), Minerva found herself missing those few days more than she'd anticipated. The break in routine that she'd followed for those forty years had been quite the shock to her system. She knew that she'd lost weight and ate less; then she wondered if Albus had noticed.

She sighed in irritation and rolled onto her side. It didn't matter if Albus noticed or not; she was a mature witch who could take care of herself. Even if he had detected it, well, that simply meant that he was looking out for her, as her friend. That was why she missed her time with him, Minerva reasoned, it simply because they were close friends who were used to spending some of their summer together together.

Tired of going in circles, Minerva finally slid out of bed, irritated with herself for wasting so much time. There was no use regretting the loss of her time with Albus because there was nothing she could do about it. She was being selfish and possessive; she had no hold over Albus and it would be foolish to pretend otherwise. She put all thoughts of Albus out of her head.

'You look lovely, dearie,' wheezed a withered female voice, drawing Minerva's attention back to the present. She'd unconsciously put on a set of navy summer robes, ones she didn't often wear, and never during the school year. They were light and airy, drawn in slightly at the waist and with a small flare near the bottom. Minerva brushed her hair and drew it up in loose French twist, ignoring the enchanted mirror, who continued to gasp its approval. Minerva detested enchanted mirrors, but she'd never actually bothered to switch it. She simply ignored it, but this didn't stop her recognizing truth in the mirror's statement. Her dark hair did look nice looser.

Still more irritated with herself for wasting even more time on pointless frivolities, Minerva set off for breakfast in the staffroom at brisk pace, her heels clicking reassuringly against the floor. She was one of the last to arrive, which left her with three options of where to sit: in between Horace and Filch, at the end next to Hagrid, who always took the foot of the table, as he needed the room, and to the left of the chair at the head of the table. It wasn't exactly against the rules to sit at the head, but no one really felt comfortable there, as it was generally accepted as Dumbledore's. Minerva took the seat next to Albus' empty chair and accepted the pot of tea from Pomona, beside whom she was sitting.

Pomona raised her eyes at Minerva's robes but said nothing about them, instead suggesting a Hogsmeade trip that afternoon. 'It's been a while since I've been to the village, and I'd planned to go today in any case. Do you want to come?' At this moment, Dumbledore entered the room and the seat on the other side of Minerva, who glanced quickly in his direction by way of greeting. He smiled at her, but she did not notice. Pomona prodded her for an answer.

Minerva's hesitation was evident, and Pomona, always quick to press her advantage, hurried on: 'The day is lovely, Minerva, and nothing would be lost in spending an afternoon enjoying yourself. Quite the contrary; I think it would be beneficial for you – erm, us – to go. Paperwork will not vanish from one day to the next, and I do believe that you need a vacation, so to speak, from the school. You work entirely too hard, always refusing to engage in anything remotely enjoyable. It would be good for you – from a medical perspective, even.' She looked pointedly at Minerva's as-of-yet empty plate.

Before Minerva could speak, Poppy added 'As a matron, I can assure you that Pomona is correct. We could all benefit from a brief respite, I do believe, not only you, although you certainly could use it more than the rest of us. I agree with Pomona: this summer may require more exertion than usual, but that certainly does not mean that you must work constantly. In fact –.'

'If I may get a word in edgewise,' Minerva interrupted coldly. 'I'd actually intended to ask you and perhaps Poppy to accompany me to the village this afternoon, but you obviously beat me to it. I am glad, however, that we could all share this – lovely – conversation revolving around the various health benefits of this venture. I of course detest everything but work. I am obviously incapable of taking care of myself, despite having done it for the majority of my life. I most definitely required persuasion. At the moment, however,' Minerva continued, her voice shaking slightly and heavy with sarcasm, 'I'm afraid I don't find myself much in the mood for a Hogsmeade visit – perhaps tomorrow. I shall see you both at lunch.' Standing, her hands trembling and not looking at anyone, she stalked from the room.

There was silence at the table. No one moved for a moment, as if Minerva's anger pinned them in their seats. Then, very softly and quietly, Pomona swore. She put down her knife and fork, picked her napkin up off her lap, gently headed for the door, and left – but not in the same direction as its last user. Poppy sat still for a moment after she had gone, then quietly recommenced eating. The heavy silence endured for the rest of the meal.

Minerva swept blindly into her rooms, rage robbing her of her vision. She moved as if in no control of her actions, every particle of her mind focused on attempting to calm herself. She stalked back and forth, back and forth, trying to pin her thoughts down and line them up, but they flew around her head in a mindless hurricane. Intangible feelings dominated her mind more than words, but the sentiments were easily translated: fury; betrayal; disgrace; shame.

Minerva sank onto the couch, eyes pressed tightly shut. Think, she ordered herself. Address each issue one at a time. She took a deep breath with the intention of calming herself, but the bright afternoon sun distracted her as it penetrated her eyelids. The silence somehow seemed too loud, but every shift and adjustment she made rustled loudly. Minerva pulled the tartan afghan off the back of the couch, lay down with her head on a cushion, and pulled the blanket over her head.

She was angry. That was a start. She was angry because Pomona and Poppy, her two closest female friends, had hurt her, insulted her, and shamed her. She angry because the things they said had not all been true. Minerva may have been rather stricter than others, but that did not mean she was entirely incapable of any sort of entertainment. How could they not recognize her passion? She was furious because she had taken care of herself for all of her life. True, her brothers had looked after her after their parents were killed, but they let her make her own decisions, rule her own life. Taking responsibility of her actions and decisions was what gave Minerva her identity. She had been and would always be, an independent person; no one could change that.

Next, Minerva addressed betrayal. She knew the feeling was there, but this one was harder to define. Perhaps because it had been Poppy and Pomona that had said it: they, her friends, who knew her better than anyone (except perhaps Dumbledore). They were aware of who much she prized her independence, her passionate self-sufficiency. They knew her not to be a stiff, unfeeling stick, but a strong woman with morals and integrity. How could they question that, in front of everyone?

That tied into the next feelings. These she understood, but cringed from them like Devil's Snare from sunlight. Humiliated: that was how she had felt. Minerva had never much cared what other people thought; never let others' words mean more than she wanted them to. But for Crawford, the new teacher, and Albus, Albus, to have heard her autonomy and passion questioned, her ability to take care of herself doubted, and her status as woman of common-sense cast aside, caused her such shame that she groaned beneath her tartan fortress.

Her carriage clock on the mantle chimed nine, and some distant corner in Minerva's mind knew she was late for Magical Maintenance, but deeper instincts told her that she wouldn't be able to work until she sorted this out, made peace with herself. 'Right,'she said aloud, the steadiness of her voice both surprising and reassuring her. 'What's happened is done. What I can control now is what happens next. Poppy and Pomona must apologize, and I must explain to them my reasons.' This, Minerva thought, was reasonable. 'Ms Crawford will have to realize that I will not be taken care of, and as such, have a right to become angry at attempts to do so. And Albus,' she hesitated, then ploughed on, 'Albus will come to me, I am sure, and I will tell him why I behaved such as I did.'

Finally, Minerva rose from the couch, folded the afghan, and left for the grounds. She met no one on her way, something she was grateful for. She scolded herself for her cowardice, but could not feel much regret.

Professor McGonagall opened the front doors and swept out onto the lawn. Smye looked up as she approached.

'You're late,' he told her, clearly wanting the chance to admonish her as she did him. Minerva met his gaze calmly.

'I apologize,' she replied, offering no explanation. She smiled inwardly at his look of surprise, then at his humbled expression. He seemed more comfortable, and he spoke with enthusiasm.

'Then, let's get to it. What were you saying about the semi-spherical ceiling?'

Dumbledore surveyed his interlocked fingers. His interview with the applicant was scheduled to commence in fifteen minutes, so he had until then to sort himself out. Assuming, of course, that the man was punctual, which Albus hoped he was: he understood the value of a good first impression.

Minerva had not been at lunch when he had made his way down to the staffroom half an hour ago. He had been eager to see her, impatiently waiting to tell her that he understood her reaction to the barrage she'd endured this morning. True, Poppy and Pomona hadn't intended to insult her, but Albus had heard it through Minerva's ears and wondered again why they tried to pretend Minerva was something she was not. Minerva's parents had been killed when she was seventeen, and since then she had always been on her own. He knew that Minerva had been watched over by Bran, who was seven years older than she, but still, she had been allowed her freedom. She had never been told how to take care of herself since her orphaning, nor did she need to be told. Albus felt slightly ill at the thought that he himself had wanted to do so.

Minerva's absence at lunch was, upon reflection, not entirely surprising. Hagrid had ambled in from his hut and sat at the foot of the table, mentioning that he had seen 'Professor McGonagall down on the lawn with the crew o' Magical Maintenance workers when I was comin' up from me hut. Looked as though she'd already eaten a bit with them, an' they looked as though they migh' keep working.'

'Thank you, Hagrid,' Dumbledore had said to quell any further talk behind Minerva's back, and the conversation had ended there. Still, he knew that she would feel as though she needed to give him an explanation for the morning, and had been hasty to assure her that it was unnecessary. Now he would have to wait until dinner.

A knock interrupted Albus' thoughts. He opened the door with a flick of his fingers and stood to meet the next DADA professor: hopefully the one to the last more than one year.

A tall man with dark brown hair streaked with grey walked into the room. He had light brown eyes and looked to be in his late seventies. He wore robes of dark grey, casual but still nice. He smiled cordially and stretched out his hand to shake Dumbledore's proffered one.

'It's an honour to meet you, Professor Dumbledore,' he said, taking the seat Albus indicated.

'The same to you, Mr McKinley,' Albus replied warmly, subtly glancing at the clock. He was right on time. So far, so good, Albus thought. 'Tell me more about your work.'

Mr McKinley outlined his private job as a wizard who did the proper concealment charms on magical pets for others who couldn't do perform the spells themselves. 'I'm licensed by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I have around forty clients and I perform the necessary charms on a biannual basis. I also have my own business: House-Pest Control. I usually deal with minor cases like fire salamanders and the like, but occasionally something really serious comes up. In those cases, I usually use a variety of different spells that I believe are in the Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum.'

Albus nodded. He'd already checked the man's businesses; they were quite successful. 'What sort of serious infestations have you dealt with?'

'Well,' Mr McKinley began, 'one of the worst I can remember was a house just west of Bradfield that had a serious infestation of Bundimuns, the creatures that rot away the foundations of a building. It took me a full two and half weeks to locate all the nests and creatures; I used several complicated detection and finding spells. I did recommend that the family hire someone to repair the house while they seek other lodgement, because the whole building was on the verge on collapse.'

Albus nodded again. Bundimuns caused severe damage in houses if left undetected for too long, and an infestation of that degree could be very difficult to remove. He was impressed.

As the interview progressed, it became clear that there was really no need for it. Mr McKinley was a competent wizard who liked children and enjoyed teaching. He also accepted a minimum two-year contract. Albus spent the remainder of the scheduled hour plus another thirty minutes discussing the various advantages of keeping magical creatures and the controversy of what classified a creature as a 'beast'.

Finally, a glance at his watch told Albus that they'd overrun. 'Well, Mr McKinley, I am pleased to welcome you to Hogwarts – although I daresay you already knew?' Albus said with a smile. McKinley returned the smile.

'Thank you very much, Headmaster. It is an honour to work here.' Dumbledore nodded; he liked this man. He decided that he could meet the staff now, and move into the castle later, and he told McKinley as much.

'That sounds wonderful, thank you,' McKinley replied, and they exited the office and made their way to the staff room, where Dumbledore knew the staff usually gathered around this time for a light tea.

'Now,' Dumbledore began as they swept along the corridors, 'I do not know whether my Deputy, Professor McGonagall, will be present – she's working on repairing the castle – but everyone else should be there.' McKinley did a slight double-take.

'Professor McGonagall?' he repeated, looking surprised.

'Yes, Minerva McGonagall. She teaches Transfiguration,' Dumbledore replied, wondering if this man knew her, or knew of her. Before he could ask, however, they arrived, and went inside the staffroom.

The room was, as Albus had predicted, full, but they all turned around at the sound of the door opening. Poppy and Pomona, Albus noticed, had been deep in discussion, presumably about Minerva. However, his attention was diverted.

'Trudy?' Mr McKinley very nearly shouted, and Ms Crawford bounded across the room in shock.

'Cousin!' Trudy shouted, enveloping the new teacher in a hug. 'What are you doing here?'

'Professor Dumbledore just hired me, I'm teaching Defence – what are you doing here?' McKinley replied, looking surprised but happy.

'Teaching Muggle Studies – you didn't tell me you'd applied!' Trudy replied, stepping back as if to get a better look at her apparent cousin.

'Neither did you! Congratulations, Tru! We'll be working together,' McKinley replied.

'May I take it, then, that the two of you are cousins?' Dumbledore asked, interested. Now that he looked, there was a slight family resemblance. They both nodded in confirmation. Suddenly, the door opened again.

Minerva stood in the doorway, and Albus immediately felt a rush of relief. It had only been a few hours since he'd last seen her, but it felt like days. He opened his mouth to speak, but Minerva beat him to it.

'C – Connor McKinley?' she said, stunned. She was staring at Mr McKinley, who smiled at her.

'Hello, Minerva,' he replied. 'It's nice to see you.' Minerva appeared near speechless, an event so rare no one really knew what to do.

'I – what are you – you're teaching Defence?' Minerva finally managed feebly, not at all her usual tone of voice.

'Mmhm,' was the cheerful reply. Minerva still looked stunned. Thankfully, Trudy saved the awkward moment.

'How'd you like a tour, Connor?' she asked, dragging her cousin out the door. They heard his consent as their footsteps echoed down the corridor. Minerva sank onto a couch and was immediately crowded by her friends, who seemed to forget the morning's argument.

'How do you know him?' Pomona asked, handing Minerva a cup of tea. Minerva looked up at Albus, who smiled at her, but the smile felt forced. He dreaded what was coming, for reasons he couldn't explain.

Sure enough: 'I, um…we were…involved, romantically…for a time,' Minerva finally responded. The silence resonated throughout the room. Then;

'He's your ex-beau?' cried Poppy, and the room erupted. Dumbledore quietly took a seat with a cup of tea, wondering how in Merlin's name he got himself into these situations.

TBC

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