Disclaimer: None of the characters, places etc. in this story belong to me.

Head of Gryffindor

December 2000

Minerva McGonagall stared into the enormous mirror that she had tried for an eternity to dispose of. It was revoltingly garish with gold trimmings and strange, elaborately carved shapes protruding annoyingly from it in all directions. It matched neither her taste nor her room, but no matter what spell she cast or what orders she gave it, she had found it impossible to move even one inch.

Staring at herself surrounded by this hideous monstrosity did not improve her already dampened spirit. The Yule Ball in honour of the four Triwizard Tournament champions was fast approaching and what the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry did not know was that this ball was something Professor Minerva McGonagall feared.

Perhaps 'fear' is the wrong word, but she was most certainly not looking forward to the event. Albus Dumbledore, on the other hand had been bouncing around the school jovially, his mind's clock counting down the weeks, days, hours, and sometimes even minutes until the clocks of Hogwarts were to chime seven, thus announcing the official moment the ball was to begin.

Minerva continued to look at her reflection. She was not usually one to put much thought into her appearance; however a few tiny words spoken meaninglessly by Dumbledore earlier that day had stuck in her mind like Aquinius' Eternally Attaching Adhesive. Incidentally probably the same adhesive that held her mirror fast to her chamber wall.

'A school ball is the only time a student sees a teacher as a human,' he had said. 'So we have to show them that there is more to us than their average school day might insinuate.'

'No we don't,' had been Minerva's reply.

Dumbledore had acknowledged her response with a nod and said nothing more. It was this microscopic portion of her day had been most persistent in being remembered.

Standing in front of the mirror now, Minerva took in her excruciating teacher-like appearance. Her hair was scraped back in its customary bun, and she could see the small portions of grey protruding through, uninvited. Her glasses were still perched on the edge of her nose, even though the school day had ended over an hour ago. The crinkled skin by her eyes and on her forehead and neck was subtle but noticeable nonetheless. Her eyes seemed to be the only aspect that had remained unchanged. Two emerald green pools sparkled over her glasses and stared back at her. She took a deep breath in through her nose, and her nostrils flared as the air was inhaled by the lungful. The last time there had been a ball at Hogwarts was in a summer during the early years of her teaching, when her features were more youthful and the latest fashions much more rigid and straightforward.

Tap tap tap.

Minerva's head turned as she glanced at her door from where the familiar knock punctured the stiff atmosphere of her quarters.

June 1960

"Come in."

Dumbledore entered. He was wearing summer-thin, pale blue robes that enhanced the blueness of his eyes extraordinarily. The recently arrived slivers of silver in his beard glistened in the evening light as he walked over to Minerva, standing by the mirror – a frighteningly gaudy mirror that Dumbledore would have requested she dispose of if his manners did not intervene each time he came close to asking.

"Albus," Minerva said, surprised. "What can I do for you?"

"Actually, it's what I can do for you," Dumbledore answered mysteriously.

Minerva raised her eyebrows questioningly and gestured for Dumbledore to make himself comfortable. He seated himself on Minerva's sofa and she followed, perching next to him and leaning back against the arm, awaiting his explanation.

"I'd like to make you Head of Gryffindor House," he said quite to the point. This statement was greeted by an unreadable, lingering glance from Minerva as she quickly looked up at him. Dumbledore continued, "It comes with a lot more responsibility, but responsibility I know you can contend with, and I would like it very much indeed if you were to accept the offer."

Minerva's smile crept through; delicately, yes, but it was marked and unmistakable. "Thank you," she replied gently. "I accept."

"Wonderful!" Dumbledore exclaimed. "This then, I believe, is a call for some celebration or other. Gerald." All of a sudden a tiny house elf appeared with a crack out of thin air. "Gerald, could you have a bottle of celebratory wine and some nibbles brought up as soon as you wish, please?"

"Gerald'll find you the finest wine and nibbles we've got, sir, and he'll be back before you can say –" And with that Gerald abruptly vanished.

"One of the more individual house elves, I think," Dumbledore remarked. Gerald was back and gone again only a few second later, and Dumbledore and Minerva were left sitting on Minerva's sofa, clinking their newly filled goblets together for the first drink of the night.

"First love?" Dumbledore asked, his blue eyes twinkling merrily at her.

"Hamish." Dumbledore peered over his half-moon spectacles at her quizzically. "My cat," Minerva added. "I was five."

"Ah," Dumbledore replied, curious as to why he had almost felt a certain amount of resentment towards a cat. "First –"

"Oh no, Albus, you don't get away that easily," Minerva interrupted, as if she were addressing one of her pupils. "Most recent love?"

"Alas," Dumbledore said rather too dramatically. "There has been nothing and no one since my beloved Mildred went up in flames."

Minerva raised her eyebrows in surprise. Understanding that Dumbledore was avoiding the question completely she played along. "And who was this magnificent Mildred whom no one has surpassed?"

Dumbledore sighed spectacularly. "She was my first and only love, my dear. A fine broomstick with outstanding –" He stopped when he heard Minerva laughing softly at him. "I hope you are not taking pleasure out of my misfortune," he said.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Albus," she replied, straightening her face with difficulty. "What happened?"

"My brother set the house on fire." Minerva could not help but laugh at that, and she saw Dumbledore return her smiles.

"I have a question for you," Minerva stated. The wine had not yet reached its dizzying stage, but Minerva was definitely slightly freer with her tongue.

"I believe you will find it my turn to ask you," he said. Minerva complied with his wishes and waited for her question. Dumbledore pondered a while; looking up to her ceiling and forming a pose Minerva thought probably resembled some great philosopher. Finally, turning back to her, he spoke.

"Have you ever tasted a pear drop?" Minerva looked at him blankly.

"That's you're great question?" she asked his after a surprised pause.

"I'll have you know that pear drops are one of the tastiest muggle sweets I have ever tried," he said ardently. "Though sometimes I get the feeling that there is something else out there, even more delicious, that one day I will just stumble upon."

Once again, his words were greeted with a short silence. Then, "No, I haven't. However my sweet tooth is not as keen as yours, Albus. I'm surprised you're not out searching for this mystery sweet of yours right now."

"Your mockery washes over my, my dear," Dumbledore replied. "May I offer you a refill?" Minerva looked down at her almost empty goblet and held it out for Dumbledore to replenish. "Now," he continued after having topped up both goblets. "What did you want to ask me?"

"Have you always wanted long hair and a beard?"

"An interesting question," Dumbledore answered with complete seriousness. "I had a handlebar moustache once – before your time," he added, bowing his head respectfully to her. "However I felt the look did not quite become me."

"So what made you go for your current… style?" she asked.

"I remembered a picture that I liked which I had seen in a muggle book when I was a small boy. It was a sketch of a wizard with the longest hair and a beard to match. I think it was supposed to be Merlin." Dumbledore's brow creased slightly. "They got that very wrong," he added in reflection, shaking his head. "What about you?" he continued.

Sipping her wine, Minerva looked at him over the rim. She lowered her glass as she heard his question: "Do you know that I have never, not once in all the years that I have known you, seen your hair loose from its constraints?"

She continued to look at him and, once again, her small smile crept through. This time however, the smile did not contain the contentment it held earlier but a glimmer of sorrow and regret. "I do know that, yes," she answered.

"Why?" Dumbledore proceeded with caution. He noticed the sudden bleakness that had invaded Minerva's features, though she did well to order it quickly hidden.

"It's a long, tiresome story," she said, looking into her wine goblet and refraining from glancing at Dumbledore's face. "Too dreary for this time of night."

Dumbledore watched as the woman opposite him grew steadily more sombre. She would no longer allow her eyes to connect with his, forbidding them to roam anywhere except into the deep red pool of liquid in her goblet.

"Minerva," Dumbledore said in a low voice.

"It doesn't matter," she told him quietly.

"I think it does," he replied, firmly this time.

His concern was justified. If Minerva McGonagall does not like something then you are made very aware of it. In this moment Dumbledore discovered a deep sorrow in Minerva which had never been so much as hinted at.

His words were met with silence. Thankful that Minerva was close to him, he reached his hand out to hers and wrapped his fingers round its side, prying it easily from the goblet, while her other continued to grip the stem tightly. He did not say a word.

After a strange silence that flooded the room with strain and friction, Dumbledore felt Minerva's hand relax slowly into his.

"It seems silly," she started, her discomfort clear in her posture and the fact that her eyes still refused to meet his. "My brother used to play with my hair when we were younger. Even when he was a baby my mother would take me to his room if he was crying and dangle my hair over his crib. It always soothed him." She was relaxing now. Shifting in her seat a little she moved to lean against the comfortable back of the sofa. "I was eleven when he died."

She stopped for a pause in order to hold her threatening tears to her; their release would suggest a defeat that she had not yet accepted.

"So you've scraped back your hair since then to forget?"

Minerva looked at him now, her furrowed brow displaying her confusion at his words. She shook her head uncertainly. "To not be reminded."

"Do you see a difference?" he asked quietly and with care.

"To be reminded is to be unprepared," she told him. "It's harder that way."

"Is it?" Dumbledore said. It was not really a question. He held her eyes when she looked at him this time. Her hand grew stiffer in his.

"Minerva," he continued gently, "your brother's death is a part of you, no matter how terrible. It has moulded you to whom you have become but you have not accepted it. You've held it so close to you, allowing no one to even glimpse it, but you have not felt it."

Dumbledore could see the muscles tightening in Minerva's jaw as she clenched her teeth, not out of anger at his words, but from a struggle that was desperate to break through the surface of her skin. He released his hold on her hand and raised himself out of his seat. Minerva remained where she was, no longer looking at him but staring straight ahead, her attention and thoughts now solely internal and private.

"Grief is an emotion that nature requires us to conquer. Only then can we truly be ourselves, unbroken - and whole."

Minerva heard his words. She heard him walk across the room and heard the click of the door as he left. Only after that did she allow her tears to flow freely. Only then did her hair fall to her waist.