AN: This is just a quick fic, I don't know that it's any good, but here it is.

Summary: Minerva McGonagall is having a bad day. It takes place just a couple of weeks after the fifth book ends, like mid-July or so. (Hey mid-July is my birthday! Sorry, Laura's brain is a little rattled right now).

Disclaimer: I definitely don't own this. JKR does. She's a whole lot more creative than this.

The Bad Day

I don't know why I picked today to clean out my chambers. It has to be the hottest day of the week. And not the slightest breeze to stir the curtains. Not the best day for arduous labor.

Not that my rooms are messy, exactly. The living area isn't anyway. The bedroom is somewhat… untidy, at least at first glance. It's actually just rather cluttered. The bedroom is small and cozy, or rather, it would be cozy, if it weren't for all the papers, books, trinkets, and such that I've acquired over this past year. Normally I keep the room tidier than this, but between the Order and that mockery of a professor Dolores Umbridge, I've been somewhat slack with my cleaning. I banned the house-elves from my personal rooms some years ago--I'm a grown witch, I should be able to clean up after myself--but this is the first year I've ever regretted it.

The cleaning is going especially slow. Aside from the heat, I'm still moving shakily and slowly since the Stunner attack. Added to that, I fell asleep last night reading in one of the armchairs in my living room and woke up with a stiff neck. It hurts to turn or tilt my head to the right. What a rotten day…

I started cleaning right after lunch and only took a break--with much prodding from Albus--for a quick supper. Now, eight hours and not one, but two stubbed toes later, I am almost finished. Exhausted, slightly sweaty, and somewhat sore, but almost finished. And I think I have complied with Poppy's instructions to take it easy. She thinks I'm so fragile, honestly. She says I can't go into my animagus form for another two weeks. She keeps muttering things to herself like "four stunners, at your age" to which I respond by whining like a child, because it makes her smile. Someone should be in a good mood at least.

I stack the books that won't fit on the shelves in a pile on the floor, managing to get a very deep paper cut. Blowing slightly on the wound to stop the stinging, I remind myself to have Argus build me a new bookshelf.

There's a knock at the door. I manage, though my energy is draining fast, to make it across my living room without using my walking stick. It's Albus, who promptly scolds me for not using the walking stick. He worries about me too much as well. I've been banned from doing any fieldwork for the Order for at least another week. I think he still sees me as a child, as his student. I wish he didn't.

He offers his help with the cleaning, but I forbid it. He insists on staying, however--not that I mind--so I compromise by letting him look through a stack of papers that require his approval as I finish finding places for and putting away the last of my things.

As I draw my vanity chair over to the desk so I can sit next to him, (and stub my toe yet again) I realize he's not going through the papers, but looking at a picture that was sitting on the desk. The picture--dust-free as of this afternoon--is of the two of us talking, laughing. We had no idea the picture was being taken; we were too interested in each other. I hadn't known about the picture until a week or so later, when Madeline Hooch had given it to me--she had been the photographer.

"When was this taken?" he asks without taking his eyes off the picture.

"Last summer," I reply. "At the last staff meeting of the year."

"So that's why you look so happy: it's summer time."

"That's not why I was happy," I say without thinking. "I was happy because I was just dancing with you." My eyes grow wide as I realize what I said. Trying to fight the blush rising in my cheeks, I fumble for words. "I'd imagine I don't look half as well now as I do in the picture."

I turn my fairly sweaty and dust-streaked face away from his scrutinizing gaze, but he just shakes his head. "Minerva, I have rarely seen you look anything less than beautiful. You make hard work look glamorous."

I blush, this time not even trying to fight it. I turn back to the picture and study the subjects as I've done countless times before. Madeline had been standing at such an angle that my face could be seen more readily than his could. I can see the look in my eyes. It's a look of something more than colleagues, more than friendship. I didn't even know I'd ever had that look until Madeline showed me that picture. It made me realize how I truly felt about Albus.

I feel a twinge of nervousness as I realize that Albus can probably see that look right now, too. I feel the blush rise anew in my cheeks. I sneak a glance at him out of the corner of my eye. I realize that he 's not looking at the picture at all, but right at me. I turn my head to look at him properly, but freeze when I see his eyes. It's that look. The look I have in the picture.

He turns his eyes back to the papers, attempting to hide how he was looking at me, but his gaze has given me a measure of courage.

"Albus," I start and then pause. Courage doesn't make you eloquent. What am I to say?

But I don't need to think about that. As I said his name, he turned to me again. Our eyes meet, both pairs reflecting reciprocated feelings, and we lean closer together. As our lips touch, I feel a jolt of energy, as if his kiss holds the same amount of power as those Stunning Spells, only warm and sweet, exhilarating.

His hand finds its way to my cheek and suddenly I find myself wondering how I could have thought today was a bad day. It was just perfect.

I tilt my head as the kiss deepens and suddenly wince at the sharp pain in my stiff neck.

Well, almost perfect.

AN2: I know, it's unlikely that Minerva McGonagall's rooms would ever be messy, but I know that my room, due to it's tiny size, looks rather messy when there is even a small amount of clutter. Just go with it, eh? And review? Bitte? Laura : )