A/N: Written originally for a class on Mugglenet Fan-Fiction, Being British.
"You wanted to see me, Minerva?"
Minerva swallowed. It was one thing to see the Headmaster during mealtimes and in the hall, and even to occasionally say hello or discuss Prefect matters with him. It was another thing entirely to request a meeting with him for something not usually discussed between teachers and students. But she had gotten this far, and there was no point losing her resolve now.
Clasping her hands together so she would not be tempted to fidget, sitting straight-backed in her chair, she stared into the eyes of the man sitting across from her, his desk separating them. "Yes. I wanted to talk to you about – I was wondering if you know – I was hoping that you could tell me – "
Her Gryffindor resolve was wavering. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she decided that words would be useless at this moment, and instead withdrew from her book bag today's newspaper and handed it to him.
Dumbledore's eyes raked over the front page of the paper. He did not say anything for a very long time, and she finally became uncomfortable with the silence. Swallowing, she said, "I just don't – I know that wizards and witches are dealing with Grindewald right now, and that's keeping them more than busy, but – is anything being done to help the Muggle situations?"
Dumbledore did not answer her immediately. He meditated over the paper for a moment longer, then, meeting her eyes, he asked softly, "How long have you been subscribed to the Muggle newspaper, Minerva?"
"S-since the middle of my fifth year."
He nodded slowly, his eyes on his fingers again, then folded the paper and put it down on his desk. When he looked back up at her again, his eyes were tired. He rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Most wizards feel at the present time that we have enough to handle without also adding the Muggle wars to our platter."
She looked down at the newspaper, which spoke of the latest tally of deaths in Europe. If it weren't for her daily newspaper, she wouldn't have known about any of them – and they were happening right where she lived. "So many of them are getting hurt . . ." she murmured.
Her gaze sought out the Headmaster's, waiting for him to step into the role of teacher and offer her words of comfort, tell her that all the troubles would be past soon, reassure her that everything would be well.
But he did not. All he did was take her hand, squeeze it lightly, and nod. "I know."