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| There was no denying that Minerva McGonagall was unspeakably pissed. It had been a hard year all around, both for serious and less serious reasons. As a professor and Head of House, Minerva had been repeatedly appalled by the behaviour of her students, from Potter's imbecilic attack in Potions in September through Costantin's several infractions through the endless curfew-breaking and debauchery. She had been infinitely more appalled by the things that had happened to her students, from Brownless's attack on Lyle and Costantin through the attack on Bones through the death of Jedediah Dunne, far too young to die and part of a group of students Minerva was unlikely to forget if she lived to Dumbledore's age or older. And, as an Order member, she had been overworked and overtired, slightly terrified by the news of Dorcas Meadoweses' recruitment (nearly of an age with Jedediah, and not someone Minerva particularly wanted to put into danger), overcome with the knowledge of how utterly outnumbered they were, and plagued by a mounting sense of dread with every new day Septimus Malfoy remained in power. She was, in other words, not in the mood for her students' shit. The set up had gone well enough, but Minerva knew that was only the beginning of the day's work. She patrolled the edges of the fair, pausing to exchange a comment with a colleague here and an old friend there, ready to execute the prompt removal of any trouble-makers at the first sign of idiocy. |
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