Public Opinion, Judgment, and the White Dark Lord (5)

McGonagall stood alone in the office piled high with Howlers, listening to the crackle of the fire in the hearth. Outside the window, the setting sun was slipping past the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, casting its last strand of orange-red light across her face and revealing the exhaustion she had forcibly buried, unwilling to let anyone see.

"I sent my child to Hogwarts to learn, not to become Dumbledore's political bargaining chip!"

"Why hasn't Hagrid been expelled yet? Why hasn't the Chamber of Secrets been sealed? What is the Ministry of Magic doing? What is Dumbledore doing?"

"My daughter was petrified and is still lying in St. Mungo's. Has Dumbledore visited her even once? He's too busy clearing that gamekeeper's name!"

McGonagall stood behind the desk, her back ramrod straight and her chin slightly raised. Her glasses rested on the bridge of her nose, and her expression was one of forced composure—her lips pressed into a thin line, her brow tightly furrowed, her fingers clenching and releasing against the desktop, again and again.

The light from the magical lamp at the corner of the desk, reflected by the red envelopes, dyed the entire office a sickening orange-red. Voices surged in from every direction, pressing against her eardrums. She removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose hard.

"Minerva."

Dumbledore set down the stack of Howlers in his hands, sighed, and looked at McGonagall's back.

"Minerva, you need to get some proper rest." His voice was very soft.

"Rest?" McGonagall's voice rose, then she forced it back down. "Albus, you've read these, and you're telling me to rest?!" She pointed at the ever-growing red mound on the desk. "Are these letters? They're the parents' disappointment and fear! They don't trust you now. They don't trust the school, and