I am so excited for this fic.

I can't promise that it'll get as much of my attention as Bonds and Hugs, especially since I'm currently short on time, but I'm super pumped, and that usually only means good things.

Project 2 of my Guilty-Pleasure-Writing-Challenge – please enjoy!

She knows of course that there's more than just a little pressure associated with his position. Not just the official one, mind you, but most of all the one behind the scenes.

And it's not as if she doubts his intentions. God heavens, no. She trusts him with her life; his integrity is beyond question.

That does not, however, mean that she always agrees with his ideas. Or that she understands his reasoning behind them, even if he patiently takes the time to walk her through them. She's not a dim person by any means either, so it is not like she is frequently unable to follow abstract reasoning.

So every once in a while, in her darkest, most shameful moments, she suspects that the others might possibly be right.

Yes, even Minerva McGonagall cannot help but occasionally suspect that Headmaster Dumbledore might have lost his marbles. As the years go by those moments have become less and less. During their progressing acquaintance and eventual friendship she has learnt that oftentimes genius does not translate well into words, and that occasional bouts of incoherence have more to do with the limitations of language itself, rather than the limits of Albus' mind.

She has also accepted, if unwillingly, that sometimes certain sacrifices and rule breakings are necessary to see things through to the end. 'A regrettable commonality of Gryffindor's and Slytherin's worst traits' Albus calls it, which would explain why both she and Severus are so incredibly uncomfortable with it.

They surely are uncomfortable with his newest idea.

It is possibly the Gryffindor in her that's already wriggling to interrupt Albus, long before he has actually finished his explanation. She's heard 'ninjas' and 'other dimensions' and 'breaking into the Ministry' and, by Merlin's pants, that's already enough to make her want to shake the old fool, no matter what brilliant point he's trying to make in the end.

Risking a sidelong glance at her colleague, she can see that – lightning strike him down sometimes – they are of one mind in this at least. While far more composed than she herself feels, his lip is curling up so far in disgust, that she fears it might peel back over his skull like a bad All Hallow's Eve costume.

"So what do you say?" the Headmaster finishes with an expectant smile.

He looks rather like a little boy who just discovered that garden gnomes would make for great indoor pets.

She feels rather like the mother who is about to tell him why that is a particularly bad idea.

"Well, Albus, bringing them here might be a little problematic." she tries diplomatically.

Next to her Severus sounds as if he is about to have a fit.

"Bringing them here? If that is your greatest concern, Minerva – "

"Now, now my boy," Albus cuts him off, eyes twinkling in that annoying way that tells her he's already made up his mind. "Of course I know about the … difficulties of bringing them here. However, I can still boast a few friends in high places, who will ease the process significantly."

"I have no doubt that you can bring them here," Severus grits out. "If there is one thing that I know you to be quite capable off, it's walking straight into the Ministry and convincing the officials to do your bidding, without the Minister being any the wiser. What I am worried about is what you will do with them, once you have them."

Minerva privately agrees. It's not as if they could smuggle a bunch of ninjas into Hogwarts without a student running right to their parents and reporting them. She tries not to look at Severus, but he probably already knows that his own protégés are to most likely offenders.

Apart from that, 'having them assist' could mean about a dozen of things. What exactly would Albus have them do? Run He-who-must-not-be-named through with a sword?

Not that anybody has tried it yet, so she cannot say with certainty that it would not work, but still …

"Ahh – you see, just one ninja would be more than enough," Albus says, shaking his finger at them in excitement. "We don't need an army to fight our war. No, that would not only be immoral, but also put us into their debt far more than I could reasonably repay. What we need is expertise. I myself can only approach strategy the way I would approach a chess game, because it is the only form of war I have ever studied. But any fool can see that the comparison is lacking!"

He smacks his desk in aggravation.

"War is not chess. Not merely. It is also checkers and poker and a delightful muggle game called 'Cluedo'. As it is, I am out of my depths."

It's a frightening thing to hear from a man she admires so. Then again, she'd rather have him admit it, than paddling about in unknown waters by himself.

"So we need them," she concludes.

"How … unfortunate," Severus says, displeasure still prominent all over his face. It's defeat she hears in his voice though. If Albus Dumbledore feels the need to reach out for help, who are they to stop him?

It is in fact not Albus who prances into the Ministry to flex his muscles. It's Sturgis Podmore from Magical Law Enforcement. He walks up to little Annie Bruckstein the administrative clerk, throws out a charming smile and tells her, just between the two of them, really don't tell anybody, Albus Dumbledore needs a favor.

And yes, he's not quite so popular right now, but after that debacle with the poor Diggory boy the old chap feels mighty guilty, and really, who could hold it against the man that he's taking the Potter boy's side. Always been a little sentimental, that Dumbledore, and of course if something traumatized a child and killed another it must be the Dark Lord in his eyes.

Of course, of course – Annie agrees whole heartedly. After all she holds many fond memories of the Professor and with age … well, you know what it does to people. Doesn't mean his heart isn't in the right place.

But what kind of favor could Albus Dumbledore possibly want from her?

Well, well, you see, maybe just a few minutes with the Veil in the Department of Mysteries – not to take anything of course, swear on my magic.

And so, even though Annie Bruckstein isn't entirely sure what in the world Albus Dumbledore could possibly want with an old archway, she puts a stamp on all the appropriate documents for Sturgis and sends him along.

After all, if they're not going to take anything, why not?

Why not indeed.

Sturgis' orders are truly not to take anything. But there is a letter in his pocket – not to mention the owl it is attached to – that he will be leaving there. He's not entirely sure how the animal will reach its destination, but to be fair, nobody is entirely sure of how they do it, so it might be nothing to worry about.

Closing the heavy door of the Death Room behind him, Sturgis procures the ruffled looking owl from the pocket of his cloak.

"Ok buddy," he says, shivering at the sight of the Veil, "the Professor says you know what you've got to do."

The owl looks gives him a look.

"Yes, yes I know, ok? But this is kind of important. We're looking for - … wait give me a second."

He sticks his free arms back into his cloak pocket and rummages around.

"Oh Merlin, where did I put it?"

His arm has vanishes up to the elbow into the pocket before he finally pulls out a wrinkled piece of paper.

"Hi-ru-zen Sa-ru-tobi. Weird name. Well, him or whoever is left of his line."

The owl makes a discontented noise, but flutters its wings obligingly.

"Don't forget," Sturgis cautions. "If this letter business is anything like apparating, who knows where you'll land if you don't pay attention. Destination, Determination, Deliberation!"

The owl nips at his finger. Don't tell me how to do my job.

"Well," he snaps, nursing the bleeding appendage, "then go ahead and do your thing. Don't come crying to me when you've got to fly all the way back from Timbuktu."

And so the owl takes off, effortlessly passing through the archway. The only sign that something just disturbed the artefact, is the faint fluttering of the tattered black veil.