A/N: This is the companion to "Blackbird: Fly." You don't need to read it first, as they cover the same events, but you'll probably want to read both. In my twisted timeline, McGonagall is only about 5 or 10 years older than our favorite grumpy Potions master. Both of them, and anything else from the marvelous Potterverse, belong to J. K. Rowling, maysheliveforever. I don't own it. I'm not her, in case you were confused there. Please don't sue — I'm just havin' fun here. And I'm sorry about my descent into cliches there at the end. Hope you like it, and please review!
*Blackbird singing in the dead of night,
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see,
All your life,
You were only waiting for this moment to be free. *
Blackbird: See
I straighten up and wince at the cracking noises my back makes. I'm really getting too old for this, but I need to grade these quizzes for tomorrow. I'm almost done with them though, and it's so late.
I can't concentrate. I really am almost done so perhaps the best thing to do would be to turn in now and finish them in the morning.
I get up from my desk and start for my room. But just because I can't think to grade doesn't mean my thoughts are settled and I can sleep. Oh, no, that would be far too simple.
Sleep has never come easily to me. Even as a child, before I attended Hogwarts, I spent hours staring at the shadows cast by the moon. At Hogwarts, I listened to my dorm-mates' breathing, hoping to soft sound would lull me to sleep.
After I graduated, I would read, or clean house, or try to occupy my time in some other way, but no matter what I tried, I always ended up in the old, familiar position, with the blankets bunched around me the same as always, my eyes focused on nothing, my thoughts wandering.
But lately, my thoughts have found a focus. They drift back to him again and again, even during the day.
I feel ridiculous about this. I'm mooning like one of my students, although I'm sure they wouldn't find him "cute," or whatever the current term is. I don't understand why I do. What do I see in him? Why is it I can't stop thinking about him?
I find my feet have wandered as my mind has, and I'm on my way to the Astronomy Tower. Perhaps a bit of fresh air will do me good, help me compose my thoughts so I can sleep. And dream of him --.
I see his face before me even now. Why can't I get him out of my mind? I have to stop this. Even if it wasn't unthinkable, even if everyone would quit continuing a thousand-year-dead quarrel and acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, a Gryffindor and a Slytherin could be together, even if, he would never love me back.
I love him? Do I really? Is Minnie's icy heart melting at last?
It's true. He's gotten under my skin, inside my head, like no one else ever has. No one else ever occupied my thoughts, my dreams, like this.
Nothing could ever come of us. We're too different. He sees the mask I've worn since I was fifteen, the person who won't let anyone near enough to hurt her. And I still wear that mask, still am that person. It scares me, how much he could hurt me. So I push him back, snap at him and try to hurt him before he hurts me. He gives as good as he gets, of course — it's one of the things I love most about him, the way he never backs down from anything — and that cuts me, but I can't do this any other way.
All of a sudden, I turn a corner and there he is. He looks at me and some unreadable expression passes over his face, before it settles into its usual stoniness. Why doesn't he ever smile? He would look so much younger if he did. For a moment I am sure that the sheer longing I feel for him shines out through my eyes, but he doesn't seem to notice.
"Minerva," he greets me curtly. His tone is sardonic, as always, and there isn't a trace of warmth in his face or voice. Why did I have to fall in love with the only person less suited to it than myself?
"Severus." It takes so much effort to keep my voice devoid of all the emotions I feel towards him. I should be saying his name so differently.
"Lovely night for a midnight stroll, isn't it? You don't want to stay up too late, or you won't be able to teach, and won't that be a tragedy." I feel a pang of — regret, maybe, or longing. How I wish he would truly be concerned about my welfare, and not simply mock me with it. At least he doesn't know how I feel about him — I don't think I could stand having him twist that, and look at me with that cold gleam in his eye.
"Not nearly as much of a tragedy as it would be if you missed a class — I'm sure your students would miss you terribly." The only thing that comes to mind is cutting; the only words I ever say to him filled with hate. Why can't I ever walk up to him and say something, anything, positive about him? God knows I see enough things there. I think the way I only hear negative things from him, the way I'm not worth the energy it takes to think about me to him, would have driven me to suicide long age, in an attempt to get away from Life's mocking reminder that he will never love me, that no one ever will, but somehow, this strange, burning longing keeps me alive. I live for the brief moments I spend with him, passing him going into the staff room, or at meals. Somehow, it means so much to have those deep black eyes focused on me, for just a moment. I'm so deep in thought, I've almost forgotten we're speaking when he says, "I'm sure they would. Now, if you'll excuse me?"
And he brushes past me and he's gone. I can still feel the heat from his skin, the faint scent that I know must be uniquely his. I want to run down the hall after him, and bury my face in his shoulder, let that warmth and scent surround me, have his arms around me, sheltering me from the world. I want him to see that somewhere inside of him is the man I love. I want him to see that even I am capable of love. I want him to see that maybe he is too.
Please, Severus, see me