A/N: Because McGoogles is amazing and we all know she has a little soft spot for her Maraunerds.
As always,
Mina :)
GRYFFINDOR GAMES
PRELUDE TO SEVEN DAYS OF DISASTER
Every year, the prefects of Gryffindor get together to host an in-house, week-long competition to "encourage camaraderie and fellowship within the honorable house of the lion." Throughout the years, that had become the only viable reason those insane children could come up with when summoned to the Headmaster's office after a dormitory was destroyed, a classroom full of Gryffindors showed up at the Hospital Wing, the entire house was missing eyebrows, or a majority of the higher years were out on the Quidditch pitch at midnight before a big exam. "Gryffindor Games!" they would shout with glee. "We're not skipping class, Professors! We're readying ourselves for the big tournament tonight!"
Professor McGonagall, a staunch upholder of every statute and rule set down by her beloved forefathers, often turns a blind eye to such shenanigans. She hates ignoring their mischief and pretending innocence to the other Heads of House, but the Gryffindor in her is too strong to punish any of them for a little house pride. They're lions, for Merlin's sake – reckless and obnoxious and irresponsible. And, really, they're still children, so she can afford to feign ignorance for a week; it means she can be strict the week after and have a full detention room at her disposal.
She smiles a little, pushing her glasses up her nose. It's not being lenient; it's being clever.
Not that she's not wary. There's not a day that goes by when she doesn't worry about the safety issues in that tower. They're all quite foolhardy by nature - though some of them, she thinks, staring out at the gradually filling Great Hall, more so than others. Her two prefects, Lily Evans and Remus Lupin, the two people in the whole house most unsuited for the task, sit in the middle of the table, quills and books and pieces of parchment interspersed between plates of food and goblets of butterbeer. Minerva knows that they're not the biggest enthusiasts of the Games, probably owing to their more rambunctious counterparts and the corresponding disasters from past years, but what they lack in interest they make up for in drive. And what they lack in both, well: that's what the others are for, isn't it?
Speak of the Devil and he shall appear. Twice over. They walk in, Black and Potter, that little Peter following behind – it's his sixth year under her charge and she has yet to see what in the blazes the Hat saw in him to place him in her house – and it takes all of her willpower to not roll her eyes. They're arrogant and devilish and they know the other children are looking at them as they strut through the door. They are the most blatant example of everything wrong with her house. They are also the strongest supporters of the Games, Minerva thinks, only allowing herself to consider their manic, extreme dedication as 'support.' She makes a bet with herself that the both of them, cumulatively, will end up in the Hospital Wing twelve times in the next week. Last year it had been seven, but now that they're older and stupider, she knows that she needs to up the odds.
When the three of them sit, mingling with Evans' friends, she narrows her eyes before looking away. Pomona starts talking about the Prophet and Minerva gives her a second of her attention before turning away, half listening to reports of the Dark Lord and half paying attention to what's unfolding in front of her.
She's been teaching here for decades and has gained a keen eye for subtle changes within the body of her students. As if drawn by a Patronus, her eyes watch as Evans and Lupin keep working, but now the others around them are speaking up, snatching quills to scribble a note here or there, laughing and suggesting, pressing closer together until they're all a tight nucleus centered around a tray of dinner rolls. What's different, Minerva notices, is Evans. She doesn't retaliate when Potter leans over her space to point at something at Lupin's parchment. She leans back a little, listens, and then moves back when he's out of her way. They're sitting next to one another without killing each other.
Minerva has never seen anything like it.
The wine stings the back of her throat as she swallows a mouthful, some of it going down the wrong tube and choking her. Filius looks over at her in concern but she waves him off, shaking her head and covering her mouth. She's not old-old yet, but she's getting there, and the wine helps dull the anxiety she feels about the next week. Tomorrow. The Games start tomorrow. She takes another swig from her goblet and watches her house carefully, a little concerned, a little distressed, a little thrown off by this new development.
It might be the wine (it is probably the wine) or the looming threat of the chaotic week to come, or it might be the fact that she's looking for things she shouldn't be, but damn it if she didn't see something there in that small, almost infinitesimal space separating the two of them.