McGonagall's Misery and Disappointment All Round

1998

It was the debris that most certainly made her uncomfortable. The rubble; the remains of what had been her second home. It was a place of refuge for her for at least half of her lifetime. Droplets of pure pain brimmed in her eyes, as she wandered the halls; portraits were smashed to smithereens; shards of glass spread- she had to avoid touching it- and mountains of stony pieces from the walls, some of which still stood, but concaved.

Stopping to take in what she was seeing, she bent down, and picked up and lock of hair. It was golden and glossy, the signature of hair of a particularly sharp Ravenclaw student she had very much loved. Dead, most probably, with the forty-nine other's who sacrificed themselves trying to save one another.

Potter was a special boy, brave and a natural leader, without whom, they would have never rid the world of Voldemort. Twisted man, he was. Ruining the lives of the innocent and steeling peoples hope, pride and homes. Ripping families apart at the seams and forcing those who did not wish to join, to do unimaginable things. Funny this should be said, for now, having witnessed the very grounds of Hogwarts and the world's population die and be cursed before her eyes, these things were no longer unimaginable.

The professor walked the grounds further, storing the lock of hair found in her robe's inner pockets. It would be most disrespectful to have left it there. Her own hair was hanging in front of her face; she looked dishevelled. The bottoms of her robe were ripped slightly, both her face and hands were filthy- blood and mud combined. A small bit of a cut along her right hand; it was weeping terribly.

The children had left to go home- to go to hospitals and be medically treated, to go home with their families. Voldemort's body was taken, as well as the bodies of the ones who will be in a better place. She was alone in the grounds. No one but her.

The only sounds heard were the sounds of how her feet clipped and clopped around the halls.

Was this the end of Hogwarts? Was there even a reason to rebuild the school? Minerva was driven to madness in her mind, she was totally not herself. She was pained to have survived this- her husband was dead and had been for a while and her one other true friend was Dumbledore, whom was killed by another member of the Hogwarts staff- Snape. For a second Minerva felt the strongest feeling for her husband- within seconds she had convinced herself that she wished to have died in the battle; that she wanted to join her husband, because she missed him so. But she forced her mind to think straight- who would she be if she let emotions get to the better of her when she could potentially ruin the futures for young British wizards and witches. Dizzy with confusion and yet pleasantly surprised to have finally arrived at Dumbledore's office, she mumbled the password.

"...Cockroach Clusters?" she asked, hopefully, but the staircase did not turn. She had spent an awful lot of time away from the office, bringing herself away from other teachers, in fact, during the last school year. She had no need to become a part of the torture fest they carried out.

"...Liquorice Wands?"she asked again, fury building inside of her; she longed to get inside and sit down- to reflect. The staircase sluggishly spun around, and clinging to the railings she hobbled her way up the stairs to the office room. She had managed to trip over the rips of her robe a couple of times. The tall, strong-minded women, was now frail.

The circular room presented many collections of books and paintings. But it was the desk at front that she was most interested in- for the seat of course. She slumped down in it, and took the deepest breath he believed she had ever taken in her life. In confusion and pressure, she burst into whimpers, folding her arms around her head. Around the halls, what was left of them, you could hear the vague echoes of her weeping. Frightened and ashamed were two key emotions; she pondered upon why she felt them after defeating the world's most feared man. Abruptly, she stopped crying. Tear drops dried across her cheeks and her temples, where she had had smeared them across her face.

It wasn't a question of whether she could rebuild Hogwarts: she needed to rebuild it. Fast. Why? So many children in England and Scotland, Wales and Ireland would be deprived of a magical education. Moreover, Hogwarts was a place of comfort, learning, fun, excitement and a step towards becoming the person that a young witch or wizard were born to be. The life at Hogwarts served better than any other life- it was a place of mild danger, should one get themselves into it, and they can learn to bond with people around them, and how to defend themselves.

Minerva dived at the desk draw, her shaky fingers tugged and pulled at the draw knob and revealed a pile of unspoiled, untouched parchment. Grabbing a hand full, she continuously wrote with the spare quill that lay on the desk by the ink pot- repeatedly going over what she wrote.

Hogwarts is a home,

A place for people to roam.

Rebuild it fast,

So magical teachings and friendships will last.

It worked as a persuasive chant for herself. To recover from the weak-minded sate she was in when entering the office. The calligraphic ink spread branded itself to her brain, and the more she revised it, the more she felt happier. Knowing that Hogwarts was a great place was brilliant. Working there and seeing the children and the people there bonding, rejoicing in life, was a position she thought was rewarding. As for her husband, she had beaten herself inside and was driven to such extent that she might have wanted to have been brutally murdered for the sake of seeing him again. She batted herself for thinking this way; her crazy thoughts of her life had led her to it, and she vowed to never to be lead to it again. Oh, the agony that was being a widow. You might wonder how she coped with the death; the answer being that she told herself, when the world no longer needed her, and she felt the time was right, she would go- and there she would see him once again.

After a triumphant, three hour long session of writing her plans in the office, and spending the rest of the day marching around the school merrily singing like she had never done before, she went home to begin preparation and organisation for the New Hogwarts.

Minerva, a powerful woman was no longer afraid, and sad. She had risen from a depressed and weak position. But she was a hero. A hero, once more.

Knelt over, a young man cloaked in black with green cufflinks, spoke:

"The body, where shall I take it, sir?" His lip trembled in fear, his mind cautious, and anxious about the answer. Before him, in the forbidden forest, was the body of a terrible man. The eyes of the man were barely visible, and resembled two large, white bouncy balls tucked into a child's pocket. Veins covered the surface of the dead man's head, and a human nose was non-existent, only two slits were there, but he was lifeless, limp and feeble. What it was? Voldemort's pale corpse, carelessly thrown into the depths of the forest.

From behind the tree, a green glow emerged; the figure that it surrounded had a greying beard, which look as though it was covered in frost, and devilish eyes, beady they were. His hands formed an arch where the touched before his chest, his eyes looking most devious. And then, a change of emotions completely. The man looked sickened, his black cloak hinging from his shoulders, rose with his stiffened shoulders, and in a flash his arm sway out.

"You mean to call this a 'body'?" he boomed, shaking the trees and the leaves rustled. "I am a knowledgeable man, am I not?"

"You are, sir," the lonely and terrified, henchman, if you will, spoke.

Kneeling down beside him, his green glow evaporating into the darkness, and nothing by the illumination of his eyes, allowing his face to be seen. "Then believe me when I say this man was utter filth! He was a fool be try and be another me. He failed by with a position which he was lucky enough to have been left with, and know I am most disappointed in him for taking advantage of his task. And what do you think we should do, eh, Simmons?" he spat.

"..R-Ruin it, sir? That would be most efficient and the best-"

"Do not, ever, tell me what I should do. But, on this occasion, I believe you might be right. I cannot perform the task, for my strength has not grown. I must have you do it, vanish him from my sight!" Simmons picked up his wand from beside his filthy boots, and with a single wave of his wobbly, unsteady wand, Voldemort's corpse was gone. "Now, do you know what his task in life was?"

Unsure and scared Simmons, discretely shrugged, muttering an inaudible answer which was far off correct.

"No! You don't! You have yet to learn, Simmons. I died many years ago, and my gifts, the special ones someone like you would never possess, were passed down to my descendants. One of these people was him. So he was placed in Slytherin house. He was a good student, one whom I would have loved to teach and be around in my years with the others," the figure was distraught, his partner curled up in front of him, knees hiding his mortified face. He knew everything he was being told, but to correct, or speak out of turn will have interrupted him, and this he wished to avoid.

His boss continued. "This meant he was an heir to the house. He was entrusted with my powers and gifts to take the house over, rule it: enforce those rules that I never got to. He was young, he had an advantage- no one would expect it! But instead, he wanted to 'live forever'. Even I had better goals. But now I am at a loss. He lost too. His power got to him in a terrible way, and he was most immature. He murdered many, and now this has meant my rules never happened. All he did in his life, was search for reason to kill the Potter boy," he grunted in fury.

Simmons dared to question. His boss never pondered like this unless in the midst of planning. "Sir, if your heir is, d-dead, then does this mean you have no more descendants?"

"Simmons, you have to listen when I say this. You are bright, yes, but not very fast. You are right, no more descendants. Which means, this time, I will have to appoint an heir, when the time is right. But this time, I do not want my rules enforced here, I want them everywhere," Simmons tensed as his boss moved, but tried not to show his flinching. The figure raised again, the emerald glow reforming itself. "This time, it will be whomever I feel an automatic liking to. Who has determination, and ambitious. Who I can convince,"

"So, you've got to pick a Slytherin..."

"I said, and let me repeat for your miniscule sized brain; whomever I feel an automatic liking to. So yes, technically, should I feel I require someone dirty enough to belong in another house, then I will choose them," He went to place a somewhat warming and reassuring hand upon Simmons' shoulder, but his hand when straight through his skin, and so, pretending it didn't Simmons' acted as though he was holding it upon him like a long-lost brother.

"Sir, what if they don't want to? What will you have them do? What do wish to do? What on Earth are you planning, sir? Please, please explain-"Simmons' began to get panic, he wished that his boss' plan would work out.

"Simmons, whoever is going to be the next Slytherin, will have Slytherin qualities. But, I will make them, should I have to. By any means necessary! Life will know who was born to do what, who was born to find their future selves, and if life believes that someone would be destined to be the next Slytherin heir, then life will lead me personally to them. But if the chosen wishes to be my heir, then I will have them do a few tasks that I have planned in order to do a few things... To answer your other questions; I will begin to look at the ending of non-magical folk,"

Simmons sneered, a maleficent sneer creeping upon his lips. The taste of evil was so addictive and Simmons, although loyal, loved his boss for his love to control. Simmons was a follower; never looked upon, but known for his obsession with looking up to others. He had black hair, muddy with dandruff in the back making a white patch. His arms had green spots to symbolise his group and beliefs. He hated Muggle-born. Mudbloods, he thought they were. A shame to know, if you did happen to, and a shame to think of. His wife, Nina, too hated them, their children being the most pure of children. His two boys acted like polite gentlemen- he as a father would not tolerate the involvement of his children with people of lower blood status than themselves- blood traitors included. His children would not attend Hogwarts: they would be home educated. The only fear that Simmons ever had, was death, and this was assuaged when the figure had once promised him immortality some years back.

"Yes, sir, you're right. No two, three, or million Muggles would ever equal our magic power and resourcefulness. We are stronger, whether blood traitors choose to see it or not!"

"Stronger! I love the way you think Simmons! It is all- of course- going to become apparent when the rightful heir to my house arrives. And that is, if they ever arrive..." the shadow man pondered.

"When do you predict to have chosen someone, sir?"

"I have not a clue, partner," Simmons shivered in delight and shock at his master's chosen words to describe him. Partner was a name he had never been given before. "For the time has not come. But let me tell you this, Simmons," he rose, enlarging himself, the winds roaring, Simmons fell back on his feet into the mud- he had lost his balance. His master's voice was amplified. "When they do arrive, it'll be the biggest change to everything the wizard world has ever known. I, Salazar Slytherin, will rise to power once more!"

His maniacal laugh echoed through the depths of the forest- Simmons delicately joined it, so as to not provoke his master, yet not show fear.

Slytherin had a new plan. And this wouldn't be the half of it.