Something Like A Fairytale

Minerva McGonagall placed the final paper in the pile, letting a frustrated sigh escape her lips. The only thing she was grateful for was that apparently Miss Granger had finally stopped letting Weasley and Potter read her paper, because the three's reports were starkly different in structure and content. It was about time, too. For the past six years, Minerva had stopped at Weasley's paper with a groan because it was always so close to Miss Granger's. Potter's was better; he seemed to use Miss Granger's paper as a source rather than simply copying it. "According to a reliable source…" had been one of her favorite lines.

But now something seemed to have happened. She would have been grateful and not questioned it at all, but the trio (as she often referred to them, and how many of the faculty had been for some years now) was having problems, and Minerva was not blind to it. She knew that Weasley and Granger had dated for a month and a half at the beginning of the year, and that for some inexplicable reason Granger had broken up with him. If she had been listening correctly, they were no longer on speaking terms. Potter seemed to be trying to be a mediator, but by the looks of it he wasn't succeeding very well.

A knock on the door pulled Minerva from her thoughts, and as she said, "Come in," she sincerely wished it would be Miss Granger, if for no other reason than she was dying to know what the problem with the three was. Any idiot could see that anyone who fought as much as Weasley and Granger fought had to be in love with each other.

However, she was sorely disappointed when a young man entered. Black hair—the color closely resembling Potter's—and blue eyes were the first things that distinguished him in her mind. The odd thing was that she could not remember where she had seen him before. She wasn't even certain what house he was in. How could anyone with such distinct features—in addition to the high cheekbones and aristocratic nose—could have escaped her notice for so long. The day was warm enough that he wasn't wearing a scarf, and his tie was hidden beneath his robe. And thus, all ways to classify him were gone. Minerva was quite confused.

"Hello, Professor," the boy said, giving her a small smile. Well, anyone who addressed her with such respect could not be from Slytherin. She supposed he was in Ravenclaw, then. Yes, that made sense. They were all hidden behind their books most of the time anyway.

"Hello, young man. I'm afraid I don't recall your name…" she trailed off, hoping he would supply it.

"Blaise Zabini."

"Ah, yes, of course," she nodded. "Won't you have a seat?"

"No, I just have a quick question. I have Potions in a few minutes."

"All right." But the Slytherins and Gryffindors had Potions at that time. How could that be, unless…

"This isn't really academic," he said, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. He readjusted the strap on his bag, and Minerva's eyes were drawn to it. He hadn't revealed his house crest. Damn.

"That's quite all right," she said, trying to smile reassuringly. It wasn't something she'd ever been very good at, but it seemed to satisfy Zabini. Why was he coming to her, though? This wasn't making any sense. He had to be either a Slytherin or a Gryffindor, but he couldn't be a Gryffindor because she knew all the Gryffindors, and he couldn't be a Slytherin because no Slytherins would ever come to her with questions that weren't academic. Even the Gryffindors didn't come very often. The last she remembered was Colin Creevey—and what an occasion that had been.

"I like a girl," he said.

Minerva raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to continue, again wondering why he was coming to her.

"She isn't in the same house as I am, though, and I don't think anyone in my house will like that I like her, and I don't even know whether she likes me or not. What if I tell her and she laughs in my face?" This was all said in a rush, and at the end Zabini let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair.

Minerva opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. In all her years of teaching… "If you like her and would like to get to know her better," she began, wondering why she, a seventy-year-old spinster, should be giving advice in matters of the heart, "Perhaps you should take that chance. Approach the girl privately and talk to her about it. If she agrees to getting to know you better, then does it really matter what the rest of your house thinks?"

Zabini smiled at her. "Thanks, Professor," he said. "That's what I was thinking. I guess I just needed someone to reinforce it." He turned to go.

"Wait, Zabini," Minerva called. She had to ask. "Why did you come to me?"

Zabini looked her in the eye. "Because I respect you," he said, adjusting the strap on his bag again. Minerva's eyes moved to the house crest the innocent move had revealed, her eyes widening slightly. "And I find it hard to respect my own head of house."

This time she let him leave. Blaise Zabini, a Slytherin, had asked her, the head of Gryffindor, for advice.

Wait until she told Albus about this one.