2 a.m.

It's two o'clock in the morning. I wonder, briefly, why I'm not too tired to wonder why I'm up. That would be the usual cause for my wakefulness—temporarily roused from slumber and thus too entirely exhausted to wonder, "Why am I awake?" before being consumed by sleep once more. My situation now is wholly contradictory of that routine. Instead, I sit here conscious enough to be asking myself and the Universe existential questions along the lines of, "Why am I here, right now, breathing this air?"

I change my topic to, "Why am I awake, in my bed, thinking of such rubbish?"

I would have hoped that my mind's answer to that sarcastic questioning would be to turn off. Apparently my body intercepted the signal, for seemingly without my consent it slides out of bed and onto the cold floor. If it's possible, the sting of cold stone against my bare feet wakes me more.

Since it seems so inclined, I leave my body in control and kick back in the confines of my restless mind. The start of another school year fast approaches. The chatter of adolescents will soon interrupt my secluded summer nights as the weather grows chillier. It is another routine I have come to know well succeeding my extended days of professional flight.

I grin as I note that my feet—not unaccustomed or unenthused at being used on the ground, but not entirely eager to be anywhere but flying through the atmosphere—have taken me to the courtyard. The looming hall looks dark with its haughty wooden entrance and the plants create playful shadows on the grounds. It is not a night of moons.

Despite that, my eyes elevate and halt at a high window viewing the courtyard. My grin warms and melds into a smile. McGonagall, as lofty as her very office, is at it again. I think 'again' as if there is ever a pause. Standing corrected, she is continuously 'at it.'

I'm clad only in feathers and sky and soaring toward her office window before I have the opportunity to think further. I've always been the madwoman. The mad old hawk.

I catch her windowsill with my talons and peck at the window all in great ease. The blur that momentarily blocks the glow of warm light through the glass alerts me that she has come to her loony bird's rescue. Not that I stand any particular chance of freezing in this warm summer air.

She greets me with a hidden smile and the words, "You are mad."

I can hear the dissimulated amusement in her voice. It keeps me sane, peeking through her firmly unemotional exterior. I keep her sane, something to inwardly respond to. She lets her Royal Madness in.

I fly to her most comfortable chair (I pointedly admire that though it looks comfortable, it is not), transform into my human figure, and vanish my clothing all in one breath. There I recline in full nudity, giving the illusion that this chair is the most comfortable cloud in the sky, and pretend that absolutely nothing is out of the ordinary.

Minerva does the same, though I catch a brief look that I could read if I put forth such effort.

"You came to see me…?" she inquires, organizing papers upon her desk as she takes her seat once more. One thin eyebrow rises. "I can only assume it isn't school-related or you would have taken advantage of my door."

I shrug one shoulder languorously and watch her through my uniquely amber eyes. I know it drives her mad—though not as mad as I. She, after all, is the spinster. The spinster cat.

She pounces. Metaphorically, I regret to inform.

"You wish me a break?" She eyes me as I lift my jaw in a masculine nod and she resumes her less pleasing use of tongue. "Perhaps a stroll through the grounds won't hurt me—"

I move to stand.

"—if you reacquire your clothing."

She gives me one superficially cool look as I whisper my clothes back into existence.

"Do you know what time it is?" she asks tersely. I gaze at her with laughing eyes. I'm awake for lack of fatigue, she for working, and I'm mad for being up at this hour for a visit?

"Two thirteen on a dark and yet-awake morn'," I guess, offering her a lazy grin. She glances to her watch and back.

"Two twelve. You're off your mark today."

My smile doesn't cease as we head steadily down to the soft grass and meet the air stirring invisibly below a speckled sky. I can sense that she wishes to smile and rest a hand at the small of her back. She turns to me and I receive the smallest of smiles. It always takes her precious moments to join me fully, but I am forever here to help.

I am gifted a full smile and even a laugh within minutes.

It is my decree that two o'clock in the morning is a wonderful time to have existential speculation. Once more I know why I am here.