A/N: I have to say that I am much happier with this chapter than I was when I started editing it. The original one was written a couple of weeks ago,and then I hit a speedbump when trying to write the rest of the story. I ended up having to come back to it, and it wasn't rewritten so much as expanded.

Unfortunately, it may be a couple of days before I'll be able to post the next chapter or so. Life in the exciting world of semiconductor manufacturing patentsis getting busy, so I'll most likely have to concentrate on that thing that pays my bills, rather than work on this. Ah well. Such is life, eh?

Chapter 10

It was quiet in the infirmary, and as there was no one else in it, McGonagall left the door open to the private chamber, letting a little air blow through. The lamps in the main room had been put out, with only the moon to light it. She left one lamp on, although dim, in the private chamber so she could read while sitting up with Severus.

She almost regretted her decision to stay up with Severus again, but not quite. More, she regretted snapping at Poppy, who had only offered to be helpful, but Minerva would not hear anything of it. "Damnably prideful," she muttered through a yawn that took her suddenly.

"Minerva?" a hoarse whisper said. She had been expecting him to wake up, so she was not surprised, but she hoped that her noise hadn't been the cause. She simply smiled and moved to the chair next to his bed.

"Would you like some water, my dear?"

He nodded slightly, and she helped him to sit up, supporting his shoulders with one arm while she held the glass. When it was nearly done, he sagged back into her arms, leaning his head into her shoulder. She went to help him lie down again, but his voice, stronger than it had been, asked her not to.

"Please, Minerva. Help me sit up. I'm tired of lying here." His dark eyes were haunted, and a touch embarrassed. McGonagall could only assume that it was his weakness that discomfited him so. He sounded as if he would rather have died than ask for help – a sign that he really needed to sit that he would demean himself so.

"Of course, Severus."

She continued to support him while she summoned some pillows from other beds in the infirmary with her wand. They floated through the door, and she laid them against the headboard before helping him sit up entirely. When she was done arranging the blankets around him again, she noticed that he was sweating some.

"Poppy will have my head if you relapse, you know."

He smiled at her sadly, and for a moment she wondered what happened to the serious and stolid man she once knew. She would have almost welcomed an insult that used to fall carelessly from his lips - a return to normalcy.

"I had a dream about Albus, you know." He said it quietly, conversationally. His voice was almost normal, although there was still a ghost of the scratchiness in it.

"Did you? Are you hungry?"

"Why are you trying to change the subject, Minerva?"

There it was. His voice was stronger now, and she could almost believe he was normal again. He was demanding, haughty. If she closed her eyes (as she did for a brief moment) she could see him in a staff meeting, or in front of his classroom.

But then she opened her eyes, and he was still very, very ill, his eyes sunk dark and hollowly into their sockets, haunted. Newly forming scars covered his mostly bare arms, the biggest one where the Dark Mark once was. His hair hung limply in his face, and he had not quite the strength to brush it out of his eyes. His hands were still bandaged, and she knew that the bandages and scars covered most of the rest of his body - and there were more that she couldn't see, but felt with her soul.

"You dreamed of Albus, then? What happened?"

He sagged against the pillows, letting them support his head. He closed his eyes, and in that moment she thought he looked much like he had when he was younger, before the lines of age took over his face. When he opened his eyes again, he was composed and thoughtful; McGonagall almost wept to see it.

"I- I think there was a girl. Yes, that was it. A girl. With red hair and blue eyes." His eyes were not cloudy, and he gazed at McGonagall for a long moment, as if measuring her response, to see if she recognized the description. She shrugged slightly to indicate that she did not.

"No matter, then," he said softly, and sighed. It looked as if he would drop it.

"No, Severus. Tell me about her," McGonagall asked gently. She was pleased that he remembered something, and wanted more information.

He stared for a moment, as if trying to understand the words. "I don't know," he said at length. "I don't remember anything beyond that. There was a girl. She smiled a lot. I think she was nice to me. Merlin's beard, Minerva, I wish I remembered more about her. About anything." Dark eyes brimmed with tears, and he looked away as one rolled down his cheek into the stubble of his growing beard.

McGonagall took a monogrammed handkerchief out of the sleeve of her robe and went to dab at the tears. As her hand neared his cheek, Severus turned his head away from her violently and snarled, "I don't need your fucking sympathy, Minerva!"

She reined in her tongue before she could make a snide remark, and pursed her lips with displeasure. She was the one who had wished for an insult earlier. They sat silently for several long moments, McGonagall in her chair, and Severus propped up with pillows and breathing heavily from the exertion of his outburst, before the older witch put a hesitant hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to her again, letting the pillows support the weight, and she saw that his eyes were bloodshot and wet.

"Will you tell me something, Minerva?" he whispered. His eyes held the haunted look she had become accustomed to, and it pulled at her heart a little to see it again.

"Anything I can," she offered a tentative smile. "What would you like to know?"

"Just… tell me something about myself." His voice was soft, imploring.

McGonagall was momentarily disconcerted. Her inclination was to give him a list of his virtues, of the things she liked about him, but she suspected that wasn't what he was looking for. Instead, she opted for a memory of her own that she shared of him.

"I remember about fifteen years ago the Yule Ball that we hold at Hogwarts every year. You were so very young then, and very, very serious. The great hall was decorated in red and gold and green, and the students were dancing until they couldn't dance any more, and then beyond that point. Poppy was going a little mad trying to get enough salves for sore feet the next day.

"Ah, but you. You looked very grave in your black robes, whereas everyone else was dressed for the holiday. A bit of coal in the midst of all the gilt and glitter. And you stood at the back of the room, glaring at anyone who accidentally got too close to you, as if daring someone to ruin your evening by brightening your mood.

"Of course, the ladies and I had a bet going that no one would be able to drag you out on to the dance floor. Sprout said that it would take a handful of stinging nettles to dislodge you from your corner." McGonagall cast a sideways glance at Severus, who seemed to be listening to her story without any expression. She forged on, determined to finish the story.

"Of course, she didn't count on my sense of determination. After a couple of failed attempts by other faculty members, I decided that it was my turn. I marched right up to you and demanded that you dance with me."

McGonagall wasn't sure that Severus had been listening, but his lips twisted wryly. "What did I say to that?"

"I don't recall what you said, exactly, but I believe it was something along the lines of, 'Madam, I don't know who you think you are speaking to, but surely you have noticed that younger, and considerably more attractive members of the staff have already tried to lure me on to the dance floor. What, precisely, makes you think that you will persevere where others have tried and failed?'

"To which I replied, 'Why, because I'm a much better dancer than they are. And surely, a man of your discerning tastes will only dance with the best dancer here.'

"'Flattery will get you nowhere, Madam, and you offend me by such cheap tactics,' you said, and I think I laughed at you. I tried simply grabbing your hand, and you pulled out of my reach and snarled at me – which of course I laughed at again. You could never stand to be laughed at, and I think I rather deeply offended you by it." She looked solemn for a moment and Severus winced.

"Was I really so unagreeable?" His eyes were shadowed, and Minerva couldn't quite identify the emotion that passed over them.

"And only became more so with age," she confirmed, then grinned wickedly at him. "But you finally agreed to dance with me."

"How did you convince me?" he asked, softly.

"Easy: I finally appealed to your baser instincts, and offered to share half the profits of the betting pool with you. You negotiated me up the three quarters, and I agreed – but mostly because I wasn't interested in the money. I just wanted to dance with you."

"Why, if I am so unagreeable?"

"Because you are only prickly to those who do not know you well, and those whom you dislike. Albus has always considered you one of his children, and it took me several years to warm to you-"

"To trust me?" he asked shrewdly.

She pursed her lips. "No," she said, drawing out the word. "I trusted you because Albus did, although at times I didn't understand it. No, it took me several years to warm to you, because the skin you showed the world was designed to keep people away." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "However, the most beautiful rose often bears the nastiest thorns. Being friends with you has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life – although at times it has been difficult."

Severus closed his eyes, and McGonagall thought for a moment that he had fallen asleep again, but he spoke. "I don't remember any of your story," he said shortly.

McGonagall sighed. "Do you want to remember?" she asked.

There was a long pause. He opened his eyes and looked at her oddly. When he spoke, he sounded a little strangled. "I don't know. I think I do. Do I? I want to know that when I'm talking to you, I'm not just talking to Voldemort." He barked a laugh that was half sob. "Are you listening to me, you bastard? Is this your idea of a fucking joke?" he yelled to the ceiling.

McGonagall didn't quite know what to do. She tightened her grip on his shoulder, as if trying to reassure him she was still there. He moaned, and sobbed, and finally, after several long, tense minutes, when she didn't know if he was going to be able to breathe again, he leaned into her hand. She then took him around the shoulders and held him, murmuring that she was still there, she wasn't going anywhere.

She didn't know how long she sat with him, but he finally subsided. His last words to her before he slept again were, "I'm sorry, Minerva. I'm so sorry."

"I know, Severus. I know."