by Cobweb
Disclaimer: Everything contained herein that is also contained in the canon Harry Potter universe is property of J.K. Rowling, and I am making no profit from it. Transcends through all future chapters of the story as well.
Rating: R; there is Riddlesex, but explicit it is not.
A/N: This was intended to be a one-shot (yes, I admit I was only in it for the Riddlesex when I started it), but there will be two or three more parts. Minerva may seem somewhat out of character, but that's the point---her transformation from the Riddle-shagging prefect to the stern and shagless Transfiguration professor we are so well acquainted with. Darkness and manipulations to come, as well as Tom's and Dumbledore's viewpoints of the changes in dear Minnie.
Our story begins in the year 1942...
~*~*~*~*~*~
Have you ever searched for the logic in chaos? Or tried to view chaos through logical eyes?
Reinforcement. It's a logical assumption that, if you are told something enough times, or if you see something often enough, eventually it becomes incorporated into who and what you are. Therefore, if a logical mind immerses itself in thoughts of chaos, it is only natural that that mind will eventually become a part of chaos---or chaos will become a part of that mind.
Chaos is the sin of a logical mind. Its freedom is a tempting siren's song, both to give in to it, and to control it. The logical mind conquers all if it conquers chaos, if it can bestow order, and neatly sort and categorise that which supposedly cannot be bound by such laws and rules; there is achievement. There is pride. You healed what was wounded, repaired what was broken. You nurtured it into conformity, and destroyed all that it was on its own. But you don't feel guilty about it, because guilt would imply that you have done something wrong, when you didn't do anything but show it the Light. You made it better. You made it more like you. You caged it. You captured the wild beast. You.
Basic instinct. It is a logical assumption that if a ferocious lion is sedated, eventually it will wake up. And it will not be pleased with the arrogance of its captors. "Caged" is not a synonym for "tamed". It is restless. It paces, back and forth, back and forth, scenting meat where its master stands. Biding its time. Cultivating its hunger. You gave it rules. You gave it order. Reinforcement: It absorbed your knowledge. Basic instinct: And it knows how you think now.
Neatly Sorted and categorised: Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, Gryffindor. Scholars, Slaves, Oppressors, Champions. The submissive and the dominant, Light and Dark, educated and ignorant. Church, Peasants, Aristocracy, Heroes. There are parallels to be found in everything, if you search for them. Logic in everything, if you search for it. Even chaos. If a cog becomes entangled in the works of a machine, it must have been thrown there---possibly without reason, possibly by chaos. Either way, it can be taken out---by your own hand, by logic. Healed, through logic. Chaos mended. The sinner, saved.
The basic instinct of a champion is to protect the weak, to create order based on admiration, and humbleness, and all that is good and decent. The maternal and paternal, they coddle their subjects and treat them as children. And there is avarice there, avarice that they be given respect in return, that they be rewarded for stunting the growth of the masses. Righteous and self-righteous both, and their followers can never seem to tell the difference.
Reinforcement: If you are told something enough times, or if you see something often enough, eventually it becomes incorporated into who and what you are. Champion. Hero. Gryffindor. The word alone seems enough to instil thoughts of bravery and chivalry, and they abuse it as though it were a family name. Why must they have anything to show for it? Proof of their bravery? What for? It has been proven in the past. It has been great in the past, therefore no bad seeds can stem from it, no poisonous blooms or strangling weeds. Logic. And it is believed so blindly, as though it were gospel, that no one even begins to suspect the serpent resting in the shade beneath the flowers and injecting its venom into the root. The cog in the mechanical works. The taunted lion. Chaos.
And it was the taunted lion that she felt like, seeing him there.
Oppressor. Aristocracy. Slytherin. The word alone seems enough to instil thoughts of distrust and cold calculation, and they revel in it, because it only enriches their family names. And all of them have the ambition and convenient lack of scruples to make something of it. What has been proven in the past is not merely a proud entry in the history books, but something to be studied and dissected, and inspired by. Logic, from the asps who would mould their kingdoms from chaos---Chaos, she thought.
Evil.
And how dare he not look it.
How dare he sit that way, with his knees pulled tight to his chest, cradling his handsome head? How dare he softly rock himself and stare up at the stars, at the ambitious stars, and look hopeless, helpless, and so like a child? How dare he embrace chaos, and flaunt his freedom in front of her? And how did he know that her favourite sin was tears?
She was sixteen, and he a year younger. She had seen him often---in the corridors, at meals, Quidditch games and prefects' meetings---and he had always been straining at the barriers of logic. Straining, but still logic. Still nothing more than a dismissable silver accent in her golden Gryffindor court. A necessary evil, with a place---a shadowed place, but a place nonetheless---in the order of her mind. Cold calculation was never absent from his face, and it fitted him and his station: Slytherin. His niche. The dark hole in which the majority of his kind became lost in, to her.
But those tears...those beautiful tears, as tempting to her as if he had been crying diamonds. Vulnerable, and there for the saving. From his shivering shoulders to the gentle pink of his bare feet, flushed with cold, those tears had washed the filth from his skin, and now he shone like a precious gem in front of her greedy grey eyes. He could be her jewel, kept safe on a velvet pillow, protected by a glass case so all could view his perfection, the perfection she could sculpt in him, and they would marvel and applaud and say "Look at what Minerva has found! Look at the beauty she has released from within this wretched creature!"
No, she paused, and blinked once in place of shaking her head. Cold. Calculating. Slytherin. He is doing this on purpose. He knows. He knows that those tears...oh, those lovely tears...
She lost herself again, her mind flickering, falling, spiking, dancing like a candle's flame as her eyes traced the paths of diamond dust than ran down his cheeks. A single precious stone spilled off his chin and into the glacial night air, where it might have fallen for hours before it was crushed into the earth, and her breath caught in her throat. It was a small gasp, barely audible to her own ears, but he heard it still and turned to face her.
Cold and calculating. But it was too late now. She had seen his potential for beauty, coveted it, desired to have it for her own. She was already quite attractive, she knew, with a delicate bone structure and slightly pointed features, but imagine how much more attractive she could be, with his beauty to augment her own.
The weakness of a champion is their craving to be martyred. Through sacrifice, there is glory. To make the pain of another ebb, one must be willing to absorb it into themselves. Sacrifice is pain; pain, glory; glory, beauty. And none are so greedy for glory than the residents of Gryffindor House.
"Minerva," he murmured, his voice emotionless, and bequeathed to her a nod of acknowledgement. He did not fluster, or rise, or attempt to cleanse his face of the diamond dust, and she was glad, while at the same time wishing he would.
"Tom," she replied, a little too eagerly for her liking. She swallowed, trying to quiet the urge to help him that was steadily blossoming inside of her. Slowly, she told herself. Savour this, and the victory will be that much sweeter.
Hesitantly, she took a step forward. "What are you doing up here?" she asked him, and was met with a disparaging look. Isn't it obvious? she scolded herself. When she frowned, he had already returned his attention to the stars. "What's wrong?" she tried again, taking another careful step in his direction. This time, he did not bother to face her.
"Has anyone ever told you," he said slowly, "that it is impolite to pry into the business of others?"
Minerva felt her face heat to crimson, and was grateful that he could not see her blush. Unless, of course, he had eyes in the back of his head. Cold. She shivered. Calculating. "You shouldn't be up here," she told him, invoking the tone of voice she usually reserved for disobedient first-years. Tom's shoulders gave a slight jerk as he gave a short, derisive snort.
"Neither should you," he countered, and Minerva knew he was right. The Astronomy Tower, atmospherically adept as it was to deep thoughts and solitude, was forbidden to students after hours if they were not in class with Professor Saturninus, especially now, with the recent plague of inexplicable Petrifications that afflicted the school in recent months. Now, Minerva couldn't remember the original reason she had risked coming up here; it was unimportant now.
She moved closer to the boy. He was carefully balanced on the stone balustrade that encased the small balcony that jutted out of the tower's west side, and she, too, sat down and swung her legs over the edge so that they dangled countless stories above the ground. After five years of playing Beater for the Gryffindor House Quidditch team, she barely noticed the height. Tom's back was to her; she could feel his warmth near her right arm, and wondered how he managed to retain so much heat with no shoes and no cloak, and winter just around the corner. In her heavy boots and thickest cloak, she was already freezing, though she refused to let it show.
"Aren't you afraid?" she asked, and Tom tilted his head questioningly toward her.
"Of what?"
She shrugged, her shoulder accidentally brushing against his back. "Of being Petrified," she said. "They've all been Muggle-born thus far, and you're a half-blood, aren't you? Doesn't it worry you?"
To her surprise, a small, amused smile curled up the corners of Tom's mouth. His turquoise eyes flashed brightly for a moment, and then darkened. "No, Minerva. It does not worry me."
While it was not the answer she had expected, she was relieved that he had taken the bait. "What does worry you?" she enquired with as much nonchalance as she could muster. Already, a sort of giddiness was beginning to creep up within her at the renewed thoughts of conquest, of victory; she was a general, a strategist, tugging at the enemy's tapestry until she found the weakest thread, and she was such a---
"Clever girl."
His words startled her, and she was unable to hide the emotion from her face. But he was already moving on, easing his legs over the edge of the balustrade so that he was sitting as she was.
"Many things," he answered her properly. "The O.W.L.s. The summer. Cocks."
Minerva blinked at him. "Excuse me?"
"Cocks," he repeated. "You know---roosters. I overheard Ogg telling Professor Dumbledore that all of the roosters in the coop have had their necks broken, and all of the chicks as well."
"How dreadful," Minerva exclaimed, her heart aching for a moment at the thought of such innocence being butchered before she forced it away, forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand. Delivering innocence. "Why does it worry you?"
Tom gave her a noncommittal shrug, and glanced down at the faraway earth. "It's just queer, that's all."
"And why does the summer worry you?"
The air around him seemed to stiffen as much as he did. Minerva realised for the first time how difficult it was to breathe in his presence. There was a lengthy silence, and just when she thought he would leave the question unanswered, he spoke.
"I live in a Muggle orphanage during the summer," he said, scarcely able to keep the contempt out of his voice. "I hate it there." His jaw clenched and unclenched angrily. Looking down, Minerva saw that his hands had begun to shake ever so slightly. She could almost see the essence of his pain glowing just beneath his skin and, for a second, entertained the idea that she would very much like press her lips to his and drink of it. She blushed furiously once more, and this time, he noticed.
An uncertain smirk formed on his mouth, half-annoyed, half-curious. "Has my confession embarrassed you, Minerva McGonagall?" he queried, and suddenly she became all too aware of the heat of his hand, which was now resting lightly atop her own. She flushed deeper.
Calm down! she ordered herself irritably. You're making a fuss over nothing. Part of comfort is touch, and his touch is innocent. He is doing nothing more than holding your hand, you silly girl.
As if he had read her mind, his hand left hers just as quickly as it had joined it. The air was cold against her now clammy skin.
"Minerva?" he ventured, his soft, deep voice easily slipping through her distraction and coaxing her attention back to him.
"...no, Tom. Your confession doesn't embarrass me."
"Is that a note of pity I detect in your tone?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. Calculating.
Minerva chose her words carefully, slowly picking up on the game. In order to speak to a Slytherin, one had to think like a Slytherin. Every word was used with care, and semantics were never ignored. The dynamics of the Slytherin tongue were very strict, very precise. Logic born from chaos, contradicting chaos whilst at the same time blending with it, just as complex and cunning as the rest of the House. Strangely beautiful, the method in the madness. Her heart sped up. She felt dizzy.
"Not pity, no," she answered him breathlessly, "but...empathy."
Tom held her gaze steadily and for a long while, like a serpent hypnotising its prey. When he spoke, it felt to Minerva as though something had shattered. Diamonds. "Good answer."
With only that solitary hiss of a warning, he struck. His arm snaking around her neck was a blur, and his lips were hot like a wasp's sting against her own, their heat washing over her in a tidal wave, pulling her beneath the tranquil surface of logic and into the depths of the chaotic undertow. Her stomach fluttered up into her chest, the sensation of falling, sinking. Fear, panic, chaos surged through her, and her dizziness was explained---it was the disorientation of the tides being turned.
A few boys had attempted to woo her before, though they had never gotten very far. She was too studious, too detached to take much interest or pleasure in the sort of thing they were after. She was a Gryffindor. Champion. Protector. Logic---and none of them had fit the niche she had carved into her mind for the sort of boy she had decided would be a suitable match. Someone who was beautiful with hurt, and adorned with diamond tears. She was saving herself for a lost cause. Someone who would be her greatest victory.
But this was not wooing, and she was not ready. Part of comfort is touch... His touch was too certain, one hand holding her head firmly in place as he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, the other moving along her stomach, tracing her ribs through the cloth of her robes, the heat of him ebbing from his body and into hers. His pain, ebbing from him and into her. This is what you wanted.
She struggled against him, struggled to escape the riptide and swim back to shore. She was going to drown here. She couldn't breathe, and the current was too strong.
"Tom," she gasped when he finally broke the kiss, and his lips began to trail down the smooth white column of her throat. She couldn't push him away---he was holding her too tightly; surely they would both fall to their deaths. "Stop...please..."
Begging. She was begging. A Gryffindor did not beg. She could not break. She could not lose. This was her victory---hers---and he was stealing it away, he was---
...he was stopping.
His face hovered mere inches from hers, turquoise eyes darkened with intent. She was shaking in his arms like nothing more than a lowly victim.
Victim.
And at the predatory glint in his gaze, she amended the thought.
Prey.
"Shhh," he hissed against her cheek, the hand that was around her neck moving up to brush a few strands of hair out of her flushed face. Her hair was the most beautiful thing about her, she knew. Long and raven-black, it fell to her waist in thick waves. For a fleeting moment, she fancied herself a young Rapunzel, and Tom the prince, blinded by thorns, ascending to join her and be healed by her. Or perhaps she was the witch, waiting to throw him down.
"The only way to escape an undertow," Tom continued, his voice an insidious whisper, "is to allow it to carry you to the edge of the ocean." He placed a deft kiss on the pulse point just below her ear, and she shivered. "All you need to do is relax, and let the current take you where it chooses."
Submission. Darkness. But then---pain, his pain converted to hers. Dominant. Light.
Victory.
Humbleness. Pride swallowed down with seawater. Submission.
Chaos.
Minerva's mind reeled in confusion. Her fingers curled like a child's into the front of Tom's robes, and remained there, neither pushing him back nor pulling him in. He studied her face with hot, calculating eyes which only bedevilled her further, and she recalled her Muggle Studies class with Professor Modal. In the Muggle religion of Christianity, the most intensely devout followers suffered for their faith. Stigmatics, that's what they were called---brought closer to God through enduring their own manifestations of the wounds received by His earth-born son. Closer to divinity through enduring the torment of their demons, enhanced by the openness of their souls. Holy people. Saints.
Martyrs.
Love the sinner, hate the sin.
Salvation through love, love through comfort, comfort through touch. Sacrifice, pain, glory, beauty.
She would descend into Hell, Hades, chaos, and she would lead him back to life, to Light. Like Orpheus and Eurydice, only Minerva knew better than to look back.
And damn it, he was so beautiful, so beautifully scarred, and the diamonds still shone in his eyes, sparkling in the moonlight. She could have plucked them out and worn them as rings.
He was still waiting for her to respond---no; waiting for her to rescue him.
Slowly, she pulled him closer, still trembling with apprehension. His apprehension, she told herself. His...fear. Staring into his turquoise gaze, that fear only grew. A reflection. He is seeing himself through me. He fears himself. He is the lamb. He is the lamb. He had to be; she was, after all, the lion.
His lips were warm and soft, and still swollen from their last kiss, their first kiss. Swollen with the venom from the sting. She parted her mouth in invitation, and again he slipped his tongue inside, swept it along her own. The hand that had been patiently resting against her ribs moved down, then slid up again, beneath the jumper she wore under her robes. His skin was so hot against her own, tracing fire along her body, and a quiet moan escaped her mouth before she could think to suppress it. He drank it in, feeding off of her pleasure as she fed off his pain, though pain to her had never before felt this exquisite.
She wasn't sure when or how he had managed to moved his legs around to the other side of the balustrode, but his feet were suddenly on the balcony floor, and he was easing her down as well. Her knees felt so weak and shaky, she was certain she would have crumpled to the ground had he not held her up, held her close. With languid steps, he walked them both toward the tower wall until Minerva's back was pressed flush against it, and he was pressed flush against her. He kissed her again, rougher this time, more brutal.
Startled at his ferocity, Minerva inhaled sharply, and breathed in the scent of him. A cold gust of wind sighed heavily against her skin, but through the heat of him she only noticed it enough to realise that Tom had stripped her of her cloak. His mouth left hers to travel down her throat, kissing and nipping at the tender flesh there, marking her with red welts and purplish bruises that she would have to hide for days. Her fingertips dug into his back and the nape of his neck as he deftly undid the silver clasps of her robes. They were off within seconds, and fluttered down to join the cloak at her feet. His own robes were discarded with equal haste, and in that short time away from her, his temperature had risen tenfold---or perhaps that was hers.
Tom braced one of his hands against the freezing stone wall behind her, while the other one trailed up along her inner thigh, taking with it the hem of her skirt. Sensing his intention, Minerva opened her eyes, then shut them again almost immediately as that intention was realised. A strangled gasp broke from her throat---never, never before had anything ever felt like this. Her legs parted further instinctively, and the flush of desire that coloured her cheeks grew pinker from embarrassment at her own abandon.
He stopped suddenly, and shame flooded through her. She lowered her face, keeping her eyes closed, not wanting to see the ridiculing smirk that had no doubt settled on his features.
"Minerva."
No. Shut up. Leave me alone if you must, but please, just don't say anything...
"Minerva. Look at me."
He tilted her chin up, but still she kept her eyes closed.
"Minerva," he said again, his voice low and forceful. Without warning, he reached around behind her and pulled her closer to him with a sharp jerk. His hips pressed against the base of her stomach, and what she felt there was unmistakeable, despite her lack of experience in such matters. "Look at me," he ordered for the second time, and tentatively, Minerva opened her eyes to stare into the face of Tom Marvolo Riddle.
His expression was one of intense concentration and, yes, desire. He desired her.
He lowered his head to capture her mouth in another bruising kiss, and the shame fled her body just as quickly as it had come, leaving her with an ache that reminded her that her duty was far from over. With new confidence, she wrapped her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss impossibly further, as though she could devour all the hurt from his soul in her mania. A guttural groan slithered from his mouth and into hers, a fresh urgency filling her with the sound.
Her hands slipped down his chest, her nails dragging hard through the thin fabric of his shirt, and it wasn't enough---she wanted to feel him, wanted his heat to sear her skin, wanted to claw through his flesh to the fire that blazed within him and fan the flames with her own passion. The buttons tore off easily, and she wasted no time in pushing the hated material off his shoulders to greedily drink the sight of him in with her eyes.
His chest was pale and lean, with faint pink lines forming a trail to his stomach, left from her nails. An appreciative purr echoed within the cage of her ribs, and she bent her head to lick at the pale wounds like a cat. His skin tasted of salt, and the pain bubbling just beneath had the sharp copper tang of blood. Biting down experimentally, she delighted in his accompanying gasp, and the feel of his fingers threading through her hair, moving down her back to the hem of her jumper. The wool was by now hot and scratchy against her skin; she was grateful to be rid of it when he peeled it away.
Tom arched a dark eyebrow when he saw that she wore nothing beneath it. Minerva offered no explanation, allowing him to think whatever he wished about her disregard for the undergarments that most girls couldn't wait to don. He did not ponder the matter long, choosing instead to enfold her in his arms and press her close. The feel of his warm, damp skin against hers contrasted with the frozen air that swirled around them, making her heart pound. She shivered, not entirely from cold, and wrapped a leg around one of his, pushing her hips against the hard feel of him through the fabric of his trousers. Tom's eyes fluttered closed for a moment as his hands flexed and splayed on her back, then slid quickly down to lift her easily up. For as lean as he was, he was far stronger than he looked.
Minerva encircled his waist with her legs automatically, and entwined her arms around his neck. She kissed him deeply, and he swayed unsteadily on his feet.
"Perhaps," he murmured, his voice shaky, "a relocation."
"Mmm," she nodded, kissing him again as they staggered toward the door. Her bare back hit the cold wood roughly, but the dull pain of it was lost in the sea of sensation that engulfed her. One of his arms released her for a moment to struggle with the door handle, and then they were stumbling inside the Astronomy classroom. It was a most convenient coincidence that Professor Saturninus was away on his honeymoon, most likely engaging in an act most similar to the one two of his students would perform in his classroom before the sun began to bleed over the horizon.
The professor's desk was cleared in a fraction of a second, books and papers strewn carelessly to the floor. An illicit thrill rippled up Minerva's spine as the logical side of her screamed in terror. The rules she was breaking! The disrespect! And all she could think of to answer it was, Go away. Can't you see I'm trying to go mad?
And perhaps she was. But what better place for it than here, in chaos' embrace, with a languishing pain so severe she was helpless not to revel in it? This was what she wanted, her lost cause with the diamond eyes; how could she deny this? How could she deny him?
Tom laid her gently down on top of the desk, one hand immediately straying to the side zip of her skirt. She arched up on her elbows, her legs still wrapped around his waist, and released him just long enough for him to slip the offending material off her feet. Her panties went with it, leaving her completely naked, but for the black winter boots that still encased her narrow feet. Sitting upright, she laced a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him forcefully down to claim his mouth again. His teeth nipped at her bottom lip, teasingly once and then harder, piercing the skin. She hissed at the sting of it, and he lapped at the droplets of blood that formed at the tiny wound, his tongue pushing the taste of it into her mouth. She swallowed it just as greedily as he did.
Again, her nails scraped down his chest, and continued lower this time, halting at the waist of his trousers. With quivering fingers, she undid the top bottom, then slowly lowered the zip. It was her turn to arch an eyebrow---apparently, she wasn't the only one who favoured going without certain articles of clothing that could be considered a hindrance in times such as this.
The dark grey cloth slid easily down over the sharp lines of his hips, all the way down his legs. He stepped free of it, smirking all the while as he watched her eyes dart over his body, studying his form with open admiration. Running a hand over her hair, he drew her attention back up to his face.
"Tom," she murmured, her voice precarious, "I..."
He quieted her with a kiss, coaxing the passion in her to rise against and melt away whatever reluctance might have gripped her once more. She stirred in his embrace, her hands flickering about his back, short, blunt nails digging in and scratching lightly wherever they could reach. His own hands slid down, one stopping around the middle of her back, the other coming to rest on her left hip as he leaned her back, shifted her slightly on the desk top and moved to half-lie over her. Minerva trembled madly beneath him, caught up in a whirlpool of fear and need, eagerness and dread, and frustration.
"Close your eyes," he whispered, and she obeyed, a slight frown creasing her pretty features.
The pain that assaulted her not a moment later was strange and searing, spreading throughout her senses like wildfire and evoking from her a choked-off moan. She forced herself to breathe, inhaling and exhaling deeply, knowing somewhere in the back of her mind that it would get better, it would ease off soon.
She could feel Tom above her, his own breaths slow and somewhat hitched as he remained agonisingly still, until she became more used to the feel of him. After a few moments, she opened her eyes, and relaxed the white-knuckle hold she had on his shoulders. His face was dark and unsmiling, his eyelids fluttering every so often in strained impatience. Cold and calculating, and in her current frame of mind it pleased her to see him this way, so close to the diamond-eyed boy who was to be hers. Taking a breath, Minerva moved her hips against him, and smiled when a tremor ran through him, for it reminded her of the way a person's shoulders shake when they sob.
It began gently, in tedious, burning motions and quiet, ragged sighs, and the gradually waning pain of it only endeared him to her more. His kisses were harsh, his teeth abrasive on her flesh and his taste one of torment in her mouth, and in the ardent spikes of pleasure that shot through her body like lightning bolts, crackling through her limbs, she imagined that he was ravening her soul, drawing comfort out of her very pores and leaving brilliant scarlet marks where the strongest sources lay, just beneath her skin. His hands wreathed her wrists like ropes, biting into her deep as bone, pinning her to the wood of the desk, now sticky from sweat, preparing to burn her at the stake. Witch, enchantress, martyr; Joan of Arc, rising in a blaze of glory, entangled in this act of ruthless passion that was beyond her control; chaos.
The fire engulfed her, incinerated her soul from the inside out with a tortured scream and an explosion of ecstasy, and before the embers had even begun to cool she felt Tom shudder above her, heard his hoarse, lamenting groan and drew him in close, deep, as he released his pain within her and then collapsed, healed. Saved.
The room spun around her. He released her wrists, and she circled her arms around him, holding him against her breast as a mother would a child. If tears were diamonds, then blood was rubies, and sweat was pale sapphires, and Minerva felt as though she were lying on a bed of riches, rather than the rigid discomfort of Professor Saturninus' desk. She could have fallen asleep there, a pile of ashes amidst a pile of wealth, and dreams of both were just beginning to creep up on the edge of her unconscious when Tom's voice spoke to her.
"Rest in peace, Minerva McGonagall," he softly hissed, and if he hadn't been kissing her in the next moment, she would have sworn she heard him add, "For the gods will have no mercy on the soul you left behind."