Authors' Note: This is an X-fiction written by two authors a lot of you already know. We do not know the future plot any more than you do. The point of an X-fiction is oblivion of the future and attention to the past. The odd-numbered chapters will be written by Blue, while the even-numbered will be written by Rhapsody.

Disclaimer: We own nothing that you recognize.



Chapter Two

by Rhapsody



The pounding ache in the back of Minerva's head brought her floating slowly back into the world of colors and shapes, vague and blurry as it was. Something hovered worriedly in her field of view, something wobbly and dark-haired that was wafting painful amounts of concern in her direction--Tom Riddle, she remembered foggily, that Slytherin prefect. "Minerva? Minerva, are you all right?"

"Ow," said Minerva inadequately, squinting at what had rapidly become a recognizable face.

Lips moved. The eyes went from a foggy, unreadable gray to an obviously relieved light violet: "Jesus, that was scary. I was coming out of the classroom--guess I must have scared you. Jesus. I'm really, really sorry."

"I fell?" asked Minerva groggily, feeling like an idiot.

"Er--" the worried light in the boy's eyes returned; there was something beyond the worry, though, as though a tinge of relief was still there. "Yeah, looked like you tripped on the staircase." The nuances, the layers and shadings and double meanings in the iridescent irises were making her head hurt. She closed her eyes briefly and let a wash of nausea ride over her.

"Hey!" Tom's voice was sharp now, almost desperate. "Don't do that. You might have a concussion and you're not supposed to fall asleep. Open your eyes. Open them!"

Reluctantly, Minerva did so, a childish protest escaping her lips. "You're not the boss of me."

His face split into a wide grin. "Good. If you're mad at me, you'll stay awake. Can you get up?"

She made a halfhearted attempt at forcing herself upright on her elbows, but her arms shook under her and she collapsed helplessly again. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't worry about it. It wasn't your fault." There were strong hands under her arms and he was pulling her to her feet; she wobbled a bit and had to place one hand against the cool, smooth stone of the wall to recover herself.

He leaned against the wall next to her, shoving his hands into his pockets. Relaxed, his shoulders down and the front of his cloak unlaced, he hardly looked like the dangerous delinquent many had named him. He looked almost...well, she hated to say it, but he looked friendly. And the way his hair swiped across his forehead....

She had to close her eyes again, violet starbursts pounding behind her eyelids.

"I feel like such a wanker," he said after a moment, staring at the ceiling. "It was incredibly inconsiderate of me to come barging out like that. I'm so..."

"Sorry," she finished for him, opening her eyes and turning to flash him a faint grin. "You shouldn't be--I'm all right--"

Minerva found the words sticking in her mouth as his eyes slanted towards her, shadowed by the sweep of lashes and the tilt of pointed chin. Why is he being so nice to me? I saw him knock Dickie Prewett into a pillar the other day and he didn't even look back.

Why do I care why he's being nice? Why don't I shut up and enjoy what that mouth looks like when he's not sneering?

What did I just think?!

She raised a hand to her face, confused, needing the cool touch of her frigid fingers against the hot flush of her cheek...and touched something there, a shiny dryness like blood, or the remainders of tears.

When was I crying?

Something flashed in Tom's face and he seized her wrist before she could ponder the matter further.

And all of a sudden she felt like every nerve in her body had suddenly sloughed and run together like sand through an hourglass, melting, pushing, tensing into her fingers and wrist where the smooth curves of his hand touched hers--every part of her mind glowed and swayed feverishly over the contours of his fingerprints--

"Careful," he said softly, "I'm afraid you'll overbalance."

She felt almost dizzy. What had that been? I'm a child, she thought frantically, I'm a kid, I'm not supposed to feel this way, it isn't right...

"How old are you?" he asked, tilting his head to one side, his tapered fingers lingering on her own. He can't make me feel anything...

"Eleven," Minerva whispered, adding with some spirit "but I'm old for my age."

The ghost of a smile twitched at the corners of the wide mouth. "Are you?" he said almost musingly, more to himself than to her. "I can believe it." He tugged the tiny lip-twitch into a full smile; it looked very difficult, and somehow out of place in the coldly handsome visage. "You shouldn't be up so late. What are you doing?"

Minerva opened her mouth to reply; a reply escaped her lips and flitted mockingly to the corner of her mind. "I...um..." And suddenly she remembered that he was a prefect, and he had a duty to report these things--"Don't report me!" she gasped desperately. "Please don't report me!" Tears sprang to her eyes--genuine ones, not the fakes she could so easily conjure up when the need arose. "Please...don't tell the Headmaster..."

Tom released her arm and she fell back, cowering almost. Minerva hated to cower, but now seemed like a good time to try it. He seemed to retreat into himself for a moment, as though weighing his options; and then he looked up.

"You've never done anything like this before, have you?"

She shook her head in mute terror.

Tom shrugged. "I owe you one, for knocking you down, so I'll let it go. It's none of my business."

Minerva nearly collapsed in relief.

"But I've got to take you to Madam Ragweed; that's a nasty bump you've got." His fingers played soothingly over the raised skin at the back of her head, and she shivered, flinching away and whirling to stare accusingly at him.

"You can't take me! They'll find out--I shouldn't have been up--"

"Minerva, that could be serious. I don't want..."

"It's not serious!" Minerva half-screamed, pulling away from him. Look, I'm just fine, I really am. I'll go to Madam Ragweed in the morning and I swear I won't fall asleep...just let me go back to the dorm..."

The worry in Tom's eyes could not entirely hide the strange victorious glint in them...she couldn't be bothered to analyze it, though. "If you swear..."

"I swear!"

He heaved a sigh. "I'm going to regret it, but I don't want you to get in trouble. I'll walk you up to Gryffindor."

Even in the throes of relief, Minerva's eleven-year-old pride was vaguely offended. "Oh, thank you...but I don't need any help..."

"Indulge me. Assuage my aching conscience." The smile, trying to accustom itself to Tom's features, had finally settled into a comfortable curve of his cheek.

She straightened her shoulders and stood up; If I must die of shame, she thought grimly, I will do it with dignity.

Refusing Tom's offered elbow, she shook out her braids and stalked out towards the end of the hallway, trying to ignore the way the tips of her ears burned with every sauntering step behind her.

She had almost reached the steps to Gryffindor tower when she bumped straight into a massive body and looked up into the stony face and broad shoulders of Porter Lestrange.

Oh no, thought Minerva frantically, and found herself casting about for Tom, but the boy had vanished somewhere. "Get off me, Lestrange," she managed, trying to keep her trembling voice in check.

"What are you doing up, ickle Firstie?" rumbled the enormous Slytherin, grinning unpleasantly at her. "Only fourth-years and up are allowed to be wandering the castle at this hour. What've you been up to?" He seized her slight shoulders and leered down at her; she flinched away from his gaze.

"Get off me, I said!"

"I want to know what you've been doing," said Lestrange, conversationally. "You're a nosy little brat, McGonagall; you're worse than your sister."

"I'm not a brat!" she snapped, struggling in his grip. "And you're a stupid gorilla--no wonder Nadia Gregorovitch doesn't like you!"

The smile vanished from Lestrange's face as promptly as it had come and Lestrange suddenly raised his fist, an ugly anger twisting his features. "You don't know anything about Nadia, you stupid--"

"Porter!" A clear, authoritative voice echoed across the stairwell, firm and angry but controlled. "Get your ugly hands off her, now."

Tom!

I will not let him be my knight in shining armor! I will not let him do that to me!

But...

Lestrange's meaty fist fell to his side as he stared, slack-jawed, at the other boy. "What are you on about, Tom? Look, she's a Gryffindor--"

"I told you," said Tom in that soft, dangerous voice, "to get your hands off her. Don't make me say it again."

The hand around Minerva's shoulder released and Minerva yanked away from the hulking Slytherin, her pride still more offended by the fact that she was both flattered and gratified by Tom's action. "Thank you," she said, in her coldest voice. "I am going to bed now."

"Wha--" started Lestrange, but a lazy glance from Tom silenced him, and he watched in soundless appall as the girl straightened her rumpled gown and padded up the stairs to the dormitory of the Enemy.

When she had gone: "What in the hell are you playing at?" he hissed at Tom, but the prefect only smiled, a faint expression that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Don't question me, Porter. I have my reasons." He turned around and stalked away down the corridor in a swirl of black robes, beckoning the larger boy with a curt nod. "Come. It's late."

Lestrange stared after Tom a moment, mystified, and then hurried to catch up, having to jog to catch up with his fellow Slytherin's purposeful strides.