A/N: I want a pet phoenix! Does anyone know where you can buy one? How much do they cost?
A/N: A plot appears…definitely dark magic, this. We'll have to look into this…
Disclaimer: As I am also not Avril Lavigne (refer to first disclaimer at beginning of fic), though I would definitely enjoy the job, I do not own the song "Sk8r Boi." The punctuation in the song is my own—sorry if it's inaccurate. It's what looked good to me.
Chapter 3: 1995
There were few, if any, times in Minerva's life to date when she had actively wished to get drunk.
This should not be one of them.
Minerva knew this, knew Severus' advances should not be affecting her this way. She had communicated a clear "no"…until she'd come back. And sat with him. And toasted with him for some reason only Rowena's sainted aunt knew.
Still her mind couldn't escape the thought, Where did this come from? Did she really need this on top of everything?
"On top of everything." This, she knew, was selfish. She sounded like a teenager.
Ah well. In any event, one of the better parts of being a teacher was the nearly-constant lesson-planning, even in the summer. So there were plenty of first-year matches-to-needles lessons to write out in detail.
And—well, why not? She would listen to the radio too. What would her students think…
Minerva pulled out the rarely-used magical radio—the only kind that would work at Hogwarts—from a drawer in her desk. A search that lasted only a surprisingly few minutes yielded a station that played classical music. Elbow-deep in elementary TF and with the radio playing at high volume, she supposed her mind was occupied…
A small creak—like a person treading on a loose floorboard.
Minerva's head snapped up and she searched the hallway outside her office door. No one. Maybe it was nothing, she thought.
* * *
Albus appeared in his office and promptly crossed the room to sit down behind his large desk. The phoenix Fawkes gave a trill in alarm and flapped down to settle on the surface in front of him—so unnatural, to see a phoenix flapping!—ruffled feathers giving him the look of a large fluffy pillow.
Albus did not notice.
He gave the bird an absentminded stroke, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, reviewing possibilities…
But the only conclusion he came to was, verbatim, what he had thought upon entering the room:
This is unbelievably bad.
* * *
Creak.
Someone is definitely outside her office. Someone is definitely standing outside her door, listening, watching her…look at her face and see the proof: brown eyes like woody chips of flint flick up and from side to side in what she thinks is a nonchalant way. Thin-lipped mouth is pursed a little tighter, a white chalk line drawn across her face. Her right hand ever so slightly pulls back from her work.
Her wand pocket is heavy as a sack of rocks.
The whip-thin, tight focus is stretching to its breaking point.
And its breaking point is sudden hissing, spitting static from the radio.
Minerva leaps up, knowing the sound has alerted her eavesdropper. There is no one at the door. The radio's screeching cat-hiss reaches a crescendo and is gone.
Gone. Silence.
And in its place a loud rock guitar begins to play.
She looks out into the hallway one more time, though she tells herself it cannot be true. It cannot be
* * *
Tom Riddle.
No, thought Minerva. It was impossible. He could not have penetrated Hogwarts' defenses. The only person inside Hogwarts who was in any way connected with him was
—wait. Nix that idea too. It was Severus.
She was supposed to be not thinking about Severus.
What's a girl to do? Minerva thought and laughed with self-deprecation: Minerva McGonagall saying "What's a girl to do"?
Adriana would have loved it.
And the radio played on.
* * *
He was a boy
She was a girl:
Can I make it any more obvious?
He was a punk
She did ballet:
What more can I say?
He wanted her,
She'd never tell—
But secretly she wanted him as well
But all of her friends
Stuck up their nose
They had a problem with his baggy clothes…
MmmHmm…this is very strange, she thinks, beginning to feel wary.
I think it's going well, he thinks.
He was a skater boy
She said "See ya later, boy"
He wasn't good enough for her
Oh please, no…
Was that a gasp?
She had a pretty face
But her head was up in space
She needed to come back down to Earth…
Minerva stands, hand over her heart. She has never heard the song, but she has a feeling, a gut instinct, about where this is going…
Severus listens intently.
Five years from now
She sits at home
Feeding the baby; she's all alone
She turns on TV
And guess who she sees—
Skater Boy rockin' up MTV!
She calls up her friends
They already know
And they've all got tickets to see his show
She tags along
And stands in the crowd
—looks up at the man that she turned down…
It is confirmed. The world hates her.
There's no need for melodrama, she scolds herself automatically. Well, actually there is. And now the chorus again…
Severus is feeling pretty good about himself by this time.
He was a skater boy
She said "See ya later boy"
He wasn't good enough for her
Now he's a superstar
Slammin' on his guitar
Does your pretty face see what he's worth…
Ouch. Minerva flinches, though she knows it came out for the best. So personal now. Does your pretty face…
* * *
"I love you."
Such a simple phrase. Minerva pauses, turns to look back at the boy behind her. The evening sun slanting in the tall hallway windows paints his face in stripes of gold and shadow—oddly fitting for Tom Riddle, she thinks.
"I love you."
He stands looking at her, unsure, as if perhaps he has said something wrong. Minerva smiles.
"I love you too, Tom."
He grins. She grins. They stand in the hallway together as the not-yet-solid dinner crowd mingles and rumbles in the background.
Minerva can't resist a little dig. "Slytherin."
"Gryffindor." Tom smiles sardonically. "Funny, isn't it?"
"I suppose."
They stand considering each other. Finally Tom steps forward. Tentatively, almost shyly, he reaches out a hand toward her. Cups her face—fingers resting lightly on her cheek. He carefully, slowly slides his hand down her jawline until he is holding her chin. He gently tips her chin upward. And he kisses her on the lips.
Minerva leans into him, the rest of the crowd in the hallway forgotten. It is not their first kiss, but it is a nice one, and when they break apart Minerva, despite herself, blushes slightly and gives a shy grin.
Tom grins back at her. "Gryffindor."
She laughs out loud.
"Minerva! Hey, Minerva!"
"That's Paul," she says, groaning inwardly.
"As if I didn't know," Tom drawls.
She casts a furtive glance over her shoulder and sees Paul wading toward her through the now-substantial throng outside the Great Hall.
"I'd better go," she says, turning back to Tom.
"You'd better," he agrees, and pecks her on the cheek before disappearing into the crowd.
* * *
Tom pulls her to him. She stiffens, but relaxes forcibly and accepts the gesture.
He can't understand it. She sees this now. She loves him—she thinks she does—but there are so many things wrong now. She pulls back, holds him at arm's length.
"Tom—"
"Save it." He pulls away angrily; Minerva feels her heart wrenched. "Save it. I think I know what this is about. Let's run down the list, shall we?" He whirls around to face her, his black school robes billowing behind him. Minerva cannot help thinking he looks like a vampire…
He is speaking now, counting off on his fingers. "Grindelwald. The attacks on those Muggle-born Hufflepuffs. Oh—and let's never forget—"
"Tom, I love you, but these things are happening—"
"Let's never forget," he continues, glaring at her, "that little Tom is a Slytherin."
Silence hangs in the air for a moment.
Why should that have anything to do with anything? But it does. And now more than ever.
"You can't ignore the contributions of your house…" she begins lamely, and trails off, toying with her prefect's badge.
"So the fact that I'm a Slytherin and that there are attacks happening at the school means that you cannot bring yourself to touch me."
"No. Tom, you understand this! We both looked in Hogwarts: A History, we both know there's a good chance this has something to do with Salazar's—"
"Do you think I'm the heir of Slytherin?" Tom asks her abruptly, his dark eyes glaring from a pale face beneath black hair. Moonlight from the window paints his face white as snow, his eyes and hair merely shadows over marble.
"No," says Minerva. "Don't be ridiculous. But you can't deny—"
"Then why"—he leans forward—"don't you know Tom Marvolo Riddle these days?"
She is silent.
"I understand," he says sneeringly. "Bad politics. For a Gryffindor to be seen with a Slytherin—"
"Tom, don't be a hypocrite!" she shouts, heatedly now. "We had this discussion at the beginning of fourth year! We neither of us want our housemates knowing, you yourself suggested this room as a meeting spot!" She jumps to her feet, gesturing wildly around the small area. One small window overlooking the lake from inside the rock of the cliff spills silver moonlight on the scene. It is well past midnight.
"We both agreed upon this," she continues in a harsh whisper.
"We never agreed to stop meeting," he answers, voice equally low and hissing. "We never agreed to be disgusted by each other."
Minerva jumps back, nearly physically hurt.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, anger snuffed. Does he really think that?
His shadowed face turns up in a sardonic smile. "Apology accepted." He looks down, indicates at something on the floor. "But we can never forget this, can we?"
"No," she agrees, coming to stand beside him. "Tom, I'm sorry…"
* * *
No moonlight tonight, only starshine. They are curled together on the small sofa, lost in thoughts as varied as the surface of the lake in a stiff breeze. For there is a stiff breeze. But it is not tangible.
Well, part of it is.
"Is this where Paul hit you?" She touches a spot on his back, right above the shoulder blade. He winces.
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"I said, 'well, it's certainly a shame the heir of Slytherin is only going after the mudbloods' and he punched me from behind. Hit me in the face, too," he adds helpfully.
"That was a hateful thing to say," Minerva scolds. But she leans forward and kisses the shoulder blade lightly. "I thought you'd stopped using that word."
"Paul isn't even Muggle-born."
"But I am," she says. "He was defending me." She turns his head around so that he is looking into her eyes. "And I'm offended."
He looks into her eyes for a few more seconds. "I'm sorry," he says finally. A shadow crosses his face. "But see, this is what I don't understand. This is what confuses me about you: I go about my daily life, and circumstances outside my control cause you to despise me. I use the worst derogatory word for your…blood…possible, and you give me a back massage."
"I haven't given you a back massage."
"No, but you're in the sort of mood that's so rare nowadays, I feel I should take advantage of it while it lasts," he says, giving her a rare playful grin.
She meets his eyes solemnly. "Very well." Her hands begin to massage his shoulders, and he relaxes back into her. He has a point—why does she do this? Push him away and pull him back. She loves him, though he offends her.
"I feel sorry for you," she says, feeling an explanation is necessary. "After what Paul did to you, deservedly or not."
"Maybe I should get myself killed more often." Did that come from the mouth of Tom Riddle?
"Maybe you should," Minerva says uncomfortably, continuing the massage.
"So none of the teachers you've talked to believe you about the heir of Slytherin?"
"None. Maybe you should come along with me once, so they don't think I'm just trying to start an inter-house war."
"Have them read Hogwarts: A History. You're in fifth-year, and a prefect, they should believe you already."
They lapse into silence for a few minutes as she kneads.
"Do you believe in the Chamber of Secrets?"
Minerva stops her massaging. "What?"
"Do you believe the attacks are in connection with the Chamber of Secrets?" His voice is suddenly so very serious.
She hesitates. "We can't be sure. But"—she goes back to kneading his back muscles—"it's the best explanation I've seen."
"It's been all mu—Muggle-borns attacked," Tom points out, wincing at a sudden not-quite-painful knead.
"It has," Minerva says. "And just now, the Gryffindor seventh-year…you'd think a seventh-year would be able to beat off another student. The monster theory is starting to look better and better."
Tom nods, falling into a half-slumber as Minerva works on.
* * *
Severus creeps away, unobserved, for a quiet escape down into the dungeons.
Minerva shakes her head, still listening to the song…
* * *
Seventh year. Minerva is Head Girl. Minerva is at the beginning-of-term feast, leaving her dinner plate to make her way up to Gryffindor Tower for bed.
Minerva is trying to avoid the Head Boy.
No such luck, Minerva.
"A word with you, McGonagall?" comes a quiet voice to her right as she exits the Great Hall. She pauses, an inward groan just avoiding her lips. She turns to see Tom Riddle, Head Boy badge shining on his breast pocket.
"Riddle."
He pauses, looking almost hurt.
"What do you have to say?" she asks coldly.
He steps in very close to her, puts his face in hers. She resists the urge to step back.
"Just this: your little friends have graduated, Minerva." So they were on a first-name basis again. "Adriana and Paul are gone. Do I exist now?"
She stares at him. He whirls around to leave.
"I think that tells me all I need to know, McGonagall."
"Circumstances came between us, Tom…"
"Congratulations on Head Girl, by the way," he throws back, already heading for the Slytherin dungeons.
She watches him go, tracing a circle with the toe of her shoe.
* * *
"Just never forget this," Tom says, looking at her with a mixture of sadness and anger. "Never forget this, Minerva."
She steps back, alarmed. They are standing in the office that will one day be hers, but of course she does not know this in fourth year. Tom Riddle takes a step toward her.
"Never forget: I'll always be with you."
She blinks, surprised.
"You may not be with me," he continues, looking at her almost-fondly, "but I will be with you. Goodbye for now, Minerva." He turns to stride out the door, his school robes sweeping a full two inches above the floor.
* * *
Minerva shook her head, trying to clear away the whirling memories. Fourth year…fifth year…Tom…Paul…Tom. Yes, it had all happened. She hadn't seen through his disguise. "Do you think I'm the heir of Slytherin?" indeed…
It was her secret shame, known only by Albus and, of course, Tom Riddle himself…wherever he was. And it could still be inflamed in the opposite direction by a simple song…
But it wasn't Tom Riddle haunting her now, that much she knew. No, Lord Voldemort did not hang around the offices of schoolteachers to make their radios malfunction. There was a much closer explanation for this. And he would know never to do it again…
Minerva strode off for the dungeons. Her office was on the fifth floor, so when she reached the large spiral staircase at the core of the castle school, she had eight flights to go down. She took the stairs two at a time. Never in her life—if her students could see her now—
Severus couldn't possibly have known what his little trick would do to her. Well, she would make sure he did know. She reached the main floor of the castle, on level with the Great Hall. Its large wooden doors were closed now, reflecting wan rain-distorted light from the Entrance Hall windows. Peeves the poltergeist popped up suddenly through the floor and threw a water balloon at her, which she did not have the presence of mind to repel with her wand. It burst on her shoulder, soaking her black robes with icy water. After yelling at Peeves unfruitfully for a few minutes (he soon sped off to water-balloon somebody else, hopefully Severus), she continued down the stairs and realized, I don't remember that scene in the office. Minerva stopped. Fourth-year, by the looks of Riddle in the memory. Probably the end of the school year by the way they were acting.
Maybe once she was over her anger she would ask Severus about repressed memories or whatever Muggles called these things. Then she remembered that Severus had not had one psychology class in his life.
And she was even angrier.
Reaching the door to Severus' office, she knocked, then opened it immediately without hearing a response.
"Thank you for knocking," Severus replied with automatic sarcasm, looking up to see who his guest was. He stopped short when he saw Minerva, sopping wet, standing in front of him with a look that few of her students had lived to tell tales about.
Not really, of course, but it was the story that went around when Severus attended Hogwarts.
"Professor Snape. Might I ask you what you were—what on Earth you thought you were doing?"
Severus was beginning to look worried. And definitely nonplussed. "Minerva—"
Minerva was shaking with such rage that she didn't think to correct his use of her first name.
"Professor, what made you dare to—"
She was cut short—extremely short—in her tirade as Albus Dumbledore suddenly and inexplicably appeared in the doorway.
He did not walk up.
He simply appeared.
Apparated.
"Good gods," said Snape, standing up in alarm. Minerva stared, mouth agape with an unshed rant. There were anti-Apparition charms all over the castle grounds…
"Yes," Albus said, his eyes taking in the argument-scene and making it quite clear that whatever difference they were about to settle would have to wait.
"I have spent," Albus began, looking both of them in the eye (as if they needed extra emphasis on what this meant, Minerva thought), "the past few minutes in my office, trying to ascertain what has happened. I have no idea just how it has come about, but it appears that one of our defenses is gone."
Minerva felt her anger draining away.
"It may be that this is a net loss of magic, or simply…someone…tampering with one spell," said Albus gravely. "I do not know. Come with me to my office, please."
Minerva obeyed, Apparating quickly—her anger was definitely forgotten now, and in its place a growing fear wormed its way into her mind. If Hogwarts is falling…
Stop.
If Hogwarts was falling, she knew perfectly well what would happen. Inevitably, inexorably. Focus on the present.
Albus cleared his throat. Severus shifted uncomfortably in his seat beside her, and Minerva tried to control the nervous twitching of her right leg.
It was happening, and if it happened, all was lost.
* * *