A/N: Hmm.  This is shaping into by far the longest fanfic I've ever written.  Not quite the longest story: I'm working on one that's 160 or so typed pages.  I'm going to try to get it published when I'm done.  Yay!  Off on a tangent again.  Anyway, enjoy our first peek back into the real-time '95 plot for a good while.

A/N: Severus!  I can yell at you now!  I hate you!  Stop asking her questions that are so incredibly pertinent to the plot and her own personal guilt and feelings surrounding her boyfriend's murder of—OK.  Calming down. 

Chapter Eleven: 1995

"How could you leave me?"  He pauses, whirls around in his pacing, and leans down to look into her eys.  Mere shadows, large round shadows over white marble, facing hers.  He whispers:

"I gave myself to you."

She finds her voice.

"Tom, you know I—"

"Then why do you hate me now?"

Harsh laugh.  "What kind of stupid question is that?" she asks, vaguely surprised at her own daring.

"Are there any stupid questions?  Come now…I'm simply curious…"

You're not real, she thinks at him.  You're a dream.

He takes no notice.  Instead, he giggles.

Giggles.  Tom Riddle.

"It's a good thing Granger discovered the basilisk, hmm?  Who knows what could have happened?"

The child wakes violently, a silent scream rippling through the room.  As if she can push the apparition away by force of mind.

* * *

By happenstance, this year's Gryffindor and Hufflepuff first-years had Transfiguration second class in the morning, right after an hour of Potions.  Right on the first day of classes.  Minerva had to resist the urge to run damage control for Severus' traumatic class.  She'd never done it before; then again she'd never seen a first-year class immediately after their welcome-to-Hogwarts Potions class, either. 

Well, best not to baby them—they'd have to get used to Snape. 

She went through the usual introductory speech and demonstration—this year, just to shake things up, she turned a student's  desk into a pig.  After an improvised Animagus transformation, she noticed that many of the students' smiles had begun to falter.  Several were looking overwhelmed.  She supposed that so much magic—and so advanced—so soon would be overwhelming.  On to notes, then.

It occurred to Minerva that this lesson and the hurried introduction before the Sorting were all that these students had seen of her. 

She must seem quite frightening.  Then again, they'd just had Severus.

Severus.  He'd been there for the meeting with Harry, of course, which had been moved to Albus' office.  So Harry knew about the blackouts, and hopefully he would behave himself accordingly.  Severus had been at the meeting, but he'd said nothing, merely standing off to the side as Albus and Minerva talked to Harry. 

Minerva shook her head to clear it of wayward thoughts.  Back to the lesson.

This year's new Hufflepuffs proved brighter than usual, and a record eleven of them had produced satisfactory needles by the end of the lesson.  The Gryffindors didn't fare very well, only three of them producing any change in their match sticks at all.  She assured them that the first lesson was hardly indicative of their magical abilities—at which the Gryffindors had perked up considerably and the Hufflepuffs had begun looking nervous again—and assigned them plenty of practice and a chapter of reading before next class. 

Now for a lovely meal sitting between Albus and Severus.

Minerva seriously considered skipping lunch and spending the time in her office preparing for the afternoon Gryffindor and Slytherin fourth-year lesson.  One of the nice things about her job: she could do just that and not be suspected.

Of whatever.  What would she be suspected of?

Avoiding Severus.  Well, Severus would assume she was trying to avoid him even if she was in the hospital wing with a broken leg.  On to lunch, then.

Severus seemed to be in a merciful mood, or else he felt he was punishing her.  Minerva decided, upon logical reflection, to scratch "merciful" from the list of possibilities.  Severus wolfed down his lunch in around seven minutes and strode out of the hall, robes blowing smartly (and students flinching slightly) in his wake. 

And no, she did not need the silent treatment to amplify her understanding of his anger from last night.

Minerva left soon after Severus, excusing herself to a particularly twinkling nod from Dumbledore.  Now she really would work on the lesson, which of course had been planned out weeks ago.  She strode across the Entrance Hall, feeling a brief pang of…worry, grief, something, as she strode past the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher and remembered finding Harry last night.

Speak of the devil, Minerva thought, seeing Ginny Weasley emerge from the stairway, flaming hair and big brown eyes bright.  She craned her neck to look for the others behind Ginny, but they never came.  Ginny Weasley was alone.

"Don't let them ignore you, Miss Weasley," said Minerva in passing, and continued on to the stairs, surprised at herself.  She never inserted herself into student affairs.  Then again, she hadn't remembered the cast of characters from her own schooldays for quite some time.  Loneliness was a terrible thing…

As it turned out, the lesson would have to wait.

"Mudblood!"

"What?"

A fizzling sound suspiciously like wand-generated sparks.

Mienrva paused in the doorway to the fourth-floor corridor, taking time to sigh.  First day back.

"Ouch!"

She snapped back to attention.  That hadn't sounded good.

"Ow—stop—"

"And WHAT is going on here?" 

Three frightened pairs of eyes turned toward her, one with a nasty-looking burn above one eye.  More serious than she'd thought.

"Need I remind you," she thundered down at the first-years (first-years), "that fighting is strictly against Hogwarts school rules?"  The Gryffindor victim ws about halfway between relief and apprehension (perhaps compounded by his first TF class); another Gryffindor, a girl, was standing a few feet away and had clearly been a spectator (no wand out); the offending Slytherin boy, however, towering and hulking even at eleven, met her gaze with defiance.

Some situations called for mercy.  And some called for a definite nipping-in-the-bud action.

"What happened?" she said, addressing the Gryffindor girl. 

"Well—he sort of accidentally stepped on his foot, so he"—she indicated the Slytherin boy—"started shooting sparkly things out of his wand at him!"  Minerva sighed again.

"Hospital wing, Mr. Peeples.  On to lunch, Miss Swann.  And you, Mr. Neale"—she fetched hold of the boy's arm—"will be coming with me to discuss this matter with your Head of House." 

They each set out for their respective destinations, Minerva beginning to feel apprehensive.  Sure, she'd said "nip it in the bud," but to send him off to Snape so soon…

She shook her head.  Where along the line had she bought into the students' myth of Snape as inhuman torturer? 

"What'cha shakin' for?"

"What?" she snapped.

"What'cha shakin' yer head for?"

Minerva considered.  "My name, Mr. Neale, is Professor McGonagall, and I would prefer if you use it when addressing me."  She gave him a severe look, which finally left him looking somewhat cowed.  They left the stairs on the dungeon level and turned down the dark corridors to the lower levels of the castle.

"Why's there water in th' floor?"

"What?" snapped Minerva.

""The water in th' floor.  Hain't no place for it to come from."

"There's an unruly ghost in this section of the castle.  Doubtless she's up to some mischief."  Minerva paused and considered how that had sounded, even as she hurried the boy onward.

"Ghost?  Wicked.  Hain't seen more'n five of 'em in my life.  Say, you the Head o' Gryffindor?"  She gave him a sharp look, still mulling over her treatment of Myrtle.  "Perfesser McGonagall," he amended.

She gave a curt nod and hurried them past Moaning Myrtle's lavatory.

"Say, what's this Perfesser Snape like?"

"You'll soon know."

"'E looked kinder sour-like last night."

"He often does."

"Say how much trouble'm I in fer fightn' with that mudblood?"

Minerva tightened her grip on his arm.  "That word is unacceptable at Hogwarts, despite how you might speak elsewhere."

"Why?"

Minerva was far enough ahead of the boy that he couldn't see her face, so she rolled her eyes.  All right, Tom, I suppose this is the "questioning personality" you mentioned.

"That term is obscene, rude, and offensive."

"Oh."

Just "oh."  Minerva looked backward questioningly.

"Well, I wish I'd a known that," he said, looking quite regretful.  "I wouldn't've said it.  I'm sorry."

Minerva considered: unless the boy was really a fine actor, he had honestly had no idea how offensive the term he'd used was.  And she was taking him to Snape for using it.

But, again, he'd have to find out about Snape sooner or later.

"So…" the boy was obviously feeling uncomfortable.  "That ghost you mentioned.  What's his name?"

"Her name is Myrtle.  I wouldn't suggest…trying to meet her.  She's a bit over-sensitive."

"Do you know her?"

Minerva turned the corner and began marching them toward Severus' office.

"D'you know her, Professor McGonagall?"

She stopped them outside his office and rapped on his door in a businesslike manner.

"Have I made you angry?"

"Obviously, if she's brought you to me," came a wryly soft voice from the shadowy corridor beyond the office.  Minerva gasped, started, and quickly regained her composure.

"We've had a discipline problem, Severus: fighting.  Use of offensive language.  I think you and Mr. Neale should have a talk."

He moved into the light and raised an eyebrow at her.  "Indeed.  I believe that would be a good idea."  He paused to glower at Neale before unlocking and opening his office door. 

With the miscreant…safely in Severus' office, Minerva turned to leave.

"Oh, by the way, Minerva," Severus said in the lazy voice he used whenever he wanted an answer quite badly, "did you know Moaning Myrtle?"

"No," Minerva said curtly, and began walking away.

"Did you know Tom Riddle?"

"What?"

She whirled around and saw Severus taken slightly aback.

"They are fair questions, Professor, as you lived through the events surrounding…much of their fame."

"I did not," she said a bit too forcefully.  He held up a hand as if in self-defense and swept back inside his office.

Dear God.  He hadn't looked too convinced.  Minerva hurried back upstairs as fast as her old lungs would take her—fairly sprinting past Myrtle's bathroom for fear of hearing noises from within it.

She cringed at the silence.

* * *