Breakfast.

Ever a relaxed moment for Minerva. Sitting on her usual place, between Albus- oh, Albus!- and Rolanda, she usually chattered animatedly with her fellow teachers.

But not now. A large, barn owl- the owl she had picked herself, an owl of the school!- had just delivered a heart-shaped card. To Albus. He, eyebrows slightly lifted, was just reading through it- and Minerva's hands were shaking as they had never been shaking before…

~*~

As Albus read the words of the poem, he softly bit his upper lip. It was a beautiful poem. It was a beautiful card. It… But he knew that it could never be truly meant, of course. Which of the student pranksters would have sent him this card…? Mmm… so much choice! The Gryffindor Trio, perhaps? He looked at the three students, two boys and a girl, sitting on their usual places at the Gryffindor table. No… not the Gryffindor trio. Well, whatever- what could it be but a Valentine prank?

The only thing that made him hesitate a little, was the neat, yet curly, handwriting. Did he know that handwriting? No… no, he didn't. Albus sighed. If only Minerva would love him… But she didn't. She would never write a poem like this for him. He would never give her a Valenntine's card. Or could he, perhaps…

No, he couldn't. She would, of course, recognize his handwriting, and then it would begin. She would tell him… things. That he was a very dear friend. But that she couldn't love him. That he was too old. That he was a ridiculous old coot. No, no, Minerva would never tell him that, of course. She was too polite and after all, he was her friend.

But he knew he was one. A ridiculous old coot… in love with a woman half his age.

~*~

Minerva bit her lip as her eyes followed every movement of his hands, every tremble of his eyelashes. Then, he laid the letter down. He then sighed and took a sip of his cup of tea. Then, he just went on eating, as if nothing had happened. Tears stood in Minerva's eyes. So he really did not… not even like her? No, wait, that was a stupid thought. She still was a friend of his.

And after all, how would he know the card… letter… was hers? She had used other ink. She had used a type of paper she'd never used before. And she, being ambidextrous, had written with her left hand, which changed her handwriting completely.

Yet, what could she do? Just tell him? Tell him that he was everything for her? Tell him to give her heart back, which he'd stolen so long ago, so that it would stop aching?

She couldn't.

No, she couldn't.

But there was still Rolanda Hooch…