Hogwarts, 1939. I was a third-year Slytherin. Thirteen is a terrible age, Minerva, did you know that? Oh, but certainly you would not; you have never experienced hardships, have you? You would not understand the turmoil it is to be an inexperienced adolescent, especially one who was just beginning puberty.
No, Minerva, I bet you were born with those "luscious curves", as some of my classmates were apt to describe you. You enjoyed it, didn't you? The attention you received from everyone. You just LOVED to flounce around the school as though you were Headmaster. It was your seventh and final year at Hogwarts, something which I was grateful for. Prefect, Head Girl, Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team…you made me sick. Everyone loved you. People wanted either to be you or to do you. Except for me, of course.
You couldn't even do me the teensiest favor of having bad breath. You MIGHT have been tolerable if you had had some flaw, some tiny thing that would have made you seem more human… But no, Minerva, you had to be perfect in every way: friendly, helpful, a model student. God, you should have been a bloody Hufflepuff. But the Sorting Hat was completely enamored of you too, and placed you in "noble" Gryffindor. And here, I sigh, Minerva. Perhaps that is where it began…with Gryffindor and Slytherin's legendary argument. Perhaps we were fated to be enemies from the very beginning.
But oh, you would not have liked that word, would you? Enemies… Absolutely not, Minerva; you were everybody's friend! You always had time to talk to someone, always had time to help someone with his or her homework, always were there when someone needed you. Did you even bloody sleep at night, Minerva? Or did you just sleep with Headmaster Dippet to get your good grades? And your prefect status?
Perfect prefect Minerva…how you must have so enjoyed patrolling the halls. You must be sick, Minerva, if catching naughty students was your idea of a good time. I, personally, hate it. Other than your own precious Gryffindors, of course. Here I must smile. I remember when I banned Potter and those despicable Weasley boys from the Quidditch team… Wasn't that fun? Oh, how I loved the look upon your face, Minerva; that got me through the rest of the week quite nicely. Any time I needed to get over that last little…well…that's beside the point…some regard it as a sport…
Sports. Or more specifically, Quidditch. You love Quidditch, don't you? Dear me, Gryffindors are so simple: give them a book and a broomstick and they are content. You certainly were content; the youngest Quidditch captain in seventy-five years, starting it during your fourth year. Imagine that! Most Captains didn't reach that status until sixth or seventh year, fifth at the earliest, if they were incredibly good. I have to give that to you as well, Minerva. You WERE good. Probably still are. Best Beater Hogwarts had seen in centuries, some students and even some staff members liked to say. Gryffindor did not lose a single game the entire time you were on the team, did they? Everyone would turn up for your awe-inspiring matches; you would fly by on your broom, dark hair rising behind you, looking like bloody Victory incarnate.
My personal favorite match, the only one I ever truly enjoyed watching, was during your sixth year. I am sure you know the one I mean, Minerva. Gryffindor versus Slytherin. It was the match for the House Cup. Our House did not have a chance in hell and we knew it, unless by some chance our Seeker swallowed the Snitch as soon as the starting whistle was blown. But that wouldn't happen with your sharp eyes prowling about, would it? So…like all good Slytherins, we retaliated the best way we knew how: by playing dirty. Oh, how I laughed with my year-mates in the stands as you and your teammates were fouled over and over again.
Do you remember, though, the pinnacle of the match? You were sweeping about, trying to protect your Chasers and Seeker from injury; not that it mattered, your team was so far ahead that even if Slytherin DID catch the Snitch, we still would have lost. Nonetheless, you were, for the first time ever, probably, not paying attention. Slytherin's own Beaters took their chance; they swung both Bludgers at you when you had turned to stare down the field, which crashed into your back and knocked you off your broom.
Everyone gasped and screamed in horror, even my fellow Slytherins, who, although they wanted to win, did not want you seriously hurt. As I said, everyone loved you; everyone except me…I began to laugh happily as you slipped off your broom. My prayers were finally about to be answered! I clapped my hands silently and leaned forward hungrily. I watched, wide-eyed, my mouth slack, hoping, hoping…