Chapter Seven: Breaking Down

A few weeks passed... Minerva was tired of this tortuous drivel. She grabbed her wand - she stopped herself.

What would Albus say?

Her shoulders fell, and she put her it back. Damn her pride. She knew she deserved this. It was the price one paid for being foolish, but it was difficult. No one knew, of course. Minerva was capable of setting aside her emotions during the day. She continued her classes in her usual manner. She did not give any sign whatsoever as to how she felt inside. On second thought, she may have been a bit ruder than perhaps necessary to Dolores Umbridge on occasion, but she did not think anyone would question why. The woman was contemptuous. Although, it was possible she would be chastised for getting into an arguement with her colleague over whether or not Potter would ever become an Auror. She smirked a little at the memory for a moment. Then, for no reason at all, Sybill popped into her head, and she felt herself sink into oblivion. Lately, Minerva found herself constantly feeling more tired when she was not teaching, or when she was grading papers. One day after she dismissed her class, she rested her head in her hands softly, feeling as old as she certainly looked. She did not understand what was wrong with her; she surely had not felt like this only a few months ago.

A soft swish of robes caused her to look up suddenly. "Oh, Albus, I – I'm sorry, I wasn't aware you were coming."

"It's quite alright, Minerva – this is a surprise visit. I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"I'm fine, Albus, thank you."

"Yes, yes, I had a feeling you would say so; however, I also presumed that you might not altogether be telling the truth."

"I – Albus – I don't know what to say."

"My dear Minerva, there is no need to be alarmed – I am not upset with you for deceiving me, even momentarily. You will have had your reasons. Alas, an honest answer to how one is doing is also a very personal one, and I understand completely. However, I would have thought, having known each other as long as you and I have, that you would have realised that I would not be so easy to mislead."

Minerva faltered.

Dumbledore looked at her knowingly. "Is it Professor Trelawney?"

Minerva sighed, closing her eyes, her lips pressed inward so that they momentarily disappeared. She breathed normally again and opened her eyes. She pressed her head to her palms again.

"What is wrong with me, Albus?"

"Wrong, Minerva? Alas, my dear, I don't think there is anything wrong with you."

She peeked at him over the tips of her fingers, confused and surprised. "You don't?"

His eyes twinkled, but he did not physically reply. She groaned.

"You still do not wish to undo the spell then?"

She sat still for a minute and a half, and then slowly shook her head. She couldn't. She wanted to, but she couldn't. Those lines were not to be blurred. As Albus left the room, she realised suddenly that there was reason for Sybill popping into her head earlier. She'd thought, of course, that it was because any moment of happiness deemed punishment by the fates (not that she believed in them) for what she'd done. The truth, though it was harder to admit – so much harder – was that any moment of elation made her think immediately of her because she was eminently, awfully, and vastly in love with Sybill Trelawney. And she was adamantly breaking her own heart. Those lines could not be blurred.

Minerva rested her head on her elbows, even though she usually found it to be highly improper. Her whole life she'd stuck to rules, she'd built up her career – and she'd had a decent life, but she was worn out. Part of her didn't want to be suitable anymore, and the rest of her... Well, she wasn't really sure what the rest of her wanted.

The tower was silent, save for light snoring. A biting draft was flowing in the private quarters of Sybill Trelawney, though there were seemingly no open windows. Bits of sparkly grey dust floated across the room and landed on Sybill's hair, blue ones on her right eye. The dark blue filled her iris like a pool, until her eyes were no longer their bright ocean semblance, but a stormy grey azure instead. The grey nestled into her hairs, and ran from root to tip wherever it fell, softening and curling at the tips as it went. A whisper of a moan that did not escape Sybill's lips sounded, and her eyes flipped open immediately. She jerked upright and gazed around the room. Something wasn't right. She pulled her wand from her bedside table and cast her spell, but it revealed that she was alone, and she replaced her wand. She felt the, for her unfamiliar, sensation of a hand running down her spine and trembled. The feel of the hand itself, its gentle tips and super light touch seemed vaguely recognisable, and not at all unnatural. If Sybill hadn't spent the last sixteen years of her life at Hogwarts alone, it would have reminded her of a lover. When her body shook, a few of the now-silver strands fell in front of her face.

Without her glasses, she couldn't be certain she was seeing right. Yes, she was over fifty, but surely one did not grow greys overnight? She swiped her glasses from the top of her bedside table and shoved them on. There it was – plain as the Grim in her mother's cup at Sybill's nineteenth birthday tea. She flung her covers aside and made her way unsteadily to her vanity above the dresser. Her eyes magnified by her lenses blinked at her in shock. Half of her hair was currently grey! It fell in long ash-coloured, beautiful waves that did not at all resemble her own tresses. Not only that, the odd manifestation was placed completely on the right side of her head!

She tried every spell and charm she could think of, but nothing worked. Minerva, or Filius, would be the best people to go to, but at this hour, after what happened last time she awoke one of her colleagues in the middle of the night, it would be a bad idea to go now. She wasn't even sure Minerva would help her anyway. Sybill sighed and returned to bed; it would have to wait until morning. She tried to sleep, but was only successful for a mere five minutes. When she succumbed in the still-dark hours of morning, she found her hair had returned to normal.

She pulled it back into a ponytail. She hadn't imagined it. She hadn't been dreaming. She had felt it; it was real. She had touched the hair, had tried to change it back for more than two hours. What was happening to her, to her life? She felt a very strong need to drink.