Toast

I sit in my usual place at breakfast time - directly beside the Headmaster when he's here, and just by his chair when he's not. He doesn't eat with us often. There is too much going on in the world; he has to eat whilst he works. Sometimes I feel guilty for not helping, but he assures me that there is nothing I can do.

I sigh as I look out over the packed Great Hall. The children are laughing and joking as they eat their breakfast. A small food fight erupts over at the Hufflepuff table, but it doesn't last long - Professor Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff, doesn't even leave her seat. Let the children have their fun - they deserve it, after all.

Hermione Granger looks up and meets my eye. She looks worried about something, but turns away when Ron Weasley knocks her orange juice all over her uniform. I smile in spite of myself - Weasley's love-struck feelings are obvious to everyone but Hermione. She reminds me of how I was when I was that age, although she will turn out differently. She's a lot stronger already than I ever was.

I absent-mindedly reach for a piece of toast, but someone else has reached for it too. Our hands touch, and, looking down, I recognise the thin, pale fingers immediately. I look up again, right into Severus Snape's eyes. I hold his gaze for a split-second, and then both of us look away.

Memories pass through my mind. Thoughts of what might have been do, too. I chance a quick glance at him and from the look on his face, he's remembering too...

***

I sit at the front of the classroom, watching him.

Well - not watching as such, just glancing up from my marking every now and again. He sits alone at the back, same as always, hardly taking his eyes from his work.

I hate myself for feeling this way. He's a student, for goodness' sake. But...well, I can't control my feelings.

He is so graceful looking. Shiny black hair almost to his shoulders, solemn black eyes and pale, pale skin. I would love to know what he puts on his hair to keep it in such a good condition, but I can't really ask, can I?

I try and tear him from my mind and return to my marking. I scribble a half-hearted Very good work, extremely well written and very concise - 18/20 on James Potter's essay and put it to one side. My eyes flick to the name at the top of the next parchment. Severus Snape, it reads, in his narrow, Gothic handwriting. I begin to read.

I can tell instantly that he has really tried his best with this, and his best is brilliant. The essay beats even Sirius Black's, and Sirius Black has had the top mark in the Transfiguration exam every year since he came to this school.

This is exceptional work, I write in the little space at the bottom. You have proven that you can do well in this subject if you try. Excellent work - 20/20.

I look up again. I can't really see his face - his hair is in the way. I look back at the essays on my desk to find that there are no more to mark. I clear my throat and stand up.

"The majority of last week's homework was very good," I say, weaving through the desks and handing back the essays. "One or two exceptions" - here I look pointedly at Peter Pettigrew, who blushes scarlet and looks away - "were poor, but most were very well written. Congratulations to you, Mr. Snape, for gaining top marks."

He looks up as I place the essay on his desk. He looks at the mark, and then back up at me with disbelief on his face. I smile at him and turn away.

"Well done also to Miss Evans, who gained a highly impressive nineteen out of twenty. I was tempted to give you full marks," I add in a lower voice as I place the essay down in front of Lily Evans, "but it just lacked that little bit extra."

I finish handing out the homework and return behind my desk to write the homework on the blackboard. When I turn around again, I see him staring at Lily Evans and, to my horror, feel a twinge of jealousy.

Why do I feel this way? It's almost becoming an obsession. It's unhealthy. Maybe I should take a couple of days off, retreat to my quarters for a bit of solitude.

It's a good idea, but it will never happen. There is nobody to cover my lessons for me, and besides, I wouldn't wish the Gryffindor-Slytherin third-year class on anyone. Amongst the seventh-years, there is rivalry - mostly between Severus and James Potter and Sirius Black - but that is nothing compared to the third-years. They hate each other with a passion that I have never seen before.

"Miss," Sarah Ashwood calls out, jerking me from my thoughts, "Miss, when does the homework have to be in?"

"Next lesson," I reply. "No excuses, and detention for anyone who forgets to do it."

The bell at the top of Gryffindor Tower chimes suddenly, signalling the end of the lesson. I watch Severus as he leaves. He looks downwards as he walks, probably to avoid talking to anyone. He is such a quiet boy, strange almost. It must be odd to be so isolated.

~~~

I yawn as I look out over the Great Hall. The Gryffindors, even the seventh-years, are being ridiculously childish as usual. Disgusted, I look over at the Slytherin table. They are all talking civilly and behaving responsibly, which is what I like to see. As the Head of Slytherin, I would be horrified if my students began to behave like Gryffindors - or even, heaven forbid, Hufflepuffs. Frankly, I don't know which would be worst.

Speaking of the Hufflepuffs, they are having a food fight. Again. From what I can see, it was the fifth-years who began it. They are the usual culprits. I look with disdain at Professor Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff, who looks up briefly and then returns to her cornflakes. How does she expect them to learn if she never shows them any discipline?

Even the Ravenclaws seem in high spirits. What is wrong with everyone today? It's not a special occasion, is it? The only thing that is happening is the Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch match tomorrow -

Ah, that will be it. Of course. Everyone likes to see Slytherin beaten, don't they?

I reach for a slice of toast, and someone else's hand brushes mine. I look at the hand, and then I look up, and find myself staring into Minerva McGonagall's eyes. I hold her gaze for a split-second, and then look away.

Memories pass through my mind. Thoughts of what might have been do, too. I chance a quick glance at her and from the look on her face, she's remembering too...

***

I sit at the back of the classroom, watching her. She's marking something - last week's homework, probably - and she never looks up, not once. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, and she frowns every time her glasses slip down her nose and she has to push them up again.

She is beautiful. She is probably about my mother's age, and a teacher, but there is something about her that draws me towards her, like a moth to the flame. I'm helpless; I can do nothing but to go along with it.

I once saw her with her hair down; I haven't been able to get that image from my mind ever since. Every day, she wears her hair pulled back into a bun, her sparkling blue eyes peering out from behind square-framed spectacles. But that night when I saw her...

I was on my way back to my dormitory after going to the toilet. We're not really supposed to leave our common rooms at night, but I couldn't help it - I had to go, or I'd have wet myself. I think she must have been coming up from the kitchens, because she had a mug of what looked like hot chocolate in one hand, and her wand and a packet of biscuits in the other. Her hair was loose and flowing around her shoulders, framing her face like the loveliest picture frame, and she didn't have her glasses on. I wondered how she could see without them, but I've since come to the conclusion that she isn't totally reliant on them.

She didn't see me. I hid behind a statue as she walked by, inhaling her sweet scent as she passed. It's an odd smell; completely different to Mother, who smells of various potions and spices from all the cooking that she does. Professor McGonagall smells of the sweetest flowers. What are the sweetest flowers? I wouldn't know. Lilies, perhaps. Or roses.

She stands up suddenly, clears her throat, and comments on how most of the homework was good, but some was poor. I think she looks at me when she says that some was poor, and I'm not surprised. I did try with that essay, but Transfiguration never has been my strong point.

Which is why it's such a surprise when she drops my essay in front of me, congratulating me on gaining top marks and giving me the sweetest smile.

I read her comments, carefully written in that neat, slightly slanted handwriting of hers.

This is exceptional work. You have proven that you can do well in this subject if you try. Excellent work - 20/20.

Full marks? Unbelievable. I look up to see her congratulating Lily Evans. I really cannot stand that girl. She acts all sweetness and light to my face, but I know that once my back is turned, she'll start tearing me to pieces with that boyfriend of hers, James Potter, who has been my enemy since day one in this place.

Professor McGonagall returns to the front of the room to write our homework on the blackboard, and I stare at her hair, transfixed. It must take her hours every morning to get every single strand of hair back in that perfect bun. She turns from the board and before she can see me staring, I quickly look away and my gaze lands on Lily. James Potter glares at me, and I glare back. He seems to think that I'd be all over his girlfriend given half the chance.

The bell chimes, and I quickly pack up my things and leave as swiftly as possibly, not looking at her at all. I wonder if she has the faintest idea how I feel?