Toast

The day has passed by without much incident, unless you count Robert Wood, a sixth-year Ravenclaw, transfiguring a classmate into a peacock. Honestly, whoever said that the Ravenclaws are the cleverest of the bunch was sadly mistaken.

I'm sitting at dinner, picking at my food. My eyes keep drifting over to the Slytherin table, where he is eating in silence. I glance at his Gryffindor counterparts; they are laughing and joking as they eat. How strange it is that they are so different, yet so similar.

"Are you all right, Minerva?" Professor Dumbledore asks, shaking me from my reverie.

"Oh - yes, I'm fine," I reply. I look around to make sure that nobody is listening, because I want to ask him something. The coast is clear; the only other staff at the High Table are Professor Vector and Madam Pince, and they are right at the other end of the table, engrossed in conversation. "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"What would you do if you needed someone so much that it made your heart almost explode, but you couldn't have them and it was driving you insane?"

He studies my face carefully for a moment, and I feel slightly uncomfortable under that light-blue gaze.

"A student?" he asks finally. I hesitate, wondering whether to lie, but my conscience takes hold instead. I wish I were a Slytherin sometimes.

"Yes."

"Gryffindor?"

"No - Slytherin."

"And if you don't mind me asking, who?"

"Severus Snape."

"Oh, Minerva," Dumbledore says, and sighs. He stares at the food on his plate for a moment before speaking again. "How long have had feelings for him?"

"I don't know - since I started teaching here, perhaps...I know he was only fourteen or fifteen then, but he just captivated me. He still does."

"Well, Minerva, only you can decide what is right. I won't say follow your heart, because if you only follow your heart then you head is often forgotten about; but don't make the mistake of only trusting your head, either. I think that you are sensible enough to find a comfortable balance between the two."

"The thing is..." I break off and sigh.

"What?"

"I can't get him out of my head. He's there every moment; he's the first thing I think about when I wake up, and the last thing before I go to sleep. I think it's becoming an obsession."

"No, Minerva. Not an obsession. You're in love." I blink at him.

"Love? But I was in love with Alexander, and -"

"Love comes in many shapes and sizes, Minerva."

***

I know that Dumbledore is right, but I can't think about that now. I'm at my desk in the classroom, marking the second-years' classwork. Sometimes I think that handwriting should be one of the subjects taught here; some of the students write atrociously.

It's late, and my eyes are itching with tiredness, but this needs to be done. If I fall behind on this then I'll fall behind on everything else, and then where will I be?

I'm almost finished. Just seven more to go...six...five...

And then a figure bursts through the door, gasping for breath and definitely in a worse for wear condition. It takes me not even two seconds to recognise who it is.

"Sev- Snape, what happened?" I correct myself just in time. I hardly call any of the students by their first names, let alone the Slytherins.

"Help," he says hoarsely, and quickly closes the classroom door behind him. One of his eyes is bruised, and there are little cuts all over his face. Without warning, he leans on one of the desks and vomits violently. Not just ordinary vomit, though: blood.

My first thought is to take him to the hospital wing, but then I remember that Madam Pomfrey isn't here - she is in London for a couple of days. The only other option is to take him to my chambers.

~~~

"I've been hearing things about you, Snape."

"What things?"

I try to sound defiant, but my voice is quaking slightly. I have always been scared of Lucius Malfoy. He's five years older than me, and a lot taller and stronger than me. His wife, Narcissa, is like a sister to me, but Lucius is terrifying. I'm probably the better wizard, but this isn't a duel. It's a fight, and physical strength has never been anything that I have much of.

"I've heard that you're going to ally yourself with the wrong person when you leave school. Dumbledore, to be precise. Your father is very angry with you - in fact, he told me personally to get the truth out of you, by whatever means necessary."

"I - I don't know what you -"

"Don't play games with me, Snape. I want to know the truth."

And before I know what's happening, his fist lands right in my eye. The fight is over quickly, but by the time Malfoy runs away, I can hardly move. My stomach hurts, and my head pounds, and I can hardly move my face.

The nearest place to here is the Transfiguration classroom. There's a chance that she'll be in there, which is good - I need some help, and quickly.

I lurch through the doorway, and she looks up in surprise.

"Snape - what happened?"

"Help," I croak, and then I am sick. Everywhere.

She rushes over, slides my arm around her shoulders, and then grips me under the arm to support me as we walk. I haven't a clue where we're going; I can hardly think at all.

She stops at a door, mutters a password, and it opens. I see instantly that it's her living room - it's all white and blue, with a big window and plush furniture. I slump down on the sofa, and she disappears into what I assume is the bathroom. She returns a few moments later clutching a damp flannel, a towel and a large bowl.

"Sit up," she says, and leaning me against her, begins to mop my forehead. If it weren't for the pain that's gripping my body, this would be bliss. I can smell her sweet perfume, I can hear her murmuring something under her breath, I can feel her chest rise and fall as she breathes -

"I'm going to be sick," I mutter, and in a flash the bowl is under my chin, ready to catch anything that might spill from my mouth.

"Get it all up," she says gently. At first I think I'm imagining it, but then I realise that it's really happening - she's stroking my hair, her fingers occasionally brushing my face - does she even realise that she's doing it? She must do, because she suddenly, abruptly, stops.

"Sorry," she mumbles. "I'll just go and empty this..."

I move out of the way, and she goes back to the bathroom. She comes back out of a different door, holding a big duvet and a pillow.

"You're in no fit state to go back to your dormitory. You can stay here for the night, and I'll go to the hospital wing and fetch you some pyjamas. If you're going to be sick again, the bathroom's just there. I won't be long."

She leaves, and I lean back against the cushions on the sofa. I've dreamt of being in her living room - or any of her rooms - many times, but in very different circumstances to this.

Too tired to do anything else, I take the duvet and pillow from the floor where she left them and settle down to sleep. I know she's gone to the trouble of fetching me pyjamas, but I can hardly keep my eyes open. The bedding smells of her, and I can almost imagine that she's here with me as my eyes close and I go to sleep...