Hogwarts' Spy

McGonagall went down the last step on the cold staircase leading to the ground floor with a very discreet wince. She stubbornly refused to believe that the insistent pain in her right hip was just a sign of old age. In accordance, she attributed it to old injuries instead. The ones she had been inflicted by Umbridge and her acolytes had been particularly handy for the past year.

"Good evening, Deputy Headmistress McGonagall," said the house-elf who welcomed her at the kitchen's door. "How is Smirky to be of assistance tonight, sir?"

"I would like a light snack, please," replied the professor.

"Is some ham and cheese sandwiches okay?"

"That would be great... and perfect with a pot of Earl Grey."

"And pickles as usual, sir?"

"Has it become such a habit?" asked McGonagall, a bit surprised.

"Not at all, sir!" squeaked the small figure. "Smirky apologizes for being so rude, sir!"

"Don't be too hard on yourself; it was just a remark."

"Is Deputy Headmistress McGonagall wanting I to bring her tray in her private quarters?"

"I'll wait for my tray here and bring it upstairs myself, thank you," said the witch softly.

McGonagall had always liked to pace the castle late at night, when the corridors were deserted, and all excuses were good to renew the experience. In these moments, she could fully enjoy the changing view the large windows offered her, year after year, season after season. Walking had always helped her to focus her thoughts, find solutions to a variety of different problems, small or great. Every time she could, she let her feet bring her outside, along the banks of the lake or on safe paths in the Forbidden Forest. Sometimes, she was alone; on other occasions, someone else walked at her side and commented on the beauty of the stars, of a particular painting... or pointed out a problem's solution to her. Truth be said, the walking also helped her circulation and relieved the pain in her limbs, but she did not want to see things that way.

While waiting for her tray to be ready, she read the piece of parchment Snape had given her. The corners of her lips leapt back into their former ironic smirk once she acknowledged its contents more thoroughly. She had no difficulty in believing the black-haired wizard had reacted so strongly to it. From the books and other reading material she had caught him with during his school years, it was absolutely not the type of literature he enjoyed. Had the observer been concealed with some highly sophisticated dark charm and the two lovers been planning some kind of complex political coup, maybe...

"Good night, sir," said Smirky, pushing the gigantic painting open and passing the loaded tray to the witch.

Nonetheless, contrary to what people usually thought when they met her, McGonagall's personal library did not only include austere old books about Transfiguration and other fields of magic. At times, she loved to run away from seriousness as far as she could, if only for a brief moment. Curling up in her favourite chair by the fire with something to nibble on, a warm cup of tea and an epic novel, preferably depicting some hopelessly romantic moments, was just what she needed on these occasions. As a young witch, she could spend much longer hours plunged in that kind of book, which greatly displeased her father, Healer Andromus McGonagall, who wished that his eldest daughter be interested in much more useful topics...

Just as she was about to reach the first floor, however, the staircase moved slowly to the right, connecting with another. McGonagall let out an annoyed sigh and meant to fumble the inside of her sleeve for her wand when her glance came across the piece of parchment, folded neatly on the tray. Snape was right, the writing was familiar. So familiar indeed, that for once, his instinctual suspicions about her Gryffindors might be justified. She could not afford risking another conscientious teacher gathering evidence against the indisputable reputation of the students under her care.

Well, even if I find nothing, the view will be worth it, she thought, starting her long ascension towards the seventh floor.

Leaving her tray on the stone frame of a large window, she made a brief round in the surroundings, but found no one. Reassured, she went back to her tray, conjured a comfortable chair and sat down at last. After a first sips of hot tea, all her weariness seemed to vanish, leaving her only a light snack, the silence, and the splendour of the school grounds bathed in the moonlight to enjoy.

Whether she liked it or not, the parchment's contents came back into her mind after her very first bite of sandwich. For reasons that were only too clear, its chosen topic touched her in a very personal way. Minerva McGonagall had a secret of her own. She huffed at the mere thought of it, wondering if it could still be called a secret after all these years. All those things that had never been said, expressed, if only, she hoped, hinted.... Could they be called a secret? Should they be called a missed opportunity?

Forty years of missed opportunities?

Forty years... had it really been that long? How fast time had passed.... She could still remember so many of them! Even the former Minister of Magic, who had practically cried on her lap after failing his very first practical exam. She had taught to a first generation of witches and wizards, then to another... and then to the children of these two generations. Some of them had become the glorious pride of their parents, achieving great things in the wizarding world, even overseas in some cases. She had heard about marriages, divorces, births... deaths.

Where had Minerva's life gone during all those years? After all, teaching had not always defined her life. Research, a long time ago, had been her life. Her brilliant mind had enthralled others at the Department of Mysteries, and the director of the department had personally expressed how much her skills would be missed when she informed him of her decision to reorient her career. He had even labelled her work as exceptional, a word he used with extreme parsimony. But research at the Ministry had lost a lot of its appeal after Tolonius and she had divorced. Truth be said, the air itself was so heavy that it affected everybody around. They never knew when to expect a sharp and biting remark from the witch or a blatantly depreciative tirade from the wizard. Once it reached its peak, the aftermath of their separation had narrowed the matter to a very simple choice. Either he left or she did. McGonagall always managed to be the first to react; this time was no exception.

So, that was another life, she thought, planting her teeth in a crunchy pickle. What about the one that followed?

In the life that had followed, her priorities had changed greatly. For one thing, she had come to Hogwarts filled with bitterness and frustration. All the things that Tolonius had left her with. For years she had longed for the feel of a warm bundle against her bosom; for years he had requested her patience, had reminded her that she had greater goals, greater endeavours to attend to. Great responsibilities, too. Her father had abundantly supported his position, obviously. For a while, she had agreed with him as well. That is, until her body stopped waiting and let her down. That wake-up call had signed the doom of their relationship. She never forgave him... no more than she ever forgave herself.

So she had began her first day at Hogwarts with far more regrets than remorse. Her contact with students had been difficult at first; they were greatly taken aback by her stern attitude and she was not trusted. In addition, she was used to presenting to a much more mature and experienced audience, and the younger minds found her extremely difficult to follow. Yet a couple of weeks after her debut, at the Christmas feast she shared with a few fellow teachers and a small group of students, a wizard with auburn hair had taken a seat next to her. They had discussed literature, Muggle culture, Scotland, Quidditch... and from that day forward, she always managed to get a seat next to him. As ironic as fate can sometimes be, that seat eventually became something she owned by right.

Nevertheless, that man's gentleness healed a few wounds within her. A simple chat with him, between two classes, was enough to make her smile (though of course, she rarely let it show on her lips). Furthermore, the way his daring and wicked personality clashed with hers actually made some sense, in the end. His humor made her take her problems -and herself- less seriously, and his sense of wonder brought back some of the magic she found in research. More importantly, the way he always seemed to care deeply about the people around him restored some of the faith she had lost in the goodness of her fellow humans.

During the first war, his profound passion and sense of adventure had shaken her to the depths of her core. Looking at him, listening to him as he presided the Order meetings, raising the members' spirits, swelling their courage like a true Gryffindor, she had come in touch again with the young witch who once read and loved epic novels. He was the brave knight, the bold and fearless wizard... he was the man she could have followed anywhere.

Except that he did not let a lot of people follow. Not from too close. He was a wizard who would extend a friendly hand to almost everybody... but once that hand was seized, he did not pull people closer. Despite his aura of warmth and understanding, he seemed, in fact, a very secretive man. McGonagall, on the contrary, chose her intimate friends with almost obsessive care, but once they gained her trust, she was able to open her heart and speak her mind freely. And though she, sometimes, had confided him a thing or two during some private conversation when his presence felt particularly warm and welcoming, he had almost never returned the favor.

So many things make us complete opposites... she thought, leaning her elbows against the window frame. And so many make us alike!

The adages covered both eventualities, unfortunately. Not knowing which one to believe might have been a part of what sealed her lips for so long. Their differences had raised storms inside her mind and heart, but they had also made her evolve into a better witch, a better teacher, a better woman. They shared so many tastes... so many hopes... even a few flaws, like that stubbornness which had been thrown in their faces reproachfully on several occasions! Their story could have been so grand, in its own way...

Some say that late is better than never, she mused, frowning with concern.

Her conscience told her at once that talking to him now was not a good idea. Things were not good... the timing was definitely not good. Just as she thought that, her tired eyes distinguished the outline of scarlet robes underneath a heavy cloak. An Auror was walking across the grounds, braving the chillness of the night for the sake of Hogwarts' safety, for the sake of duty. His mere presence reminded her painfully of one inevitable truth: Voldemort was back. The wizarding world was at war.

But then... maybe war was the perfect time to make a foolish attempt and play it all. So many people rushed their marriage during such dark eras; some of these hasty unions resisted the passage of time all the same. It could be the same for them. Besides, she did not even ask for that formal of a union. Just... something warm and comforting to think of during the day, something to long for and come back to each night.

Getting to her feet abruptly, she Vanished her chair along with the tray. With the piece of parchment clutched in her hand, she walked resolutely along a few dark corridors, until she reached a dead end. The sight of one particular gargoyle froze her on spot. A moment later, she was leaning against another window frame, a few feet from there.

What will I tell him? she wondered, her shaky breath drawing strange foggy shapes on the glass. Where should I begin? Surely he would prefer it simple... straightforward. I could just go in there and tell him how I feel. How I have been feeling for so very long.

She had no difficulty in imagining him. He was probably still sitting at his desk at that time, or maybe he was sitting by the fire. She preferred him that way. He would invite her to sit beside him, and her eyes would undoubtedly be enrapt by the dancing flames. He would respect her silence, as always. He would not pressure her in any way. He would wait for her to speak. Speak her heart instead of her mind, truly, for once. And just before opening her mouth, she would have to fight the urge to curl up into his arms and get lost in his embrace. In silence.

"Minerva... I have let you come close over the years," replied his voice in her mind, beginning a conversation that her many contradictory feelings dictated her. "This is the closest I can possibly let you."

"You let me come close professionally, and to some degree, on the personal level as well," she acquiesced mentally. "I have still always respected your space; it would be no different. Have I ever demanded you if only one personal disclosure during those years?"

"Think of the scandal it would create, dearest..."

"Rubbish!" she exclaimed softly, then cast furtive looks around to make sure nobody had heard her.

What harm could their relationship do? She was well past the age of bearing children, so raising a family was definitely not an issue. They could still live in Hogwarts, no obligations... just the same old routine... with benefits.

"I have many enemies... now more than ever," he argued, restlessly, in her mind.

"I will fight them with you... for you... just like I have done so in the past!" came the passionate answer, glowing with genuineness.

"You do realize that I am probably fifty years older than your father..." he argued, the sparkles in his blue eyes so vivid that she could almost see them reflected in the dark window.

"It does not matter!" she thought heatedly. "In some things, you are more immature than the students! And yet in others, you surpass every wizard I have ever encountered! Don't you feel lonely, at times? Surrounded with people, and yet still alone?"

This time, no answer came to her.

"Then, isn't it time that someone take care of you... my love? My dearest... dearest love?" she murmured, feeling a lump sneaking its way to her throat as she leaned her forehead against the coolness of the glass. "For all the years that remain? Haven't you given enough to deserve something in return? Why can't you simply let me give it to you? I have still so many things left to give..."

Seconds dragged down for an eternity while she stayed there, motionless. Just as her lips started trembling, however, it struck her. He knew. Perhaps had he even known from the start. He had the knack to understand people's desires, train of thoughts... he had seen right through her on countless occasions over the years; he could not possibly be oblivious to this. Her eyes had probably betrayed her... or her hands? The way she handed him a cup of tea? The way she always managed to keep him longer in her office whenever he came to visit her there? The way she trembled whenever he was near? He had surely felt it.

And he had done nothing about it.

What is that kind of talk? snapped an austere voice in her head, diverting her from the violent pang of pain that hit her simultaneously. Minerva McGonagall is not like this! You can't wail over your own mistakes, lass, you have responsibilities! As a teacher, and as a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Get a grip and be up to the task, or you'll be of no use at all!

And on this, she pushed herself away from the wall, turned around and walked back towards the staircase, gulping down far more than unshed tears. At her back, merging with the sharp sound of her quick and steady step, a stone gargoyle leapt aside, freeing the passageway behind it. The piece of parchment, forgotten, abandoned once more to its peculiar fate and about to meet it again, lay crippled on one of the window frames.

~)*(~