Notes: I've fiddled with the chapter titles (as I do), as their context seems . . . off (or hidden entirely) without their accompanying bits of lyric. All lyrics, unless otherwise noted, are by the Cranberries (because I think them the best band in the world and good luck in convincing me otherwise), 'War Child', 'What You Were' and 'Reason' thus far.

Of course, thank you to those of you who've reviewed. I really wasn't expecting to get such a positive response from this -- and naturally I'm elated that I have. ;D Ankalagon, there is a plot, sort of -- I don't want to reveal overmuch -- but it won't unfold at the fastest of paces. For this pairing to be even minutely plausible, the characters' actions have got to be backed up by enough explanation and evolution (hence the slowness of this chapter), but yes, I am leading up to something beyond the relationship itself.

Thank you all again!

iii. I don't know what to say,
I don't know what to do,
I don't know what you want;
Is there anything I should do?
'Cause if you were in someone else's bed,
If you were in someone else's head,
If you were.

"Wotcher, McG."

The salutation, though still enthusiastic, was weaker than it had been in the past. A wry smirk formed on Minerva's lips.

"While it's a pleasure to see you, Nymphadora" -- Tonks pulled a face -- "I was under the impression that Moody would be contacting me himself. I hope nothing is amiss?"

The young Auror shook her head, a mass of pale curls bouncing about her pretty -- in its present guise, anyhow -- countenance. "Nah. I don't reckon, at least -- he's gone to investigate a jingling round the back of the house. Probably just a crusty old stray, but you know the drill: constant vigilance!" She punched the fire for emphasis, causing a shower of sparks to spit out onto the hearth rug.

"And a very wise drill it is, now of all times."

Tonks sighed, and a puff of smoke wafted into the room. "Too right. Just last night Bill and Hestia got back by the skin of their noses -- literally. They had to stop off at Saint Mungo's, the scratches were so bad. I think the Goblins make a special effort to get as much shi-- er, stuff, under their nails as possible."

"I can only imagine," Minerva grimaced. "Although I quite wish I couldn't. Speaking of Saint Mungo's, how is Mister Shacklebolt holding up?"

While the fire distorted the colouring of those who spoke through it, Tonks' cheeks brightened visibly. "Good. The Healers are planning on releasing him tomorrow, but it'll be a bit before he can return to work. Not that that'll stop him."

"Well, I'm very glad to hear it. Do see that he takes it easy, though -- as easy as he can."

Tonks snorted cynically. "As easy as he'll let me, y'mean."

"Indeed."

"How's Harry?"

It was Minerva's turn to sigh. "As well as can be expected. He is improving, though. He's in the library at the moment, concentrating on his summer schoolwork."

Tonks winced in sympathy for the boy. "Ouch. Summer work was bad enough, but a summer teacher to go along with it . . . No offence meant, of course," she tactfully tacked on, taking note of the Transfiguration professor's raised eyebrow.

"Of course," Minerva dryly agreed.

"Erm." Tonks' gaze shifted to her left, then instantly lit up. "Ah! Mad-Eye's back -- and what d'you know, he did bring in a crusty old stray. Watch yourself, McG. Tell Harry I said 'Hi!'" And with that, the head of Nymphadora Tonks vanished, and a visage Minerva was much more pleased to see took its place.

"Albus!"

"Hello, Tabby," Dumbledore smiled. "Alastor was good enough to let me in. I came with bells on."

Minerva felt as though a great burden had been suddenly lifted from her shoulders. "It's such a relief to see you again. How are matters progressing with Fudge? How are you?"

Her relief was short-lived. As she studied her mentor's face, she noticed that his eyes, despite the fondness she had always found them to contain toward her, held a tiredness that caused her throat to tighten.

Still, his tone was not disconsolate when he answered her, "Cornelius has been taken care of -- for now. I am fine. It is you whom I have been worried about -- and your young charge. How are you, my dear?"

Minerva knew that Moody and Tonks must have left the headmaster to his privacy; he never addressed her in such informal terms while in the company of others, a habit she had infixed in him in the early days of her tenure at Hogwarts, when shows of authority had been absolutely non-negotiable to her sense of professionalism.

"Oh, well enough," she sighed. "Helpless, anxious and guilty, but comparitively superb."

Albus' expression became one of pure incredulity. "Minerva McGonagall, my Minerva McGonagall, helpless? Nonsense. I won't believe it for a second. Not my Tabby."

Minerva smiled with greater ease than she had in the past two weeks. "Perhaps not completely," she conceded, then sobered, "But it is quite possibly the most difficult task I have ever undertaken, and that I feel I am having a difficult time does nothing to assuage my conscience. I just . . ." She exhaled at length, then shook her head. "I don't know what I'm doing, Albus. His mood changes from from moment to moment -- from sorrowful to angry to fearful to almost normal -- and I have no way of anticipating . . . I try to be what he needs -- what I think -- what I hope he needs, but . . ."

Dumbledore studied her gravely, with a resignation she had come to recognise from him more and more frequently, reminding her that he was not without his own sense of complicity. "Then you are doing all anyone can do for the boy," he said abjectly. "His behaviour isn't out of the ordinary for those who have survived such traumatic experiences. The only thing you can give him is space when he desires it, and comfort when he does not. I'm afraid there is no textbook way to deal with these sorts of situations."

She nodded. "I know. I only wish . . ."

"We all wish, my dear. We all do."

But for some things so drastically different. She kept the thought to herself. It did not do to dwell on dreams. Albus had taught her that.

"He has nightmares," she moved on. "Not prescient ones; their origins seem rooted in the past." Not that one can really tell the difference.

"Also to be expected," said the headmaster wearily.

"I thought briefly about giving him a potion to help him sleep--"

"No, Minerva," Albus broke in. "We cannot risk his nightly cogitations being disturbed in any way. Mister Potter's mind is, I am sorry to admit, one of the few things we have left to depend on. As awful as it sounds -- indeed, as awful as I feel saying it -- we could do with another of his prognostications."

"So Alastor has hinted at. Believe me, if such occurs, I shan't waste a second in contacting you."

His hand appeared in the fire. Minerva took it and held it tightly. His papery skin was cool in the midst of the flames.

"I never doubted you would," he said warmly, but the assertion felt like a lie as his fingers slipped out of her grasp. "And alas, I must be getting on."

"What? Already?"

Dumbledore gave her a small smile. "Unfortunately so."

"Is there nothing you wish me to tell the boy, or to tell him yourself? He's only doing his schoolwork--"

"Then that is already an extremely welcome change. You're doing well, Minerva. I trust your judgment in dealing with whatever Harry requires; I would not have consented to his staying there otherwise. You have my complete confidence."

And although his words were laudatory, they carried a finality she knew better than to argue with.

". . . Thank you, Albus. Do be careful."

"Constant vigilence," he murmured with a wink, and with a faint "Farewell, dearest Tabby," the fire became precisely that, no one more, one person less.

Minerva remained in front of it for some time, feeling rather chillier than she had before. Albus' commendations ran again through her mind, and under pretence of these, after a handful of minutes she rose and headed for the library to check on Potter's progress.

Her resoluteness was an ingrained response.

That the weight of her culpability had multiplied tenfold was seemingly unaccountable.

Potter looked up from his Divination homework as Minerva entered the library.

"Miss Tonks asked that I pass along her regards," she informed him as she made her way over to where he was seated, in one of the four high-backed chairs that stood around a small circular table on top of which his other schoolbooks had been placed. She didn't wait for his response before she continued, "How are things coming along?"

"The usual," he shrugged. "Firenze's classes are more interesting than Trela-- Professor Trelawney's, but the homework he gives is more difficult than hers." He gestured to a short pile of parchments on the table, upon which were written, in journal format, the beginnings of a work of mildly spooky fiction.

"'Saturday, 17 August,'" Minerva read aloud from the topmost parchment, "'Moon enters Libra, emphasising relationships. As have none and am currently in exile, will expect unrequited love letter from Luna Lovegood. Have already prepared gentle refusal of affections. Luna is lovely girl, but unfortunately Aquarius; relationship obviously doomed to failure.'"

"Ours is a love that dare not speak its name," Potter hopelessly confirmed.

Minerva leaned against the arm rest of the chair nearest the boy's, her eyes skimming down the page. "'Monday, 19 August: Moon goes Void of Course throughout morning; catastrophe imminent. Will wait it out in room. Moon back on course and in Scorpio by afternoon, creating outlet for pent-up emotions. Cabin fever will break. Will spend evening working out stir-craziness into normal, modest level of insanity.'"

"What do you think?"

"I think it's a load of rubbish. I expect you'll get very high marks."

Potter smiled.

"What's your sign, Minerva?"

She flinched slightly, and again debated the wisdom of ever allowing him to use that name. It was almost as unsettling as 'Voldemort'.

"Oh, I haven't the foggiest. Whichever one coincides with the thirtieth of March."

Potter thought for a moment. "Aries, then," he replied. "It suits you."

"Does it?" Minerva looked sceptical. "In what way?"

"It's a fire sign, the first sign of the Zodiac. Aries are thought to be quick-tempered, stubborn, and natural leaders. The constellation is a ram."

"I did take Astronomy, Potter, I know it's a ram," she said, somewhat clipped. "And I don't see how that's so accurate."

Potter only blinked at her.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said hastily.

"Well it isn't," she maintained. "I never lose my temper, and aside from my being your Head of House I don't know that I've done much in the way of leading, and as for being stubborn--"

"Okay," Potter interrupted her. "I believe you. I was wrong, no need to keep on."

Minerva frowned, an expression she would call 'annoyed' but that Albus had once described as 'sulky'. "Enough of this poppycock," she scoffed, tossing the parchments back onto the table and standing up. "If you're going to be educated in this house, it's going to be in something useful. Come with me, Potter."

The order was spoken so vehemently her teeth clicked together with his name, and Potter obeyed it without hesitation.

They marched -- or rather, Minerva marched; Potter trailed behind in the sullen manner of all students anticipating punishment -- up the stairs and into a room that might have passed for a dungeon, had it not been located on the highest floor of the keep. The Owlery of McGonagall Màrrach had fallen into disuse as the size of the family dwindled, and now contained only one owl: Minerva's own, a curmudgeonly bird of the spectacled variety who, at the moment, was the very picture of stately dormancy, nestled dozing on a tree branch roughly three feet in length that was positioned above a few head-sized stones whose heat could be felt even from the doorway. On either side of the apparatus, tropical pot plants flourished, a strange site set against so much forbidding grey stone.

"Shoo, Severus!" she commanded the owl with an emphatic wave of her arm. "Go find a proper tree for a few minutes. It's summer; it's not that cold out."

Without opening its eyes, it took a couple of steps along the branch, but remained rebelliously in the room.

"You named your owl," said Potter slowly, "after Professor Snape?"

"And what a fitting namesake it is," Minerva groused, taking two careful, silent steps toward the animal. One huge yellow eye cracked open and watched her suspiciously. "Out," she told it.

The owl turned its back on her.

Minerva was unimpressed, but her voice was nonchalant when she spun on her heel. "Fine," she said over her shoulder. "Have it your way. Potter, hex the branch."

"Beg pardon?"

"You heard correctly, Potter; hex it."

"With what?"

Minerva shrugged. "With whatever springs to mind."

Tentatively, Potter withdrew his wand from the back pocket of his jeans and pointed it at the tree branch. "Evanesco!"

The branch vanished. Severus let out an alarmed squawk as his talons groped the air where there had previously been wood and his wings flapped furiously to keep himself from falling into the hot stones.

"Serves you right," Minerva sniffed. The owl shot both her and her charge an offended glare before flying out one of the wide glassless windows, tutting huffily as it went.

"Now," she addressed the young man beside her, who was watching her with a mix of unease and amusement, "that was very good, Potter. Unfortunately, that particular charm is considerably less effective on humans and other living things. Of a somewhat similar effect is the Destruo Jinx; do you know it?" Harry shook his head. "Repeat after me, then -- wand down, lad, wand down -- Obliterate."

"Obliterate," said Potter.

Minerva nodded in approval. "Pronunciation is key, until you become skilled enough that reciting the incantation in your mind will suffice, as Professor Flitwick should have already drilled into your head. However" -- Minerva conjured a small stone wall and crouched down behind it, and motioned for Potter to do the same -- "the Destruo Jinx is not recommended at close range without adequate protection. Hex a pot plant, Potter."

The boy's eyes peered overtop the wall and he quickly aimed his wand. "Obliterate!"

The ensuing boom was deafening as cannon fire, and Minerva was suddenly all too aware of her error in choosing so resonant a room for the demonstration.

"Good," she praised against the ringing in her ears as she helped Potter pick himself up off the floor and dusted the soil from his hair. "Very good, although perhaps a relocation . . ."

"What?" Potter shouted as he attempted to wipe the sap off his glasses.

"My thoughts precisely," Minerva muttered, plucking the spectacles out of his hands and cleaning them with a tap of her wand.

The hot stones went with them (cooled), and the wall was conjured anew, along with various other teaching aids, on the castle grounds. Minerva had got an idea.

"Ready, Potter?" she called.

There was a brief flurry of movement, and the word 'yes' was spelled out in gradually dissipating letters above a large boulder.

Minerva took a step back, then pointed her wand at the stone sitting at the top of the pile on the ground. "Venatio Veneficus."

It rose a good thirty feet, getting its bearings, before it whirred through the air in a sweeping concave arc toward the boulder. For a moment it looked as though it would impact the great rock directly, but a change in its course at the last instant caused it to only nick the edge of boulder's summit. It rebounded upwards some seven or eight metres and then, abruptly, dropped.

Potter had been inching around the boulder, his back pressed against the rock, which accounted for the makeshift Bludger's somewhat less than pinpoint sense of accuracy. He waited, his gaze never leaving the flying stone, until it wasn't two metres from him before he actually sprang into action, diving to the grass and rolling to the next shelter -- the second wall.

Minerva felt her shoulders sag as she let out the breath she had been holding. The boy had more patience than she -- than anyone she knew of, really; most people tended to change their position fast and frequently in order to throw off their opponent's chances of getting in a hit. But, she reflected, Potter was a Seeker: he was trained to lie in wait until the opportunity for victory presented itself. The effect it had had on his reflexes and the manner in which he approached conflict was oddly serpentine -- but effective, she saw as Potter allowed the stone to whiz over his head. In the time it took it to double back, he struck.

"Well done," Minerva appraised, once the shower of rubble had ceased.

"It was nearly too easy," Potter confessed, to which Minerva's eyebrows rose.

"Shall we try two at once, then?"

Potter chewed at his bottom lip as he contemplated the pile of stones.

"Could we try all of them?"

"Don't you think you're getting a wee bit overambitious?"

He shrugged, and Minerva sighed.

"All right, Potter, if you're that sure of yourself . . ."

Her tone left him a final chance to reconsider. He didn't take it.

"Venatio Veneficus."

The stones swirled up like leaves caught in a whirlwind, and Minerva leaned against the aged elm near the abandoned stables to watch. An enervating mix of astonishment and apprehension lurched wavelike in her breast -- he really hadn't overestimated his capabilities. She knew he practiced duelling often -- many of the students now did -- but a classroom setting had done very little to showcase his progress. This was much different. It was as though she were witnessing a dance, and Potter's skill and power in accomplishing its steps were nothing short of breathtaking for a boy his age.

But there you are wrong, a voice rectified in her mind. He is no longer a boy.

It was true, she realised as he leapt over the low stone wall without the aid of touching it -- his legs merely pivoted in a handless cartwheel of the sort she had once seen Ginny Weasley perform across the school grounds in a burst of exuberance. She wondered if the girl had taught him the tumble.

Potter had grown up so rapidly, Minerva had scarcely noticed the occurance. He was an old soul to be sure, and adolescence was a time of such arrogance for most children that she had, at times, mistaken his maturity for egotism. He wasn't only self-absorbed -- he was right. So much of the world did revolve around him, his actions. This young man was important, and his awareness of that fact did nothing to lessen its verity.

It wasn't until he had done away with all but the last remaining stone (hovering some distance above, presumably reorganising its strategy) that he paused, and looked to her for an evaluation.

Minerva's lips searched for a minute for words she couldn't quite form. "Well . . . you'll certainly pass your Defence NEWT," she finally settled on. "Although," she added, for the sake of constructive criticism, "I'd like to see you work on your . . . subtlety . . . a bit more. There may come a time when your scope of motility is severely impeded upon, and the ability to dodge hexes at close range may be the difference between success and failure."

"Yes ma'am."

Minerva gave him a quizzical look. "Formality in the field?" she asked teasingly. "You're on your way to becoming an Auror already."

The smile that had begun to form on his features faded in an instant, and his eyes grew wide. "Minerva -- behind you!"

She didn't need to turn to know what his warning pertained to. The sharp motion of her wand almost too quick to see, and she caught the conjured Beater's bat in midair as she twisted round on her toes in an almost terpsichorean movement. With a crack that resounded through the air like lightning, the stone was punted back in the direction from which it had attacked.

"There can only be one Highlander!" Potter bellowed triumphantly. Minerva's brow furrowed in confusion. ". . . Muggle joke," he explained. "But that was brilliant. Did you ever play Quidditch?"

"For six years," she confirmed, no miniscule amount of pride in her voice.

Potter looked impressed, but just as he opened his mouth to say something more his gaze shifted to a point beyond her shoulder.

The wind all but left her lungs completely as he tackled her to the ground, and not a second too soon. The stone punched into the earth where she had been standing, and as it soared up again for another go Potter thrust his wand up into the air.

"Obliterate!"

Minerva suddenly found the young man's face extremely close to her own, as he shielded both his head and hers from the resultant detritus. His glasses had fallen off, and for a length of time she couldn't measure -- something seconds and centuries at once -- his green eyes bore into hers with familiar intent.

"They always come back," he said hoarsely, his breath warm and quick against her lips. A chill ran through her, a not entirely fearful thrill, and she pushed him aside and sat upright.

"That's -- that's enough for today, Potter," she stuttered, her eyes flickering along the grass.

"Is something the matter, Minerva?"

The name sounded a mockery in her ears, and she fought the urge to shriek at him, "Stop calling me that!"

"No, Potter."

She shouldn't be angry with him, she knew -- the rational part of her brain, though relegated to the back burner, still functioned enough that she knew her distrust was unfounded. It was she who drew the parallels, she who saw what wasn't really there, who heard malevolence when there was none and overstepped her own boundaries.

"Go inside," she quietly commanded. "Put the kettle on. I'll tidy up out here."

Potter got to his feet, but lingered. "Are you sure you're all right?"

The warm weight of his hand rested upon her shoulder, and she clasped it tightly with intent to throw it away -- but thought better of the potentially hurtful action, and slowly disengaged her fingers from his instead.

"Yes, boy, I'm fine."

He returned to the castle with unhurried steps. Once she heard the kitchen door shut, Minerva covered her face with her hand. What was wrong with her?

"It's been fifteen years, Tom!"
"You promised to wait for me."
"This isn't you. I don't even recognise you any more."

At the time, she had been so positive of that. Disenchanted but young enough for melodrama to still be clinging to the hem of her cloak, she had said those words with a shake of her head and a shiver of revulsion. It hadn't been him -- not the Tom she had known, whom she had . . .

. . . That Tom was dead, and ghosts, even in the wizarding world, only haunted. They did not inhabit -- they were bodyless beings, a law of magic that encompassed possession. Harry Potter simply . . . he couldn't possibly . . . she had known him since he was a baby, for Merlin's sake!

It's been fifteen years . . . I don't even recognise you any more.

But she did -- she thought she did.

He left a part of himself in me, and I can't help but be partly him. I can't help . . . affecting people . . . the same way he does.

What was there to be done about it, about a similitude that not only made sense, but had been commented on before? The analogues between them were nothing new. Albus himself had remarked upon them when Potter had been twelve -- Minerva remembered it well, for it had cut her to the quick, and made her determination to succeed with Potter where she had failed with Tom that much stronger. Not in any overt way, of course -- she knew she mustn't interfere in the young man's life in any larger a capacity than that which her station dictated. His life had already contained more than its share of instability; the last thing he needed was to receive the featherbedding attentions of some outdated schoolmarm -- which, she had to acknowledge, was probably how he had always perceived her. Strict, unappeasable Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor, who always did the right thing because it was she who was doing it.

But surely that was not giving the boy enough credit, to assume he still held the romanticised notions of a child, of black and white, good and evil, right and wrong. Potter knew by now the myth that was infallibility.

Her doubts, certainly, gave him no credit at all. After all, it was her romanticised notions -- erroneous, ridiculous, paranoid notions -- that were the cause of her unjust and ill-timed misgivings.

Austere, clannish Minerva McGonagall, Head Girl who had never truly grown up.

And these deluded histrionics were doing her no great service. Of course she was at fault; she rarely wasn't, in her view of things. But martyrdom was a privilege for those who performed heroic deeds, not well-intentioned mistakes. Selfish though she felt, she was not blind beyond her nose, no matter what her spectacles might say otherwise.

She glanced back at the kitchen window, and through it found that Potter was playing the most unsubtle of voyeurs, the nature of his expression obscured by the glare of the sun on the glass. Shame swept through her. What he must think of her strange behaviour, when she should have stood as the pillar of normality against which he could breathe and rest.

It was unacceptable.

The frigid armour of her mind built itself back into place, its many splinters and fissures sealing together to form the wall that had solidified her inexorable reputation. She cleaned away the debris from the demolished stones, and left the conjured items to dissipate in their own time.

Potter was still at the window. The way the light bent created an illusion of a self-satisfied smile on his face as drew back and disappeared from view.

Minerva felt a fluttering in her stomach, the edginess and exhiliration of treading on thin ice. She did with it whatever the mental equivalent of frustratedly ripping it to pieces, throwing them the floor and jumping up and down on them was.

"Have I done something wrong?"

They were sitting in the parlour, a picture of domestic contentment, aside from his question. Each had a book open in their lap, and tea and sweets (and a bottle of Potter's ever present butterbeer) rested on the low table between their respective chairs. Minerva paused, a Ginger Newt partway to her mouth.

"No. Whatever gave you that idea?"

Potter idly twisted the scarlet ribbon bookmarker of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. "Earlier," he said. "You seemed . . . displeased. And you've been quiet -- and not only because you've been reading."

"Oh, I . . ." she trailed off, all plausible excuses failing to present themselves. "It's nothing to concern yourself over, Potter."

He stared at her dubiously for a few seconds, then apparently deemed her answer passable -- or if not passable, then the most she was going to give him -- and began to peel the paper and foil off a chocolate bar labelled 'Cadbury Turkish Delight'. He'd requested the stuff after he'd finished The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, and Mundungus Fletcher had acquired (for it never did to specify precisely how Mundungus got his hands on anything) a few bars from a Muggle confectionery and passed them through the fire to Minerva a couple of days ago. Despite having been curious after her own first reading of the Narnia series, she had never sought out the sweet herself. She knew Albus was fond of it, but she'd never remembered to ask him for a taste.

She observed as Potter broke off a square and bit off the top half, revealing a sticky little pool of reddish-pink jelly in the centre, which he licked off first before eating the chocolate itself. Noticing her interest, he offered her a piece.

Minerva bit cautiously into the square. The chocolate seemed normal enough, although it lacked the warming effects of the sort made by wizards. The jelly, however, was quite unlike anything she had tried before, a little spicy and sweet at the same time.

"Do you like it?" asked Potter.

"It's . . . interesting. What's in the jelly?"

Potter looked down at the wrapper, and shrugged. "Delighted Turkish people, I guess."

"Ha."

She finished the square, and sucked the melted chocolate from her fingers.

"Um--" said Potter. Minerva arched an inquiring eyebrow. "You've got -- here--" He leaned over in his chair and raised a hand to her face, and brushed his thumb along the corner of her mouth, and just below her bottom lip. Minerva was too shocked to respond, and it wasn't until he'd sat back in his chair that she recovered her wits.

". . . Why did you do that, Potter?"

Again, he shrugged. "I--"

"Why didn't you simply tell me instead?"

Potter's cheeks reddened, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I don't know, I just . . . did. I'm sorry."

Minerva gazed at him evenly. "Potter, are you . . ."

His brow furrowed slightly. "Am I . . .?"

She shook her head. "Never mind." It was too preposterous. It was too embarrassing, and his reply would not only cement that feeling but add to it.

A draught crept in through one of the windows, blessedly cool on her heated face but stirring a shudder from her limbs. The evening was crisper than usual, and the twilight sky was fading fast into night. Minerva ran her hands over her arms, and pointed her wand at the fireplace. "Incendio."

Flames sprang to life, and out of the corner of her vision she thought she saw Potter flinch, although the movement could have been a legerdemain of the sudden flare of illumination.

"How much did you like Alastor Moody?" he asked of a sudden, catching her off guard.

"I beg your pardon?"

"A couple of weeks ago, the day he came by, you said you'd once liked him a great deal more than you do now."

She frowned. "What on earth brought that to your mind?"

Potter's eyes danced with the shadows thrown from the firelight, but his face remained impassive. "I was only wondering something. You said you were at Hogwarts together, but Tonks told me Moody's over a hundred. You couldn't have been students together."

Minerva's face hardened, and her lips thinned. "I fail to see how my private life is any business of yours, Potter, and might I add that impertinence is not a trait I encourage in my students."

"I'm not your student," he pointed out. "Not at the moment, anyway."

"Be that as it may, the boundaries of respect and personal privacy are not conditional according to your whims, despite your considerable experience in bending -- if not breaking completely -- whatever rules you find inconvenient to your purposes."

"Was he a teacher?" Potter persisted. "I don't know that Barty Crouch, Junior would have mentioned Moody's teaching at Hogwarts before, even if he had known about it, but it would make Professor Dumbledore's hiring him -- or who he thought was him -- in the first place a lot more reasonable if he had held the position before."

Minerva blinked. "That's what you're wondering about -- the headmaster's motivation for choosing Defence Against the Dark Arts instructors?"

Potter's stolid visage did not waver. "No."

"Then what--"

"You know what. You're avoiding the question."

"I don't have to answer to you, Potter."

"Did you fancy him? An older man, someone you shouldn't have been attracted to? The Chamber of Secrets was opened when you were a student; was he one of the Aurors investigating it?"

"Mister Potter!" Minerva shouted, leaping to her feet. Her pulse was a pounding rush in her ears, ruffled indignation phasing out what shreds of compassionate tolerance had survived his test of her patience. "That is quite enough! If you think for one instant that you can -- that your staying here permits you to disregard -- Harry, are you listening to me?"

Potter's eyes had drifted to the fireplace, and his mouth had drawn small and tight. "Yes," he hissed through his teeth.

"Then -- then explain yourself! What the devil has got into your head?"

"Forget it," he muttered.

"I will not!" She stamped her foot, a childish gesture she immediately wished she could have contained. Potter's eyes widened, and for a fraction of a second Minerva could have sworn they reflected a glimmer of amusement before he schooled his face back to its former blankness. It had a sobering effect on her. To think herself ridiculous was one thing; for her students to hold with such a notion was something she would not allow. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, as if to furl back time and erase the indiscretion of her comportment.

When she opened them again, she wondered if she hadn't succeeded. Potter, book, chocolate and butterbeer had all disappeared. The only evidence as to their ever being present was the library door, hanging ajar on its hinges like a mouth parted in invitation.

Swearing under her breath, Minerva threw herself back into her chair, and declined to accept it.