Certain Dark Things || Book Three

xxvi. grief and other terrors

Minerva McGonagall loved Quidditch.

She'd always loved it, from the very first time she'd sat in the stands on Hogwarts' pitch at eleven-years-old and watched the players soar across the sky. She loved it when she played for Gryffindor, and she loved it even after those cheating blighters in Slytherin shattered half her bones and sidelined her for good. Minerva could admit her love dipped into zealotry when the end of the year approached and the House Cup was on the line, but most of the magical world regarded Quidditch with a degree of frenzied mania. There was an addictive thrill to it few could deny.

Still, even Minerva could admit love and zealotry had their limits when faced with a massive blizzard.

"Och," she breathed when she and other members of staff stepped out beyond the castle's eaves and braved the first bracing gale. Her hat stayed on by virtue of the Charmed pin, but Pomona wasn't quite so lucky, cursing up a storm of her own as she summoned her hat back to her hands before the winds carried it too far. Ahead of them, Remus hunched his skinny shoulders and pulled up the hood of his cloak.

"Nimue's blessings," Filius squeaked from behind, using his taller colleagues to block the worst of the draft. "That's brisk! I'm so glad my Ravenclaws aren't playing in this today!"

Descending the castle steps, Severus scoffed, apparently unperturbed by the weather. "Yes, they might have to display a modicum of effort if they were. Merlin forbid they pry themselves from their books long enough to try." He swept off without waiting for Filius' reply or pausing to magic the rain from himself. At times like this, Minerva thought the boy really did deserve that unfortunate sobriquet of dungeon bat.

"It seems Severus is already in a competitive spirit," Albus commented, bringing up the rear of their group. He waved his hand above their heads and conjured an umbrella-shaped ward, the rain pooling and dripping from its edges.

"Is that what we're calling it now? A competitive spirit? I thought it was called being a miserable bawbag."

Pomona chortled, and Albus had the gall to pretend he didn't hear Minerva.

They continued toward the distant, looming outline of the stadium visible through the thickening downpour. Minerva broke away from the group to catch those loitering students playing in the rain, pulling apart a pair of Slytherin and Gryffindor sixth-years before their bickering could come to blows. She urged a final group of Hufflepuff second-years toward the stairs leading into the stands and stopped to reapply the Charms to herself, grimacing at the ache building in the exposed joints of her fingers. Above, she could barely hear the clamor of her students talking over the fierce wind—but it lulled then, just enough for Minerva to catch her breath and for unexpected voices to meet her ears.

"—expect you to merely follow my directions, Mr. Flint. Is that too much for you to comprehend?"

"No, Professor."

"Then do as you're told."

A door leading into one of the more extensive storage cupboards opened, and Slytherin came out of it, his head immediately swinging in Minerva's direction. His red eyes glinted low and dull in the dismal lighting.

"Minerva."

"Professor Slytherin," she clipped. Marcus Flint stepped out behind the other wizard. "Is anything the matter?"

"Everything is just as it should be, Professor." Slytherin smiled—a bland, saccharine thing that set Minerva's teeth on edge. He brushed Flint past him, his tone more cutting when he addressed the boy. "Return to your team, Mr. Flint."

"Yes, sir."

Both departed, Slytherin not stopping to give Minerva another moment of consideration—and nor did he head towards the staffing section, instead returning to the mud-slicked path leading to the castle.