Chapter Text
Severus never really knew what it was like to call someone an old friend. That is, until after he became the headmaster of Hogwarts.
Never did he think he'd be friends with someone who should have really been a rival. Never did he think he'd associate with someone who, in all respects, was the total opposite.
Never did he think he'd miss such friendship after it was cruelly ripped from him.
Every Friday evening, he would sit with Minerva McGonagall in her office for tea, gossiping about their students' latest antics, discussing lesson plans, and betting on who would win the House Cup for the year. But this year was entirely different. He was now vilified not only by her, but by Pomona, by Filius, and by everyone who had sided with Dumbledore.
This year, instead of bantering with Minerva, he was using all his energy and willpower to keep his Occlumency shields up. He was constantly devising plans on how he would possibly relate the horrific truth to Potter. He was always going back and forth between Dumbledore's portrait and Voldemort himself, playing the part he had been playing for almost seventeen years.
There was one night, so close to Christmas, when Severus finally reached his breaking point. Not able to take more horror, he ended up slumped in the headmaster's chair, head buried in his hands, sobbing. What Dumbledore was putting him through was no less than abuse. He didn't want to experience any more of this. He wanted to be able to freely banter with Minerva, chat with his colleagues, and act as if none of this had happened, as if it hadn't been he who had yelled, "Avada Kedavra!" and sent Dumbledore falling to his death.
But it was no use. He was still stuck in this world, counting the amount of days he had left, knowing that Voldemort would eventually find out about him and kill him as mercilessly as he had done others. Severus would die, knowing his role, knowing that no one would bury him. After all, no one cared. He was all alone, desolate, pushing through a great blizzard in the black night.
And if someone did, in fact, hear his cries, his pleas for help, he wouldn't know, for his grief was the only thing he knew in that moment.
It was the only thing he understood.
Unbeknownst to the angst-ridden headmaster, Minerva was standing on the other side the door, tears running tracks down her cheeks, desperately yearning to learn the reason why her old friend was like this, suffering from a mysterious, inexplicable evil. Of course, she loathed what he had done, loathed that he could have even uttered those two horrid words. But then why would he be moaning in this way, like a dying animal? Shouldn't Severus have been enjoying his newfound power, seeing as he had been willing to kill for it? But perhaps she only knew half the story. Perhaps this was all a hallucination, and that the next morning, she'd wake up and banter with Severus at breakfast, thanking Merlin that this had only been a dream.
Finding the courage to do so, she rapped lightly on the door, praying that Severus would hear and let her in. As she had hoped, the sounds came to an abrupt halt. The screeches of chair legs dragging against the floor resounded, and light, nimble footsteps approached her.
Minerva quickly backed away, pulling out a handkerchief to dab at her tears, and the door swung open, revealing a man she no longer recognized. His shoulders, once broad and postured, were now hunched, a self-protective shield. His lips, once the sculptor of sarcastic and witty remarks, were now drawn into a thin line. And worst of all, his eyes, once bright, determined, and excitable, were now sunken in, devoid of anything remotely hopeful.
In short, Severus was merely a shadow of what he had used to be.
"M-Minerva…" he started.
"Don't call me that," Minerva snapped, immediately regretting the words that had flown through her teeth. "What I mean is—"
"No," Severus cut through, his voice hard. "I understand. Please come in, Professor."
Severus led her to his desk, waving his wand to shut the door and lock it. As she took her seat, she noted the various changes that had been made since Dumbledore had died.
Most notably, Fawkes wasn't there. None of Dumbledore's quirky gadgets and trinkets remained, completely replaced with skulls and other Dark artifacts. The room was black, so black that it felt like she had stepped into the void. How could Severus wake up to this blackness every morning?
"What is it that you wish to speak to me about?" Severus asked, much too formal for her liking. But of course, she had forced that upon him when she told him not to call her by her given name.
At first, Minerva had no idea what to say to her former colleague. Why had she knocked on the door? She knew he'd be mortified if he knew she'd heard his sobs.
"I…"
Minerva fell silent. What could she say?
"Yes? I don't have all night, you know. Everyone has to get their sleep at some point."
On instinct, Minerva wanted to tell him to shut his mouth. She wanted to reprimand him for ordering her as he did just now. But she stopped herself. Perhaps this was his way of telling her, "There's nothing for you to see."
But, she was a Gryffindor. As a Gryffindor, she couldn’t always do as she was told.
"Why were you crying?" she asked bluntly, getting right to the point. She hoped that the bluntness would shock him into giving her a genuine answer.
"What?"
"You heard me—why were you crying?"
Severus's eyebrows creased into a frown.
"I should think that is none of your business."
Minerva leaned closer.
"On the contrary, I think that it most certainly is my business."
She sent him a death stare to convey her point.
Severus didn't know what to make of all this. Here Minerva McGonagall was, grilling him like a suspect wanted for murder, about his moment of vulnerability. Why was she even here? Wasn't she supposed to be protecting the students? Wasn't that her job, as well as his? He realized in that moment that they shared a role in this war, a role to protect the young and innocent. But he couldn't possibly tell her. He couldn't bring her into his hellfire. Doing that would end up being much, much worse than casting the spell of green light.
"You should go," Severus found himself saying. His heart cringed at the words as his brain applauded. "You've no right to be here. Imagine what the Carrows would think if they found me conversing with the likes of you."
At those last words, his heart ripped open. He wanted to scream as Minerva proceeded to glare at him, saying, "Very well, Headmaster. I don't know why I even came in the first place." And without bidding him goodnight, she turned and slammed the door as she went.