And there they go again. He keeps looking her way with – good grief – adoration shining blatantly from his eyes. I'll give her credit for not being as obvious about it – she's only looked in his direction once or twice, and she's damned good at hiding her feelings, but still…

Oh, please. Has everyone in the room been struck down by some form of selective blindness? And it is this group of people, who clearly can't see what is so utterly obvious under their very noses, to which I am sworn to help in order to defeat the Dark Lord. Merlin, help us all.

Well… I suppose I can't claim such a great deal of superiority at that. I knew years ago how things stood between those two.

I'd wanted a word with McGonagall about a detention she'd given one of my Slytherins, and so, not wanting to bother walking up to her rooms (and really looking forward to a face-to-face argument about the matter), I stuck my head into the flames.

And there she was, having tea in her rooms with a student. Not so unexpected – we all do it, at times when it's necessary. Even I, though I try everything I can before things get to that stage. No… what was unexpected was the silence.

A warm, comfortable silence, while they both watched each other without awkwardness, taking occasional sips of that revolting brew McGonagall tries to call tea and the rest of the staff refer to as liquid tar. Then, for no apparent reason, they both burst into laughter, and began chatting idly about Africa.

I have no idea what led the course of their conversation to Africa, nor what they found so interesting about it, because it was at that point I withdrew my still unnoticed head from McGonagall's fire and sat down in my own study to think.

Minerva McGonagall… and a student. Oh, my. The perfect teacher slips up at last.

Oh, the scene was completely innocent; of course it was! It was Minerva McGonagall after all, Gryffindor par excellence, whom I'd watched. But the shared silence had spoken volumes; silence usually speaks with a truer voice than words. It bespoke an ease with each other that was impossible in a student/teacher relationship. It was an intimate silence, shared only by two friends who know each other too well to need to speak to share their thoughts. I wouldn't know this from my own experience, of course…

But the laughter. The laughter meant more than friendship, even if those two didn't know it themselves yet. In that laughter was pure happiness and a deep unguarded pleasure in the other's company. It lasted only for a moment, but I can still hear it whenever I think back on that little tête-à-tête, because I have never heard Minerva McGonagall laugh like that, before or since.

My life has been spent observing relationships. As a spy, it has been the ability to judge them, in a moment, which has kept me alive. I knew more of what they felt for each other than they did, then.

And now, a decade or so on, here we all are, and they know now what I knew so clearly then. And he is still watching her.

I'll give you this, Minerva – when you opened your heart to him, he must have found in it something remarkable.

It would be easier for him if you were a Muggle; you'd have aged ten years at least, and even adolescent yearning, which can overcome the most obvious obstacles in its stubborn desire, does tend to burn itself out at the approach of wrinkles on the adored face. But you are a witch, and the most powerful one of my acquaintance – you'll continue looking forty for decades yet. You and Albus will probably outlive us all.

Much harder for the boy to get over you when you always look as you did when he first fell in love with you. Of course, why he fell in love with you in the first place, with your spectacles and your bun and your absolute, uncompromising inflexibility, is a question I don't want answered, thank you so much.

Even a passing thought about Albus seems to draw the man, because he's at my side. I look up.

"Severus," he starts to say, looking at me. Then suddenly he stops mid-word, turning to watch the both of you.

Shit. Leglimancer. I've got to stop feeling – but it's too late. He's seen.

Despite the shock, I'm watching his face with – I admit – curiosity. Just what is it you have meant to him all these years, Minerva McGonagall?

I see a world of hurt bloom in those blue eyes – and I am answered. Now I know for certain.

You fool – and I don't care whether he dredges the words from my mind. What did you expect? That she would simply continue to follow you blindly as she has for years, never daring to come too close to you?

That she would remain forever content with the occasional shared smile, glances of recognition, the constantly proffered sweets? While you kept working to save the world, she would keep working with you, naturally putting her heart safely away until the right time came for you to take it as yours?

'Newsflash', Headmaster; the Muggles do have some useful and pungent phrases. The right time never comes. For anyone, even you. And while you were busy working to save the world, and telling yourself there would be time, sometime… things happened in that time you never foresaw, even with all your careful planning.

Don't mind too much, though; little has changed, really. She will still be there, your loyal lieutenant, through all the battles that are to come. She will, in times of peace, still be your dearest friend, and you hers. But that other door is now closed forever. She's locked it against him, but no one else has a chance of opening it. She's of the kind who give their hearts once, and once only. In that way, if in no other, she and I are alike.

Ironic; that when the Ice Queen's heart was finally melted, it was not through the power of the greatest sorcerer in the world. It was done by a simple seventeen year old boy with hair like the sun, who brought her nothing but the simple gifts of shared laughter, an interest in the small details of her daily life… and a devotion which still shines hopelessly in his eyes, some ten years on.

He's stopped looking at them; now he's looking at the floor instead.

How very unSlytherin of you, Minerva, not to wait for the prize. And how typically Gryffindor to refuse what the boy is offering you so plainly, while you are both still alive to have some kind of… happiness, or whatever it is. You are foolish in both ways.

I cannot say whether I respect you more or less now.

He's looking at me again now. His eyes are guarded. I have no idea if he has heard my thoughts, but I know we will never speak of it aloud.

"I believe it is time to bring this meeting to a close, Severus."

I nod, but he's already moving away. I gaze at the boy who is facing Albus now as he dismisses them. He's giving her one last look, trying to steal enough glimpses to last him until the next meeting, whenever it will be. And her back is turned to him, but I can see her eyes. Yes - there is pain there, hidden, but deep. She knows he is looking at her. You're a fool, Minerva. You and Albus both, for not taking what is there while you still can.

I continue to watch him as he leaves. He is the one for whom I have sympathy, for what little such an acrid emotion is ever worth. I tired of seeing innocents tortured when I was still a Death Eater. But there is nothing I can do for you, Charlie Weasley. I wish I could tell you that someday you'll get over it.

But you won't.

Fin

A/N. So… I'd imagine that it's time to answer the question of "What the hell were you thinking, pairing Minerva McGonagall and, of all people, Charlie Weasley?"

Honestly – absolutely no idea, really. It was the result of reading in GoF that Charlie failed his Apparition license the first time, I think. I thought, "Silly sod. Should've asked for private lessons." Who would he have asked them from? Professor McGonagall, I supposed; I've no idea who actually teaches Apparition… So, my brain in an angsty mood from the last chapter of ATB, I started scribbling then and there at the coffee shop. (Yep, I'm one of those sad people who carry a notepad and pen with her everywhere.)

And this was the result. One of those pieces that pops into your head complete from start to finish, like a crystal figure rather than the plastic plotlines which I usually get hit with. As ever, it was better in my head than what finally came out.

A triptych, by the way, is a piece of art (usually religious in nature) which consist of three paintings on three hinged wood panels. The title hit me halfway through writing Minerva's contribution, and then I knew precisely how it was to go. Three people, their stories… and the third person is not really Snape at all, is it?

I'd be very interested in hearing your views. (God, soliciting for reviews – how pathetic is that!) Mostly because this is the first time I've tried to write in the first person, and I'd be curious to know if you feel I've gotten the voices even close to the characters as you see them. But also because this story and Light Tempted are the two that come closest to hitting the mark as I saw it in my head, so knowing if there is something I've stuffed in them is more important.

Liz thought the Weasley in question could be Arthur; it would certainly fit better age-wise, and there is a surprisingly long period between the ages of Charlie and Percy. But I couldn't do it. I can't write, even in fiction, about a man even contemplating adultery. Okay, so I'm as weird as all-get-out, but… I just couldn't. My mind did a total block on it when I tried to make the second person Arthur. Charlie was the original character I thought of, and when I switched my focus back to him, everything just poured out.

Besides, witches and wizards live longer, and age slower, as evidenced by Dumbledore. At 150, he shouldn't be breathing without medical apparatus and his brain would be the consistency of warm oatmeal; instead he's strong, powerful, and the only evidence of age is a few lines and a long white beard and hair. So really, the squick factor people keep talking about when it comes to these characters is purely perception based on Maggie Smith playing Minerva in the movies. (Mind you, there isn't another actress in the world I would want playing her! Dame Maggie is brilliant in every role she's ever undertaken.) But when I picture Minerva-in-the-books, it isn't a seventy-year-old woman I see. I see a woman who looks about forty, who happens to be seventy-ish, and who, for all we know, could be expecting a life span of two hundred years or so.

Except for Madam Pomfrey's remark about "four Stunners to her chest – at her age!" But I've always put that down to a little bit of catty jealousy.

So, if you have had the patience to read so far; please, tell me what you think.