I'm not Dorothy Parker (though I wish I was) and I'm not JK Rowling. So – I don't own anything and I don't make any money with this. Cross my heart and swear I can't write any more.
If I had a shiny gun,
I could have a world of fun
Speeding bullets through the brains
Of the folk who give me pains;
Or had I some poison gas,
I could make the moments pass
Bumping off a number of
People whom I do not love
But I have no lethal weapon -
Thus does fate our pleasure step on!
So they still are quick and well
Who should be, by rights, in hell.
Dorothy Parker: "Frustration"
I swear – if I could only lay my hands on him. If I could only lift my wand – speak two words – vanquish him off the face of the earth, I most certainly would. Ruling this school as if it was his realm – and him, the king in the throne.
If I could find a way to simply put him away, poison him with his own potions, believe me, I would. He would lay writhing and spitting and drooling on the floor before he could even say potion. Not that he would say it – he would drawl it – arrogantly, superiorly.
And trust me, I would probably dance on his grave.
Or maybe not.
I remember a little boy, scared – oh so scared of his classmates, the school, going home over Christmas, going home over the summer – I remember him – and I remember that he is not the same any more. He is not the scared little boy – in fact, he is a sad man – so young – he's not even forty, is he? But he tortures us – tortures my students, tortures those who should be nurtured and he allows others to torture.
And I have to stop this.
With my wand, a muggle weapon if I have to – making Horace brew some potion that will put him away – or, turn him into the scared little boy – would give me a second chance to protect him. If I had – would he still be the same? If I hadn't preferred my Gryffindors – if I had seen him for what he was – would he be the arrogant, sad, old-looking man?
But I did – and he turned into what he is. Betraying our trust, betraying us. Me. Him. Everyone.
I find myself walking up to the office that is his and should be rightfully mine – and is now his. And he sits there all day long, residing, reigning, ruling. With a rod of iron and his wand. And the help of those Carrows.
I speak his password – belladonna – and the spiral staircase brings me up.
He sits there – but not reigning, not arrogantly. He has shed his robes, and his coat. He sits there in his shirt. And looks almost naked.
"What do you want?" he asks coldly.
"Kill you," I reply honestly.
"Feel free," he replies and puts his wand on his desk.
"Feel free," he sneers.
"I'm afraid I don't understand," I said softly.
"Just do it," he says coldly.
And suddenly, I find myself sitting down. "Would you've been the same if we had thrown Black out?"
"I think so," he says and doesn't look at me.
"I'm sorry for what we've done. But you should be sorry for what you've done."
He snorts. "Is that all, Minerva? Or are you actually going to kill me?"
I get up and walk around the desk. "I miss Severus," I hear myself say. I hear myself saying those words and I feel myself bending down, kissing the cold person's cheek. "Tell him to come and see me when you find him."
He raises his eyebrows and I know I'm dismissed. And his wand is still on the desk.