She always wondered what it would be like to smash a plate. Not just to drop one accidentally, or absentmindedly knock her glass off the table. She’d done that. Somehow she felt as though it ought to be more satisfying, unblemished by that little spur of irritation reminding her that now someone would have to clean up that mess.

With her eyes, she speculatively gauged the laden dish in front of her. It was piled high with rich, hearty food, untouched but for a few viscous stabs of her fork. Some small sensible voice at the back of her head reminded her she needed to eat, that starving herself would help no one. Automatically she picked up her fork, secretly wishing her sensibility would go to hell and leave her to wallow in peace.

The potatoes were cold. Mechanically, she swallowed three bites, feeling each one stick in her throat like wet sand. In a flash she realized that she had never relished eating. Maybe I should give it up, thought the cold part of her mind giddily. Then I won’t feel so heavy, so weighed down.

Happy with her new resolution, she left the table to go pace by the fire. Idly, she wondered where Albus was. He had meant to talk with her tonight; he had said there was something important. But it couldn’t have been important because he wasn’t here. He had never let her down when it was something important.

A stillness hung over the school and she wondered at it for a moment, a hollow feeling rising up from her stomach, from her heart. Exams, she told herself firmly, they are all studying for their exams. She repeated this a couple of times until she felt better, and then reminded herself that she had saved the Daily Prophet’s crossword for tonight.

After a few moments of fumbling through the papers lining her desk she remembered that she had left it in Dumbledore’s office that afternoon while they were discussing… something. Shaking her head quickly, as though to clear it of trivial thoughts; she began the methodical yet familiar trek to the Headmaster’s office.

The halls seemed strangely empty. Wondering why the Prefects and Heads were neglecting their duties, she mentally composed a reprimand to be delivered at the next available opportunity.

Near the base of the Astronomy Tower a reddish stain was smeared over the cold stone of the floor. Black singe marks lined the wall interspaced with rough, whitened divots and the crunch of sand-like gravel echoed underfoot. Gingerly, she walked through, pausing at an untouched, yet slightly crooked picture. Placing both hands on the large, wooden frame, she pushed for a moment, lifting one corner while the other dropped. Now it hung a little too far to the left. Moving to that side she pushed again, feeling the frame tilt within her grasp.

Panting she stepped back, surveying her work with the slightest tilting of her head. Something still seemed wrong, if only she could lay her finger on it.

“Minerva?”

She turned to see a bewildered looking witch with red rimmed eyes starting strangely at her. “Yes, Poppy?” she asked, wondering why her voice sounded so strangled in her ears.

“Are you… are you all right?” the matron asked tentatively.

Pushing a strand of hair back from her sweat stained face, she suddenly noticed that her usually tight bun had come undone. Unobtrusively, she wiped her wet fingers on the rumpled edges of her robe. “The picture was crooked.”

Poppy Pomfrey glanced over the devastated hallway, and then back to the picture which had miraculously been spared of all damage. Pulling out her wand, she murmured briefly and the picture gently set itself to rights.

Satisfied, Minerva smiled happily into Poppy’s concerned face, absently noting the tear stains which streaked the woman’s cheeks.

“Minerva,” the healer suggested gently, “perhaps you ought to be headed to bed.” Gulping back a sob she added, “It’s been a trying day for all of us, and you will need your strength in the morning.”

Worried by Poppy’s concern, Minerva found herself wanting to placate the upset woman. “I left my paper in Dumbledore’s office,” she found herself explaining reassuringly. “I just wanted to get the crossword.”

“It’s past three in the morning,” Poppy replied even more distraught than before.

“Go to bed, Poppy,” Minerva ordered gently, even habitually, years of command suddenly rushing back to her. “Whatever comes, we’ll deal with it in the morning. Go to bed.”

Something in this rally set her mind at rest, and Poppy allowed herself to give in to her draining exhaustion. “Yes, Minerva.”

Leaving, Minerva hurried now until she was almost running down the deserted corridors. A sense of dread twisted her gut, and only seeing Dumbledore, only knowing that everything was all right would relieve it. At last she slid to a halt in front of the familiar stone gargoyle. Reaching out, she placed first a steadying hand then her feverish cheek against the smooth, cold stone. Frozen, she leaned against it first for one minute, then five and ten.

With a deep, half-hysterical breath she pushed herself upright and deliberately turned her back on the door. Striding deeper through the silent castle she entered the kitchens and with a few curt words ordered the mourning house elves out.

Slowly and methodically she began taking the smooth china plates from their shelves to smash them against the floor, tables, and walls. Only when the last cup was thrown could she sink down to sob among the shards.