Games People Play
By Kelly Chambliss
~ / ~ / ~
1 September 1993
Of course she's the first one to visit you, knocking on your door shortly after the Welcoming Feast. She's been your favourite professor since you were eleven. You saw the glance of concern she gave you when you sank into your chair at the High Table; you know you must have looked just as ghastly as you felt. Even now, you're not quite sure how you had the strength to get to the castle after that nightmare of a train ride.
"Welcome back, Remus," she says, stepping into your sitting room.
"Thank you, Minerva," you reply, and hope she doesn't notice your tiny pause before using her first name. This business of being colleagues with your former teachers is going to take some getting used to.
A slight twitch of her lip suggests that as usual, Professor McGonagall has missed nothing. Also as usual, she gets directly to business, shaking her head when you invite her to sit down.
"I can't stay. I have much yet to do in settling the new students, and I know you need to talk with Albus about those Dementors on the train."
You don't waste time wondering how she heard; her omniscience about all things Hogwarts has long since ceased to amaze you.
"I merely wanted the chance to greet you properly and to tell you how pleased I am that you've joined the staff," she continues.
"I'm pleased, too," you say. "Everyone's been very kind so far, and. . ." A sudden vision of a dark, scowling face rises in your mind's eye, and you amend, "Well, almost everyone."
Minerva understands at once. "Severus," she says. "It's only to be expected, I think. I know you two have a lot of unfinished business between you."
Yes, that's one way of putting it. You hope you'll be able to talk things over with Snape, perhaps mend some fences, but you doubt he'll be willing. The truth is, your friends treated him terribly, and you didn't stop them. You've felt guilty about it for years.
You look up to find Minerva giving you an appraising once-over.
"I'm also here to make certain that you are all right and are taking sufficient care of yourself," she says. "I trust you understand that I mean no offense, Remus, when I say that you are not looking well."
"I'm fine," you start to mumble, but she forestalls you with a light hand on your wrist and an unexpectedly sympathetic smile. You're surprised to note how little she seems to have changed since you were a student in her classroom: same black hair, same sharp jaw and sharper grey eyes. Only then she seemed ancient, and now she doesn't.
"I'm not trying to criticise," she says. "Simply to help. Teaching is a demanding profession, and you can't afford to be run down before term has even started. Here. I brought you a dose of Pepper-Up, fresh from Poppy's new stores." She hands you a small flask, conjured with a wave of her wand. "Now please take this, and don't you dare go to Albus until you feel fully restored, do I make myself clear?"
She eyes you with such an exaggerated version of her stern classroom glare that you can't help but laugh.
"I promise not to stir a step until my ears stop steaming," you assure her.
"Good." She smiles again, laugh-lines framing her eyes, and you realise that Minerva McGonagall is not only not ancient, she's also a handsome woman in her own severe way.
Hmm. Now there's a thought you never expected to be having.
"I'll look forward to a long talk soon, Remus," she says as she turns to leave. "Once things have settled down a bit. We'll have tea."
"I'd like that," you say.
And you mean it.
~ / ~ / ~
Of course she went to visit him on his very first night back at the castle. You knew she would. You saw her heading towards his rooms as soon as the Welcome Feast ended. Couldn't wait to spend time with her precious Gryffindor wolfman, despite the dangers he poses to the children she claims she wants to protect.
You're standing at your bathroom sink, cleaning your teeth and spitting rather too vehemently into the basin. You haven't been looking at yourself in the mirror, but now you catch your reflection's sardonic eye.
All right, fine, Severus, you say to the greasy git looking back at you. You're right; that's not completely fair. Minerva does care about the students, and she is not blind to Lupin's many faults.
There. Is that "fair" enough for you?
True, fairness never mattered to Lupin and his gang of thugs, but you're a bigger person than they are. You haven't always been, but you are now. You've fought your way back from darkness toward redemption, and you're not going to let some wanker of a pathetic Gryffindor outcast get the better of you.
And you're definitely not going to let him cause problems between you and Minerva.
Well, not serious ones. A bit of snarky give-and-take; you won't say "no" to that. For one thing, you're better at it than she is. Whatever she might say to the contrary. And for another, it's arousing.
You get started at breakfast the very next morning.
"Sausages, Minerva?" you say, offering her the platter. "I'd pass them to the new DADA professor, but I suspect they aren't raw enough for him."
She gives you a side-long glance and ignores the sausages. "Interesting. Evidently the mere proximity of an old school-fellow is enough to make you behave like an infantile first-year again."
You lean closer to her and whisper, "Does that mean you'll be coming to tuck me into beddie-bye tonight?"
Her answering huff is half exasperation, half laughter. "Behave," she says, but she's almost smiling, and you sit back with a smirk.
Game to Severus.
18 September 1993
It doesn't take you long to realise that they are together. Romantically. Minerva and Severus.
The clues are small, and initially you make nothing of them, thinking vaguely - - if you think about it at all - - that they are discussing House business when they talk to each other tête-à-tête in a corner of the staff room. And you admit, when you first notice Snape's eyes following Minerva as she leaves the Great Hall after dinner, you assume he is watching her with ill intent and resolve to keep a protective eye on her yourself.
But then last night, you went to the staff room to collect a pile of marking you'd left there. Most of the staff had already retired, so the torches were dimmed. When you waved your wand to brighten the lights, you were startled to find Minerva and Snape standing near the fireplace. There was at least a yard of decorous space between them, but you had the distinct sense that you'd just disrupted an embrace. A residual impression left on your wolf-heightened retinas, no doubt.
"Sorry to interrupt," you began, but Snape scowled and started for the door without waiting for you to finish.
"If that's all, then, Minerva, I'll send you the final Slytherin start-of-term report tomorrow," he said, adjusting a pile of (recently-conjured, you were sure) papers under his arm. "I'm going to bed. It's getting too fucking crowded in here, and it's starting to stink."
He let the door slam behind him.
Minerva's expression was wry. "Hatchet still unburied, I see," she said. "Well, it's early days, Remus."
"Early days," you agreed. Not that you believe the days will ever be late enough for Snape even to tolerate you, but you left that thought unspoken.
Equally unspoken, of course, was any reference to whether she and Snape had actually been in each other's arms in the darkness.
But you aren't left to wonder for long. This very morning, Saturday, you are helping Pomona Sprout neutralise poisonous seeds so that you can safely use them in a DADA lab exercise.
"There you are, Remus," she says, wanding the results into a bag and handing it to you. "When you're finished with these, would you mind passing them along to Severus? He uses them for various potions."
Before you can reply, she smacks her head gently and says, "Oh, I'm sorry, my dear, I forgot. You and Severus are not on the best of terms, are you? Never mind; just give the seeds to Minerva. She'll see that he gets them."
"The two of them seem to have become fairly good friends," you say carefully. You don't want to gossip, but on the other hand, being a werewolf means that you never know what information you're going to need to save yourself or someone else. So the more you know, the better.
Pomona frowns, brushing absently at some dirt on her robes. Then she appears to come to a decision.
"You might as well hear it from me," she says. "Minerva and Severus are more than friends; they've been lovers for at least three years now."
"Lovers?" you repeat. It's what you suspected, but hearing it stated so baldly is nonetheless something of a shock.
"Yes. Oh, I don't wonder that you're surprised; the rest of us were floored, too. But we've got used to it, and I must say, they seem happy enough. Well, I'm not sure that Severus is ever really 'happy,' poor thing. But he's less unhappy now, if that makes sense."
You nod, but she's not watching; she's busy clearing off the work table. As she finishes, she says, "I just feel it's better if you know. That sort of thing makes for awkwardness all around if it's kept too secret."
"Yes," you reply slowly.
She pats your arm and heads out of the greenhouse, leaving you alone with your new information. Even now that you know the truth, you have to say it to yourself several times in order to wrap your mind around it:
Minerva McGonagall, sixty-something head of Gryffindor House, and Severus Snape, thirty-something head of Slytherin, a man who was once both her student and a DE to boot, are involved in a romantic relationship. A sexual relationship, for Merlin's sake.
You need to sit down. But first, you risk a glance towards Hagrid's livestock pens. If Severus and Minerva can be lovers, then perhaps pigs have finally learnt to fly.
~ / ~ / ~
It doesn't take you long to realise that Minerva is more amused than annoyed by the idea that Remus Fucking Lupin no doubt saw you kissing her. In fact, she's actually smiling when she comes to your quarters after that ridiculous scene in the staff room.
You turn from her in dignified silence and take a seat on your sofa.
"Oh, surely you don't plan to sit here and sulk," she says, going to your sideboard and pouring two measures of Ogden's without so much as a by-your-leave. Part of you wants to make a cutting remark about how her brain has become so addled by Wolfboy that she doesn't know the difference between her drinks cupboard and yours. But part of you is stupidly pleased that she feels so at home with you.
In the end, you settle for an ironically-raised eyebrow as she hands you your glass. Let her interpret that however she will.
"Remus would have learnt about us eventually," she says, parking herself next to you on the sofa. "It might as well be sooner than later."
You wait a moment before putting your arm around her shoulders, lest she start taking you for granted. She doesn't notice, merely settles against you. Subtlety is lost on Gryffindors.
"In any case," she continues, "you know he's a dab hand at keeping secrets."
Your snort, you are certain, is eloquent in its disdain. "I should think you'd want to change the subject," you say, beginning to tug her hair from its bun. "You surely can't enjoy talking about the fourth greatest blot on the Gryffindor escutcheon. You know, after Black, Potter senior, Pot - -"
She shuts you up with her lips on yours, and you are satisfied.
Game to Severus.
27 September 1993
The moon will be full three days from now. You can already feel yourself beginning to change: your temper shortens, your body hair lengthens, you start to avoid eating in the Great Hall because the scent of meat is becoming too maddening.
Snape brings today's dose of wolfsbane to your office just after the students' curfew. One disgusting-tasting phial a night for a week before your transformation; that's the price of being able to teach at Hogwarts.
You've never paid anything more willingly.
"Thank you, Severus," you say sincerely. "I appreciate this more than I can say."
He stares at you with those unfathomable eyes and walks away without a word.
~ / ~ / ~
Three days until the moon is full. Three more days of dancing attendance on Remus Lupin. And then there will be next month. And the month after that.
As you leave Lupin's rooms, you spot a hapless Hufflepuff furtively hurrying towards his common room, and you take savage pleasure in assigning him a detention for curfew-breaking. If it only it could be that damned fleabag that you were banishing from your sight.
At least Lupin was polite when you delivered his potion, as well he should be. It's totally because of you and your skills that he's even able to show his face at Hogwarts, let alone have a job here.
When you found that Dumbledore had offered him the DADA position - - well, all you can say is that you doubt any werewolf, even Greyback, ever topped your display of rage.
Albus was maddeningly unfazed by your temper. "I do understand your feelings, Severus," he said with infuriating calm. "I don't deny that Remus Lupin and his friends wronged you when you were a student. But people grow up, they change, and circumstances change. Remus is sorry for the past and would make amends if you'd let him. And I need him here."
So that was that, of course. Dumbledore needs something, so your feelings (or justice, which is the same thing in this case) be damned.
And you grudgingly admit (to yourself) that you enjoy preparing the wolfsbane despite the time it requires. Creating it properly takes more than simple skill; it's an art as well, and all your duties brewing standard classroom and healing potions mean that you have precious little opportunity for this sort of challenging, advanced work. You even plan to experiment with improvements.
A thought hits you as you check for curfew-breakers in the infamous series of curtained window seats known to generations of students as the "passion pits." Minerva wants you and the wolf to get along, doesn't she? Maybe if you tell her of your plan to improve Lupin's potion, she'll be inspired to a little extra passion of her own. Even if it is a school night.
Later, as she lies drowsing in your arms under her duvet, you allow yourself just a moment of self-congratulation.
Game - - and maybe the entire set - - to Severus.
27 October 1993
You knock lightly, and Minerva opens her door at once. Snape has some sort of appointment in Diagon Alley, so he has arranged to leave your dose of wolfsbane with her.
She smiles warmly. "Remus. Do come in. Can you stay for a spot of tea? Or something stronger? We had such good intentions, but we haven't yet managed that long talk we promised each other."
"Tea would be lovely," you say. "Nothing stronger, though, unfortunately. Not a good idea this close to my transformation."
"Saturday, isn't it?" she asks matter-of-factly, and you nod. That's one of the many things you appreciate about her: she treats your condition with neither horror nor pity.
You take a seat in an armchair while she speaks softly to a house-elf about refreshments. You've never been in her private rooms before, so you glance around with interest. A wine-coloured carpet, two armchairs upholstered in subdued wine-and-blue tartan, an old-fashioned settee, a parchment-heaped table near the fire, several crowded bookshelves.
A sideboard against the far wall is covered with framed photographs. Your curiosity gets the better of you, and you get up to look at them.
They're a mixture of moving magical pictures and static Muggle ones. The severe man in the clerical collar must be her father; you've heard he was a Christian clergyman. A very pretty woman stands smiling next to him, her hand in the crook of his arm, and as you look a little more closely, you can see that he's smiling, too, a wry little twist of his lips that seems very familiar. Minerva looks like him, tall and dark and stern, but you can see her mother in her, too: the sharp jaw, the intelligent eyes.
There's a photo of three grinning children holding wrapped packages in front of a Christmas tree; the dark-haired girl is unquestionably a young Minerva. A later, teen-aged picture shows her kitted out in a Gryffindor Quidditch uniform, sitting proudly astride a broom. There's another of her laughing with a plump, fluffy-haired girl whom you recognise with a start as Pomona Sprout.
So immersed are you in this fascinating show that you lose track of your whereabouts and jump a little when Minerva appears at your elbow. A steaming cup of tea floats next to her, and she waves it in your direction.
"Sorry," you say as you take it. "I didn't mean to pry, I was just - - "
"Hardly prying," she replies. "It's not as if I have these hidden. Just some family and friends. I'd like to add one of you at some point, Remus."
You're about to make a self-deprecating joke when your eye falls a small frame at the edge of the table. It contains a portrait of Severus Snape, his expression intense and unsmiling; he's so still that you'd think it was a Muggle picture were it not for the slow blink of his eyes.
"I'm surprised you were able to get Snape to agree to a photo," you say before you can stop yourself.
"He gave it to me as a Christmas gift," Minerva says, turning towards the settee where her own cup of tea hovers. "He knew I wanted his picture, though I never said." She sits down and waits until you take your seat as well before adding, "Severus can be very thoughtful, Remus. And funny. And generous. I know there is a lot of unpleasant history between you, and I won't pressure either of you, but I do wish that the two of you could get to know each other better. As adults. Perhaps come to see the good sides of each other."
"I would be happy to move forward with him," you say. "But I find it hard to believe that he would ever feel the same."
"Stranger things have happened," she replies, giving you the same wry smile that sits on the face of her father behind her. "Many people would find it hard to believe that a werewolf could be a kind man and a gifted teacher."
Indeed. Just as many people would find it hard to believe the Head of Gryffindor could share a bed with the Head of Slytherin.
"It's true," you say. "Strange things do happen."
~ / ~ / ~
You knock on her door expecting a relaxing hour of conversation before bed, only to be met with the information that she has spent her entire evening having a cosy little tea with Lupin. You are Not Happy, and you tell her so. Openness is the key to successful personal relationships, or so you've heard.
"It was hardly my 'entire evening,' Severus," she replies tartly. "An hour at best. And even if it had been longer, what of it? I'm not required to sit alone and pine for you when you have to be away. Remus is a good man and a friend, and I intend to spend time with him when I can. You're welcome to join in. As I told Remus, I would not be sorry to see the two of you put aside your schoolboy animosity and get to know each other better."
What the. . .? Merlin on stilts! Get to know him better? The very idea hits you like a Cruciatus, and you pace around her sitting room until you're certain that you're not going to break anything.
"Minerva," you say, finally sitting down to face her. "Please listen to me carefully."
You are speaking as sincerely as you've ever done, and she hears the change in your voice. She leans back and waits. It's one of the things many things you appreciate about her: that she knows when to drop the banter and the bickering and take you seriously.
You reach out for her hand and then begin. "You don't know - - and I would rather you never knew - - the full details of my history with Lupin. But I'm asking you to take me at my word when I say that I do not want to 'get to know' him better. I do not want to hear the apologies Albus insists that Lupin wants to make to me. He made my school life hell."
She keeps her tone carefully neutral. "Did he, directly, Severus? Or were his faults more of omission than commission?"
Your mind runs an endless loop of scenes from the past, Black and Potter throwing hexes and punches and jeering insults, Lupin standing uselessly in the background, all sad eyes and open-mouthed consternation, his objections limited to the occasional weak mutter of "oy, come on, James, enough."
True, he didn't participate. But he didn't seriously object. And then there was the nightmare of the "prank". . .
You look into Minerva's concerned eyes and say firmly, "I will brew the man's medicine so that he does not harm anyone, and unless he's being an active danger, I will not add any new scars to his person, however much I might wish to. But other than that, I make no promises. The best I can offer is to say that I will leave him alone if he will leave me alone."
She sits silently, still holding your hand. "Very well," she says finally. "If that's what you really feel."
"It is." You stand and bid her good night; you need some privacy.
You're so irritable as you head back to your dungeon that you think you break even your own record for handing out detentions. Once you reach your rooms, you Summon a dram of firewhisky and sit down to fume.
The idea! Lupin nearly fucking killed you, he stood by silently while his despicable friends constantly humiliated you in front of Lily and half the school - and Minerva wants you to "get to know him better"? What the fucking hell is she thinking?
You seethe for a while, letting the comfort of righteousness move through you while you continue to cast aspersions on Minerva's sanity, until finally the rational part of you reminds you that she doesn't know the worst of the Marauders' behaviour - - she probably thinks your feud was just a matter of hormone-driven teenage rivalry.
Well, whatever. She knows now just how you feel, and with any luck, the flea-wolf's name will never have to be mentioned between you again.
You go to bed, but unlike most evenings, you don't tally up the day's score. Tonight hasn't been a game.
10 November 1993
You have tried. Merlin knows you have tried. Because he is helping you, and because you foolishly hoped to right some of the wrongs of the past, you have tried to be civil and understanding to Snape. For Minerva's sake, you even tried a couple of indirect overtures of camaraderie.
And this is the thanks you get. While you were ill this last month, Snape went and as good as told your DADA classes that you are a werewolf. Well, not in so many words, of course. He merely taught a very pointed lesson. But you know it's only a matter of time until some of the smarter students - - Hermione Granger or Luna Lovegood, probably - - figure out the truth.
You can't remember the last time you have been so angry. Not even during your transformations has fury surged so powerfully through your very veins.
Apparently it shows, because two second-year Ravenclaws literally run away at the sight of you storming through the corridors. And when Snape flings open his office door in response to your hammering, you catch a glimpse of alarm on even his face before it's replaced by his customary sneer.
"What do you want, Lupin?" he snarls, putting his arm across the door to try to block your entrance. But you're having none of it. You push him back into the room and slam the door behind you.
"Explain yourself," you say, surprised to find that your voice is suddenly quiet. "Is this why you've brewed the wolfsbane for me, Snape? So that you could have the pleasure of destroying my livelihood and depriving me of the only friends I have?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," he says, but for the first time since probably second year, he doesn't defiantly meet your eye.
"The hell you don't. Hate me all you want, tell the world my secret if you've managed to convince yourself that it's some sort of justice, but do it outright, not hole-in-corner like a spineless sneak. Is that the sort of thing you think Minerva will admire?"
Snape's head jerks up; a livid flush stains his sallow cheeks. "Don't you dare bring Minerva into this."
"No, of course not, because you know what she'll think of you if she finds out. She despises that sort of underhanded bullshit."
His eyes glitter with malice. "Go tell her, then. Ruin my life again, why don't you? It's what you do best."
There's an acrid scent on the air, and your recent transformation has left you with enough heightened animal sense to recognise it: fear. Snape is afraid.
You almost laugh aloud. Snape, afraid of you? Ridiculous. He could outduel you in a second even when you're at your best, and you haven't been at your best for years.
Then all at once, you understand: he's not physically afraid of you. He's afraid of what you can take away from him, of what you could force him to lose. Just the way you're afraid of how he might take this job - - this home - - away from you.
The adrenaline of your rage drains away, leaving you spent, and you've lost all appetite for the fight.
"I won't do that, Severus," you say. "I think I know what Minerva means to you and what you mean to her. I won't do anything to threaten that. I also know what it means to build a life, and I won't jeopardise the one you've made yourself here."
He just looks at you, his eyes still glittering. . .but maybe not with malice after all.
~ / ~ / ~
You try. You try to stay angry after Lupin leaves. You need to stay angry; it's how you cope. It was anger that led you to teach the "werewolf" lesson to the DADA students in the first place - - anger at the damn nerve of Dumbledore, refusing to appoint you officially to the position but expecting you to fill in at a moment's notice, like a flunky. Anger at how Dumbledore and Lupin seem always to take you and your time and your help for granted. Your anger is legitimate even if maybe - - just maybe - - teaching the werewolf class was not the best way to express it.
Yes, you have every right to be angry. Every right.
Still, your stomach churns, the taste of bile burns the back of your throat, and suddenly anger seems like a lot of work just now.
You lean against your office door and then slide down to the floor, resting your head on your knees.
You sit there, thinking. About life and home. About Minerva. About Lupin.
You sit there for a very long time.
25 December 1993
You take Christmas dinner in your rooms. The full moon, only four days away, gives you an excuse to stay away from the Great Hall, but the truth is, you don't feel like socialising. Last month's confrontation with Snape has left you all too aware of how vulnerable you are, of how much you have to lose, and you think that the less people see of you, students and staff alike, the less opportunity they'll have to recognise the truth about you.
Oddly, you think that Snape has been a little less hostile since your argument, but no doubt you're mistaken. It's probably just that you see less of him. Except for meals, you each keep out of the other's way. Minerva seems to have accepted this state of affairs; she's stopped hinting that the two of you should try to patch things up.
Later in the afternoon, you nod off, and your rooms are almost fully dark when you're pulled awake by a knock on the door. Hastily, you wand the candles alight and straighten your tie. It will be Snape, most likely, come with your daily phial of wolfsbane. He'll hand it to you without a word and be on his way in an instant, but still, you'd rather not look too disheveled. No point in advertising the fact that you have nothing better to do on Christmas than nap.
It is Snape. And astonishingly, Minerva is with him. She has a sprig of holly on her hat and a brightly-wrapped package in her hand. Snape holds your wolfsbane and a larger bottle.
"Happy Christmas, Remus," Minerva says. "Severus and I are about to partake of a little yuletide cheer, and he suggested that we ask you to join us."
You stare at Snape, and he stares impassively back. "He suggested?" you say weakly.
"I was amazed, too," Minerva says. "But I swear it's true."
"Are you going to ask us in, Lupin?" Snape drawls. "Or would you prefer that we drink out here in the corridor?"
"Um, of course. Er. . .please come in," you stammer, not sure that you aren't still asleep and dreaming.
The evening is positively surreal. You conjure a couple of flutes and ask a house-elf to bring tea (no alcohol for you this close to transformation) and a plate of sandwiches and little cakes. Snape pops the cork on his bottle of champagne and pours for himself and Minerva, and you all lift your glasses.
"Um. . .here's to the yuletide?" you offer, still pretty much at a loss.
"And to truces," says Minerva.
"Even the Brits and the Germans took Christmas off from shooting at each other in foxholes," says Snape, downing his champagne in one swallow and pouring more.
Minerva hands you the wrapped package. "Just a token," she says. "In case you've forgotten how blustery the winters are here."
You thank her for the red-and-gold striped muffler and wind it round your neck. Snape snorts. "Outnumbered by Gryffindors," he says. "It's a good thing one Slytherin is worth two of you."
You bristle, more on Minerva's behalf than your own, until you realise that he is making a joke - - a poor one, to be sure, but evidently he's trying to be sociable. What on earth is possessing him? What does he want?
After another twenty minutes or so of awkward chat, Snape heads to the loo (must be all that champagne), and you whisper to Minerva, "What gives? What's this all about?"
She shakes her head. "I have no idea. He's been rather pensive and moody lately, and then this afternoon, he suddenly picked up the champagne and said, 'we should check on Lupin.'" She touches your arm. "I didn't plan this, Remus, but I'm not going to complain about it. I hope you won't, either."
"No, indeed," you say. "I've always been willing to meet him more than halfway."
"We should go," Snape says when he returns. You risk putting out your hand, and after a moment's hesitation, he shakes it. "But don't think this means we're going to start hanging out together down the pub or anything like that, Lupin."
"Of course not," you reply, hiding a smile. "Good night, Severus. Minerva. Thank you for the gift. And for your company."
Minerva gives you a quick embrace, then takes Snape's arm as they walk off. You watch them go, and think, without jealousy, that Severus Snape is a lucky man.
As you turn back to your cosy sitting room, you know that in many ways, so are you.
~ / ~ / ~
Between Christmas dinner and Christmas drinks and just the whole notion of Christmas, it's been a long day. You relish the restful walk back to Minerva's rooms. The castle is quiet, and both you and Minerva are comfortable with each other's silence. You feel the warm swell of her breast against your arm as you move, a prelude to the pleasures to come. You're looking forward to the slow, sensual process of removing her robes and yours and then taking her to bed. She'll clutch your shoulders and gasp as she comes, and you'll hold her close, and Remus Lupin will be far from both your minds.
You wait while Minerva lifts the wards to her quarters and draws you inside, kissing you deeply as soon as the door shuts.
You know from experience that for the most part, life is a bitch.
But not always.
Sometimes, just sometimes, things work out for you.
Game, set, and match to Severus.
~~fin