A/N: This was written prior to Book 7, and I posted it in my Livejournal. It got a pretty good response there, and I know I have people who enjoy my Remus/Minerva stuff over here, and frankly, this is one of my favorites. So I decided to take the time to post it over here in case anyone was interested. :

As always, Minerva's age is not taken into consideration since this was before actual canon confirmation, and all we had were interviews with JK Rowling. Again, this was written before Book 7 so the canon of that book will also not be taken into consideration.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its characters and concepts are the property for JK Rowling, not me.

--
And so they linked their hands and danced
'Round in circles and in rows
And so the journey of the night descends
When all the shades are gone
--


Colors of Victory

Remus Lupin is drunk.

But he thinks he has a right to be so, damn it. It is only a few weeks after the glorious defeat of Voldemort, and after the Order mourned and buried their fallen friends (there were so many, too many, so good and so young), it is only tonight that they are able to celebrate the start of another era of peace, celebrate the hope that this time, it would last longer than a mere twelve years. For the first time in over four years he does not have to be on constant guard (constant vigilance, Moody would say, of course). And if he had toasted to that fact a few more times that necessary with Kingsley and Bill and Charlie Weasley, well, he will enjoy it tonight and regret it tomorrow.

It is July but the Great Hall of Hogwarts is as decked out and noisy as though it is the start of term. The house tables have been pushed to the side to leave large area in the middle of the room open for mingling and dancing, as the Weird Sisters have set up and are playing in a corner, letting music flood the room as it has not done for years.

Hundreds of candles make everything seem brighter and colors of dress robes flash in front of his eyes, swirls of red and blue and green, silver and gold, all the colors of celebration. Laughter (when was the last time he heard true laughter, real laughter?) mingles with the music and creates a hymn of victory that warms him from his head to his toes. Or perhaps it is the Firewhiskey.

Remus sees Ron Weasley and their own Harry Potter clink their glasses together, taking long drags while Hermione Granger looks on in disapproval. What a relief it must be for those three, that their biggest problem was how much the male portion of their trio would drink that night and how terrible their hangovers would be in the morning. To know that tomorrow would not be the end, but merely the beginning.

They are the beginning, the young and the brightest stars among them, ready to start their lives. And though so many had been lost, so much pain and despair, Harry had those who he loved best at his side and was ready to face the future head on. Much more than Remus could have said about himself at the first fall of Voldemort, when he had detached himself from the world as a young man and had not looked back for almost twelve years.

Remus is no longer part of the young. His fortieth birthday had passed rather unnoticed a few months past, but Remus had smiled ironically and had wondered where his youth had gone—stolen by war and lycanthropy. It is these children—no longer children—among them who are the future. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Luna, Charlie, Bill and Fleur, and Tonks. (Poor Tonks, she is so young and he cannot forget it.)

Tonks looks lovely tonight, wearing dark blue robes with dark blue eyes and dark blue hair to match, and vaguely from his drunken stupor Remus wonders what color her eyes really are. (Remus wishes he could love her, but all she makes him feel is empty and old.)

Sitting across the room Remus can see Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, their hostess of the evening at the persuasion of Molly Weasley, who claimed the Grimmauld Place was far too grim of a place to host a celebration. No, for the majority of those in attendance the best years of their lives had been at Hogwarts and it was only fit that they return to Hogwarts in victory. Molly and Arthur are by her side, the three of them talking animatedly, and Minerva throws back her head and laughs as Remus has not seen her do in many years.
It has not been easy for her, these past few years without her mentor to guide her. Suddenly she was thrust in the spotlight in a moment of terror and uncertainty, and yet had prevailed, opening the school the next year despite the wishes of the Ministry and the threat of many parents to keep their children at home. And yet they had come back, and now Hogwarts would again be open for all of Wizarding Britain, and the name Minerva McGonagall now carries a certain respect with it. And tonight she sparkles in her victory and her castle. Minerva Triumphant.

He finds that he has wandered in her direction, like a fly drawn to light, and her eyes flicker from Molly's and meet his. (Her eyes are gray, sometimes more blue and sometimes more brown, sometimes dark and sometimes bright, but he knows all the colors so well, so well.)

"Remus!" Molly exclaims in delight. "Where have you been hiding all night?"

"I'm afraid," Remus says carefully, trying to pronounce all his words correctly, "your sons have been a most terrible influence on me, Molly." The words trip carelessly from his lips, and he knows he probably sounds foolish, but tonight he does not mind.

"Oh dear," Molly does not look pleased, but even she cannot be angry tonight.

"I'm certain that you had no qualms in joining them," Minerva chimes in with a smirk. Her normally soft Scottish lilt is thicker than normal, and Remus suspects, to his surprise, that she has perhaps had a bit too much to drink as well. Of course she is not drunk—perhaps a bit tipsy. And Remus is sure that whatever she had drunk was far classier than Firewhiskey. He thinks she sounds charming.

She is wearing robes of red tonight, and though she had been Head of Gryffindor for years, it is not a color she wears often. Perhaps a few weeks ago Remus would have seen the color of blood and death, but tonight he thinks how well the rich color compliments her dark hair and fair skin in the orange candlelight, and he takes this as a sign that finally life is regaining some sense of whatever normalcy it held for him in the past.

Betraying the true emotion behind the knowing smirk on her lips, her eyes sparkle at him, reflecting gold and gray, and she looks like the girl and young professor that Remus remembers from his youth, a young woman full of life and possibility before war and strife stole it away. (Minerva is almost 45 now and she no longer radiates youth, but she dazzles him all the same.)

"Will you dance with me?" He doesn't know where the question comes from, but he rarely knows what's going on after a few Firewhiskeys. He extends his hand to her, gauging her reaction.

She raises one eyebrow, apparently not too drunk to employ that teacherly gesture that he was never able to acquire. She glances over at Molly, who is giving Remus a rather scrutinizing gaze, as though trying to see through the haze of drink to the true intentions underneath. "I'm afraid I don't know how this one goes," Minerva says finally, gesturing to the dance floor where Harry and Ginny and Ron and Hermione and Neville and Luna and Bill and Fleur and others are dancing, all following a certain pattern of steps.

It is a new song and neither knows the tune.

"Well, luckily tomorrow we can both use the excuse that we were drunk off our arses and therefore cannot be held responsible in any manner for our actions," he says. "Or for our terrible dancing," he adds after a moment's thought.

"I beg your pardon, but I am certainly not drunk, Mr. Lupin," Minerva replies hotly, a rather cross look flashing across her face for a brief moment. Of course not. Minerva McGonagall is never anything but in control, and for him to suggest anything otherwise is foolish.

"Well then you have nothing to worry about, do you?"

She shakes her head, amused, and takes his hand.

The tune is fast, but they are dancing faster. Remus cannot see where he is going over Minerva's shoulder—all he can see is the bright flashes of gold and green and blue of the elegant dress robes of his comrades. There is a moment of hesitation and fear before each step, as his foot hovers in midair, before the breath of relief comes as he safely finds the floor again. The floor seems to tilt and slide beneath his unsteady and clumsy footsteps, and he grips Minerva's waist tightly in an effort to stay on his feet. (He does not know where he is going, and yet she lets him lead her, wherever he may go.)

Minerva proves that she is indeed not as drunk as Remus had originally pegged her to be. Her steps are fluid and graceful, her robes sweeping out as she changes direction. Upon second thought, Remus supposes that this should not be surprising—after all, when in the past had Minerva McGonagall not excelled? And dancing, of course, should be no exception.

Remus suddenly feels rather queasy—perhaps drinking and spinning were not the wisest combination. However, he has the sneaking suspicion that it is not the Firewhiskey making his stomach flip-flop, but rather her hand in his own clammy hand, her breath on his neck, the curve of her waist beneath his fingertips.

"Careful!" Minerva gasps, and she halts to a stop right before she is knocked into a wall that Remus hadn't noticed appear behind her. Her eyes are teasing as she regards him rather critically. "You're a terrible dancer," she tells him, and he kisses her.

It is not the raging, passionate kiss of long pent-up desire, but rather a soft and sweet, rather curious kiss. His hand drops hers to join his other hand on her waist as he kisses her in the shadows of the Great Hall. (The light in her eyes is his only illumination, but it is enough, it has always been enough.)

When they part, neither speaks for a long moment. Finally, Remus tells her firmly, "Then you will have to teach me."

Her eyes are hard to read—with his rather inappropriate statement he had expected to see amusement in them. But he thinks that for a moment he saw a flicker of sorrow.

She brushes a stray hair off his face. "Yes, I suppose I will."

His face is close to hers. "I think you should start now."

Perhaps they would dance for the rest of the night; perhaps they would linger in the dark corner. Perhaps Tonks would glance their way and be confused, or hurt, or perhaps she would go the rest of the night and the nights after thinking that Remus loved her. Perhaps he would remember none of this in the morning…perhaps, as he suspects, he would never and could never forget. But he does not want to think of the 'perhaps's of the night.

He wants to think of how lovely Minerva looked in Gryffindor red.
(How lovely she looked, in her colors of victory.)

--

Hope you enjoyed! Please leave reviews, though not of the "that's not canon!" variety, please. Because yes, yes. I know it's not. Any other comments are more than welcome, however!