(I've just looked and this is apparently my 5oth story on FFN. I'm not sure if this is something to be proud of or not.)
Your Place, Always
Summary: It's like walking in on your parents having sex. Only not. Slight OOC warning (very slightly).
A/N: I was considering if there was anything I could do for the prompt "Your place or mine?" with Eternal Courtship, and ended up coming up with this. Since I can't get the Hagrid and McGonagall in that one to so much as kiss, I'm going to assume this is in a different timeline.
I've never been a fan of Snape. Snape's Portrait, on the other hand, is scads of fun to write.
(o/o/o)
It had started off as a romantic dinner by candlelight in her office. It had then devolved into a bout of enthusiastic kisses that promised to devolve further to enthusiastic groping if left unchecked.
One of the portraits cleared his throat loudly.
"Do you two have to do that here?" it's occupant asked, a measure of disgust on his painted face.
Minerva pulled away from Hagrid to give the portrait her sternest look. It was the look that she reserved for seventh years who thought that just because they were of age meant that Hogwarts rules no longer applied to them. It was the look that told the Board of Governors she meant business when they tried to use their authority to push her around. It was the look she'd used to keep Dumbledore in line, a lifetime ago.
It was the look that was always guaranteed to make this portrait's occupant sulk against the edge of his frame and mutter to himself.
Almost always, anyway.
"Unlike most of my colleagues," the portrait said irritably, "I don't have the option to leave, since no one has bothered to put me up anywhere else. As you do have the option to leave, it would be nice if you did."
"This is my office, Severus," Minerva said, though now that she thought about it, Hagrid's hut was much more suited for this sort of venture- the only one to bother them there was Fang, and they could always turn him out into the garden- but that wasn't really the point. "I'll do what I please in here."
"It might be your office, but I have to live here too, and I would prefer not to witness..." He shuddered. "...old people love."
Minerva looked affronted. "I am not old," she said, offended.
"You're seventy-three."
"That's not old!"
"You taught me when I was in school. And he oversaw most of my detentions. Honestly, it's like walking in on your parents having sex. Except you're not my parents. And you're not having sex. And I'm not walking in on you."
"So what you're saying is that it's nothing like that?"
"It's exactly as disturbing. That's the point."
Hagrid tapped her on the shoulder. "Just so yeh know," he said, "arguing with a portrait is definitely a mood-killer. Maybe we should go. There're no annoying portraits in my cabin."
"That's not the point, Hagrid. It's the principle of the thing."
"What's the principle of it, then?"
"I don't know. I haven't thought of that part yet."
"Minerva," Dumbledore's Portrait, which had heretofore been silent, broke in finally, "do you by any chance have an exhibitionist streak?"
Minerva turned very red. Without a word, she grabbed (a now intrigued, if his expression was any indication) Hagrid by the hand and pulled him from her office.
