Disclaimer: I don't own any of the people, places or things in this story.
That privilege belongs exclusively to the lovely J. K. Rowling, as I'm
sure you're all aware.
The staff room was completely silent except for the sound of a quill
scratching its way along a two-foot piece of parchment. Minerva
McGonagall sat in front of the fire, balancing the pile of essays on her knee.
She hated desks; they were too rigid, and she loved to curl up on a sofa when
she marked papers. It was a welcome respite from the uncompromising
chair and square desk in the classroom. She smiled quietly to herself. The
students were truly learning. She loved giving good marks, and this batch of
papers was a noticeable improvement on the last. A shadow fell on the rug
in front of her, and she sighed as a stiff form seated itself delicately in the
farthest corner of the couch. "Snape," she acknowledged stiffly.
"Professor," he responded icily, and the silence fell again. She turned back
to the papers, but after a while the cold voice began again: "The Slytherins
will need the Quidditch pitch tomorrow afternoon to prepare for the next
match." Minerva looked up furiously. "I see," she ground out, "then would
you mind informing me when the Gryffindors are supposed to practice?
Should they conjure a second pitch out of thin air, perhaps?" "That's no
concern of mine," he shot back loftily, "just like everything else a
Gryffindor sees fit to do or not do." "Yes, well, if you need the practice so
desperately, I'm sure I could oblige you," she said bitingly. An offended
glare met this remark, and she allowed herself a small inward smile of
victory. "You may keep your Quidditch reservation. Heaven knows I am
not so cruel as to deny idiots the chance to save their sorry hides," he spat
out, and she remained calm, telling herself that she was too close to victory
to blow it now with a childish outburst. She merely smiled serenely at him,
at which he turned smoothly on his heel and stalked off in an angry swirl of
black robes. "I believe the score now is Minerva: 25, Severus: 12. I must
say, my dear, I believe this time must be some sort of record." Minerva's
cat-like smirk lengthened into a cheeky grin as she turned to face the
twinkling half-moon glasses. "That's as close to running away as he's ever
gotten," she remarked happily. A gleeful chuckle met her ears at this, and
she jerked her head toward the sofa, moving stacks of papers to make room
for him on the cushion next to her. "I would chide you for unprofessional
conduct, Minerva, if I didn't enjoy these scenes so much. As long as the two
of you show a united front before the students, you are welcome to scrap in
private." "Thank you, sir," she laughed, drawing her hand to her forehead in
a mock salute. As she lowered her hand, his gaze became more penetrating,
and she felt nervousness flood her every pore. He couldn't tell, could he?
She sometimes believed he could read minds, more often that he knew all
that transpired within the Hogwarts grounds. But she wouldn't let him find
out what was different about her, not if she had to curse him in the process.
"What is it, Albus?" she asked shakily. Damn, why couldn't she keep the
fear out of her voice? "Is there anything you wish to tell me, Minerva?" he
asked suddenly, and her mouth went dry. No, she couldn't, but she might
have no choice..... "No, there isn't," she said determinedly. She cringed as
it came out rather loudly and defiantly; in her haste to defend her secret, she
had become overenthusiastic. She wished desperately that she were a better
liar. For the first time in her life, she wished Snape were around to help her.
He was the best liar she had ever met in her life, and it served him extremely
well. Not that that was a sparkling recommendation of his personality, but
he came in useful every once in a while, as much as she despised him. But
this was not about Snape. Albus was staring past her eyes, into her mind,
and it was only a matter of time before he..... "I'm sorry, Albus, I'd love to
stay and chat, but I'm meeting a student in my office in five minutes. I'll
see you at dinner." She practically sprinted out of the room, missing the sad
blue gaze as it followed her retreating form with a mixture of curiosity and
deadly fear.
The staff room was completely silent except for the sound of a quill
scratching its way along a two-foot piece of parchment. Minerva
McGonagall sat in front of the fire, balancing the pile of essays on her knee.
She hated desks; they were too rigid, and she loved to curl up on a sofa when
she marked papers. It was a welcome respite from the uncompromising
chair and square desk in the classroom. She smiled quietly to herself. The
students were truly learning. She loved giving good marks, and this batch of
papers was a noticeable improvement on the last. A shadow fell on the rug
in front of her, and she sighed as a stiff form seated itself delicately in the
farthest corner of the couch. "Snape," she acknowledged stiffly.
"Professor," he responded icily, and the silence fell again. She turned back
to the papers, but after a while the cold voice began again: "The Slytherins
will need the Quidditch pitch tomorrow afternoon to prepare for the next
match." Minerva looked up furiously. "I see," she ground out, "then would
you mind informing me when the Gryffindors are supposed to practice?
Should they conjure a second pitch out of thin air, perhaps?" "That's no
concern of mine," he shot back loftily, "just like everything else a
Gryffindor sees fit to do or not do." "Yes, well, if you need the practice so
desperately, I'm sure I could oblige you," she said bitingly. An offended
glare met this remark, and she allowed herself a small inward smile of
victory. "You may keep your Quidditch reservation. Heaven knows I am
not so cruel as to deny idiots the chance to save their sorry hides," he spat
out, and she remained calm, telling herself that she was too close to victory
to blow it now with a childish outburst. She merely smiled serenely at him,
at which he turned smoothly on his heel and stalked off in an angry swirl of
black robes. "I believe the score now is Minerva: 25, Severus: 12. I must
say, my dear, I believe this time must be some sort of record." Minerva's
cat-like smirk lengthened into a cheeky grin as she turned to face the
twinkling half-moon glasses. "That's as close to running away as he's ever
gotten," she remarked happily. A gleeful chuckle met her ears at this, and
she jerked her head toward the sofa, moving stacks of papers to make room
for him on the cushion next to her. "I would chide you for unprofessional
conduct, Minerva, if I didn't enjoy these scenes so much. As long as the two
of you show a united front before the students, you are welcome to scrap in
private." "Thank you, sir," she laughed, drawing her hand to her forehead in
a mock salute. As she lowered her hand, his gaze became more penetrating,
and she felt nervousness flood her every pore. He couldn't tell, could he?
She sometimes believed he could read minds, more often that he knew all
that transpired within the Hogwarts grounds. But she wouldn't let him find
out what was different about her, not if she had to curse him in the process.
"What is it, Albus?" she asked shakily. Damn, why couldn't she keep the
fear out of her voice? "Is there anything you wish to tell me, Minerva?" he
asked suddenly, and her mouth went dry. No, she couldn't, but she might
have no choice..... "No, there isn't," she said determinedly. She cringed as
it came out rather loudly and defiantly; in her haste to defend her secret, she
had become overenthusiastic. She wished desperately that she were a better
liar. For the first time in her life, she wished Snape were around to help her.
He was the best liar she had ever met in her life, and it served him extremely
well. Not that that was a sparkling recommendation of his personality, but
he came in useful every once in a while, as much as she despised him. But
this was not about Snape. Albus was staring past her eyes, into her mind,
and it was only a matter of time before he..... "I'm sorry, Albus, I'd love to
stay and chat, but I'm meeting a student in my office in five minutes. I'll
see you at dinner." She practically sprinted out of the room, missing the sad
blue gaze as it followed her retreating form with a mixture of curiosity and
deadly fear.