Life is most delightful when it is on the downward slope, but has not yet reached the abrupt decline.
~ Seneca
And then I saw her face. Now I'm a believer.
~ The Monkees
NB: This is a love story. It is like every other love story you've ever read, with some minor variations that don't affect the outcome one whit.
It has nothing whatsoever to recommend it.
But if you insist on charging ahead despite this, well … you've been warned.
That said, here's is the story of Severus Snape and the Unbelievable Postwar Outcome.
Severus Snape didn't fall in love.
It was one of the salient facts about him.
All right, he'd done it once before, and though it helped save the Wizarding World, it had been something of a personal disaster for him. And for the object of his affection.
Which was why he was utterly gobsmacked to recognise, in the year of no Dark Lord 2010, that he had, in fact, done just that.
This startling event happened twelve years after he'd left Hogwarts for good, or so he'd believed. Twelve years of (relative) peace and quiet; twelve years of respite from teenaged dunderheads (there remained plenty of the older variety in his life, he was sorry to say); twelve years of living blissfully (or what passed for bliss in Snape's world) alone.
It all started one day — well, really it had started long before, but all that backstory would make this tale far too long — it all started one day when he was sitting in the lab at the back of his Walthamstow flat (you didn't think he'd gone back to Spinner's End, did you?) He was considering whether he should finish the batch of Wideye Potion he'd been brewing or put it under a Stasis Charm and hit the local for a pint and a bacon butty.
Fuck it, he'd go down the pub. His customer could wait another few hours for her potion. Her internship at St Mungo's wouldn't even start for another two days, and, Severus told himself, she ought to get a head start on some sleep in the meantime.
Severus had just doused the flame and set the charm when a post owl pecked at the tiny back window.
The bird hooted in annoyance when it couldn't fit all the way in and had to settle for exchanging its parcel for an owl treat though the small opening.
What kind of moron uses an enormous snowy owl to send a letter-sized parcel, anyway? Severus thought as he broke the envelope's seal.
(His correspondent was no kind of a moron at all. You needed a robust sort of owl to fly all the way from that northern hellhole, as Severus tended to think of Hogwarts, to London in February weather.)
He glanced down at the signature and slightly revised his estimation of its sender.
Severus sighed. He supposed he'd actually have to read the letter. It would be bad form to ignore a communiqué from the headmistress of Hogwarts, even if he had nothing to do with the place anymore. (Not that good form was anything he cared much about. But still.)
He had to scan the thing twice to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.
Unbefuckinglievable.
She was actually asking him to come and teach.
I wouldn't ask it of you if I weren't desperate. Professor Bunbury has come down with a potion-resistant case of Scrotofungulus and will be on leave for the remainder of term to focus on regrowing his bits. (And no, the DADA curse hasn't struck again. Professor B has held the position for eight solid years without a mishap, I'll have you know.)
There aren't many people available at short notice who are qualified to teach Defence at N.E.W.T. level. Unfortunately for you, you are one of them. Unfortunately for me, the other is Ronald Weasley. Much as I admire Mr Weasley's work with the Aurors, I'm afraid his more recent employment in his brother's shop would be a definite liability for the school.
Please, Severus, say you'll do it.
His first inclination, naturally, was to decline, but Severus Snape hadn't survived two wars and more than a decade teaching magical adolescents by being hasty.
On the one hand, Hogwarts.
On the other hand, Galleons.
He was loath to admit it, but the prospect of regular wages, even for a few months, would be welcome. Most good freelance potioneers lived hand-to-mouth those days, what with the increasing cost of ingredients and competition from the less scrupulous practitioners who didn't know their Flitterby from their Fluxweed but could undercut their betters by using sub-par ingredients and dubious methodological shortcuts.
Living on his current income and the wages he'd managed to save from his teaching days was proving more and more challenging. He sometimes wished he hadn't donated the proceeds from his Order of Merlin award to the War Orphans Fund, but the taint of that money — gained from an act of repentance that others mistook for heroism — had been too much for Severus to deal with in his post-Nagini funk.
Minerva's offer was generous, more than twice what he'd made in his previous teaching gig, even allowing for inflation. She must really be desperate, he thought, not without a bit of the old glee.
Now, you must understand that Severus Snape bore Minerva McGonagall no ill will. They'd each done what they had to in order to successfully prosecute the last war, and neither was one to hold a grudge: she by her nature, he by the fact that one more might put him over the limit of grudges a single psyche could support while retaining its sanity.
In fact, Minerva had been one of the few bright spots in his otherwise dismal life at Hogwarts, being temperamentally similar in some ways and quite different in other, complementary, ways. And they were well matched intellectually. Though Severus's barbed comments about students or Dumbledore were meant more seriously than were Minerva's, they nevertheless amused her. And hers did the same for him. Quidditch rivalries and chess games fed their competitive natures and provided each with enough wins and losses to keep their respective egos (one healthy, one less so) fed and in check.
Their pseudo-friendship had, surprisingly to Severus, at least, continued after the war, both parties having decided to overlook the whole unfortunate business of the 1997–1998 school year. This was an unspoken mutual agreement, which only reinforced the fact that the pair of them were of a similar mind when it came to awkward situations.
Minerva always met him for a drink or tea when she came down to London. Their visits were pleasant and retained enough of the old spark to secure her in the "positives" column in the ledger of Severus's life.
He rummaged around his worktable for a minimally stained bit of parchment and grabbed the nearest quill.
Dear Headmistress,
Never let it be said that I neglected my duty to Hogwarts. (In the interest of expediency, I shall refrain from pointing out that many estimable witches and wizards consider my previous services to have been over and beyond what was strictly required of a teacher and any putative duty thereby discharged.)
Your plight has me weeping in my tea. (The begging was a nice bonus. I always suspected you had it in you; I am pleased to have been proved right.)
You may expect me tomorrow by dinner.
One thing: As I am no longer tethered to Slytherin House — the questionable bonds of sentiment notwithstanding — I will require rooms in one of the towers. The size is unimportant, provided there is a view and ample bookshelves.
Your ob't servant,
Snape, OM1°
The Great Hall went quiet when Severus billowed his way up to the staff table. It gratified him that he could still silence a room simply by walking into it.
He took the only seat open, one near the right end of the table, and glared down at the Gryffindors out of habit.
Flitwick leaned around a blank-faced Bathsheda Babbling to say, "Severus! Welcome back. I was delighted to hear you'd agreed to take over Defence." Hagrid, on the other side of Filius, added, "Good ter see you, Professor. Like the beard. Makes you look distinguished." Severus couldn't find it in him to aim a sarcastic retort at either of them. Clearly, he was out of practice. Minerva caught his eye and gave him a half-lipped smile. The rest of the staff acknowledged him with stiff nods, some no doubt remembering his tenure as headmaster, others, who hadn't been there, reacting to his reputation.
Dinner shimmered into being on the tables and broke the students' stunned silence. Severus pretended not to notice any staring and helped himself to a hearty portion of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. He grudgingly added a small helping of glazed carrots. The Hogwarts fare was better than he remembered. Or maybe his appetite was. Either way, he had two helpings of meat.
Once the pudding — which was as revolting as Severus remembered Hogwarts puddings to be — had been consumed, Minerva rose and cleared her throat.
Shit.
"No doubt you've all noticed that Professor Bunbury is not with us this evening. I am sorry to report that he has been taken ill and will be on leave for the remainder of term. I am pleased to announce, however, that Professor Emeritus Severus Snape has joined us as interim Defence teacher, and I am certain you will all benefit greatly from his well-documented knowledge in this area. Please join me in welcoming him back to Hogwarts."
The glint in her eye when she looked over at him told him she knew exactly what she was doing. As the anaemic applause started — led by Minerva, Filius, Hagrid, and the Slytherin table — he gritted his teeth and stood to acknowledge it.
He glared at Minerva as he retook his seat. Her beatific smile back at him reminded him uncomfortably of Dumbledore.
That evening, she knocked at his door. He'd given himself fifty–fifty odds she would, and he had a bottle of Balvenie DoubleWood 12 and two glasses at the ready.
"I see you're settling in," she said, looking around at his sitting room. He'd already arranged his books in the shelves lining two walls, and Transfigured the sofa from a velvet camelback horror to a sleek, square-armed modern piece in rich black leather. The grey Demiguise-hair rug he'd brought from his flat gave the room a hint of cosiness, while the teak panel he'd charmed to one wall added to its elegance.
"I'm not 'settling in', Minerva, I've unpacked. I'm not staying beyond what my contract stipulates."
He hadn't meant it to come out quite so antagonistic, but he needed to make clear to her that any attempt to rope him into staying past June would be met with his utmost resistance.
She ignored his tone. "This looks quite comfortable," she said approvingly. "I trust the view is satisfactory?"
It was. It was, in fact, spectacular, looking out over the Black Lake and the mountains beyond.
"The view is adequate to my requirements," he said.
He didn't mention his suspicion that she'd given him rooms in Gryffindor rather than Ravenclaw Tower out of sheer orneriness.
"I'll have one of those, if you're offering," she said, quirking her chin at the liquor.
He poured them each a dram while she made herself at home on his sofa.
"Slainté," she said, clinking her glass against his when he'd given her the drink and joined her in front of the fire.
His fear that she'd ask him how it felt to be back at Hogwarts or some such rot proved unfounded, as he should have known it would. Her dislike of idle chit-chat was always one of her best qualities.
Instead, she gave him a brief overview of the classes he'd be taking over, telling him that he was free to organise his own lesson plans rather than following Professor Bunbury's, which, coincidentally, was exactly what he planned to do.
"Far be it from me to interfere with your teaching methods," she said, "but I must ask you to try not to make any of the Ravenclaws cry on your first day. Hufflepuffs, if you must, but only if you must. We are trying to employ less terror-based pedagogy these days."
Her gaze challenged him to object, either to her implied criticism or her not-so-subtle reference to his final year on the Hogwarts staff, but he wasn't about to rise to her bait. If she wanted to spar, she'd have to work harder than that.
"If your students have become accustomed to lax standards, I shall use whatever methods I find necessary to motivate my classes to exceed them." he said.
"Motivate away, but I do hope your repertoire has expanded from scowling and speaking exceedingly slowly since you were last in a classroom. After that book about you came out, I'm afraid they'll rather be expecting it."
"If I recall correctly, there was a — I hesitate to call anything excreted from the Skeeter woman's Quick-Quotes Quill a book — but I understand the portrayal of you was somewhat unflattering."
Minerva waved a dismissive hand. "Rumours and innuendo. Having been a witch in a position of some authority for many years, I daresay I'm accustomed to it."
"The speculation about you and Dumbledore didn't bother you?"
Her laugh was more of a bark. "You read the thing, did you?"
"Of course not. The excerpts in the Prophet were nauseating enough."
"Yes, well, given that Rita had made a meal of his sexual orientation in her previous tome, I can't imagine who'd believe Albus and I carried on a clandestine affair in Hogwarts's corridors for years."
"Some people will believe anything sordid."
"True. Perhaps I should be flattered that anyone might think my charms enough to entice him to change teams in his hundredth decade."
"Perhaps you underestimate your charms."
He wondered where that had come from. Severus Snape was not in the habit of disbursing compliments, no matter how subtle.
Minerva raised an eyebrow at him, which he ignored by poking at the fire.
The opening salvos having been dispatched, they proceeded to a comfortable discussion of the changes at Hogwarts, moving swiftly on to a lively conversation about new theories of potions-aided human-to-animal transfiguration.
They talked long enough that Severus poured them each a second drink. Minerva had divested herself of her shoes and curled her legs up under her, making him think of the feline form that lurked beneath her upright carriage.
During a lull in the conversation, she gazed at him with the air of a satisfied cat.
"You look well," she said.
He snorted.
"Hagrid is right, the beard suits you," she continued. "And, of course, the clean hair."
This dig at his former hygiene failed to land. He knew that she knew perfectly well that his greasy hair had been the result of copious amounts of Shed-Stop. During those dangerous times, one never knew when someone would snatch a stray hair for use in a Polyjuice Potion. He'd won a bet about it off Minerva during Potter et al.'s second year.
His current coif, shoulder-length and tied back with a leather thong, showed off the true lustre of his black hair, now streaked with a few silver strands.
He cleared his throat. "And you look as well as can be expected."
"I see your sense of chivalry hasn't improved any."
"Merlin forfend."
She laughed. A comfortable silence ensued while they both continued to sip their whisky. He broke it by asking after various common acquaintances, in none of whom he had the slightest interest, but he wanted to hear her talk. He'd missed her mild burr and the lilt of her accent.
Her cheeks were slightly reddened, either from the fire or the whisky or both, and she appeared more relaxed than he had ever seen her. No wonder, given that their previous time together had either been spent under the threat of war, during actual war, or in noisy restaurants or pubs, where anyone might recognise the venerated headmistress of Hogwarts and the despised Death-Eater-Cum-War-Hero. Now they were at peace, and she was at the helm of a school that was comfortably her own.
As a matter of fact, he realised, he was more relaxed than he'd been in ages. Despite everything that had happened during the year he'd been headmaster, Minerva made him feel an ease, with her and with himself, that he'd rarely experienced.
All too soon for Severus (though he'd never have admitted it), Minerva stood and said, "As pleasant as this has been, I fear tomorrow is another work day. I have to face a budget meeting, and you have to face a double session of Gryffindor–Slytherin second-years."
As he lay in the ridiculously luxurious bed that night, Severus thought sleepily that his return to Hogwarts could have gone much worse.
Classes proved a challenge.
On his first day, Severus found to his dismay that the students' silence the previous night had been less shock and awe than it had been the surprise of having a genuine celebrity show up at their school. (The fact that most of their other teachers, from Longbottom to Minerva herself, also had entries in the history books and Orders of Merlin to match had been lost on them, it seemed.)
He'd swept in, slamming the door behind him with wandless magic, and stalked to the front of the classroom to find twelve pairs of eyes looking up at him. So far, so good. He had their attention, but it soon became clear that those eyes followed him so avidly not out of terror but out of curiosity. Under their collective gaze, he felt more like a peculiar specimen they were going to dissect than a teacher about to provide instruction.
Before he'd even begun to speak, several hands went up.
"Sir," one of them said, waving his hand in the air, "please, sir."
What were these creatures? No student he'd ever taught before would have dared speak in his classroom without being called on.
"Yes?" he hissed.
"I'd just like to say …" The boy glanced around at his classmates. "We'd all like to say, thank you for coming back to teach us. We're very happy you're here."
Huh. Whatever he'd expected, it wasn't this.
"Thank you, Mr …"
"Lupin, sir. Teddy Lupin."
Of course.
Just Severus's luck that his first student was the spawn of the werewolf who'd tried to kill him.
Snape stared at the child. The shock of confronting his erstwhile adversary's son was nearly eclipsed by the surprise of seeing a green-and-silver tie around his neck.
Teddy Lupin. Child of two of the Gryffindorkiest Gryffindors ever to have walked Hogwarts's hallowed halls, was a Slytherin.
"You may take your seat, Mr Lupin."
Severus turned to wand an assignment on the board, smirking to himself. He wondered if the werewolf had spun in his grave when the Sorting Hat had placed his son in the House of Snakes. An unwelcome pang cut the thought off at the knees, as Severus experienced a sudden vision of Teddy's parents lying dead on the very grounds of the school he now attended. Severus clenched his teeth and ignored it. These things happened occasionally, sudden flashes of memory — or imagined memory — from the war, often when he least expected it. They were the price of having survived, he supposed. Or one of many.
He made it through that first class, and the rest of the day played out in a similar vein, his students disconcertingly uncowed and disgustingly enthusiastic. Severus found that by adjusting his teaching methods — not because Minerva had advised it, mind you — the lessons went rather well, with the students making more progress than he'd ever experienced in either his Potions classes or his previous year as Defence master. There were no accidents, no scuffles, and no tears. Not even from the Hufflepuffs.
The end of the first week found Minerva and Severus sharing another dram in his quarters. (Her quarters, which he tried to forget had been his during that desolate year as headmaster, were off limits by mute agreement.)
"They're different," Severus said when Minerva asked about his students.
"Yes, they are," she said. "They grew up during the war. Your evil-bat-of-the-dungeons act doesn't scare children who saw family members murdered or spent every day looking at their parents' curse scars. I wasn't just taking the piss when I said you'd need to find a different way to teach them."
"Mmm." Severus swirled his drink in the glass and took a sip.
"War changes everything," she continued. "We're all different."
"I'm not."
"Of course you are. Your appearance is only the outward sign. The Severus Snape who lives in London and does as he chooses is quite a different man from the one who had to dance to the tunes of two unrelenting masters."
"And how would you know?"
"Because I have eyes, and I flatter myself that I'm not a dunderhead, as you might put it."
Severus grunted his assent, the only concession he'd make to her non-dunderheadedness.
"The man I asked to come teach here—"
"Begged. You begged me."
"The man I invited to come teach is, if still a bit childish at times" — she glared pointedly at him — "a man with real wisdom to share with students rather than browbeating them with his cleverness."
He gave a scoffing snort. "And that's the change you perceive in me?"
"Among others, yes."
Discomfort prickled at him like a Stinging Jinx cast by the most diffident 'Puff. He stood and carried his drink over to the window.
Her voice followed him. "I am a different woman, too."
He turned back to her and made a point of looking her up and down.
"You don't seem much different."
"My appearance may not have changed quite so drastically as yours, but believe me, I am not the Minerva McGonagall who was so certain of what was Light and what was Dark."
His eyes narrowed at her.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, Severus, that that year, that impossible year, changed me, just as it did you. I suspected — no, I knew — your true allegiance, even as I hated you for what you allowed to happen at Hogwarts."
"I thought you might have guessed," Severus said. "But I wasn't certain."
"It didn't matter. We each had our roles to play, things we had to do. It made me realise that no one is either good or bad — not you, not me, not Albus."
Severus almost spit out his drink. "The sainted Albus Dumbledore?"
"The Albus Dumbledore whose admirable ends were not entirely justified by his questionable means," she corrected. "He never saw any other way of doing things but the way he'd determined was right. We argued about it often enough, but he was in charge, so I supported his decisions, if only in public. I never believed him infallible, but when I found out what he'd made you do …" She shook her head. "Anyway, it's all over and done with, and here we are."
"And now you're in charge," he said, raising his glass to her.
"Yes," she said. "And it's difficult enough during peacetime. Whenever I get furious with Albus — which is whenever his portrait speaks to me, I'm afraid — I remember what he had to contend with. It's allowed me to forgive him, more or less."
She took a sip of her drink while eyeing Severus above the rim of her glass.
"What about you?" she asked.
"What about me?"
"Have you forgiven him?"
Severus shrugged, feeling like a small child. "He didn't kill me when I first came to him after joining Riddle. He kept me out of Azkaban, gave me a job. Furnished a purpose for my life."
"That isn't an answer."
"I don't know the answer," he snapped, his unease with the conversation building to a familiar anger. "Why do you care? And don't tell me I have to forgive him for myself, to move on, because that's a load of Thestral shit."
"I agree."
"Then why ask me about it?"
"Curiosity, Severus. I do occasionally take the form of a mammal known for it."
"Remember how that ended for the cat."
"Satisfaction, aside from its reputation as an excellent restorative, is reward in itself." She set her drink down on the side table. "But I don't mean to pry into things you don't wish to discuss. Come, sit back down and we'll talk about something else."
Although he wanted to do as she asked, he still felt the old Severus trying to claw his way out, cataloguing every tiny hurt for later tending. Storming out was an option, but they were in his quarters, and he would look foolish if he were to leave them in a huff. He stood there, pulled between Severus 1.0, the one who could never tolerate any personal incursions, and the newer edition who was enjoying Minerva's company for its own sake, even if it came with uncomfortable moments.
"Would you like to hear the story of Professor Longbottom's first week teaching solo?" she asked. "It involves a prank with a Fanged Geranium and a great deal of Hippogriff dung."
He sat.
Term droned on, and Severus discovered that teaching children who were not terrified of him was … not intolerable. They still gave ridiculous excuses about missing homework, turned in sloppy assignments, and made stupid mistakes, but they also listened to him and occasionally asked good questions. A few of them were decent spellcasters, and one or two could put two words together without making him want to Obliviate himself.
His colleagues were reasonably pleasant, once the shock of the Return of the Headmaster Voted Most Likely to Murder His Staff had worn off. Minerva and Filius were friendly, of course, but the others stopped behaving as if he were about to whip out his wand for a round or two of recreational Cruciatus. Those who had been on staff during Severus's inauspicious headship began to treat him with the wary but respectful distance they'd kept when he'd been a teacher on the same staff.
Newer staff seemed to shrug off the presence of the former Death-Eater-in-residence, with the exception of Justin Finch-Fletchley, who taught Muggle Studies (now a mandatory course through third year) and was the head of Hufflepuff. Finch-Fletchley, Severus found, was the same toffee-nosed prat he'd been as a student, with the irritating addition of an affected sort of bonhomie, treating Severus as if they'd been the best of friends back in the day.
Severus strove to be collegial but avoided excessive conversation with his co-workers, with a few notable exceptions. He would never have said so to anyone else, of course, but Longbottom — oh, all right, Professor Longbottom — made for decent company in the staff room.
A week or so after Severus had arrived, the Herbology teacher approached him as one might a recalcitrant Hippogriff, to ask if he'd be interested in a new cultivar of the Sopophorus Plant.
"The beans contain much less thebaine, which might make it safer for use in sleeping draughts." Longbottom gave a nervous chuckle. "Of course, that's your area of expertise, not mine. But I remember you telling us that most of the commercially available products carry a risk of respiratory depression in susceptible witches and wizards." He grinned. "Or was that just to keep us from getting dependent on sleeping potions?"
Severus considered saying something cutting about Longbottom's performance in Potions class, but he remembered that he was trying not to alienate his colleagues now. Besides, Longbottom was a friend of Minerva's, and Severus thought it best not to antagonise him.
"I would be interested in running some experiments with the new cultivar," he said. "Did you create it?"
"I built on some work Pomona did. I call the cultivar Phaseoulus sopophorus pomoniae in her honour."
"Appropriate," Severus said.
Longbottom nodded soberly.
"I saw you at the funeral," he said. "She would have been touched you came."
"We were colleagues for a long time. She was an admirable witch."
They observed a moment of silence for the late Pomona Sprout, then Longbottom stood.
"I'm going to grab a cuppa. Can I refill yours?" he asked.
Severus only hesitated a moment before handing his cup over. "No milk or sugar."
Longbottom returned with the tea, and when the Automagical candles lit up in their sconces, Severus was surprised to realise he'd spent more than half an hour in conversation with him. He was more than knowledgeable about Herbology as it pertained to potion-making, and he'd lost that annoying wide-eyed nervousness that had practically begged Severus to tweak it.
They parted, with Longbottom's promise to provide Severus with several good samples of his new and supposedly improved Sopophorus Plan within the week.
It was halfway through March before Severus had the startling thought that he was … happy. The thought didn't entirely thrill him.
One Friday morning as he was shaving, working carefully around the trim beard and moustache he'd cultivated for some years past, a strange sound echoed through the bathroom.
He paused in mid-swipe of his razor, listening carefully. Nothing more happened, so he resumed his ablutions. A minute later, the sound arose again, and he realised with horror that it was him. Humming.
Not only that, but the song he was humming was some cloyingly cheerful bit of fluff he'd overheard when looking in on the Ravenclaw common room the previous Saturday — a favour to Filius, who'd taken the weekend off to visit his niece in Cornwall. The tune had been lilting, sung by a youthful-sounding American accent accompanied by a ukulele, of all blessed instruments.
Severus shook the foam off his razor and tossed it in the sink in disgust. He didn't hum. He was not a hummer. Perhaps he was under some sort of enchantment.
After towelling off his face, he snatched his wand from the pocket of the dressing gown hanging on the hook beside the sink. It took eight separate curse-detecting spells before he conceded that he might (might!) have been humming without the benefit of illicit magical intervention.
The fact was, he was looking forward to the day.
His classes had performed well in the week's assignments, so he was planning a bit of a surprise for them. Instead of the usual lecture–practicum format he'd employed thus far, he would have them pair up for a mini-duelling tournament. The winners of each bout would face off until the ultimate victor emerged. The top student would then be excused from homework for the weekend and have the honour of leading the following week's first class (under Snape's strict supervision).
It was Friday, and in addition to the coming freedom from teaching duties, it would bring Minerva to his quarters for what had become their habitual Friday night drink. As it happened, she also frequently joined him for a cup of tea in his office during weekdays after classes ended, but Friday nights were, well … special.
The prospect of something stronger than Assam was welcome, of course, but even more so was the feeling that an entire evening enjoying her company stretched before him with little chance of interruption. For a man who liked his solitude as much as Severus did, the prospect of spending several hours with another person shouldn't have been so appealing. But somehow it was.
Minerva was unique among the people he'd known in that, while she could certainly annoy him, the annoyance was almost always underlaid with amusement. And she never bored him, even when they talked about things in which he thought he had no interest.
Hell, it was she who had first spurred his interest in Quidditch. As a student, he'd avoided the pitch like the Dragonpox, peopled as it was with James Potter types, all swagger and sweat and little in the way of intelligence. But in Severus's first year of teaching — no, his first month — she'd practically forced him to pay attention to the game when she'd opined in his hearing that Slytherin had no chance against the superior Gryffindor team.
As the newly minted head of Slytherin, he couldn't let that go unchallenged, so he'd offered her a wager and she'd accepted. It had been the first time he'd felt like a colleague on equal standing — well, almost equal — than an overgrown student. He'd won that bet, but she'd kept at it, casting aspersions on his house team's prowess whenever they were scheduled to face hers on the pitch. He'd quickly turned his keen eye and absorbent mind to the strategies of Quidditch play, and before long, he'd started providing commentary and (ahem) critique to the Slytherin team captain.
Only years later had he realised that this had been Minerva's strategy to get him integrated into the Hogwarts community. More integrated than he'd been as a student, anyway. The other staff were always keen to know how the competition was going; it had given him something to talk about with them that was neither too personal nor too volatile.
That Quidditch banter had set the tone for his relationship with Minerva throughout his early years on faculty; later, it had become a richer sort of quasi-friendship, full of competition, yes, but also some real understanding and, dare he say, appreciation of one another's better points. (The knowledge that he had some had, by the way, also been a product of his conversations with her.)
Yes, reconnecting more fully with Minerva McGonagall had been one of the bonuses of his reluctant return to Hogwarts.
And tonight was Friday.
Damn it all, he was humming again.