Entry tags:

het, hp fanfic, snape/minerva

FIC: Things We Lost (and Found) in the War
Title: Things We Lost (and Found) in the War
Pairing: Severus/Minerva
Rating: NC-17
Words: 6,700
Summary: Two people, two wars, and a few of the things they learned along the way.
A/N: For cjmarlowe and smutty_claus 2007.

Things We Lost (and Found) in the War

Built from coarse, badly-cut stone, the walls were rough and unfinished, and they gave the kitchen the feeling of a cave. Everything was grey. Mould waited in the corners, and dust clung to each jut and depression. Minerva studied the ragged line of a crack, following it up until it met one of the spidery fissures crawling across the ceiling. The lamp sputtered and spit, casting strange shadows that stretched along the floor, and the upper storeys creaked and sighed with the wind. A disturbing place, this house. It carried a chill that a dozen fires could not touch, and without the children, it was as silent and empty as a tomb. Molly had done her best, but generations of madness and hate had fought her at every turn.

Minerva didn't know how any of them could stand it, how they'd lived for an entire summer with the dirt and the darkness and the house's constant displeasure. A wheezing rattle sounded from Kreacher's nest under the water tank, and she wondered why Lupin stayed, if Black -- who often wandered the house like a ghost -- would finally lose what was left of his mind.

The fire crackled as it began to die, and Minerva poured herself another cup of tea. It was close to tepid, and a hair stronger than she liked.

"I hadn't thought to find you here."

"Good Lord, Severus!" she snapped, grinding it out on the heels of a startled gasp. He hovered in the doorway, one hand braced on the jamb, and she considered how long he might've been watching her. The house creaked again; Kreacher hurried to rattle in reply. It was uncanny, the way Severus could be so silent and still. With his long, lean lines and the shadows settling on his shoulders, she could see why Potter thought he favoured a bat. "You nearly stopped my heart!"

Disregarding this, he approached the table, but did not sit. His cloak sagged open. Underneath, his other hand was curled against his chest and wrapped in a bloody scrap of cloth.

"You're hurt."

"It's nothing," he said dismissively. "A scratch." The fire gave a handful of weak and half-hearted pops. Severus tucked his injured hand away, and Minerva retreated behind her tea. "An occupational hazard." Avoiding her eyes, he skirted around the table, his cloak whispering against the wood as it brushed the edge, and began rooting through the cabinets above the sideboard. "Essence of Murtlap would suffice, but I do not suppose this house contains something as civilised as that."

Minerva frowned. "Here, I might have some in my bag," she said, pulling her carpetbag into her lap. "And sit down," she added sharply. His footsteps were dull and very, very hollow, and she had a sudden mad fancy that the house would not approve. "Pacing will not help me find it any faster."

"I am not pacing."

"Of course you're not," she murmured, subsiding with a sigh. Severus was prickly on his best days, and that was something that would never change. "I can't say I understand why you came here -- of all places -- looking for Essence of Murtlap," she said, as she set a bottle on the table. It was small and green, and the label was beginning to peel away from the glass. "Hogwarts would've made more sense. Poppy keeps the stuff by the gallon."

"Pomfrey clucks like a fishwife," Severus said sourly.

Minerva huffed. "You've never complained before."

"She's also absurdly nosy." He fumbled with the knot in his bandage, and his jaw hardened, taking an edge like a knife. "An empty house is not inclined to ask questions I do not wish to answer."

"Let me," she said, capturing his hand before he could pull it away. "And this house is not as empty as it seems." He looked tired, seemed pinched around the eyes. She wanted to ask, wanted to know where he'd been and what he'd been doing, but she knew he wouldn't -- or couldn't -- tell her. "People do live here."

"People," Severus repeated. His voice was flat. "I would hardly call it living. Lupin has the sleeping habits of someone twice his age, and Black" -- his lip curled -- "Black is drunk more often than not."

"You only argue when he's sober."

"I will not deny I prefer him insensate. If he is sprawled at the foot of the stairs and drooling on himself, I am not forced to listen to his braying."

Minerva turned his hand once the bandage was off, and tapped at his fingers until he unclenched his fist. The cut was not very deep, but it was long, crossing the entire width of his palm, which accounted for all the bleeding. She applied the Murtlap quickly, wrinkling her nose at the acrid smell. After a moment's thought she opted to reuse the bandage; a quick Cleansing Charm rendered it as sterile as anything else the house had to offer.

The silence was stilted and tight. Severus breathed, and Minerva studied the walls. The table shifted, listing a bit to the left, and the fire hissed as the embers started to cool.

"Albus is not here," Minerva said finally.

Severus pressed his mouth into a line. He was not surprised. "It was a chance, but I figured I would take it, once I found his office Floo was closed off," he explained. "I had hoped to speak with him while my memory was still fresh." He paused, his shoulders hitching slightly. "Why are you here, of all places?"

"I stopped in to visit with Molly. This business with Arthur -- she's taking it awfully hard," Minerva replied. She sipped her tea; it was stone cold and the dregs caught on her tongue. "I meant to return to Hogwarts when she left for St Mungos, but this weather is dreadful."

"It is," Severus agreed, "but you cannot tell me this house is not worse."

--

Poppy had finally chased the others out. The lamps had been dimmed, and their weak light made Potter look pale and jaundiced. From his stillness, Minerva assumed his sleep was peaceful, but his brow was pulled into a tight line, and one restless arm was thrown above his head. In dog form, Black dozed against Potter's side, one large paw resting on his chest and his square, wet nose tucked under Potter's chin. Potter sighed -- a soft, shallow sound -- then shifted, curling closer to Black. Snuffling in reply, Black lifted his head long enough to swipe his tongue at Potter's jaw.

At the foot of the bed, Poppy watched Potter closely, her narrowed eyes tracking the careful rise and fall of his chest. Her lips thinned. She was a soft touch for Potter, and in some ways, Minerva was, as well. Minerva tried not to play favourites, tried not to give favours, but Potter often managed to undermine her most earnest attempts at neutrality. Patting Potter's leg, Minerva rose, wincing as his bed shrieked in complaint.

"Get some rest, Minerva," Poppy said quietly.

Minerva inclined her head. "Only if you do the same."

Poppy huffed and headed for her office. The lights dimmed further. With a final glance at Potter, Minerva slipped into the hallway. She was only somewhat surprised to find Albus and Severus standing outside the door.

"I understand your concerns, Severus, but for now, the boy is safe," Albus said lightly.

"I am sure you believe that," Severus replied. His voice was thin and tight. "But Black--"

"--is an innocent man," Albus concluded, with an air of finality. "He is an innocent man, and he is Harry's godfather. I will not discourage a relationship between them simply because -- ah! Minerva." Pausing, he tilted his head. "I had hoped at least one of us would manage an hour of sleep tonight."

Minerva glanced out the small window at the end of the hall. "I am on my way to do precisely that." The sky was still dark, but the hint of purple near the horizon suggested the sun would be rising shortly.

"Of course," Albus said, offering one of his infuriatingly knowing smiles. "I am sure you will sleep better, now that you have looked in on Harry."

"Potter is in my House," Minerva said tartly. "I have every right to be concerned."

"Oddly enough, Severus believes the very same thing," Albus said, spreading his hands. "Between the two of you, I fear there will be nothing left for me to worry about." The shadows twisted, painting a dark stripe across his bright blue robes. "Harry will be well." His smile broadened. "Although -- as long as I am here, I think I will have a look on him, as well. Minerva," he added, as the door inched open. "Severus. I would say good night, but I believe good morning would be more appropriate. I urge you both to get some rest."

Silence slid through the hall; she could hear Severus breathe, could feel Diggory's death and the hours that followed pressing on her shoulders like a weight. The torches were brighter than the Hospital Wing's lamps, but their light was no less yellow. Washed in it, Severus' sallowness was more pronounced, and his hair took on a strangely greenish hue. The slow prickle of exhaustion began to settle behind Minerva's eyes, and when Severus cleared his throat, the sound seemed to echo off the walls.

"This has been a trying day, to say the least," Severus said finally. "If you find yourself restless, I have a small store of Dreamless Sleep in my office."

"I am fine," Minerva replied. Outside, the sky was slowly gaining colour; in spite of the day's horrors, she knew she would fall asleep the moment she reached her bed. "Do you truly believe Potter is still in danger?"

"Potter has been in danger since the day he was born." His face hardened, and his mouth grew tight. "Possibly before."

Minerva frowned. "And you?"

"My situation remains. Danger has always been present. Tonight's events only served to make it more" -- he sneered -- "immediate."

"Has he asked that--"

"--you know full well what he has asked," Severus finished quietly. "You have always known he would ask, if the situation warranted." His sigh was short and tight. "As have I."

She caught his arm. Her hand landed just below the darkness hidden under his sleeve. She felt him tense, but his face could've been carved from stone.

"You will die."

"I know."

--

Set just below the ceiling, small windows peppered the kitchen's rear wall. They framed squares of unbroken blackness, and rivulets of rain traced mad patterns across their scratched and dirty panes. Minerva had hoped the weather would relent, but it had only worsened in the last hour, and Severus had slipped into a stillness beyond that of his characteristic quiet. The wind pushed on, whistling furiously, and the house above quaked and shook with each gale that assaulted its façade.

"What am I drinking?" Severus asked suddenly.

"Earl Grey," Minerva replied, wrapping her hands around her teacup for warmth. Severus had recently built up the fire, but it had quickly proved to be no use at all. "It is the same as we have at Hogwarts."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "It does not taste the same."

"That would be the dust," Minerva said lightly. The tea was freshly made, but a strange staleness lingered on her tongue. "That is not the same as we have at Hogwarts."

"If you are interested in dust, you should pay a visit to the dungeons," Severus murmured. "I am convinced we've not entertained a house-elf since Armando Dippett was headmaster." He finished his tea, pursed his lips at the teapot, then poured himself another cup. "Put off by the draughts, I suppose."

"Not the company, of course."

Severus glanced up, but his face was impassive. Minerva waited. Severus was rarely amused by the things others found funny, but his own sense of humour was so bone dry that few people were able to follow it. The lamp flickered, and the kitchen door squeaked on its hinges. Minerva's mouth twitched. Slowly, Severus lifted an eyebrow.

"Shall I give you a full assessment of the creatures currently under your dominion?" Severus asked. The wind shrieked with renewed vigour, and Severus' eyes darted to the windows. "My opinions are lengthy, but I dare say we have the time."

"Spare me the lecture, Professor," Minerva said, relaxing slightly. These days, Severus was easily tipped into sour moods. He played his part well -- for both sides -- and Minerva often wondered at the demands. At the price. "I had the misfortune of meeting with Binns, this afternoon, and that was more than enough tedium to be going on with."

"Binns?" Severus asked, cradling his teacup with both hands. Bent, his fingers favoured the legs of a spider. "What could he have possibly wanted?"

"The number of upper form students willing to take his class has dwindled over the years," she replied. "He thinks Albus should change the curriculum, and make it mandatory through seventh year."

"And what did Albus have to say?"

Minerva waved a hand. "I never did find him. Neither did Binns, which is why he bothered me with it."

The door creaked again -- louder, this time. She sensed a question waiting on Severus' tongue, a breath away from pushing past his lips, and she swallowed her own. It was likely the same, but Albus -- and his activities, and his whereabouts -- was dangerous ground. Gossip was never idle, and all three of them harboured too many secrets. Kreacher stirred inside his lair with a series of mutters and metallic-tinged clacks. Minerva reached for her teacup and, finding it empty, studied the dregs strewn around the interior. They formed a sunburst, with a rounded concentration centred near the bottom and a handful of spindly rays stretching toward the rim.

"Having second thoughts on your stance concerning Divination?" Severus asked.

Minerva huffed and set her teacup aside. "I never had an interest for it, even as a child. Most of my housemates took it, but I did not. You didn't either, as I recall."

"No, I did not," he said, shaking his head. "I also lacked an interest, and I doubt I would've had the patience for it." He considered a gouge on the table, and followed its jaunty line with the tip of a finger. "Slughorn discouraged it -- quietly, of course. He thought it was a frivolity. None from my house bothered with it, save for Black -- the brother, Regulus." His hand stilled. "But his family -- I believe they took more stock in it than most."

Popping, the lamp flared brightly.

In the twist of the shadows, Minerva saw Sirius Black. He was thirteen, with long, awkward limbs and hair that wanted cutting. The common room's fire glowed yellow and gold behind him, crackling merrily as he shouted at the top of his lungs.

You take Divs if you want, but I'm not!

Go on, Sirius. I don't want to take it alone!

Ask Peter, then.

That's not the same!

I'm not taking it. I had my fill of that rot at home. It's all bollocks, anyway.

His tie was askew, and spots of colour burned across his cheeks. To Minerva's knowledge, that had been the first and only time he denied James Potter anything.

"Regulus," she said, tasting the name for the first time in almost twenty years. From what she remembered, he had been an attentive student, and a quick study at most things. Physically, the family resemblance had been uncanny, but his quiet nature and reserved temper had been a startling counterpoint to his brother's mercurial moods and almost manic energy. "Did you know him well?"

"We were acquaintances at school," Severus replied evenly. "And after, for a time."

"How did he die?"

The question hung there, suspended by the dust and the chill and the carefully blank expression on Severus' face, and Minerva looked away. She rarely indulged in morbid curiosity; she suspected the house was making her maudlin. And careless. Severus' past was a guarded topic and, like Albus' machinations -- or the reasons behind them -- it was also dangerous ground. They had far too many secrets, and they'd carried the weight of those secrets for far too many years.

Severus' eyes were hollow. "Why?" he asked. "Would the answer afford Black some sadistic form of comfort?"

"I doubt he would care," Minerva said honestly, recalling the absurd spectacle his family life had become in his sixth and seventh years. "I am not certain he remembers he has a brother, at all."

The wind howled.

"He disappeared," Severus said finally. "The fire and noise was saved for Muggle-borns and blood traitors. If a Death Eater turned his cloak, he simply disappeared."

--

The office was exactly as Minerva had left it.

Severus sat at the desk, winding a roll of parchment that spilled halfway to the floor. Papers and scrolls were piled on either side of him, a mire of announcements and edicts and decrees. The lamps fluttered weakly, casting a light unsuitable for writing or reading. Severus glanced up as he tidied away his work, his lips pressed into a thin line. Slumped and wrinkled, the Sorting Hat waited on the shelf above his head. Behind him, Albus' portrait was an empty stretch of canvas.

"Does Albus wander often?" Minerva asked.

"On occasion, the mood takes him early in the morning," Severus said flatly. "Otherwise, only when we've argued."

"Which they do with great frequency," Phineas Nigellus Black noted. "Albus is more of an oddity than ever, but I dare say Professor Snape can be most contradictory."

Severus' mouth tightened. "Have you returned solely to plague me, Professor Black, or have you news to report?"

"Their situation is unchanged," Black replied shortly. "Not that I am sorry. Impertinent creatures, all of them, but the girl--"

"--that will do, Professor Black," Severus snapped. Black grumbled in reply, and Minerva considered the secrets he and Severus might share as he shuffled out of his frame. His other portrait was at Grimmauld Place, and there was nothing there but memories and dust. "Minerva," Severus began quietly. Across the room, Albus' Pensieve glowed softly. "Are you sure this is wise?"

They had spoken little since his return to Hogwarts, by both choice and necessity. Her patience was running thin, and privacy was quickly becoming an illusion. These days, the walls listened and the floors carried tales, and Severus was rarely seen without the Carrows chasing his shadow. The fire had burned very, very low -- it was scarcely a pile of ash -- but she watched the dying embers for the slightest hint of green. She didn't trust anyone. She hardly trusted herself.

"I no longer believe anything is wise," she said, letting her gaze drift to the window. The curtains were tied back, presenting a murky, starless sky. "Do you truly think my movements are watched?"

"Do you truly think that mine are not?"

"Severus, please!"

"Minerva." Rising, he approached her, moving swiftly around the desk. He studied her for a moment, then sighed and folded his arms. "Why are you here?"

"This cannot continue," she said, gesturing broadly. "Something must be done. The children--"

"--are strong, resilient creatures who will one day realise that such are the consequences of war," Severus said harshly, "and this is a war, Minerva, whatever Albus wished us to believe." His face had thinned considerably -- he almost looked gaunt -- and darkness lingered under his eyes. "I do not deny that some of the students are suffering." Looking away, he frowned at Fawkes' abandoned perch. "That is unfortunate, but for the time being, it is also necessary."

"Necessary?" Minerva asked tightly. "How is any of this necessary?" An owl swooped past the window, silvered by the rind of moon lurking above the Quidditch pitch. "Unforgivable Curses are not necessary. Physical abuse is never necessary." Their eyes locked, and Minerva forced herself not to blink. "Have you spoken with Thicknesse?"

"To what end?"

"Is he completely unaware of the situation?"

"At present, Pius Thicknesse is unaware of his own name," Severus snapped, and Minerva shivered with a sudden chill. "Think, Minerva! Think!" he added, pushing his sleeve up roughly. "Would a Ministry man have appointed a known Death Eater as headmaster if he was in complete control of his faculties?"

The sinuous mark was very dark against his skin, and Minerva looked away. "Why did you accept?" she asked quietly. "Why did you accept, if this was to be the only result?" Severus' mouth worked, but he made no sound, and Minerva pressed on, her hands clenched in her robes. "Albus trusted you. He always trusted you -- so much so that against my own judgement, I have convinced myself that his death was arranged between you." His face turned stony, but his shoulders sagged slightly, perhaps with the weight of another secret. "But I cannot believe -- I will not believe -- that he sacrificed himself for things to come to this."

Neither breathed. The owl swooped by again, a mouse dangling from its talons, and the fire expired with a whispery hiss.

"Before he died," Severus began quietly, "I promised I would do everything in my power to protect his students and his school." His voice was thin, stretched. "Unfortunately, I have also made other promises -- promises forced upon me, by people I am not in a position to refuse." Stepping closer, he reached for her, but he let his hands drop to his sides. "It cannot appear that I am reneging on those promises. I care little for my own safety -- I have not cared for years -- but if I am killed, or removed from this office, the students will lose what little protection I can provide."

Shadows curled around his face, and she watched his throat shift and constrict as he swallowed. They stood less than a foot apart, but Albus' ghost separated them like a wall.

"Dismiss the Carrows," Minerva said finally.

"Again, to what end?" Severus asked. "As I have said, Thicknesse is little more than a marionette in a nice set of robes, and he performs for his master quite well. If I was to dismiss the Carrows -- an act that would only arouse suspicion I cannot afford -- Thicknesse would simply find replacements, replacements chosen and suggested by someone else." Pausing, he spread his hands; the shadows stretched his fingers into claws. "Believe me, the Dark Lord has people in his employ far more odious and cruel than Amycus and Alecto Carrow."

Minerva sighed, a tightness settling in her chest. "What of Potter?"

"What of him?" Severus countered. "He has not contacted me, if that is what you are asking. I hardly expect him to owl me, considering what he chooses to believe."

"You have given him no reason to believe otherwise," Minerva argued. Albus' Pensieve glowed impassively; in the silvery light, Minerva saw Potter at eleven, cut and bruised and clutching the Philosopher's Stone. "He is only a boy, Severus!" He was twelve and covered in a basilisk's blood, thirteen and crying for the godfather he'd met and lost in a single, wretched night. "A boy." He was fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen and saying Albus was dead. "Merlin only knows where he has run off, and he's completely alone!"

"He is not alone," Severus replied evenly. "Unless the attendance logs deceive me, Weasley and Granger have run off, as well." The sliver of moon faded into a cloud. "There are things he must accomplish, and as much as it pains me to leave someone so impulsive and witless unattended, he must accomplish them in his own time, and in his own way." Sighing, he softened slightly. "He is well, Minerva." His shoulders hitched again. "He is well enough."

"You know where he is?" Minerva asked.

A lengthy pause: Severus seemed to consider his next carefully. Finally, he nodded. "I do."

"Tell me."

Severus' mouth tightened, and the last of Minerva's patience began to drain away. She was tired of all the secrets, tired of all the lies. She wanted to know where Potter was -- for her own peace of mind, if nothing else -- and she wanted to know where Severus found the information. The sound of footsteps cut through the silence; it was Albus returning to his portrait. His smile and eyes were painfully familiar, and Minerva glanced to his right, turning her attention on Phineas Nigellus' empty and dusty frame. Black was one of the most disagreeable men Minerva had ever met, but that dourness was a condition he and Severus both shared.

"Black," she murmured. "You somehow have him watching Potter." Severus could've been a statue, and heat rushed to Minerva's cheeks. "You share your secrets with a portrait, but not with me."

"I was once told I should not keep all my secrets in one basket."

Quietly, Albus chuckled.

"Very well," she said quietly. "I will let myself out."

Severus caught her by the arm and brushed his hand over her shoulder. He hadn't touched her since Albus fell. She no longer thought she wanted him to.

"If Longbottom persists, he will not survive the end of term," he whispered. "If you cannot teach him restraint, you must arrange for him to disappear."

--

His kisses tasted of stale tea.

Rain pattered softly against the windows, had the wind and finally started to calm. They touched infrequently these days; there was time for little but preparing for a war everyone preferred to deny. Minerva pulled him closer, her arms wrapped around his neck. Beneath the house's taint of dust and madness, he smelled of camphor and peppermint and valerian, of mundane things, things Minerva found warm and familiar. His hands slid to her waist, his long fingers curving toward her back. His kisses were slow -- they always started slow -- a gentle press of lips and the barest hint of tongue.

She remembered the first time they did this, during a peace that had felt tenuous and unreal. Severus had been young then, a barely-tried professor with a tarnished name and an uncertain future. The line between Hogwarts and Azkaban had been drawn with Albus' grace, and Albus had often been distant and closed. There had been tea and conversation, then loneliness and ghosts. Severus had thought Potions a sentence. She had felt stranded from her closest friend; Albus had considered the Potters' death a personal failure, and he had been silent in his grief.

Severus leaned into her, guiding them back toward the table. It rocked madly when it met her thigh, and the teacups jangled brightly in their saucers. Kreacher voiced his disapproval with a few sharp knocks on the water tank, but with Severus' mouth against her neck she could almost pretend the house was still. His mouth paused just above her collar, and she tipped her head back as his teeth found her skin. She took a sharp breath, her hands sliding down his arms and her fingers twisting in his sleeves. The table creaked. Severus' hands slipped up her shoulders and neck and pulled at the pins holding her hair.

He liked her hair loose. Free of its usual bun, it tumbled around her face in large, soft curls, and he touched it lightly, his fingers just catching in the strands. His face was inscrutable -- it was always inscrutable -- but the line of his jaw had eased and softened. She traced it; gently at first, with the pad of her thumb, then stronger and firmer, with her lips and her tongue. The wind advanced, then retreated. He was hard now, pressed tight along her hip. She pushed against him, shifting, and a noise caught in his throat, rumbling and low.

The fire ignored them; a chill swept over her body as her robes fell away. Severus shivered, and the door inched closed with a groan. They kissed again, harder and deeper, laced with the heat the house refused to provide, and Severus chased the prickles from her skin with his hands. He pulled back, his breath heavy against her cheek as his fingers worked the trail of buttons lining the front of her dress. It was tartan and old, suitable for little but tea with Molly in a house full of dust.

The house had dust. They had ghosts.

His flies opened easily, and with a flick of her wrist, he was in her hand, heavy and hot. His kissed her as she touched, and he was fiercer now, determined, his breathing shallow and hitched, and his tongue parting her lips and pushing inside her mouth. She sped her hand, tightening her fingers, and he moved with her, pushing to meet her strokes. Another noise -- harsher, deeper. His face softened and the tautness slowly left his eyes. He swallowed a moan, leaving it half-broken in the back of his throat, murmuring as he lifted her up and the table shrieked.

Sounds, not words, but he rarely spoke, and her hands slipped over his shoulders and arms. He mouthed behind her ear, his tongue warm and wet, and when his teeth came they were sharper, rougher. He leaned her back, stretching to follow. He lost a hand in her hair and his face in her neck, and he pulled her knickers away, letting the soft material rasp over her skin. The table tilted. She arched toward him, her legs falling open. He trailed soft touches along her thigh, and she arched again, gasping as his fingers slipped up and pushed inside.

Severus tipped his hand, fingers wet and slick, his thumb brushing her clitoris in slow, languid circles. His mouth was open, lax, but his eyes were intent as he watched. He always watched. He enjoyed this, enjoyed coaxing her moans with the twist and turn of his hand, enjoyed stroking and petting until she stretched and shuddered and sighed. Heat warmed his face, brightening his skin. He had long fingers, clever fingers, and he shifted and pressed and rubbed until she tensed and shook, until her eyes slid closed and she whispered his name.

He kissed her, slowly as she regained her breath, then faster, faster, until he pulled back to settle himself between her legs. The wind was still, finally still. He pushed inside her with a single thrust, then paused, the teapot at his elbow and his lips against her cheek. The house was silent, finally silent. She brought their mouths together and rocked her hips, urging him to move.

The ghosts were watching, and Minerva didn't care.

--

"He refuses to listen," Severus said bitterly. "He simply refuses."

Minerva stretched, allowing the blanket to slip away from her body. The fire was long dead, but her quarters felt stuffy, uncomfortably warm. Severus shifted with her, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. He sighed -- a tight, irritated sound.

"Refuses," Severus repeated.

"And this surprises you, after all these years?" Minerva asked, shivering as the top of his foot brushed the bottom of hers. "He has not changed, and I doubt he ever will."

"This is different -- beyond his usual stubbornness," Severus replied, mostly to the ceiling. "He is adamant. He insists Potter is in no real danger, and he will not hear a word against the man."

Minerva found a loose thread on the blanket and pulled until it snapped. "Perhaps he knows something you do not," she said. "Perhaps he believes your accusations are fuelled by years of distrust and dislike."

"It sounds as if you agree."

"It is an old grudge, Severus, and you have carried it a long time," Minerva said neutrally. "If you do not like him, you do not like him. That does not make him a criminal."

"And the portrait?"

"It may have been Black, and it may not have been," Minerva replied. "I'm inclined to believe it was, but that does not prove anything."

He pushed the blanket away, and the bed creaked and dipped as he rolled toward the edge. She didn't stop him, didn't see the point in trying. This was an old argument, and a tired one; they'd acted out many different versions since the start of term, and each performance had ended the same. Silently, she watched as he gathered his things. He pulled his robes on roughly, and shoved his feet inside his boots.

He would leave, infuriated because she gave no credence to his flights of fancy. He would leave, and tomorrow they would argue again.

"I should get back," he said stiffly.

"Nox."

He paused, silvered by the moonlight streaming through the window. "Do you truly believe I say this out of spite?"

"I have already told you," she began wearily. "I see no reason to suspect Lupin of anything." He made a soft, vexed noise, which she disregarded with a wave. "He is a professor at this school, and he served the Order well."

"Have you forgotten how they were at school?" Severus asked loudly. "Black hurt people, humiliated people. He broke every rule imaginable, and abused Lupin's authority at any opportunity, and Lupin did little but smile and turn a blind eye. Black played Lupin like a lute for years, and if they are in contact again, I cannot imagine that anything would change."

"Lumos," Minerva snapped, tossing her wand aside. "Are you listening to yourself, Severus? Everything has changed!"

Severus folded his arms. "They were friends."

"Twenty years ago," Minerva argued. "Twenty years ago, and Black destroyed everything Lupin ever loved!"

Severus' faced hardened, and his jaw took an edge like a knife. "We all lost things in the war."

Nodding, Minerva slumped back into the pillows. She'd never asked whom he'd lost; some things were not to be discussed. She had suspected Lupin at first -- Severus' fixation on him during school had bordered on obsessive -- but as the years passed, she had learned enough to stop wondering. She had watched Severus turn his obsession on Potter, watched him hate Potter with one hand and fight to protect him with the other. He had been close with Lily Evans, until Evans chose a different side and married a man Severus considered an enemy.

"They were friends," Severus repeated. "Best friends."

"Black's best friend was James Potter, and James Potter is dead."

Lily Evans was also dead, but some things were not to be discussed.

--

The rain was almost an afterthought, and the wind had all but ceased.

"Do not get me started on that woman," Severus said, as he straightened his robes. "She is discourteous, interfering, contemptible, and vile, and she makes a mockery of the subject she claims to teach."

Minerva patted her hair, coaxing a few errant strands to lie flat. "You forgot unpleasant, abhorrent, and ignoble," she said lightly. "And I would not call that teaching."

"She has disallowed wands in her classroom," Severus noted sharply, "and she draws solely from that frivolous dung heap the Ministry has approved as a textbook."

"I am aware," Minerva said mildly.

Heat had rushed to his cheeks, warming his usual sallowness, and Minerva focused on tidying away the tea. She wondered which offence Severus found more insulting -- that Albus had once again chosen a Defence professor Severus felt ill-suited to the task, or that Albus had once again refused to give the subject to him. Minerva suspected the latter; it contradicted the trust Albus said to have in Severus, and the way he chastised any who questioned it.

"The students will learn little under those conditions, assuming they learn anything, at all," Severus continued. "Theory has its place, but practical application is imperative, particularly in Defence." His face hardened with a scowl. "Does Umbridge truly believe the Wizarding World has nothing larger to fear than the Jelly-Legs Jinx?"

Minerva retrieved her carpetbag from the floor and closed it with a snap. "She wishes to believe that," Minerva replied. "She needs to believe that, and therefore, she needs everyone else to believe that, as well."

"I am somewhat surprised we have been forced to endure her this long," Severus said. He doused the fire with a spell, and a soft, white cloud billowed up from the hearth. "Albus has never allowed outside interference. Can he find no way to get rid of her?"

"Unfortunately, no," Minerva admitted. "Fudge's paranoia runs deeper than Albus ever imagined. If she was dismissed now, it would only convince Fudge that Albus is trying to undermine his authority."

"You realise, Potter is not helping matters, the way he provokes her at every turn," Severus said. "If he continues to argue with her, and have outbursts in class -- you and Albus have humoured him far too often, and for far too long." Muttering, Kreacher stirred inside his den, an interruption Severus wholly ignored. "Potter needs to learn restraint!"

Minerva sighed. "Leave him be, Severus. He is angry."

"Clearly," Severus muttered, "but that does not excuse his complete and utter lack of control. I have found myself displeased with Umbridge no less than six times an hour since the moment the Ministry sent her to darken our doorstep. I have not, however, succumbed to my urge to shout her down in the halls." He frowned at her expectantly; Minerva disregarded it and cast a Cleansing Charm on the table. Severus' frown deepened, twisted into something dour. "Is he well?"

"Well enough," Minerva replied quietly. "Umbridge delights in saying he is mad to anyone who will listen, but that is merely wishful thinking on her part. He is tired, moody, and snappish, but he is well enough." She paused, fiddling absently with her carpetbag. "He has nightmares."

"We all have nightmares."

The ceiling sighed with the weight of footsteps -- perhaps Black moving from the floor to the couch, perhaps Lupin creeping downstairs to bring him a blanket. She considered their nightmares, wondered if Lupin relived his last visit with Potters, if Black's demons preferred the wreckage of Godrics Hollow or the mindless grey of Azkaban.

"We should go," she said softly. "We will be missed if we wait much longer."

"We will be found if we wait much longer," Severus replied. The house agreed; there was muted creak, another sigh, and the dull thud of a quickly closed door. "Do you still refuse to use the Floo?"

"It is better we do not risk it," Minerva said. "I am certain she is monitoring the fires. I cannot prove it, but Albus agrees. Fudge cannot learn of this place. If he does, it will not matter how Potter behaves."

"Very well," Severus conceded, as he started for the door. "I assume you Apparated from Hogsmeade?"

"Yes."

The main floor was still and dark, and the kitchen's chill followed them up the stairs. In the drawing room, the fire was cold. A single candle struggled to penetrate the shadows, and Black dozed in a wing-backed chair the colour of ash. His long, unkempt hair hid most of his face, and a green chequered blanket was folded over his knees. Sighing, Minerva allowed Severus to lead her outside, and they popped out of London under a heavy, cloud-gauzed sky.

They were greeted in Hogsmeade with cold and wet, and while it had finally ebbed, the wind carried an icy bite. The rain was scarcely more than a mist, but it clung to their hair and clothes, and the alley alongside Scrivenshafts had devolved into a river of mud.

"You walked?" Severus asked, stepping over a brown and murky puddle they had missed by less than a foot.

"I did," Minerva replied. "The weather was more agreeable at the time."

His mouth twitched. It was the closest he had come to laughing in years.

"It is only somewhat miserable now." Turning, he hefted his broom. "Allow me to fly you home."

FIN