Free Ficlet #2: Snape/McGonagall
This one is for Mystery Requester, who asked for "Snagonagall domesticity, reading by the fire. Tea. Marmalade. Sunday roasts." Because apparently once you start writing this stuff, you're not allowed to stop. Or possibly because "Snagonagall" is too much fun to say, I dunno.
Title: Rest for the Weary
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Snape/McGonagall
Rating/Warnings: G, none.
Length: ~330 words
Notes: I can't help thinking of this as a sequel to "Somewhere to Be (The Inside Story Remix)", even though that's really not my universe to play around in. It's at least some sort of similar scenario, anyway.
Rest for the Weary
Snape gasps and flails himself awake in the hour before dawn, his mind full of snake fangs, of evil laughter and pain-wracked bodies, of green eyes looking at him in pity. In his chest, he feels that peculiar, hollow tightness that once lodged there every day for a year.
Minerva, always a light sleeper, stirs beside him. Go back to sleep, he tries to tell her. It's nothing. I'm fine. But, just for the moment, he can't quite manage to speak.
Even half-awake, she is not stupid enough to ask what's wrong. She doesn't attempt to reassure him that it was only a dream, as if he were a child, unaware of the nature of dreams and reality. She does not "helpfully" suggest he go back to brewing himself sleeping draughts. Instead, she rests her hand on his shoulder until his pulse slows and his breathing quiets, and then she gets up and goes to the kitchen. A few minutes later, they are sitting quietly together, drinking strong tea and eating toast with marmalade.
Eventually he asks a question about the manuscript she's working on, and when she's answered that, she inquires about his plans for his garden. Slowly, the dream fades and the sun rises, and he finds himself thinking about the day ahead: the soon-to-arrive morning paper, herbs in the greenhouse that need repotting, a roast for Sunday dinner, a quiet evening reading with her by the fire.
Severus Snape has scoffed at the idea of domesticity ever since he first realized, at the age of fifteen, that he was unlikely ever to experience it himself. Surely, he decided then, such pleasures were for the inferior and the stupid, for ignorant Muggles and brainwashed masses and sentimental fools.
Snape gathers up the dishes, his and Minerva's, and brushes his hand against hers gently as he passes. It is truly amazing to him that even now he is still discovering new ways in which his younger self was a colossal idiot.
Title: Rest for the Weary
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Snape/McGonagall
Rating/Warnings: G, none.
Length: ~330 words
Notes: I can't help thinking of this as a sequel to "Somewhere to Be (The Inside Story Remix)", even though that's really not my universe to play around in. It's at least some sort of similar scenario, anyway.
Rest for the Weary
Snape gasps and flails himself awake in the hour before dawn, his mind full of snake fangs, of evil laughter and pain-wracked bodies, of green eyes looking at him in pity. In his chest, he feels that peculiar, hollow tightness that once lodged there every day for a year.
Minerva, always a light sleeper, stirs beside him. Go back to sleep, he tries to tell her. It's nothing. I'm fine. But, just for the moment, he can't quite manage to speak.
Even half-awake, she is not stupid enough to ask what's wrong. She doesn't attempt to reassure him that it was only a dream, as if he were a child, unaware of the nature of dreams and reality. She does not "helpfully" suggest he go back to brewing himself sleeping draughts. Instead, she rests her hand on his shoulder until his pulse slows and his breathing quiets, and then she gets up and goes to the kitchen. A few minutes later, they are sitting quietly together, drinking strong tea and eating toast with marmalade.
Eventually he asks a question about the manuscript she's working on, and when she's answered that, she inquires about his plans for his garden. Slowly, the dream fades and the sun rises, and he finds himself thinking about the day ahead: the soon-to-arrive morning paper, herbs in the greenhouse that need repotting, a roast for Sunday dinner, a quiet evening reading with her by the fire.
Severus Snape has scoffed at the idea of domesticity ever since he first realized, at the age of fifteen, that he was unlikely ever to experience it himself. Surely, he decided then, such pleasures were for the inferior and the stupid, for ignorant Muggles and brainwashed masses and sentimental fools.
Snape gathers up the dishes, his and Minerva's, and brushes his hand against hers gently as he passes. It is truly amazing to him that even now he is still discovering new ways in which his younger self was a colossal idiot.