Title: Whisky and Minerva
Author: Persephone Yavanna the Entwife
Pairing/Characters: Severus and Minerva
Rating: G for gen (in other words, completely work-safe!)
Warnings: None, unless one hates cats
Disclaimer: JK Rowling and assorted others have rights to create derivative works within the Potterverse, but I am not one of those licensees, unfortunately. Rather not be sued for playing with the characters, though . . . not making a profit here, just exploring the characters and situations created by the esteemed Ms. Rowling.
Summary: Severus loathed shortbread, porridge and all things Scottish -- except whisky. And Minerva.
Author Notes: First time writing fanfiction, Potterverse or otherwise. This is the first of the stand-alone vignettes from my NaNoWriMo 2006 project to be "published" on LiveJournal.
Severus loathed shortbread, porridge and all things Scottish -- except whisky. And Minerva.
He hated how the cold seeped into his bones, how damp it was, how short the days were in winter. The thought of tartan made him nauseous.
Unless Minerva was wearing it. Then it was alright, because anything Minerva did was good in his book.
She’d feed him shortbread biscuits with ginger in them and he’d eat them with a smile, because they came from her hand. Tea was delicious when served from her pot, a single malt liquid ambrosia when she poured it.
He even forgave her taste in tartans, especially since those she favoured had more green than red or yellow -– surprising in the Head of Gryffindor House. Some days he wondered if she wore as much green as she did in order to please him. He liked to think that, especially when the nights were long and the dungeon corridors seemed to suck the warmth from out the marrow of his bones. Then he’d sit by the fire in his rooms and slowly sip the whisky she’d given him at Yule or for his birthday. Always a different kind -– “so you can educate your palate,” she’d say with a laugh.
Over the years he’d had dozens of types – Islay malts, Highland malts, Lowland malts, ones from Speyside, ones from the Islands, ones from Campbeltown, some aged in sherry casks, some made with peated malt. His favorites though came from Islay. On days when he’d had to deal with one dunderhead too many, he’d pull out the Laphroaig and immerse himself in the flavour of it, drowning in the intensity of its many notes.
On other days, though, he’d take the bottle of Bunnahabhain. Days when it was all he could do to go one more second, one more minute, one more day.
On days like that, he sought Minerva. Ginger Newts, tea by her fire, a relaxing glass of whisky in a comfortable chair. And her whisky of choice was that one.
They’d talk, complaining about one student or another, throwing gentle jibes at one another over which of their houses would win the Quidditch Cup this year. Sometimes they’d spar verbally over whether the House Cup would go to Slytherin or Gryffindor when they had succeeded in restraining their mischief-makers enough to make winning a real possibility.
Other times they’d play chess or even Exploding Snap, just as their charges did in their common rooms. He’d hide a card or two up his sleeve and she’d swat at him when she caught him –- and she always did, sooner or later. She’d call him a naughty boy and he’d laugh and remind her of all the times she’d moved pieces on the chess board while he was in the loo. Then she’d blush and give a little laugh herself and concede the point.
“But you’re still a naughty boy, Severus!” she’d huff.
“Yes, Minerva -– your naughty little boy,” he’d say with fondness in his voice.
“Absolutely incorrigible -– you always were,” she’d reply with a smile, which he would return.
And some nights, he’d sit in the armchair by the fire, a purring bundle in his lap, covered in a tartan laprobe Minerva had tucked around him after pouring him a glass of Bunnahabhain. He’d stroke her gently, chucking her under the chin, playing with her ears, sometimes gently pulling at her tail. She’d butt her head up against his hand and he’d smile. They would doze by the fire together as snow swirled outside the windows of Gryffindor Tower.
He’d wake, eventually, sometimes wiping a bit of drool from his face while she smiled and offered him a handkerchief with tartan trim. Then he’d bid her goodnight and return to the dank hole he called home. There he’d curl up in bed, a glass on the nightstand, and dream of fur.