Fic: Some Days (HP, Minerva McGonagall)
Had a very blue day today, complete with inability to deal with people at all and near to a panic attack. To cheer myself up I decided to write (surprise). I was intending to write some Firefly drabbles, perhaps a little Simon/Inara piece. Instead I came up with a Harry Potter ficlet. I have a strange brain. Firefly ficlets coming, I promise.
Title: Some Days
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape
Rating: PG
Summary: Some days, it's easy to wish you were somebody else.
Disclaimer: Not mine, JKR's.
All Gryffindors are courageous. They possess the will to overcome both the subtle dread and overwhelming fear which frequently stand in the way of that which must be done. Godric Gryffindor, great man that he was, embodied the qualities that his house stands for. He shines in her favorite portrait, draped in crimson and gold as he bears his sword aloft.
Some days, Minerva wishes she were anything but a Gryffindor.
Days when she had to deal with the outfall of one of Fred and George Weasley's many pranks, for example, she often thought it might be nice to be a Ravenclaw. She would catch Filius eyeing their latest charm with awe, working out how it was put together with delighted glee. Instead it fell to her to scold the hooligans and set points, knowing that if she gave in to her intellectual inclinations the school would suffer the consequences.
It might be nice to be a Hufflepuff on occasion. She sees the way Pomona gathers her students when they are frightened or distressed, calming them with kind words and gentle pats. She hurts for Harry Potter and his friends, each seeking love and affection in their own way. But she knows that all the kindness in the world will do no good if Voldemort has his way, and so she continues to keep both sharp eye and stern voice focused on all of them.
Merlin forgive her, there are some days that she thinks it would be worthwhile to be a Slytherin.
"Whatever could be so noxious as to cause so much sighing and blustering, Minerva?"
She thinks even Severus might smile were he to know the truth of her thoughts. Instead, she removes her glasses to focus on him more properly, knowing that her squinting eyes still intimidate many a former student. He appears unperturbed, however, simply sitting back in his great chair with crossed arms and a cocked eyebrow. They are in a standoff for a moment, before she sighs again and rubs at her tired eyes.
"I don't suppose there is a potion to remedy the perpetual idiocy of certain students," she says, rather too plaintively for her dignity.
Severus smirks before replying. "Surely you don't believe I wouldn't have previously availed myself of such a thing were it to exist?" he asks smoothly. "Unless, of course, you are thinking more along the lines of permanent removal of the student in question?"
She suppresses the urge to snort and lowers her own brows in disapproval. "That is not funny."
"Of course not," he replies. He says it in such a way to make her wonder at his meaning. But since she does not have a Slytherin mind, she doesn't even attempt to sort out the twists of his words.
They fall silent, and Minerva turns back to her grading. Fourth-year essays on the intricacies of hedgehog transfiguration. The disastrous punctuation alone is enough to make her feel like a pincushion. As does the press of the seat beneath her aging bones.
The room is quiet except for the crackling fire, the two of them the only ones working at this late hour. Punctuation and dreadful conclusions aside, the marking is not difficult, but her focus is lacking. Her mind often drifts to other things during these terrible times. Though worrying is not practical, and above many things Minerva prides herself on her practicality, sometimes worry is all she can do. Sometimes, she wishes to stick her head in the sand like a tartan-clad ostrich and never come out again.
She's pulled from her maudlin thoughts by the gentle clink of a cup and saucer landing at her elbow. She looks up; Severus is wrinkling his nose in that perfect upper-crust way.
"Perhaps if you are sipping tea you won't disturb my concentration quite so much," he drawls.
She smiles at his bluster. "Thank you," she says quietly.
The tea is warm and comforting, as is the bit of whiskey hiding in its mellow depths. She turns back to her marking, more settled than she has been all evening.
She's almost finished when the rattle of his teacup startles her. She looks up. There is no difference in his face, no marked difference in the sallowness of his skin or the blackness of his eyes, but she knows that something has happened.
"What is it?" she asks quietly, but she thinks she already knows.
He meets her eyes as he stands. "I must go," he says. "I trust your essays will manage without my companionship."
His eyes flick upward, in the general direction of the Headmaster's office. She nods.
"I suspect they will," she says, though she desperately wants to tell him that he doesn't have to go. That they will manage without this risk. She doesn't, because they both know that is far from the truth.
She lays a hand on his elbow as he turns toward the door, just brushing along the fine wool. He stops immediately.
"Be careful," she whispers.
He nods. Then he stalks from the chamber, his robes fluttering as they always do.
Minerva stands, straightens her shoulders and brushes the wrinkles from her emerald green robes. She has a message to deliver to Albus, and there's no sense in hiding her head in the sand.
Some days, she remembers it's not about Houses.
Title: Some Days
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape
Rating: PG
Summary: Some days, it's easy to wish you were somebody else.
Disclaimer: Not mine, JKR's.
All Gryffindors are courageous. They possess the will to overcome both the subtle dread and overwhelming fear which frequently stand in the way of that which must be done. Godric Gryffindor, great man that he was, embodied the qualities that his house stands for. He shines in her favorite portrait, draped in crimson and gold as he bears his sword aloft.
Some days, Minerva wishes she were anything but a Gryffindor.
Days when she had to deal with the outfall of one of Fred and George Weasley's many pranks, for example, she often thought it might be nice to be a Ravenclaw. She would catch Filius eyeing their latest charm with awe, working out how it was put together with delighted glee. Instead it fell to her to scold the hooligans and set points, knowing that if she gave in to her intellectual inclinations the school would suffer the consequences.
It might be nice to be a Hufflepuff on occasion. She sees the way Pomona gathers her students when they are frightened or distressed, calming them with kind words and gentle pats. She hurts for Harry Potter and his friends, each seeking love and affection in their own way. But she knows that all the kindness in the world will do no good if Voldemort has his way, and so she continues to keep both sharp eye and stern voice focused on all of them.
Merlin forgive her, there are some days that she thinks it would be worthwhile to be a Slytherin.
"Whatever could be so noxious as to cause so much sighing and blustering, Minerva?"
She thinks even Severus might smile were he to know the truth of her thoughts. Instead, she removes her glasses to focus on him more properly, knowing that her squinting eyes still intimidate many a former student. He appears unperturbed, however, simply sitting back in his great chair with crossed arms and a cocked eyebrow. They are in a standoff for a moment, before she sighs again and rubs at her tired eyes.
"I don't suppose there is a potion to remedy the perpetual idiocy of certain students," she says, rather too plaintively for her dignity.
Severus smirks before replying. "Surely you don't believe I wouldn't have previously availed myself of such a thing were it to exist?" he asks smoothly. "Unless, of course, you are thinking more along the lines of permanent removal of the student in question?"
She suppresses the urge to snort and lowers her own brows in disapproval. "That is not funny."
"Of course not," he replies. He says it in such a way to make her wonder at his meaning. But since she does not have a Slytherin mind, she doesn't even attempt to sort out the twists of his words.
They fall silent, and Minerva turns back to her grading. Fourth-year essays on the intricacies of hedgehog transfiguration. The disastrous punctuation alone is enough to make her feel like a pincushion. As does the press of the seat beneath her aging bones.
The room is quiet except for the crackling fire, the two of them the only ones working at this late hour. Punctuation and dreadful conclusions aside, the marking is not difficult, but her focus is lacking. Her mind often drifts to other things during these terrible times. Though worrying is not practical, and above many things Minerva prides herself on her practicality, sometimes worry is all she can do. Sometimes, she wishes to stick her head in the sand like a tartan-clad ostrich and never come out again.
She's pulled from her maudlin thoughts by the gentle clink of a cup and saucer landing at her elbow. She looks up; Severus is wrinkling his nose in that perfect upper-crust way.
"Perhaps if you are sipping tea you won't disturb my concentration quite so much," he drawls.
She smiles at his bluster. "Thank you," she says quietly.
The tea is warm and comforting, as is the bit of whiskey hiding in its mellow depths. She turns back to her marking, more settled than she has been all evening.
She's almost finished when the rattle of his teacup startles her. She looks up. There is no difference in his face, no marked difference in the sallowness of his skin or the blackness of his eyes, but she knows that something has happened.
"What is it?" she asks quietly, but she thinks she already knows.
He meets her eyes as he stands. "I must go," he says. "I trust your essays will manage without my companionship."
His eyes flick upward, in the general direction of the Headmaster's office. She nods.
"I suspect they will," she says, though she desperately wants to tell him that he doesn't have to go. That they will manage without this risk. She doesn't, because they both know that is far from the truth.
She lays a hand on his elbow as he turns toward the door, just brushing along the fine wool. He stops immediately.
"Be careful," she whispers.
He nods. Then he stalks from the chamber, his robes fluttering as they always do.
Minerva stands, straightens her shoulders and brushes the wrinkles from her emerald green robes. She has a message to deliver to Albus, and there's no sense in hiding her head in the sand.
Some days, she remembers it's not about Houses.