Title: Once A Good Morning
Author: mindabbles
Pairings: Minerva McGonagall/Severus Snape
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Daily Deviant’s Birthday!
Other Warnings: none
Word Count: 1100
Summary/Description: Severus and Minerva still have few words to say to each other and maybe that's just fine.
Author's Notes: This is a part sequel/part prequel to kelly_chambliss’s lovely story That One Goodnight. Kelly, I hope you enjoy it. I certainly enjoyed revisiting yours. I tried not to mess with the lovely feel of it too much—so I stopped when I did. You don’t strictly have to read Kelly’s to get this, but I would if I were you.



She’s gone before he wakes, back to the school and the life that they once—shared isn’t quite the right word—coexisted within.

The small, dimly lit house seems quieter on the mornings after Minerva has been. He shakes his head to rid himself of this thought that defies logic. The house is as it’s ever been.

He pulls Moste Potente Potions from the shelf and places it on the table next to his tea. It’s habit more than anything. For years, he looked for something that might restore his vocal cords, another thought that defied logic and was better left to someone who didn’t dwell quite so brutally in reality. Now he studies because that’s what he does.

The book falls open to page 752. Folded into the crease is a small piece of parchment, as if he’d marked the page. He pulls it out and holds it between his fingers.

You are welcome to come for tea. Half six. MM

*

“Why didn’t you say what you meant?” Severus asked. His hand in his pocket closed around Minerva’s note.

“I can’t begin to imagine what you’re talking about. I always say what I mean,” Minerva said.

Her silver tea service was on the little table in her room. She poured tea into two cups and offered one to him.

“Thank you,” he said. He hadn’t actually expected a polite tea, not after Gryffindor’s victory on the pitch today.

“Is that truly what you meant?” She asked.

He stood and pulled her to feet, gathering her in his arms for a kiss that he intended to wipe the smirk of victory off her face. She opened to him and drew his tongue into her mouth and when he felt her mouth curve into a smile, he knew this was precisely what she had planned.

He pushed her onto her bed. She let him, and as he moved over her, her smile dared him to try and make her cry out.

*

The knock at the door pulls him from the memory. He takes a deep breath, dampening down his arousal. She still wins that round, all these years later.

He didn't expect to see Minerva back so soon. Two evenings in a row might set a precedent that they just do not set.

She has a bottle of Ogden's Old in her hand. "I realised something," she says. "This is the day the Dumbledore died."

If he had vocal cords, he would laugh at her omission.

"I thought we should have a drink."

He conjures two glasses and gestures her into the front room. She sits and lifts a piece of parchment from the table. He downs the rest of his drink.

"You kept this?" She asks.

He waves his hand dismissively. She doesn't ask for confirmation of when she wrote it and he tries not to wonder if she remembers, too. She pours another drink.

"It's hard to believe the years that have passed," she says as she moves next to him. She presses her lips to the scar on his throat. He touches her and when she sighs, he opens her robe and traces the scars on her chest.

Minerva stands and he stands with her. This is as much of a request for intimacy as he will get and as much of an answer as he will give. They make their way to his bedroom, stopping to kiss as they go. She pulls him against her, pressing his erection to her thigh. He pushes her robe from her shoulders and his fingers skate along her warm skin. Once upon a time, she would have sighed as he touched her. Now, he feels for shivers, and they don't seem so different anymore.

In his room, Minerva pushes him, her palms flat on his chest, back onto his narrow bed. The bare walls remind him that he never could, really, make this place his own.

She straddles him, her thighs on either side of his hips. She slides up and back and his cock slips along her, wet and hot. She angles her movement and the only way he can tell that his cock slides over her clit just so is the way her fingers clench against his biceps.

Sometimes he wishes she would speak, like she used to all those years ago. She moves on him and he knows her pleasure by the clench of her thigh muscles around his hips. He will know when she wants more, wants him inside her, when her fingers dig into his chest, when she falls forward and presses her mouth to his neck.

She rolls her hips again and again and her wetness spreads over him. She doesn't wait for him to move this time, she grabs the base of his cock and she lifts up. She drags the head of his cock back and forth across her and he hears the way she used to gasp, used to beg him for more, despite herself. She bites her bottom lip. That is the closest he'll come to the vindication he used to seek. She presses his cock inside her and sinks down until he can feel her body against him. She lift ups and slides back down. He can hear what she might say, what he might, if things were different.

He presses his thumb to her clit. There was a time this would have made her moan and come as close to swearing as she ever does. Her hands on his chest tense and he rolls his hips up. He's close and he wants to hold on, feel her come when he is still moving hard inside her. He circles his thumb faster and her mouth falls open in a silent cry. He curls his hands around her hips and closes his eyes when he comes. She leans down and kisses him slowly, a tender intimacy they don't always share.

She lifts off him and sinks onto the bed next to him. He caresses her arm and she lets him.

"I thought we shouldn't spend the evening alone," she says.

*

When he wakes, he is alone in the narrow bed. The sound of water running in the bath tells him that Minerva has not left.

He's never been lucky and he's not often been happy, but at the moment he can honestly say he's feeling, at least not unfortunate, and almost content.

Minerva returns from the bath, cheeks pink and tendrils of dark hair curling damply around her face from the scalding hot water she prefers. Her white slip clings to her slim body and she reaches for her robe.

He turns back the cover of the duvet, silent invitation for her to stay.