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Severus was sitting in his study, waiting for a knock at the door.
He had carefully arranged his quarters to have an air of stressful indifference, with heavy volumes of transfiguration theory littered casually about, student essays stacked neatly into two piles. He took care to make one appear higher than the other to evoke an air of business, and had otherwise fussed and made sure his quarters were neat, but gave impressions he thought might be favourable to his guest. The drink he held in his hand now was well-earned.
When the knock finally came, he had been arranging himself in his armchair, reading, changing position ever so often to make him look superior, then casual, then suave. He told himself he should appear busy, but not too busy, so as to not evoke the impression that he had been waiting for her. His performance neither convinced himself nor Phineas’ portrait, which was smirking at him, reading his own leatherbound, oil-painted volume upside down pointedly. Severus ignored him, and swallowed drily as he heard the knock.
“Enter,” he said loftily, remembering not to look up.
Unsurprisingly, Minerva entered, closed the door behind her, and came to a halt in front of him.
“Good evening, Severus.”
“Minerva.” There was a pause. He turned a page.
“Are you going to offer me some tea?” The witch enquired, seating herself in the second armchair without invitation. Again, he did not move at once, taking care to appear busy. He had wanted to appear as though he was just about to turn in for the night, but now had abandoned his plans – hardworking was better than tired.
“Of course.” He lazily flicked his wand and a steaming mug of lavender scented tea appeared on the coffee table. Minerva peered at it, but did not seem to mind.
“Thank you,” the witch said. There was a pause. “How long will you be?”
“I am not sure yet,” he replied, deliberately vague, fixedly staring at the same “the” on the same page he’d been looking at for the last minute. “This is a fascinating book.”
The derisive snort from the portrait was barely audible over the sudden rustle of fabric across. He frowned and stared at the page, but couldn’t resist. When he looked up, Minerva was methodically working on her robes, her busy fingers precisely pushing buttons through the holes, the loosened fabric opening them up a little further, then continuing with the next button, leaving pale inches of skin behind. Her hat was already resting on the coffee table, her shoes looking up at him dolefully from under it. When she caught his dark eyes as he was looking at her, she gave a half-shrug, continuing, unfazed.
The visits had started some time after Christmas. They had never spoken about it much –kissing during nightly patrols had become a regular habit, and the occasional silent frolic against the wall of an abandoned classroom had soon followed. Severus would have been happy with things to stay this way, without too much discussion, but Minerva with her blasted frankness of course insisted on bringing up the subject one afternoon. She had pointed out that she was not getting younger, and that in spite of the heat of their passion cold walls against her buttocks with portraits cheering them on leeringly did nothing for her anymore.
They had moved to her quarters, but the close proximity to Gryffindor tower had proved to be rather bad for his mood – lying on top of his warm, willing, lithe, and most flexible colleague, pinning down both her hands with one of his, gently torturing her with his other quickly lost its appeal when the close and busy silence was suddenly interrupted by whooping cheers from Quidditch fans next door who, even in the dead of night, insisted on celebrating their latest victory. Dissolving in hopeless giggles at one particularly bad rendition of a lion had completely ruined Minerva’s mood, but Severus’ plans to dock points for bad animal impersonations had not been met with Minerva’s approval.
Thus, they had moved their loosely weekly meetings into his quarters today. Severus was not happy about it. He rarely entertained, and imagining his prim colleague down here only highlighted crinkled parchment, lonely socks, and an elderly cheese sandwich left over from the day before. Setting the scene properly had taken more of his time than he had initially been willing to invest, but now, of course, it was over.
“I shall wait for you, but I’m going to fall asleep if you leave me for too long,” she said, pulling down another long, sensible stocking, exposing a slender, pale calf which briefly shone golden in the candlelight before she put it onto the ground again. A sudden image of his hands on these calves flashed through his mind and he quickly pushed it aside.
His collar seemed uncomfortably tight all of the sudden, but he persisted, unwilling to have her see his budding desire. He looked back at his book.
“Hurry up, will you?” she said, getting up, leaving her robes behind.
Her uncaring attitude towards her own, naked shape always puzzled and amazed Severus. He preferred being dressed and had actually been more apprehensive when she had insisted on meeting in a bedroom, since this implied complete exposure. Even when alone in his quarters he usually retreated to a dark corner of the room, turned his back towards the door and disrobed hurriedly before diving under the covers, if he bothered at all and did not just use magic to change from one state of dress into another. Minerva’s disregard for common decency and his watching eyes was both startling and arousing.
Even now, he could see the white crescents of her buttocks move away in the darkness, swaying invitingly with each step. He cursed under his breath, got up, hesitated, put down his book, ignored the leer in Phineas’ portrait, extinguished the light, and followed her.
Once he reached his bedroom, she was nowhere to be seen, but a faint rustling sound from under the covers told him that she was already there. He made to advance.
“Stop,” she said.
Surprised, he did so.
“Stay where you are, Severus. Where I can see you.”
He hesitated in mid-move.
“I thought you were tired and wanted things to hurry along?”
“I’d like you to undress first,” she said. “Where I can see you.”
He flushed, unmoving, too aware of the light of two torches next to him outlining him against the darkness of the entrance to his living room. Minerva on the other hand was entirely covered in blankets and darkness.
“Go on.”
Her voice, wavering over out from the darkness, had a slightly sharper tone, and from prior experience he recognised it as slightly pressing, which sent a sharp twinge of desire down his spine.
With strangely shaky fingers, he reached for his wand.
“No, you will not require any magic for this,” she admonished. “Put it down.”
Glaring into the shadows, he stood, frozen, but did not put it down. In the end, he pocketed it again. He did trust Minerva more than anyone, he really did, but he still did not want to give up his wand for her. Trust only went so far, especially if you were faced with someone you couldn’t see, and felt this nervous.
***
Minerva had made herself comfortable enough, sitting in Severus's bed, relishing the feeling of her naked back against the soft blankets. She found she almost enjoyed watching her young colleague struggle. She had seen his aversion to showing himself to her, knew from experience in her own quarters that he would rather wait long minutes for her to leave for the bathroom under the covers than to get up and dress in front of her. Minerva could not understand it – she had seen him dressed, she had a creative mind, and she had seen his body with her hands and mouth so many times she felt able to draw and sculpt it. And yet, she had never seen it naked all at once.
Now he stood, peering at a spot about a foot to the right of her head, pocketing his wand slowly, deliberately. It had been worth a try. He trusted her, she knew that, but he would not give up his wand, whatever the situation and she suspected that his aversion to nakedness was partly due to this.
"Undress, Severus," she reminded him, relishing the hiss of the letter and the shudder that seemed to go through him.
His eyes unfathomable, he shrugged off his robes with a slightly awkward movement of his shoulders, then turned and hung them neatly over the back of a chair standing next to the door, apparently for this expressed purpose.
The shape revealed was much less imposing, she found, not disappointed, though more angular and masculine than his usual appearance, covered in the teacher's robes, which did not really flatter anyone and hid every outline, every muscle.
Turning to her again, he stood up straight, face expressionless and moved his pale hands to the top button of his waistcoat, busily fumbling. The waistcoat was plain black wool, like everything the man wore, and absorbed so much light it almost looked as though he was unbuttoning the darkness in spite of the torches illuminating him where he stood. Only the buttons flashed when they were moved towards the torch.
She always enjoyed watching his pale, long fingers move, and seeing them now, flexing and pushing, busy like beings with a life of their own, made her a warm glow spread through her stomach. They wandered down his chest, taking a route her hands had taken so often, and the memory chased a shiver down her spine.
The waistcoat fell open quickly as the buttons were removed and the white of his shirt spilled out, the shirt being rather too wide for his chest. With a jerky movement, he shrugged the waistcoat over his right shoulder and pulled it over his left, placing it on the chair with somewhat less exaggerated care. Thus merely dressed in shirt and trousers, he stared into the darkness again, his shirt curiously bright against the darkness of the doorway, his face less pale against the white.
"Is this really necessary, Minerva?" he enquired, and she could hear the strain in his voice, trying to keep it neutral.
"Yes, very much so, Severus," she replied warmly, noticing that one of her hands had started wandering her own body.
Again, he stood rigidly upright, visibly embarrassed, golden firelight outlining his shoulders.
"Go on," she prompted, and, on cue, he lifted his hands and undid the top button of his trousers, white shirt fabric spilling out.
"No. Take off the shirt first," she commanded.
Severus frowned, ears pinking, hesitated, but then tugged the hem of his shirt out of his trousers and pulled it up and over his head, his black hair falling sloppily back over his bare shoulders, obscuring half his face, which he bowed quietly, ashamed. Without reason, as she knew. For a second he stood, holding his shirt, then put it aside on top of his folded waistcoat, rather less tidily. He set his chin and turned to her again, his hair falling out of his face, shadows tracing patterns across his skin.
Minerva had always suspected that he was quite a pleasing sight in his own way and found she had been right. Yes, he was angular and carried himself better when he was dressed – now he was standing like a gangly schoolboy as he was fumbling with his belt. As she knew, he was pale as a newt, with only occasional angry red spots, scratches on his arms from his owl and strange bruises, but this shape, his chest, bony hips and back, was loved, and known, and had been covered by her hands so many times it was very pleasant to finally see the complete picture standing in front of her, finally revealed. He had barely any hair and had a few white, puckered scars from where spells had hit him on the right side of his ribcage.
Now, he had succeeded in opening the belt and was hesitating again, peering into the gloom.
"Well done. Continue," Minerva said, both hands now busily exploring the warm, round weight of her breasts and her inner thigh, sending goosebumps chasing the sensation of her fingertips across her skin.
Severus sighed and opened the five buttons of his black trousers with long, pale fingers, then hesitated, peering at her from between curtains of hair, his dark eyes expressionless. She could tell by the slight twitching in one corner of his mouth how tense he must be.
"Continue," she persisted, tantalizing herself with one hand.
He pulled down his trousers, uncovering white, bony legs that were slightly bent as he was standing awkwardly. He stepped out of his trousers, bent to pick them up, giving her a glimpse of the round of his back which shone in the torchlight, rose back up and folded his trousers with swift fingers. He was wearing simple whitish underpants, which were almost covered by the trousers he was taking a rather long time to fold, bits and pieces appearing on either side as he was fumbling.
He was not looking at her, red spots having appeared in his cheeks.
"I want to see you, Severus. All of you," she insisted quietly, feeling warm and contented. Minerva permitted a small sigh to escape her lips as she relished in the sight in front of her. She knew that her lover was not beautiful in the conventional sense. He was rough, and angular, and bruised, but he was hers, and loved, and thoroughly known.
If possible, the quiet noise of air escaping her lungs made Severus even more uncomfortable and unwilling to part with his already twice-folded trousers. After a long while, he put them away and stood, forcing himself to stand up straight again, looking pointedly at the wall.
His hair was now the only dark part of his shape, the strands not reflecting any of the torchlight, much like his earnest black eyes. The white rising and falling of his throat and chest were mesmerising, as was the movement of his stomach and the visible tension in his legs. She longed to kiss his chest and slide her hands around his hips to cup his buttocks, to grasp him, still covered by the once-white linen.
"Go on," she said, surprised at how breathless she sounded.
Closing his eyes briefly, he nodded and complied, sliding down his underpants, his half-erect penis bouncing briefly upon its release, red against the pale skin. She longed to reach out and feel it, caress it.
He made a step towards the torches to extinguish them now.
"Stop," Minerva said breathlessly, unwilling to lose sight of her lover, who was now again staring pointedly elsewhere. "You are beautiful," she breathed.
"What was in that tea of yours?" he enquired tersely, and she cursed herself for having said it, that is, until she realised how tender his voice had sounded, and until she caught the mild softness in his features.
"I'll show you I mean it," she said, moving forward.
With one movement, he had extinguished the torches and met her on the edge of the bed, all limbs and eagerness, the warm, hardening shape of his penis boring into her stomach as they kissed, the welcome feeling sending ripples of warmth upwards from between her legs. They groped at each other, unusually clumsily in their haste, savage, with too much teeth and spit and noses everywhere, until Minerva had had enough. She pulled him down to cover him with her own body, painting a map of what she had seen before her with lips and hands.