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adventdrabblesTitle: A Yuletide Tradition
Author:kelly_chambliss
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall (sort of)
Prompt: Elf-made wine
Word Count: 300 (according to AO3)
Rating: G
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The table in Severus Snape's dungeon quarters was usually piled high with wretched student essays and mindless memos from Albus or the Board of Governors.
But once a year, at Yuletide, Snape meticulously cleared off every quill, every scrap of parchment, every fleck of dust, and polished the old wood by hand. Then he drew up two chairs at semi-companionable angles. A goblet and a litre of elf-made wine went on the table in front of one chair, a tumbler and a dusty bottle of single malt in front of the other.
This year is no different. By Christmas evening, his table is gleaming, the wine has been decanted, and Snape is pouring two fingers of firewhisky into the tumbler.
"Vile horse piss," he mutters, as he does every year.
He never touches the stuff himself; he keeps the bottle only for her.
For Minerva.
He shakes his head in wry amazement. Somehow, over the years, he and that waspish, irascible old Gryffindor became something like friends. Part of him still can't believe that for more than a decade, they've spent Christmas night together, drinking and arguing and bantering and then drinking some more.
But they have.
Of course, she would never agree to share his table now. Indeed, now -- as she so elegantly expressed it to him back in August -- she wouldn't deign to spit in his mouth if his teeth were on fire.
Because now, Severus Snape is the Death Eater headmaster of Hogwarts, and Minerva despises him.
No matter.
Tradition is tradition.
Sitting in his old dungeon rooms, elf-made wine in his hand and horse-piss whisky on the table, Snape can almost believe that nothing has changed, that his world is as it was.
He raises his glass to the empty chair.
"Slàinte Mhath, Minerva," he says.
Author:
kelly_chamblissFandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall (sort of)
Prompt: Elf-made wine
Word Count: 300 (according to AO3)
Rating: G
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The table in Severus Snape's dungeon quarters was usually piled high with wretched student essays and mindless memos from Albus or the Board of Governors.
But once a year, at Yuletide, Snape meticulously cleared off every quill, every scrap of parchment, every fleck of dust, and polished the old wood by hand. Then he drew up two chairs at semi-companionable angles. A goblet and a litre of elf-made wine went on the table in front of one chair, a tumbler and a dusty bottle of single malt in front of the other.
This year is no different. By Christmas evening, his table is gleaming, the wine has been decanted, and Snape is pouring two fingers of firewhisky into the tumbler.
"Vile horse piss," he mutters, as he does every year.
He never touches the stuff himself; he keeps the bottle only for her.
For Minerva.
He shakes his head in wry amazement. Somehow, over the years, he and that waspish, irascible old Gryffindor became something like friends. Part of him still can't believe that for more than a decade, they've spent Christmas night together, drinking and arguing and bantering and then drinking some more.
But they have.
Of course, she would never agree to share his table now. Indeed, now -- as she so elegantly expressed it to him back in August -- she wouldn't deign to spit in his mouth if his teeth were on fire.
Because now, Severus Snape is the Death Eater headmaster of Hogwarts, and Minerva despises him.
No matter.
Tradition is tradition.
Sitting in his old dungeon rooms, elf-made wine in his hand and horse-piss whisky on the table, Snape can almost believe that nothing has changed, that his world is as it was.
He raises his glass to the empty chair.
"Slàinte Mhath, Minerva," he says.
