this may be the first time i couldn't find a good gif, y'all. i've used all of the house ones and "birthday aesthetic" didn't work, so i had to steal this from pinterest and crop it. oh well. (don't expect a birthday cake from House, though. had to keep him in character mwahah)

the reader’s pronouns are he/him. he likes coffee and it’s his bday because i like coffee and it's my bday (or it was yesterday, july 17... meant to post this then but i didn't finish it in time. shoutout to @connorhasabigtip for spending the day with me, LOVE YOU FISH). oh! and the reader has tattoos. this is self-indulgent, like i said! xD

no warnings i can think of. enjoy!

As you grow older, your birthday starts to feel a little less special. It’s natural, you think. You’ve grown out of full-fledged birthday parties, instead gravitating towards smaller gatherings with friends and casual outings. Birthdays as an adult are just different. You have a full-time job, after all—and as a doctor, no less. Your position at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital doesn’t give you much leeway when it comes to celebrations. 

This year is a bit unique, though. You’ve planned ahead, stacking up enough vacation days for you to take a good chunk of the week off. And that’s exactly what you do. The day before your birthday, you relax and catch up on some shows you’ve been meaning to watch. Before long, it’s your birthday!

You’re hanging out with friends when you get the dreaded phone call. The words “Dr. Cuddy” flash across your screen in the caller ID and your heart sinks to your chest. You answer the phone, feeling nervous and a bit frustrated. You don’t think Cuddy knows it’s your birthday—just that you took some time off to relax. She’s a good boss, so she wouldn’t be calling unless she really needed something. 

And need something, she does. Supposedly, a few doctors called off sick—and one of your colleagues hurt himself. The hospital is severely understaffed and she needs you to come in for the afternoon. You’d have some time to kill before you get there, and she assures you that you would be able to leave at a reasonable time. 

Your friend shoots you a sympathetic look as you end the phone call. They’re not surprised when you say you’ve been called into work. They know you well enough to know that ditching or faking sick wouldn’t really be an option. You reassure them that you still have time to grab lunch, and the two of you enjoy a relaxed meal before parting ways. 

As you drive home, you realize you’re cutting things a bit close. It’s already nearing the time you said you would arrive. While you don’t have to pack a lunch or anything, you still feel like you’re in a bit of a rush as you stumble through your apartment and grab your keys. It isn’t until you’re pulling into the parking lot of the hospital that you recognize the trepidation in your chest: you forgot to change clothes. You’re not wearing the typical dress shirt and slacks you’d wear underneath your doctor’s coat. Fuck. 

You try not to think about it as you enter the hospital, going through your typical routine of checking in with security before heading up to your office. You almost forget about the somewhat unorthodox start to your shift, until a certain judgmental, misanthropic doctor calls your attention to it. 

House looks up from his paperwork as you enter the room, a slight smirk on his lips. “Well, well, well,” he drawls. “Look who rose from the dead—” House breaks off, his eyes almost widening as you head to your desk. Your heart drops to your stomach as you recognize the scrutiny in his gaze. Damn it. You’d been enjoying your day—the last thing you need today is for him to criticize your outfit. 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” you huff.

House doesn’t laugh. He does cross his arms over his chest and spin in his chair to face you, leveling you with a skeptical look. 

You wait for him to say something. 

…But he isn’t saying anything. He’s just staring. 

Officially uncomfortable, you try to pretend you haven’t noticed and instead start rifling through your backpack. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for, at this point: your keys? A snack? An escape from this stilted conversation? There’s only so much time you can spend searching for something intangible, and you eventually just sigh and close your bag. You toss it to the floor with a bit more disregard than you should, feeling a bit unnerved by House’s scrutiny. 

“What?” you eventually ask your colleague. House just blinks, almost as if thrown from a trance. You can practically feel his judgment, as he takes in your outfit. You’ve never really deviated from the dress code before, so you suppose you can understand House’s suspicion. You’re wearing an oversized shirt tucked into black jeans, cuffed at the ankles to show off your platform boots. Your chain keeps escaping the confines of your shirt and sneaking to rest on top of it. Sure, it’s not necessarily a business casual outfit—but you were called in on your birthday, damn it. You have a right to be unprepared. 

“You look like you drowned in an ink well,” House finally says. It almost seems like it took him a few moments to come up with something to say. That’s unusual for him—he always has something to say. Then you frown, not quite understanding the remark. He motions to your exposed forearms and you understand: he’s referring to your tattoos. Now that you think about it, you’re not sure if anyone here even knows about them. You’re always wearing long sleeves to cover them up. 

“Thanks,” you remember to say dryly. There’s nothing you can do about your tattoos at the moment, save for throwing your doctor’s coat on to cover them. And you’re feeling almost defensive for some reason, so you just cross your arms over your chest and continue speaking. “Cuddy might have an aneurysm, but it’s fine.” 

“She won’t care,” House responds, his eyes finding your arms, then meeting your gaze and falling away. Is he trying to reassure you? What is happening today?!

“She better not,” you huff impatiently, feeling restless under his attention. House isn’t usually so focused—at least, not on people he’s speaking to. He’s more likely to keep his eyes on his paperwork, maybe making a nonchalant gesture with a hand if absolutely necessary. You sigh. “I wasn’t supposed to be here today,” you mutter to yourself. House hears this remark, because of course he does. 

“And what makes today so significant?” he says dryly. To the uninformed ear, he would sound genuinely disinterested. But you can read through the lines. House is at least mildly curious, even if he pretends not to be. 

“Um… nothing,” you say weakly. 

“It’s your birthday,” he realizes aloud. Damn it all. Of course he figured it out, without you even having to say anything. You suppose the signs are there: you planned ahead for this vacation day, so it couldn’t have been a sick day. You’re here, which means you weren’t out of the state or anything. You suppose it isn’t an entirely irrational guess to make, but you were hoping no one would know. You don’t really want any special attention, aside from a fleeting “Happy birthday!” spoken in passing. 

“Tell anyone and I’ll kill you,” you threaten House. The thought of a birthday party or any sort of celebration makes you want to melt into a puddle on the ground. You don’t want it to be a spectacle—you just wanted to have a break from work. Of course, that didn’t happen. 

“You showed up on your birthday,” House states matter-of-factly, completely ignoring your threat. “Noble. And stupid. Do you have a martyr complex or something?” 

“Yeah, I know it’s stupid,” you respond. It’s getting difficult for you to keep your cool here. House has always been particularly good at getting on your nerves, but today is different. You’re already frustrated with the situation, and he isn’t helping. “Not in the mood today,” you warn him through gritted teeth. You’re close to snapping already. 

House is just silent. 

“Sorry, just—” you then say helplessly. Your gaze wanders the room. You don’t want to look at House right now, for some reason. The pressure of eye contact, of accountability, feels like too much. Besides, you know that if you lock eyes with him, he’ll see right through you. “I don’t really want to be here.” You frown. 

“Fake sick,” he shrugs. 

“I’m not good at pretending,” you sigh. “And besides, I’d feel bad. I didn’t really have grand plans for today anyway. And, y’know, helping people and all that jazz.” 

House doesn’t respond, although you don’t expect him to. You’re busy attempting to salvage this outfit. You eventually decide you don’t care and just settle with throwing your coat over your shirt, your ID badge clipped to the front pocket of your jeans. 

“Gotta go,” you say, raising your eyebrows pointedly. “See you.” 

You’re too preoccupied to notice the way House’s eyes follow you on the way out. 

For the first thirty minutes or so, you hate your life. It’s difficult to keep calm when you’re so frustrated with yourself. You didn’t want to work, so why did you even come? Yes, you would’ve been thinking about it the rest of the day if you didn’t show… But still. You’re not the only doctor in the building—someone else could have filled in. 

You sigh and knock on the door of the next patient’s room, filing your thoughts to the back of your mind. You don’t have the luxury to second-guess your decisions at the moment. Instead, you throw yourself into your work and try to forget the exact turn of events that led you here. 

This strategy, while simple, does seem to be doing the trick. You feel like you’re breathing a bit easier as you finish speaking with your patient, allowing them to ask any final questions before departing. The trip back to your office is quick as you grow distracted by random thoughts. 

“Hey,” a familiar voice greets you. You look up from the slightly messy pile of paperwork on your desk, only to find Dr. Wilson standing in the doorway. 

“Oh, hi, Wilson,” you remark. Before you can even attempt to speak again, he’s walking up to your desk and placing coffee in front of you. You blink down at the drink, looking at the label. It’s… exactly as you like it. You can’t quite hide your surprise well enough, judging from the patient but amused smile on Wilson’s face.

“House gets the credit for knowing your order,” Wilson admits. “Happy birthday.”

You can’t help but smile. “Thanks,” you respond, taking a sip and speaking with him for a few more minutes. 

When Wilson leaves, you look down at your drink with curiosity. You don’t even remember ever telling House your coffee order. You suppose he’s just perceptive with those kinds of things. And, of course, if Wilson knows it’s your birthday… that means House told him. Which, in all honesty, only confuses you more. From your prior conversation, you expected—and secretly hoped—that it would slip House’s mind. He’s not the celebratory type, after all. So the fact that he both deemed it important enough to remember… and then told Wilson that it’s your birthday? Well, your thoughts are certainly spiraling now. 

Of course, you aren’t given much time to deduce House’s exact motivations. When you leave your office, new coffee in hand, you soon find Dr. Chase at your side. 

“Hey, man,” he says casually, looping an arm around your shoulders. 

“Hey, Chase,” you respond. 

Chase hums. Then he stops for a second, regarding your outfit with amusement. Even with the doctor’s coat covering your shirt, your cuffed jeans and platform boots are very much visible. “Are you cosplaying as an MCR doctor or something?” he jokes.

You huff in amusement. “No, I just got called in last minute,” you answer.

“Damn,” he says, inhaling through his teeth in evident sympathy. “Been there, done that.”

There’s a moment of silence as you continue to walk down the hall, your free hand stuffed in your pocket and Chase’s arm on your shoulder. He pays you a sidelong glance. “You know, a little birdie told me it’s your birthday.” 

A little birdie. You just know House would have several objections to that phrasing. And he would probably deny his involvement. “Oh?” you hum anyway, pretending as if you don’t know exactly who got the word around. 

“Yeah,” Chase responds. He considers you for a moment. “You didn’t have to come in, you know. Could’ve stayed home.”

“I know,” you recognize, “but then I would’ve felt bad about it.” 

He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “You could’ve been selfish, dude. It’s your birthday.” He nudges your shoulder in a friendly gesture. 

You don’t know what to say to that rather well-constructed argument, so you both just head down the hall. As you’re about to turn the corner, Chase’s arm slips from your shoulders and he spins to face you. 

“Oh, and since it’s your birthday, I have a gift,” he says, his voice sounding a bit too conspiratorial for your liking. You can hardly react before Chase is handing you a decent stack of paperwork. You were a bit too preoccupied to notice that he was holding it from the beginning. 

“Seriously, Chase—?” you sputter disbelievingly, staring at the stack in your hand. 

“I mean, I can still sing, if you’re interested…” he trails off with a wicked grin. 

“No,” you say quickly. Absolutely not. Despite the somewhat unpredictable turn of events today, you still have some pride left. Just a little bit of dignity. Besides, that joking smirk on his face promises nothing good. “I’ll take the paperwork,” you huff, tucking the stack under your arm. 

“Thanks, bud.” He claps a hand on your shoulder before turning to walk away. You just shake your head in exasperation. 

When you return to your desk for a quick water break an hour later, you’re surprised to find a card sitting on your desk with your name written across the envelope. There’s no other name on the envelope, and you glance around the space skeptically. Hopefully whoever wrote this left their name inside. 

It doesn’t take long for you to convince yourself to open the card. There’s a doodled illustration of a mixtape on the front, accompanying a pre-written message on the inside: Happy birthday to someone old enough to know what a mixtape is. 

Then, there’s House’s ever-familiar scrawl written in blue ink near the bottom: 

You don’t know what a mixtape is, do you? – H

There’s no official birthday message, but you’re fighting off a smile regardless. You stare down at that card for way longer than you should, until a question is rising to the front of your mind: how in the hell did House get you a card so fast? The guy never leaves the building for lunch. Not to mention, you just spoke a mere few hours ago. Does he just have a whole stock of shitty birthday cards in his desk for these types of situations? 

…That does sound like House, actually. 

You slip the card into your desk drawer carefully, returning to your work with renewed vigor. 

The rest of the day passes quickly. It feels like your shift is completed in the blink of an eye. Of course, when Cuddy learns that it’s your birthday, she’s quick to persuade you to go home. Her efforts are somewhat futile, of course, because you’re too stubborn to quit now that you’re here. Besides, you only have about an hour of your shift left. 

Your boss seems moments away from grabbing you by the scruff of the neck and dragging you out of the building when there’s a familiar voice admonishing her. 

“Don’t bother,” House says to Cuddy, nodding at you as he approaches both of you. “He won’t budge.” 

“Because you’re the expert on him,” Cuddy responds, raising an eyebrow at him pointedly. There’s a hidden implication in that statement. 

“No,” House scoffs, almost defensive. “I’m just observant and perceptive.”

Cuddy just raises her eyebrows at him. House glares at her. They almost seem to have a silent conversation amongst themselves. You kind of hover there awkwardly, before eventually deciding that you’re not needed for this conversation. 

“I’ll finish up,” you announce, somewhat desperate to get rid of the tension. “Just have one more patient anyways.” 

House and Cuddy both look over at you, almost as if they’d forgotten you were standing there. 

“All right,” Cuddy says with a sigh. “But if I catch you here even a second past 5 p.m….” 

“Yeah, yeah, imminent death and all that,” House interrupts with a roll of his eyes, shoving his free hand in his pocket.

You bid the two of them goodbye, heading to the room around the corner and greeting your next patient. 

House watches you leave. 

And Cuddy watches House. 

“So,” she starts slowly. 

“Don’t,” he warns her. 

“You can just tell him,” Cuddy remarks, ignoring his objections as always. 

“Tell him what, exactly?” House responds. “There is nothing to tell.” 

Cuddy smiles. “Sure,” she says, a knowing gleam in her eyes. House lets out an impatient noise and turns his back to walk away, trying to ignore the strange feeling that he somehow lost control of that conversation. 

Finally, finally, finally: it’s 5 p.m. Or, 5:04 p.m., more accurately. You’re feeling somewhat relieved, happy that you’ve fulfilled your responsibilities for your day. And, hell, you’ve gone above and beyond. You didn’t really have to show up at all. But you like your job, and you enjoy helping people. Besides, you still have plenty of time to grab dinner with the people most important to you.

You enter your office, only to be greeted with a disapproving click of the tongue. House is sitting at his desk, already looking at you as if he was watching the door and waiting for you to arrive. You immediately rid yourself of the thought, instead shrugging your doctor’s coat off and taking a deep breath. You’re a bit tired, but it’s more of a satisfying weariness—one that reminds you of the work you’ve done and the lives you’ve touched. 

You almost forget House is sitting there, until he’s breaking through the comfortable silence again. “Time is ticking,” he says with a slight smirk, tapping his watch pointedly. You blink and look over at the clock on the wall. It’s 5:07 p.m.

“Relax, I’ll be out of your sight soon enough,” you joke good-naturedly, tidying up your desk quickly and draping your coat over the back of your chair. You fumble for your keys in the pocket of your jeans, grab your phone and throw your backpack over your shoulder. “Thanks for the card, by the way.” 

There’s that damn silence again. It had been pleasant, almost companionable; now, it’s tense and uncomfortable. At least, that’s how you see it. House is still staring. You’re growing more self-conscious the longer he looks. When the quiet is broken again, you nearly flinch in your distractedness. 

“You look nice.” It’s spoken bluntly, without inflection. 

For a few moments, you just stare at your colleague and process that remark. It takes you some reflection to realize you haven’t misheard, that House just complimented you. “Oh,” you blink in complete surprise. “Um, thanks.” 

“It’s not a compliment,” House clarifies. His eyes find yours, holding you there for a moment, before his focus moves to the wall behind you. “Just a fact.” 

“...Right,” you say, slightly unconvinced. He can justify it however he wants. The truth of the matter is that he uttered the words. And House only says things he means. He has never been one for pretense. “Well, thank you anyway.” 

You both know what he meant. The recognition hangs in the air, lingering in the space between you. “Shut up,” House then scoffs, almost seeming defensive. 

You just smile. “See you,” you say with a nod, your fingers jittering along the jagged surface of your keys. 

House sends you a mock-salute, returning to his paperwork. 

(Of course, when you turn your back, he’s looking at you again. But you will never know this, and House will deny it vehemently all the same.)

©2025, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

HOUSE WANTS ME SO BAD

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He scoffed, then made a noise of deep fatigue. McGonagall tried to drown out the babble of the students gathered in the great hall and sighed. It was breakfast-time and, like practically every teacher in the castle, the students were thoroughly outraged. Harry Potter was talking loudly to the gathered at the Gryffindor table, gesturing and slamming his hands on its surface, and he wasn’t the only one; up and down the other tables, the sense of harmony was dishevelled and something fiery reverberated up and down the hall, not only the snide shouting of Fred and George Weasley; unrest hung in the air, disturbance raged through the houses, and it was all caused by the pink, fluffy toad which was yet to arrive at the breakfast table and who had the audacity to interrupt Dumbledore’s speech the day before.

“No, you’re not being melodramatic,” Minerva begrudgingly corrected herself, though she still didn’t take her eyes away from the parchment. “I’m just as upset as you are, Severus.”

The Potion’s Master snorted again. “From what I’ve gathered thus far, you’re taking it remarkably well.”

“One of us has to keep their trousers intact and free from raging fire.”

She received his look without blinking, then glanced at him over the steel rim of her glasses. 

“Well, what do you propose I do? I’m just as powerless as you are against the ministry and you know it.”

“Not quite,” he muttered back, then glanced at the obstinate Weasley twins and raised his eyebrows. “As much as I disapprove of my own words right now… we could take a leaf out of that blasted pair’s book.”

McGonagall watched Fred making strangling motions with his hands whilst George blew out his cheeks and made toad-like noises and made a sound of intrigue. 

“Or we can simply wait until they do the job for us,” she murmured. “Of course, that is, if you pause tearing down the points which my students build up during the lessons which are not yours, Severus. For the greater good.”

Severus poised his hand near his face and frowned, but he looked appeased. 

“Perhaps I will consider pulling at the reins to my fiery chariots, under present circumstances. Though I cannot promise.”

That’s all he managed to say, before a grim silence fell upon the gathered and their heads were drawn to the left - McGonagall barely suppressed a shudder as a ‘hem hem’ echoed through the hall and its propeller arrived in a pink, fluffy cardigan and a puffy, pink bow in her hair. She heard Severus make a very discreet noise of revolt under his breath and her lip twitched. 

“That’s much better,” Umbridge said into the electrified silence, seemingly not noticing any hostility at all in anybody before her. “Now, that is what we will be doing during breakfast and meal times. Eating. No talking. There will be a nice, lovely silence.”

McGonagall wondered what thoughts she would have seen if she browsed through some student’s minds at that moment with the use of occlumency - judging from their facial expressions, perhaps some of them would have made her brain wither. Snape ended up digging his fingers into his face which he had leaned on his hand for the moment as she spoke.

“After you have finished eating, you will depart to your classes in a single file,” Umbridge pronounced, nodding slowly. “Single file. No talking. You will make your way to your lessons. Also,” she added, before anybody could voice their opinions upon the matter, “Mr Filch has asked me to inform you that there will be no loitering on the corridors during break and lunch. If you want to talk, you will do it outside in the yard, or in your common rooms.”

There were a few whispers at this, but not for long, for another ‘hem, hem’ was issued.

McGonagall saw Snape’s fingers make scratch marks on the arm of the chair. Before the despicable woman began to talk again, however, he leaned in towards her and whispered in a very low voice:

“Hogsmeade, Professor.”

She made a sound of approbation. “I don’t think we’ll be overheard there.”

“And I will lay down my neck if both of us don’t need a drink after today,” he muttered, rubbing at his left forearm and grimacing. “You can monitor my execution, if you wish, or be the one executing me, if I’m wrong.”

“With pleasure.”

“Thank you.”

They both picked up their goblet of coffee and cup of malt tea at the same moment and began to sip at them.

“Mark my words, Severus,” Minerva murmured, keeping her voice low behind her drink. “This year is going to be a very long one.”

He scoffed, looking dark. “Perhaps for the ones who make it through alive.”

“Inside these castle walls, at least.” She glanced at Rubeus Hagrid, who was frowning into his goblet, then at Filius, who was squirming uncomfortably in his chair, his fingers tapping on the table as he waited for the little pink toad to stop croaking. “Perhaps let this stay between us, Professor, for the time being… we don’t want any complications.”

Complications there were, without the two Heads giving any strange suggestions to their colleagues. Posters stamped with the ministry symbol and signed off in sickeningly pretty, curly writing appeared in the staff rooms, and even hung up in their offices - Minerva had just managed to pick up a biscuit during the first half-hour break before she was frowning at the notice pinned to her door. Fortunately for her, she didn’t have a chance to peruse it in full alone; there was a noise like someone sucking crumbs out a glass tube and Severus Snape appeared in the middle of her office, looking livid and clutching at a similar piece of parchment.

“That is it,” he seethed, lifting up the parchment so that she could read it, though it was so distorted it was impossible to do so. “The last straw. If someone does not stop me, I do not guarantee I will be able to keep my hands clean.”

He paused, took in the poster pinned to her door which she was standing before, then emitted a rather discomforting snarl and tore it off her door.

“Severus, control yourself, please,” McGonagall said with a frown, though made no move to stop him as he whipped out his wand and set the paper on fire with his eyes black as coal and his teeth gritted. “I haven’t read it yet.”

“Here,” he spat, though not at her, as he watched the last of the parchment shrivel up, then held up the crumpled poster he brought. “Read this clump of dragon spittle, if you so desire.”

Minerva took it from him after a moment and smoothed out its creases, wrinkling her nose at the smell of burning parchment and perused it through narrowed eyes behind her glasses.

Greetings, dear colleagues. I am enraptured to be working with all of your wonderful selves this year. I know that there will be a great understanding between us, because we all have our dear students’ best interests and safety at heart. 

Due to the increase in hostility in public and the rumours you have all undoubtedly heard about, I will be popping in and out of lessons to monitor the situations and grade your suitability for the jobs you have been assigned by the headmaster. That aside, I do hope that we can all forge a bond of agreement, friendship and banish any unrest and disruption from Hogwarts, our beloved School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and keep our students safe from both scandal and harm. 

Signed, Dolores Umbridge.

“This is…” She paused, searching for the right words, feeling disgust and silent anger stirring in her breast. Severus filled in her pause with several dark expletives muttered under his breath, then cut himself off with some difficulty, under her frown. 

“Vile,” he summed up, still shaking with fury. “How dare she, the foolish braggart!”

“It could have been worse.”

“I’m not talking about this,” he spat, pointing at the offensive piece of parchment, then hissed out on a lowered voice. “It’s about what she is doing in the Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons. She has banned wands.”

He laughed dryly at her incredulous expression. 

“Yes, Professor,” he drawled. “She’s going only and exclusively off textbooks. We both know what sort of bunkum doing so is.”

“That’s absurd,” Minerva stammered, her mind whirring, before she regained herself and straightened her glasses. “She must be mad.”

“Oh, no. She’s not mad. She’s far from mad.”

She watched him stalking back and forth in her office like an overgrown bat, hissing and clenching his fists in silence, before making her way over to her desk.

“This is Cornelius’ little ploy,” he continued with vehemence. “I know people like him. Ignorant and empty as a tin-can. An empty jar. Full of nothing but their own over-blown selves. Toads. Vultures. Headless bats.”

McGonagall sighed.

“Would you like a biscuit, Severus?” She held up her shortbread tin in one hand whilst searching for some parchment in her desk with the other.

“I would love a biscuit,” he muttered, clenching his fists so hard they cracked. “I’d love to feed it down her throat, into her lungs. It would crumble along the way, and we would watch her choke. Slowly. Thoroughly-”

“Yes,” she interrupted him, scribbling away. “This one I’m offering is exclusively for your consumption, as opposed to choking Dolores Umbridge.”

He turned to her, then approached the desk, grabbed the tin and set it back down on her desk with a thud, then splayed his hands over the wooden surface and lowered his voice as he leaned towards her.

“A biscuit exclusively for my consumption?” he whispered, shards of ice in his voice. “This woman is overturning everything she touches, professor. She blatantly denies the Dark Lord’s rise to power. This-”

He pulled up his sleeve for a flash, just long enough for Minerva to catch a glimpse of the terrible mark on his left forearm, and sneered.

“-has been flashing like a Christmas tree since July. And you’re offering me biscuits exclusively for my consumption, Minerva?”

McGonagall looked at him over the rim of her glasses for one long moment. Snape held her gaze, expectantly, looking rather triumphant.

She didn’t as much as sniff.

 “What about a cup of tea?”

Snape looked baffled. After a moment, he breathed out a sigh so great his head hung for a moment, then pushed himself off her desk and straightened. He breathed in, out, placed two fingers to his temples, then walked over to one of her stiff armchairs and lowered himself into it.

“Very well, I understand,” he said coolly, placing his hands on his knees and sitting as though he was an attentive student. “Bring on the refreshments. Let’s have a little picnic, while we’re at it, with pretzels, little muffins and garnished sandwiches, hm? Then, after that, we can make daisy chains in the fields and calmly talk about our damned feelings!”

Perhaps Severus would have completely lost his temper again if the a second whooshing sound hadn’t reverberated across Minerva’s office, followed by the chunky figure of Pomona Sprout. She looked perplexed, her hair almost standing on end, as she stood there, ruffled.

She looked from the glowering Snape to Minerva scribbling calmly though with a frown, then held up a piece of parchment.

“Should have knocked, but… Have you seen this?”

Snape said nothing, pursing his lips, though his expression was answer enough. Minerva didn’t stop writing as she took up her shortbread tin and held it up.

“Biscuit, Pomona?”

Severus turned and shot her a long, sharp look. Pomona shrugged, then approached her desk.

“Why, yes, thank you,” she said, taking the tin from her. “But what do you think about this? I daren’t address the headmaster about this yet.”

“The headmaster has most likely received one of these beauties himself,” Snape murmured. “She has no regard for him, as we all witnessed yesterday evening.”

“Most unfortunately,” Minerva said, then: “Shall we all have a cup of tea?”

“Very well, then,” Pomona said after a slight pause during which she swallowed the last of her shortbread. “We can’t all get our knickers in a twist.”

Minerva nodded, still writing. 

“No, we can’t.”

She rose, flicked her wand and three cups appeared on the tray on the table. There was a rather awkward pause in which they all watched the kettle boiling over McGonagall’s fireplace: Snape in his black and his form rigid, his gaze capable of setting fire to something and his jaw fastened tightly; the ample person of Pomona in her ragged hat and muddy leaves plastered over her apron; McGonagall silent, prim and frowning as she stood with a scrutinous look, lost in thought, looking at the flames, eyes hidden behind the glint of her glasses.

“The only course of action for now,” she murmured, after the kettle whistled and she began pouring water into the teacups, “is to wait and see what happens. Anything else would be far too hasty and downright foolish.”

Snape glanced at her. She met his look head-on.

“Well, what do you propose we do, Severus?” she snapped, hovering her teacup over to her desk. “I believe I have the right to think that everything you have in your head as of now is completely out of the question.”

He drew his black cloak around himself tighter and chuckled darkly, though his face stayed grim. “I suppose that you knowing me so well by now is only to be expected, professor.”

“Minerva is right.” Pomona sighed, then took the tea from McGonagall. “Thank you. I think we’re all being a little too heated up with the current state of affairs. Now that I’m here, it doesn’t seem at all that pressing-”

At that moment, there was a pop and Filius Flitwick apparated into Minerva’s office, looking very nervous and out of breath. He adjusted his glasses, then pulled out a blue polka-dot handkerchief out of his pocket and began to wipe his brow.

“I’m so sorry to intrude, professor,” he breathed, flapping another piece of parchment at them, “but this was stuck to the leg of my desk. It was rather rude, although I am quite shorter than average, still, I’m fully capable of reading anything that is placed at normal height… and the contents, well, it’s slightly unnerving to say the least… that is to say, well… I don’t know what to expect anymore.”

This time, Severus Snape spoke first, his tone dry enough for the Sahara to pale in comparison.

“Would you like a biscuit, Filius?”

“Biscuit?” Filius looked perplexed, then sighed. “Why, yes, that would be nice, thank you.”

Severus pursed his lips at him (Filius looked nervous); Minerva offered him the tin, then flicked her wand and another cup appeared on the tray.

She turned to them as they stared at her, waiting. She turned.

“While we are mostly all together, then-”

There was a sudden loud knock on the door and they all jumped, for it rattled on its hinges as though someone was throwing furniture at it. Minerva adjusted her glasses and glanced at the others, who looked back with different degrees of wariness on their faces.

“Who is it?”

The door creaked open, and the huge face of Rubeus Hagrid appeared. His beard was bedraggled and he didn’t look like he was in a very good mood, for his beetle-eyes were narrowed in suspicion and contempt before he set eyes on Minerva; he opened his mouth to speak, but then saw them all gathered as though they were conspiring and hesitated.

“Sorry to interrupt, Professor, er, Professors…”

Filius lifted his parchment. “It’s not this, by any chance, is it, Hagrid?”

The half-giant looked relieved. “It is, actually, yeh.”

He squeezed through the door (there was a pop as he entered), then noticed the cups of tea and biscuit in Filius’ hand and paused again.

“Would you like some tea and a biscuit, Hagrid?” McGonagall asked, before glancing at Severus, who simply rolled his eyes and folded his arms without comment.

“Won’ say no, Professor,” Hagrid said with some enthusiasm, taking up the tin from her. “I didn’t think I ought to bother Professor Dumbledore, with this, but, between all of us…”

He leaned down and lowered his voice, “I don’t like this one bit.”

“Neither do we,” Snape provided, still looking disturbed. “But apparently, the decision has been made that we currently sit and wait until something happens.”

“What else do you propose, then?” Minerva said.

“Nothing,” Severus replied coolly. “I agree with you, I’m just not happy about the current state of affairs.”

“Neither am I,” Pomona said, pouring herself more tea. “I don’t like this whole monitoring business.”

“Neither do I,” Flitwick said. “But she doesn’t have the authority to do anything about it, does she?”

“That’s right,” Pomona said. “She hasn’t. She’s just the DADA teacher. Not a very good one, if I may add, if what the students are saying is true…”

Then, they all froze, because there was a tap on the door and something which resembled a very loud, ‘hem, hem’ sounded through them.

They froze, mid action: eating, mouth open to speak, sipping on their malt tea. There was a split second during which they all looked at one another, then another upon cups were hurriedly returned to the tray and wands were whipped out. Pomona grabbed Hagrid’s arm and apparated out of the office, along with Flitwick; Severus remained where he was, his eyes black as obsidian, his wand in his hand, whilst Minerva vanished the excess cups and, after hesitating one second, approached the door.

They both intercepted a very unwelcome and very pink figure when the door opened, with thick lips and a very dainty bow sitting on top of her brown hair. Minerva could hear Severus’ sleeve fabric creaking as he folded his arms and gripped them.

Umbridge smiled. “Good morning, Professor McGonagall.”

McGonagall didn’t smile. “Good morning, Dolores.”

The pink-blobbed figure pushed past her into her office, then her gaze settled on the black, ominous figure of Snape, who hadn’t moved and clearly had little intention of doing so. He had faced Death Eaters and Voldemort and he wasn’t intimidated by this ridiculous source of disturbance. Minerva wasn’t either; she was far too old and had seen far too much to be intimidated by confrontation which didn’t involve illegal spells. 

“Oh, Professor Snape,” Umbridge quipped with a small smile. “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Under any other circumstances, Minerva would have been quite amused to witness Snape mustering civility with such difficulty - his pupils were constricted and it looked like he had trouble with unfastening his jaw (even his eyelid was twitching, Minerva marvelled) - but circumstances were rather different and so she merely tried to convey reassurement with her eyes from behind the little pink toad.

“The world is full of surprises,” he managed very dryly after tearing his eyes away from the Gryffindor Head, then inclined his head at Umbridge with some difficulty. She made a little ‘hem’ sound.

“I see you and Professor McGonagall are very good friends.”

Snape glanced at Minerva, then said, “Hardly.”

Minerva’s lip twitched. Umbridge looked surprised. “Really? And yet you are spending breaktime together.”

“We teach the same students, Professor Umbridge,” Snape replied coolly. “It’s natural we have common things to discuss. This job requires collaboration for it to be successful.”

“Indeed,” Umbridge said, then glanced at the door, upon which her little letter had been hanging a moment before and was currently scattered around the classroom floor in the form of ash and Snape’s rage. “Did you not receive my letter, Professor McGonagall?”

“Of course I did, Dolores,” came the breezy reply, as McGonagall approached her desk and sat down to organise some papers. “I have already put it away in my desk. I must say that I am pleased that we share common goals. Student health and best interests are, of course, not something to trifle with.”

“I’m very pleased that we agree on those grounds,” she smiled sweetly, then turned to Severus. “I’m sure your opinion doesn’t differ from ours, Professor.”

Snape’s eyelid began to twitch again and he seemed to be made out of marble. 

“Not at all.”

“Hm.” Umbridge observed him. “Have you been teaching long at this school, Professor?”

“Eleven years.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“There is nothing I like doing more.”

“You must possess an exemplary skill of potion-making, to be Potion-Master for so long.”

“I’m sure others can provide an account on them.”

“Do you stay at Hogwarts during the school holidays?”

“I do as circumstances call for.”

Minerva watched him, barely able to keep a straight face. She hid her curling lips in her cup of tea, which was empty, but nobody but her knew that. Severus caught her glinting eye and his scowl darkened.

Umbridge seemed to get the gist that both were unwilling to keep up a conversation with her, so she merely glanced around at McGonagall’s walls as though she had come to inquire about renting or buying the place, then shrugged to herself. 

“Well, I will see you both during lunch. By the by, I find it quite surprising that the students aren’t used to silence during meals, by now… but, no matter. Faults are there to be polished, aren’t they? What would the world be without those little things to work on. Nobody, after all, is perfect.”

With that, she inclined her head sweetly, then headed out.

The second the doors were closed, McGonagall turned to face Snape with some trepidation, who looked as though he was about to explode. His eyes were almost volcanic, his skin became pale, his face contorted and his fingers were twitching as though he was imagining them tight around Umbridge’s flabby neck.

“Faults… polished…” he choked out, too out of it to even begin pacing, “I’ll show her polished… I’ll show her silence… Nobody is perfect indeed… Potions Master…”

McGonagall sighed through her nose, crossed the room, opened a cupboard door, withdrew a glass bottle from it, then poured some fiery liquid into a glass she took out from another.

“Damned toad…” Snape shook, clenching his fists and drawing out his wand, “Porcupine-hide… impervious, crazed, sanctimonious-”

“Here,” she said, thrusting the glass into his hand. “Drink this. And sit down. As much as it would do some of us a favour, you having a stroke as of this moment, Severus, wouldn't be very helpful.”

He started, glanced at her, at the glass, then breathed out a sigh and collapsed onto an armchair. McGonagall gave him a sharp nod.

“Drink it.”

Severus Snape took a look at the Ogden’s and rubbed his eyes.

“This is going to be the death of me,” he muttered, then emptied the glass in one quick movement. “One of us is going to die. Either me, or her. Not counting damage control.”

“That would be quite a grim thing to witness.”

“Perhaps I should invite Cornelius for a moment or two. He’d act as a nice little buffer.”

The bottle of Ogdens was sent for, but Minerva intercepted it.

“I know I suggested this,” she said, her voice firm and slightly disapproving, “but it’s still morning and we both do not have a free period today.”

Snape scowled, then shut his eyes for a moment. “I have two first-year classes today.”

“Then I suggest you get your temper under control.” 

“Two accursed classes filled with little piping voices and brats.”

“Oh, get a grip on yourself.”

The glass cracked from under the impact of Severus' grip, shards raining down around him and onto his lap. McGonagall stared as he he stared at what remained in his fist, at the blood slowly making its way down the bottom of his fist and wrist, then threw back his head on the headrest and groaned.

“Life is splendour,” he muttered, making no move to clean up himself or the glass. “Oh, absolutely and utterly. I’m looking forward to tomorrow. And the day after that. Because, oh, ho, ha!”

Minerva watched him raise the broken glass in his fist and toast her, thinking that her interjection would only make things worse.

“Professor McGonagall, paradise awaits us,” he declared, something mad in his black eyes. “I’m going to go on holiday during the Christmas break. To Majorca. I’m going to open my bloody Gringotts bank and let the galleons pour, live while I’m young. The war can wait. So can the Dark Lord. In fact, you can come along too. Thank you for your cooperation, professor. Twenty points to Gryffindor.”

“Severus, why don’t you actually calm down?”

“I’M AT THE END OF MY TETHER, MINERVA!” he cried and shot up, shaking the glass at nobody in particular. “Either way, there’s no way out for me! Whether we destroy that pink toad and bring back order to Hogwarts, in all the available and plausible senses we can, it doesn’t really matter in the long run!”

“So you believe Potter,” she remarked after a pause, for once uncertain of what else to say as she watched her younger counterpart letting out bursts of steam.

“Believe him? Of course I do,” he scoffed. “Any fool would. Any fool with at least a sliver of perception. And especially me.”

He looked at the crimson staining his hands and running down his elbow, then rose, reaching for his wand with his left hand, and vanished the shards of glass. His voice was low when he spoke next.

“I can feel it throbbing even now,” he muttered, ignoring his injury. “It flames. Burns. Like acid.”

His voice was bitter, as he clutched at his wrist and blood oozed down into his sleeve and started dripping onto the carpets, but Minerva didn’t comment on it. He was looking away, hesitant to meet her eyes. She watched him with pursed lips, then sighed and resumed scribbling and compiling her list upon the parchment.

“I believe Albus,” she remarked after a moment. “He knows what he’s talking about.”

Severus looked up. He hesitated before he spoke. 

“You trust me.”

It was spoken dryly and accompanied by a scoff, but Minerva knew that tone well enough to be affronted. 

“I do.”

He didn’t answer. He opened his mouth, caught her eye, then shut it, tight.

“Madame Pomfrey,” she suggested primly, as he searched for words and blood started pooling on her floor. “And don’t let Dolores burn your heart out without your consent. It will give her the triumph of having control over your temper… I doubt that’s something you want.”

Severus nodded, something bubbling in his eyes, obviously wrestling with the emotions he dubbed weak, then happened to glance at the parchment she was working at and won the battle, assuming scrutinous curiosity which overpowered his other expressions.

“What is that?” he muttered, glancing over her shoulder.

“Something which is going to be burned as soon as we return from Hogsmeade,” she murmured. “Quite frankly, I’ve little good feelings about this woman myself, and I’m not going to stand for tolerating whatever it is she is bringing with her from the ministry.”

Severus was silent, though she knew he was rather stunned as he looked at what she had penned upon the parchment during the kerfuffle which had occurred a few minutes before.

“Is that a plan of action?” he murmured. “You’ve drawn up her classes… what most likely affronts her… potential hexes.”

McGonagall glanced up at him.

“You sound surprised, Severus.”

It took him a few seconds to reply. His mouth opened, shut, then opened again.

“I am,” he admitted, his voice low as he studied the parchment, still clutching at his wrist whilst blood dropped onto her tartan carpets. “I have never been so abruptly stunned and … disappointed, Professor McGonagall. I’m considering passing this along to the Headmaster.”

“Are you, now.”

“Yes. The Head of the Gryffindor house, plotting against another employee? And such a ravishing and charming one, too?”

“You have a gift with your tone presenting the exact opposite of what comes out of your mouth, Severus.”

“I do.”

“As you have one for dripping blood all over my carpets.”

He glanced down at his crimson hand, then drew out a shaky sigh.

“I am feeling rather faint, in all honesty,” he muttered, then grasped his wand with a trembling hand.