dueltastic

Title: A Virtuous Man
Word Count: 4300
Pairing(s): Severus Snape/Minerva McGonagall
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: Written for Deeply Horrible


A Virtuous Man

Would it be going too far to say it was Potter's fault? Surely not. Very well, then, it must be said: it was all Potter's fault.

The summer of 1992 found Severus Snape pacing in the dingy sitting room of Spinner's End, enumerating in an increasingly irritated fashion the wrongs done him by the scandalously over-privileged members of the Potter family. Being surrounded by the reminders of his unfortunate childhood often had the effect of bringing on that particular rant, but Potter had upset everything. Quite apart from being his father's misbegotten spawn and the probable harbinger of Snape's doom, Potter had, in rather short order, upset the delicate balance of Snape's personal life, such as it was.

Point the first: Severus Snape was not among Nature's born lovers. He lacked good looks, manly physique, wealth, breeding, gentility, or anything approaching charm. All he could jot down in the "assets" column of his ledger were a certain (though not overwhelming) influence among the darker element of society, and an excessive supply of cunning, where Nature had been generous with her gifts. The former quality, which as a younger man he'd hoped would make up his dowry, seemed now to be about as unsafe as licking a live electrical wire, to use a Muggle analogy, which he felt entirely entitled to do in the privacy of his own mostly Muggle-ish home. He was therefore confined to trading on the latter for the sexual and emotional favours of the fairer sex.

Point the second: He had, wonder of wonders, managed to acquire the aforementioned sexual and emotional favours from a card-carrying member of the fairer sex. Indeed, his bit of all right was a card-carrying member of long standing, being somewhat older than himself, which he might, as a younger man, have found intimidating or even off-putting, but which he had come to recognize as a deeply appealing prospect with great benefits in the fields of sexual self-discovery, emotional stability, and professional growth. More to the point, as a man with few charms with which to lure the attention of a lady, it behooved him to find attractive the sort of women who found his intelligence to be a shaggable quality.

Point the third: Potter. Potter was ruining it all. Not content with throwing Snape's life-work balance into a free-fall in a more general sense, he was spoiling the rather delicate state of affairs with Minerva — yes, Minerva, for she was his female companion, and a none-too-compliant one at that. Minerva, of course, had also been supplied by Nature with a rather excessive quantity of intellect and cunning, and it took every trick Severus Snape could invent to keep her receptive to his advances — for surely, left to her own devices, she would one day come to her senses — and he was aided only by his innate ability to disregard moral sentiment, an unfortunate (but useful) Gryffindor failing to which she fell prey. Potter had swanned in like the little golden child he was, stealing Minerva's attention and sympathies away from Snape himself, and with Potter's theft of the bloody Quidditch cup as well as the bloody House Cup away from Slytherin, a carefully constructed balance of power was upset, which left Snape with a seemingly insurmountable McGonagall problem.

He was not, however, a Slytherin for nothing.


"Don't speak to me about the bloody Potter brat," Snape said grimly while swirling his glass of wine after an intimate get-together at the Malfoy estate. He hunched over while Lucius lounged decorously in a chair by the fire. "A more blatant case of favouritism I have never seen, at least not since his father. Breaking the school's Quidditch rules for him, buying him a top of the line broom from the school's coffers... it's intolerable Gryffindor cronyism." That much was all true, provided one took a rather holistic view of finance; but as the money in Minerva's pocket all came from the school's coffers originally, he felt more than entitled to equate the two.

"Galling, to say the least," said Lucius, idly scratching the ears of the wolfhound by his side. "One had hoped for better, though it was perhaps optimistic, given that he's the offspring of a blood traitor and a muggleborn —" it was a mark of his esteem for his friend, in Lucius Malfoy's eyes, to indulge in a certain tact regarding his friend's paternal heritage and unfortunate emotional attachment to the young lady in question, at least while in private "— and his early encounter with the Dark Lord seems an ill omen, all things considered."

"He's a Potter," spat Snape. "That's omen enough. What were you hoping for, headlines about Draco Malfoy extending the hand of friendship to teach The Boy Who Lived the value of traditional wizarding society? Prepare for seven years of 'Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived to Be a Star', 'The Golden Boy Catches the Golden Snitch', and Witch's Weekly profiles on 'The Brave Gryffindor Orphan Who Saved a Society'."

"Surely you exaggerate," said Lucius, considering this impending journalistic annoyance, "though not, I fear, by much."

"The most irritating thing," said Snape, carefully preparing the final blow, "is the way those damned Gryffindors in the Headmaster's office are closing ranks. Potter hardly so much as sneezes without them treating it as a referendum on the fall of the Dark Lord. No doubt if Draco were to go out for Quidditch, which I'm not certain I would recommend, they would paint it as a modern-day battle between the forces of the Dark Lord and the forces of that twat in the lavender robes."

"No doubt," said Lucius, nonplussed. "Hang on, why wouldn't you recommend Draco go out for Quidditch?"

"Not worth it," said Snape, waving his hand dismissively. "While I'm sure he'd acquit himself admirably, short of bankrolling the Slytherin team with private donations, we'll never match the favours bestowed upon the precious Gryffindors by their adoring mater and pater who run the school."

"You know, it's not the worst idea," said Lucius.

Result: one evening of venting his Potter frustrations on a sympathetic ear, a large cheque from a devoted former student of Slytherin House to its Head for seven Nimbus 2001 brooms, and the likelihood of a Quidditch team that could beat the pants off the Gryffindor team, because a frustrated Minerva McGonagall was a hot-tempered Minerva McGonagall, and a hot-tempered Minerva McGonagall was an easily-aroused Minerva McGonagall. Thirty points to Severus Snape.


This is not to say that Snape was without a romantic streak. While, true, it was not prominent among his motives, he did share that urge common to the males of most large mammal species; namely, the demonstration of his reproductive fitness through the defeat of a rival. It was with some amount of regret that he allowed a few small concerns like "being a role model to dozens of hormonal dunderheads" and "no longer being a Death Eater" dictate where and when he was allowed to draw his wand on an opponent. But he could be forgiven, surely, if the opportunity were to fall in his lap. Which it did, for certain definitions of "rival", and "falling into his lap".

"He was the best you could do?" he said to Minerva over a nightcap in her rooms one evening. "One might begin to think you weren't taking the education of the students seriously." The matter at hand was one Gilderoy Lockhart, Professor (so-called) of Defence Against the Dark Arts, Order of Merlin (third class), and suspected charlatan of the first order. Not precisely a romantic rival, it's true, but in that Snape kept applying for the job which Lockhart currently occupied, a certain degree of rivalry was only to be expected.

"Believe me," said Minerva, her lips drawn tight, "he is every bit as disappointing to me as he is to you. I'm all too aware that we're scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"They will need those skills, Minerva," said Snape. "It's not just an academic exercise." This particular line of attack, apart from being one of her sore points, had the benefit of being one of Snape's few genuine pedagogical interests. It would, he felt, be more dishonest not to broach the subject.

"I am well aware, Severus," she said through gritted teeth, with all the equanimity of a wet kneazle that's been poked with a stick. "As you know. My hands are tied until the curse gets him. Short of running a duelling club outside of class for the students to practice in, which I certainly haven't time to do, I cannot offer any solutions."

Result: an evening of thoroughly exhausting sex, the recollection that his bit of crumpet had once been rather into duelling for sport, an intriguing set of finger-shaped bruises, and a plan. Seventy-five points to Severus Snape.

His plan was put into practice the following Monday. Lockhart, arriving at the Great Hall at the last possible minute for breakfast, felt rather than saw the black shape that brushed past him.

"I quite liked your book," said Snape softly with downcast eyes, before pushing through the door imperiously and taking his place at the table.

Gilderoy stopped in the doorway, rather confused by this turn of events. "Well, of course you did, old chap," he said, but not too loudly, in case he'd imagined that exchange.

Throughout breakfast, Lockhart glanced to his left in order to observe the heretofore unfriendly potions master, but could get no confirmation that the man even knew he existed. At the following day's staff meeting, however, the smouldering glances were undeniable. There was perhaps even a touch too much smoulder; another man, one who did not know Snape had liked his book, might assume Snape had graduated to burning glances, which had a different connotation altogether. But not everyone had Gilderoy's spectacular ease and charm, and Snape, who was not a social creature at the best of times, lacked both. He was, however, a bird in the hand, a potential oasis in the desert.

The next day, Gilderoy jogged after Snape in the hall. "Professor Snape," he called. "A word, if I may."

Snape turned in a swirl of black robes. Dour, thought Lockhart, but classic. "Of course, Professor Lockhart," he said in a gentler, silkier voice than Gilderoy had heard him use before.

"I, uh, can't help but get the feeling, Professor Snape," began Lockhart, "that there's something you wish to say to me."

"No," said Snape.

Gilderoy knitted his brow. "No?" he said.

"You, Professor Lockhart, are a celebrity," said Snape, at which Lockhart beamed, because this much was true. "Those of us who are not must live rather more circumspect lives."

"Yes, but I say," said Gilderoy, taking Snape by the elbow and guiding him to the side of the corridor. "I say, it needn't be a life of quiet desperation, old fellow."

"It must, I fear," murmured Snape. "If only..."

"Yes?" said Gilderoy.

"If there were some pretence," said Snape. "Some student activity where perhaps I might assist. Where I might watch you teach. I would content myself with that."

"Certainly, certainly," said Lockhart. "I have just the thing. But my dear Professor Snape, you're too modest. A man must live..."

"I can only be the man I am," said Snape with mysterious and existential sadness, failing to disclose the various other men he was capable of being when the need arose.

Result: the formation of a badly needed extracurricular duelling club; the right to taunt Minerva about being able to accomplish what she could not; taking some small part of of the Dark Arts curriculum out of the hands of an ignoramus; and, most gratifying of all, the chance to hex Lockhart to kingdom come at the first opportunity, an experience of which Minerva would be incredibly jealous. She would probably hang on his every word when he recounted the story. Snape wondered if it might serve as foreplay. At least fifty points to Severus Snape. Perhaps a hundred. He felt rather good about that one.


To say it was all Potter's fault overlooked some small role played by one Salazar Slytherin, who, despite his many admirable qualities, seemed to have rather carelessly left a secret heir, a secret chamber, and a secret monster lying about, with no greater purpose to their existence than the persecution of pre-adolescent schoolchildren, something which Snape felt hardly worthy of one of the greatest wizards in history, having learned that it was a fairly trivial task. That he could not entirely lay on Potter's doorstep, despite the boy's strange and worrying proclivity for speaking to snakes.

To sum up: harming children at his school was something Snape took somewhat personally, the snide comments from Minerva about this "heir of Slytherin" business were getting on his wick, and he felt more than a little slighted that, as Head of Slytherin, he didn't have any handed-down secret documents covering this particular turn of events. Confidential and tedious accounts of Slytherin investment in a rather dubious dragon-racing scheme in 1656, yes, anything regarding a fairly important chamber created by Salazar Slytherin, no. And, to top it off, Minerva had not appreciated his observations regarding the unspeakable Granger's improved behaviour now that she could no longer raise her hand and interrupt lessons. While he appreciated how upset she was at being unable to protect students in their own school, and he was aware of how much of her time the matter consumed, he felt that there was very little good done the students by rendering herself sexually unavailable to him. This was a complicated problem.

"This is a complicated problem," he told Lucius one pleasantly lazy Sunday afternoon in Malfoy's gardens. It was spring, and the daffodils had turned the south lawn into a field of yellow.

"It is, rather," said Lucius. "And you're quite certain they suspect your involvement?" For Severus had assured him earlier it was so.

"The connections to Slytherin House make it inescapable, I'm afraid," said Snape. "As if I would be so bleeding obvious. Or would be teaching if I were heir to anything at all."

"My dear, of course you wouldn't," said Lucius. He fired a stinging hex at a house elf that was struggling with a peacock in the lunar garden. "How little they understand you. One wonders, though, how this state of affairs might be turned to some advantage."

This precise question had been on Snape's mind for some time, as it had been singularly disadvantageous to date. "I agree, but how ought the thing be done?" he said. "It's too soon for the followers of the Dark Lord to make a move en masse, Lucius, it wouldn't be prudent."

"It seems a potentially useful business, on the whole," said Lucius. "Mind you, I hesitate to claim responsibility when we don't yet know who exactly is behind it. The next thing we know, some greasy kiddie-fiddler comes forward and admits he was doing it to hush up his attempts to interfere with schoolchildren, and then where are we? No, it is, as you say, a difficult problem."

"Quite," said Snape, and he clasped his hands behind his back as he gave every indication of thinking hard about the situation, before coincidentally coming to the same conclusion he had reached the previous day in the privacy of his rooms. "It would be a shame," he said slowly, "if people were to lose faith in Dumbledore over something like this. Children being harmed at Hogwarts, whatever the reason, could easily give a parent pause."

"Yes," said Lucius. "Yes, it could. I frequently am given pause, and I'm a parent. That would indeed be unfortunate, if Dumbledore's credibility were to be called into question in such a way. A man of his standing in wizarding society."

"As a parent and a member of the board of governors," said Snape, "you are in a unique position to register your confidence. Or lack thereof."

"In fact, it might be wise," said Lucius, "if the board of governors were seen to take some decisive action. One cannot be seen doing nothing in a time of crisis."

"One might say that that's precisely what Dumbledore has done," said Snape.

"One might indeed," said Lucius, who possessed the sort of jaded air that went down well with the moneyed classes. "One might be doing nothing, but it's a sure mark of incompetence to be seen doing it."

"Has the board power to do anything besides issue a strongly-worded letter?" asked Snape, who knew very well that they had. "He's become somewhat immune to those. I think sometimes the Headmaster forgets he serves at the pleasure of the Board rather than the other way around."

"We do send rather a lot of them," said Lucius. "Not to worry, my dear Severus, we're capable of much more. As you say, the Headmaster does serve at our pleasure, and he would do well to remember it."

And thus Severus solved his difficult problem. The headmaster's suspension addressed three of his four concerns, leaving him to concentrate solely on the matter of that bloody chamber.

"Dumbledore's vulnerability is quite clear," Severus said to Lucius Malfoy. "Our friends will take heart, and hopefully even he is not foolish enough to ignore the implicit warning."

"It will bring the Dark Lord's sympathizers and their collaborators into the open for the first time in years," Snape told Dumbledore. "While no doubt dispiriting to the students, the school must learn to function without you, for when your attention inevitably turns elsewhere."

"You know I will support you, Minerva," he told the lady in question in soft whispers, as he comforted her on the evening Dumbledore left the school. "Anything that's within my power to do. The school is safe in your hands, of that I am certain."

The beauty of it all, thought Snape, is that every word of it was true, which was the safest and most effective stance to take.

"Yes, a rather effective display, I feel," said Lucius, with a touch of pride. Snape even smiled at his joke about mudbloods.

"Good thinking, my boy," said Albus Dumbledore. "It's not merely making lemonade out of lemons, but we may find that overconfidence drives them to make mistakes. If you can use this to improve your own status in their ranks, you know, you ought to." Snape agreed to do his best.

"Thank you, Severus," said Minerva, leaning into his caresses even as she began planning how to protect the children from an unknown enemy. "I will rely on you in the weeks to come." And at this, Snape felt a stab of triumph.

Result: Various loyalties were re-affirmed, cleverness generally acknowledged, but, most importantly, it had been a stroke of genius with respect to his personal life. His stern-yet-lovely lady friend, appreciator of his intellectual gifts, bestower of orgasmic bliss, the only woman of significant intelligence who would have him, grew ever more stern and radiant with power, as he had known she would, and she welcomed him by her side both day and night, leaving behind any trivial matters such as, "Why does the head of Slytherin know nothing about the chamber of Slytherin?" and "Granger is one of my students, you berk," in favour of a united front to stabilize and protect the school. Several hundred points to Severus Snape.


Awkwardly, it was not he who had cast the charms over the students that determined which of them had been abducted to the chamber. That was Filius and Minerva's handiwork, and the best he had been able to contribute was a rather complicated route involving a tunnel from the lake to the castle that he suspected of connecting to an access route into Slytherin's chamber. Even more awkwardly, he hadn't entirely finished his research by the time the simulacrum of his former master decided to take the Weasley girl, leaving Snape clambering blindly through tunnels with Minerva and Filius while Pomona minded the students and Potter went on insane rescue missions with a ginger idiot and a foppish twat.

Once again, though, he felt Potter was more to blame than was commonly recognized. "You let him get away with too much," he said with a scowl, helping himself to a fresh crumpet and buttering it liberally. "This was his fault"

"Blaming Potter? You surprise me," said Minerva. She straightened her dressing gown before refilling her teacup and his own. The June sunshine filtered in through her east-facing window, brightening their small breakfast table. "For what shall we blame him today? Rescuing Miss Weasley, to be sure, that was quite his fault. I'm not certain, however, that one can lay the existence of a basilisk terrorising the school at his feet."

"I mean it," said Severus, biting the unfortunate crumpet with a ferocity it hadn't deserved. "It's all very well for him to go to your office for help after the fact, but he bloody well ought to have done so beforehand. Even you, pathetically Gryffindor as you are, cannot mean to tell me that you approve of second-years rushing off to fight basilisks on their own in unplottable secret rooms. It's only sheer bloody luck we didn't end up with three dead students."

Minerva frowned, and nursed her tea silently. The truth, as Severus had so awkwardly pointed out, was that she did not approve, but found it rather hard to say so when faced with a proud and exhausted child who had gone to such great lengths and accomplished such extraordinary things to save the life of another.

"And surely," continued Severus, "not even Potter could not have missed the sheer degree of ignorance and incompetence displayed by Lockhart all year. Who in their right mind would go to Lockhart for assistance in a crisis?"

"Oh, come now," said Minerva. "You know that, and I know that, but Potter is, as you are fond of pointing out, just a child. Is it so unreasonable for a child to go to the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor for help defending against the dark arts?"

"It is if they're no bloody good," said Severus. "Clearly, Potter doesn't possess the sense God gave a dumb animal if it never crossed his mind to say, 'Lockhart's useless, I'd better inform someone sensible that the opening to the chamber is probably in the girl's loo.' Have you any idea the sort of time and bother that would have saved us all? Or what might have gone wrong down there? If he'd had any one of us with him instead of Lockhart, think how much less danger he, Weasley, and the Weasleyette would have been in."

Minerva spread butter and strawberry jam on the last crumpet. "Not quite any one of us, Severus," she said. "Had it been you with him, you'd all have been in rather a tight spot when You-Know-Who showed up."

He scowled. "We'd have got out of it," he said. "And that's not the point. You need to control Potter, and you need to hire a better Dark Arts professor next year. One who can actually teach them something."

Minerva sipped her tea slowly, and put the cup down. "You know it's not that easy," she said at last. "I would love nothing better. But there's a reason we're scraping the bottom of the barrel."

"Then find a new barrel to scrape," said Severus. He watched her cross her legs, a flash of pale thigh under her dressing gown leading to delicate calves, and wondered if he could convince her it wasn't too late in the morning for a second go. "Potter's going to be a third-year. He's useless if he leaves school incapable of even basic defence against dark magic. How many more years do you think we have?"

"I don't think I'd quite call a child useless," said Minerva. "But I do see your point." She sighed. "I'll see what I can do. I might have a few favours I could call in."

"Someone who won't try to kill the children, for preference," said Snape. "Surely that is worth calling in a favour." He cast a wordless spell to untie the belt of her dressing gown.

"As you say," she said, glaring at him through narrowed eyes. "Severus, we haven't time before the staff meeting."

"After the bloody meeting, then," he said. "It's got to last us till September."

Minerva snorted. "Don't be an idiot," she said. "I left you to your own devices last summer, and you proceeded to rig the Quidditch season with Malfoy. I'm not having it. I plan to shag you into a stupor weekly to keep you out of trouble."

Severus smirked triumphantly.

"And in return," said Minerva, "you'll not say a word against my Dark Arts hire."

"Of course not," he said. "Not if they know what they're about. No more bloody 'Marauding with Monsters' or 'Wandering with Werewolves'."

"I should say not," said Minerva. The corner of her lip twitched into a faint smile.

Result: Ten extra shags — bloody good ones — with his bit on the side, and the reassurance that she was going to pull all available strings to hire an actually competent Dark Arts teacher, one who would keep Potter in line. Precisely who it might be, he could not imagine, but that was Minerva's problem. One hundred points per shag to Severus Snape (and why not?), and an additional two hundred for his deep devotion to the educational rigour. The rewards of virtue were, bloody finally, becoming numerous and plentiful for Severus Snape, master of cunning and accomplished wooer of the fairer sex. Things were looking up at last.