Entry tags:

*fic, character: horace slughorn, character: minerva mcgonagall, community: rarepair_shorts, fandom: harry potter, genre: fluff, genre: general, gift, rating: pg, ship: horace/minerva

Off-Season
Title: Off-Season
Recipient: plaid_slytherin
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Horace/Minerva
Prompt/Request: fluff
Rating: PG
Word Count: 475
Summary: Unfortunately, upon his cry of “Oh ho! What’s this?”, Minerva’s curiosity had overcome her, and she had stepped forward. At that point, she was too close; the mistletoe sprang above them and placed them both under its spell.
Author's Notes: for the rarepair_shorts wishlist event. Beta'd by captainpookey. Minerva is of age.

Off-Season

Minerva was trapped in a nightmare—or rather, by a nightmare, but at the moment, the two seemed synonymous. For mistletoe, of course, was a terrible, horrible plant, as far as she was concerned. It only caused foolishness and unrest—and discomfort—during the otherwise enjoyable yuletide.

She was not, however, supposed to be worrying about it during the springtime.

And yet here she was, a perfect, unsuspecting victim of a mischievous, off-season plant.

She had been waiting to speak to Professor Slughorn, hoping to discuss a particular comment he had scrawled in the margin of her essay; and as he had been in the middle of searching for something in his desk, she had politely waited.

Unfortunately, upon his cry of “Oh ho! What’s this?”, Minerva’s curiosity had overcome her, and she had stepped forward. At that point, she was too close; the mistletoe sprang above them and placed them both under its spell.

Minerva was mortified—this was a professor! And Professor Slughorn, at that.

It was not so say that she liked or disliked him completely, for she had many varying thoughts about him. She did disapprove of his far-too-obvious favoritism, of course, as well as the fact that he only willingly associated with well-connected people. However, when his favor had at last fallen upon her last year—her sixth year—she secretly could not have been more pleased to have won his approval.

And, she also had forced herself to admit, she had never before seen such a skilled potion-maker.

So she admired him. Quietly. Respectfully.

A flush rising to her cheeks, she glanced upward once more, wishing that she had only imagined the appearance of the mistletoe.

“Well,” Slughorn said merrily, “I’m afraid you know what must be done.”

Oh, she did, indeed. And if she did not do what had to be done, then the dratted plant would keep her captive in this room; there was no escape.

“Just on the cheek, m’dear. No need to worry.”

Minerva bit her lip, thankful for the alternative.

Politely, Professor Slughorn leaned forward, and very quickly, Minerva kissed his cheek.

The mistletoe, as expected, dropped limply to the ground. Slughorn picked it up between his thick fingers and put it back in the drawer whence it had come. Minerva was about to protest, to suggest he put it somewhere safer—lest the incident be repeated—but she decided to hold her tongue.

“Funny little plant, isn’t it?” he beamed. “Now, I’ll understand if you’d rather talk about your essay later…”

“Oh, no, Professor,” Minerva said firmly, still slightly pink. She would not allow a plant to get the best of her. “I’d rather discuss it now, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, not at all, Miss McGonagall.” Chuckling, he folded his hands upon his desk and gave her his full attention.


THE END