Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for fun.

Author's notes: For meri_oddities's birthday. My thanks to the incomparable regan_v for the beta. This is a wee snippet/sequel to the piece Stilllife

"You're usually committing a number of obscene acts at this hour." Minerva pursed her lips in mock disapproval. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"My partner in obscenity is jogging."

Her eyes widened a little.

"He's what, Severus?"

"Running, jogging, moving his legs rather quickly. The Ravenclaw Common Room has a painting of the Swiss alps. Which I find completely inexplicable. As a student, I certainly would never have appreciated reminders of the approaching winter in spring. As if I needed further evidence that Ravenclaws are as daft as they are brilliant." Minerva nodded in agreement. We never could have voiced that sort of opinion as teachers, but as dead people, all those professional boundaries were now happily pointless. "As you and I both know, Harry Potter is a law unto himself. He does whatever he does there."

"Whatever for?"

"I have no idea," I admitted. "He tells me that it's fun. Whatever in the hell that mean. Of course it's not like he's going to drop dead of a heart attack, now is he? More?" I held up the bottle of Ogden's.

She frowned and shook her head. "Why bother?" she grumbled.

I raised one eyebrow, held it for three seconds, and then raised the second one.

"I believe I did mention that fact a few thousand times in the last fifty years, and all I got for my pains was a very unsympathetic 'Stop whinging.' May I return the favor? Stop whinging." She glared at me. Although Minerva had thoughtfully requested that a cup of tea be painted into my portrait, she couldn't have known that it would be like drinking warm nothing. There is something soothing in the back and forth of drinking a cup of tea, but ultimately frustrating when it tastes like liquid air. "I warned you."

"Excuse me. It's not like I could say to death, not yet, sonny, I've got a few more cases of whiskey to savor and polish off so be on your merry way," she said with a decent about of sass, although her delivery wasn't nearly as fierce as when she was alive. I wanted to get as many evenings with her as I could before she went to sleep entirely. The last time Albus woke up it was to congratulate Lily on the birth of her son, Harry, Jr. What is it about these Potters being so name challenged?

She yawned and adjusted her wooly nightcap. We were in her portrait sharing a rare drink. Or at least pretending to share a rare drink.

"I still miss some things," she admitted.

"Not that I know, personally, but I understand that the memory fades after a bit. That's why you sleep. There's nothing to stay awake for."

She sighed. "I find that rather sad. Not to care one way or another. I suppose I won't when the time comes."

"So I'm told."

"How was your run?"

He shimmied out of his robes and crawled into bed. I still found it supremely irritating that both of us had been painted in full academic regalia; we always looked like we were about to attend a funeral. Which I have to admit came in handy every now and then. Being overdressed is excusable, being underdressed uncouth.

"Brilliant," he murmured. He grabbed the book I was reading and threw it on the floor. Being painted, the spine wouldn't crack at such ill-treatment. Of course, I suspected that Harry would have done the same even if we weren't trapped in this portrait world. He was something of a sex maniac.

Takes one to know one.

He slid a palm up my side to tweak a nipple.

"How's Minerva?"

"Complaining about not being able to get trolleyed."

"I miss that too. Having one on. Being completely uninhibited."

"Mr. Potter," I said in a stern voice although it was something of an effort as his hand had now slid down to give my balls a nice squeeze. "If this is inhibited, I shudder to think what uninhibited— Oh, you randy sod."

A delightful tongue was now laving said balls.

"You think running gets me going? You should have seen me after Quidditch matches. Merlin, I miss Quidditch."

My erection, which had been quite frisky, wilted immediately. I turned over. Because at that point in his life he had either been fucking his wife or buggering that worthless Draco Malfoy. His previous relationships were something of a sore point. Still.

"Sorry," he murmured in my ear and scooted up against me, his erection nestled in the crack of my arse.

I shrugged as if it didn't matter, but of course it did matter.

A hand snaked around and began stroking me.

"I did want you," he reminded me. "Even then. Even when I thought I was straight."

I rolled my eyes.

"You're rolling your eyes, aren't you? I can tell."

I moved into his hand in a type of response. There really wasn't any point in indulging in these petty jealousies, but old habits are hard to break. Even when you're dead.

"I miss," he grunted as he entered me, slowly and easily, as if he'd been doing this for years, which he had. "I miss the sweat. The smells. There?"

I groaned out my appreciation.

"I thought we didn't celebrate birthdays. Kinda pointless."

"As a rule, but this is a rather brilliant idea, if I do say so myself."

He cocked his head.

"You're always so modest. You should toot your own horn every now and then."

"Do you want your present or not?"

"Sure, lay it on me."

I gave him a look. "You trot out that vulgar American slang just to irritate me, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do. So what'd you get me? Looks like a painting. Great, because we're real low on those."

I instructed the house-elf to whisk off the drape covering the painting. It was a meticulous rendering of the Hogwart's Quidditch pitch, a broom in the foreground.

After all the hugging was over (Potter is something of a compulsive hugger), I whispered in his ear, "As much as you find being on a broom exhilarating, it is nothing compared to me seeing you on a broom. Happy Birthday, Harry."