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It's true, Severus realises, as his robes are hiked up around his waist and his legs hooked over the arms of the chair: the headmaster's seat really is more comfortable than any other at the head table.
He glances down at Argus Filch's grey head lowered between his thighs. The touch of a tongue, and his faint moan echoes out through the dark and empty hall.
"Yes..." he sighs, and not alone for Filch's worn, rough hands and hungry mouth.
He gazes out from under his lashes to the table—at the exact spot where he will next make Filch spread him wide and take him with the same punishing force the old fellow always musters—and his mind's eye drifts to the morning. Dumbledore at his toast and tea, and that place reserved for their oh-so-special new arrival.
Will the werewolf be able to smell them, he wonders?
He runs his fingers through Filch's hair, and they share a smirk.
Tonight's satisfaction will last well into the morning.