A/N: Another story written for HPFC. This one is for the 'I must not tell lies' competition. My prompt is, 'I need five minutes of your time.'

Severus made sure to keep track of every time that Albus told him that 'it would only take five minutes' or 'I just need to talk to you for five minutes' so that he could add up the extra and subtract it from his age. He didn't consider it really living. Every time Albus said the words he would put aside three hours because it never took only five minutes.

"Come Severus, let's sit for five minutes and have a drink. We need to discuss the Death Eaters and what their long-term plans are."
He just wanted to go home and cry for the next decade. Lily, beautiful Lily, was dead and this heartless old man wanted to discuss what to do about Voldemort's old supporters. He shook his head and got up to leave before Albus blocked the Floo and locked the door as he got up to pour them both a drink. He finally gave in and spent the next four hours discussing the future with his old Headmaster and was grateful for the distraction when he finally got home and realised how quiet it was and always would be.

"We need to discuss your classroom etiquette, Severus. Come to my office tomorrow morning and we'll discuss it then. It shouldn't take long, five minutes."
He dragged himself to the Headmaster's office the next morning to reluctantly sit and listen to Albus talk about how he should encourage the students only to treat them the exact same on Monday. This was the only time he could remember entering and exiting the office within ten minutes, it was only twenty seconds over.

"Severus, could you come past my office once you've finished your dinner. It should only take five minutes. I need to discuss that new student with you."
He really didn't want to but he knew that if he didn't go, Albus would just follow him down to the dungeons. Therefore he conceded with his dignity intact. The meeting ended up taking two hours and forcing him to stay up half the night to brew the Hospital Wing potions. The next morning he really wasn't impressed.

"Severus, can you spare me five minutes of your time? I haven't seen you in a while and I miss talking to you."
No, Albus, I can't spare you five minutes. He longed to say but knew that the pushy codger wouldn't give up until he conceded and if he argued it would merely delay him further. When he finally got away forty minutes later, he wished he had argued that he didn't have five minutes.

"I need five minutes of your time, Severus, to talk about Harry's remedial Potions lesson this evening."
He had his first, third, fourth, fifth and seventh year essays to mark. He didn't have to time to meet with the old codger but, alas, his arm was taken hostage and he found himself led to the Headmaster's Office to discuss Harry Potter Occlumency training for the next half an hour.

"Severus, could I please monopolize on your time for five minutes? We shall talk in the kitchen."
It was at Grimmauld Place after an emergency Order meeting which itself had been called just after a Death Eater meeting so, quite understandably, all he wanted to do was go back to his private rooms and lie down, even if his insomnia prevented him from falling asleep. He opened his mouth to decline but Albus gave him a look and he found himself following behind the old man like a lost puppy into the kitchen to talk about Voldemort and his plans for Draco at the end of the year. It was another hour before he got back to his bed.

"Severus, sit down and talk to me for five minutes. Just because I'm a portrait doesn't mean I don't have feelings."
Despite 'just being a portrait' Albus still managed to drive him crazy. He only gave in because there wasn't anything else to do. He'd finished all the paperwork (not that there was much to do anymore) and it wasn't like anyone was hurrying to talk to him. He didn't tell Albus that though; the old man would never let it go. So he spent the next six hours talking to the portrait and when he finally got to bed, he pulled out the notebook where he counted up the minutes, he jotted down the time if only out of spite.

So, according to his (admittedly flawed) logic, at his death he wasn't 14 357 days, 17 hours and 40 minutes old. No, he was in fact 14 348 days, twelve hours and sixteen minutes. Which pleased him to no end and when he died he took particular satisfaction of rubbing it into the old man's face in the afterlife.