Fic: Half-Term Saturday
Jun. 16th, 2012 11:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
therealsnapeTitle:: Half-Term Saturday
Pairing: Minerva McGonagall/Narcissa Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Author's Notes: Originally written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
dysfuncentine. My delectable prompt contained: 1950s AU, magical or not. Prim schoolmarm and upper-class mother get together in a constellation worthy of a lesbian pulp novel. Throw a taboo-less Quidditch or lacrosse player into the party or Lucius into the swimming pool for added drama. In short: give us the penetrating story of a scandalous affair, told with unblushing honesty!
And, as always, a thousand thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kellychambliss, who did her magic as a beta and made the story much more enjoyable.
Content Information/Warnings: See prompt. Also: Draco gets a whole scene.
Summary: See prompt.
Disclaimer The plotline (or a large part of it) is Enid Blyton’s. The characters are JK Rowling’s. The perverted mind that wanted to combine these wholesome children’s universes with a lesbian pulp novel istetleythesecond’s. Don’t blame the typist.
6.00 AM, St Hogarts School
The man striding through the Great Hall of St Hogarts nodded approvingly. The floor was spotless. The tables were polished. The chairs were aligned just so. He continued his inspection towards the hall. The staircase positively shone with cleanliness. He opened the entrance door. The brass knocker gleamed in the early morning light. With a satisfied grunt, he looked out over the immaculate grounds.
To an observer, the man might look like a General inspecting the barracks, and one who is pleased at what he sees. Unless the observer were at close range, in which case one look at the so-called General’s scruffy clothes would lead to ‘look, Old Filch is giving the place an eye-over for Half-Term Day’.
Argus Filch felt like a General, though. Or rather, like a Captain. A Captain sailing a tight ship for once. Every other day of the year (apart from the blessed holidays) the fight against grime and filthy floors was a desperate one. But on this day of all days, for a few hours of the morning at least, Hogwarts truly looked in apple-pie order.
Hogwarts. Filch grinned as he thought of it. Them as had founded the school might have had lots of book learning – he wouldn’t gainsay it. But they’d had no common sense. Any sensible man, such as Argus Filch himself, could have told ‘em in advance that a school named St Hogarts would turn into Hogwarts before the first year were over. And the Old Hogartians never called themselves anything but Hoggywartians.
Today, Filch would see quite a few of his Old Hoggywartians. He liked that. He were hoggy and warty enough himself to appreciate the moniker, and it were flattering to be sought out by so many Old Boys and Girls. Proper respectful they was, too. More than made up for the snootiness of some of them New Money parents. And to make up for Lord Malfoy. He weren’t no new money, though, Lord Malfoy. Just bloody rude. Them New Money snobs would sometimes look the other way to avoid talking to the caretaker. But that Lord Malfoy – he looked straight through a man. So straight through him, that Argus Filch sometimes wanted to look in the mirror afterwards, just to check that he weren’t invisible.
But never mind Lord Muck and his snooty wife. Today was Half-Term Day, and Argus Filch meant to enjoy himself.
7.00 AM, St Hogarts, Miss McGonagall’s private rooms
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of St Hogarts, looked critically at the clothes she had laid out. The tailored suit had proven a most satisfactory purchase. Sober and well-cut, it discreetly underlined her authority. And the heels on her court shoes were low enough to see her through the hours and hours of standing and walking. Anyone who would see Deputy Headmistress McGonagall that day would know her for what she was: successful, respected, and respectable.
If people gave any thought to her private life, they would imagine something equally respectable – but they wouldn’t call it successful. Women who were a success in their chosen career achieved this success precisely because they were a failure elsewhere. They were spinsters who had found a ‘wonderful compensation’ in their work. The most they could hope for elsewhere was the company of a spinster friend, with whom they could go to plays, concerts, or museums. Perhaps even on little trips abroad during their holidays.
Minerva smiled. They weren’t completely wrong. She had exactly such a spinster friend, a respectable and fairly highly-placed civil servant. They did, indeed, go to plays and exhibitions; on such occasions, Minerva conveniently stayed at her friend’s place for the night. It was on that aspect of their relationship that most people’s imagination was sadly lacking. They had no idea of the things two middle-aged spinsters could get up to after a pleasant cultural outing: in Amelia’s flat or in holiday cottages, occasionally even in secluded spots where a picnic blanket would be spread out after an invigorating country walk.
Miss McGonagall had a private life, and one she considered most satisfying.
It was a life in which she didn’t need to be the prim and proper Deputy Headmistress, perfectly in command at all times. With Amelia, she could give up control; let herself be pushed down on a soft mattress while Amelia told her what she planned to do. And then she would be as good as her word. And sometimes there would be the teasing, maddening, “I’ll make you come if you ask me nicely enough.” Occasionally it would be, “if you ask me precisely enough,” or “if you ask me boldly enough”. Bold had come easily to Minerva, but after the first request for precise instructions she had purchased a medical dictionary and done some proper research. After all, if one wanted one’s partner’s digitus secundus and digitus medium to rub one’s Gräfenberg Spot, one should say so.
But those were pleasures for another day. Today she would enjoy meeting the parents. Well, most of them. There were always the difficult cases. The “my child is highly-strung and of a delicate disposition” ones, who had to learn that their sturdy, complacent children would not melt in the rain. And the parents of “a truly exceptional, once-in-a-generation talent” who had to be guided towards acceptance of a perfectly pleasant, but also perfectly average child. And last but not least the snobbish ones, who would have preferred a major public school for their offspring.
Lord and Lady Malfoy, for instance. Lord Malfoy had made his dislike of St Hogarts perfectly clear. Lady Malfoy had been more diplomatic in her criticisms, but she, too, felt that their Draco wasn’t associating with ‘the right sort of children’. True. Most of her students were far too good for the little chip-of-the-old-block.
Lady Malfoy, despite her gracious ways, was all that Minerva found most annoying. She might have the exquisite perfection of a bone-china figurine; in Minerva’s eyes she was as useless as a china figurine, too. A woman who derived her raison d’être from being The Wife Of and The Mother Of. True, Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, was a peeress ‘in her own right’, as the expression went. But that merely meant she was also The Daughter Of.
To make matters worse, Narcissa Malfoy was the wife of and the mother of two of the most unlikeable people Minerva had ever met. Lucius Malfoy had been downright insolent in his assessment of St Hogarts and had pointed out in great detail that his son and heir would have gone to his own Old School, had it not been for the damn lefty government and their ludicrous ideas on death duties. Which left him, him, Lucius, fourteenth Earl of Malfoy, with a choice between selling part of his land and sending his heir to a minor public school. “And, of course, I’ve no intention of diminishing my son’s legacy for a school. His time here is of no importance. His stewardship of the land is.”
When Malfoy made that particularly charming statement, however, Minerva had noticed a look on Narcissa’s face that she had found interesting – it had reminded her of something. At the time, she hadn’t been able to place it, but that evening, as she had relaxed in her own rooms, a glass of Single Malt to hand, she had remembered. A few weeks before, she and Amelia had been to a play. The acting had been brilliant on the part of the actress, but her leading man had fluffed his lines once or twice. And Minerva had seen the same fleeting look of deep annoyance on the actress’s face. Annoyance at her lead’s unprofessionalism that threatened to ruin a fine performance.
Was Narcissa, then, acting the part of the Countess? If anything, the idea of a performance irritated Minerva even more. If a woman truly believed that producing a heir, opening village fêtes, attending Ascot, and taking part in the Season were worthwhile and meaningful ways to spend a life she might be misguided, but at least she was sincere.
But Narcissa, Countess of Malfoy simply seemed to consider life as an entertaining play. Servants, villagers, even the staff and parents on Half Term Day were both the walk-ons and the audience, whose sole purpose was to both support Narcissa’s performance and admire her for it. And everyone usually did just that.
Minerva most assuredly wasn’t interested in a life as empty as Narcissa’s, and she honestly didn’t think she craved that kind of admiration – it was verging on idolatry. She was just annoyed at a world that adored its Narcissas and dismissed its Minervas and Amelias as ‘worthy and admirable’ in their presence, and as ‘prim and proper’ behind their backs.
Still, annoying as Lady Malfoy would be, Half-Term Day would have enough pleasant moments. Minerva glanced at her bedside clock. Seven thirty already. Quickly, she finished dressing and fastened her hair in the customary tight bun.
Deputy Headmistress McGonagall was ready to face the day.
9.30 AM, Malfoy Manor
The Countess of Malfoy looked into the theatre mirror in her bedroom. Narcissa Black’s face, as yet a blank canvas, looked back, framed by light bulbs. She loved these moments of quiet thought. A bit of alone-time to prepare for the day ahead and the part she’d have to play.
Lucius had frowned at the mirror, of course. Too large, too theatrical. “A boudoir should be elegant,” Lucius had drawled when the mirror was brought in. “Please don’t tell me you go in for quirky. It’s invariably a failure. The ‘I long for the simple life in a cottage’ style looks ludicrous in a decently-sized room. The ‘I should have been a painter; look at the easel and all the artses décor’ makes one stubs one’s toes on the bloody statues. And audacious colour schemes make me bilious. Please don’t become the inventor of the ‘West End Dressing Room’ quirk.”
“I like perfection,” Narcissa had answered, while making a mental note of her husband’s in-depth knowledge of boudoir styles. “For perfectly-applied make-up, one needs proper light. Just look at your hostess’s face tonight and you’ll see that I’m right.” Mrs Scrimgeour’s ruling passion was gardening, but whenever her husband’s position forced her to give a dinner she would dutifully don an evening gown and slap up some eye shadow. Unfortunately, the mauve and purple schemes that worked so well in her perennial borders were less successful on a fifty-something face with ruddy cheeks. And her habit of thinking in groups of colour didn’t help, either.
Lucius had grinned. “All right, my little perfectionist. Have your proper light,” he had said, and the mirror had stayed, the one theatrical element in an otherwise exquisite bedroom. It had been another well-delivered scene in Narcissa, my elegant and amusing wife.
For Narcissa Black was, indeed, an actress, and an excellent one, too. One who knew how to select her parts – which was why she had never seriously considered the stage as a profession. She would have loved the actual work, but not the touring with repertory companies. Nor the inevitable spells of “resting”. And why settle for a cardboard set when one could play out one’s life surrounded by the real thing?
It was at school that she had first discovered her love of acting. Each year the students performed a pantomime, and she had auditioned when she was in the second form. She had been given the part of a saucy lady’s maid and had adored every minute of it. The delights of being someone completely different! For the life of her she couldn’t understand why so many girls craved the main part. Those heroines were all so boringly identical: lovely, admired, and virtuous. Of course, for some of those girls it was as close as they’d ever get to being admired. Narcissa, who was considered the loveliest girl in the school, who was, in fact, the loveliest girl wherever she went, wanted to be different. There was no point in playing Cinderella or the Sleeping Beauty – wicked witch, ugly sister, nasty step-mother: those were the parts she craved. As an added bonus everyone thought it awfully decent of her to volunteer for the ugly roles. Narcissa, a Jolly Good Sport had run successfully for five years.
It was one of the two things that had made boarding school such a very satisfying experience, crushes being the other one. The agonizing delight of the unobtainable at first – the English teacher, that goddess with her beautiful voice; the French Mam’zelle with her enchanting accent. Then the painful pleasure of the almost-possible: after all, the Head Girl might suddenly take an interest in a beautiful Third Former. And finally, the discovery that crushes on women were not something you had till Mr Right (or, in Narcissa’s case, the Earl of Right) came along, but something you enjoyed until another girl showed you the very real joys of some hidden places, both on the school grounds and on your body.
It had made her think long and hard about possible parts for women-loving women. There was the academic option, of course. Once Narcissa’s eyes had been opened, she noticed the way Matron and Mam’zelle looked at each other. It would be fun, thrilling, to have such a hidden relationship. It would be delightful to find a Matron of her own. At night, in the dorm, whilst firmly ignoring the hands-above-the-duvets rule, Narcissa had indulged in a lovely fantasy or two on a Matron and the things that could be done in a Sick Ward, with Matron in her beautifully-starched uniform and Narcissa half-naked on a bed, while firm, capable fingers ran all over her body, and then inside her body, too, for a very, very thorough examination.
But in reality, that life would also mean an academic study, and worse, years and years of teaching giggling schoolgirls. Narcissa had quickly decided against a long run of Teachers’ Delight.
Then there were the two stalwarts of various village committees at home: Miss Pince, who ran the village library, and Miss Grubbly-Plank, who spent most of her leisure hours looking after her chickens and volunteering in animal sanctuaries. They shared a cottage, to have a bit of company and to minimize costs, as the village would have it. With her new-found knowledge Narcissa had looked at them more sharply, and she had had her suspicions. When Miss Pince happily announced that a dear friend would spend a fortnight with them, she had known for sure. A two-bedroom cottage with a spare room?
The idea of a quaint cottage with hollyhocks, roses, lavender, and a cat – there simply had to be a cat – of fooling the villagers by looking so very respectable by day whilst having passionate sex by night, was a charming one. But Miss Pince and Miss Grubbly-Plank couldn’t afford a maid and had to do all the heavy work themselves. And just look what that had done to Miss Pince’s hands – they were like vulture claws. When Narcissa realised that the frumpy clothes, too, were a financial necessity rather than a choice – although Miss Grubbly-Plank did seem to like her corduroy trousers and flannel shirts – her mind was made up. Love in a Cottage might be charming for one season, but not for a lifetime.
Boarding school had been followed, inevitably, by finishing school in Paris. Everyone who was truly anyone went to that most exclusive of establishments: Institut Maxime. And finished Narcissa had been, with the enthusiastic help of Apolline Verdoux. It was Apolline who had pointed her in the right direction. “One must have a rich husband, of course, if one wants the beautiful things in life,” she had said, matter-of-factly. “But after that, Chérie, what you must do is find yourself a woman friend. In your own circles, of course. It is perfectly normal for women to have a very, very close friend, is it not? Really, we are the lucky ones – we do not even have to wait until we have given our husbands a male heir – we can take a lover whenever we want. And wherever we want – a man and a woman absent together, it is noticeable. But two women absent – ah, one had a malheur with her dress, and the other helped her.”
And that very evening, when their class dutifully attended a play by Racine in the Comédie Française, Apolline had winked at her during the interval, and after a beautifully-delivered “Ah, zut! How terrible! Madame Maxime, I have a problem with my … with my …” fluttery hands pointing at the fullest of New Look skirts in the general direction of a garter belt, an embarrassed look, and Apolline had permission to go to the ladies’ room, with Narcissa to help her fix the problem.
Narcissa smiled as she remembered the scene. Two sets of petticoats in one cubicle – how had they managed? But Apolline had pushed her against a wall, had put her finger to her lips (as if Narcissa would have been so stupid as to make a sound!) and she had lifted Narcissa’s skirt and gestured that she, Narcissa, should hold it up. Then she had taken Narcissa’s other hand, and used it to push aside her knickers. She had smiled the most tantalizing, wicked smile, and she had slowly licked and sucked two fingers of her own hand, while Narcissa stood there, waiting, watching, agonizing. Finally Apolline had touched her, the smile widening into a grin when she had felt Narcissa’s wetness, and she had slipped those longed-for fingers inside her, pushing and scissoring. And, thank heavens, she had kissed Narcissa on the mouth when she came, or there would have been noise after all.
“See?” Apolline had said, when they returned to their seats, every inch the demure young ladies they were supposed to be. “See? We can make each other enjoy whenever we want to!” Narcissa had corrected her, as Apolline had begged her to do whenever she used a wrong expression, but “make you come? One makes the servants come by ringing the bell. Never will I use a word so cold! It is jouir, enjoy, you must call it that,” Apolline had insisted.
After finishing school, Apolline married the Baron Delacour, with Narcissa as her bridesmaid. Then Narcissa herself received an offer of Lord Malfoy – the catch of the season. Apolline stood godmother to Narcissa’s son. The husbands hunted together in Sologne and shot grouse in Scotland, knowing that their dear wives didn’t mind those long shooting trips in the least. “You two just go ahead and have fun. Apolline and I have so much to talk about – we’ll enjoy ourselves, too, ” Narcissa would say, and, at the word ‘enjoy’, Apolline would run a dainty pink tongue along her full lower lip – razor-fast, nearly invisible, but it was enough to send a jolt of anticipation through Narcissa’s body.
“Look at the Baronne Delacour and Lady Malfoy,” said mothers to tearful, homesick daughters reluctant to go to Olympe Maxime’s select establishment. “Look what wonderful friends you can make there.”
And they were right, thought Narcissa, slowly dragging her thoughts back to the day ahead. She daily blessed the stars, the goddess of love, or whoever had been responsible for putting Apolline on her path. Who would have thought one could truly have it all? A title, a beautiful house, an enchanting son. And at the same time, hidden for all, she had a lover who was as passionate as she was herself.
And who was as fond of role-play.
Narcissa felt a sliver of excitement run through her body as she thought of the various scenarios they had acted out over the years. A favourite one was where a stern schoolmistress found fault with Narcissa, and disciplined her in her study. Apolline’s exquisite stern voice alone was enough to arouse her.
But today’s enjoyment would not involve that kind of acting. She would have to find pleasure in being the perfectly gracious Countess of Malfoy, who took such an interest in her son’s school. She would be charming to other parents and teachers. And, of course, to Miss McGonagall, who was such a prim and proper schoolmarm that Narcissa had been reminded more than once of Apolline’s interpretation of the part.
Wouldn’t that be delicious – to be punished by wonderfully-stern Miss McGonagall?
But now was not the time to indulge in fantasies. Narcissa reached for the array of make-up on her dressing table. With deft, expert gestures she started to put on the Countess’s face.
13.00 PM, St Hogarts Grounds
“Ye gods, look at that,” drawled the Earl of Malfoy, nodding in the direction of an elderly lady in a rather shabby bottle-green raincoat who walked up the drive. “This hardly seems the day to see applicants for the post of cleaner? Draco, don’t tell me you’re supposed to consort with the likes of …”
Before his son could answer, however, a voice shouted “Gran!” and a boy in the St Hogarts uniform ran towards her. For one moment, it seemed as if he lessened his speed. Had he overheard Lord Malfoy’s remark? But then re ran on and embraced the old lady, nearly knocking her hat off in the process.
“Oh, Neville,” they heard her say. “Don’t be clumsy – it’s my best hat.” The boy grinned apologetically, offered her his arm, and together they made their way towards the swimming pool.
“Her best hat?” exclaimed Lady Malfoy. “She voluntarily wears – she takes pride in wearing a hat decorated with a vulture? At least, one presumes it’s a vulture. Surely Nature couldn’t be so unkind to two kinds of birds?”
Draco grinned. “That’s Neville Longbottom and his grandmother,” he explained. “Thank heavens he’s in Gryffindor house. Stupid oaf. His gran always wears that hat to Half-Term Day. And Vulture Hat sums it up – Mum, you’re priceless!”
“Your mother is most certainly a luxury few can afford,” smiled his father. “Now, you wanted to show us the new science lab?”
“Yes, it’s great! And the teacher isn’t bad either – he lets us experiment with chemicals! Longbottom nearly burnt a hole in the table, of course, but Mr Snape says I’m really quite good at it …” Chatting excitedly, Draco led his parents in the direction of the lab.
16.00 PM, at the swimming pool
“… so our four Founders would be proud to see all these happy, healthy boys and girls together. And now you’ll agree that I’ve kept you from important matters for quite long enough. There’s a tea waiting for you in the Great Hall – and from what I’ve heard it’s smashing.”
A thunderous applause mixed with laughter followed Headmaster Dumbledore’s words. Minerva applauded and smiled, too, thinking how cleverly Albus contrived to get such enthusiasm. A short, dignified, highly traditional speech on the four Founders of St Hogarts, their innovative ideas on co-education, and the virtues they wanted to instil in their students. And then a joke and the promise of food. It was always a roaring success.
The first parents and students started to make their way towards the main building. Voices mingled. “That was a very good dive, Fred,” said Mrs Weasley as she and her family passed Minerva. “Mum, that was me, not Fred,” replied one of the Weasley Twins; George, one presumed. No, not George. Minerva looked more sharply. It was Fred all right, teasing his mother as usual. Yes, there was the familiar “truly, do you call yourself our mother?”
And then all sorts of things happened at the same time. It couldn’t have taken more than seconds, but to Minerva it seemed as if she saw it all in slow-motion.
The members of the relay-teams that had made up the final demonstration made their way to the dressing rooms.
Creevey Major ran towards Potter, camera in hand, yelling something about a great pic he had taken of Potter’s finish.
At the same time, Longbottom rushed towards the team as well, from an opposite direction.
He swerved to avoid Creevey, although Minerva could have sworn there was no danger of collision. Then he seemed to stumble – but on what, for heaven’s sake? He tried to regain his balance and grasped the nearest support. And the nearest support was the back of Lord Malfoy, who was propelled towards the edge of the pool by the impact.
For one moment it seemed as if both Longbottom and His Lordship were suspended in mid-air.
And then there was an almighty splash as two bodies hit the water.
Pandemonium broke out.
The students screamed first, and then they cheered and howled with laughter. The parents struck various poses of shock and dismay, and then joined their offspring in their mirth.
Longbottom’s redoubtable grandmother looked … did Minerva see that correctly? Was there a look of mingled pride and smugness on Augusta’s face? She would have expected the woman to yell at her unfortunate grandchild. True, Minerva had sent her a strongly-worded letter after that business over Longbottom’s O-levels, but had she made that much of an impression on stubborn, self-assured Gussie Longbottom? Amazing.
There were, however, more pressing problems to sort out. Longbottom had made for the farthest ladder and heaved himself out of the water. Lord Malfoy had, understandably, chosen the nearest ladder. He, too, slowly emerged. It was amazing how a dip in the pool could utterly ruin all that Savile Row perfection. The dratted man – no, the poor man; he was, after all, the victim here – looked exactly like Mrs Norris, the school cat, that time when a student had thrown a bucket of water all over her. Bedraggled, scruffy, even the look of outrage was rather similar, Minerva noted with some amusement.
As Lord Malfoy looked towards his young assailant, his face turned from outraged to an expression of such malevolence that a hush fell over the spectators. Minerva hurried towards the scene.
In the sudden silence, only one voice was audible. “… positively drawn towards the water, did you see that? There must be a strong magnetic field in or near that swimming pool. And you know what that means, don’t you, Luna?”
“Aliens! cried an eager voice. Luna Lovegood looked up at her father. “Do you think I might see UFO’s here? Do you really think so, Dad?”
“It’s quite likely. You’re a lucky girl, Luna, a very lucky girl.”
While the Lovegoods rejoiced in their good fortune, Minerva reached the pool. Lord Malfoy looked murderous.
“Longbottom, go to Matron at once. You need to dry and change, or you’ll catch a cold,” she ordered. Longbottom took one look at the incandescent peer, murmured, “Yes, Miss,” and ran off as hard as he could pelt.
The next ten minutes were spent on apologies, sincere at first but with increasing strength on the ‘this was an accident part as Lord Malfoy kept sneering and threatened the school with everything from cleaner’s bills, which Minerva would be glad to meet, to lawsuits, which was ludicrous.
Finally, a temporary solution was reached. Lord Malfoy would borrow a set of clothes from House Master Snape, who was more or less of the same build. Then, once he was dry and dressed, he would return home. His wife would stay to take their son out to dinner, “for we can’t possibly both disappoint Draco. Miss McGonagall will be just have to find me something.”
For that was the other problem – the splash when Longbottom and Malfoy went in had drenched Lady Malfoy from head to toes. The back of her outfit was still more or less dry, but the front of the silk dress clung to her in folds that were … that showed … Much as Minerva disliked the woman, she recognised spectacular tits when she saw them. And those endless legs … Never mind legs. The poor woman had to get dry and indoors as quickly as possible.
“I’ll lend you an outfit of my own, Lady Malfoy,” Minerva hastened to reassure her. “It will fit you well enough; we are much of the same height.” This was not quite true. Even on high heels Narcissa Malfoy was shorter, and she would look rather dowdy in one of Minerva’s dresses. But it couldn’t be helped. Leaving Lord Malfoy in the more than capable hands of Severus Snape, Minerva and Lady Malfoy made their way to Minerva’s private rooms.
16.15 PM, Miss McGonagall’s private rooms
At the pool, in the public eye, Lady Malfoy had been graciousness personified. But Minerva found with grim satisfaction that the notion of wearing a dress that was slightly too long and considerably less elegant made the lovely Countess of Malfoy show her true self. She had turned into a pouting, churlish woman.
It was entertaining for all of two minutes. Too bad one could not reprimand her.
Although what Narcissa Malfoy really deserved wasn’t a reprimand, but a few well-administered smacks with a hair brush. It clearly hadn’t happened often enough during her school days. While secretly thinking of Narcissa bending over a chair for five of the juiciest, Minerva remained impeccably polite and aloof, thus forcing Lady Malfoy to behave herself.
Only, she didn’t. Once inside Minerva’s rooms, Narcissa coolly turned her back on her and ordered, “Unzip me.”
22.30 PM, St Hogarts, Miss McGonagall’s private rooms
Minerva McGonagall wriggled her toes with relish. However comfortable one’s shoes, after Half Term Day there was nothing quite like taking them off and being truly comfortable. With a glass of whisky on the side-table, a small fire in the grate, for the evenings were still chilly, and utter, blessed silence surrounding her.
The day had been a success. The demonstrations had gone smoothly; all students had returned safely; the parents had clearly enjoyed themselves. And as far as anyone knew, the little contretemps with Longbottom and Lord Malfoy had been just that – a brief, unimportant episode.
For Minerva, however …
She curled up in her chair, took a sip from her whisky, and closed her eyes, the better to visualise the moment when Narcissa had coolly turned her back on her and had ordered, “Unzip me.”
And she wasn’t even embarrassed to ask that kind of service of a virtual stranger? But then she had a maid, and was in the habit of undressing in front of another woman. And that dress was amazingly unpractical, with a long zipper that no woman could manage on her own. Minerva had once read a household tip on getting into such dresses for women who lived alone: attach a piece of string to the zip, throw it over your shoulder, and slowly pull up the zipper. But how do you get out again, she had thought and, the best tip of all would be not to buy anything that silly.
Minerva ought to be helpful, since it was one of her students who had caused the accident. What she was, however, was furious. That woman treated her as a servant – intentionally. To wind her up. In which she succeeded admirably.
What was more, the way she had walked in that wet, clinging dress, and the way she stood there, in front of Minerva’s mirror, holding her arms so that the dress stretched over her breasts – why, she was positively preening. Did she show off her body to humiliate Minerva? To make her feel ugly and inferior? There was just a hint of a smile around Narcissa’s lips. Defiant?
Well, there was an answer to that. An answer that would unsettle Her Ladyship, and if it unsettled her to the point of protesting, she, Minerva, could always claim that she had not trained as a lady’s maid and had merely been clumsy.
With slow, lingering movements she undid the long zipper (“I was just careful not to ruin the beautiful dress”), while her nails trailed over Lady Malfoy’s spine. In a meaningful way. And Lady Malfoy couldn’t help curling into the touch, any more than she could help the sudden intake of breath.
Good. That showed who was in charge, then. Of course, Narcissa was spirited enough not to give in at once. She merely let the dress drop at her feet, stepped out of it, and said, “My bra and knickers are soaked, too. I hope yours fit.”
A calculated insult, that. Narcissa had beautiful, generous breasts. Throughout the centuries she could have been a model for painters and sculptors. Minerva’s were considerably smaller. True, some people considered them beautiful, too. Unconventional people, with an eye for unconventional beauty. As Gussie had said once, so very long ago, before she became Gussie Longbottom, “They’re just the right size – plenty of fun, and no nuisance during Lacrosse.” Or, as Amelia still put it, “a lovely handful.”
She stared disdainfully at Narcissa and replied, “We’ll dry them. It won’t take long.”
When she returned from the bathroom – a hair dryer would dry those flimsy bits of lace in minutes – Narcissa still stood where she had left her, facing the mirror. “You’ll have to help me take them off, since I obviously don’t have my maid with me,” the woman said.
Right.
That settled it.
The girl was in for a proper correction. Clearly, her own former Head Girl had been sadly remiss in her duties. Minerva, who had been a Head Girl herself, would have set an Annoying Thing like Narcissa right in no time. During her time as Head Girl she had counselled, spoken firmly to, and on two occasions spanked an Obnoxious Thing. At the time, she and Gussie, her fellow Head Girl and very close friend, had been deeply aware of their responsibilities and had pondered each action for hours, both before and after execution. Had they been right? Had they been just? And above all, had they been acting in the girl’s best interest, not for their own gratification? But at the time even the most ruthless self-scrutiny had not revealed any hidden desires. For ghastly Marigold Abercrombie? For that drip of a Trelawney? Certainly not. Any spanking-for-pleasure had been strictly beween the two of them.
This, however, was different. They were both adults, the Countess of Malfoy and herself. There was no hierarchy. There was simply a woman who asked to be corrected – and another woman who took up the gauntlet.
“That’s quite enough,” she said, in a voice that had already been strong in those far-off Head Girl days, but that had reached full, petrifying perfection with decades of teaching.
“Take off those things.” And, when the other didn’t move at once, “Now.”
And the Countess of Malfoy, the beautiful, the gracious, the much-admired Countess of Malfoy obeyed, and she obeyed with a little sigh, with a tension of abdominal muscles that spoke of eager anticipation.
“You’ve behaved abominably,” Minerva said as Narcissa slipped out of her bras and knickers. “What happened at the pool was an accident. You really should learn to be a good sport, or you won’t have any friends at all. So we’ll have to teach you a lesson – and since this might count, technically, as a girls’ dormitory (for a given definition of ‘girl’), you seem to be in the right place for instruction. Your own Head Girl should have done this a long time ago. Let’s hope it’s not too late.”
With a curt nod she indicated the bed, and Narcissa, blushing prettily, but not protesting, knelt in front of it and bent over. Minerva took up her hairbrush and carefully administered five of the exact degree of juiciness that caused mild pain and a lovely blush on those cheeks. As well as a lovely glow elsewhere – when she was finished, Narcissa did whisper “please”. Minerva hadn’t lost her touch, then – Gussie would be proud to hear it. Or perhaps not, after all that had happened.
Narcissa, however, was everything one could desire in a penitent girl. Quick to obey, eager to spread her legs. Begged for Minerva to touch her, for Minerva’s fingers inside her. In a most becoming manner, too. And when she was allowed to please Minerva, she did so with flattering enthusiasm. And surprising skill.
As the last embers of the fire died in the grate and the now empty glass of whisky sat forgotten on the side table, Minerva visualised every movement, every sound, every single gesture.
She smiled.
Oh yes. It had been a most satisfying Half-Term Day. Most satisfying, indeed.
22.30 PM, Malfoy Manor
Narcissa stared into her mirror as she slowly rubbed cold cream unto her face. Draco had noticed her absent-mindedness – but did it matter? No, of course not. If he thought about it at all, he’d simply attribute it to the events of the day. Lucius’s drop in the pool. His rage. Borrowing a dress from the Headmistress. But he wouldn’t think further about it – that naughty boy had had at least three glasses of wine. She had noticed, of course, but he had been so clever with the pouring she just couldn’t reprimand him.
And after all, what was wrong with a little indulgence, now and then?
She herself, when Miss McGonagall had taken her to her rooms to change, had tried to get the Head Mistress in stern, reprimanding teacher mode. Apolline would have loved the story. But Miss McGonagall had just been boringly polite. And then …
No sternness? But Miss McGonagall was every inch the teacher of Narcissa’s fantasies. Austere, prim, never showing emotion. Unless …
That was it! It wasn’t sternness that made the Head Mistress act the way she did. What was going on, what had to be the cause, was quite simply that Miss McGonagall had the most frightful crush on her.
Of course! It all made sense, once one thought about it. An unlovely, prim girl. Intellectual. Bookish. Not popular among her class mates, Miss McGonagall had concentrated on academic achievement. Had had crushes on teachers, one presumed, but had firmly told herself she admired their beautiful minds. Ha!
University, after that. The same pattern. Whatever satisfaction the poor thing got came from academic achievement. And then she had taken up a post at a boarding school. Not exactly an environment that encouraged a love-life. She had carved out a career. Probably spent her leisure hours reading improving books. Or going on little cultural outings with teacher friends. Museums, certainly. Lectures. Country houses? To gaze at a life-style she could only dream of? To fancy herself Lady of the Manor, while waxing lyrical on the artistic value of furniture and paintings?
And then she had met Narcissa Malfoy, and had fallen like a ton of bricks for all the beauty and elegance she’d never have. And Narcissa had been kind to her – of course she had been kind, she was kind to everyone, which was why she was so universally loved. So the poor thing had looked forward with trembling heart to Half-Term Day, and didn’t know what to do now that she was in the unexpected – and intimate – presence of her goddess.
And naturally, she was as repressed as hell. No sexual experience whatsoever. Or perhaps she had been with a boy once – a fellow student, probably, as unwanted and insecure as she was herself –, and had found it disappointing. All the more reason for focussing on the academic life; it had never occurred to Miss McGonagall that she might actually prefer women. Had never realised what it felt like to enjoy.
What Miss McGonagall needed, craved, wanted with her whole, dried-up spinster’s heart, was a woman who would show her the way. Only, she didn’t realise it at all, poor thing. She just felt horribly embarrassed at her own feelings. Just like that lovely fourth-former who had had such a crush on her, way back when. The girl had been adorably shy in the beginning, and then so very eager to please. Miss McGonagall felt exactly the same. Hence the stern, in-control look. It was a mask.
Narcissa would make her drop it.
It all made perfect sense, now.
So she ordered the woman to unzip her. She had ordered her much more sharply than she ever ordered her maid. But what did a simple schoolmarm know about the way one addressed one’s servants?
Oh, but it was exiting, this little game! Here was a glorious, new scenario to act out with Apolline. Narcissa prepared herself to remember every little detail.
There – Miss McGonagall’s hands touching her, slowly lowering the zipper. So very slowly. With nails trailing down her spine in the most exquisite fashion – just this side of painful. Narcissa couldn’t help curling her back, any more than she could help the sudden intake of breath.
Did this mean that Miss McGonagall felt the same thing she did? Nonsense. The woman had just been careful, so as not to ruin the dress. And she was completely unaware of the effect she had on Narcissa. Miss McGonagall had no idea whatsoever of what this half-caress half-scratch felt like. How could she possibly know?
Narcissa dropped her dress and turned around. Miss McGonagall kept an admirable poker face; she had to give her that. But there had been a moment of surprise, when the teacher’s eyes had looked considerably below Narcissa’s face. Lovely.
“My underwear is soaked, too,” Narcissa said calmly. “It must be dried.”
“That, I think, will not be too difficult.”
Was that a look of disapproval, or was there a glint of arousal? Of meeting a challenge?
“A hair dryer will do the trick in minutes.”
Yes, it was a look of disapproval. What would a schoolmarm wear? Something sensible, of white cotton, one presumed. Not embroidered lace that could, indeed, be dried very quickly, as both Apolline and Narcissa had found out on various occasions.
The poor thing left to fetch a hair dryer, and upon her return Narcissa turned toward her and calmly, slowly, tantalizingly, she removed her bra and stepped out of her knickers, all the while looking her straight in the eyes.
“Now undress yourself,” Narcissa ordered her. My, but that was a lovely blush! As maidenly as one could hope for. “You know you want to,” she added.
And with trembling hands, Miss McGonagall undid the buttons of that perfectly respectable, perfectly boring suit of hers.
Narcissa smiled at her mirrored image. With automatic gestures, she removed the cold cream, applied moisturizer, and turned off the mirror’s lights. Quickly, she made her way to the bed and slipped under the duvet. Too bad there were no hands-above-the-duvet rules in adult life. Rules added that little je ne sais quoi to the experience.
Narcissa closed her eyes and carefully projected images on the darkness. The Head Mistress, lying on the bed. Narcissa’s own voice, saying “spread your legs for me,” and “you like this; you know you do,” and, finally, “do you want more? Do you want it harder? Ask for it!”
And since Miss McGonagall was so very prim and proper, everything was new to her, and there were delightful moans of “What … what are you doing?!? You can’t … you mustn’t … it’s too much … I can’t … oh … oh yes!”
All in all, it had been a delightful Half-Term Day. Narcissa would enjoy those images – well and truly enjoy them – for months to come. And come. And come. (Sometimes –not often, true – but sometimes, Apolline was wrong. The English language had much to recommend itself.)
22.45 PM, St Hogarts, 5th Form Dormitory
The Honourable Draco Malfoy smiled contentedly as he sorted the day’s profits into neat piles. A tenner from his father – a guilt payment for not taking him out to dinner. Another one for sighing how horrible it was to be at the kind of school that admitted such bloody stupid oafs. That line seemed to work a treat. He would use it more often.
And a fiver. That was his mother’s first offering, “to make up for missing Daddy at dinner.” Then he had mentioned how he had wanted to ask Dad for some extra money that he really needed, because … well … he might want to buy something for … The mixture of reluctance and stumbling sentences had worked beautifully. Mum had remembered that her own birthday was only two weeks away. Of course Draco wanted to get her a present, and of course he had planned to ask his father. She had asked whether it was one of his friends’ birthdays – to make him feel he hadn’t given the show away. Draco had played along and netted a tenner.
Then Mum had taken him to a very fancy restaurant. During a trip to the loo, he had noticed the luxury of the men’s room, which suggested similar trappings for the ladies’. Draco had nipped in, and true enough, there were the bottles of scent. He had nicked the fullest one. With a little bit of water and some truly elegant wrapping paper – the one thing he never economised on; one or two sheets of moiré paper went a long way towards delighted acceptance of the cheapest of gifts – he’d be all set for the birthday, at a minimum outlay.
The dinner had been delicious, and Mum had offered him one glass of wine, “to celebrate this lovely dinner together.” And then she had been so distracted that he got his full share of the bottle.
It had been quite odd, really. Mum had barely listened to what he was telling her, had completely missed that ridiculous woman in the red-and-violet hat. Mum, who always noticed what others were wearing and who could be screamingly funny about it. But tonight she had just stared into space, with a kind of little, half-hidden smile.
“You’re not hearing a word I say; what are you thinking of?” he had asked. And she had told him that it was nothing, nothing at all. He wondered what it was, then. Definitely not nothing. ‘Nothing’ didn’t result in another guilt-induced fiver. Would she really be that upset about Dad’s accident? About having to wear Miss McGonagall’s dress? She had made no fuss at all at the pool, and she had been back in no time, changed, dry, and smiling. But after that, the absent-mindedness had started.
Had she had a quarrel with old McG, then? No – in that case she wouldn’t smile. Mum disliked quarrels.
Perhaps they had bonded and made jokes together while Mum was changing. Yeah. As if. His beautiful, sophisticated, elegant mother and stern old McG. That would be the day.
Besides, they hadn’t had time for it. Mum had been gone for ten minutes, max. Just the time to change. No, whatever made her absent-minded, it hadn’t happened then.
Draco gathered the two piles and did his sums. The grand total was … 40 pounds. Not bad. Not bad at all. In fact, the best Half-Term Day ever.
23.00 PM, St Hogarts School
Argus Filch smiled as he thought of the Weasley Twins. That were Half-Term Day for you. A day on which you smiled at them dratted twins. Mr Weasley, an Old Hoggywartian himself, had greeted Argus most enthusiastically. Had commiserated with him on being saddled with that pack of ruffians – said he didn’t know how Mr Filch did it; the kids drove them mad during the holidays and that was only six weeks.
And then he had told his children a story about how he, Arthur Weasley, had taken their mum out for a night walk, and how Mr Pringle, Argus’s predecessor, had caught them. Not a man to trifle with, Mr Pringle, said Mr Weasley. And Fred had said that the same thing were true of Mr Filch. “Can hear us walk through stone walls,” George had added.
It were good to know that Mr Pringle were still remembered. And it were good to know that one day, when Argus Filch had long gone to his maker, there would be stories about him, too. About how Argus Filch could hear you through stone walls and weren’t a man to be trifled with, neither.
Argus nodded to himself. Aye, they would have plenty of stories to tell. But if the walls could speak … aye, if the walls could speak, they could tell different stories. Stories that were a secret between him and St Hogwarts, like.
Stories such as how Mr Filch had stood in the mop cupboard, on the late evening of one Half-Term Day, and had listened to the footsteps and whispers of students on a kitchen raid. Had heard them through stone walls, he had.
And how he had stayed in his cupboard and had given Free Passage to the raiders.
On account of them raiders having Neville Longbottom with them. Who had been man enough to shove Lord Muck into the lake for insulting his Nan. Oh, he had heard Lord Muck all right. Comparing Mrs Longbottom to a char lady. An Old Hogwarts family! It were even worse than Lord Muck staring right through him.
But then there had been the scene at the pool. And things had been as plain as pike-staff. Longbottom, pretending to avoid Creevey, pretending to stumble, and surely, determined-like, shoving Lord M. into the pool.
Argus Filch weren’t to be trifled with, but he were a just man. A man as gives another man his due. Longbottom deserved a Kitchen Raid.
The coast was clear, at last, and Argus Filch slipped out of the mop cupboard and finished his final round of the building.
Half-Term Day was over.
Pairing: Minerva McGonagall/Narcissa Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Author's Notes: Originally written for
dysfuncentine. My delectable prompt contained: 1950s AU, magical or not. Prim schoolmarm and upper-class mother get together in a constellation worthy of a lesbian pulp novel. Throw a taboo-less Quidditch or lacrosse player into the party or Lucius into the swimming pool for added drama. In short: give us the penetrating story of a scandalous affair, told with unblushing honesty!And, as always, a thousand thanks to
kellychambliss, who did her magic as a beta and made the story much more enjoyable.Content Information/Warnings: See prompt. Also: Draco gets a whole scene.
Summary: See prompt.
Disclaimer The plotline (or a large part of it) is Enid Blyton’s. The characters are JK Rowling’s. The perverted mind that wanted to combine these wholesome children’s universes with a lesbian pulp novel is
tetleythesecond’s. Don’t blame the typist. 6.00 AM, St Hogarts School
The man striding through the Great Hall of St Hogarts nodded approvingly. The floor was spotless. The tables were polished. The chairs were aligned just so. He continued his inspection towards the hall. The staircase positively shone with cleanliness. He opened the entrance door. The brass knocker gleamed in the early morning light. With a satisfied grunt, he looked out over the immaculate grounds.
To an observer, the man might look like a General inspecting the barracks, and one who is pleased at what he sees. Unless the observer were at close range, in which case one look at the so-called General’s scruffy clothes would lead to ‘look, Old Filch is giving the place an eye-over for Half-Term Day’.
Argus Filch felt like a General, though. Or rather, like a Captain. A Captain sailing a tight ship for once. Every other day of the year (apart from the blessed holidays) the fight against grime and filthy floors was a desperate one. But on this day of all days, for a few hours of the morning at least, Hogwarts truly looked in apple-pie order.
Hogwarts. Filch grinned as he thought of it. Them as had founded the school might have had lots of book learning – he wouldn’t gainsay it. But they’d had no common sense. Any sensible man, such as Argus Filch himself, could have told ‘em in advance that a school named St Hogarts would turn into Hogwarts before the first year were over. And the Old Hogartians never called themselves anything but Hoggywartians.
Today, Filch would see quite a few of his Old Hoggywartians. He liked that. He were hoggy and warty enough himself to appreciate the moniker, and it were flattering to be sought out by so many Old Boys and Girls. Proper respectful they was, too. More than made up for the snootiness of some of them New Money parents. And to make up for Lord Malfoy. He weren’t no new money, though, Lord Malfoy. Just bloody rude. Them New Money snobs would sometimes look the other way to avoid talking to the caretaker. But that Lord Malfoy – he looked straight through a man. So straight through him, that Argus Filch sometimes wanted to look in the mirror afterwards, just to check that he weren’t invisible.
But never mind Lord Muck and his snooty wife. Today was Half-Term Day, and Argus Filch meant to enjoy himself.
7.00 AM, St Hogarts, Miss McGonagall’s private rooms
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of St Hogarts, looked critically at the clothes she had laid out. The tailored suit had proven a most satisfactory purchase. Sober and well-cut, it discreetly underlined her authority. And the heels on her court shoes were low enough to see her through the hours and hours of standing and walking. Anyone who would see Deputy Headmistress McGonagall that day would know her for what she was: successful, respected, and respectable.
If people gave any thought to her private life, they would imagine something equally respectable – but they wouldn’t call it successful. Women who were a success in their chosen career achieved this success precisely because they were a failure elsewhere. They were spinsters who had found a ‘wonderful compensation’ in their work. The most they could hope for elsewhere was the company of a spinster friend, with whom they could go to plays, concerts, or museums. Perhaps even on little trips abroad during their holidays.
Minerva smiled. They weren’t completely wrong. She had exactly such a spinster friend, a respectable and fairly highly-placed civil servant. They did, indeed, go to plays and exhibitions; on such occasions, Minerva conveniently stayed at her friend’s place for the night. It was on that aspect of their relationship that most people’s imagination was sadly lacking. They had no idea of the things two middle-aged spinsters could get up to after a pleasant cultural outing: in Amelia’s flat or in holiday cottages, occasionally even in secluded spots where a picnic blanket would be spread out after an invigorating country walk.
Miss McGonagall had a private life, and one she considered most satisfying.
It was a life in which she didn’t need to be the prim and proper Deputy Headmistress, perfectly in command at all times. With Amelia, she could give up control; let herself be pushed down on a soft mattress while Amelia told her what she planned to do. And then she would be as good as her word. And sometimes there would be the teasing, maddening, “I’ll make you come if you ask me nicely enough.” Occasionally it would be, “if you ask me precisely enough,” or “if you ask me boldly enough”. Bold had come easily to Minerva, but after the first request for precise instructions she had purchased a medical dictionary and done some proper research. After all, if one wanted one’s partner’s digitus secundus and digitus medium to rub one’s Gräfenberg Spot, one should say so.
But those were pleasures for another day. Today she would enjoy meeting the parents. Well, most of them. There were always the difficult cases. The “my child is highly-strung and of a delicate disposition” ones, who had to learn that their sturdy, complacent children would not melt in the rain. And the parents of “a truly exceptional, once-in-a-generation talent” who had to be guided towards acceptance of a perfectly pleasant, but also perfectly average child. And last but not least the snobbish ones, who would have preferred a major public school for their offspring.
Lord and Lady Malfoy, for instance. Lord Malfoy had made his dislike of St Hogarts perfectly clear. Lady Malfoy had been more diplomatic in her criticisms, but she, too, felt that their Draco wasn’t associating with ‘the right sort of children’. True. Most of her students were far too good for the little chip-of-the-old-block.
Lady Malfoy, despite her gracious ways, was all that Minerva found most annoying. She might have the exquisite perfection of a bone-china figurine; in Minerva’s eyes she was as useless as a china figurine, too. A woman who derived her raison d’être from being The Wife Of and The Mother Of. True, Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, was a peeress ‘in her own right’, as the expression went. But that merely meant she was also The Daughter Of.
To make matters worse, Narcissa Malfoy was the wife of and the mother of two of the most unlikeable people Minerva had ever met. Lucius Malfoy had been downright insolent in his assessment of St Hogarts and had pointed out in great detail that his son and heir would have gone to his own Old School, had it not been for the damn lefty government and their ludicrous ideas on death duties. Which left him, him, Lucius, fourteenth Earl of Malfoy, with a choice between selling part of his land and sending his heir to a minor public school. “And, of course, I’ve no intention of diminishing my son’s legacy for a school. His time here is of no importance. His stewardship of the land is.”
When Malfoy made that particularly charming statement, however, Minerva had noticed a look on Narcissa’s face that she had found interesting – it had reminded her of something. At the time, she hadn’t been able to place it, but that evening, as she had relaxed in her own rooms, a glass of Single Malt to hand, she had remembered. A few weeks before, she and Amelia had been to a play. The acting had been brilliant on the part of the actress, but her leading man had fluffed his lines once or twice. And Minerva had seen the same fleeting look of deep annoyance on the actress’s face. Annoyance at her lead’s unprofessionalism that threatened to ruin a fine performance.
Was Narcissa, then, acting the part of the Countess? If anything, the idea of a performance irritated Minerva even more. If a woman truly believed that producing a heir, opening village fêtes, attending Ascot, and taking part in the Season were worthwhile and meaningful ways to spend a life she might be misguided, but at least she was sincere.
But Narcissa, Countess of Malfoy simply seemed to consider life as an entertaining play. Servants, villagers, even the staff and parents on Half Term Day were both the walk-ons and the audience, whose sole purpose was to both support Narcissa’s performance and admire her for it. And everyone usually did just that.
Minerva most assuredly wasn’t interested in a life as empty as Narcissa’s, and she honestly didn’t think she craved that kind of admiration – it was verging on idolatry. She was just annoyed at a world that adored its Narcissas and dismissed its Minervas and Amelias as ‘worthy and admirable’ in their presence, and as ‘prim and proper’ behind their backs.
Still, annoying as Lady Malfoy would be, Half-Term Day would have enough pleasant moments. Minerva glanced at her bedside clock. Seven thirty already. Quickly, she finished dressing and fastened her hair in the customary tight bun.
Deputy Headmistress McGonagall was ready to face the day.
9.30 AM, Malfoy Manor
The Countess of Malfoy looked into the theatre mirror in her bedroom. Narcissa Black’s face, as yet a blank canvas, looked back, framed by light bulbs. She loved these moments of quiet thought. A bit of alone-time to prepare for the day ahead and the part she’d have to play.
Lucius had frowned at the mirror, of course. Too large, too theatrical. “A boudoir should be elegant,” Lucius had drawled when the mirror was brought in. “Please don’t tell me you go in for quirky. It’s invariably a failure. The ‘I long for the simple life in a cottage’ style looks ludicrous in a decently-sized room. The ‘I should have been a painter; look at the easel and all the artses décor’ makes one stubs one’s toes on the bloody statues. And audacious colour schemes make me bilious. Please don’t become the inventor of the ‘West End Dressing Room’ quirk.”
“I like perfection,” Narcissa had answered, while making a mental note of her husband’s in-depth knowledge of boudoir styles. “For perfectly-applied make-up, one needs proper light. Just look at your hostess’s face tonight and you’ll see that I’m right.” Mrs Scrimgeour’s ruling passion was gardening, but whenever her husband’s position forced her to give a dinner she would dutifully don an evening gown and slap up some eye shadow. Unfortunately, the mauve and purple schemes that worked so well in her perennial borders were less successful on a fifty-something face with ruddy cheeks. And her habit of thinking in groups of colour didn’t help, either.
Lucius had grinned. “All right, my little perfectionist. Have your proper light,” he had said, and the mirror had stayed, the one theatrical element in an otherwise exquisite bedroom. It had been another well-delivered scene in Narcissa, my elegant and amusing wife.
For Narcissa Black was, indeed, an actress, and an excellent one, too. One who knew how to select her parts – which was why she had never seriously considered the stage as a profession. She would have loved the actual work, but not the touring with repertory companies. Nor the inevitable spells of “resting”. And why settle for a cardboard set when one could play out one’s life surrounded by the real thing?
It was at school that she had first discovered her love of acting. Each year the students performed a pantomime, and she had auditioned when she was in the second form. She had been given the part of a saucy lady’s maid and had adored every minute of it. The delights of being someone completely different! For the life of her she couldn’t understand why so many girls craved the main part. Those heroines were all so boringly identical: lovely, admired, and virtuous. Of course, for some of those girls it was as close as they’d ever get to being admired. Narcissa, who was considered the loveliest girl in the school, who was, in fact, the loveliest girl wherever she went, wanted to be different. There was no point in playing Cinderella or the Sleeping Beauty – wicked witch, ugly sister, nasty step-mother: those were the parts she craved. As an added bonus everyone thought it awfully decent of her to volunteer for the ugly roles. Narcissa, a Jolly Good Sport had run successfully for five years.
It was one of the two things that had made boarding school such a very satisfying experience, crushes being the other one. The agonizing delight of the unobtainable at first – the English teacher, that goddess with her beautiful voice; the French Mam’zelle with her enchanting accent. Then the painful pleasure of the almost-possible: after all, the Head Girl might suddenly take an interest in a beautiful Third Former. And finally, the discovery that crushes on women were not something you had till Mr Right (or, in Narcissa’s case, the Earl of Right) came along, but something you enjoyed until another girl showed you the very real joys of some hidden places, both on the school grounds and on your body.
It had made her think long and hard about possible parts for women-loving women. There was the academic option, of course. Once Narcissa’s eyes had been opened, she noticed the way Matron and Mam’zelle looked at each other. It would be fun, thrilling, to have such a hidden relationship. It would be delightful to find a Matron of her own. At night, in the dorm, whilst firmly ignoring the hands-above-the-duvets rule, Narcissa had indulged in a lovely fantasy or two on a Matron and the things that could be done in a Sick Ward, with Matron in her beautifully-starched uniform and Narcissa half-naked on a bed, while firm, capable fingers ran all over her body, and then inside her body, too, for a very, very thorough examination.
But in reality, that life would also mean an academic study, and worse, years and years of teaching giggling schoolgirls. Narcissa had quickly decided against a long run of Teachers’ Delight.
Then there were the two stalwarts of various village committees at home: Miss Pince, who ran the village library, and Miss Grubbly-Plank, who spent most of her leisure hours looking after her chickens and volunteering in animal sanctuaries. They shared a cottage, to have a bit of company and to minimize costs, as the village would have it. With her new-found knowledge Narcissa had looked at them more sharply, and she had had her suspicions. When Miss Pince happily announced that a dear friend would spend a fortnight with them, she had known for sure. A two-bedroom cottage with a spare room?
The idea of a quaint cottage with hollyhocks, roses, lavender, and a cat – there simply had to be a cat – of fooling the villagers by looking so very respectable by day whilst having passionate sex by night, was a charming one. But Miss Pince and Miss Grubbly-Plank couldn’t afford a maid and had to do all the heavy work themselves. And just look what that had done to Miss Pince’s hands – they were like vulture claws. When Narcissa realised that the frumpy clothes, too, were a financial necessity rather than a choice – although Miss Grubbly-Plank did seem to like her corduroy trousers and flannel shirts – her mind was made up. Love in a Cottage might be charming for one season, but not for a lifetime.
Boarding school had been followed, inevitably, by finishing school in Paris. Everyone who was truly anyone went to that most exclusive of establishments: Institut Maxime. And finished Narcissa had been, with the enthusiastic help of Apolline Verdoux. It was Apolline who had pointed her in the right direction. “One must have a rich husband, of course, if one wants the beautiful things in life,” she had said, matter-of-factly. “But after that, Chérie, what you must do is find yourself a woman friend. In your own circles, of course. It is perfectly normal for women to have a very, very close friend, is it not? Really, we are the lucky ones – we do not even have to wait until we have given our husbands a male heir – we can take a lover whenever we want. And wherever we want – a man and a woman absent together, it is noticeable. But two women absent – ah, one had a malheur with her dress, and the other helped her.”
And that very evening, when their class dutifully attended a play by Racine in the Comédie Française, Apolline had winked at her during the interval, and after a beautifully-delivered “Ah, zut! How terrible! Madame Maxime, I have a problem with my … with my …” fluttery hands pointing at the fullest of New Look skirts in the general direction of a garter belt, an embarrassed look, and Apolline had permission to go to the ladies’ room, with Narcissa to help her fix the problem.
Narcissa smiled as she remembered the scene. Two sets of petticoats in one cubicle – how had they managed? But Apolline had pushed her against a wall, had put her finger to her lips (as if Narcissa would have been so stupid as to make a sound!) and she had lifted Narcissa’s skirt and gestured that she, Narcissa, should hold it up. Then she had taken Narcissa’s other hand, and used it to push aside her knickers. She had smiled the most tantalizing, wicked smile, and she had slowly licked and sucked two fingers of her own hand, while Narcissa stood there, waiting, watching, agonizing. Finally Apolline had touched her, the smile widening into a grin when she had felt Narcissa’s wetness, and she had slipped those longed-for fingers inside her, pushing and scissoring. And, thank heavens, she had kissed Narcissa on the mouth when she came, or there would have been noise after all.
“See?” Apolline had said, when they returned to their seats, every inch the demure young ladies they were supposed to be. “See? We can make each other enjoy whenever we want to!” Narcissa had corrected her, as Apolline had begged her to do whenever she used a wrong expression, but “make you come? One makes the servants come by ringing the bell. Never will I use a word so cold! It is jouir, enjoy, you must call it that,” Apolline had insisted.
After finishing school, Apolline married the Baron Delacour, with Narcissa as her bridesmaid. Then Narcissa herself received an offer of Lord Malfoy – the catch of the season. Apolline stood godmother to Narcissa’s son. The husbands hunted together in Sologne and shot grouse in Scotland, knowing that their dear wives didn’t mind those long shooting trips in the least. “You two just go ahead and have fun. Apolline and I have so much to talk about – we’ll enjoy ourselves, too, ” Narcissa would say, and, at the word ‘enjoy’, Apolline would run a dainty pink tongue along her full lower lip – razor-fast, nearly invisible, but it was enough to send a jolt of anticipation through Narcissa’s body.
“Look at the Baronne Delacour and Lady Malfoy,” said mothers to tearful, homesick daughters reluctant to go to Olympe Maxime’s select establishment. “Look what wonderful friends you can make there.”
And they were right, thought Narcissa, slowly dragging her thoughts back to the day ahead. She daily blessed the stars, the goddess of love, or whoever had been responsible for putting Apolline on her path. Who would have thought one could truly have it all? A title, a beautiful house, an enchanting son. And at the same time, hidden for all, she had a lover who was as passionate as she was herself.
And who was as fond of role-play.
Narcissa felt a sliver of excitement run through her body as she thought of the various scenarios they had acted out over the years. A favourite one was where a stern schoolmistress found fault with Narcissa, and disciplined her in her study. Apolline’s exquisite stern voice alone was enough to arouse her.
But today’s enjoyment would not involve that kind of acting. She would have to find pleasure in being the perfectly gracious Countess of Malfoy, who took such an interest in her son’s school. She would be charming to other parents and teachers. And, of course, to Miss McGonagall, who was such a prim and proper schoolmarm that Narcissa had been reminded more than once of Apolline’s interpretation of the part.
Wouldn’t that be delicious – to be punished by wonderfully-stern Miss McGonagall?
But now was not the time to indulge in fantasies. Narcissa reached for the array of make-up on her dressing table. With deft, expert gestures she started to put on the Countess’s face.
13.00 PM, St Hogarts Grounds
“Ye gods, look at that,” drawled the Earl of Malfoy, nodding in the direction of an elderly lady in a rather shabby bottle-green raincoat who walked up the drive. “This hardly seems the day to see applicants for the post of cleaner? Draco, don’t tell me you’re supposed to consort with the likes of …”
Before his son could answer, however, a voice shouted “Gran!” and a boy in the St Hogarts uniform ran towards her. For one moment, it seemed as if he lessened his speed. Had he overheard Lord Malfoy’s remark? But then re ran on and embraced the old lady, nearly knocking her hat off in the process.
“Oh, Neville,” they heard her say. “Don’t be clumsy – it’s my best hat.” The boy grinned apologetically, offered her his arm, and together they made their way towards the swimming pool.
“Her best hat?” exclaimed Lady Malfoy. “She voluntarily wears – she takes pride in wearing a hat decorated with a vulture? At least, one presumes it’s a vulture. Surely Nature couldn’t be so unkind to two kinds of birds?”
Draco grinned. “That’s Neville Longbottom and his grandmother,” he explained. “Thank heavens he’s in Gryffindor house. Stupid oaf. His gran always wears that hat to Half-Term Day. And Vulture Hat sums it up – Mum, you’re priceless!”
“Your mother is most certainly a luxury few can afford,” smiled his father. “Now, you wanted to show us the new science lab?”
“Yes, it’s great! And the teacher isn’t bad either – he lets us experiment with chemicals! Longbottom nearly burnt a hole in the table, of course, but Mr Snape says I’m really quite good at it …” Chatting excitedly, Draco led his parents in the direction of the lab.
16.00 PM, at the swimming pool
“… so our four Founders would be proud to see all these happy, healthy boys and girls together. And now you’ll agree that I’ve kept you from important matters for quite long enough. There’s a tea waiting for you in the Great Hall – and from what I’ve heard it’s smashing.”
A thunderous applause mixed with laughter followed Headmaster Dumbledore’s words. Minerva applauded and smiled, too, thinking how cleverly Albus contrived to get such enthusiasm. A short, dignified, highly traditional speech on the four Founders of St Hogarts, their innovative ideas on co-education, and the virtues they wanted to instil in their students. And then a joke and the promise of food. It was always a roaring success.
The first parents and students started to make their way towards the main building. Voices mingled. “That was a very good dive, Fred,” said Mrs Weasley as she and her family passed Minerva. “Mum, that was me, not Fred,” replied one of the Weasley Twins; George, one presumed. No, not George. Minerva looked more sharply. It was Fred all right, teasing his mother as usual. Yes, there was the familiar “truly, do you call yourself our mother?”
And then all sorts of things happened at the same time. It couldn’t have taken more than seconds, but to Minerva it seemed as if she saw it all in slow-motion.
The members of the relay-teams that had made up the final demonstration made their way to the dressing rooms.
Creevey Major ran towards Potter, camera in hand, yelling something about a great pic he had taken of Potter’s finish.
At the same time, Longbottom rushed towards the team as well, from an opposite direction.
He swerved to avoid Creevey, although Minerva could have sworn there was no danger of collision. Then he seemed to stumble – but on what, for heaven’s sake? He tried to regain his balance and grasped the nearest support. And the nearest support was the back of Lord Malfoy, who was propelled towards the edge of the pool by the impact.
For one moment it seemed as if both Longbottom and His Lordship were suspended in mid-air.
And then there was an almighty splash as two bodies hit the water.
Pandemonium broke out.
The students screamed first, and then they cheered and howled with laughter. The parents struck various poses of shock and dismay, and then joined their offspring in their mirth.
Longbottom’s redoubtable grandmother looked … did Minerva see that correctly? Was there a look of mingled pride and smugness on Augusta’s face? She would have expected the woman to yell at her unfortunate grandchild. True, Minerva had sent her a strongly-worded letter after that business over Longbottom’s O-levels, but had she made that much of an impression on stubborn, self-assured Gussie Longbottom? Amazing.
There were, however, more pressing problems to sort out. Longbottom had made for the farthest ladder and heaved himself out of the water. Lord Malfoy had, understandably, chosen the nearest ladder. He, too, slowly emerged. It was amazing how a dip in the pool could utterly ruin all that Savile Row perfection. The dratted man – no, the poor man; he was, after all, the victim here – looked exactly like Mrs Norris, the school cat, that time when a student had thrown a bucket of water all over her. Bedraggled, scruffy, even the look of outrage was rather similar, Minerva noted with some amusement.
As Lord Malfoy looked towards his young assailant, his face turned from outraged to an expression of such malevolence that a hush fell over the spectators. Minerva hurried towards the scene.
In the sudden silence, only one voice was audible. “… positively drawn towards the water, did you see that? There must be a strong magnetic field in or near that swimming pool. And you know what that means, don’t you, Luna?”
“Aliens! cried an eager voice. Luna Lovegood looked up at her father. “Do you think I might see UFO’s here? Do you really think so, Dad?”
“It’s quite likely. You’re a lucky girl, Luna, a very lucky girl.”
While the Lovegoods rejoiced in their good fortune, Minerva reached the pool. Lord Malfoy looked murderous.
“Longbottom, go to Matron at once. You need to dry and change, or you’ll catch a cold,” she ordered. Longbottom took one look at the incandescent peer, murmured, “Yes, Miss,” and ran off as hard as he could pelt.
The next ten minutes were spent on apologies, sincere at first but with increasing strength on the ‘this was an accident part as Lord Malfoy kept sneering and threatened the school with everything from cleaner’s bills, which Minerva would be glad to meet, to lawsuits, which was ludicrous.
Finally, a temporary solution was reached. Lord Malfoy would borrow a set of clothes from House Master Snape, who was more or less of the same build. Then, once he was dry and dressed, he would return home. His wife would stay to take their son out to dinner, “for we can’t possibly both disappoint Draco. Miss McGonagall will be just have to find me something.”
For that was the other problem – the splash when Longbottom and Malfoy went in had drenched Lady Malfoy from head to toes. The back of her outfit was still more or less dry, but the front of the silk dress clung to her in folds that were … that showed … Much as Minerva disliked the woman, she recognised spectacular tits when she saw them. And those endless legs … Never mind legs. The poor woman had to get dry and indoors as quickly as possible.
“I’ll lend you an outfit of my own, Lady Malfoy,” Minerva hastened to reassure her. “It will fit you well enough; we are much of the same height.” This was not quite true. Even on high heels Narcissa Malfoy was shorter, and she would look rather dowdy in one of Minerva’s dresses. But it couldn’t be helped. Leaving Lord Malfoy in the more than capable hands of Severus Snape, Minerva and Lady Malfoy made their way to Minerva’s private rooms.
16.15 PM, Miss McGonagall’s private rooms
At the pool, in the public eye, Lady Malfoy had been graciousness personified. But Minerva found with grim satisfaction that the notion of wearing a dress that was slightly too long and considerably less elegant made the lovely Countess of Malfoy show her true self. She had turned into a pouting, churlish woman.
It was entertaining for all of two minutes. Too bad one could not reprimand her.
Although what Narcissa Malfoy really deserved wasn’t a reprimand, but a few well-administered smacks with a hair brush. It clearly hadn’t happened often enough during her school days. While secretly thinking of Narcissa bending over a chair for five of the juiciest, Minerva remained impeccably polite and aloof, thus forcing Lady Malfoy to behave herself.
Only, she didn’t. Once inside Minerva’s rooms, Narcissa coolly turned her back on her and ordered, “Unzip me.”
22.30 PM, St Hogarts, Miss McGonagall’s private rooms
Minerva McGonagall wriggled her toes with relish. However comfortable one’s shoes, after Half Term Day there was nothing quite like taking them off and being truly comfortable. With a glass of whisky on the side-table, a small fire in the grate, for the evenings were still chilly, and utter, blessed silence surrounding her.
The day had been a success. The demonstrations had gone smoothly; all students had returned safely; the parents had clearly enjoyed themselves. And as far as anyone knew, the little contretemps with Longbottom and Lord Malfoy had been just that – a brief, unimportant episode.
For Minerva, however …
She curled up in her chair, took a sip from her whisky, and closed her eyes, the better to visualise the moment when Narcissa had coolly turned her back on her and had ordered, “Unzip me.”
And she wasn’t even embarrassed to ask that kind of service of a virtual stranger? But then she had a maid, and was in the habit of undressing in front of another woman. And that dress was amazingly unpractical, with a long zipper that no woman could manage on her own. Minerva had once read a household tip on getting into such dresses for women who lived alone: attach a piece of string to the zip, throw it over your shoulder, and slowly pull up the zipper. But how do you get out again, she had thought and, the best tip of all would be not to buy anything that silly.
Minerva ought to be helpful, since it was one of her students who had caused the accident. What she was, however, was furious. That woman treated her as a servant – intentionally. To wind her up. In which she succeeded admirably.
What was more, the way she had walked in that wet, clinging dress, and the way she stood there, in front of Minerva’s mirror, holding her arms so that the dress stretched over her breasts – why, she was positively preening. Did she show off her body to humiliate Minerva? To make her feel ugly and inferior? There was just a hint of a smile around Narcissa’s lips. Defiant?
Well, there was an answer to that. An answer that would unsettle Her Ladyship, and if it unsettled her to the point of protesting, she, Minerva, could always claim that she had not trained as a lady’s maid and had merely been clumsy.
With slow, lingering movements she undid the long zipper (“I was just careful not to ruin the beautiful dress”), while her nails trailed over Lady Malfoy’s spine. In a meaningful way. And Lady Malfoy couldn’t help curling into the touch, any more than she could help the sudden intake of breath.
Good. That showed who was in charge, then. Of course, Narcissa was spirited enough not to give in at once. She merely let the dress drop at her feet, stepped out of it, and said, “My bra and knickers are soaked, too. I hope yours fit.”
A calculated insult, that. Narcissa had beautiful, generous breasts. Throughout the centuries she could have been a model for painters and sculptors. Minerva’s were considerably smaller. True, some people considered them beautiful, too. Unconventional people, with an eye for unconventional beauty. As Gussie had said once, so very long ago, before she became Gussie Longbottom, “They’re just the right size – plenty of fun, and no nuisance during Lacrosse.” Or, as Amelia still put it, “a lovely handful.”
She stared disdainfully at Narcissa and replied, “We’ll dry them. It won’t take long.”
When she returned from the bathroom – a hair dryer would dry those flimsy bits of lace in minutes – Narcissa still stood where she had left her, facing the mirror. “You’ll have to help me take them off, since I obviously don’t have my maid with me,” the woman said.
Right.
That settled it.
The girl was in for a proper correction. Clearly, her own former Head Girl had been sadly remiss in her duties. Minerva, who had been a Head Girl herself, would have set an Annoying Thing like Narcissa right in no time. During her time as Head Girl she had counselled, spoken firmly to, and on two occasions spanked an Obnoxious Thing. At the time, she and Gussie, her fellow Head Girl and very close friend, had been deeply aware of their responsibilities and had pondered each action for hours, both before and after execution. Had they been right? Had they been just? And above all, had they been acting in the girl’s best interest, not for their own gratification? But at the time even the most ruthless self-scrutiny had not revealed any hidden desires. For ghastly Marigold Abercrombie? For that drip of a Trelawney? Certainly not. Any spanking-for-pleasure had been strictly beween the two of them.
This, however, was different. They were both adults, the Countess of Malfoy and herself. There was no hierarchy. There was simply a woman who asked to be corrected – and another woman who took up the gauntlet.
“That’s quite enough,” she said, in a voice that had already been strong in those far-off Head Girl days, but that had reached full, petrifying perfection with decades of teaching.
“Take off those things.” And, when the other didn’t move at once, “Now.”
And the Countess of Malfoy, the beautiful, the gracious, the much-admired Countess of Malfoy obeyed, and she obeyed with a little sigh, with a tension of abdominal muscles that spoke of eager anticipation.
“You’ve behaved abominably,” Minerva said as Narcissa slipped out of her bras and knickers. “What happened at the pool was an accident. You really should learn to be a good sport, or you won’t have any friends at all. So we’ll have to teach you a lesson – and since this might count, technically, as a girls’ dormitory (for a given definition of ‘girl’), you seem to be in the right place for instruction. Your own Head Girl should have done this a long time ago. Let’s hope it’s not too late.”
With a curt nod she indicated the bed, and Narcissa, blushing prettily, but not protesting, knelt in front of it and bent over. Minerva took up her hairbrush and carefully administered five of the exact degree of juiciness that caused mild pain and a lovely blush on those cheeks. As well as a lovely glow elsewhere – when she was finished, Narcissa did whisper “please”. Minerva hadn’t lost her touch, then – Gussie would be proud to hear it. Or perhaps not, after all that had happened.
Narcissa, however, was everything one could desire in a penitent girl. Quick to obey, eager to spread her legs. Begged for Minerva to touch her, for Minerva’s fingers inside her. In a most becoming manner, too. And when she was allowed to please Minerva, she did so with flattering enthusiasm. And surprising skill.
As the last embers of the fire died in the grate and the now empty glass of whisky sat forgotten on the side table, Minerva visualised every movement, every sound, every single gesture.
She smiled.
Oh yes. It had been a most satisfying Half-Term Day. Most satisfying, indeed.
22.30 PM, Malfoy Manor
Narcissa stared into her mirror as she slowly rubbed cold cream unto her face. Draco had noticed her absent-mindedness – but did it matter? No, of course not. If he thought about it at all, he’d simply attribute it to the events of the day. Lucius’s drop in the pool. His rage. Borrowing a dress from the Headmistress. But he wouldn’t think further about it – that naughty boy had had at least three glasses of wine. She had noticed, of course, but he had been so clever with the pouring she just couldn’t reprimand him.
And after all, what was wrong with a little indulgence, now and then?
She herself, when Miss McGonagall had taken her to her rooms to change, had tried to get the Head Mistress in stern, reprimanding teacher mode. Apolline would have loved the story. But Miss McGonagall had just been boringly polite. And then …
No sternness? But Miss McGonagall was every inch the teacher of Narcissa’s fantasies. Austere, prim, never showing emotion. Unless …
That was it! It wasn’t sternness that made the Head Mistress act the way she did. What was going on, what had to be the cause, was quite simply that Miss McGonagall had the most frightful crush on her.
Of course! It all made sense, once one thought about it. An unlovely, prim girl. Intellectual. Bookish. Not popular among her class mates, Miss McGonagall had concentrated on academic achievement. Had had crushes on teachers, one presumed, but had firmly told herself she admired their beautiful minds. Ha!
University, after that. The same pattern. Whatever satisfaction the poor thing got came from academic achievement. And then she had taken up a post at a boarding school. Not exactly an environment that encouraged a love-life. She had carved out a career. Probably spent her leisure hours reading improving books. Or going on little cultural outings with teacher friends. Museums, certainly. Lectures. Country houses? To gaze at a life-style she could only dream of? To fancy herself Lady of the Manor, while waxing lyrical on the artistic value of furniture and paintings?
And then she had met Narcissa Malfoy, and had fallen like a ton of bricks for all the beauty and elegance she’d never have. And Narcissa had been kind to her – of course she had been kind, she was kind to everyone, which was why she was so universally loved. So the poor thing had looked forward with trembling heart to Half-Term Day, and didn’t know what to do now that she was in the unexpected – and intimate – presence of her goddess.
And naturally, she was as repressed as hell. No sexual experience whatsoever. Or perhaps she had been with a boy once – a fellow student, probably, as unwanted and insecure as she was herself –, and had found it disappointing. All the more reason for focussing on the academic life; it had never occurred to Miss McGonagall that she might actually prefer women. Had never realised what it felt like to enjoy.
What Miss McGonagall needed, craved, wanted with her whole, dried-up spinster’s heart, was a woman who would show her the way. Only, she didn’t realise it at all, poor thing. She just felt horribly embarrassed at her own feelings. Just like that lovely fourth-former who had had such a crush on her, way back when. The girl had been adorably shy in the beginning, and then so very eager to please. Miss McGonagall felt exactly the same. Hence the stern, in-control look. It was a mask.
Narcissa would make her drop it.
It all made perfect sense, now.
So she ordered the woman to unzip her. She had ordered her much more sharply than she ever ordered her maid. But what did a simple schoolmarm know about the way one addressed one’s servants?
Oh, but it was exiting, this little game! Here was a glorious, new scenario to act out with Apolline. Narcissa prepared herself to remember every little detail.
There – Miss McGonagall’s hands touching her, slowly lowering the zipper. So very slowly. With nails trailing down her spine in the most exquisite fashion – just this side of painful. Narcissa couldn’t help curling her back, any more than she could help the sudden intake of breath.
Did this mean that Miss McGonagall felt the same thing she did? Nonsense. The woman had just been careful, so as not to ruin the dress. And she was completely unaware of the effect she had on Narcissa. Miss McGonagall had no idea whatsoever of what this half-caress half-scratch felt like. How could she possibly know?
Narcissa dropped her dress and turned around. Miss McGonagall kept an admirable poker face; she had to give her that. But there had been a moment of surprise, when the teacher’s eyes had looked considerably below Narcissa’s face. Lovely.
“My underwear is soaked, too,” Narcissa said calmly. “It must be dried.”
“That, I think, will not be too difficult.”
Was that a look of disapproval, or was there a glint of arousal? Of meeting a challenge?
“A hair dryer will do the trick in minutes.”
Yes, it was a look of disapproval. What would a schoolmarm wear? Something sensible, of white cotton, one presumed. Not embroidered lace that could, indeed, be dried very quickly, as both Apolline and Narcissa had found out on various occasions.
The poor thing left to fetch a hair dryer, and upon her return Narcissa turned toward her and calmly, slowly, tantalizingly, she removed her bra and stepped out of her knickers, all the while looking her straight in the eyes.
“Now undress yourself,” Narcissa ordered her. My, but that was a lovely blush! As maidenly as one could hope for. “You know you want to,” she added.
And with trembling hands, Miss McGonagall undid the buttons of that perfectly respectable, perfectly boring suit of hers.
Narcissa smiled at her mirrored image. With automatic gestures, she removed the cold cream, applied moisturizer, and turned off the mirror’s lights. Quickly, she made her way to the bed and slipped under the duvet. Too bad there were no hands-above-the-duvet rules in adult life. Rules added that little je ne sais quoi to the experience.
Narcissa closed her eyes and carefully projected images on the darkness. The Head Mistress, lying on the bed. Narcissa’s own voice, saying “spread your legs for me,” and “you like this; you know you do,” and, finally, “do you want more? Do you want it harder? Ask for it!”
And since Miss McGonagall was so very prim and proper, everything was new to her, and there were delightful moans of “What … what are you doing?!? You can’t … you mustn’t … it’s too much … I can’t … oh … oh yes!”
All in all, it had been a delightful Half-Term Day. Narcissa would enjoy those images – well and truly enjoy them – for months to come. And come. And come. (Sometimes –not often, true – but sometimes, Apolline was wrong. The English language had much to recommend itself.)
22.45 PM, St Hogarts, 5th Form Dormitory
The Honourable Draco Malfoy smiled contentedly as he sorted the day’s profits into neat piles. A tenner from his father – a guilt payment for not taking him out to dinner. Another one for sighing how horrible it was to be at the kind of school that admitted such bloody stupid oafs. That line seemed to work a treat. He would use it more often.
And a fiver. That was his mother’s first offering, “to make up for missing Daddy at dinner.” Then he had mentioned how he had wanted to ask Dad for some extra money that he really needed, because … well … he might want to buy something for … The mixture of reluctance and stumbling sentences had worked beautifully. Mum had remembered that her own birthday was only two weeks away. Of course Draco wanted to get her a present, and of course he had planned to ask his father. She had asked whether it was one of his friends’ birthdays – to make him feel he hadn’t given the show away. Draco had played along and netted a tenner.
Then Mum had taken him to a very fancy restaurant. During a trip to the loo, he had noticed the luxury of the men’s room, which suggested similar trappings for the ladies’. Draco had nipped in, and true enough, there were the bottles of scent. He had nicked the fullest one. With a little bit of water and some truly elegant wrapping paper – the one thing he never economised on; one or two sheets of moiré paper went a long way towards delighted acceptance of the cheapest of gifts – he’d be all set for the birthday, at a minimum outlay.
The dinner had been delicious, and Mum had offered him one glass of wine, “to celebrate this lovely dinner together.” And then she had been so distracted that he got his full share of the bottle.
It had been quite odd, really. Mum had barely listened to what he was telling her, had completely missed that ridiculous woman in the red-and-violet hat. Mum, who always noticed what others were wearing and who could be screamingly funny about it. But tonight she had just stared into space, with a kind of little, half-hidden smile.
“You’re not hearing a word I say; what are you thinking of?” he had asked. And she had told him that it was nothing, nothing at all. He wondered what it was, then. Definitely not nothing. ‘Nothing’ didn’t result in another guilt-induced fiver. Would she really be that upset about Dad’s accident? About having to wear Miss McGonagall’s dress? She had made no fuss at all at the pool, and she had been back in no time, changed, dry, and smiling. But after that, the absent-mindedness had started.
Had she had a quarrel with old McG, then? No – in that case she wouldn’t smile. Mum disliked quarrels.
Perhaps they had bonded and made jokes together while Mum was changing. Yeah. As if. His beautiful, sophisticated, elegant mother and stern old McG. That would be the day.
Besides, they hadn’t had time for it. Mum had been gone for ten minutes, max. Just the time to change. No, whatever made her absent-minded, it hadn’t happened then.
Draco gathered the two piles and did his sums. The grand total was … 40 pounds. Not bad. Not bad at all. In fact, the best Half-Term Day ever.
23.00 PM, St Hogarts School
Argus Filch smiled as he thought of the Weasley Twins. That were Half-Term Day for you. A day on which you smiled at them dratted twins. Mr Weasley, an Old Hoggywartian himself, had greeted Argus most enthusiastically. Had commiserated with him on being saddled with that pack of ruffians – said he didn’t know how Mr Filch did it; the kids drove them mad during the holidays and that was only six weeks.
And then he had told his children a story about how he, Arthur Weasley, had taken their mum out for a night walk, and how Mr Pringle, Argus’s predecessor, had caught them. Not a man to trifle with, Mr Pringle, said Mr Weasley. And Fred had said that the same thing were true of Mr Filch. “Can hear us walk through stone walls,” George had added.
It were good to know that Mr Pringle were still remembered. And it were good to know that one day, when Argus Filch had long gone to his maker, there would be stories about him, too. About how Argus Filch could hear you through stone walls and weren’t a man to be trifled with, neither.
Argus nodded to himself. Aye, they would have plenty of stories to tell. But if the walls could speak … aye, if the walls could speak, they could tell different stories. Stories that were a secret between him and St Hogwarts, like.
Stories such as how Mr Filch had stood in the mop cupboard, on the late evening of one Half-Term Day, and had listened to the footsteps and whispers of students on a kitchen raid. Had heard them through stone walls, he had.
And how he had stayed in his cupboard and had given Free Passage to the raiders.
On account of them raiders having Neville Longbottom with them. Who had been man enough to shove Lord Muck into the lake for insulting his Nan. Oh, he had heard Lord Muck all right. Comparing Mrs Longbottom to a char lady. An Old Hogwarts family! It were even worse than Lord Muck staring right through him.
But then there had been the scene at the pool. And things had been as plain as pike-staff. Longbottom, pretending to avoid Creevey, pretending to stumble, and surely, determined-like, shoving Lord M. into the pool.
Argus Filch weren’t to be trifled with, but he were a just man. A man as gives another man his due. Longbottom deserved a Kitchen Raid.
The coast was clear, at last, and Argus Filch slipped out of the mop cupboard and finished his final round of the building.
Half-Term Day was over.
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(no subject)
Date: 2012-06-16 09:40 am (UTC)dysfuncentine-story ever, and the one I could put a name-tag on immediately :-))(no subject)
Date: 2012-06-17 10:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-09-04 01:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-09-05 06:36 am (UTC)