aFireFist
A Life at Hogwarts
Chapter 16 - Part 4
Filch caught her in the entrance hall about crumbs and a first-year who had hexed a suit of armour into singing. She dealt with both. A seventh-year prefect found her on the second landing, crying about a toad that was not lost so much as hiding in a boot, and Minerva stood there and listened until the girl could breathe. Then she sent her to Pomfrey with a note and a look that closed the subject.
Only after that did she walk.
She did not take the staff staircase. She took the long way, past portraits that were mostly asleep and a suit of armour still humming one note, so that no one who mattered would see the Deputy Headmistress on that particular flight of stairs at that particular hour. Her hair was still up. Her tartan was still straight. Under the wool her tits sat heavy, her hips rolled with the walk she used in corridors, and the wetness that had nothing to do with the feast had already started. Two days of not saying it. Two days of watching him drink tea like the third floor had been a weather report.
She knocked the way she knocked on a door when she intended to have an answer.
Roland opened it in shirtsleeves. The room behind him was the same as it always was: window, chair, decanter, the glass from two nights ago washed and set back as if it had never been filled.
"Minerva."
"Inside," she said.
He stepped back. She shut the door herself and locked it. The click sounded too loud in a room that small.
For a moment they just looked at each other. She was still in the full armour of the feast: pinned hair, square spectacles, robes that did their best to turn a woman's body into a post. It failed around the chest and the ass, the way it always failed. Full, heavy tits under dark green. A waist that still went in. An ass that filled the skirt and then some. Grey-black hair pulled tight enough to tug at her temples. Mouth set.
"You felt it," she said.
"I did."
"Don't do that. Don't give me the short version you gave me over tea."
Roland went to the decanter. Poured two. The firewhisky from two nights ago, the glass he had not touched while he watched the ward lights go out. He held one out. She took it and did not drink.
"You can read signatures," she said. "You felt that thing come up off the third floor. You felt it break. You felt it leave. And you sat in a classroom."
"I stood."
"Do not be clever with me tonight."
He drank. Small. He set the glass down.
"The children handled it," he said. "The Stone is gone. The board moved without me putting a finger on it. That was the design."
Minerva laughed once, sharp, no humour in it. "The design."
"Yes."
"I ran toward that corridor, Roland. I felt the same spike you did and I ran. Albus ran. Poppy had stretchers in the air before the portraits had finished shouting. And you stood in the dark with your hands behind your back and watched the lights."
"I did."
She stepped in close enough that he could smell tea and wool and the faint heat under her collar. "I want the sentence. Out loud. Did you choose those three over him, or did you choose yourself?"
Roland looked at her the way he looked at a question he had already answered for himself.
"Both," he said. "If I go down there, I become a piece. I don't want to be a piece. They didn't need me. They needed you and Albus and a night they will not talk about properly for years. I stayed out of the way."
"You stayed out of the way."
"Yes."
Colour sat high on her cheeks. Not embarrassment. Anger, held so long it had nowhere to go except her mouth.
"It worked," she said. "That is the part I cannot stand. It worked. They are alive. The Stone is gone. You were right, and I am standing in your rooms at midnight because being right does not make it decent."
"No," he said. "It doesn't."
She drank then. A real swallow. The whisky hit and she grimaced and drank again.
"I had to look at Potter this morning and not ask him what he saw," she said. "I had to look at Granger and not ask why she sits in my House with her collar pinned like she is hiding jewellery. I had to stand in that Hall and watch you sit there like the year had gone to plan while Dumbledore handed them a cup they had not earned until he decided they had."
"They earned parts of it."
"That is not the point."
"I know what the point is."
"Do you?"
"You're angry I didn't move. You're angrier that you did, and it still wasn't you who finished it. You're here because going back to your rooms with that in your mouth would be worse than knocking on my door."
Minerva's hand tightened on the glass. For a second he thought she would throw it. She set it down instead, careful, the way she set down a goblet in the Hall when she was being watched.
"Take your wand out," she said.
"Minerva."
"Do not make me ask twice. I have a platform in the morning. I have to walk onto it looking like myself. If we are doing this, we are doing it properly, and I am not doing it in this body while I can still feel every year in my knees."
He took the wand.
"Rejuvenesco Tempus."
Gold ran over her from the centre of her chest. The lines went. The grey went. Tight-pinned hair loosened as the colour flooded back through it, deep auburn falling out of the bun in a heavy slide until she yanked the remaining pins herself and dropped them on his table. Her tits lifted fuller and firmer against the wool. Her waist cinched. Her ass and hips stayed thick, womanly, the weight of them obvious when she rolled her shoulders and the robes suddenly sat different. Her mouth looked younger. Her eyes did not. The spectacles came off. She tossed them next to the pins.
"Every time," she said, breathing through it. "You stand there like you invented mornings."
"You asked."
"I know I asked."
She kissed him first, same as she had the last time in her office, except this one had two days of corridor in it. Hard. Teeth. Her tits mashed against his chest, heavy and hot even through cloth. He took a handful of her ass and squeezed until the flesh overflowed his hand, then spanked it once over the skirt, a flat sound that made her gasp into his mouth.
"Still dressed," she muttered against his teeth. "We are still having the rest of that conversation."
"Talk then."
"You watched the ward." Her hand was already on his belt. "You sat in that chair and you did not drink and you watched the lights go out one by one, and I was down there with three students who had just looked at the back of a man's head."
"Yes."
"Say you thought about coming down."
"I thought about it."
"And you didn't."
"And I didn't."
She got the belt open. Got her hand around him. He was already hard, thick, hot in her palm, and she made a sound that was insult and hunger at once.
"You are unbelievable," she said, stroking
{R-18 Scene Roland x Minerva McGonagall 3436 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n.}
"That will do," she said.
"It'll run the whole walk back if you don't charm it."
"I am going to charm it. I am also going to feel it. Those are different things."
He rolled onto his back. She stayed sprawled, one knee up, tits still rising hard. For a minute the room was just breath and the ticking of something in the wall and the smell of sex so strong it would still be there at breakfast if he did not open the window.
"The spell," she said.
"When you're ready."
"I am never ready. Do it anyway."
He found the wand on the table without getting all the way up. The countercharm was a small thing. Gold again, running the other direction. Auburn drained. Grey crept back in from the roots. Lines returned around her mouth and eyes. Her tits stayed full; the spell had never taken the weight off her, only the years. She sat up while it finished and watched her hands as if they might belong to someone else.
Then she was Minerva McGonagall again, naked on his wrecked sheet, hair a disaster, mouth kissed red.
She stood. Her thighs shone. She muttered the cleaning charm through her teeth. She picked her knickers off the floor, made a face at the state of them, and vanished the worst of it. Tartan. Wool. Pins from the table, one by one, hair going up into the bun with the speed of a woman who had done it in the dark for thirty years. Spectacles last.
When she turned, she looked like the Deputy Headmistress. Voice clipped already, even before she used it.
"If you stand still next year," she said, "I will still knock. I am not promising I will be this polite about it."
"That was polite?"
"That was polite."
She went to the door. He did not walk her there. She unlocked it herself.
"Minerva."
She looked back. One hand on the latch.
"The board's going to change again," he said. "Summer first. Then whatever he puts in Defence."
"I know." A beat. "Try to drink the whisky next time you watch a window. You look ridiculous holding a full glass."
She left. The door clicked. The corridor did not notice.
Dawn came in grey.
The castle started talking about the platform before the sun had cleared the trees. Owls. Trunks banging. Prefects who had lost their voices the night before finding them again. The Express was a fact now, not a speech.
Hermione packed last. The summer list went in first, flattened, the French title on top. Then clothes. Then she stood in front of the little dorm mirror, lifted her collar, and fastened the silver choker underneath it. The metal sat warm. She pinned the collar high. In the glass she looked like a girl going home for the summer. She did not look like a girl who had squirted under a tablecloth while four houses screamed.
Harry banged on the dorm frame and told her if she did not come now Ron was going to try the stairs on the leg Pomfrey had forbidden. Hermione said she was coming. She picked up her trunk and went down.
Daphne packed like someone counting. Each fold exact. Astoria's letters still unopened on the nightstand; she put them in the side pocket without reading them. She checked her hair twice. She did not touch the place between her legs when she wanted to. She walked out of the dungeon with her face already set for the platform and for whatever her father was going to say about the cup.
On the moving staircase Hermione passed a knot of Slytherin green and did not look for blonde hair. She looked anyway. Daphne was three steps below, face clean, trunk floating behind her like it had been told to behave. Their eyes met for the length of one stair. Nothing moved in either face. Then the staircase shifted and the moment was just two students going home.
On the staff path Minerva walked with Dumbledore. Hair pinned. Tartan straight. Spectacles on. No mark a student or a portrait could have read. She spoke about seating on the Express and about a letter to the Board. Her voice was the voice from every other June.
Roland watched the grounds go pale from his window. The sheet was still a problem. He left it. He poured what was left in the decanter into the same plain glass and this time he drank it. It was worse in the morning. He finished it anyway.
By the time he reached the entrance hall the noise had a destination. Trunks. Owls. The distant huff of a train that was not visible yet. He stood back from the main flow the way he always did. Hermione went past in a clot of red, collar high, talking to Harry about whether Ron would be allowed to walk the platform. Daphne went past in green, a step behind a boy who was still complaining about the cup. Minerva was already on the path with Dumbledore, a tartan cut-out against the grey, nodding at something that did not require her.
No one stopped him. No one needed to.
The first year was actually over. The Hall had already been used. Summer was the next board. New pieces incoming — a name in the Prophet before July was out, a Defence post that would not stay empty, a diary that had not entered the story yet, parents on the platform who did not know what their children were bringing home.
He put his hands in his coat pockets and went to see the train out.
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