Authoress' Note: Entranced with the idea of a lesbian couple at Hogwarts, I set about creating the oddest couple I could think of. No, this isn't Hermione, or Ginny, or even Pavarti. This couple is a little older; this story involves an affair, f/f slash, female dominance, and one of the only couples I haven't seen paired together (though why not is beyond me; I think they're adorable together!). Oh, and just a quick note: McGonagall is not, as originally thought, 70, at least not in my opinion (and that of the clever folks who made the first movie). Either that, or there's another M. McGonagall running around. She's more...forty. Forty-five.

Any characters you recognise belong to J. K. Rowling. The sick, twisted plot belongs to me; I'm sure she wouldn't want any part in it, anyhow. Obviously I made no money off this.

One MORE warning: YES, I'm sick, twisted, disgusting. YES, I know this could never happen. YES, this is SLASH. LESBIANISM. There. Any and all flames will be cheerfully chewed up and swallowed. Literally.

I suppose we never really meant for it to happen. Ironically enough, it was my boys who brought us together. Dear Fred and George are always into trouble, and eventually their Head of House called Arthur and me into a conference. They hadn't done enough to warren the Headmaster's attendance at our little meeting, but Professor McGonagall wanted to meet with us, find out our methods of discipline...that sort of thing. Looking back, I realise now that the end could have been accomplished by a simple owl or two. Maybe dear Minerva knew even then.

We hadn't seen each other in years. Oh, of course, there were the brief glimpses at graduation for Bill and Charlie, but we'd never gotten to simply chat. She ushered us into her simple office and shut the door, turned, and embraced us both. The three of us had all gone to school together, though she wasn't a close friend. There had always been rumours surrounding the pale, raven-haired, ebony-eyed, almost insanely studious Gryffindor. She didn't like boys, they said. As far as I could tell, no body had ever given her a chance. No girl either, for that matter, at least in her Hogwarts days. But here she was, hugging us like were the best of friends.

"Molly, Arthur, sit down," she greeted, taking her place behind the sturdy wooden desk. We did. I remember Arthur reaching for my hand and holding it gently as Minerva dove into business. She would recount one of Fred and George's pranks, Arthur and I would think of a similar one they played while at the Burrow and their punishment. Nearly and hour into our banter Arthur excused himself to visit the washroom, and our conversation turned more personal as we left the boys behind and reminisced about our Hogwarts days. We recalled several significant Quidditch matches play-by-play, and by the end of the Quidditch House Cup our fourth year, Minerva was dabbing at her eyes. I slid my chair beside hers as I dug in my purse for a tissue to hand her. She accepted gratefully and blew her nose, threw the tissue away, and asked me if I'd like to meet her for a drink and visit the following week. Impulsively I agreed. As Arthur returned (and I slid my chair back into position beside his), I wondered what harm there could possibly be in conversing with an old friend?

The next week I appeared at Hogsmeade and fought my way through unnaturally large crowds to the Three Broomsticks. Somehow I had forgotten to mention to Arthur our little meeting, but what did it matter? We were just meeting for a drink and a chat, and Arthur had never liked Minerva much anyway. Respected, yes, but not really liked. When I entered, she was already seated on the far side of the pub, and Rosmerta was serving her a small gillywater. As Rosmerta turned to leave, she leaned down and pecked Minerva lightly on the lips, then was off.

I couldn't help but blink, but the kiss could certainly have been one of friendship and nothing more. Minerva had her drink to her lips when she saw me, but even from halfway across the pub I could see her dark eyes light up, her expression brighten, and her whole demeanor visibly become more relaxed. "Molly!" she cried, and I sat across the small table from her. "So glad you could make it..." And we chatted, comfortably, as friends. My wine loosened my tongue and freed my thoughts, and I was glad I had come. As our stay neared three hours, we reluctantly said goodbye and made plans to meet the next week, and then after that visit, the week after that.

Our Thursday-noon visits to the pub grew regular almost immediately, and the several times I couldn't afford to buy a drink, Minerva bought one for me. We learned everything about each other--how she had worked so hard to please her father, who ironically died the month before our graduation. Her father had been Headmaster Dippet--she was an illegitimate child born of a Scottish woman passing through, from whom she took her name. Dumbledore, the then-Transfiguration Professor, took Dippet's place, and McGonagall took Dumbledore's. Fifteen years later she was made Deputy Headmistress when Binns died. Her favourite colour was green, despite it being Slytherin's as well, she loved poetry and music but tolerated no whimsical dreaming in her classes. She was mad about Quidditch and chess and believed leaving her hair down would have students not take her as seriously. And yes, she was a lesbian.

She told me this frankly and honestly without hesitation the moment I asked her if the rumours back in school were true.

"Yes, that's right. I've never felt an attraction to men. Of course, I was never asked out by anyone in my time at Hogwarts--I'm not positive I even was homosexual yet then." She paused, and took a sip of her drink before continuing in a pleasant, matter-of-fact tone. "A few years after I began teaching, Sibyll Trelawney approached me and asked me straight off if I were attracted to women. She said that there was something in my aura (oh, you know I don't believe in such nonsense, Molly,) suggesting my homosexuality. I was originally embarrassed, but when she noted sassily that Madame Pomfrey and Madam Hooch had been together since /their/ Hogwarts days, I told her straight that I was. Lo and behold--Sibyll's first true prediction!" She smiled warmly at me, shattering the frigid demeanor that seemed usually to surround her. I remember smiling back and reaching for her graceful hands, curling my thicker fingers around her thin ones and squeezing lightly. I hadn't known about Poppy and Xiomara.

I talked about Arthur and the children, why our marriage had been such a whirlwind, what with Bill due in six months. I spoke of our struggle in getting all seven children through school, our financial troubles, and Arthur's job with the Ministry. I moaned over his horrid obsession with Muggles and their non-magical commodities and how he's always tinkering with them. I confessed that no one but Arthur had ever kissed me--we'd been together since my third year, his fifth--but of course, Minerva knew that.

"So, tell me what it's like to sleep with a man," she asked once, a few months into our visits. I barely blinked, used to such questions by now. I sipped my hot cocoa--it was January, and my cloak was thin--and answered.

"Well, it's wonderful," I replied slowly. "Of course, I've never had anything to compare it with. Arthur's so gentle with me...Sometimes it feels like he's afraid he'll hurt me. I know I'm little, 'Erva, but I'm sturdy!"

I remember that she laughed at that.

"Sturdy, Molly, but unbreakable?" she teased, and we giggled together.

The next week Minerva broke tradition and invited me to her private quarters. She served hot mint tea in delicate white-and-blue china cups, and seated me across from her at a small table for two. Sometime in our conversation she complained of her ears being slightly chilly, and tapped her tight bun with her hand. Then I saw her hair loose for the first time since our school days. It fell, now, almost to her waist in dark waves, glossy and healthy a mane I've ever seen. As we chatted, she took off her spectacles to clean them with a small handkerchief. It was then that I realised for the first time--she is beautiful.

She caught me staring, and a hint of a blush coloured her pale cheeks as she offered a tentative smile.

"You--look nice, with your hair down," I said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "You should wear it down more often." A familiar, hot feeling had begun to burn in the pit of my stomach as she smiled, and I shifted uncomfortably. Never before had a woman made me feel like that. I wasn't sure if I liked it.

Minerva smiled almost shyly, looking down. "I do, when I got where no students or staff are sure to see me."

"And do men take a fancy to you when you're dressed so fine?" I crossed my thighs casually, setting down my teacup and adjusting my robes.

"Not really," she said softly, looking down into her teacup. And that was the end of the visit for that day.

The week after that her hair was down when I knocked on the door. I was a little early, she said, and she was running a little late, but I was to come on in while she tea was seeping. I could see that she'd made an effort to spruce up the place--a few beautifully detailed charcoal pencil drawings framed in the same wood as the rest of the sparse furniture now hung on the walls. As she busied herself with setting the teacups and saucers our, I stood by the wall, making a careful study of the drawings. There were beautiful, realist...every nuance of the subject was carefully recorded. The subjects themselves varied widely... I remember one was a simple bouquet of daisies, another a proud centaur studying the night sky. There was an elderly woman in old-fashioned robes embracing a younger witch in new-fashioned, both eyes closed with tears streaming down both their cheeks. "Did you draw these, 'Erva?" She approached to stand behind me as I studied a drawing that didn't quite fit with the rest of them. This one was more a sketch than a drawing; rougher, and not as detailed, with flyaway lines at odd angles. Still, I could make out two bodies pressed against each other, and a pale blush tinted my cheeks as I realised the figures were nude females. I turned hastily away to see Minerva studying /me/ with an amused half-smile.

"Yes, I confess, these are mine," she chuckled softly, running her hand affectionately along the frame of the dykes. "There were a few I'd been meaning to frame. I finally found the time last weekend."

"You're very good, 'Erva," I replied, my gaze carefully away from the rough sketch of the two lovers and examining a portrait of what seemed to be Dumbledore, fifty years younger.

She seemed to perk up a bit, partially regaining something of the strict edge in her voice, but I didn't mind. "I have others in my sleeping chambers, should you be interested in seeing them."

"Sure," I replied, curious not only as to her other pictures but to the style of her bedroom. I'd never seen it before.

A smile cracked the Professor's hard exterior and she pushed open a door I hadn't paid much attention to before. It was so narrow that I assumed it belonged to a closet, broom or otherwise. But she led me through it into a small, windowless room. A plain, dark chaise longue was pushed against the far wall. The room was lit magically with harsh white light, just soft enough to be bearable. There were a few cardboard boxes bursting with their contents, and an easel set up with a blank sheet of parchment and a charcoal pencil. Otherwise, the room was empty--even the floors were bare hardwood.

She crossed to a box and opened it, sifting through the piles of parchment while I looked around in amazement. "'Erva," I said, almost astonished. "It looks so--"

"--lonely, I know," she interrupted me with a smile, and I nodded sheepishly in agreement. No framed drawings graced these walls; they were plain white. "Albus always complains about it whenever he sees it and is reminded--usually when he's dragging me away in the middle of the night to help him deal with the latest crises." She began to create a small pile of dark sketches, sorting through the larger pile from the box and pulling out her favourites. "But I like things simple and practical. This is all I really need."

I stepped over to her, kneeling beside her. She gave me the small stack and I began rifling through them. "This is gorgeous, Minerva," I breathed, enraptured at a detailed drawing of a unicorn foal, standing on its knobby, shaky legs under a wide willow tree.

"Thanks," she said with a slight smile.

"Why don't you sell these?" I shuffled the stack slightly and caught my breath at a beautiful depiction of a teenage girl's nude torso. Her face seemed alive and friendly; her full lips curved in an inviting smile. Her hands were crossed on her shoulders, her arms covering the centre of her breasts. Her hair flowed around her shoulders, and somehow, even in black and white, I knew it was meant to be red. I touched my own flaming hair thoughtfully, staring at the picture. Despite the obvious age difference, I couldn't help asking softly, "Minerva..."

"My first girlfriend," she replied, a little sharply. "Her name was Tasha. Tasha MacNeil."

"Oh," I said softly, feeling a trifle disappointed and not exactly sure why.

"Look," Minerva interrupted my thoughts, handing me a coloured oil pastel drawing of me in a golden yellow robe I was sure I'd never worn. I was surprisingly pretty, my eyes and mouth laughing at something. I decided that I liked it.

"Oh, 'Erva..." I breathed, lightly tracing my fingers over my pastel's rosy red lips. I rose, and Minerva with me, still entranced with her depiction of me. "You made me beautiful."

"You are beautiful," she replied, her usually calm voice surprisingly intense. I shifted uncomfortably under her square gaze and tried to laugh, but I felt my body grow hot under her passionate stare.

She looked at me for a long moment, and I couldn't help but look back at her. Her eyes, I found, weren't quite as black as we made them to be. Instead, they were a dark, steel grey; a grey that was softened by affection and sharpened by hunger. I barely had strength to swallow, struggling to keep afloat in the stormy darkness of her eyes. I leaned closer, then away, but she kept the distance between us constant. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her rest her hand on the wall behind me to support herself. I wanted her to kiss me so badly I felt I was burning up with want and fear. I was afraid.

She leaned forward abruptly and crushed her mouth against mine. My spine was straight against the wall, my hands at her waist, but I didn't push her away. I pulled her body up against mine, parting my lips and letting her tongue ravage my mouth. And suddenly I wasn't afraid anymore, but kissing back, letting her dominance overpower, overwhelm, consume me. Her lips were fire against mine; her tongue was poison in my mouth, but such sweet poison, candy-coated and delicious.

Her fingers curled tightly around my shoulders, so tight that it almost hurt, then loosened again and slid down my arms, gripping again just above my elbows. I had to keep my head tilted up to keep her mouth on mine. But eventually she broke away, leaving me gasping, shaking, enflamed with thoughts and feeling seething with beautiful, sexy--Minerva.

I wanted her. I wanted to please her. I wanted to kiss her again. There was no awkward silence between us as we tumbled onto her chaise longue, eagerly searching for each other's lips. There was no hesitation, no withdrawal as she lay over me, her slender body atop mine. All that existed were passion, lust. Arthur and the children were no longer a part of my reality.