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For the longest time, Minerva never understood her foolish classmates’ utter fascination with the male sort. To her, they seemed not unlike a group of baboons steadily growing hairier, louder and more aggressive in chauvinistic (or occasionally quixotic) pursuits as the years marched on. She was shocked at the success of these pursuits – surely it was merely for a lack of better candidates on her fellow females’ parts?
That was her thinking until the summer before her final year. If she was honest with herself, she would acknowledge it was still her thinking—the idea of the ‘male sort’ was still not appealing and she was still shocked at the success of their appalling courting behaviours. She had found something entirely more appealing.
The summer of her sixth year, Minerva realised two things: first, a feminine form was much more intriguing and responsive for her and second, she still wasn’t interested in letting the urges of her knickers control her life. She had more important things to be concerned with than a few short gasps and a dizzying array of colours. She had homework to do.
Still, as she sat over her seventh-year charms assessment she couldn’t help remembering muscled biceps holding her close, pressed against two buds of flesh, leg resting between toned thighs. The thought of running her fingers through a short-cropped head of hair and watching delicate features tensed in pleasure ran unbidden through her mind. The memory of being wrapped in a lover’s buttoned shirt with nothing beneath replaced the feel of her starched uniform.
All for a moment, but only for a moment. She felt the now-familiar clinch and spark in her skirt. She drew a breath and smoothed the wrinkles in her blouse. Now was not the time.
She understood, more, her female friends’ focus on the topic of romance in all waking and slumbering hours. It was still not for her. What use did she have for it?
Seventh-year Charms was a breeze for her. It had a certain similarity with Transfiguration yet did not reach the same level of intellectual requirement the other required of her. Perhaps because it was purely the motion of the wand and the pronunciation of words she could articulate (perfectly) in her sleep; that and the barest conception in the mind of what the result should be. Perhaps Transfiguration was more difficult for her—and thus more enjoyable—because it required a sort of kinship with the object of use, an understanding of what it wished to be or the ability to convince it that it would really prefer to be something else. It was a measure of trust and intuition. Minerva realised with slight surprise and ample amusement that her Transfiguration had improved over the summer, despite the fact that she had been somewhat too occupied to practise as she would have liked; perhaps, then, romance and deeper connection was a universal language.
“Ms. McGonagall, would you please demonstrate the charms for a levitating, counter-clockwise-spinning, singing pumpkin?” Minerva glanced up and a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She had not been caught off guard, nor was that the intention; she was simply the only one in the class who had as of yet got it down. Professor Barlan had always been a big fan of Halloween.
She whispered the words under her breath, circled and dipped her wand and smiled at the resulting spinning, levitating pumpkin. Her other classmates had produced odd combinations: pumpkins that spiralled around in the air singing, pumpkins that sang about counter-clockwise life, pumpkins that remained ground-bound yet spun and sang about being dizzy and more.
Professor Barlan smiled and gave the pumpkin a brief and fond pat; it cooed out a high soprano note. “Very good, Ms. McGonagall. 5 points for Gryffindor. I’ll make it 10 if you agree to spend your lunch time helping me charm the rest of the pumpkins for the Great Hall.”
“Gladly, Professor Barlan. Happy to help.”
There were a few snickers from the back of the classroom but Minerva ignored them with no great difficulty. Jealousy was an emotion she was in the habit of putting up with, and it wasn’t as though they could actually do anything about it: she could beat them all in a duel even when outnumbered and they all knew it. She was not a ‘professor’s pet’ to be trifled with. She sniffed at the term; she was no professor’s pet. It certainly wasn’t her fault that the majority of her peers lacked the acumen or indeed any positive traits to hold her attention.
After class ended and the others filed (ha, debatable: stampeded) out, Minerva stood and organised her belongings. She sensed that she was not alone, even beyond Professor Barlan’s presence in his back room gathering pumpkins.
“Erm...my Housemates say that if someone needs Charms help, they should, uh, go to you...” a quiet yet gruff voice ventured. Minerva turned fast enough that her plait settled over her left shoulder. She took in the student before her: short-cropped blonde hair with a gentle wave, attentive green eyes, unsure but hopeful features and a boy’s uniform masking the subtle hints of curves. Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank. They had been in a few classes together since first year and Minerva had heard a few rumours of her own.
“Your Housemates being Hufflepuff, I presume?” Minerva’s eyes darted to the emblem embroidered at Wilhelmina’s breast; she tried very hard not to imagine anything beyond that threadwork.
Wilhelmina stiffened slightly. “Is that a problem?” She blushed immediately, seemingly surprised and taken aback by her rebuttal. It only increased her esteem in Minerva’s eyes: there was little reason to associate with anyone without at least a modicum of House pride. Not to the extreme of those dratted Slytherins, of course.
“I’m reasonable at Charms,” Minerva responded evenly, leaning back against her desk. She crossed her arms loosely over her chest.
Wilhelmina gazed down and shook her head. She mumbled, “Even the pumpkin sings your praises...” She seemed equally surprised when Minerva chuckled and relaxed her stance.
“You’re looking for lessons?”
“Yes. I’ve got to get a good mark on my Charms NEWT to get into my field. I’m not terrible, but...I’m not good either. Hasn’t got anything living.” Wilhelmina’s arms were now crossed; she tightly grasped at each elbow, drawing herself together into a compact shape. “I could pay.”
“Poppycock.” Minerva frowned—partially because Poppy had banned the phrase and it was thus utilised more frequently to tease her friend and partially because she couldn’t imagine collecting money for something she enjoyed. “I’m helping Professor Barlan today, but I have a free period directly after lunch tomorrow. Is that a good time for you?”
“Sure. Do I need to bring anything?”
“Your wand, your brain and your lips,” Minerva responded immediately. Her eyes widened but she corrected the action immediately. She had merely meant the latter as a quip—lips were important for enunciation, of course—but now she couldn’t stop staring at Wilhelmina’s lips, which were surprisingly pink and soft for her otherwise gruff appearance.
“Thank you. Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.” Minerva dipped her head. Wilhelmina slipped into her jacket and walked off. Minerva watched her walk away, struck by the contrast between the black of the girl’s jacket and the crisp white of her shirt, the angles and the hints of more feminine flesh.
“Ms. McGonagall?”
“Coming, Professor Barlan.”
That evening, when Minerva sat down to her homework, she could sense her own distraction. She was working on material for next week, sure, but that didn’t mean she had any less desire to complete it. The jitters she was experiencing were not appreciated.
Her thoughts moved on to the body of her summer lover, strong arms and gentle masculinity. She remembered quick strokes of an agile tongue flicking over the tip of her perked nipple, fingers circling the coarse hair between her thighs. She remembered the jump of her abdomen as it was brushed by parted lips. Her stomach flipped at the acute memory.
The face of Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank formed behind her eyes. Her eyebrow rose. Why was she thinking of the Hufflepuff in a smattering of her classes? Minerva brushed it from her mind. Useless, the lot of it.
Regardless of her insistence, her thoughts triumphed. Her lover’s features morphed: compassionate green eyes, pink lips wrapped around her nipple and sweat-dampened blonde waves. Minerva was fed up. She left her books and took the stairs to her dorm three at a time. When she reached her bed she cast a hasty silencing spell, intent on taking care of herself.
And if the damned desires of her teenage hormones weren’t through with her by homework time, she would personally design a spell engineered to permit simultaneous masturbation and uninterrupted good-quality work.
“Minerva?” The voice was gravely yet surprisingly soft and inquisitive, unsure but hopeful. Minerva wondered if she had ever heard so much put into her name, save her few moments of rebellion with her mother—and at least this was positive, or so it seemed. Minerva tucked her work away for the moment and sat against the tree. She didn’t turn, but she did smile faintly.
“Hello...”
“Greetings. I’m, erm, I’m here for tutoring...” the voice drifted off. Minerva turned to find the shyly-smiling face of Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank. She was shifting uncomfortably between the rocks. Minerva had been in that spot many times and had noticed no physical discomfort; she must be the object of discomfort, then. She made Wilhelmina uncomfortable. Interesting.
Minerva quickly took in the short-cropped hair with the hint of curl, as she had the previous day: the sun Minerva was avoiding highlighted the blonde strands. She scolded herself for the thought ‘halo’, reserved only for those dreaded romantics. Wilhelmina still wore the male uniform, which drew a raised brow from Min. It dropped when she caught glimpse of Wil’s bare feet, big toe submerged in the chilly ripples. Minerva’s features softened and she quirked a grin.
She raised both eyebrows and blinked once, slowly. She was still capable of embellishing her feminine qualities, provided she didn’t go over the top, of course. “I’m finishing up my Transfiguration assignment presently. Have you finished this week’s assessment?”
“Er, no...” Wil shuffled her feet and dipped all her toes into the chilly lake; Minerva watched the goose-pimples form. “I’m hopeless at Transfiguration, I’m afraid—worse than Charms. Snail to a leaf? Honestly, what’s the use?”
“You never know when we’ll run out of trees,” Minerva responded quickly. She was surprised by the sound of Wil’s laughter. Minerva wasn’t accustomed to being humorous, or at least not hearing the fruits of her retorts quite so richly. Then, most of her female peers had laughter comparative to hyenas. Minerva pulled her satchel from between the roots beside her and touched the moss invitingly. “Do you have your belongings with you?”
“I do,” Wilhelmina answered, the most firm of her responses thus far. Minerva smiled. Perhaps a spot of comfort? Wil sat beside her and bumped her knee accidentally. Wil flushed instantly; Minerva merely laughed, which took her equally by surprise. These interactions were beginning to ring a bell. Wil grinned sheepishly and held her knees as if to keep it from recurring; her knee dropped ever closer regardless. “I’m happy to do Transfiguration today, if you’ll meet me for Charms another time?”
“Of course. I have one question first.” Minerva gave the material of Wil’s trousers a light tug at the knee. “How did you finagle a boy’s uniform?”
“Dumbledore gave them to me...he told me something about the house elves accidentally setting fire to my old uniform and ‘regrettably running low on stock’, but I’m not sure I believe him...” Wil smoothed the legs of her trousers and smiled self-consciously. “To be honest, I’ve never been so pleased. Teachers have been calling me ‘mister’ and ‘sir’ since year one whenever out of uniform: it’s a relief to not change gender every six hours.”
Minerva smiled fully and nodded at the explanation. Dumbledore and his tricks: that man had more eccentric ideas in his hat than a Muggle magician. If he ever got the Headmaster position the school would be a strange place indeed.
“That must have been perturbing. Regardless of the causes, it’s fitting.” Minerva paused and considered her next statement, aiming it to fit the game she was playing. “I’m a little jealous: I look like lanky beanpole in the girl’s costume; I never fill it out like the others.”
Wilhelmina gave her a quick once over, blushing, and shook her head. She bustled about retrieving her work from her briefcase as she responded. “You don’t, well I mean you do, fill it out I mean, and not look like a beanpole. You look very handsome—er—pretty. And you don’t try to go editing it with those silly spells, which is nice, too. You just look like you, being you, in a uniform. And you’re pretty, so, right.”
By that time Wil’s work was out in her lap. She was flushing and tapping her quill against a clear container within which a number of snails were held captive. Minerva decided to let her prey off the hook.
“If you keep agitating them like that you’ll end up with a quaking aspen,” she remarked, gingerly taking the container from her companion’s and smiling at the touch of their fingertips. “What we want for you is a strong ash or maple or oak. We’ll start out with a Scottish Pine, though, needles are simpler...”
Later in the evening, Minerva settled into the prefect bath with a sigh. She pulled the final pins free from her hair and tugged it down, shaking her head to free the final tresses. The few moments she stole away from schoolwork for herself could be bliss.
Red bubbles popped and fizzled around her nipples as she leaned back to lather her hair. A simple enough act, she believed, remembering the many times she had performed it. As her mind wandered, her fingers became those of another; she pictured earthy green eyes, a strong chin with shy smile, the barest hint of a curve beneath a shirt and trousers...
Her fingers brushed her scalp, down lower to her neck and collarbone, two circles to her nipples and slowly down over her stomach. She hissed when her fingers struck hair once more. Minerva dipped lower and gasped as her fingers brushed her nether lips. It didn’t take her long.
Minerva sighed once more as her back struck the bath edge; she ran her fingers through her hair and leaned on her hand. She bit her lip. It was final.
“Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, then. Wil.” She laughed and let her head fall back against the edge, dipping down until the water kissed her bottom lip. “Merlin’s beard, I’ve fallen for a Hufflepuff.”
Minerva groaned and let herself submerge below the bubbling surface. Not just a Hufflepuff, but a shy butch—she’d have to downplay her seduction and play the courted kitten act, wouldn’t she? Well that was simply fantastic. At least she had a down payment of sorts.
Minerva grew to appreciate the trustworthy nature of a Hufflepuff: Wilhelmina never analysed what brought Minerva nearby, only trusted that it was a natural occurrence. It was just as well, given how hard Minerva worked to make it seem that she had serendipity on her side. She was growing a little tired of toting her ‘pleasantly surprised’ facial expression. How surprised could she continue to be over meeting Wil in class, in the corridor or on the Quidditch pitch? Even without assistance, Hogwarts was conducive to small-world meetings.
“Oh, hello Minerva!” Wilhelmina greeted when Minerva rounded the corner to the Caretaker’s hut. Wil wiped her palms against her trousers and smiled. “Are you here for Magical Creatures revision as well?”
“I am, in fact. I still have trouble identifying a blast-ended newt next to a sting-ended newt from a distance. Wouldn’t do well to use fire as a management strategy for the wrong blasted newt...”
“Or the ‘blasted’ newt at all,” Wil countered, grinning. She grasped Minerva’s hand and drew her gently to one of the glass houses. “You can see them better in the glass house; Rosewart is keeping them to research newt control in agricultural settings.”
Minerva followed along, grateful that Wil was gaining the confidence to take the lead—and to think that she was doing it on her own, with no added push from the Gryffindor. Shy butches were a delicate deal.
It was proof of her devotion to this romance that Minerva managed to stay for an hour memorising every aspect of every newt she could name; thankfully, that number was still two. She felt sufficiently prepared for her summer exam but found that her head was swimming with the newt posteriors—not the easiest subject to romanticise.
“Bit much for you, hmm?” Wilhelmina inquired softly, chuckling and shaking her head. “Get a bit carried away, sometimes. Not many people will talk critters with me. Thank you for that.”
“Thank you for worthwhile revision.” Minerva decided to drive the point home: she kissed Wil’s cheek and whispered, “But perhaps next time we’ll discuss a furry critter further up the food chain?”
Wil blushed as she closed the glasshouse door. She seemed to draw confidence from the fresh air. She leaned against the doorway and pushed her sleeves up her considerable forearms. Minerva watched the action carefully, hiding her hunger.
“I...well, Hogsmeade is coming up soon, isn’t it?”
“A week this Saturday,” Minerva answered instantly, crossing her arms loosely and offering a patient smile.
“Furry critters in the shops there. Would you like to come? With me?” The hope on Wilhelmina’s face delighted Minerva.
“Do we get to troll the bookstore, as well?”
Wil’s face lit up. “Of course!”
“Then it’s a date.”
Wilhelmina’s face flushed further. She rolled her shirt up above her elbows and loosened her tie. Minerva reached to brush some soil from the material above Wil’s chest; the combination of Wil and a white shirt was certainly a recipe for disaster.
Wil caught her wrist in a gentle grasp. Minerva looked up to find Wil’s flush diminished; it was replaced with a determined, confident gaze. Wil’s customary grin remained as she stepped closer.
“I’ve been an idiot waiting so long to ask, you know,” she remarked with smiling eyes.
“Oh, I know,” Minerva responded slowly, tilting as she drew closer in turn. Her next statement was almost—almost—breathy: “I would have said yes after the Transfiguration lesson.”
“Hex me next time I’m so stupid.”
Minerva smiled shrewdly and drew an arm up over Wil’s shoulder, straightening her collar absent-mindedly as she spoke. “I have a better idea.”
She leaned the short distance to Wil and pressed their lips together, her eyelids fluttering closed. She kissed the corner of Wil’s lips and turned, walking a few steps before she gazed over her shoulder. “Don’t expect positive enforcement for every dense delay.”
Wilhelmina wore an almost goofy smile but made no move to follow. She looked rather pleased as she folded her arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Come for you Saturday at seven, then?”
“Perfect. Don’t wait, this time.”
Wil just kept smiling.
The Hogsmeade trip went smoothly once they worked through the few kinks resulting from Minerva’s unique character: Wilhelmina had suggested Madam Puddifoot’s, thinking it was where her housemates ventured for dates, to which she received a fierce but amused look from Minerva. The Shrieking Shack held no particular appeal to either of them; they chose to give the popular spot a miss.
They visited the various shops along the main street but had, as seventh-years, experienced them almost bi-monthly since their third year and had therefore seen nearly everything. Hogsmeade was thankfully a place that always merited visiting, whether for the first or four-hundredth time; Minerva and Wilhelmina were somewhere between the two.
The leaves were stirring in the trees as they stepped up to the main street; autumn was upon them. Clusters of leaves followed the pull of breezes over the old road. Minerva looped her scarf around her neck and smiled as Wil lead them to the nearest shop which, conveniently, was the book store.
They sat in a cosy corner of the shop reading—Minerva a book on colouration charms in relation to physiological responses and Wilhelmina a book on Eastern dragon species. They exchanged short conversations over their readings and more frequent smiles resulting in the occasional blush. After an hour Wil left to collect some hot drinks; when she returned they spoke over hot butterbeer.
“You know, this is one of my favourite spots. Hardly anyone heads back here.”
Wil grinned into her mug and took another sip. Minerva pointed to her own lip, miming that Wil had foam there. She wiped it away with her knuckle and blushed, stuffing her extra hand in her pocket. “I used to see you back here during fifth year. I was looking for quiet places to revise for OWLS, but this corner was very...yours.”
“As if I wasn’t taught to share!” Minerva called with a gentle thwack to Wil’s hand. “When NEWTs come around, you can come revise with me. My corner is your corner.”
Wilhelmina smiled and looked down, the picture Minerva had come to associate with graciousness. She closed her book and spelled it back to its shelf; she did the same when Wil had closed hers.
“Critters now?” Minerva inquired, smiling to soften the allusion to their prior meeting and Wil’s fervent interest in strangely-bottomed creatures.
Wil nodded and stood. She offered her hand to the seated Minerva and spoke when they were both standing. “I’ll join you in one moment; I have one little errand.”
Minerva’s eyebrow rose—not unkindly—but she asked no questions, only nodded curtly. She trailed one finger over the back of Wil’s hand and left the store.
Minerva inspected Wil as she entered the shop a few minutes later: no bags, no visible acquisitions, no visible changes whatsoever. Min was curious, but not enough to play into Wil’s hand by asking the subsequent questions. Wilhelmina just smiled and gave Minerva’s hand a squeeze to greet her again, no mention of her prior activities.
They moved from cage to cage together, grasping pinkies when they were sure others weren’t looking. Minerva wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself in regards to the animals, but Wil handled it for both of them: she was a genius with animals. Minerva swore that all the caged and non-caged creatures of legs, wings or fins craned to get closer when they saw Wilhelmina draw close.
“Just out of curiosity, Wil, is Care of Magical Creatures your best subject?” Minerva questioned as she saw the store owner’s kneazle peek out from the store room at the back end of the shop.
“By a long shot,” Wil confirmed. She removed what looked like a brown crumb from her pocket and lobbed it gently toward the feline creature, which sniffed it delicately and licked it up. “My parents believe it’s a ‘soft subject’ and are none-too-thrilled, but it’s my absolute favourite. If I can get my Charms and Transfiguration marks up we’ll all be happy.”
Minerva smiled. “That’s where I come in.”
Wil grinned over her shoulder as she stood reaching to stroke an unknown fluffy critter in the top cage. “That’s where you come in. My parents would be thrilled to know you’re assisting me.”
“But they won’t know?”
One of Wil’s shoulders rose and dropped, defeated. “I don’t speak with them much, certainly don’t write.” She slipped a treat to one of the crups; the smile it received hit Minerva hard below the waist-line. Wil took a breath and laughed, scrunching up her nose as she glanced at her companion. “I’m not missing much, though, am I? All the parental arguments and drama? I get Christmas presents: what more could I ask for?”
Minerva thought of her late-night tea sessions with her mother and her morning broom rides with her father, but didn’t mention them. Perhaps one day Wil would share in those as well—if they ever made it through NEWTs.
“Did I ever mention I have a sweet tooth? Let’s get ice cream That’s always a cheery occasion.”
“In autumn?”
“We’ll eat inside—nice spot. My favourite, save here.”
Minerva smiled: a little bit of character was always appreciated. “Sure.”
The air inside Florence’s practically felt sweet against the skin—it just permeated the air. It normally wasn’t for Minerva, who wasn’t much a fan of sweetness, but the euphoric grin it brought to Wil’s features made up for the sugar-laden air. Florence greeted Wil with a wave and motioned to a seat at the counter.
“The usual?” he asked, spelling some blenders into the sudsy basin for washing. Minerva swore the sponges were singing. She sat beside Wil and expressed her question with her eyebrow: you’re regular enough for a ‘usual’?
Wil quirked a grin and shrugged quickly, nodding both to Minerva and Florence. He looked to Minerva with an easy smile and gestured at the floating menu, which occasionally blurted out what it thought was best—that changed from moment to moment.
“I will just go for a Gnome Vanilla, thank you.”
“Goblet or witch hat, miss?”
“Goblet will do nicely, thank you.”
He gave her a nod and pointed his wand at a snow-white quill in the corner, which scribbled on a memo that hopped down the counter and into the back room.
“We’re going to go take a booth, Florence, could you send our order there?” Wil asked after a moment of feet-swinging, side-long-glances silence.
Florence grinned immediately and winked. “Anything for you, Wil—take the corner booth! I’ll put the shroud up.”
Wil blushed and guided Min with a hand on her shoulder. When they reached the corner table and both sat, Wil’s hand slid from Min’s shoulder to waist; it remained there despite the increased colour to Wilhelmina’s cheek.
“Do you come here to court all your girls?” Minerva jibed, leaning into Wil and dropping a hand to her lap. Her smile grew wry.
“I’m about as gifted with courting girls as I am with Charms—or Transfiguration, even.” Will leaned back and made herself comfortable, allowing her own hand to drop to her lap as well. It landed gingerly on Minerva’s. With a twitch of fingers, they were interlaced. They both smiled softly, Min’s with strength of conviction and Wil’s coupled with a dusting of colour over her cheeks and eyes that locked with everything but Minerva’s; Minerva didn’t mind.
They spoke seldom with their lips, but Wil had a habit of toying with her fingers, brushing her finger pads along the soft sides of Minerva’s fingers; the actions spoke endlessly to Minerva. She thought if the ice cream did not arrive soon she would pounce Wilhelmina right then and there—certainly not appropriate regardless of any shroud.
“Thank you for coming out with me today,” Wilhelmina offered in a near-whisper; it was emphasised by her fingers meeting at Minerva’s palm to be replaced with firm but tender circles of Wil’s thumb. “Even though it took me long enough to ask.”
Minerva shivered. She closed her eyes and smiled, resting her head on Wil’s shoulder, her world reduced to the arousing configurations of Wil’s fingers at her hand. “Thank you for asking. I’ll say yes again, you know.”
She felt Wil’s rich chuckle more than she heard it; the feeling went straight to her skirts. She crossed her legs as Wil answered.
“Thank you for that too. It may have taken me another month to ask for your company again.”
“So I guessed. I just thought I might make it simple for you, brush all doubt from your mind: yes. If you’re asking.”
“I am.”
“Then you’ve received my answer,” Minerva responded as the booth’s shroud was parted for two saccharine treats, “and we have our ice cream.”
“Again, what more could I want!” Wil remarked, the joyous and youthful smile spread over her face once more. Even her eyes grew childlike as they widened in delight at the sweetness before them: an ice cream in a waffle witch-hat cone floated in the air; above the cone was the face of a unicorn made entirely of ice cream and candy. It whinnied when Wil grasped it, but was otherwise inanimate.
Minerva giggled—outright giggled, which she covered immediately with her fingertips, eyes wide. She had just giggled like, well, like a school girl in love! The ridiculousness of it!
Wilhelmina, taking the giggle as an utterance in response to her childish choice rather than a breach of Minerva’s highly-dictated character, looked slightly defensive. At last she took a breath and quirked a grin. “Yes, I always go for the Unicorn Horn Delight. Did you know that even unicorn foals enjoy them, fillies especially? Professor Robins told me last week—which means, of course, that even she comes here for the occasional decadent dessert.”
Minerva nearly barked out her laughter at this. It seemed difficult to conceive an image of their burly Care of Magical Creatures professor—or indeed any of the professors at all, save perhaps Dumbledore—ordering ice cream at Florence’s, Unicorn Horn Delight or no.
“You’re secretly dying for a taste, aren’t you?” Wil teased, holding the cone just so: the unicorn’s face gazed directly at her. She placed her own goblet on the table and raised her eyebrow—first at Wilhelmina and then at the tantalising unicorn.
“Yes, yes I am, drat you.”
Wil chuckled and brought the dessert to Minerva’s lips, gingerly placing it within licking distance without touching the cold cream to Minerva’s nose. Min smiled and took a quick bite, removing her mouth from the area to wipe the extra from her lips.
“You bite your ice cream,” Wil announced through a devilish smile. She removed one eye from the unicorn and gazed at her date. “Takes a brave soul to bite ice cream, with brain blizzards and teeth tundras. Says a lot.”
“You’re judging me based on my ice cream consumption technique?” Minerva laughed and shook her head, spooning at her goblet but not yet taking a bite. She tilted her head and affirmed over her shoulder that the unicorn was good.
“You might as well have an eye, too, given it has two...I’ve no mind to hoard both.” Wil brought the eye she had plucked to the space near Minerva’s lips, inviting but not intimidating. Minerva leaned forward and took the candy gingerly with her lips and tongue, swiping Wil’s fingers in the process. Both blushed. Wil leaned back in her seat and added, “If I’m going to be desecrating unicorns anyway, I might as well share the task...”
“Why Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, you charming romantic you. How could I turn you down?” She swallowed the liquorice and smiled, cheek-to-cheek, as she dug into her ice cream. It seemed that the messier she ate, the more Wil smiled, until Minerva was hardly concerned with who was watching her eat at all. She felt comfortable; that was a virtue in itself, and on top of that she had Wilhelmina, which brought the evening to pure perfection.
The sun was setting when they left the ice cream parlour; it enhanced the autumn blaze of the deciduous trees and tinged the proud evergreens a delightful orange-red. The blazing disk of sunlight shone in spurts through the remaining leaves as they walked up the high street to their final destination.
“A visit to Hogsmeade is never complete until you’ve hit the Three Broomsticks,” Minerva had commented as they left the sweet and heavy air of Florence’s. Wilhelmina had nodded, conceding that she was thinking the very same thing.
“I’ve just turned 17, of course, so I’ve drunk naught but butterbeer without my family as of yet, but it’s still a necessity for a quintessential Hogsemeade visit.”
Minerva angled her head to get a better look at Wilhelmina, framed in the waning autumn lights of red and gold and yellow, dark silhouettes crowning the background; it looked like a merger of their two Houses. Minerva could scarcely believe, between Wil’s height and matured features, that the girl was anything younger than 18. “When did you come of age?”
“Two months ago—4th August.”
“Two months before my birthday! I shall take you back here again for a belated celebration—with some firewhiskey, of course. How does that sound?”
Wilhelmina squeezed Minerva’s hands and smiled her most delicate and hopeful smile, her eyes lit with the colour of the sunset. “I would love that. But did I just hear you imply it’s your birthday?”
Minerva groaned, but she couldn’t help chuckling. “Yes, I did. I—”
“You naughty newt!” Wil exclaimed, scooping Minerva up in a hug and spinning her about through the falling leaves. “Happy Birthday!”
“Well, yes, thank you,” Minerva answered automatically as she smoothed her skirt, blouse and cloak. The barest of smiles graced at her lips. “I do try to keep that information private, but with you, well...it has been lovely.”
“Why ever keep it under wraps? Birthdays are a brilliant time, I’ve always thought. Always closer to getting out of the house and on my own.” Wil smiled and glanced around the empty streets—rare for this time of evening. She took advantage of their serendipitous solitude and linked hands, walking at Minerva’s faster pace to the Three Broomsticks.
Madam Rosmerta smiled at both of them as they entered. Of-age witches and wizards were always more pleasant to deal with—she didn’t have to worry about discipline quite as much, and didn’t have to watch them like hawks.
“I would like a room for the hour, please,” Wilhelmina announced when they made it to the bar. Both Rosmerta and Minerva’s eyes widened at the emboldened request—it was uncharacteristically bold of Wilhelmina, and certainly not an expected appeal. At the response of silence, Wil lost her confident streak and blushed, shrugging as she turned to mumble to the nearby stairs, “Just want to give a surprise, you know, all innocent fun, I promise...”
Madam Rosmerta chuckled and accio’d a key from a case behind the bar. She placed it on the table, catching Wil’s eye. “It’s none o’ my business, as you well know. Keep clean is all I ask—I trust the two of you.” She turned to Minerva and winked as she slid the key across the counter. “Happy birthday.”
Minerva shook her head as she thanked the woman. Wil lead them to the stairs, glancing both ways and masking her companion from view—not that their peers were interested enough to notice, as caught up as they were with their own fleeting romances.
“She knew?” Wil asked gently, not intending to prod. She pointed down the right corridor.
“She overheard it from Dumbledore one year—he tends to buy students a butterbeer if he knows it’s their birthday and he’s around at the Three Broomsticks at the right time. I’m sure your Professor Whitin is the same with you?”
Wilhelmina nodded as she opened the door and welcomed Minerva inside. It was candle-lit and washed in the soft glow of flickering flames, a room of fire colours with the contrast of an autumn sky and breezes at the two windows. Two cosy armchairs sat opposite a fireplace, a bed hidden in the corner opposite that arrangement.
Wil took a seat in one of the armchairs and spelled the fire to burning; the flames illuminated Minerva’s surprised features. She sat in the empty chair and crossed her legs, hands resting on her knees. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself.
“I brought you something.” Wil shuffled about in her pocket and removed three miniscule parcels. She tapped them with her wand and murmured a spell, stressing the consonants—it sounded like a newly-learned spell. She had to give one of the books an extra tap when only half of it returned to proper size. Blushing, she explained, “A graduated friend taught me this summer for when I’m lugging around animal feed; my levitation is sloppy and I used to run my heavy loads into people or animals. This seemed less dangerous.”
Minerva chuckled and restrained herself from craning her neck to view the books.
Wilhelmina handed over the two that were tied together with red and gold string. “For you. I didn’t know it was your birthday, but now they seem especially appropriate.”
Min gazed down in amazement as she plucked the bow from the books. She inspected them: the physiological colour transfiguration text she had been reading previously and a hefty book of children’s stories about magical creatures.
“They’re my favourite; I thought maybe you would enjoy a bedtime read to survive NEWTs. I know they help me.”
Minerva leapt up and hurried to Wil’s chair, throwing her arms around the girl and pressing her cheek to the crown of Wil’s close-cropped hair. “Thank you, Will; I’ve scarce been so pleased to have someone know my birthday—and this even before you knew!”
Wilhelmina looked up, blushing but pleased, to take in Min’s elated features. They gazed on for a moment, both looking flushed in the combined fire and candle-light. Minerva’s hands travelled down with her bottom, which fell steadily closer to Wil’s lap; Minerva could still feel the effect of Wil’s company all day—it struck her between the legs.
She wouldn’t go all the way, she decided, but...
Her thighs touched Wil’s and she pressed her lips to the girl’s cheek; it was all she could do to not disrobe that very instant. Instead she moved quickly down to Wil’s lips, where she rested softly, not pressing entrance.
Wilhelmina’s arms encircled her waist, tracing patterns along her side and drawing goose-pimples despite the fire’s heat. When at last Minerva swiped her tongue alone Wil’s lip and gained entrance, she discovered that Wil spoke just as much with her tongue as she had with her fingers.
Minerva’s instincts lead her to open her eyes. As she did so, she witnessed Wilhelmina’s open eyes, ruby flames upon an emerald field—and here Min was, not ordinarily an eye sort of girl. She groaned at the added visual connection, something she had previously never had while kissing. Wil’s eyes were always so expressive: she could read the arousal right there, either side of the girl’s nose.
Not that she couldn’t read it elsewhere, between the trembling of Wil’s fingers at her ribs or the shifting of hips beneath her. Wil nibbled her bottom lip and heat flooded her legs, pooling at their merged apex. Another moan followed.
“Mmmg,” Minerva murmured, pulling away for but a second and already missing the feel of Wil’s lips against hers. “I don’t want to move too quickly.”
Wilhelmina’s hands began to withdraw; Minerva clutched them quickly as she craned for another open kiss. “But that isn’t to say that I want to back-track.”
And so it was that Minerva spent her 18th birthday kissing Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank over the heads of her peers and professors alike; she had seldom spent a birthday evening so sweetly. She was disappointed when their two hours had ended.
Minerva was not disappointed by their further visits, which became another requirement for their Hogsmeade meetings. They inevitably met up during each Hogsemeade visit, whether they initially came with friends or alone. Some weeks they met only in front of the Three Broomsticks, prepared for their romance to blossom before the fireplace once more. Many evenings Minerva spoke with Wil’s tongue, that direct speech that required no words but spoke to her most hidden desires. Other evenings they conversed over butterbeer—Wilhelmina admitted that she was not yet ready to experience the lack of control alcohol supposedly created. Some evenings they read books in the firelight and spoke few words between warm kisses and heated looks.
In March, during the start of serious NEWT preparation, Wilhelmina approached Minerva during her free period, as has occurred so many months ago.
“My Charms marks has increased—we’ve fooled Barlan into thinking I’m partially gifted,” Wilhelmina announced as she sat next to Minerva’s usual tree. Minerva pulled her closer and Wil finished her speech. “It’s a Hogsmeade weekend...I was thinking Three Broomsticks and firewhiskey, perhaps, purely celebratory...”
Minerva smiled and closed her Potions text book; she reached instead for Wilhelmina’s hand, stroking a thumb along the main crease of Wil’s palm. Before thinking, she pecked Wil’s lips with her own, commencing the celebration in her head. Her brain caught up a moment later and she withdrew from her companion completely, removing even her knee from the other’s vicinity.
Wilhelmina frowned and looked around, immediately aware of the reasoning for Minerva’s distance. A few students were scattered along the grass but seemed entirely attentive to their various studies or conversations. That was, all except Professor Dumbledore, who was walking along the shore in a rather peculiar robe and singing some song about a seven-legged sea-creature eating parsnips. He watched them with twinkling eyes—Wil wondered whatever for, but would never push her luck.
The weeping willow beside them began to weep further, until the students and Dumbledore were out of sight. Wilhelmina turned to her companion. “Was that you?”
“It wasn’t—plants don’t usually respond well to my urges. I thought it was you; plants aren’t such a far cry from animals.”
“No, it wasn’t me: my Herbology guides me in planting and caring for plants, not manipulating them...”
Dumbledore’s song snaked through the long willow leaves. When they heard it, both students laughed fully, loose and open with their amusement until both were breathless and leaning on each other for support, lest the lake attempt to catch them in a fall. Professor Dumbledore was mad or family, they decided together when their breath was theirs again. At last they decided he was both.
That evening Minerva permitted herself to lose control. Wilhelmina had finished one firewhiskey and was working on another; her features grew redder as she drank. They touched their bare toes together over the rug, Minerva having abandoned her ridiculous heels—a Christmas gift from her mother, for her ‘blossoming woman-child’.
They spoke of Hogwarts: Dumbledore and their other professors, work, NEWTs, their looming first summer of freedom. When the conversation ran dry, Wilhelmina tore through a third firewhiskey. When she stood to bring her chair closer to Minerva’s, she stumbled and landed on the girl’s knees. Wil stood immediately and hurried back to her chair, flushed from embarrassment and drink.
Minerva regained her straddled position from so many Hogsmeade evenings ago, this time less prude in her handling of Wil. Wilhelmina removed Minerva’s hair pins and loosened her plait until her hair tumbled free over her shoulder and onto Wil. She leaned to smell the hair, stopping also to kiss Minerva’s neck close to the merger of neck and collarbone; this earned a low groan from Minerva.
“Bed,” Min grunted as she removed her foot from Wil’s pant-leg and stood. She offered a hand to her ruddy-faced companion and pulled her toward the bed, stealing a kiss before they reached the furniture. Minerva threaded her fingers through Wil’s soft sandy hair and lightly raked her minimal fingernails down the girl’s neck. Wil’s knees gave out until she sat askew on the bed, one leg and arm steadying her.
Minerva stepped out of her simple black undergarments and straddled her lover. Wilhelmina took a deep breath and, instead of finding the act steadying, took in the heady smell of Minerva’s arousal. Within seconds Min was flipped onto her back on the bed and Wil’s face was buried between her thighs, both confused at the efficient act given her previous state.
Wil did not have much to do: Minerva had suffered the arousal from Wil’s meetings for many months with only self-directed fingers to appease her voracious carnal appetite. With the real thing and Wilhelmina’s deft tongue—she was a natural—Minerva was calling out soon after it had begun.
Nigh panting, she rested on her elbows and brought Wil close with a tug of her calf at Wil’s bottom. Out of balance once more, she fell atop Minerva and wasted no time in connecting their lips. When Min had her breath and found her body was ready for more, her hips thrust themselves toward Wil’s hipbone. Wil responded with two fingers at her lover’s entrance, circling and questioning their access.
“Please,” Minerva uttered, moaning as Wil slipped her second hand under Min’s top. She lasted longer, pulling at Wil with her hips and tonguing her lover’s lips as the girl’s fingers pumped her. This time she bit her lip, but her climax escaped with the same power; Wil lay close, circling a finger over Minerva’s taut stomach.
When Minerva came down again, she turned to search Wil’s eyes, warm hand on the girl’s hip. “May I?” her finger traced down the wrinkles of Wil’s trousers, ever closer to the clasp...
Wil turned away and shook her head, resting her hand on Min’s until both were on the bed between them. “Tonight I am too...fuzzy in the brain.”
Instead she took Minerva for one more ride, and as she was spent by then, they kissed by the moon- and fire-light, celebrating Charms and the nearing of freedom, but primarily their own growing love.
Minerva was displeased to find that their next Hogsemeade visits went similarly: Minerva flew high above the sheets, it seemed, but Wil hardly allowed a hand upon herself. She had jumped when Minerva’s hand had barely skimmed across her breast. The evenings were marvellous, yes, undeniably delectable...but frustrating, and not fully satiating.
With the approach of summer freedom, it finally struck Minerva that she felt nearly as much pleasure from giving pleasure as from receiving—and an entirely different sort, at that. Or at least she assumed so, based on the empty feeling seeping into her previously love-laden heart.
Wilhelmina was distant when they went to discuss it. Even with the stress of NEWTs, she did not budge. Even at the ultimate freedom of NEWT completion, she did not budge. Minerva had had enough when, even when they had received their marks and had begun packing, Wilhelmina had not budged.
“I can’t do this, I’m afraid,” Minerva murmured one evening during a Hogsmeade cuddle session. “I can deal with hiding our love from prejudice, with feeling ostracised from my peers for my unique type of adoration; I can even put up with knowing that we part for the foreseeable future within the next month. What I cannot understand or heed, however, is being bereft of the privilege of pleasuring you.”
Wilhelmina slipped into her undershirt, hiding her breasts once more—as usual. Minerva missed them immediately, but she hardly got acquainted enough with them to know them intimately. Wil was very guarded in her nudity—such things, Minerva presumed, could lead to pleasure.
“I can’t, Minerva. I just...I can’t. I don’t want to be touched there. I don’t trust my body: sometimes it doesn’t feel like mine.”
Minerva sighed, unable to fully grasp this explanation but never able to comprehend any others, either. She lay back and covered herself with a sheet.
“It seems inappropriate to break while not properly clothed...” she frowned, wiping what could have been moisture from the corner of her eye. She stood and summoned her clothing, slipping into it as quickly as she ever could. “I didn’t think I would, or would admit to something of this sort, but I love you Wil Grubbly-Plank...and I love to bring the greatest pleasures to what I love.”
“You are the greatest pleasure.” Wil looked melancholy as she slipped into her trousers. “I love you too.”
“And you love my pleasure?”
“I do, endlessly so.”
Minerva frowned and rested on the bed, palms down, head shaking. She was at the end and could take no more. “And I would find the same in your pleasure—without it, I feel a hole. I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Wil, I...I can’t do this anymore. Someday, I hope, a woman will come along for you with the intent to just be pleasured and not share in the act. I am not that woman.”
Wil stood shell-shocked between the two chairs, one hand on each as if to savour the memories that had occurred there; her face revealed that the moment had been ripped from her. She slumped against an arm, the hint of wetness at her eyelids.
“I...I can’t say anything but that I understand, and I feared this, and I am so very sorry it came to this. I’m sorry for both of us.”
“I am too. Someday, maybe, we can resume. If you find you are ready, someday, come visit me: sooner if for friendship, later if you have a change of heart...or mind, or body I suppose. A good day to you, Wil, and a grand life too—don’t take this to mean I haven’t loved you. I have loved you with all I could, I am just not sure my words express it best.”
Minerva gathered her belongings with a sweep of her wand and fled to the warm high street of Hogsmeade. At home, in the final days of safety within her four-poster dormitory bed, she let her tears slide down to land upon tales of unicorns and dragons etched within the pages of a beloved book once gifted to her. Her heart felt heavy, but her life was once more full of endless possible futures.
Minerva expected many things when she opened the door to her quarters: Dumbledore with a box of sweets, Snape with a Quidditch taunt, Hooch with the ‘greatest prank of a lifetime’ or news that James Potter and his foolish gang had set fire to the whole sodding Forbidden Forest—merely because it was Forbidden. A whole world of possibilities played before her mind’s eye.
What she did not expect was the unreadable face of Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, in the flesh, in her doorway.
“Minerva?” The woman’s voice was loaded with hope and uncertainty just as it had been those many decades before, by the lake in autumn. “Rolanda told me, told me you weren’t attached, that I might...”
Minerva ushered her in, damning that foolish Rolanda woman and her ideas of romance for old spinsters. Couldn’t she live her life in peace from the hormones she had finally seemed to escape?
It seemed not, as Wilhelmina showcased the most courage Minerva had ever witnessed in pressing her back against the closed door. Wil’s eyes bore into her; Wil’s leg slipped between her own.
“It’s been years...” Minerva murmured, surprised at her own shock—how often was she shocked beyond speech?—and unsure of what her thoughts should be. She closed against Wilhelmina’s legs, the pressure only slipping up against her core, which awoke from its slumber with the power of a caged feral dragon. Her head grew dizzy with the sudden change in her body; she sank further against the leg.
“The same,” Wil grunted, her lips at Minerva’s pulse point. She felt the increased rate of Min’s beating heart, saw the spread of red flushing from there down to the line of her evening robe. Wil tugged at the waist-line string and pulled it straight out, brushing material off Minerva’s arms and down her shoulders until she was free.
Minerva’s brain—or body, probably body—kicked into action: her hand reached upward, grasping, grasping. She touched the soft flesh of Wil’s chest; the woman recoiled at first, but took a breath and stepped back, pressed herself into the touch and her leg into the crevice of Minerva’s.
“Bed,” Minerva uttered, her mind offering one last piece of advice, “or I’ll collapse at this rate.”
“Right, right, bed,” Wilhelmina echoed, pulling them both along the wall to Minerva’s chambers. Ornaments and glasses fell, but she couldn’t be bothered—not in this state.
She tucked her hand within Wil’s white shirt—ever the stained white shirt, how little changed!—and stroked skin far softer than she could have expected. Wil shivered against her, seeking her mouth and slipping her tongue between Minerva’s lips.
It seemed an old and new dance at once, their steps beside the bed, until Minerva moaned against Wilhelmina’s mouth and Wil was as naked as Minerva. They fell to the bed at once, ignoring creaking knees and creaking mattresses. Min straddled her surprise visitor, hip bones jutting out to the world and breasts hanging before Wil’s mouth. Wil lapped at one pert nipple, palming the other breast with her free hand. Minerva cried out and shimmied her hips down against Wil’s.
“Are you...are you sure?” she inquired when her breath was momentarily caught. She found Wilhelmina’s eyes and stopped all motions, willing her question through: she wanted this answer to be sure; she was not ready for revisiting old heartbreak.
“As sure as I’ll ever be, Minerva.”
The inclusion of her name completed the answer, somehow; Minerva dipped her head and licked down Wil’s neck, at last circling her tongue around Wil’s browned nipple. Wil squirmed under Min at the attention, further brushing Minerva’s folds; she inhaled sharply and pinched Wil’s nipple, working her way down.
Wilhelmina spelled Minerva’s hair free with a whisper; Min felt it snake down her back and over Wil’s stomach. Minerva smiled. She pushed Wil up the bed and slipped one leg beneath hers, the other between Wil’s legs; she adjusted herself just so and watched Wilhelmina for a reaction—any reaction. The woman closed her eyes and bit her lip, grasping Minerva’s hand firmly. Minerva pressed herself down.
“Ah!” Wilhelmina cried, rocking, moisture clinging to her eyelids. She shuddered as Minerva rocked them, building momentum as Wil squeezed harder. When she could move no faster, she slipped her free hand between them and brushed Wil’s engorged clit, catching it with her thumb: Wil’s legs jerked. Minerva massaged the spot with her finger pads, around the sensitive spot as she rocked, occasional direct touch with her thumb.
“I—ah—Min, see you!” Wil called between gasps and groans. She lifted at the shoulder, shaking with the effort, eyes wide and seeking Minerva’s gaze: their sights met.
“It’s alright, Wil, you’re safe—you can let your body lead you,” Minerva urged, swiping her thumb more frequently. Wilhelmina’s gaze wavered but she squeezed her lover’s hands as her eyes widened, sweat glistening at her forehead. Min’s voice continued, monotone but comforting: “You’re vulnerable, Wil, but you’re safe—I’ll see you through. Come for me. You can do it. Come for me. Come.”
She beckoned with her thumb, rocked her hip and, at last, thumbed at Wil’s palms as she once had, matching it with the tempo against Wil’s clit. Wilhelmina soared through her barrier, shattering it as she cried out into the night: “Minerva!”
Her muscles grew taut and spasmed, pressing her against Minerva until she came with all the combined pleasure of herself and Wilhelmina. She swore she saw her chambers in perfect, enhanced light behind her eyelids as the heat lighting coursed her scalp to toes and back again, the image of Wilhelmina’s face in release etched in her immediate memory. She was spell-bound: she was at the mercy of the waves of warmth journeying her body.
When at last she was released, she slumped down against the bed. She felt too dizzy to open her eyes, but braved visual onslaught to check on Wilhelmina. She called up the reserves of her strength and pushed onto one elbow to find Wil’s eyes, wide and gazing still at Minerva. Wilhelmina blinked, flushed everywhere and panting: she had never looked so handsome.
Minerva untangled herself and, despite the ache of movement, spread herself next to Wil. Rather than enfold her as she would have done another lover—Poppy, perhaps, or Amelia—she rested below Wil’s chin, one arm over her waist; Wil adjusted, slowly but surely, to envelope Minerva.
“I’ve never...” she murmured, searching for words that would not come. She steadied her breathing with deep, controlled breaths. “It reminded me of bareback riding on a unicorn—the trust, the high, the...” her words faltered.
Minerva smiled, lax and sated, as she kissed Wilhelmina’s breast. “You came back.”
“You told me to. No one with sense defies Minerva McGonagall.”
“Damn right they don’t.”