Title: A Slant-Told Tale
Author: Squibstress
Rating: MA
Genre: Drama, romance
Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism
Published: 23/05/2017
Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling.
Chapter Twenty-Three
24 December 1962
When Alastor knocked at Minerva’s door and received no answer, he began to worry. She might be anywhere in the castle or on the grounds, of course, but it was unlike her to be late or forget an engagement.
Now what?
He couldn’t exactly go tramping around Hogwarts, asking, “Have you seen Professor McGonagall?” nor could he stand here like a prat outside the door to her quarters.
Maybe he should wait inside. Then if her elf showed up, he could ask the fellow to find her, or if not, he could use her owl to send a note to Dumbledore to ask if he knew where the deputy headmistress was. There might have been some school-related emergency that kept her from meeting him at the gates.
Alastor eyed her door appraisingly. Besides, he thought, it wouldn’t hurt to test out how strong her wards were, would it? How angry could she get?
Plenty angry, if he knew Minerva.
Well, he decided, she can’t stay angry. She’d invited him, after all, and then hadn’t had the good grace to meet him when and where she’d said she would. She had to know he’d be worried. It was his stock-in-trade.
Withdrawing his wand from its holster, he gingerly teased out the enchantments that guarded her door.
Too bloody easy, he thought to himself as they disintegrated like wet tissue under his wand. Got to teach her some better protective spells.
He opened the door with a simple Alohomora and stepped in.
To say he was startled to see someone sitting at the far window across the room would be an understatement. He hadn’t been expecting anyone to be there, so he reflexively whipped his wand forward and crouched slightly in the classic defensive stance, crying, “Don’t move!”
When she turned, and he saw that it was Minerva, he immediately lowered his wand.
“Merlin’s balls, woman, you gave me a fright!”
She stood but didn’t move otherwise. “Alastor, what on earth are you doing?”
“Looking for you.” He took in her pale face and reddened eyes and went to her, putting a concerned hand on her arm. “Minerva, love, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing, I just … I … I had a frustrating day.” Her eyes widened and she said, “Oh! I was supposed to meet you at the gates! I’m so sorry, Alastor. I must have lost track of the time …”
He pulled her into his arms, saying, “No matter, Minerva. I was just worried, is all.”
“I am sorry. How did you get in?” she asked.
“That Hagrid chap saw me at the gate. Told him I was supposed to meet you, and he let me in. You need to talk to him, Minerva. If he lets just anyone in like that, he’s a security risk.”
“You’re hardly just anyone, Alastor.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know that, does he?”
“You are fairly well-known these days,” she said.
Alastor grimaced. He had been written up in the Daily Prophet—and those gits had included his bloody picture!—two weeks earlier. He had saved the life of the Minister when a low-level Ministry functionary had attempted to assassinate him during a meeting with his Japanese counterpart. Alastor had taken it upon himself to keep watch over the meeting—a function usually assigned to lower-level members of the Auror corps—because he had heard rumours about a plot being hatched by a vampires’ rights group angry over recent legislation banning them from having sexual relations with witches or wizards. Others in MLE had pooh-poohed the threat, but as it turned out, Alastor had been right, and he had taken a nasty curse in the belly for his trouble when the plant at the meeting had made his attempt on Minister McKinnon.
“Maybe,” said Alastor. “But I could’ve been Polyjuiced, couldn’t I?”
“You’re paranoid, Alastor,” remarked Minerva.
“Yeah, well … paranoid or not, you and I are going to go over the wards to your quarters here, Minerva. It was altogether too easy to break through them.”
“If it will make you feel better,” she said.
“That it will.” After a moment, he asked, “Why did you not answer the door when I knocked?”
He noticed how she looked away as she said, “I guess I was just so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t hear you.”
He didn’t believe it for a moment. But he decided not to push it for the time being. She was clearly upset about something, and he’d have a better chance of finding out what it was if he let her come to it on her own.
“Well, now that I’m here, where would you like me to put me things?” he asked, patting the pocket where he had stashed his Shrunken suitcase.
“There’s a set of guest rooms just down the corridor. I’ll show you,” she said.
After he had put the few things he had brought for the holiday visit away in the small guest bedroom and bath, the two of them returned to Minerva’s rooms to find an elf standing just outside the door.
When he saw them approach, the elf gave a short bow and said, “Professor McGonagall, I has a message from the headmaster for you,” holding out an envelope.
Short message, then, Alastor thought. Good.
He had hoped she wouldn’t be called upon for any time-consuming school business during the holiday, although as deputy, she had to stay at the castle to help supervise the small group of students who also remained. Since Alastor had the Christmas holiday off for once—probably in deference to his recent service to the Minister—he’d convinced her to let him visit her at Hogwarts so they could spend it together—with properly separate rooms, of course—and the headmaster had apparently been amenable.
He saw Minerva blanch as she took the envelope.
What the devil is going on?
“Thank you, Bilby,” she said. “There will be no reply at present.”
“Very good, Professor,” the elf said and popped away.
When they got inside, she said, “I’ll just be a moment, Alastor,” and went to her desk. She broke the seal on the envelope by hand, and he watched her as her eyes scanned the note. He thought he saw her tear up momentarily before she went to the fireplace and tossed the note in—a bit too casually, Alastor thought.
“Anything important?” He couldn’t help asking.
“Oh. No. He just … answered a question I had.”
Alastor reaffirmed his commitment not to push her on the subject, so he took a seat on her settee and patted the space next to him for her to join him, which she did.
They talked a bit, mostly about the annoyances of Alastor’s new, and hopefully temporary, celebrity, then Minerva excused herself to tidy up before dinner, and, giving his wrinkled shirt and trousers the gimlet eye, she suggested he do the same.
They went to the Great Hall together—it would not be unusual for the deputy headmistress to escort an honoured guest to dinner, after all—and when Malcolm Macnair came in, taking a seat next to another boy near the end of the High Table, Alastor gave him a small nod of acknowledgement and got one in response.
The headmaster appeared a few minutes later, and he greeted Alastor warmly, shaking his hand and saying, “Auror Moody! Such a pleasure to see you again. I’m very glad you could join us.”
“I thank you for the invitation, Professor Dumbledore,” Alastor replied.
“Please sit, friends,” Dumbledore said to the twenty-odd students and staff at the High Table, who had stood when the headmaster entered. “We are very fortunate to have with us two visitors for the next few days. Some of you may recognise the wizard to my left,” he said, indicating Alastor, who sat between himself and Minerva, “as Alastor Moody, the well-known Auror.” The headmaster waited for the murmurs to die down, then he said, “And seated next to Professor Flitwick, I am pleased to introduce Mr Felix Flitwick, who will be visiting his brother during the holidays.” There erupted another round of whispering, as those at table couldn’t help noticing that diminutive Professor Flitwick’s brother appeared to be quite tall.
When the main course was finished, Albus leant over and said to Alastor, “Please forgive me if I don’t invite you and Minerva in for a drink, Alastor, but I have some pressing business to attend to this evening.”
“No worries, Professor,” Alastor said. Albus got up and left the table just as the treacle tart began to appear on diners’ plates. Alastor watched Minerva follow him out with her eyes and realised that the two hadn’t spoken to one another at all during the meal, although Dumbledore had conversed with Alastor genially and spoke with everyone else within earshot of him.
An argument, then?
Alastor knew that Minerva set great store by Albus Dumbledore, so any disturbance between them could certainly be a cause for her distress that afternoon. He knew it wasn’t his business—except insofar as Minerva’s happiness was his business—but he couldn’t help being curious as to the cause.
He and Minerva joined the Flitwick brothers, old Madam Warburg, and Professor Kettleburn in the staff room after dinner. Felix Flitwick had brought some rare Veela-made Tokay back from his travels in Eastern Europe, and he generously shared it with the group, who chatted about Flitwick’s most recent trip and, predictably and irritatingly, about Alastor’s most recent feat of supposed heroism.
“But how did you manage to survive the Killing Curse?” enquired Kettleburn.
“Simple Shield Charm,” said Alastor. “I was lucky the bas— er, the git didn’t have much energy behind his AK—probably scared to death—or I would have been Kneazle food,” said Alastor, wishing they’d find another topic of conversation.
“Yes,” said the taller Flitwick brother, “but wasn’t it risky? The curse could have rebounded and hit someone else.”
“Sure” said Alastor. “But they teach you how to deal with that in Auror training. The trick is to let yourself absorb some of the curse energy while deflecting enough to keep from doing too much damage to you.”
“That sounds tremendously difficult,” said Minerva.
“Well, it takes practice to learn how to do it right,” Alastor answered.
The smaller Flitwick said, “And I have to imagine it takes some considerable magical power to do it.”
“Yeah, well … the training tends to weed out guys who don’t have the magical chops for it,” said Alastor.
“It sounds very dangerous,” piped Madam Warburg, sounding slightly disapproving. “Absorbing that kind of negative energy—even in small amounts—can be very damaging.”
Alastor unconsciously put a hand on his recently healed belly. “It isn’t exactly healthy, no, Madam Warburg, but the first thing they teach you in Auror training is not to get yourself into a situation where you might have to do it.”
“And you obviously skipped that day of lessons,” said Minerva.
“I don’t go looking for trouble, if that’s what you mean Mi— Professor. Sometimes it just goes with the job.”
“Hear, hear,” said Professor Kettleburn, raising his glass with a hand that was conspicuously missing two fingers, and Alastor laughed, saying, “If you like trouble, Professor, you should’ve gone into the Aurors; I hear the pension’s better.”
Everyone laughed at that, and the evening continued in a similar vein until the two Flitwicks stood to take their leave.
The rest of the group followed suit, and Alastor had a feeling they were fooling no one when Minerva said, “If you’ll come with me, Mr Moody, I’ll show you to your guest quarters. They’re on my way.”
When they got to Minerva’s door, Alastor leant in and whispered, “Your place or mine?”
“Mine,” she said. “I need to be available in case a student needs me in the night.”
Alastor had made up his mind to ask her about Dumbledore and the reason for her distress, but as soon as the door had closed behind them, she pressed her back against it and pulled him to her, her mouth seeking his, and he forgot his questions.
“Mmmm, missed you …” he moaned into her mouth.
He had half thought she’d decline to make love, given her upset that afternoon, and thought perhaps she’d be unready to shed the proper façade they’d kept up during the meal and afters, but he was delighted to find that she had no such inhibition as she began to kiss him almost aggressively. Her leg came up around his hip and urged him closer—as if he needed any urging—her hands moving down to cup his buttocks.
“My, we are mad for it tonight, aren’t we?” he said as he nuzzled her neck, nipping at it gently as he went.
She gave him her answer not in words, but by clasping her arms around his neck and bringing her other leg up around his waist.
“Hold up there, girl,” he said, staggering slightly, “let a man get his bearings before you attack him.”
“Bedroom’s over there,” she said, indicating a door opposite with her chin.
“Right-o.”
His recently-healed belly was starting to protest, but Alastor wasn’t about to let her know it—not when she was wrapped around him like a second skin. He carried her awkwardly but gamely into the bedroom and dropped her with some relief on the edge of the bed. Her hands found his belt and undid it, quickly unbuttoning his trousers and reaching inside to find his prick, which was straining up to meet her fingers.
He pushed her skirt up and grasped her knickers, taking a step back as he slid them off. When he stepped toward her again, his trousers fell down around his ankles, and he stumbled slightly, falling forward toward the bed, her knee catching him just on the side where he had taken the curse.
“Ah!” he cried, doubling over and grasping his belly.
Minerva jumped up. “Alastor! Gods, I’m so sorry! Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” he said, panting slightly with the pain. “Just caught me in the wrong spot is all. Be fine in a minute.”
She stood rubbing his arm for few moments as the pain waned, and he straightened, slightly chagrined by the concern evident in her face.
“Ah, don’t look like that, lass. I’m fine.”
“Maybe we’d better forgo this until you’re better …”
“Now I really am wounded,” he replied. “You wouldn’t want me to have to take matters into me own hands, now would you?” he said with a glance down at his semi-erect penis.
“Yes, but—”
“Shhh. Here … like this,” he said, urging her to turn around and face the bed.
“Are you sure?” she asked as he pushed her down over the edge of the mattress.
“Yeah. This’ll put less pressure on my belly,” he said, pushing down his shorts. “Are you going to lift your skirt, or do I have to do everything for you?” he asked, hoping to forestall any more discussion of his injury.
He was slightly surprised when she complied without comment, and he proceeded to take her more roughly than he ever had, and at her command.
“Harder!” she cried, over and over, until he was grunting with the effort and their skin made sharp slapping sounds as it met at each forceful stroke of his hips. When she begged him yet again to fuck her harder—exciting words he’d never heard from her mouth—he had to lean over to rest his arms on the mattress for support as his legs threatened to give out with the effort, and still she urged him on: “Harder … please, Alastor, harder!” and he was both shocked and aroused by the desperation in her voice.
He endeavoured to give her what she seemed to need, and by the end he didn’t know if she was crying out in pain or in ecstasy, but he couldn’t stop himself as he thrust into her, his climax coming on like the Hogwarts Express, and all he could do was keep moving, the feeling in his cock dragging him onward whether he would or no, and when he finally came explosively, a hot wave of guilt followed hard on the heels of his short-lived euphoria.
He climbed off her and backed away a few steps. She stayed there, bent over the bed, and he could see her shoulders heaving. There was a spot of blood on the front tail of his shirt.
Merlin, what did I do to her?
He quickly pulled up and fastened his trousers, tucking the offending shirttail in.
“Minerva? Love?” he asked fearfully.
She got up then, and when she turned to him, he thought the sight of her tear-stained face might just finish the job that Ministry git’s curse hadn’t quite managed.
“Oh, Jaysus, Minerva, I’ve hurt you …”
“I’m fine, Alastor,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said, “’cause you always cry when I shag you.” He wanted to run and hide, but he forced himself to go to her. “I’m so sorry, Minerva. I didn’t mean to hurt you … I just—”
She put her arms around him and cut off his apology, saying, “It’s all right. You didn’t hurt me. I’m the one who asked you to … do what you did.”
“No, it’s no excuse. I lost control.”
“Hush. It’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t. Christ … they ought to lock me up …”
“Alastor,” she said, putting her arms around his slumped shoulders, “you didn’t do anything wrong. I wanted you to be … a little … a little rough this time.”
His relief that she hadn’t thrown him out was tempered with confusion and concern. He looked down, searching her face. “But why, Minerva?”
She shrugged and pulled out of his arms. “I don’t know. I just wanted it,” she replied in that tone that said she wasn’t going to say any more about it. She looked around and found her knickers, slipping them on carefully over her boots.
“Minerva, please talk to me.” He took her hand and led her to the side of the bed, where they sat. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she said, trying to stand, but he kept hold of her hand.
“You can’t make me believe there’s nothing wrong. We’ve been together for more than two years, and you’ve never cried in front of me, and today I come and find you crying, but you won’t tell me why. And then I … I shag you hard enough to make you cry again, and you tell me you wanted it. Forgive my language, Minerva, but ‘nothing’s wrong’ is a load of shite.”
“I can’t talk about it, Alastor,” she said. “Please. It’s nothing to do with you.” She pulled her hand out of his and stood. “I’m just going to go get cleaned up.”
“Is it Dumbledore?”
That stopped her in her tracks, and Alastor felt a sheet of cold terror wash over him.
Turning to face him again, she asked, “What do you mean?”
“Minerva, it doesn’t take an Auror to see that something’s wrong between the two of you. If it’s upset you so much, why can’t you tell me about it?”
“It’s … it’s personal. It doesn’t concern you.”
Courage, man.
He couldn’t quite look at her face as he asked, “Are you in love with him?”
Her barking laugh startled him, and now he looked up at her. “Oh, Alastor.” She came back to sit next to him on the bed. “Is that what you think? No.” She took his face between her hands and turned it to face hers. “No. I am in love with you.”
“Then what—”
“There are things between Albus and me, Alastor. He has been very good to me, and he helped me at times when I had no one else to turn to. And what is between us … is just that. Between us. When I said it didn’t concern you, I didn’t mean to hurt you, but it’s the simple truth. I am not in love with Albus Dumbledore, and he is not in love with me. We are not having an affair, if that’s what is troubling you.”
She sighed deeply and continued, “We have had a … a disagreement. I have hurt him, and it makes me wretched because he is my friend, and I love him as my friend. But don’t ask me any more about it, please, Alastor. Please. You cannot help me with this, but it does make me feel better to have you here with me. Believe that.”
“All right.”
She kissed his lips gently. “And you didn’t hurt me. I enjoyed what we did, however it may have appeared to you. But I’m sorry if I asked you to do something that made you uncomfortable.”
“You’ve no call to apologise to me. I’m the one lost control,” he said.
“Well, you weren’t the only one, then,” she replied. “Here,” she said, beginning to unbutton his shirt. “Why don’t we have a proper lie-down together.”
When he started to remonstrate, she said, “Just a lie-down. But I want to feel your skin next to mine, all right?”
That sounded just fine to Alastor. Suddenly, he was exhausted. His belly was hurting and his legs ached with recent effort.
They undressed silently, and when she slipped under the sheets and curled into him, everything felt just as it had before. He fell asleep stroking her hair.
She woke him sometime after one, and they agreed that he should return to the guest quarters for the rest of the night, in case someone came looking for the head of Gryffindor.
He lay in the narrow bed staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows made by the moonlight playing through the mullioned window.
She didn’t want him to ask any more about her troubles, so he wouldn’t. But he couldn’t stop wondering about them and what they had to do with what had happened between them this evening.
Christ, he still felt terrible about that. No matter what she had said, he shouldn’t have lost control as he had. If there was one thing Diarmid Moody had impressed upon his son, it was that you never hurt a woman. And lord knew if any man ever had provocation to break that rule, it had been Alastor’s da. But Alastor’d never seen him lay a finger on his mam, not even when she was deepest in her cups and wilder than a banshee. His da had protected his mam right to the very end because he’d made a promise and because he’d loved her once.
Alastor’s desire to protect Minerva was currently warring with his promise to let things lie.
He certainly never wanted to hurt Minerva, but another thing his da had told him was that the road to Hell was paved with “didn’t mean to.”