When Hermione is asked to update the National Dictionary of Wizarding Biography, she sets out to discover the mystery of what happened to Minerva McGonagall after the war. Along the way, she discovers some surprising things about herself and about h...
"Hullo, Puss," Professor Dumbledore said, reaching down to scratch her between the ears.
Minerva arched into his caress and allowed the sheer physical pleasure of it to wash over her. She rolled over and exposed her white belly, which would make her blush remembering it even hours later. He rubbed obligingly, and when he stopped, she flipped back over and butted her head against his leg.
"You look as if you could do with a saucer of cream," he said, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her into his office.
She'd been anxious to surprise him with what she could do, but now she was torn between popping back into her human form and staying as she was to see if he would pet her some more.
"I could do with some tea myself," he said and put her down on the desk.
He summoned a house-elf, who brought the tea and some cream for Minerva. She lapped it up, enjoying the sweet, grassy aroma and the way the fat-heavy droplets pulled on her whiskers.
She settled herself carefully next to his papers and sat purring on his desk as he marked essays. When he put down his quill, yawning, he said, "I think I'd best leave the rest of these till morning."
He took her to the door and set her down just outside it, dashing her half-formed hope that he might take her to his quarters, or even let her sleep at the foot of his bed.
"Off you go, Puss," he said. "Back to your rightful place."
The exercise was repeated on two more occasions, Minerva promising herself that she'd reveal her secret each time, each time failing to do so. There was something so intoxicating about being an animal, with no expectations of propriety, free to enjoy her physical being and the touch of a man who would never lay a finger on her in her human form. She couldn't bring herself to give it up just yet.
It would be a game, she told herself. See how long it would take him to figure out that his nocturnal visitor was not a cat, but the young woman he'd known for almost seven years. The markings around her eyes would give it away eventually.
It was after the third time that disaster struck. She was padding round the corner from his office when sharp-nailed fingers closed around her neck and she was lifted by the scruff.
She yowled, hoping Dumbledore would hear her, but no such luck. The swipe of a clawed paw at the pale, handsome face of Tom Riddle missed, leaving her twisting helplessly, four legs paddling in empty air.
He shook her until she thought her bones would rip from their sockets. She tried to concentrate on re-transforming, and it was only the thought that if he killed her, she might remain in cat form and no one would know what had become of her that sobered her enough to achieve it.
She fell to the floor, pain shooting through the wrist she'd managed to put down to break her fall. Riddle was standing over her, a satisfied smirk on his face.
"Well, well, well," he said as she got carefully to her feet. "And just what have you been up to, McGonagall? Catting around Dumbledore's office?"
"It isn't any of your concern," she said, straightening her skirt with her good hand.
"Maybe not," he said. "But unregistered Animagi are the Ministry's concern. I hear you can get five years in Azkaban for it. And Dippet might be interested to know that you've been having night-time rendezvous with Dumbledore. Did he teach you just so you could meet him in secret?"
"He didn't. I—"
"I'll bet he just loves to pet his pussy."
She felt her cheeks grow warm.
"You're disgusting," she said.
"I'm not the one who's messing about with my Transfiguration professor. Anyway, I might be persuaded to forget what I know. For a price."
Her belly turned over, but what he said next wasn't what she expected.
"If you tell me how you did it, I won't say a word to anyone about you and Dumbledore."
"There's nothing like that between us," she said. "He doesn't even know I'm an Animagus."
"Who's going to believe that, Minerva?"
"It's the truth."
"The truth is what's written in the history books. And if I tell, he'll be put down as a lecher and you a whore."
The unfairness of it made her want to scream. It had started out as a harmless experiment, a way to impress her professor, and now it threatened her reputation and his livelihood unless she agreed to help Riddle, a boy she loathed and who, truth be told, frightened her.
"So what's it to be, Minerva? Do you help me, or do I go to Dippet?" The way his eyes shone and the sly curl of his lip almost made her tell him to go jump in the Black Lake. But it wasn't only her reputation at stake.
"I found the instructions in a book."
"Which book?"
She hesitated.
"All right, then," he said, and turned to go.
"Secrets of the Darkest Art," she said to his back.
He turned back to her.
"Get it for me."
"I don't have it. It's in the library. The Restricted Section. You'll need a pass."
"That won't be a problem," Riddle said. The cold, calculating look he had worn suddenly broke, and he smiled, a dazzling, genuine-seeming grin, and the rapid change scared her more than anything he'd done that evening.
"Thanks, Minerva. You're a peach," he said, turning to head down the stairs to the dungeon.
The retreating sound of his jolly whistling broke her paralysis.
Ignoring the pain in her wrist, Minerva turned and raced in the opposite direction, up four flights of stairs, and pounded with her good hand on the door to Dumbledore's quarters.
He appeared a moment later, his robes unbuttoned to mid-chest, a frown creasing his brows.
"Professor, I have to tell you something."
"It's after midnight, Miss McGonagall, can't it wait until morning?"
"I'm afraid it can't, sir. I've done something terribly foolish."
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