FIC: "Much Better Days" for dognmonkeyshow
Recipient: dognmonkeyshow
Author: r_grayjoy
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Pairing: Minerva McGonagall/Alastor Moody
Word Count: 2,085
Summary: The first time it happened was eight months into the first war with Voldemort.
Author's Notes: Massive thanks, first and foremost, to bethbethbeth for not giving up on me. My heartfelt gratitude also to R. for being there, as always. And finally, thanks to dognmonkeyshow for the prompt that brought my writing mojo home!
Much Better Days
The first time it happened was eight months into the first war with Voldemort.
The Order had gathered for a meeting in the upstairs sitting room of the Hog's Head Inn, privacy charms carefully cast and the curtains of the lone window pulled tight. The mood that evening had been grim. Voldemort was steadily growing in strength and influence, his followers becoming more bold by the day. Fear and pessimism were high and good news was scarce as the meeting dragged on for hours.
It was past midnight when Albus dismissed everyone at last. From her seat by the dwindling fire, Minerva watched as her allies filed silently out of the room one by one, even the youngest faces lined and weary. This war is ageing us all, she thought.
Although the Hog's Head was likely a fire hazard and a health risk rolled into one, Minerva didn't wish to return to Hogwarts yet. She was afraid that she might somehow pollute the sanctity of the school if she carried the dismal air back with her. That, or Poppy would never speak to her again if she inadvertently started a lice epidemic amongst the students. Whatever the case, she remained where she was. Soon no one remained save herself and, of all people, Alastor Moody.
"God damned Death Eaters!" Alastor said, banging his fist against the table beside him for emphasis.
Unfazed by the outburst, Minerva merely looked at Alastor and raised an eyebrow.
Alastor didn't seem to notice Minerva's expression as he went on, "The bastards are too damned good at staying anonymous and hidden. And when we do actually manage to catch one, two more just pop up to replace 'em. They're like cockroaches!"
"Very descriptive of you, Alastor." Despite her dry tone, Minerva would have been forced to admit that she appreciated Alastor's blunt and honest manner, particularly in a time of so much distrust and subterfuge.
Turning his head, Alastor squinted at Minerva. "What are you still doing here, anyway?"
"One could ask you the same question."
Alastor gave a grunt and a nod. "Fair enough." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a flask, unscrewed the top, and took a large swallow before offering the flask to Minerva.
After only a moment's hesitation, Minerva accepted the flask. She took a healthy swallow of her own, not coughing as the harsh liquor burned her throat. Alastor seemed to approve.
"I don't know how you do it," he said. "Go back to Hogwarts and teach the little ankle-biters every day and pretend there's not a war on outside."
Minerva passed the flask back to Alastor. "And I don't know how you spend your days hunting dark wizards and living constantly in the war."
"Hmph. To each their own, I guess," Alastor said, then took another swig.
The conversation lapsed, and Minerva was just considering leaving when Alastor broke the silence. "Look," he said. "I've got a room here for the night. It's safer to talk there than it is out here; it's more private and easier to ward. Since you don't seem in a hurry to get home either, why don't we take this," he held up the flask, "in there?"
In Minerva's youth, it would have been the height of impropriety for a single witch to be alone with an unwed wizard in private quarters. The times had changed, however, and besides, there wasn't much use for propriety in wartime. And Alastor, for all his brusque nature, was honorable. With a slight shrug, Minerva rose. "Why not?"
Alastor led Minerva to a room and held the door open for her to enter. He followed her inside, closed the door behind them, and muttered a spell that caused several candles and a lantern to flare to life. In the dim light, Minerva could see that the cramped room was sparsely furnished with a narrow bed, a lumpy sofa, and a few scattered tables, all of which had seen much better days. A bit like us, she decided.
"Well, have a seat," Alastor said, lowering himself to the sofa. "I've cast enough Cleansing and Vermin Aversion charms to keep the place safe for one night, at least."
Choosing to take Alastor at his word, Minerva sat on the opposite side of the sofa.
"So then," Alastor said, one side of his mouth twitching up into a peculiar half-smile, "what do people have to talk about these days that doesn't involve Dark Lords, Death Eaters, or Unforgivable Curses?"
Over the next two hours, Minerva was surprised to discover that she and Alastor could find quite a number of topics for discussion, from transfiguration techniques to the relative merits and drawbacks of the Animagus Register. Alastor's blunt and forthright manner made for lively debate, yet he was never condescending towards Minerva despite his position as a senior Auror. Minerva was also amused to note that Alastor's magical eye whizzed most erratically when he was losing ground in an argument.
The smaller candles were beginning to burn low when Alastor raised his arms above his head in a stretch and said, "It's late. I'd better get some sleep or I'll be in no mood to tolerate the bureaucratic tits at the Ministry tomorrow. Not that a few mild hexes wouldn't do them some good, mind you."
At Alastor's innocuous words, Minerva was overcome with a feeling that was one part disappointment and two parts blind panic. She didn't have time to analyze the reasons; she only knew that she wasn't yet ready to leave Alastor's company and return to Hogwarts alone. Casting circumspection aside, she rushed forward and planted an awkward but firm kiss square on Alastor's mouth.
Before Minerva even had a chance to regret her move, Alastor was responding, reaching for her and pulling her towards him. It happened so quickly that Minerva wasn't quite certain how she came to be straddling Alastor's lap, her robes bunched up around her thighs. One corner of her mind stiffly railed at the indignity of her position, but the rest of her promptly told it to buzz off and attend to its own business.
The moment was surreal, yet Minerva was acutely aware of every detail. The slightly chapped texture of Alastor's lips, and the groove where an old scar crossed them. Alastor's large hands roving over her back and thighs, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath her own palms. Alastor's unique presence that seemed competent, resilient, and unquestionably masculine.
When Minerva felt an unmistakable hardness nudging her, she was flooded with uncertainty. What am I doing? How long has it been since I last did anything like this? Do I even remember what comes next? This is foolishness! These thoughts didn't stop her from pressing herself against Alastor's growing erection like a wanton girl half her age, however. Nor did she protest when Alastor pulled loose the pin at the back of her head, freeing her hair from its usual tight bun and allowing it to cascade around her shoulders. And when Alastor reached for the buttons and ties of her robes, she responded by tugging at his in turn.
Not long thereafter, they stood to remove the last of their clothing, then Alastor maneuvered Minerva to the bed and laid her down on its surface. She looked up at him then, standing before her, and took him in. Old curse scars decorated every surface of his skin, the largest of which was a silver streak that slashed across his chest and divided his chest hair in two. His hair was coarse, his hands callused, his body lean and hard. His thick, veined cock jutted out proudly from a thatch of wiry curls. He was imperfect, to be sure, but handsome and arousing nonetheless. A warrior, Minerva though. He looks like a warrior.
Minerva was suddenly quite conscious of her own appearance. She was still slender, certainly, but time and gravity had begun to take their toll. Her breasts were not as pert, her skin not as smooth and supple, her joints not as limber as they once had been. She was about to move to cover herself when Alastor's expression stopped her. Both of his eyes were fixed solely upon her, and he gazed at her almost reverently. "You're beautiful," he breathed.
Crawling on his hands and knees, Alastor joined Minerva on the bed, and there was no more room for doubts. Minutes later, as Minerva sat astride Alastor with him buried deep within her, she realized that she felt ten years younger.
That was the first time it happened, but it was far from the last. As the fight against Voldemort wore on, Minerva and Alastor saw each other with increased frequency. The days when the war efforts appeared the most hopeless were often the occasions when their encounters were the most heated and intense. At other times, however, Minerva found that Alastor possessed a far more tender touch than she ever would have guessed. He was an amazingly attentive lover, somehow always managing to know exactly what she needed. Perhaps it was simply because they needed the same things.
It wasn't romance. It was something much more complex. It was mutual respect and admiration. It was something to look forward to after even the most disheartening of Order meetings. It was a celebration of life and pleasure in the midst of so much death and destruction. It was shared solace and release. It was one of the most incredible things Minerva had ever experienced.
Word spread swiftly the night Voldemort was defeated. By midnight there was revelry in the streets of Hogsmeade, complete with fireworks and impromptu displays of wand effects. Minerva and Alastor eventually found each other in the Hog's Head, the place where it had all began. They knew it would be their last time to meet in this way, and the chaos outside the inn drowned out their moans and shouts.
Except that it wasn't the last time.
Voldemort came back.
After the Dark Lord's return at the crux of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, Albus was quick to recall the Order to action, and Minerva and Alastor were equally quick to resume their former arrangement. Almost fourteen years had passed since they were last together. Minerva knew that she had grown more saggy, lined, and gray over that time. But then, Alastor had gained several scars and lost a leg and a chunk of his nose to boot. Somehow they still found each other as alluring and desirable as ever. If it took Alastor a little longer to become fully aroused, or if Minerva couldn't move quite as fast as she used to, well, it was that much more time that they could devote to enjoying each other.
As Minerva lay beneath Alastor one night early in the second war, her fingers digging into his back and his breath hot in her ear, she had a sense of déjà vu. She felt twenty-five years younger, as though it were the start of the first war all over again. Then she recalled having had a similar thought once before -- that she had felt ten years younger the first time she and Alastor had been together. So she supposed that meant she now felt thirty-five years younger. She could certainly live with that, she decided. And then she thought no more at all, but simply moved with Alastor's thrusts.
* * * * *
The day Alastor died, Minerva aged forty years. She felt hollow, drained, ravaged by anger and loss. Although every member of the Order had been at great risk, Minerva realized that she had never actually expected Alastor, the hardened Auror known for his near-paranoia and shouts of "Constant vigilance!" to fall. She'd always thought of him as invincible in a way; his enemies whittled him away piece by piece, but they should never have been able to destroy him completely.
When Voldemort was defeated once and for all, Minerva had no time to celebrate the victory or to mourn those who had fallen in the final battle. She was far too busy organizing the able-bodied witches and wizards into teams that could tend to the wounded, search for survivors, brace crumbling sections of the castle, or scour the grounds for hidden Death Eaters. When she was finally allowed a few precious moments alone, however, she spent them having a drink from an old whisky flask in honor of Alastor Moody. Minerva knew that she would never again meet his like.
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Author: r_grayjoy
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Pairing: Minerva McGonagall/Alastor Moody
Word Count: 2,085
Summary: The first time it happened was eight months into the first war with Voldemort.
Author's Notes: Massive thanks, first and foremost, to bethbethbeth for not giving up on me. My heartfelt gratitude also to R. for being there, as always. And finally, thanks to dognmonkeyshow for the prompt that brought my writing mojo home!
Much Better Days
The first time it happened was eight months into the first war with Voldemort.
The Order had gathered for a meeting in the upstairs sitting room of the Hog's Head Inn, privacy charms carefully cast and the curtains of the lone window pulled tight. The mood that evening had been grim. Voldemort was steadily growing in strength and influence, his followers becoming more bold by the day. Fear and pessimism were high and good news was scarce as the meeting dragged on for hours.
It was past midnight when Albus dismissed everyone at last. From her seat by the dwindling fire, Minerva watched as her allies filed silently out of the room one by one, even the youngest faces lined and weary. This war is ageing us all, she thought.
Although the Hog's Head was likely a fire hazard and a health risk rolled into one, Minerva didn't wish to return to Hogwarts yet. She was afraid that she might somehow pollute the sanctity of the school if she carried the dismal air back with her. That, or Poppy would never speak to her again if she inadvertently started a lice epidemic amongst the students. Whatever the case, she remained where she was. Soon no one remained save herself and, of all people, Alastor Moody.
"God damned Death Eaters!" Alastor said, banging his fist against the table beside him for emphasis.
Unfazed by the outburst, Minerva merely looked at Alastor and raised an eyebrow.
Alastor didn't seem to notice Minerva's expression as he went on, "The bastards are too damned good at staying anonymous and hidden. And when we do actually manage to catch one, two more just pop up to replace 'em. They're like cockroaches!"
"Very descriptive of you, Alastor." Despite her dry tone, Minerva would have been forced to admit that she appreciated Alastor's blunt and honest manner, particularly in a time of so much distrust and subterfuge.
Turning his head, Alastor squinted at Minerva. "What are you still doing here, anyway?"
"One could ask you the same question."
Alastor gave a grunt and a nod. "Fair enough." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a flask, unscrewed the top, and took a large swallow before offering the flask to Minerva.
After only a moment's hesitation, Minerva accepted the flask. She took a healthy swallow of her own, not coughing as the harsh liquor burned her throat. Alastor seemed to approve.
"I don't know how you do it," he said. "Go back to Hogwarts and teach the little ankle-biters every day and pretend there's not a war on outside."
Minerva passed the flask back to Alastor. "And I don't know how you spend your days hunting dark wizards and living constantly in the war."
"Hmph. To each their own, I guess," Alastor said, then took another swig.
The conversation lapsed, and Minerva was just considering leaving when Alastor broke the silence. "Look," he said. "I've got a room here for the night. It's safer to talk there than it is out here; it's more private and easier to ward. Since you don't seem in a hurry to get home either, why don't we take this," he held up the flask, "in there?"
In Minerva's youth, it would have been the height of impropriety for a single witch to be alone with an unwed wizard in private quarters. The times had changed, however, and besides, there wasn't much use for propriety in wartime. And Alastor, for all his brusque nature, was honorable. With a slight shrug, Minerva rose. "Why not?"
Alastor led Minerva to a room and held the door open for her to enter. He followed her inside, closed the door behind them, and muttered a spell that caused several candles and a lantern to flare to life. In the dim light, Minerva could see that the cramped room was sparsely furnished with a narrow bed, a lumpy sofa, and a few scattered tables, all of which had seen much better days. A bit like us, she decided.
"Well, have a seat," Alastor said, lowering himself to the sofa. "I've cast enough Cleansing and Vermin Aversion charms to keep the place safe for one night, at least."
Choosing to take Alastor at his word, Minerva sat on the opposite side of the sofa.
"So then," Alastor said, one side of his mouth twitching up into a peculiar half-smile, "what do people have to talk about these days that doesn't involve Dark Lords, Death Eaters, or Unforgivable Curses?"
Over the next two hours, Minerva was surprised to discover that she and Alastor could find quite a number of topics for discussion, from transfiguration techniques to the relative merits and drawbacks of the Animagus Register. Alastor's blunt and forthright manner made for lively debate, yet he was never condescending towards Minerva despite his position as a senior Auror. Minerva was also amused to note that Alastor's magical eye whizzed most erratically when he was losing ground in an argument.
The smaller candles were beginning to burn low when Alastor raised his arms above his head in a stretch and said, "It's late. I'd better get some sleep or I'll be in no mood to tolerate the bureaucratic tits at the Ministry tomorrow. Not that a few mild hexes wouldn't do them some good, mind you."
At Alastor's innocuous words, Minerva was overcome with a feeling that was one part disappointment and two parts blind panic. She didn't have time to analyze the reasons; she only knew that she wasn't yet ready to leave Alastor's company and return to Hogwarts alone. Casting circumspection aside, she rushed forward and planted an awkward but firm kiss square on Alastor's mouth.
Before Minerva even had a chance to regret her move, Alastor was responding, reaching for her and pulling her towards him. It happened so quickly that Minerva wasn't quite certain how she came to be straddling Alastor's lap, her robes bunched up around her thighs. One corner of her mind stiffly railed at the indignity of her position, but the rest of her promptly told it to buzz off and attend to its own business.
The moment was surreal, yet Minerva was acutely aware of every detail. The slightly chapped texture of Alastor's lips, and the groove where an old scar crossed them. Alastor's large hands roving over her back and thighs, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath her own palms. Alastor's unique presence that seemed competent, resilient, and unquestionably masculine.
When Minerva felt an unmistakable hardness nudging her, she was flooded with uncertainty. What am I doing? How long has it been since I last did anything like this? Do I even remember what comes next? This is foolishness! These thoughts didn't stop her from pressing herself against Alastor's growing erection like a wanton girl half her age, however. Nor did she protest when Alastor pulled loose the pin at the back of her head, freeing her hair from its usual tight bun and allowing it to cascade around her shoulders. And when Alastor reached for the buttons and ties of her robes, she responded by tugging at his in turn.
Not long thereafter, they stood to remove the last of their clothing, then Alastor maneuvered Minerva to the bed and laid her down on its surface. She looked up at him then, standing before her, and took him in. Old curse scars decorated every surface of his skin, the largest of which was a silver streak that slashed across his chest and divided his chest hair in two. His hair was coarse, his hands callused, his body lean and hard. His thick, veined cock jutted out proudly from a thatch of wiry curls. He was imperfect, to be sure, but handsome and arousing nonetheless. A warrior, Minerva though. He looks like a warrior.
Minerva was suddenly quite conscious of her own appearance. She was still slender, certainly, but time and gravity had begun to take their toll. Her breasts were not as pert, her skin not as smooth and supple, her joints not as limber as they once had been. She was about to move to cover herself when Alastor's expression stopped her. Both of his eyes were fixed solely upon her, and he gazed at her almost reverently. "You're beautiful," he breathed.
Crawling on his hands and knees, Alastor joined Minerva on the bed, and there was no more room for doubts. Minutes later, as Minerva sat astride Alastor with him buried deep within her, she realized that she felt ten years younger.
That was the first time it happened, but it was far from the last. As the fight against Voldemort wore on, Minerva and Alastor saw each other with increased frequency. The days when the war efforts appeared the most hopeless were often the occasions when their encounters were the most heated and intense. At other times, however, Minerva found that Alastor possessed a far more tender touch than she ever would have guessed. He was an amazingly attentive lover, somehow always managing to know exactly what she needed. Perhaps it was simply because they needed the same things.
It wasn't romance. It was something much more complex. It was mutual respect and admiration. It was something to look forward to after even the most disheartening of Order meetings. It was a celebration of life and pleasure in the midst of so much death and destruction. It was shared solace and release. It was one of the most incredible things Minerva had ever experienced.
Word spread swiftly the night Voldemort was defeated. By midnight there was revelry in the streets of Hogsmeade, complete with fireworks and impromptu displays of wand effects. Minerva and Alastor eventually found each other in the Hog's Head, the place where it had all began. They knew it would be their last time to meet in this way, and the chaos outside the inn drowned out their moans and shouts.
Except that it wasn't the last time.
Voldemort came back.
After the Dark Lord's return at the crux of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, Albus was quick to recall the Order to action, and Minerva and Alastor were equally quick to resume their former arrangement. Almost fourteen years had passed since they were last together. Minerva knew that she had grown more saggy, lined, and gray over that time. But then, Alastor had gained several scars and lost a leg and a chunk of his nose to boot. Somehow they still found each other as alluring and desirable as ever. If it took Alastor a little longer to become fully aroused, or if Minerva couldn't move quite as fast as she used to, well, it was that much more time that they could devote to enjoying each other.
As Minerva lay beneath Alastor one night early in the second war, her fingers digging into his back and his breath hot in her ear, she had a sense of déjà vu. She felt twenty-five years younger, as though it were the start of the first war all over again. Then she recalled having had a similar thought once before -- that she had felt ten years younger the first time she and Alastor had been together. So she supposed that meant she now felt thirty-five years younger. She could certainly live with that, she decided. And then she thought no more at all, but simply moved with Alastor's thrusts.
* * * * *
The day Alastor died, Minerva aged forty years. She felt hollow, drained, ravaged by anger and loss. Although every member of the Order had been at great risk, Minerva realized that she had never actually expected Alastor, the hardened Auror known for his near-paranoia and shouts of "Constant vigilance!" to fall. She'd always thought of him as invincible in a way; his enemies whittled him away piece by piece, but they should never have been able to destroy him completely.
When Voldemort was defeated once and for all, Minerva had no time to celebrate the victory or to mourn those who had fallen in the final battle. She was far too busy organizing the able-bodied witches and wizards into teams that could tend to the wounded, search for survivors, brace crumbling sections of the castle, or scour the grounds for hidden Death Eaters. When she was finally allowed a few precious moments alone, however, she spent them having a drink from an old whisky flask in honor of Alastor Moody. Minerva knew that she would never again meet his like.
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