Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6178.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_Rowling
  Relationship:
      Minerva_McGonagall/Oliver_Wood
  Character:
      Oliver_Wood, Minerva_McGonagall
  Additional Tags:
      Community:_smutty_claus
  Collections:
      Smutty_Claus_Exchange
  Stats:
      Published: 2006-12-26 Words: 14407
****** Venus & Adonis ******
by smutty_claus
Summary
     Are you the author of this story and just got your own AO3 account?
     Email me at: smuttyclausmods@gmail.com and I will edit the author
     name to reflect your new account!
Notes
     Written by MarsEverlasting as part of the Smutty Claus 2006 exchange.
See the end of the work for more notes
Title: Venus & Adonis
 
Author: marseverlasting
 
Gift for: reallycorking
 
Rating: NC-17
 
Pairing: Oliver/McGonagall
 
Word Count: 14,320 words
 
Summary: Minerva McGonagall comes to England to care for her ailing sister, and
finds something so much more. A lesson in growth for one, and pleasure for the
other.
 
Warnings: Age disparity like whoa. Oliver is jailbait, and McGonagall is a
total cougar. Includes sex! And boyishness! And excessively long paragraphs!
 
Author's notes: many thanks to my wonderful beta, C. You are the sun that
lights my very shadowed path. I'm very sorry this fic is six hundred years
long, I couldn't shut up. I hope you enjoy it, reallycorking!
 
Archiving: Originally posted here.
 
 
 
 
------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
Sing, o Goddess, the lust of Achilles.
 
------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 
This is a story not as uncommon as you might think. We start with the voice of
a cab driver:
"Twenty pound forty, if you please."
Minerva pays the fare, and gets out of the cab. From the trunk, she removes her
two brown-leather suitcases (rubbed soft and shiny in some places; old, her
mother's, displaying air-stamps from Morocco and Thailand, even despite the
fact the luggage has never once ventured from the British Isles) and proceeds
to walk up the lane to her sister's cottage. The looks are ordinary,
comfortable in its blandness. Minerva knocks twice, and lets herself in.
Victoria Forester (née McGonagall, seven years her sister's senior) is resting
in her chair in the living room, deep-set eyes closed and shadowed, fast
asleep. Minerva steps in and takes off her shoes and places them in the
cluttered closet when, suddenly, Victoria jerks awake, mumbles a gasp and looks
about awkwardly, like one who had missed their stop on a bus, only to fall
asleep again moments later, head nodding all the while. It's an awkward welcome
after two years of separation, to say the least, and Minerva feels a touch
unsettled. She counts three of these forty winks from the doorframe before she
moves to shake her sleeping sister's shoulder gently.
Their greeting is awkward, but not without its warmth. They hug, they kiss, and
Minerva at last sees what her older sister's illness has done to her now-
distant beauty. Victoria still looks like a McGonagall (sharp nose, perfectly
thin eyebrows, hard brown eyes and thin lips, a severe beauty that plays
tribute to the falcon, or the fox) she just seems wearier than a McGonagall
should. She looks, on a whole, like a drained blister; deeply withered in her
seat, empty and hollow, only the shadow of her younger sister (who still,
through all these years, watches her with admiration.) To describe Victoria is
a thing of sadness; her once onyx-black hair is a paralyzed white, and those
tender lips sag deeply at the corners. Purpled bags blend under her eyes like
make-up or bruises, and she exists as a knot of wrinkles and sickness. She
resembles, overwhelmingly, a female King Lear, wrapped and bound in a patchwork
of blankets and sleep.
After a few minutes of talk, the luggage is deposited by the foot of the stairs
and the two ladies walk to the outdoor patio, under Minerva's insistence, for a
viewing of the garden. They indulge in small talk – How have you been et cetera
– and walk arm in arm, younger supporting elder.
The temperature of the afternoon is pleasant: gone is the gauzy heat of the
day, replaced by a new crispness in the air, clear viewing for a great handful
of miles if you stand tall. The sun is presently dead light in the sky, having
heated the world to its satisfaction, and begins to extinguish itself in a
display or orange and gold, like a firework in slow motion. Minerva comments on
this, and Victoria barks a laugh in reply:
"Have we really become so distant we have to talk about the weather?"
Minerva laces their fingers, gives a wry smile, and says: "I'll get you a
chair."
The elder sister, settling herself awkwardly, watches as Minerva walks the
yard, taking everything in like a fine wine. It's an expensive proposition,
this garden, and very well-managed; a tribute of Victoria's late husband's vast
wealth and spare time. Here; there exists vast knots of white daylilies; and
there, drifting blood clots of carnations; by the patio, palm-wide magnolias;
and by her feet, leafy chains of snapdragons, erupting from the earth like
cones of mal-coloured fire, fuchsia and yellow.
But, despite these marvels, Minerva's eye is quickly drawn to the back of the
garden. There, by the high stone wall, lies a large berth of thistle; as tall
and thin as reeds, topped with the soft explosion of a purple flower, prickly
with fuzz and painted all a milky green. The plants sway, minimally, in the
wind and beat gently against the stone border, ticking in time like a
conductor's baton, regular and patient, announcing the seconds. Minerva, with
one hand, cups a flower, her thumb rubbing over the brush-like nib and tickling
the bristles, teasing the thorns all the while. With this action, suddenly,
memories of her youth comes rumbling and rushing back; not in images, not but
rather in a wide, all-encompassing theme that seems to be titled, quite simply:
"Childhood." No particular vision sweeps her, no thoughts of past loves or
memories of her parents; all moments of fight and laughter and sex allude her,
and she remains, just there, just simple, holding the flower of the thistle and
thinking a word: childhood. The action is wonderful enough to bring tears to
the corner of her eyes. She feels ashamed at her weakened state, but Minerva
notches it down to the surprise of her ailing sister.
The hand releases the flower and returns to its partner, where they wring
together gently, and the lady turns around:
"Your garden is beautiful, Victoria," Minerva says. "And thistles," a sigh,
quite short, "very – appropriate." Minerva gives one of those little thoughtful
sighs again, and steps neatly over to the well-kept rose garden, precisely as
one might walk from painting to painting at an art exhibition (of Van Gogh,
perhaps, for pleasing symmetry.) The roses are blossoming contentedly in pinks
and reds, heavy blooms bending the stems into arches, and Minerva plucks a
petal from the nearest flower (she likes the silky feel under her fingers, and
she rubs it into a cone.) "Have you still got that man – oh, what is his name –
Julian? Does he still tend to the garden?"
"Yes," emerges Victoria's tired reply, "he comes on Wednesdays. You'll see him
then." She's sitting in an old claw-and-arm-chair, placed awkwardly at the edge
of the lawn. The wooden feet dig into the grass, and it looks so frail it seems
to stand up on principle alone, a fading relic of old dining rooms in their
childhood home. Almost in compliment to the chair, Victoria seems to wither and
bend, her spark of life running thin as the minutes pursue close behind.
"Can I get anything for you, Victoria?" Minerva asks, feeling disheartened,
drawn painfully back into this trembling reality. "I was going to make tea,
would you like me to bring a cup out for you?"
"I'm glad you've come. I like having your company" Victoria inhales, and it
wavers and ripples to fullness. "But I am not an invalid. Not just yet. I can
get things for myself."
"You aren't well, Victoria," Minerva replies flatly. "I will make us tea and
order dinner, is that all right?" A pause, and a knowing turn in the corners of
her lips. "I'm afraid I was never much of a cook."
"I can cook," Victoria replies, her voice shaking through the vowels.
"Nonsense, I won't hear of it." Minerva approaches her older sister in even
strides, sliding a short-nailed hand on the woman's shoulder. "It's getting a
bit cold, shall I help you inside?"
Victoria sighs, and nods. "Hand me my cane."
Tea is a quiet experience, served in china cups with a gold foil rim and
curlicue design. The tea is too strong, bitter on the tongue, and the sugar
overcompensates for it. The sisters sip stiffly, and they both leave their
drinks unfinished.
"I'm sorry," Minerva explains, "I've not used a kettle and leaves in a long
time. I'm afraid I've rather lost my touch."
"It's all right," Victoria replies, sisterly love warming through her words at
last. "Where will you order dinner from?"
"There is that nice Hungarian place down the road. I thought perhaps goulash,
and I'll pick up a nice red wine to go with it. Does that sound good?"
"I appreciate this, Minerva. I really do." Victoria embraces her sister's hand
and kisses it gingerly; her lips are cold and dry on Minerva's skin. "You're
very sweet to do this."
"It's perfectly all right."
Minerva sets out by her lonesome, dressed in a pale green blouse and pleated
grey skirt which sways about her shins like water. She walks with the same
severe manner as in the halls of Hogwarts – almost militarily; left, right,
left – even despite her beautiful surroundings (luminescent cones of foxglove
and cream daisies, even the stinging nettles look a wonderful mint-green in the
yawning mouth of the country.) And then, for the first time that evening
Minerva realizes she does not have her wand. Her forehead leaps to sweat, and
she feels her hands tremble by her sides, fingers itching for the rod – when,
just as suddenly as the panic appeared, it evaporates like a breath of pollen
on the wind, leaving behind a mellow kind of residue: slouching towards
freedom. She feels renewed; now she is just like any other woman, another dear
Lady Windermere enjoying the breeze, enjoying the country – royalty perhaps, or
even more pleasing, a peasant. And through this thought, her stride loosens and
her shoulders seem to sag without the weight of the magic world upon them; she
even seems to smile, though that could just be the lack of a usual frown. This
feeling (free; common; plain; sweet) only lasts so long as she alone, for it
sublimates into normalcy just as soon as she turns the corner into town (a
squat stretch, gaping flat in the vale between two hills, only the elegant
spires of churches piercing the monotonous two-storey landscape.) Upon entering
the civilized district, Minerva's shoulders pull tight once more, her head
snaps to righteous attention, and she frowns, attentively, once more. Proper
and upright she walks, and, with an undue fervour, she wishes she had a hat.
The Hungarian restaurant, Szent István, is a short building, built very much
like a man: that is, few windows and large brick. Minerva walks in, and the
bells beside the door jingle her welcome. She notices in a mirror that her hair
has become terribly frazzled from the breezy walk, so she smooths it down as
best she can, sliding twin hands over her head and pressing it flat (she
catches a reflection of this sight [silly] and gives a short clap of self-
deprecating laughter.) Inside, the restaurant smells of stale spices and baking
bread and cooking oil and sweet wine, now mingling with the summer-smells
Minerva brings in gusts from the outside world – strong powers of mimosa and
magnolia, the heady current of sea salt and acrid tang of petrol and motor oil,
as jarring as a sour caper in a soft cheese.
Minerva orders with a gentle voice, and has only a second or two of trouble
distinguishing the shiny muggle coins in payment (she might be magical, but
she's not an idiot.) She orders of the waiter two large helpings of goulash
(red and meaty, highlighted by olive-green bay leaves, on a bed of egg noodles
with a side of steamed carrots and tomatoes – enough for tea and for the next
day's dinner) and a bottle of brackish Hungarian red wine, bought under the
assurance it would compliment the spices of the meal quite pleasantly.
Satisfied, she walks back to her sister's cottage, holding her bag of food and
wine daintily in one hand. The sun having finally set over the period of her
adventure, Minerva finds her road covered in long blue shadows, cavernous in
scope and isolating the countryside in a blanket of sunless anxiety, a quality
that personifies most summer nights. The leafy path from road to cottage is
difficult to spot because of this gloaming, darkness presently caught like
spider webs between the sentinel trees, but Minerva manages it all the same;
calm competence to the last. In happy news, though, even despite this bleakness
of night, the air remains warm and perfumed with all the day's activities
(smelling, in turn, of upturned soil, seawater, lemonade, and sweat). Even the
wind seems to remember the sunny afternoon, and carries with it the daylight
echo of the cicadas. Minerva decides, on a rare whim, to dine outdoors.
Entering the cottage, she sees her sister in the living room, fast asleep on a
dark-wood rocking chair, thick with blankets and lethargy. Her head lolls
gently to the side, and her eyes flutter with dream. While Victoria's chest
rises with shallow breath, the rest of her body remains completely stationary,
betrayed only by the nearly imperceptible rock of the chair. She seems sick,
even now, in this moment of peace; there seems to stick a blue-gauze of
illness, like peel on her skin. Her eyelids are thin and translucent, almost
letting through the colour of her presently rolling eyes. Her whole, precious
frame seems like it could be torn apart by a child, like so much paper. She
will die, and Minerva realizes this at last.
Sighing gently, Minerva wills herself away from the sad-sleeping woman and
brings their meal into the kitchen. Taking out one of the two Styrofoam
containers of food (the other goes in the fridge, for Victoria to eat at her
own discretion), Minerva unloads half of the contents onto one of the china
plates. It steams hazily, and the mingled smell of spices quickly encompasses
the room like a thick fog. After a few minutes of play with the bottle opener,
the quiet lady finally manages to undo the cork and pours herself a shallow
dollop of wine. Glass in one hand, plate in the other, she slides open the
screen door with her foot and settles comfortably at the patio table.
Minerva eats in silence, chewing and drinking slowly, savouring the mingled
tastes of her meal: the sourness of the wine and the aggressive bite of paprika
in the goulash combining to make an entirely pleasing combination. She is only
mildly disturbed by the noise of the neighbours (clinking, and occasionally
smashing of glass; the braying laugh of teenagers and the noises that come
about because of adolescence, the occasional obscenity piercing the veil of her
relaxation, only for the chatter to recede into swampy darkness once more.) The
night meets her expectations, and she gives a tiny little sigh.
Time ticks onwards.
Finishing her meal, Minerva withdraws her book (from Victoria's collection of
muggle literature; this one a plain-covered copy of Virginia Woolf's Orlando)
and reads into the empty hours of the night. It seems the neighbours (all but
confirmed to be rowdy teenagers) reply to her challenge, and stay awake in
parallel, though the earlier near-overwhelming din of party gradually falls
into the lower registers, only the odd prickling laugh slipping through to
ruffle the woman's mild expression.
Time ticks onwards.
It is beyond three in the morning and cool when Minerva collects her things and
goes to sleep. Crossing through the living room, she finds Victoria still
resting in her chair, shadows spilling over her face like a mourner's veil, or
else clots of tar painted over her eyes and mouth. Her chest huffs like an old
cat's, and her hand twitches on occasion to fulfill this image of sister
reduced; she's a textbook (or, perhaps, romance book) example of ailing woman,
fitting it in colour and quality, and it's nearly unbearable to watch. Minerva
gives her a quiet kiss on the forehead (cold skin, and dry) and nods a silent
goodnight before retiring to her ersatz-bedroom, once belonging to Victoria's
long-departed son. There, the younger lady unpacks her things neatly into the
drawer before changing into her nightdress and sliding into an empty sleep.
She has no dreams, and even if she did, they would have been dry and
unremarkable.

                                       *

Minerva awakes to find the sun shining in deep pools over the bed, her body
warmed considerably in fresh summer heat. She dresses thoughtfully for the
weather (knee-length skirt of cream, white cotton blouse and her floppy sunhat;
wand tucked neatly into the waistband of her skirt) and withdraws to the
kitchen to make breakfast for her sister.
The rocking chair is empty, and Minerva assumes her sister had gone to bed
sometimes during the night. Her suspicions are confirmed upon putting her ear
to the bedroom door (snuffling sounds of sleep emerging from beyond; still
living, still breathing.)
Minerva attends to her hunger, and decides to make a breakfast of toast and
orange marmalade, providing with it a fresh sliced peach, and coffee. The
coffee is a thrill to make; she fingers her wand in preparation to magick the
drink into existence, but a sudden urge for simplicity overwhelms her and she
decides to prepare it in a conventional fashion. She boils the water in the
kettle, uses teaspoons and measuring tools for preparing the filter, and
watches with pleasure as the water drips through and fills the waiting pot with
steaming, staunchly aromatic coffee. Minerva smiles indulgently, pleased with
the simplicity of her sunny morning, and drinks the fruit of her labours
(mildly bitter, but still enjoyable) with her breakfast.
Following the small meal, Minerva washes the dishes, daring to reveal her cheer
by humming a nameless tune. She dries the plates with care and places them in
the dark-wood cabinets as quietly a she can, worried for her sister's stake.
The young sister feels calm, and at ease with the world for her pleasing work,
and so decides to spend the afternoon reading her novel until Victoria wakes,
at which time she shall launch into dinner preparations with the same ingenuity
she did the coffee.
Collecting her book and her hat, Minerva proceeds outdoors with fresh calm and
happiness. She notices at once that the noise of teenagers is gone (oddly and
suddenly missed), only the half-hearted thrumming of bugs interrupting the calm
of her day. In reference to the weather, the almanac records that the day was
dry and hot, conventionally summer, and thus not worth dwelling on further.
Dragging one of those odd plastic reclining chairs into the lawn, Minerva
settles herself awkwardly under the shade of one of the immense oak trees that
edge the property, and puts on her sun hat, basking in the warm air of the
morning and the promise of a lazy afternoon.
Time ticks onwards.
After only a short while of inattentive reading, the teenage noise returns, and
Minerva feels comfortable in her disapproval. The noise is significantly less,
consisting of only two voices, and no matter how hard she strains, she cannot
make hide nor hair of the talk. Observing the murmur, Minerva decides the
speakers are boys, but beyond that they just exist simply as shadowed next-door
equations, unsolvable for the time being.
We shall skip forward a half hour as Minerva occupies this period solely with
reading, only pausing on occasion to catch a moment of her neighbours'
conversation (a subtle trait inherited from her profession, certainly.)
Ultimately, she is not long into her book before she's interrupted, in this
situation by a spontaneous lesson in ballistics: a checkered black-and-white
football is sent flying over the stone wall, which lands with a terrible smack
on the lady's shin. Minerva gives a strangled yelp and sparks from her chair,
brandishing the fallen football as she does so.
"Excuse me!" she calls out to her faceless neighbours. Minerva's lingering
brogue rends her words as harsh as a razor's edge, and that feeling of military
educator returns; she feels all too much at home. "Excuse me!" she calls again,
"what do you think you're doing?" She strides to the wall of the garden and
stands below it, as if willing the structure to fold under her command.
"Sorry, Mrs. Forester!" comes the familiar boyish voice from beyond the wall.
"I'll come fetch it."
"This isn't Victoria, this is her sister," Minerva says harshly.
"Sorry –" Two hands appear on the top of the wall and – hoist – a boy lands
with great force on atop the barrier, sitting backwards on the wall before
spinning to lock eyes with Minerva: "Holy fuck."
"Wood?" Minerva says bluntly, her face blanking into a bare canvas. "What are
you –"
"Holy fuck – I – I mean – uh, sorry, Professor. I mean. Min – McGona –
Professor."
"Mister Wood." She recovers from the shock quickly, giving him a familiar frown
(perfected by generations of educators, able to blend in equal measure
disapproval, irritation, and comfort, a cocktail of mixed feelings.) She holds
out his football. "You're my sister's neighbour, then. I thought I heard
teenagers last night."
"Christ, I thought Victoria sounded familiar, but you had different names and I
just –"
"My sister kept her husband's name following his death," she says shortly,
feeling the familiar red burst of anger returning to her cheeks. Minerva feels
oddly naked in just her blouse and skirt, and takes out this awkwardness on the
boy: "Are you going to take your ball?"
"Sorry, Professor," Oliver says, jumping off the stone wall and landing with
innate skill beyond the bed of thistle. Brushing his hands off gingerly, he
stands at full height and full smile before his teacher.
He's of a type, certainly; baggy blue-and-yellow rugby style t-shirt, ripped at
the shoulder and hanging over the round of that muscle, loose khaki shorts torn
in all sorts of places (a dark glimpse at his thigh here, and there), no socks
or shoes, a sweaty face with a small, upturned nose, unremarkable lips
(familiar in their sameness, thin and boyish), short public school hair that
teases the line of his brow, and hazel eyes comforting in their shallowness.
His collar bones are things to behold, with divots like half-walnut shells, and
as delicate as they are solid. They exist very much like a bone-frame for his
pleasant face (an agreeable face, that is, not striking or stunning but
appealing in its childish familiarity.) His wrists, too, are charming: strong,
though the twin-channels of tendons give them a wrought-iron feel, decorative
and peculiar. He's large, to be sure, though burly is far from accurate. In
truth, though Oliver is quite a muscular boy, all broad shouldered and strong,
he seems to have the quality of a dancer to him, an overtone of agility and
litheness that is perhaps transmitted through the inch of flat skin exposed
between shirt and low-hanging shorts, or maybe the dark ridges of his hips (for
no one but mothers and paedophiles can truly understand where the variables lie
in a boy, what physicality makes him so – Minerva doesn't understand, Minerva
can't understand.) Presently he is sweaty, an aspect he and his kind (boys)
turn easily into an illegitimate kind of beauty: sports child through and
through, he makes uncleanliness a fine art. His sweaty hair and dirty hands
should be revolting, but are instead presented as roguish and romantic, an
emblem of boyhood and impossibly appealing. In summary, these are his most
striking physical characteristics, and the most worthwhile aspects of his
sixteen years (why describe his knees, for instance, or his ears? – common and
uninteresting, if you were curious.) In fact, there is very little doubt that
one might find these traits in any boy in any school in any country of the
world, for Oliver is merely an archetype, the pinnacle of his age. Pause, and
take him in. Yes, in noticing these features, one is quick to realize that he
is a far more complex equation than other gents his age – his posture more
easy, his phrasing straddling the border between interest and apathy –
certainly more enigmatic than his friends or his peers; Minerva's Gryffindors,
that is, the boys of brave. Oliver is a self-proclaimed Tom Sawyer, like all of
them boys of course, containing energy and immorality and ignorance in spades.
There's something special about Oliver – we all know it – and he seems to
posses something extra; an added gene, or chromosome, or what have you. Can we
confine it to a word? No, not XY or XX(X); just a single word. Yes, we can, and
that is quite simply: sexuality. More importantly than that: a sexuality he
knows he possesses. You can see it now, in the tilt of his hip, or the way his
tongue tempts the corner of his lips; it's there, oversexed and brilliant,
there for all the world to deny at its pleasure. Self-awareness makes him all
the more interesting, and the intensity of this precociousness proves to be his
most appealing quality.
All this in that fragment of the moment between offer and acceptance of the
football.
"I suppose I'll see you around, then," Oliver says, giving Minerva a smirk that
makes her want to take thirty points from Gryffindor.
She cocks an eyebrow. "I sincerely hope not."
And there, Oliver smiles broad and genuine, and she wants to give Gryffindor
fifty instead.
Minerva watches him as he takes the ball, tosses it back over the fence, and
with a crazy, flying leap, throws himself at the wall. The wild jump carries
him over the thistles and he manages to get a fingerhold on the far side of the
ledge. Like a superhero, or acrobat, he scampers up the surface and straddles
the border, turning to give her a look and a farewell: "Well, see ya then." He
swings his leg over to the opposite side and jumps down (she hears the soft
smack as he hits dirt on the other side, and the conversation with his nameless
companion starts anew: "You'll never guess who I saw next door –" it fades into
nothingness as the boys, Oliver and his friend, go indoors.)
Oddly content, Minerva returns to her chair and her book, and continues to read
the afternoon through. The remaining hours collapse with ease, for they exist
merely as an afterthought to the pivot of her day; an epilogue to those few
minutes with Oliver. The boy, you know, he exists as the pinnacle, an
epicenter; for time, for feeling, for the waxing and waning of her cheer. He is
sufficient, despite that he exists merely as a fragment in the long, hot hours:
the ball of his ankle and the soft bob of his Adam's apple – a minute of sight
is enough for a full day's thought. It continues, downwards, to the casual slag
of his shoulders, the fragile line of hair stretching from the coil of his
shorts to where his navel lives under the hem of his ragged shirt, the way his
shorts hang loosely off his butt, to the shallow of his back made a beautiful
scoop. Good God, the boy is enough for a month.
The sun fades with excellence, growing into a fierce crescendo of orange light
before collapsing, dead on arrival, behind the distant purple hills. Night is
shepherded in by Venus, smiling, and then with many, many stars, each opening
like the hundred blinking eyes of Argus. Minerva sneaks inside and finds
Victoria to be sleeping still, so she embarks on dinner (poached eggs, smoked
salmon and cream cheese) before returning once more outside, with a goblet and
yesterday's bottle of red.
By evening, she has finished half of the bottle as well as her novel, Orlando.
Filling a new glass of wine, she begins Mrs. Woolf's equally unpleasant To the
Lighthouse, and sets her sights on a silent evening.
Sadly, it is not to be. By ten o'clock, The Boy reappears. A soft flutter of
wind ushers him upon the wall, and he smiles roguishly and bare, legs folded
over the edge of the barrier and kicking at the tops of thistle: "Hello,
professor." A sparrow on a perch.
Minerva, soft and startled, puts down her book and turns to the darkened garden
and towards the image of her thoughts. The stars and moon are enough to
illuminate the young satyr; he is shirtless and dry, still in those khaki
shorts, his hair adopting that disheveled quality that accompanies alcohol.
Minerva frowns with automatic disapproval, settling her lips into a solid line.
Bent over like he is, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, Oliver's flat
belly is turned in many folds, a startling shadow of J. Dallesandro, like
thoughtful prostitution. With a wonderful, lazy jump, Oliver lands cat-like on
the grass and treads with bare feet to his frowning neighbour.
"I – I forgot to ask you. Earlier, I mean." He flushes broadly, and smiles. "I
have a Quidditch match tomorrow. Nothing official, just a local league. I
thought maybe you could come and watch me. I'd like that." Just then, he
stretches and yawns. The movement is so open and filled with placid beauty and
boyish wit (a wit belonging solely to the body) that one can scarcely deny the
request. Minerva finds, to instinctual dismay, a flush in her cheeks, and
quickly she darts her eyes from the boy, eyeing nervously the webbed garden.
"It's inappropriate," Minerva replies. "I'm sorry, Wood." She looks back at
moon-licked boy and shrugs. "Perhaps your friends will attend."
Oliver shakes his head. "They're playing too."
"There you have it," Minerva continues, relieved for an excuse, "I can't show
favouritism, and there will be other students there."
"You could wear a disguise." A glimmer in his eyes, loose and wild.
"Pardon me?"
He reaches into one torn pocket and withdraws a large set of sunglasses,
patterned like fake turtle-shell. "Try this on." He tosses them, and Minerva
catches the glasses one-handed. She looks at them critically, and tries them on
to humour the hip-tilting boy. They're large, Onassis glasses paying tribute to
the sixties, but they are, surprisingly, a sufficient disguise. "You look
great. Put a hat on with them. There – you look like Katharine Hepburn like
that, you really do."
Minerva cocks an eyebrow (unseen under the spectacles) and says harshly: "This
is ridiculous." And then, with parental softness, "You're a nice lad, Wood, but
this is entirely inappropriate. I would appreciate keeping our meetings at a
minimum. I think it would be for the best."
Oliver frowns, but isn't beaten quite yet. "You're not just a teacher,
Professor. And this is just Quidditch – We could scout out some new talent. I
mean – we're neighbours now, aren't we? – I mean, I'm your captain, aren't I?"
Minerva shifts a fragment, and catches his appealing look. "I'm sorry, Wood."
She sounds uncertain, her borders under siege by the boyish grin and the flesh
of his tummy (as flat as stretched canvas – Christ, those thoughts again, he's
a student for word's sake.)
Rebuttal from the half-naked boy: "I'd really appreciate if you –"
"Wood, I said no." Still gentle, but forceful, intentional.
Oliver sighs and bites his lip. Just then, he nudges with his hip the edge of
the table and his knee touches her's. It's a moment like an orgasm, the tipping
and near-spill of the wine, the outline of his cock in those shorts (that
picture is imagined; he's actually soft right now, under his boxers, it's just
the illusion of the folds) the het-up slap of his feet on the patio tiles –
it's like a moment of release, or maybe of invitation: for biting and ruler
sticks and ties around the bedpost. Yeah, just the tilt of his hips; Oliver's
flirt is a promise. "Just keep the glasses. I'll see you – later. Well,
sometime." He merges back in the shadows, flies back to and over the wall, and
disappears.

                                       *

The Quidditch match transpires with great success. Interestingly, the
proceedings are watched over by a celebrity: Miss Katherine Hepburn, returned
from the grave. Hallelujah.

                                       *

They attend a café following the match, and, under Oliver's insistence, the
couple sits outdoors. They order, and Oliver pays, dismissing Minerva's
objections with a lazy-waving hand. With drinks and muffins, they set
themselves at a table.
Minerva, still sporting the glasses and hat, looks at him over her espresso: "I
have to say, you played marvelously out there."
"Thanks," Oliver says, wiping cappuccino foam from his lip and licking it from
his finger. "You really think so?"
"Yes."
He smiles. "Thanks." A pause. "Really? It's kind of hard to –"
Sternness, testing the shallows of impatience. "You were very good, Oliver. You
always are."
A flush of pride, and then, playful: "You called me Oliver."
Minerva shrugs shallowly and takes another short sip of her drink, nodding her
head in an agreeable way.
Oliver falters at this display, but soon resumes his fun: "I guess I was just
on my game today. Maybe because you were watching." He takes another sip, and
licks the froth with a small pink tongue. "You're my good luck charm." No
reply. "I'm glad you came."
Minerva sighs witheringly, and sips again at her coffee. Subtlety was never a
boy's strong point; but she holds her tongue, and feels better for it.
Crisp and clear, the air breathes with them, holding on its surface the green
plates of leaves, rustling about feet and turning scarves into whirlwinds. The
brackish sea air invades the lungs easily, and throughout the town there exists
a kind of sailor's pleasure, something vivid and natural, a taste of the sea
for landlubbers. Images of white-painted waves and scourgish gulls are
immediately conjured, flourishing in mind a Joseph Turner painting, and Oliver
smiles and sniffs dog-like at the breeze.
"I love summer," Oliver explains needlessly. He looks bright, a crimsoned-youth
in this light, blushing and flushing and coy. The sweat of his sport is dried
and gone, leaving a strange and enjoyable smell about him, musky and sweet. The
energy of the afternoon seems to have done him good, as his whole body thrums
with eagerness and desire (to please, or otherwise.) He's delighted by simple
things; the chirp of a sparrow, or a newspaper sent billowing towards the
clouds – laughing and remarking like a foolish tour guide each triviality that
strikes his fancy. This youthful idiocy betrays his sixteen years, and plays
more to a child than the form of man-boy he currently occupies, cusping on the
edge of maturity.
A gentleman across from the two lights up a cigarette, and Oliver's eyes glow
with need.
"Do you think he'll give me one?" Oliver asks in a whisper. "What nationality
do you think he is?"
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Well, different nations treat cigarettes very differently. The British,
they'll give you a light but won't give you a cigarette. Americans won't even
give you a light. Italians never smoke, and Spanish smoke too much but only
rubbishy cigarettes so you wouldn't want those. The French, you've got to get a
Frenchie, they smoke really nicely and they'll give you one if you ask. Do you
think he's French? He looks a bit French, I think."
Minerva observes the rambling monologue with interest, and finds herself caught
in his web of generalization, even going so far as to sneak a look at the man
in question (by his hair and nose, most likely French.) The conversation,
despite its shallowness, is compelling, and Minerva plays against her better
judgment: "He looks a bit French."
Enticed by her consent, Oliver continues: "Now, if you want to break it down by
religion, Protestants just plain don't smoke, but Catholics smoke and, if you
ask nicely, sometimes will part with a fag. Muslims only do those hookah
things, and never mind asking a Jew for anything –"
"That's a bit shallow, don't you think?" Minerva interjects, not sure if she
should disapprove or encourage this ill-conceived-slash-charming banter.
"I'm a Jew and I wouldn't give anyone a fag," Oliver says with a smile.
"You're Jewish?" Minerva observes him steadily, like there is something now
that was missing before. "I didn't know that."
"Well, how could you? But, yeah. Sort of. My mum, she was Jewish. German Jew,
fled during the war. She was the muggle. My dad was a Welshman, Catholic
wizard, strange fellow. But Jewishness – er, I don't think that's the word –"
"Judaism."
"Yeah, yeah, Judaism. It travels through the mother. And Catholicism goes
through the father. So I'm one-hundred percent Jewish and one-hundred percent
Catholic." He smiles with this story, and Minerva smiles despite herself.
There's a machine-gun quality to his speaking, and it kind of adopts an
internal rhythm that makes it wonderful and easy to follow, almost as pleasing
as poetry in its delivery. But the story isn't over: "My dad always had a joke
he used to tell us; here, listen to this, he always said, Oliver, you have to
choose – you're either a Jew or you're not – you can't be – wait for it – Jew-
ish." He laughs at his own joke, which is charming, and Minerva is incited to
laugh as well. It's lame, definitely, but there's something pleasing in how
colloquial it is, warming in its stupidity, a true wax-seal of student-hood. If
it was told by anyone else, it would have been ugly, but there is a terrible
kind of innocence to Oliver, and Minerva can't help but laugh.
"Here, I'll go ask him now."
Oliver returns with two cigarettes. "He's Scottish. He gave me two." He gives a
big grin. "Want one?"
"I don't smoke." She wants to tell him he shouldn't either, but the image of
Oliver smoking was an immediate one, and beautiful. Intimate. His nostrils
flare, and his lips seem to breathe with red. The smoke slipping from his mouth
slides like ropes of silk and becomes a mask of sudden mannishness. A deceptive
suaveness overwhelms him, and the laughter and childishness that came from
giddy sport seems to drift away like debris with the smoke; now he's supercool,
baby-faced gang-banger ordering vodka martinis and a condom to go. The other
cigarette is tucked goofily behind his ear and the whole image is destroyed.
"I don't smoke that often," he explains, "only with coffee, or wine. It's
really very," he releases a mouthful of smoke, which convalesces as it fades
into the summer air, "pleasant. Very relaxing." He breathes another gust, and
releases it in smog. "What time is it?"
"Nearly seven."
"Would you like to get dinner?"
Minerva frowns, but something strange possess her. Maybe it is the familiar
smell of cigarettes, or the warming touch of where Oliver's bare knee touches
her own, or perhaps it's the nearly alcoholic smell of the sea – but she nods,
and says: "Yes, I believe I would like that."
They stop back home, to check on Victoria (still sleeping.) Minerva leaves her
dinner on the stove, placing a neat tinfoil cover over top, and closes the
blinds on the windows. Finished this, they walk to the village once more, the
sun fading into night and the crickets taking charge of the cicadas' abandoned
job.
Their dinner (herbed chicken for Minerva and a goat cheese and spinach calzone
for Oliver) is pleasant, and Minerva orders a smooth wine for it. They chat,
they play; Oliver is enchanted with the diagonal shafts of light patterning the
table cloth, and his feet often get tangled with Minerva's. The companions sit
in a secluded kind of booth, rounded and red leather, hidden by throngs of
ferns that seem to decorate these middle-class type establishments. Let us
pause for a moment, and take in the couple:
Oliver is charming in his button-up shirt and messy hair; a true boy, totally
out of place in this cowed establishment, but fantastic in his freshness – a
touch of fantasy to this blind-faced and sleepy town. But we've dwelled too
long on him in the past, and if truth be told, he's dampened by this light, un-
illuminated and cold.
Instead, at last, let us describe Minerva McGonagall, Oliver's beauty having
being momentarily subdued. Oliver regards the woman adoringly, like an idol;
Hestia and Demeter and Athena – consumed by her presence rather than her looks.
Certainly she's attractive; there is little denial in this regard – sharp, in
tongue and look, with a small pointed nose, thin eyebrows, small lips, and
cheekbones as sharp as knives, you know the type. Wrinkles crease the corners
of her mouth, and crows have marched the lines of her eyes; this somehow serves
to further illustrate her beauty, a wonderful kind of knowledge added to the
cocktail of her appeal; defiance and vim of her behaviour in strict contrast to
her slowly aging form. She is beautiful as a sculpture is beautiful:
immaculately designed, far more striking than just the sum of her parts
(granite and marble.) It's really very easy to get caught in the web of her
details; hair, hands, soft nape of her neck; too easy, in fact, and we must
look beyond them. Instead, one must absorb the whole image. She's slim and
tall, playing very much like the scope of Big Ben – stately and constructed,
resonant and iconic. She exists, too, as an image of British gentility, a true
Lady of the Isles; Victorian; controlled. Every hair seems in place, every word
carefully chosen, all behaviour carefully regulated. Each of her emotions is
kept, like spices, in a bottle, only uncorked for special occasions; a dash of
excitement, a pinch of disapproval, a clove of happiness. She is Clarissa
Dalloway – vehemence and loneliness palsied into a perfect image of
stateliness.
Minerva pays for dinner, and Oliver thanks her with a hand to hers. They walk
home in that in-between stage; not quite touching, but brushing close together.
Their hands (Oliver's right and Minerva's left) touch, fractionally, as they
walk, swaying back and forth to brush, pinky against thumb, or sometimes palm
and palm, withdrawing with a swing as quickly as they touched.
They arrive at Minerva's home and find Victoria's dinner untouched, and the
lady still sound asleep in her chambers.
"What's wrong with her?" Oliver asks quietly, sitting on the couch like an
awkward house guest, perched rather than seated.
Minerva, making the tea (magically, now is not time for the simplicity), shakes
her head: "I'm not sure. She won't tell me, she only says it's – there's very
little hope. She has medicine, but I don't understand what it is, either. I'm
afraid I'm rather in the dark about it. Oh, come to the kitchen table for tea,
that couch is very expensive."
They sit at the table and drink their tea slowly. Oliver loads his with milk
and sugar, diluting it to a grey-cream concoction as sweet as rock sugar.
Minerva takes hers dry and strong. An unpleasant silence sets like a layer of
silt over the teacher and student, and Oliver amuses himself through humming.
Minerva watches him play mindlessly, licking at the edges of his cup for drips,
kicking his feet about the table legs like a toddler. Their tea finished,
silence now developing into a thick blanket, Oliver resigns himself to watching
Minerva wash the dishes. At last, he breaks:
"So – is your sister – um – a muggle?"
Minerva shakes her head. "No."
"Is she a – a squib then?"
Minerva turns the water off and puts the dishes on a tea towel to dry. She
sighs, and turns to look at Oliver impatiently: "No, she's not a squib either."
Oliver frowns. "I don't get it then."
"She chooses not to do magic."
Oliver looks at her sidelong and bites his lower lip, a thing he often seems to
do when puzzled or worried, and a thing Minerva had scarcely picked up on until
they began to spend time together. It withers her, easily, and her impatience
melts into affection.
"She chooses not to, it's that simple." It's an easy lie – oh, yes, a lie,
Victoria is really just a squib (such shame, or so Minerva was told, much like
how she was told to lie) – but Minerva suddenly feels bad in telling it to this
boy. Oliver nods gently, and his eyes shift towards a quality of sadness and
apology, and guilt engulfs her like hellfire, but she holds her ground as a
teacher is wont to do; she sniffs sharply, as the role requires, and she
gestures towards the patio door: "Shall we sit outside?"
Oliver nods his consent, and they go outdoors.
You understand now that the moment is upon them. They've skirted the issue for
the day, ignoring the complicated physicality with food or drink or awkward
talk. But now, their hands empty, fiddling and knitting, and their faces an
uncertain mask of apprehension; it is inevitable what should happen. Minerva
sits on a wrought-iron chair painted a dull white, and Oliver contents himself
to sit in the grass by her feet – it is a waiting game, a breaking game. They
talk more, mindless banter that barely seems to scratch the surface of anything
but the basest of topics (food, weather, politics.) In reality, it's a matter
of opinions – Minerva is locked to Oliver, to every flinching twitch of his
muscles; her heart thuds in mal-rhythm with his movement, and her mind seems
uniquely focused on the spot where his casually stretched foot (bare, and
beautiful, with an aristocratic arch that leads to the French curve of his
calf) touches her leg, seemingly thoughtless. The boy, too, is pinned, like a
Catherine wheel, to the woman's every sigh, every word – his patience wound-
unwound-and-rewound with every fleeting remark in those anger-flashing eyes
(the pale colour of thunderheads, or a washed rind cheese.)
A reasonable description of the meeting is unrealistic – to describe the hot
fury that lines the insides of Oliver's cheeks is one thing, but to give true
colour to the fluidity of his movement, to the determination in his eyes as he
rises to standing and leans into his straight-backed Professor; therein lies
our problem. It's not mechanical, but it's not natural; it exists somewhere in
the realms of mythology, like dead lovers acting through them – pushing Oliver
to move in, lower, sweeter; to kiss her lips, like it's the simplest, easiest
thing in the world. This happens in just a matter of seconds; imagine him
there, sitting on the grass, leaning back on those big hands, his head cocked
to one shoulder, smiling warmly as Minerva describes Irish literature, or what
have you (he's not listening, but rather watching the magnificent way her lips
move and the way her tongue flicks the back of her teeth on certain sounds.)
He's that particular kind of boy, mischievous even away from mischief; a living
embodiment of Prokofiev's Peter, or Tom Sawyer, or any boy's boy. The great
haunches of his shoulders are taut with muscle, and we soon find Minerva's eyes
wandering that line of his collar, tracing the shadow to the small divot of his
chest, perfect and smooth, waiting for the flat press of a tongue – the words
she speaks grow more indistinct, like wisps of cotton, sound and fury amounting
to nothing, and then Oliver stands – Imagine him there, the buttons of his
shirt only done to mid-chest, the line of pale hair that stretches down his
legs to the horseshoe-like threshold over his ankle. And then it all collapses,
falling inwards as he bends to Minerva and kisses her, first fleetingly, but
then longer as he folds into her lips because she doesn't push him away.
His shirt is peeled from him; unbuttoned and felled to the bricked floor. God,
to describe that chest – the expanse of skin, nipples soft like drained
blisters, the shadowed grooves of his ribs, and his shoulder blades, fleshy
wings. And around his waist, the flourished inch of flannelled boxers
disappearing under the beltless collar of his shorts, too perfect an image of
youthful rebellion; tactless dressing only revealed by his own intimacy.
Pulling away from the kiss, Oliver tugs at the button of his shorts and undoes
the fly. He kicks them off eagerly, and clearly enjoys his own nudity compared
to the restraint of the foolish mortal invention of clothes. He's standing in
his boxers now (the outline of his cock is easy, and it's not your imagination
showing that it presses into the folds of the cloth and raises the cotton with
impatience.) His hands are possessed by the buttons of Minerva's blouse,
mother-of-pearl shining in the candlelight, and he easily does away with her
top, expert fingers finding the slits of the cloth and unbuttoning them with a
ceaseless ease. Her bra is white, half-cup solid and half-cup lace, and now
it's Oliver's turn to admire. As beautiful as his body is, can the form of an
eager jock ever compare to the curved appeal of a woman? No, no, and no again.
Oliver understands; he's seen his boys naked, even once sucking a cock, his
hands grasping at the chest of the boy as they came together; but, Lord no,
this is so much better (what? Yes – a virgin!) He's entranced by the skin of
her breasts; God! as pure as polished marble, two ready handfuls, freckled at
the tops and increased with a blush. She's like a fucking Venus de Milo with
arms that content themselves to embrace Oliver's waist (her thumbs puckering in
the divot of his belly button.) She's slim, though round at the hips and
breasts. Where is her age? At the corner of her lips, and eyes, feathered
creases near her collar bones, and at the press under her arms. To be honest,
it's more of an afterthought. But, oh, yes, he takes off her brassiere, and his
hands touch her warm breasts with hesitance, only conceded to move there when
Minerva's hands crawl under the hem of his boxers in exchange.
Here, Oliver strips naked; awkward – he has to jump on one foot to hook the
coil of his boxers from one leg, and his hard cock bounces as he does so. A
moment on his body: his hips, curved, as exhibited before, sweet shadows and a
small tussle of hair. His cock is beautiful, as far as cocks go (vulgar, per
usual, but with a certain kind of ashamed appeal.) We would measure it if we
could, but from sight it can fill a fist and a half happily, which Oliver
himself displays in a bit of teasing play.
Minerva leaves her chair, and sets herself gently on the cold-iron of the patio
table, a sturdy thing that rocks only slightly as she settles herself back.
Oliver, licking his palm and touching it to the length of his cock, approaches,
and Minerva eyes him sharply, as a hawk might watch a mouse. He slides a hand
up her leg and meets the hem of her skirt with the waist. His hands there
(Minerva's own now testing the round of his cock, fingers plying at the head
curiously, sending a haphazard Morse code of pleasure coursing from his dick to
his stomach) he tugs down the coil of her undergarments, and eases them finally
to the ground He would grin, but he's flushed a fiery red and too ashamed to
meet the eyes of his mistress, and instead pushes in, towards her, Minerva's
guilty hands guiding him – ahh, inside.
The one short leg of the table bangs the ground in a heartbeat rhythm as it
rocks. Minerva holds Oliver close, suddenly, as his cock slides and moves,
pressing his head against her neck (he takes in her scent, spice and wine, and
she his; sweet dust and grass) and nipping at the bone. They clutch, as their
bodies course and flow together, blending like water as he pumps towards her,
the muscles of his butt clenching and her eyes open and furious.
He sounds like he's in pain with all those little whimpers, but from the
weakness of his knees and the hollow sweat that creases the lines of his skin
(beading endearingly at his forehead, greasing his hair into tendrils) it's
clear he feels otherwise.
And then, at last, the little death. Minerva's legs tighten against Oliver's
waist, like a serpent, and Oliver gives one final, pulsing thrust, tears
squeezed from the corners of his eyes as he comes. His entire body feels drawn
to that one place at his waist – his organs clenched, his blood drained to the
triangle of his pelvis, his everything forced down through his cock. He
imagines, just at the moment he is devoured, of a wheat field (yeah, flowing
waves of amber); it lasts for no more than a second, just an out-of-place
fraction in his mind – and then he comes and empties and whimpers and collapses
into her.
They pant and sweat and cool down, as these things happen. Minerva holds him
tight about the shoulders, and Oliver's face is pressed up against her breasts,
touched with sweat (his and hers.) After a few minutes of this sexual limbo,
Minerva frees her arms from the boy, and they part. They each feel cold and
clammy, and Oliver is noticeably shaky in the knees. He rescues his boxers from
the grass, and slides them on, handing Minerva her bra as she does. Minerva
dresses herself easily; revolution! her shame is exiled, like Trotsky, perhaps
offed by an ice axe in Mexico. Oliver watches her in afterglown-admiration.
"God you're beautiful," he says, enraptured. He enjoys now his own nudity, and
he sits in the cool grass dressed in only his boxers. His body seems even more
appealing after full use; the varnish of "perfection" stripped away to reveal a
pinking glow of sex and heat, very human, charming like a smirk is charming.
How could she let herself; how could she fail, how could she involve herself,
indulge herself, betray herself – it comes like a wave, a breaking tsunami of
guilt that threatens to overwhelm her; tears spring to her eyes, and her
stomach rolls and she sits on her chair and holds back her fight.
They're silent for a little bit. There is a feeling of overly-tense company,
like guests who do not know when to leave, but the sweet air and whispers of
wind mask this easily – masks the roiling grief of weakness, which threatens to
drown her. After a minute of silence, Minerva resumes her reading – to calm
her, steady her mind – and Oliver lies back, bare, on the grass and tries to
count the stars (he divides the sky up into sections – gotta do this right, you
know – and tries to do it by this grid pattern; he fails; though, why is it
that whenever you try to count the stars you always end up getting lost at
twenty-five? Maybe there's only twenty-five stars up there and the rest are all
illusions.)
"I've got another Quidditch match tomorrow," Oliver says into the silence.
"I'm afraid I won't be able to come," comes a too-quick reply.
"What? Why?"
"Well – I'm having a garden party for Victoria and her friends. Lots of
planning and such." She glances away, and it seems she has more than party
planning on her mind.
"Oh. Well. Maybe next time then."
"I don't think so, Oliver," Minerva says, gently. "What we did wasn't – we
shouldn't make this mistake again."
"What mistake?"
"This," she says, gesturing to his near-naked form. "I'm your Professor – more
than that, I'm old enough to be your mother. Heavens, your grandmother." The
tears crawl to the edges of her eyes – oh, hold them back.
"So? I think you're gorgeous –"
"I think it's time we said goodnight, Mr. Wood."
"Oh, Mi – Minerva, don't do this. Please, I swear, I won't tell anyone – this
is – God, I've never been so happy. I love this, I love us. Don't kill it,
please." It borders on pleading, but edges more easily towards that shameless,
sweet-faced look; the kind that boys are born with, all puppy dog eyes and
stinging-sweet lips.
"Goodnight, Oliver."
He looks at her once more, appealingly, but she gathers her book and her hat
and goes inside, leaving him, shirtless and sad, behind.
Let us draw the curtains there, and resume the story tomorrow.

------------------------------------------------------------------------
Witches, bitches, and britches.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Victoria awakes late the next morning – what fortune! – emerging just as
Minerva finishes making their breakfast of crepe and tea (enough to feed a
small army.) They eat it, indulgently, with frequent smiles; whipped cream and
strawberry jam on this one, and lemon and sugar on that.
"So," Victoria proposes with a hint of laughter to her sad voice, "who was that
lad you dined with last night?"
Minerva flourishes a deep red and she nearly chokes on her food: "What? – What
are you talking about?"
"Oh come now, I wasn't asleep all evening. I saw you with that neighbourhood
boy. Who is he?"
"A –" truth and fiction whirl about her head like kite tails, "– student. From
Hogwarts. He plays captain for the Gryffindor Quidditch team."
"My word, what luck." Victoria gives a coy smile; it's so nice to see such life
in her face again, the fresh batteries of sleep and sisterhood revving her to
gentility once more. "So you just discussed Quidditch, then?"
"Yes – and school, the beginning of term; he's one of my best pupils." The
excuses fold and overlap and coalesce beautifully, though still without a shred
of believability.
"He's very attractive," Victoria induces, weariness creeping back into her
voice as the flush of excitement drains.
"I hadn't noticed."
"Oh, please," Victoria says, putting her hand over Minerva's and smiling
widely, "you noticed. I dare say you more than noticed."
"I don't know what you're getting it," Minerva says with irritation,
withdrawing from her sister and giving the whole world the sternest of looks.
Silence for a moment; oh, fine, it's her sister, after all: "Okay,"
(dismissive), "perhaps I – tested the theory. It was inappropriate and I would
appreciate if you didn't mention it again."
"He seemed quite smitten with you," Victoria continues.
"That's unfortunate for him, then." Hell was creeping upon her in inches. "I
must say, it's all over now."
"Why?"
Minerva gives her a sharp look: "What do you mean, why?"
"I mean – why should you finish it?"
"He's a student! It's wholly inappropriate."
"It's summer. He's just a boy now, no studenthood to be seen. And he's hardly a
boy at that. Almost a man. Got his growth on from what I've seen. Really, what
harm is there in playing with him a bit longer?"
Minerva closes her lips into a thin line, and regards her sister severely.
"He's sixteen."
"You're doing him a favour, Minerva. He has so many hormones clouding that
little head of his, he's probably going to go mad if he doesn't get at least a
little release once in a while. And what a shame if he does it all through
masturbation. Really, if he doesn't learn to please a lady now, he'll be going
through life thinking foreplay is some mystical tradition of times long past."
Victoria smiles at her sister's discomfort. "And it's good for you, too. When's
the last time you had a little something fawning for your attention? It will
make you feel young. The water of life and all that."
"It's still inappropriate, no matter how much good – questionable good – it
will do."
"Who is he going to tell?"
Minerva replies with silence.
"He's not going to tell anyone, so what is the harm? It'll be good – trust me,
much more entertaining than taking care of me. Besides, I could use a little
excitement, live vicariously through you and such. Get my blood flowing a bit
more."
"It's out of the question."
A bit of silence, enough to fit a comfortable sip of tea or two.
And then, Victoria: "I think I shall invite him to our party tonight."
"You will do no such thing."
"Oh, come on, Minerva. It will be wonderful!" Victoria seems suddenly
energetic, and it's wonderful to see. "Look at me, I haven't been this active
in years – we simply must invite him. It will do us all a world of good to have
such a boy about us at dinner – all my friends will be just bursting with
jealousy. Yes, I think I shall invite him."
"I forbid it." Minerva gets up from the table with their plates and glares
scathingly at her sister. "It cannot happen. Don't you even think of it, don't
you even dare."

                                       *

The garden party is a smashing event. The backyard, stunning now in its
overgrowth, plays host to a long tent, not made of canvas but rather long
stretches of white gauze and lace. Bulbed lights flower on the poles of the
canopy like little buds, all of their light getting tossed and tangled in the
cloth and curtains, illuminating the place in the warmest of glows.
Victoria's friends – all widowed, elderly ladies (there but for the grace of
God go I, Minerva contemplates sadly) – are smiling creatures, bent and hooked
baba yagas with mouths full of kindness. They sit by the table, occasional
flickers of youthful brilliance piercing the conquering veil of lethargy, and
talk slowly amongst themselves (of, naturally, the weather.) Minerva stands
like a spot of youth among them, still sharp and fierce, black-haired and
unrelenting in her fight for everything. She's like a teenage daughter in their
midst, and though depressing to contemplate, it does make her feel a bit
happier.
Dinner (magicked; Minerva has neither the patience or the skill to make dinner
for twelve) is prepared in the dining room, on silver trays steaming and
beading and waiting for mouths. After a glass or two of white wine, and a glass
or two of mindless talk, Minerva announces that it will now be served:
"I think I shall fetch dinner now," Minerva says with a smile.
"Oh, no need," Victoria says broadly. "My nephew will serve it."
Oh, dear reader, you know the game now, don't you?
"I don't have any sons –" Minerva says, wary of her sister's tricks (she hasn't
been the subject of one for years, but she remembers her youth vividly, and now
forebodingly.)
"Oh, no, my nephew on Hector's side. I still keep in touch with his family
though he is with us no more."
And then, sure enough, out comes Oliver, silver tray in hand, coy smirk on his
mouth. Minerva blanches, and turns back to her sister angrily. The
circumstances stay her from comment, but if looks could kill England would now
be underwater.
Oliver is stunning, dressed in imitation of a waiter, white shirt and black
suit – have you ever seen a boy his age dressed finely? Awkward youth
transforms easily into beauty; a suit can change even the strangest looking
child into an object of wealth and admiration. The lines of the tailoring, the
cut of it hugging his sides and slimming him into a figure of power – he's like
a little baron, or prince, or infante or some kind. His ears are scrubbed clean
and blushing and his hair is parted to the side and shines in the pale light.
He plays the game well, and he rather seems to slide towards them, drifting
above the air, than walk like a boy – the very image of submission and
servitude.
He holds out the tray – roast beef, sliced thin and fanned into wide circles.
He returns with pots of gravy, a tureen of rosemary-potatoes, and then a bowl
of roasted chicken in a warm wine sauce; more – white asparagus served with
dill and butter, cucumbers sliced with vinegar and pepper, mashed pumpkin with
a dollop of cream in the center. The food is piled high on the table, and
despite the smells of food and comfort, it is the boy who is the true
centerpiece. Victoria regards him with joy, like a proud mother, while there
exists a kind of subtle pleasure in the looks of the other ladies. Young chap,
young lad, beautiful and broad, with the kind of face that promises innocence,
and the kind of look that promises anything but. Again, that sexuality – ever
present, held generously in his hands, gifted in the sway of his body, the
touch as he deposits the food on the table. He's the dessert, the gift, the
coffee and the cigarette. They spend every moment touching his shoulder and
thanking him, sincerely. All but Minerva who, glaring, makes naught but the
faintest of connections to him (at least acknowledging that he is in the room,
but little beyond this.)
Dinner continues as you might expect; eating, talking – mostly about how
wonderful this dish is, or that, how pleasant the wine is, the weather is, the
evening is, the summer is – and more unhidden glances to the now reclining boy
(sitting by the kitchen door, watching his mistresses attentively.)
After a period of half an hour, Oliver withdraws into the house only to return
with a record player (old, ancient; Oliver engages a fantasy that it exists as
a relic of the Great War.) He selects a record at random (what misfortune, a
dragging piece by Handel, which, while pleasing furniture music, exists
somewhere beyond his interest, Oliver hoping instead for something like Billie
Holiday or Cole Porter, to make this F.-Scott-Fitzgerald portrait complete.)
The dinner ends somewhere near midnight; Victoria begins to drift to familiar
sleep, and her lady-friends feel useless to help her. They part with hugs and
kisses (also reserved for Oliver, who puts a pleasing cap on the experience by
shedding his over coat to expose his white shirt beneath [of course, being
Oliver, top three notches unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up to his elbows] which
is far more saccharine than the soft chocolate cake previously enjoyed.)
At last, Victoria gives the two remaining party-goers (an impossibly withdrawn
Minerva and an awkwardly shuffling Oliver) a nod and a "goodnight" and goes to
bed.
At last, our scene comes down to two – even the lights seem to dim, and the
whole stage is immersed in shadow save for the round spotlight the boy and the
woman occupy. Silence, naturally, rules the night.
Minerva begins the inevitable: "Perhaps you didn't hear me the first time –"
She is interrupted as Oliver pulls towards her and plants the most tender of
kisses to her mouth, a feat long thought impossible to emerge from the body of
a boy. "Please," he whispers, "it's just a summer thing. Don't worry about it."
It bends, it breaks; the center cannot hold. The pure energy rippling from the
boy; like radiation, or mercury, or something equally as noxious, bad for the
body but ignored by the mind. Minerva, possessed by herself, thoughts of
students and teaching – the critical mind accusing her of rape, of hate, of
dishonesty and pain – but Oliver, ever-charming, is shirtless now, and het with
summer fire and the taste of Minerva (wine and spices, a familiar mix.)
She wants to worry about it, wants to break away and deny him and banish him!
but Oliver begins to kiss at her neck, to plant the smooth length of his tongue
in the hollows of her throat; and when he kisses her mouth she can taste the
sweetness of dessert hidden under his tongue. The sensation of his teeth (the
two sharp ones; canines, perhaps, tingle as they scratch her tongue) is near
overwhelming, and it's all she can do to breathe in his smell – pine and boys'
deodorant and sweet milk and the dust of the house.
He drops to his knees; he paws at the waist of her skirt and manages to release
the clutch. He hides, tents himself under her, and slides off her undergarments
(black intricate things; deliberate?) A tongue reaches to action, rolling and
licking, teasing and entering her, gently, to release and commence its
hieroglyphic pattern about her waist. Oh, the sensation of it cuts breath from
the woman, draws it into her lungs to disperse through her body – each breath
bringing with it the sting of pleasure to spread it like venom through her
blood. The tattoo of her heart reaches heights, fluttering, hating in her chest
as his tongue flips and enters her, patterns her waist with kisses and nips.
Her hips buck, easing into him, soft thighs nudging against his cheek as he
goes on and on; furthering, deepening.
Her fingers clutch the edges of the table as she comes, and she bites her lip
to blood to stop from crying out (she owes that much to herself.) Like being
struck, or slapped, and red heat sparks vividly in her cheeks and at the top of
her chest. This isn't the orgasm, she realizes, this isn't the tongue or her
body or the cold brush of night. This is Oliver, this is all Oliver, this is
the boy and his charm – that's what fires her; any other man, any boring old
man could not revive this beast like boy-Oliver did. Oh God, it is the boy and
that's why her hips push to the sky and her back arches near painfully and her
teeth bite down; it's all Oliver, it is that sweet face and small pink tongue
and naked body and their past relationship, burned and corrupted into this
heavenly shambles of a summer tryst.
She slows, her mind calms, her hips fall and Oliver arises, smiling and
grinning and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He leans into her and
kisses her lips with the lazy happiness of those in pleasure – a silly puckered
lip-to-lip.
Minerva relaxes herself against the table and lets her heart fall to calm
beats, and then – oh, how she hates herself for it, how she detests herself –
she smiles, and says:
"Oh – oh my heavens – that's –" so sly, so wicked and grinning, "I must say,
fifty points to Gryffindor."
He laughs, and she laughs; they laugh until they cry and the night turns black
and they sleep, together, in her bed, until morning through.

------------------------------------------------------------------------
Who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet's
heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?
------------------------------------------------------------------------

To describe every moment of intimacy, every moment of finger-curling, hip-
bucking sex would be impossible. The details of each moment could only be
summarized in novels, not paragraphs. As such, only the highlights will be
described, and they are as follows.

                                       *

The boy, by now a regular and welcome fixture of the house, lies on the grass
of Victoria's backyard, scarcely dressed (baggy camouflage shorts, going
appropriately "commando" underneath – Minerva doesn't understand the term, so
Oliver has to explain; both subjects laugh.) Minerva sits in her familiar chair
and reads; she's an odd lady like that, one of those people you always seem to
see sitting – she looks nearly unnatural in any other position, and Oliver
tries to remember if she ever taught class standing up – surely, surely.
In any case, she is reading that damnable novel again (Flann O'Brien's At Swim-
Two-Birds, a thick unknowable thing Minerva tries to explain and Oliver can
never, ever understand) and she has that slightly sour look to her face. Oliver
contents himself with braiding long piece of grass, tickling the round of his
nipples, and watching Minerva read.
"You know," he begins, his voice adopting the sound that prophesizes rambling,
"everyone asks why the sky is blue, right? It's one of those typical questions
kids ask their parents. But, you know, no one ever seems to be able to explain
it. It's such a – a pop culture thing, isn't it? But when does anyone ever give
an answer?"
Minerva glances over her book at the boy (on his stomach now, leaning up; what
beautiful shoulder blades, pyramids of bone and –) and gives a little frown.
"I mean, why is the sky blue?"
Minerva cocks an eyebrow and settles her glasses to the bridge of her nose
before she speaks: "It has something to do with the angle of the sunlight
entering the atmosphere."
"Hm," Oliver sounds, flipping to his back (cross-hatched grass pattern etched
on that flat, white tummy), "that's kind of boring. You sure it's not the
reflection of the water in the sky?"
"I hardly think so."
"Maybe that's why no one asks these questions. The answers are so boring."
They are silent once more, punctured only occasionally by the turning of a
page, or the sigh of a boy.
Wood: "Let's go to Austria."
McGonagall: "Pardon?"
Wood: "Let's go to Austria."
McGonagall: "I heard you, I meant, Pardon me what in Merlin's name do you
mean?"
Wood: "I mean let's leave here, buy two tickets to Austria and go to Vienna."
McGonagall: "That's absurd."
A few moments of silence. Then Oliver turns to face Minerva and smiles.
"Think about it, we could go to France by bus, get a train in Paris and ride it
to Vienna. Get a hotel somewhere in the old district, a nice big marble place
with gold designs everywhere and candlelight and servant boys who wait on your
hand and foot. We could get room service champagne and watch Austrian
television. Then, at night, we could go to the opera and talk all though it and
make all the old stodgy people there really angry. We could talk over
whatserface's aria – whatserface, you know the one –"
"Carmen?"
"Yeah, Carmen, sure. And we could sneeze at really important parts, and cough
and throw popcorn and then get thrown out, and we could hit all the cafes in
town and drink absinthe and get really stoned and try and swim in the river –
whatsit, the river –"
"The Danube." (bemused reply)
"Yeah, the Danube. Yeah. That's what we should do."
It's nice getting caught in his stories, belonging as one star to the
constellation of his fantasies. It's far too easy, far too romantic to imagine,
strolling the river-walk with him and drinking and smoking and being a
generally terrible person. Minerva smiles and replies: "You wouldn't want to
swim in the Danube."
"Then, in the hot tub." That glance, oh you know that glance if ever you've met
a boy who knows he's going to come. That's the looks he gives.
"We can't go to Vienna," Minerva replies succinctly, looking at him over her
glasses. She affirms this with a nod of her head.
"I know." Oliver deflates a bit. "Oh well."
Minerva returns to reading, and Oliver tries to touch his tongue to his nose.

                                       *

Minerva watches him doze in the grass, and her mind fantasizes situations for
him. Here he is, now, young, lying in the ferns by the edge of a stream. His
wrists arch elegantly over his head, and he's as pale as whey; drowned, in the
river, and now abandoned on the shore, foot still dragging in the cold stream,
dirt ringing the cuffs of his pants and creasing his bare feet with mud. Or
else raped, broken by a group of men, deposited in the forest for fresh-faced
joggers to happen upon; number-one story on the six o'clock news – local boy
(cue reminiscent picture, arm slung around the shoulders of boys, laughing! and
cheer) raped and killed, left in countryside; more gory details to come (i.e.:
amount of men, size of them, current location, relation to the boy, how they
picked him up; how sexual the news becomes – and they have the gall to call
others deviant!) Oh, and now, from some Belgian warfield, blood weeping from
the hole in his stomach, lying destroyed in this forgotten glade, having
crawled there for miles, away from the fighting –
She shakes her head, too engrossed with the macabre, and sees him there, just
sleeping, in the grass.

                                       *

"Do you ever think this is wrong?"
Oliver is naked. His cock lies sleeping between his legs, nested in the short
curl of hair. He leans on his elbow at the end of Minerva's bed, leaning into a
magazine he barely reads. Minerva attends to herself at the vanity, putting on
make-up for their evening out (dinner and then a bar; daring the world, to be
honest.)
"I know it is."
"Then why do you do it – do I," a lazy pitch in his hips, and he touches
himself lightly, fingering the head of his cock thoughtlessly, "make you feel
young?"
"Oh, if anything you make me feel old."
"Is it because you just love jailbait?"
"No."
"I don't get it, then."
Minerva has thought about this; has many calculated responses, ranging from
defensive to sheer lunacy. She questions every moment she touches Oliver,
wrestling herself over each fragment of affection she doles to the boy. A
teacher! for God's sake, a teacher! – but Oliver, desired and deserved and God,
he wants it and he loves it – it's not like they're blackmailing, or forced
into it – and she loves the curl of his fingers and the touch of his lips – and
her importance in his eyes, the affection with which he looks at her, all the
games he plays – she loves the respect; a respect neither teaching nor prowess
nor anything but sexual vigor can create – yes, the respect –
She replies: "Because I want to."
And it feels good.

                                       *

They get really, really stoned.

                                       *

Oliver takes ill near the middle of August. A fever, red-blowing and sweaty. He
succumbs overnight, with McGonagall, and takes to her bed – so now Minerva has
two ailing people to tend for.
He's quite beautiful – tragically beautiful – when he's ill. Oh, all red, naked
under his sheets, sweat peeling off every section of skin, slick to the touch
and salty to the kiss. He exists as a bundle of blankets, coiled under them
like a sleeping snake, spending his days with rough tongue (impatient, very
often, snapping and moaning gently.) His hair is oily from having been bed-
ridden for days, and it sticks up at odd angles, tangled about his ears and
face – he really shouldn't be appealing at all, but to touch, just slightly the
hot angle of his hip, or finger his feathered ribs – then you know his beauty,
and why he is attractive so.
His cock grows red and swollen on occasion, and Minerva strokes it sometimes,
sitting at the edge of his bed. He never reaches completion, though, for when
she exercises him (slowly, fingers just lazy over the length of it) he is
quickly lulled to sleep, and his cock softens to warmth again.
She prepares him meals; serving him boiled chicken with its skin, and
cranberries, things to keep his strength up; carrot soup and cream of broccoli.
Tea with lemon and sugar. Warm wine, too, and lots of it at night, which seems
to temper his fever and please him greatly.
He sleeps fitfully, but she loves the touch of his skin as he does so; warm, so
warm, like pieces of fresh bread, just total and utter heat coursing from his
body; radiating from his cock and his armpits, sweat building at the small of
his back and the top of his chest (her hand glides over it, around, and then up
along his spine.) Like something surreal, a mythological boy; Apollo riding the
chariot of the sun (coursing warmth) or just Helios himself. Little bundle,
little incandescent boy; she touches his forehead and the curve of his belly
button, kissing him sometimes on the lips (Oedipus.)
He regains health in a few days, and assumes his usual vigorous glow; ahh, the
invincibility of youth.

                                       *

At night, in our familiar garden, Minerva and Oliver lounge again. Minerva is
reading (a new one now, bare-covered – she said it was something like, oh,
Dublin? The Dubliner? Something like that, he can't remember) and Oliver
contents himself with his little brother's Game Boy (ringing and dinging like
every videogame stereotype you could imagine.)
You know how in those dark places, when the sky is heavy with stars, your
attentions stirs from the ordinary – and the book or the poem or the game
you're enjoying suddenly pops and you lose interest, no matter the previous
joy. Distraction embodies you and it's near impossible to concentrate on
anything but that growing heat in your belly, and the proximity – her hand, her
leg, the arch of her calf and the red of her lips, her skirt, her shirt, her
breasts, her feet, her hands, her –
Oliver takes off his shirt; resistant to the fabric, annoying and cloying; he
takes off his shorts, and remains in his boxers (a comfortable median between
real life and sex, which he enjoys immensely.) He does that tilt, that arch in
his back and fold in his stomach, bending the muscle and sucking on his lower
lip – the kind of look that makes Minerva's eyes freeze on the page and cross
her legs.
He doesn't know why he does it – okay, okay, he does, but he doesn't like to
admit that he likes the attention (which he does; there's a reason why he took
the Quidditch captain position) – but he's soon enticing himself, teasing his
cock, hand slid under the hem of his boxers; theatrical and pornographic at
once. Minerva watches, pretends not to; but Oliver knows her eyes have stopped
scanning the page as he teases the collar of his boxers sliding them down just
enough to show a dark curl of hair, or the soft root of his cock. It's
mystifying, the conjunction of his hand and his hip, the connection between his
shifting hand and the rocking of his waist.
God, can she ever stop admiring his beauty? He's like true boyhood, shifting
more into a symbol than a person now, but every so often he'll say something
("I was thinking about changing our starting lines next year" – "Who's in your
NEWT Transfiguration class next semester? Don't tell me Flint's in it –") and
then her whole self-contained boyhood-fantasy comes crashing about her ankles
and she just sees Oliver, plain Oliver, and there is never better sex than
that. Like now, all roguish, strung deeply in his web of sex, a place boys seem
to live naturally – yes, where they look their most normal, their most common,
in the throes of passion (you'll never see a gent more sweet, more open, more
happy than when his cock is worked over.) He's like a colt; irresponsible,
energetic, ready to bolt, ready to fly – explosive and fast-burning, a sky-
walking firework, leaping and jumping only to the things he likes.
He jerks himself off now, and she watches. How perverted, how thick and dirty,
which is maybe why she watches. Never has she done anything out of the norm,
never has she indulged in drugs or trickery or lies or deceit. But now – well,
she could blame the coming war, or loneliness, or Victoria's impending death
(another source of guilt, but Victoria insists she spend as much time with
Oliver as she can) but really it comes down to that fact that Minerva just
wants it, and that she's always wanted it, since Ewing came those years ago
requesting Oliver be made the new keeper.
It's still hidden in the cloth, his hand, but the real attraction comes from
his face, all clenched and tight, biting his lower lips, nostrils flaring.
That's where the real sex happens; dark under the eyes, shadows masking and
unmasking, trapped in his hair and thick on his eyelashes.
He frees himself from his boxers, and rolls to his back, leaning up on one hand
while the other pumps at his swollen cock with the other. It's like something
from a pornographic film, something vivid and real but distinctly separated
from true sex. It does away with reality and replaces it with false-shined
fake-fruit, like she's watching a set action rather than the spontaneous Oliver
she's felt before. He really has become a symbol of boyishness, and in this
he's stepped into the realm of pure fantasy, isolating himself in his
constellation once more, just another star in a series of elaborate make-
believes.
But when he comes (oh, she squirms, half of out of guilt and half out of
knowing it will be the last time she sees him coming, so vulnerable, beautiful)
it all seems to fade, and all that exists are his red lips, pressed and parted
and gasping anew; her name, on the wind, and the sudden ecstatic shock in his
eyes as the come lands in strings about his chest and stomach; he looks like
he's seeing God.
He cleans himself off and stands, before her, naked. One last look; now
imperfect form only visible after he's came (scars on the back of his
shoulders, a birthmark on the small of his back,) They touch hands, and he
kisses her palm gently, and then the back of her hand.
"I'll see you later, then," Oliver says.
"Mm, yes," comes the lady's reply.
It's the last day of summer; and that was the wax seal, the final recognition
of just what he is and just what he means (to Minerva; for Oliver this was just
a bit of fun, something to fill the days and to fill his mind, a new game, a
new play.) He doesn't ask silly questions – we can keep doing this, or maybe
next year, or would you like to stay together tonight; he knows all the answers
now and he doesn't have to ask a thing. So he kisses her palm once more and
gathers up his clothes. He slips into his boxers, flannel that rides up to
those wonderful thighs, and he turns to the back garden wall. The hollows of
his knees, as deep as eggs, itch, and he scratches them, and that movement is
the last she sees of his body; the bend to scratch, the rippling of muscle and
moving shadow, like the flight of birds, winged ribs sliding and folding like
clockwork under his skin. And then, without looking back, he tosses his things
over the wall, and with a flying jump, vaults the thistle and crawls up the
stone border. He straddles this boundary for a moment, glances over his
shoulder, once, at Minerva and then swings over to the other side.
Fin.

End Notes
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