hopefully this will be the first of a series of chapters-otherwise, think of it as a long drabble without anything happening. a zen drabble, if you will.
whether it becomes a story or not, i must warn you that it mentions the following dangerous topics: blow jobs (gender of giver and recipient non-specified!) the suggestion that Dumbledore may be giving/receiving blow jobs, or know a person who is (now, that is sorta scary) and...ooh. can you say 'femmeslash', people? (of which there is not any in here. but there will be. if that fact is scary, what on earth are you doing online? that is very hazardous. it's like being an agoraphobic in front of the Grand Canyon, very bad idea for you. go play checkers.)
for the rest of you: no, msgonagall will not end up with ginny or hermione, and they will not end up with each other. because that would be too easy. i scorn easy.
A Brief Introduction
It is a well-known phenomenon that of the bathrooms of any municipal, educational, or business facility, the nicest one will always be the women's. This mystery is, of course, easily explainable. Any student of human nature, shown two rooms of equal size and appointment, will easily be able to identify the owners of the one that the surgeons frequently borrow to deal with over crowding in the ER, and the one that looks like a chicken hutch that is home to particularly foul-minded chickens.
But it is often more than that. As though prepared for the long life of superior stewardship ahead, many women's lavatories appear fresh from construction with a notably superior ambiance, which is what you get when you have the leather sofas and the flat screen TV. The reason for this is perhaps, to the Muggle eye, far harder to find. But witches have been feminists since long before the English word was coined, and hold far more power in the wizarding world than any wizard would personally like to admit. It is indeed tragic, for example, that elderly Alginia Fudge died late in Harry Potter's fourth year, leaving her bemused and grieving nephew for the first time at the reigns of actual power, something Ms. Fudge had carefully avoided for many years. A cheerful recluse, suffering from chronic and incurable cats, Fudge herself never put her name forward for public office because that would leave no one to look after little Tabbity, would it, and she's expecting, poor dear, but found it vaguely amusing to steer her young nephew through intricate knots of public policy. As she had effectively orchestrated his entire campaign for the office, the public were, in fact, getting exactly who they had voted for.
Alginia herself was but one of many great leaders in a line of magical feminism going back thousands of years, and many of those witches in ages past—seeing the possibilities open before them—have been the benefactors of great architects, or indeed (before the position became officially open to women) great architects themselves, with judicious use of the Polyjuice Potion, and they have made their opinions known.
And so the tradition was born. To unhappy males—as males almost always are—the witches pointed out that they would have given the Men's john the TV as well, but men simply do not take care of their restrooms, and so it would be wasted on them. And the wizards were forced to admit that this was so, because not even a wizard is willing to argue semantics with a witch.
And so it is even at Hogwarts. While the young wizards are forced to go to the loo in what does indeed look rather like a chicken hutch, and members of Slytherin house must give blowjobs with one eye peeled for that last Blast Ended Skrewt that escaped and is hiding somewhere down there in all that piping, the Girls' Lavatories—save for the one abandoned upon the entrance of Moaning Mytle, which has rather gone to seed, and why do you think young Tom Riddle was sneaking in there in the first place—look more like the harem baths of the Turkish empire, except with a lot more bubble bath and a lot fewer Sultans. Hundreds of years of young witches' powers have gone into the creation of their ablutionary masterpiece, and they regard it with singular pride.
Dumbledore, in case anyone is wondering, does not protest this inequality for the simple reason that he is utterly unaware it exists. He does not use the Boys' bathroom, but has a private one of his own creation and, though smaller than the elaborate confection belonging to the school girls, it is known to smell rather strongly of honey and lemon, and what he and any of the well-built young men who may occasionally visit him get up to in there is anyone's guess. Minerva McGonagall would probably inform him, but she has a certain weakness towards lavender scented shower gel that has so far ensured her silence. She is, after all, Deputy Headmistress, and her loyalty lies first and foremost with her fellow females.
Thus, one of Man's most troubling questions as to the nature of Womankind is easily answered. Three more that Man has scratched his collective head over for centuries remain, namely:
Why do they always go to the restroom in packs?
What the hell do they do in there for so long, anyway?
And: What is it, exactly, that women want?
-review and i will adore you. ta, James.