Disclaimer: Rowling owns all.
I had requests for more transformation-type fics after my first story. This popped into my head a while ago and I finally had the chance to put it in words. It's McGonagall/Hermione if you squint. One-shot.
Again, un-Beta'd. I live on the wild side.
The windowless room is roughly twenty feet from end to end, with an iron barred cell dividing it in half. The walls and floor are made from gray stone, and the temperature inside goose-bump inducing, scant heat thrown by the torches lining the walls. There are three women inside the ancient cage and a man standing guard by the door on the outside. They are underground, in the basement of the home of a certain wizarding family, and there is no hope of rescue for two prisoners.
The younger one is shivering on her side in the center of the room, barefoot and covered in bruises. Fresh tear tracks mark her dirty cheeks. It is her third day in captivity, and her third day of being tortured.
The other, a woman who looks to be in her late forties, is sitting with her back against the stone wall and has her dark hair tied up in a bun, from which several tendrils of hair have escaped. She was thrown in the room an hour earlier, and has not made a sound while the youngest woman has been writhing on the floor for the past ten minutes, well aware that it would only provoke their torturer to new heights of sadism. The only indication of her mood is her tightly clenched hands, the knuckles white.
"If you are tired of our little game, Mudblood, simply say the word and I will move on to our recently arrived Professor. The possibilities for fun with her are endless."
The speaker's robes are black velvet, with close cut sleeves and a deep hood thrown back over her shoulders. The curved wand in her hand is made of a dark wood and presently pointing at the young woman cringing on the stone floor.
"Don't touch her!"
The brunette's voice is barely a whisper; her lungs hoarse from screaming, but her words echo around the small room.
"Such a little Gryffindor!" Laughing in delight, the witch crouches beside the prone teenager and stretches out her left hand to lift up a strand of Hermione's curly hair before dropping it again, smirking. "A proper mane and everything. And such spirit! You'd tear out my throat before you'd let harm come to your precious teacher, wouldn't you?"
Hermione doesn't have the strength to shrink away, her muscles spent from straining against the Cruiciatus. She has been beaten, cut, hit, kicked and Crucio'd and resigned herself to the fact that she will die in this cold room, but she will not let Bellatrix move on to do the same her Head of House, not while there is still life left in her body.
"How darling. What loyal and bloodthirsty children you have raised, my dear Minerva. I must applaud."
Straightening up, Bellatrix taps her lower lip with a finger, a thoughtful expression on her cruel face as she regards the young woman at her feet.
"I dare say that I feel quite inspired. Shall we play a new game?"
Not bothering to wait for an answer, she motions to the nameless bearded Death Eater on the outside of the cell and speaks softly to him through the bars. There is quiet laughter when they finish and the man leaves the room, returning five minutes later with a cloth-covered plate, which he hands to Bellatrix and then leaves again.
"Now, my dear, you never took seventh year transfiguration, did you?" It is clearly not a question. "No? Well, we're about to have an impromptu lesson." Bellatrix casts a glance over her shoulder at the elder witch half-slumped up against the back wall of the cell. "Alas, I fear that Professor McGonagall will be ceding the class to me this one time, even if it is her specialty. You may find that I'm a somewhat more demanding teacher, with rather...unorthodox...methods, and the penalties for not succeeding will be quite painful." She pauses for a moment, grinning down maliciously at her victim. "And not necessarily for you."
With a careless flick of her wrist, Bellatrix removes the linen covering from the plate, revealing a heap of bloody flesh. She sets it on the floor in front of Hermione and steps back.
On the other side of the small room, Minerva turns pale.
"Eat," Bellatrix commands. "You will stop when I say to. If you refuse, there will be consequences."
Hermione stares at the plate in horror. Crimson blood is dripping from the pile of unidentifiable meat, each slab the size of her hand. It is disconcertingly fresh.
Please let it not be human.
"I will not ask again."
There is a flash and sharp crack and a cry of pain. Bellatrix has turned her wand into a long whip and struck viciously at the woman in the corner. Blood flows from the slash in Minerva's left shoulder, her robes ripped by the blow. Bright tears stream down her cheeks, teeth clenched tightly to stop herself from moaning.
"The next one will be on her face, Mudblood." Bellatrix warns. "My aim is excellent."
This is incentive enough. Hermione grabs the topmost hunk of raw flesh from the platter and bites into it. Blood drips from her mouth as she chews; the meat is an inch thick. She finally manages to separate a small piece from the rest and forces herself to swallow, pushing back on the overwhelming reflex to gag.
"You are a quick learner!" Bellatrix lets out shrill giggle and claps her hands like a child. "I can see why you're the teacher's pet."
The next bites are easier. Hermione finishes her first steak, and then a second. Her teeth hurt, her jaw muscles ache from the effort of chewing uncooked meat. The iron in the blood running down her throat makes her queasy, and her stomach feels near bursting point but she doesn't dare stop eating, not when Bellatrix is twitching the end of her whip on the stone floor, not when her teacher is in danger. Minerva hasn't made a sound since her shoulder was sliced, her right hand clutching at the injury to stop the bleeding. Only the woman's green eyes give her fear away.
Whatever Bellatrix is planning with this sickening meal of flesh terrifies Minerva more than the sight of Hermione being tortured.
It is mid-way through the fourth slice of meat that Hermione feels sharp stabbing pain in her unbearably full stomach and cries out in agony. She curls up into a ball on the cold floor, clutching at her abdomen with both arms, knees pressed to her chest.
"Ah." Bellatrix uses her shoe to carelessly shove the young woman onto her side. "Our lesson for today appears to be complete. I shall return tomorrow."
She smirks at Minerva as she opens the barred door to the outer section and locks it behind her again.
"Never fear, Professor; if she loses her mind, you'll at least have gained a wonderful mascot. Provided you survive the night, of course."
As soon as the Death Eater leaves the room, the heavy door shutting behind her, Minerva staggers to her feet and rushes over to the young woman on the floor. The cut on her shoulder is several inches long and has already begun to bruise, but Minerva pays it no mind as she clutches her cowering student by the arms.
"Hermione. Hermione!"
Eyes still tightly shut; Hermione hisses in pain but doesn't protest when her teacher jerks up her tucked-in shirt from under her belt and lifts it up above her navel, bearing her skin. She hears a soft gasp escape Minerva's lips. Whatever Bellatrix had intended has obviously done its work. It is impossible to think clearly when her insides feel like they are being tied into knots.
"On all fours, Miss Granger," comes the soft command next to her ear, one hand caressing her cheek. "Bellatrix used a very old and very dangerous magic to force animagus transformation into a certain shape – a method that hasn't been allowed by the Ministry for over a century. It is vital that you stay calm – your mind is in danger."
Hermione blindly obeys, fingers curling into the rough stone when Minerva strokes a hand in reverse down her back, tugging off her shirt and knit sweater over her head, leaving her in only her bra and jeans. The white-hot pain in her stomach has subsided but she feels unnaturally warm in the cold room despite her state of undress, almost to the point of breaking out in a sweat, her skin tingling. Her spine is on fire, the sensation matched only by the tremendous ache in her jaw.
"Roll onto your back."
The familiar low voice calls her mind back from the edge of panic and Hermione flips onto her other side, muscles aching with the movement. The woman pulls her jeans off, one leg at a time and Hermione opens her eyes and sees the horrifying effects of the potion-covered meat for herself.
Tawny fur lightly coats her inner thighs, spreading up to the juncture between her legs and up to her buttocks. Before her mind can process this, Hermione lets out a low moan, arching her back and ducking her head towards her chest as a tufted tail snakes out from under her panties.
"Professor, what's happening to me?" she manages to gasp out. Her tongue feels too large for her mouth and it is difficult to form words, her lips catching on her teeth. "Please make it stop!"
"Hush." Minerva cradles Hermione's face in her hands, drawing her student's terrified gaze up to her own. "Try to relax," she whispers. "Concentrate on me."
Brown eyes are glistening with tears of pain, amber flecks already visible in the irises. Thick fur runs down the young woman's spine to the base of the now fully developed tail, the dark tuft thrashing back and forth in agitation. Working quickly, the elder witch unfastens the clasp of Hermione's bra and tosses the garment aside as the brunette's breasts all but disappear into her chest, the nipples barely visible through the long pale hair now sprouting neck to stomach, a second and third set appearing below them. Hermione's ears climb up the sides of her head, rounding and growing the same fur that covers her torso. The golden fur creeps down to her toes, paler on the inside of her legs, ankles reshaping and shifting position.
Hermione lets out a stifled sob of fear when she looks at her changing hands, the backs covered with tawny hair, the nails turning into claws. Her nose has flattened out, her lips darkening and jaw jutting forward into a bristled muzzle, teeth longer and sharper with each passing minute. In a panic, she tries to stand, only to fall back down to the hard ground with an inhuman cry when her legs do not bend properly.
"Please, Hermione," comes the plea. "Stay still."
Sure hands smooth down the new fur on her head and neck, accompanied by whispers of reassurance as the potion-soaked meat continues to work its magic. The woman's voice and touch are the only things keeping Hermione from giving into her terror. Hermione buries her face in Minerva's robes as her mass begins to increase – doubling in minutes. Her belly fills out as her back lengthens and ribcage deepens, the young witch's center of gravity shifting forward towards her shoulders. Limbs shorten and thicken with powerful muscle, leathery pads swelling on the soles of her hands and feet, fingers and toes spreading out into gigantic paws.
"It's almost over." Minerva says softly, petting Hermione's down-turned head. "Hush."
It has been ten minutes since the changes began to appear on Hermione's body, and the last physical remnant of the young woman has disappeared, leaving a tawny lioness ten feet long from nose to tail and tipping the scales at three hundred pounds. Her forelegs are wrapped around Minerva's waist, claws sheathed, heavy head pressed into her lap. The only indication of life is the faint rumble of breath through giant lungs as the animal inhales and exhales.
"Are you still with me, dearest?" Minerva asks, cupping the massive jaw with both hands and gazing up into golden eyes with concern.
A low sound of feline contentment deep in the lioness's throat answers in the blessed affirmative and a wave of immense relief washes over Minerva. Hermione nuzzles her teacher under the chin, long whiskers tickling Minerva's skin, before climbing to her legs and padding once around the small cell, sniffing tentatively at the plate of potion-covered meat before knocking it outside the bars of their cell with a flick of her gigantic paw. After a stretch and large yawn, showing impressive white teeth, she lies down on the stone floor next to Minerva, curling up her tail beside her body and half-rolling over, her intention clear.
Sparing a last glance at the door, the dark-haired witch carefully arranges herself next to the warm creature, head pillowed by the outstretched paw. One slender hand rests on the pale furred chest, the deep rhythmic heartbeat palpable through the changed ribs. On impulse, Minerva shifts closer and kisses the spot where her hand was resting, slowly running her long fingers down the soft belly.
"Good girl."
Reviews welcomed – even anonymous, acid-tongued "You sick person" types. I measure the need for new stories by the amount of reviews I get – both complimentary and scathing.
(PS. There may or may not be a sequel for Call and Response in the works. There was legitimate criticism about Hermione taking advantage of Minerva, and I would like to show her side of things)