Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize belongs to me. No money is made.

A/N: Thank you, Dreamy_Dragon, for beta-reading the madness.
##Warning: non-explicit bestiality, non-explicit bdsm.## If the morals-police causes this to be removed from ffnet, you can also find it on The Petulant Poetess.

This was written for the OWL house cup challenge. You've been warned, don't complain. Since I normally write vanilla romance, for the House Cup I wanted to repell my readers (not reviewing would cost them points) by writing something outside their comfort zone. There's a hint at bestiality, a bit of non-explicit bdsm, slash and het – but basically it is a story about power.

Goat Stories

Chapter 1

Lysander Scamander, solicitor and notary, shuffled through the documents on the late Aberforth Dumbledore's ancient oak desk. There weren't all that many documents; old Aberforth hadn't been a man of many words, and this distinguishing feature was mirrored in his correspondence––it was short and to the point—as well as his documents: he had only kept what was strictly necessary.

Lysander was glad about that fact; there was still enough paperwork to go through and review, as it was. There also was antique furniture, many, many books, pictures and other potential valuable items. Abe's appearance as the eccentric barman of the Hog's Head had been a clever ruse, a deception. In reality, the man had been a collector and patron of the arts.

Aberforth had adorned his home with an interesting mixture of art and practicality. Mucha paintings (Muggle-type) were hanging in the small dairy, a Tiffany lamp stood on his art deco desk and Beardsley's Salome (wizarding version) was dancing her dance of the seven veils in the bedroom. It was surprising, really, how much wealth Aberforth's home contained.

Lysander stretched, yawned, put all the files into a folder and neatly stacked them away in his briefcase. Now, all that was left to do was taking a look at that interesting cabinet in the basement where Abe had made his famous goat-milk cheese, a delicacy that was known for its exquisite taste and medicinal properties. Its fame had spread far beyond Hogsmeade and Hogwarts.

The cabinet—Bauhaus, Lysander noted—was filled with small bottles. Perhaps, these phials contained the secret ingredients and additions that were essential for making the legendary 'Bess' goat cheese? Lysander Scamander wouldn't have minded to get hold of the recipe and market the cheese himself if Dumbledore's heir wasn't interested. And he didn't really think that Albus Severus Potter would be interested in the production of goat cheese.

Who would have thought that Old Abe would leave his possessions to Al anyway?
The Potters and Dumbledores were related, but if asked, Lysander would have guessed that Harry Potter would have been the heir––not that Uncle Harry would be any more interested in goat cheese than Al would be, mind. But apparently, Abe had been of the opinion that Harry had enough wealth already, and so everything went to Albus Severus. Probably a sentimental gesture in memory of Abe's brother Albus, Lysander thought.

But be that as it may, the fact that the heir was a Potter increased the chances that they'd leave the manufacturing notes to Lysander, who had wished to retire from his tiresome lawyer career for some time now. He had grown weary of always being the 'normal' one, the reasonable one in his family; the one who was pursuing a career in law instead of hunting for the Snark or digging up the submerged Gulpalumps.

Deep inside, he was just as delightfully crazy as his beloved parents and his twin brother Lorcan. All of them still went on Snorkack expeditions together regularly, and Lysander enjoyed these flights of fancy greatly. No, if he could go into goat cheese production, Lysander wouldn't miss his law career at all; he'd finally be free to live in the country and perhaps find the time to write Grandpa Xeno's memoirs.

But first, he had to find out what was in these phials. He opened the glass door of the cabinet and looked at the shelves. There were bottles everywhere. They were standing in rows; some bottles were even stacked on top of each other. The bottom shelf, however, didn't contain phials but something else.

Was that a bowl? Lysander wondered, but when he took the item out of the cabinet, he realized that it wasn't only a bowl but some kind of magical object. An even closer look revealed that it was a Pensieve. The logical conclusion was that these phials were filled with memories...

Lysander grew very excited. Were these Old Abe's memories? The man had been a hero of the second Voldemort war, over fifty years ago. These memories alone could be worth more than the house and everything in it together.

Rita Skeeter, the old, legendary Daily Prophet reporter, had demonstrated that stories about war heroes—invented or true—could earn you a fortune. She was now richer than the Minister for Magic. However, all her riches couldn't prevent her from getting old and wrinkled as Aunt Hermione never failed to point out with righteous glee.

Lysander couldn't resist and took one of the phials off the shelf. After carefully levitating the Pensieve onto the desk, he poured the silvery memory threads into its depth, prodded the liquid with his wand and then stuck his face into the Pensieve.

After tumbling upside down, round and round, and finally awkwardly landing on his feet, he became aware that he stood in a paddock and saw... a goat. The goat looked at him with big, soulful eyes––Lysander hadn't known that goats had such pretty eyes—and started to bleat. Surprisingly, Lysander could understand every word it uttered. It almost felt as if the goat was telling a story.

The grass is fresh and sweet again. What's even better are the herbs. The taste of honeysuckle leaves is a treat for the taste buds, nothing tastes better, not even the fresh hornbeam shoots from the hedge over at the Three Broomsticks. The animal took a few mouthfuls of the fresh, green grass and continued.

My coat is changing from winter to summer and that is always an itchy affair. But he'll scratch me; he'll brush me thoroughly and take care that none of the tufts of old hair remain. I love it when he does that. I love it when his hands are all over my body. He has such gentle hands...

Shocked, Lysander pushed himself out of the Pensieve. These were the thoughts of a goat? Aberforth Dumbledore had extracted the thoughts of a goat to be viewed in a Pensieve? The old geezer must have been even more perverted than everyone had thought he was if he'd done that.

Who'd have thought that goats could think so clearly, anyway? Maybe, Abe wanted to hide any evidence of what he did with goats? Apparently, that old rumour about Aberforth and the goats was true, after all.

Mildly disgusted, Lysander siphoned the memory out of the Pensieve and returned it to its phial.

He took another phial off the shelf; he needed to view a few more of these before he could decide whether they should be made public or be destroyed. The Potters wouldn't want to be involved in yet another family scandal. The affair of ambassador James Potter with young Sagittarius Malfoy had been a favourite of the press for years and didn't help making the Potter family any less conspicuous.

"Here we go again," Lysander muttered, sighed, and dove into the next memory:

His wonderful, warm hands were massaging my udder this morning, although I'm dry and can't produce milk. But he knows how much I enjoy a massage, and his caresses are so sensual and yet respectful, almost innocent.I have to call them almost innocent because, although he never does anything improper, we both know that he wants to. But he won't... He is a good man, a decent man, even though––even though once, only that one time, he went a bit further than mere touching.

Of course, he'd been drunk when it happened. In the early years, he always got drunk on the day when we first had laid eyes on each other.This time, however, was different. When he came back from the pub, he yelled. "They've actually made him a teacher! They are letting him loose on children," and broke down, crying inconsolably."We'll have to move, my love. We have to watch him closely, and that means moving to Scotland. Would you be very upset if we moved to Hogsmeade?"I gently nibbled on his hair to show him that I didn't mind at all. As long as we were together, all was well with me.

Abe put his arms around my neck and kissed me on the nose. After looking me deeply in the eyes, first the left and then the right one—goats have lateral vision, after all––he kissed my lips. It was a bit difficult for me to kiss him back, and so I licked his face. His skin tasted divine, the salty tears were a special treat. I first licked his face and then his hands and arms. By then, he had started to moan softly, and suddenly, he jumped up and tore his shirt off.The taste of his sweat when I licked his chest and armpits was especially delicious.

The sweat was adding a slightly bitter note to his skin, like a spicy herb, like lavender, perhaps, or yarrow. My tongue on his tiny brown nipples made him gasp. By now, he was breathing heavily, and his face was flushed. Loud, wrecking sobs told me that he had started to cry again.With a loud, "I can't stand this any longer", he jumped up and moved towards my back. Fresh tears were glistening on his cheeks, and I longed to lick them off. His gentle hands patted my backside and then tenderly stroked down my thighs and legs. Tentatively, he stroked my opening with one finger but then tore his hand away as if burnt, although I didn't mind.

It didn't really mean much to me to be touched there. I have been a goat for more years than I can count, after all; my body and my reflexes have become that of a goat and my mind… "I'm so sorry," Abe sobbed when he rubbed himself against my back and thighs. He rubbed and rubbed— which, to me, felt rather pleasant––all the while crying and sobbing and moaning. What he did to me didn't hurt me. I don't know if it would have, had he really entered me, but he never did. "Oh, Bess!" he yelled when he finally came.

Breathing heavily, Abe broke down, cried some more and fell asleep. I licked his face, his chest and everything else of his skin that was exposed and savoured the different flavours. Then, I lay down at his side. He'd be cold in the morning, he didn't have a coat like me to keep him warm.

Lysander dove out of the Pensieve memory, his face beet-red. He was very embarrassed, feeling like a voyeur. Why anyone would find a goat sexually attractive, he didn't know; but if that was Aberforth's vice, the man had certainly kept a tight reign on himself, at least in his younger years.

But who knew what Aberforth had done when he got older and was used to having a willing goat around? Did Lysander really want to know? He was pretty certain that he didn't want to publish these memoirs, although he'd probably be able to purchase Hogwarts with the royalties. But Aberforth had been a friend; Lysander wouldn't uncover his secrets. There were things the world out there didn't need to know.

Something was odd, though, and had left him feeling slightly uneasy. It was something the goat had said. Lysander had been so distracted by Aberforth's actions that he hadn't paid it heed at the time, but the goat had said something weird.

The goat had said: 'the day they had first laid eyes on each other.' Aberforth had got drunk on that day? He couldn't really have fallen in love with a goat, and that goat couldn't possibly have returned his feelings, could it?

Lysander shook his head and closed his eyes. He was an idiot. That goat couldn't be a goat. Goats didn't talk, and they didn't think the way humans did. Goats were animals.

As most lawyers, Lysander Scamander had studied Legilimency. He knew how the thoughts of animals 'sounded' if you could call it that. It wasn't that animals didn't think—they did—but their thought processes were foreign: their needs, wants and yes, desires, were direct, instinct-driven and to the point.

Not even the most intelligent animal would be able to think like that goat did. That kind of reflection was reserved for magical beings and humans.

Lysander was convinced that this goat wasn't a normal goat. He had to get to the root of the puzzle.

He had to take a closer look at these phials. There must have been some labels on them, something he had overlooked until now. He finished siphoning the memory back into the phial and twirled the tiny bottle in his fingers. There wasn't a label or inscription of any kind... Maybe the way these phials were placed in the cabinet was significant? That would be a rather whimsical ordering system, but it would fit Aberforth Dumbledore.

Lysander looked at the cabinet again. Western reading is performed from left to right, top to bottom, and there were three rows of phials on the uppermost shelf on the left side, with ten phials per row.

He took the first phial on the left and examined it; it didn't stand out from the others. He tentatively cast a series of revealing spells on the small bottle, but nothing happened.

Scratching his head, Lysander put the phial back and took the first bottle in the third row. He'd just have to try, then. After taking a deep breath, he poured the memory into the Pensieve and lowered his head to the surface.

Once again, he was standing on a grassy hill with bushes and trees; the soft burbling of water hinted at a river or creek nearby. The sun was shining and warming the soil and the air. A soft breeze brought the smell of honeysuckle and jasmine.

A herd of goats was on the pasture; the mothers were feeding on herbs and shrubs, three kids were frolicking around. While Lysander observed the scene in front of him, he heard the goat's voice resume its tale.

Abe was still a very young man, barely more than a boy. He sat on a stone, laughed and clapped."You really did it!" he exclaimed. And what a pretty girl you are..."I was one of the older goats in the herd, and when he shouted, I trotted towards him. Shortly before I reached him, I broke into a run and head-butted him until he fell off the stone and lay on his back, still laughing.

I playfully head-butted him a few more times, and then everything around me began to blur and wobble and in less than a heartbeat, I was back to being a girl instead of a goat."I'm glad you find me pretty in my goat form," I said, hands on my hips, and looked down at him with a frown.Abe stopped laughing, jumped to his feet and held me by my waist, lifting me up and whirling me around."I would never call you pretty in your human form," he said. I couldn't suppress a smile even though I tried to look stern.

I'd always call you beautiful," Abe continued. He set me back on my feet and kissed me, long and thoroughly.

"But of course," Lysander muttered under his breath after he came out of the memory. "The girl is an Animagus. But why does she live with him as a goat?" He was intrigued; he wanted to learn more. He hadn't been that intrigued since Aunt Hermione had dumped Uncle Ron and begun that mad and passionate affair with her former teacher. Her divorce from Uncle Ron had been messy and expensive, and it took Lysander's experience and cunning—he hadn't been Sorted into Slytherin for nothing—to get the upper hand against the Weasley clan's troupe of lawyers.

But he had won the case, and Aunt Hermione, together with her new husband, didn't hesitate to show her gratitude at every opportune moment. He might finally call her on that, Lysander thought. He wasn't certain yet what to do with this cabinet full of memories, but he didn't want them to fall into the wrong hands. Aberforth must have had his reasons for living with that woman-turned-goat, and Lysander needed time to unravel the puzzle; more time than the closing of the legacy would cover.

Just to be certain that he had figured out the ordering system of the phials, he took the second to the left in the third row and, after having restored the previous memory to its phial, poured it into the pensieve.

I was so happy when Abe kissed me, the goat resumed the tale. I finally could be certain that he loved me. We'd been fooling around for a while, but nothing more happened than a chaste kiss when we parted. This kiss here was the most passionate one we had shared up to this point. It wouldn't be our last. Our kissing grew increasingly more passionate, and soon we were tumbling on the grass, groping at each other's clothes and trying to tear them off as fast as possible.When I finally lay undressed under Abe, well hidden in a cluster of bushes, I was so happy that I could have cried. He looked at me with such awe, such loving and longing that it brought tears to my eyes. Now he would make me a woman.

Despite of what older women had told me––and they had stressed that a girl would only need to endure this when married—this turned out to be the most wonderful thing I had experienced in my life. Abe kissed and nibbled and nipped and made me squirm and gasp, wanting to give me all the pleasure he was capable of. Our lack of experience—Abe was only fifteen and I was sixteen––was made up by enthusiasm, passion, and love. What he did to me felt incredibly good, despite a bit of pain.It was unfortunate that both of us were so immersed in each other, afterwards, that we didn't notice the soft footsteps. Only when a bright blue flash hit me, did we realize that we'd been watched.

When the flash hit me, I transformed back into a goat. Abe looked up and searched for his wand amongst his discarded clothes, but the intruder, or prankster, had already vanished. I hadn't seen clearly who he was; all I knew was that he had blond hair and an ugly, gloating smile.

Abe swore, but then he laughed and scratched me behind my ears, where I liked it most. "Well, Bess," he said, "I've heard that this is called bestiality, but I'm not really into that, so will you kindly transform back? I'd like to give my full attention to your creamy, white breasts again."

I bleated and tried to transform back, but it didn't work. I jumped to my feet, galloped in circles, tried with all my might to change, but it still didn't work. I became desperate. I ran around frantically but just couldn't get the wobbly feeling back that tells an Animagus that he or she is changing shape. Finally, I got so tired that my knees went weak, and with a sigh, I lay down at Abe's side. He had watched me with big, frightened eyes, and now he took out his wand and cast a few spells over me, but nothing helped.

"Dammit, Bess, I hate to say it, but I'll have to ask Albus for help. He's always boasting that he is such a grand wizard; surely, he has mastered the spell to revert the Animagus transformation. Just come home with me and stay with the goats for now. Hadn't planned on letting you go home to your stepdad anyway. Today's the last time he's beaten you."I bleated miserably, and did as I was told.

Lysander dove out of the memory; he had been so immersed in the tale that he had aligned the whole contents of the first shelf before him, to pour into the pensieve as fast as possible. Quickly, he took the next phial and dove back in.

When Abe asked his brother to revert the transformation of a goat, Albus laughed and turned away. "Spare me that nonsense with your goats, Abe, will you?" the loving, caring brother said. "I've had enough of that rubbish for a lifetime. I have grander plans than wasting my time away with goats and a brother who is too dumb to cast his own spells."

Abe wept when he told me about that encounter, and I hated Albus Dumbledore more than I'd ever hated anyone in my life. My abusive stepfather didn't even come close. Albus Dumbledore loathed everything that tied him to the house in Godric's Hollow. He had cared only reluctantly for his sister Ariana; the darling girl had preferred Abe's company anyway.

The three of us spent many a lovely afternoon together, watching over the goats. Ariana was such a dear child. She was eternally frightened and mad as a hatter, but she was still the sweetest person you could imagine.And then, one day, Albus killed her. Or maybe it was Gellert Grindelwald—that friend of Albus who planted all these ideas of being worthy of a Greater Good into Albus' head. There even was a slight possibility that it was one of Abe's spells gone awry that did it, although I doubt it. Abe wasn't up to the level of the other two—neither in magical talent nor in malice.

Grindelwald never showed up after Ariana's death. You would have thought that such great friends would try to sort out the aftermath of the crime—or accident––together, but they didn't. Albus felt all noble and ready to sacrifice whatever it was he thought he had to sacrifice for the cause—whatever that was. The milk was spilled, the girl was dead, no one was held accountable, and Albus Dumbledore could finally follow his dreams of becoming the greatest wizard of the age.Only, Albus didn't quite react as Abe expected. Albus seemed to have been genuinely shaken by the events.

I found this rather odd since he had mostly avoided his sister and always considered her a burden on his way to achieving his goals while she'd still been alive. But now it was all about being noble and dedicating one's superior skills to the right cause. The idea of a benevolent dictatorship over all things non-magical had died a sudden death, and Albus now had started to weave a new web of connections and dependencies that would sustain him all his life.Abe, on the other hand, was completely overlooked. He had to deal with the loss on his own. He had always been considered only second best, and Albus never took him seriously.

Over time, Abe came to hate Albus, especially after the latter refused to even listen to him, let alone look at me or try to help me.Abe, however, never gave up and studied as hard as he could. Albus had insisted that he finish his Hogwarts education, and for once, Abe willingly followed Albus' advice. But the spell to revert an Animagus transformation wasn't taught in the regular Hogwarts curriculum, and you needed to have an Animagus available for teaching it anyway. When I had learned to become an Animagus in my fifth year, it had been made possible through a natural talent for Transfiguration and the need to get away from my abusive stepfather.

I never had the opportunity to learn more than the basics about being an Animagus. Even if I hadn't been cursed, I wouldn't have been allowed to go back to Hogwarts after my OWLs. Thus, when that prankster forced me into my animal form—Abe was certain that it was Gellert—I wasn't really missed by anybody. Everyone just assumed that I had run away; the way I had been beaten regularly hadn't been exactly a secret.My mother did file a missing person's report; she was the only one who wanted me back. When I was around, her husband wasn't using her as an outlet for his anger—that was what I was there for.