I am busy working on Chapter One of 'Of Time And Tide' which currently stands at 2,500 words and should be up within a week or so. In the meantime I thought I'd share this short fic that I wrote back in my RL/MM days but never posted on FFN.

Minerva McGonagall's Bathroom

You hadn't planned on being here at all. The bruise on your cheekbone isn't that serious after all. And it was your own fault. You always forget that your wolf form is taller than your more usual shape. You knocked that pile of books off your desk with your own head and it's entirely your own fault that the object that broke their noisy fall was your face. You do ache, as though every muscle in your body had been stretched to twice its usual length and then replaced, but you're used to that by now. Aren't you?

But when you ran into her on the back staircase that only the staff are allowed to use, when she paled in concern your hunched posture and the livid purple blotch beside your eye… when she insisted you come back upstairs so that she could take proper care of you… you didn't argue. Don't you deserve to be taken care of once in a while? She doesn't look at you with revulsion. Was that important? Was that why you didn't insist that you were fine and continue on your way? Was that why you didn't wonder why she chose to look after you herself and not simply send you to the hospital wing?

Anyway…

So you lie here now in sweetly scented water, feeling its warmth hug your bones and watching the tiny tendrils of steam curl upwards carrying the dull pain from your tired limbs with them. This bathroom is warm and soothing and safe and you're quite happy to linger here, even without the promise of her presence in the next room. She retreated there once she was sure that you wouldn't pass out and drown, anxious to give you your privacy. Only House Heads are privileged with an en-suite - everyone else shares the half dozen or so staff bathrooms - and she knows that it's not often you can relax undisturbed. Her concern touches you deeply.

But she needn't worry. You may be a little bruised but you're certainly awake. You'd never thought of bathrooms as being particularly intimate places but suddenly hers is. A nightgown is folded loosely on top of the laundry basket and you wonder whether it's still warm, whether it smells of her… but that's the werewolf in you… isn't it? There's a bottle of perfume by the sink, and various jars and bottles fill a ledge beside the bath. You're very conscious of the fact that she uses those bottles, that she bathes here herself, that… uh oh.

Ah.

Oh.

Disgraceful.

Maybe if you're really quiet…

No! This is her space, her personal, private space, and she's been compassionate enough to allow you to share it, and you will not take advantage.

So…

Neville Longbottom's Boggart-Snape. That was funny. And not sexy, definitely not sexy at all. What else is there? Filch and that mangy cat. Professor Dumbledore naked… no, don't go there. Definitely don't go…

"Remus?"

Oh.

She's come in with an armful of towels and a bathrobe. Her gaze drifts slowly downwards, and then she blushes slightly and looks away. You've never seen her blush. She's generally regarded as unshockable, having spent much of her adult life in the company of hormonal teenagers. You remind yourself that you're not a hormonal teenager, not any more, and that you should have at least acquired a little self control by now. You know that her kindness towards you is nothing more than the concern of a friendly colleague. You know that you're wrong to hope for anything more, especially with a woman as attractive and sensual as she is.

And she is sensual, and sexy: far more so that any of the girls in The Three Broomsticks who pout and pose in their tight, revealing clothing. She is sexy because of what she doesn't reveal, because of what remains a mystery. So much is left to the imagination, so much is unseen. She stands disapproving and stern in high-necked, heavy robes and doesn't seem to realise that she drives you crazy in a way that no amount of Madam Rosmertas ever could. Remus has heard stories about Madam Rosmerta, oh yes. He's heard stories about a fair few of the female Hogwarts staff, but never Minerva McGonagall, because nobody has a story to tell and nobody would dare to make one up.

Including you.

She'd be mortified if she knew how often you've fantasised about unfastening those robes and seeing that pale skin grow pink with arousal. How often you've wondered what she'd look like lying naked and lovely beneath you, gasping your name…

No, that's definitely not a helpful train of thought at the present time.

You clear your throat.

"You could join me… if you want."

She raises her eyebrows incredulously, but there's an element of amusement in her expression.

"Remus Lupin! You always were a tease…"

You smile and say nothing, hoping she'll call your bluff and see just how far you'll go, but instead she rolls her eyes at you and leaves you alone once more.

When you finally emerge you realise she's taken your clothes to be washed, and probably mended as well. Instead you bundle yourself into the robe she's left for you, rinse out the bathtub as best you can and hope she won't notice that you borrowed her shampoo.

You find her in her living area, curled on the sofa with a stack of parchments that she's carefully perusing, red inked quill in hand. She peers over the top of her spectacles at you and looks quite satisfied to see the colour that's slowly returning to your cheeks. She offers you tea and a Ginger Newt and you settle into a nearby armchair and while away a rather pleasant Sunday afternoon in quiet conversation with a woman who has no idea that you'd like to spend every Sunday with her, as well as all the days in between. But you don't want to outstay your welcome so when it starts to get dark you thank her for her hospitality and rise.

She follows you to the door.

"See you next month?" you offer, as casually as you can manage.

There's a brief moment where she looks a little surprised but just as you start to wish you could learn when to keep your stupid mouth shut, she suddenly smiles and says, "Yes. If you like. If it helps."

Oh, it helps more than you know, you think. You kiss her before she can stop you: the briefest touch of your lips against hers. It's so chaste that she'd barely have cause to complain but even so you don't give her a chance and you slip away back towards your own much smaller room on the staff wing.

And as you go, you realise something else: for the first time in your life you're looking forward to the next full moon. And that can only be a good thing.