Hide and Seek
A/N: There is no way the likes of Barty Crouch Jr (no matter how Dr. Who-like he may have been) could best my Mad Eye. It just didn't happen. :)
Thank you, Selmak, patient, helpful sounding board par excellence. Thank you all for reading. It makes the effort so much easier.
And lastly, I hate trying to write flash backs and had never planned one for this story.... but as it is all yummy and mushy, I could not resist.
Minerva's mind wandered as she brushed her hair in front of the bathroom mirror. How had all this come to pass? she began to ask herself. How had that hulking bear in the next room snuck up on her? Become a fixture in her thoughts? She had been so careful not to let this happen.
Minerva didn't like to think too far back, the past could be a grim, unsavory place. But as she searched her memory, she decided that Alastor Moody was the best thing that had happened to her in decades.
Of course, when he had finally made headway with her, it had been the result of nearly a year's worth of quiet effort. It had been a ridiculously long time at that point, since Minerva had been to bed with a man. She had gradually and willingly forgotten what the fuss was all about.
### ###
She had always admired Alastor Moody. He was exactly the man everyone said he was. Quite plainly, he was the best Auror anyone could remember. He put on no airs. Yes, the man was gruff. But he was smart, he fought hard. He knew what was right and stuck to it.
And time spent with him felt easy. Right.
The two of them conferred often as senior members of the Order. Albus frequently called them together for discussions of strategy. And with increasing frequency, Minerva and Alastor would linger together for a bit of talk after Albus had dismissed them.
"Sit a spell," Alastor would say, as he nodded his head in the direction of the library at Grimmauld place.
And she would.
Once the door was closed, Alastor found she was not as stiff as starch. And he discovered she did like a good laugh.
He regaled her with stories and his dry, devious sense of humor. His tale of his first attempt at ridding his mother's cottage of boggarts left her breathless with laughter. She wiped her eyes and shook her head then. "Oh, Alastor," she sighed.
"I like that," he said, as if scrutinizing her. "It looks good on you."
"What?" she asked, self-consciously.
"Your smile."
She knew then the man was a flirt. And he seemed at least mildly interested. Over the weeks that passed, they spoke amiably with one another wherever and whenever they met. And if alone, he would lay a hand to her back as they stood together. Or kiss her cheek in farewell.
He would not eat out, but he brought her back to his place as often as she would come, to have a light meal together.
They carried on like that for months. The attention was enjoyable enough as far as Minerva was concerned, and Alastor did not press for more.
One hot, unpleasant summer night, a group was assembled at Grimmauld place. They were hoping for word from Tonks and Lupin, who were gathering information in Eastern Europe. Everyone was frustrated with the lack of news, and ill-tempered given the late hour and the lingering heat of the day. Fuses burned and shortened. And the Weasley twins' idea of how to lighten everyone's mood was not at all well received.
As the screaming started, Alastor deftly guided Minerva toward the library. Nearly everyone else cleared out for their rooms as Molly's tirade took off.
Once alone with Minerva, he warded the library door so that no one else could enter. But the shouts still reached them.
He dipped his chin to his chest, but his smile was still evident. Too evident for the Deputy Headmistress who was glaring at him from her spot on the couch.
"It's not at all funny, Alastor. It's not funny in the least."
"Oh," he tried to agree. "Too true. Not at all humorous."
His smile was twitching now from the strain of trying to show a dispassionate face.
"Those were Molly's new dish towels. And those boys may have made Mrs. Black's portrait pass out for now, but when she comes to, she'll be screaming loudly enough to put fear into Boudica."
"But you don't suppose anyone managed to get a photo of it? Mrs Black's portrait in a Weird Sisters T shirt?!"
Minerva pulled the couch pillow from behind her, and with punishing speed, she caused it to collide with Alastor's left shoulder. All of this from the daunting distance of 20 paces.
That was when he knew he had to kiss her.
"Professor McGonagall?" he queried as he extended his arm to Accio the pillow from the ground, wandlessley.
"Yes," she said, cautiously.
He moved slowly over to the couch without saying any more. Once he stood in front of her, he bowed and presented her with the pillow. "I believe you dropped this, madam."
He took up her hand then and kissed it. But now the cheeky smile was gone from his face. He sat down next to her and touched her chin.
"If I'm off to battle - to save those poor souls out there. The least a fair maiden like yourself could do, is kiss me."
"Stop playing around, Alastor Moody." But she noticed, he looked quite serious.
He leaned in and kissed her. It was not a tentative, first time kiss. There was nothing experimental or untested about it. Nor was it the ambivalent kiss of resigned lovers. This was a bold, joyful act. The kind that reminded you that you were alive and that you were damned happy about that fact, too.
In her shock, she squeezed that pillow, flattening its stuffing for all she was worth. And when shock turned to interest, she kissed that man back, putting her full effort into the living of life for the first time in much too long. As she registered her unsettled heart beat and the rhythm of his breaths on her neck, she became immune to the caterwauling in the house. But soon, it was obvious: Mrs. Black's portrait had regained consciousness.
"I think you are marvelous, truly. And if you tell me those boys' shenanigans are not amusing, then I believe you," Alastor told a stunned Minerva. "Now, if you will excuse me?"
And he stood and made for the door with set, determined steps. Soon she sat alone pondering what sort of man kissed you like that and then just walked out.
Then the screaming stopped. And there was cheering. They were all cheering for Alastor, she realized with a smile. A few minutes later, Mad Eye walked back into the room. Standing near the closed door, he just smiled at her, leaning on his walking stick.
She crossed the room to him and told him, "Well, you seem to be the man of the hour."
"You, lass, are the woman of the year," he whispered.
She took his face in her hands and kissed him, making as clean and sure a break with the past as she could manage.
...
Each time Alastor managed to get her alone after that, he would hold her hand or touch her softly. There were secretive kisses, whispered adulation, and short embraces.
'I should go,' she said more often than not, or 'I'm not ready for this sort of thing.'
And then one night they'd been meeting with Albus in the Headmaster's office. All the news was bleak. The war was going badly. They were running out of answers and time. And no one at the Ministry could be made to believe the threat that Voldemort posed.
They left Albus' office together, heads bowed in thought. Once alone in the corridor, Alastor had taken her hand and pulled her gently to him. "We won't give up," he said. He reached up and traced his thumb over her lips making a tingle run through her, making her want to kiss him.
'It would be a mistake,' she was about to say.
"You are a dear, Alastor....but...." she finally managed.
"But?" he asked.
Something changed right then. The husky sound to his voice, the frustration of this war, the need for consolation, all made it impossible to face another long night alone.
"But, we shouldn't stand here in the hall. Come with me," she told him.
"Right now?" he asked surprised.
"Mmm hmmm."
"To your rooms?"
"Yes. Don't make me beg, Alastor."
"I will go with you then, if only to prevent you from falling victim to that unbecoming behavior," he said, with his hand over his heart in pledge.
Once they were inside her sitting room, she threw his coat over her sofa in her haste. She lit no lights, just walked to him through the angled moonlight that came from the window. The nervous pangs she had felt as they walked to her quarters fell away under the strength and warmth of his hands. It felt good to finally do something, to take a little of the small and bitter comfort the world offered.
She kissed him and he responded with the fire of a much younger man. "Will you stay?" she asked.
"I will," he whispered.
Before she could re-think the decision, she took his hand to lead him into her unlit bedroom. There, the fantasy of romance was slain by the reality of stubborn, unfamiliar clothing and out of practice hands. There was fumbling in the dark and the faint bumping of heads. Her suggestion of a little light was met by his soft, "Shhhhhh."
He wanted no light. The dawning of that simple truth stilled her hands and kisses.. In the dark with her, he need not be that scarred and damaged man, she realized. Everyone's confidence has a limit. Even seemingly-perfect surety can be driven to falter.
He had handed her his fears to hold. And she kissed him all the harder for it.
With patience, she let him work. His desire was to remove all of her clothes, but to reveal as little of himself as necessary.
His intent was not to hurry, but she wanted nothing more than to pull him with her to completion.
They managed it. There was no award for speed. There were no points given for style. But, the sex was unpredictably lovely, if too reverential, she thought. She hoped what she had allowed to happen would not prove to be a mistake. She strained to see anything of his expression, to know what he was thinking.
And then she did not so much see it, as feel it, in the shape of his face as she raised her hand to touch him. There was something in the quiet way he seemed to look at her despite the dark.
Oh Lord, she said to herself. Please tell me he hasn't fallen in love with me.
...
She made him keep their relationship a secret. She limited their meetings to once or twice a month. And still, he did not complain.
Sometimes they did not end up in bed at all, but merely sat close together by the fire. She thought that he would mind. But he hadn't. She had actually hoped he would. She wished he had had that more practical attitude - that it was only the sex.
Please, she would think as the weeks turned into months, don't let him be in love with me... not when I can't possibly love him back, as empty and used up as I am.
She could have ended it. But she didn't. His scowl had become something pleasing to her now. The width of his back, a comfortable place to lay her head and all her troubles. And when he made love to her? My God.
It was as undeniable as it was unexpected, that they had grown closer with the passing months. And the journey had changed him, she saw.
That first night together, he had needed to make love to her as a whole man. He had not acknowledged or even removed his uncomfortable prostheses.
But two months later, she heard him groan in the dark as he wrestled the leg off. He then let her pull off the cotton vest he wore and reveal his chest and back to her fingers, if not her eyes.
Still, for all the comfort between them, it was 4 months before she caught a glimpse of the stump of his leg. He had pulled swiftly at the blanket that morning when he realized she could see it.
"I know who you are, Alastor Moody. There is not a thing you need to hide from me," she told him firmly.
"It might not be you I'm hiding from," he had told her, all those weeks ago, as he turned into his pillow. And she knew that was true. Perhaps we hid, longest and best, from ourselves.
### ###
"Come to bed, Min," she finally heard him say. Her thoughts rejoined the present then. And she realized with a start that she had not managed to brush out her hair. Goodness knows how long she had stood there, replaying the events in their relationship and staring at the old woman in the mirror.
"One more minute," she told him, as she leaned out of the bathroom door. She smiled at him, amused by the way he was abusing her spare pillow as he sat on the edge of her bed. The man hated spending his nights here, she knew. He was a creature of habit, and it was his own place where he preferred to be. His own bed and pillows that he liked best.
But he was here without a complaint said out loud. And tonight, he'd let the lamps burn a little brighter. That difference was not lost on her.
Usually, Alastor made sure the room they shared was dark. He was not a proud man, but he did not let anyone see the extent to which he had been cut and maimed. And when she had tried to trace his scars with her finger tips in the past, he had always pulled away. But tonight there was the softest glow of light, because he knew he wanted to remember every bit. Tonight, he would not pull away.
And he wanted tonight to start now.
She was not so preoccupied that she didn't hear the man grumble and then push up from the bed. He leaned his walking stick against the wall outside and swung himself into the bathroom, grasping her around the waist as he appeared in the mirror over her shoulder.
He had removed his prosthetic eye and put on a comfortable eye patch, giving him a subdued, and less than vigilant, appearance. He had taken the time to smooth his hair out around the band, she noticed, fondly. And he had stripped down to a level he found comfortable. His shirt was half open and pulled loose from his trousers.
"Impatient," she teased, as he nuzzled her neck.
He murmured something which sounded like, "The damn mountain and Mohammed," before he turned her face to kiss her soundly.
Her brush clattered into the sink and she lurched back a step, off balance. And once he had a firm grip on her, and she had settled her hip against the sink's rim, he was pleased. "Better," he whispered. "I hate distractions."
She pulled back from him as much as she was able. "Distractions? Like having the woman you are with fall against the tile and knock herself unconscious?"
He did not appear to be paying attention to her joking reprimand. His one hand gripped her tightly and the other toyed with the ribbons at the neck of her nightgown.
"I'm only with you, Min," he whispered.
He stooped to kiss her breast through the fabric. Nipped at her gently. This type of teasing play never failed to arouse her, and the over gown imp of a man knew it. She could see it in the self satisfied smile he wore. And he smiled broader still when his hands wandered to her hip and coaxed a shuddering breath from her.
Still she could not take him too seriously. She petted at him, kissed him, but waited, waited for him to ask her to go to bed.
But he didn't.
That roving hand was soon under the hem of her nightgown. The look on his face now was completely earnest.
"Alastor?" she said.
"Minerva," he replied, his lips against her throat making her shiver.
How is one bit of flesh so very different than the other? she wondered as he found her out. As he seemed to groan the pleasure she felt, she could not understand, How is it, he feels this as keenly as I do?
His hand, so perfect, that what he holds becomes all of her. He presses, rocks her sex and her moan escapes her with the same rhythm as the hand that gentles her further. It is a whine now, that signals her impenitent fall. She leans forward into him. Sinks harder into his hand. Relinquishing to him.
"Come to me," he says, when another man would tell her 'Come for me.'
"Please," she says, and she is fully someone else. More dependent and needy than the sainted vision of Minerva McGonagall. Desperate. And rather than insensible, she sees herself as quite the opposite, as nothing more than the sum of her overwrought senses and fears.
His lips on hers seem to soothe her some. And he waits, believes it will come. Her weight shifts and her legs open fully to him. The time is here, he knows. He settles her leg around him and sinks his fingers into her, as an act of mercy, as much as love.
And as her breaths come in a stutter, he listens and knows just what to do. Her hands grip his back fiercely as she trembles. She is not truly standing, but she does not fall. He cradles her ably, gently. "Minerva," he says over and over. Her name comes to her, gently buoyed on his breath. It sounds like a prayer, a whispered plea for grace.
"Yes, Love," she assures him.
"Minerva," he says, stronger now. It was a young man's voice, as glad and full as Evensong.
###
She lays next to him later and skims a hand down his chest, making him sigh. It's a distracted motion she continues, one that moves her thoughts along.
How could her life have become so distorted that it was easier to give her body to him so completely, than it was to give up being frightened of feeling, to be afraid of loving?
He had not been the only one hiding in the dark, she realized.
She rolled onto her side and he followed, wordlessly. His arm wrapped around her. His hand was open, flat and pressing lightly against her chest.
"I didn't want to tell you, girl, how much I love you. I thought I would drive you off."
"I've only just found my heart again. I'm so scared still. Do not rush me to tell you more. Just know that you are the man I want: at my side, at my table, and in my bed," she told him in an unsteady voice.
"My brave girl. Don't you worry. 'Set me as a seal upon thine heart,'" he quoted, pressing his hand more firmly against her. 'And as a seal upon thine arm. For love is as strong as death.'" And she felt his kiss upon her temple. He made to release her, but she held his arm firm around her.
"Don't let go," she whispered. "You are all that's holding me together right now."
Alastor quotes from the Song of Solomon.