"She knows it's wrong, but she can't seem to stop." Minerva/Narcissa, implied Narcissa/Lily and Lily/James, set during Narcissa Black's last year at Hogwarts. Written for the hp_girlslash Summer of Smut challenge, which can be found here: Some fics are NC-17.
I've taken some liberties with the canon in this fic, namely that I've decided Narcissa Black is only a year older than Lily, the Marauders, and her cousin Sirius. While we haven't been told exactly how old Narcissa is, Lucius Malfoy is six years older than the Marauders, and the Harry Potter Lexicon assumes she's around his age. I suspect it's not likely that she's only a year older than Sirius, but until we know for sure, just play along with me, okay?
* * *
She knows it's wrong, but she can't seem to stop. Hands: fingers and knuckles that slide across planes of even-pale flesh, nails that leave even paler streaks across the soft back. Mouth: lips pressed in wonder to much-younger skin, teeth that nip just a little too hard and perhaps leave a tiny, tiny mark that needs to be spelled away with a whisper and a breath. Thoughts: not enough on Transfiguration, not enough on her House, certainly not enough on the consequences of what she's doing. Too much on the daughter of another House, another world, another life.
She knows it's wrong, but it's like a potion. She would give anything to stop. She would cut open her vein to tip out the silver poison, but she'd have to drain her blood as well.
* * *
She remembers the first time it happened, but it was like an unhappy accident that they could pretend happened for all the wrong reasons. A beautiful young woman crying; older hands that had patted many students across the shoulder or the forehead, touches that were comforting but not intimate. Minerva McGonagall usually sniffed at the word intimate, but that night, she couldn't find a better synonym.
Narcissa Black is unlike her name. Her older sisters, both of whom attended Hogwarts and walked in the places in the Slytherin dungeons that she walks, both had hair and eyes and dreams like their name. Narcissa looks like their photonegative. Only her mind works the same way.
Narcissa's young cousin, Sirius, who is in Minerva's house, resembles Bellatrix and Andromeda Black, but would rather be thinking about sunrises and snogs and Cornish pixies than the Dark Arts. Some nights, when soft pale skin curls against Minerva's hand, she catches herself wondering if she could merge Black hearts and minds to make them into one whole Gryffindor, one whole Slytherin.
Her House, and her responsibilities, and her obligations were not on her mind that first time. The only thing she could absorb was the taste of a soft cool mouth, full red lips that looked like they should be bitter with a pout, the salt of tears that filled the cracks in Minerva's older, wrinkled skin. Her hair that should characterize her from another family was so light that it felt like it might crumble under the pressure of Minerva's fingertips. She is white like the flower for which she is named, an even pale all over her long, lithe body, which is shaped like the blossom.
She cried some that first night, but not because of what Minerva's fingers were doing when they slid inside her, cupped that slick heat that no one ever expected when they studied her glassy, remote features. Not because of where Minerva's mouth was, against her neck, drawing patterns of kisses on her fragile ribs. And certainly not because she chose to take her turn, without waiting for Minerva to finish, cherry-bright lips making neat circles between Minerva's legs, insistent and determined like a good Slytherin.
McGonagall suspected that she was still crying over the fire-headed Gryffindor with whom she really wanted to be in bed with.
And it didn't seem to matter, because it happened so fast, and it was all by accident, and she didn't mean to, she didn't think about it, she didn't even want to, not really. But it happened so fast, and she didn't have time to think about everything she was doing wrong – every kiss, every touch, every moan and whisper breath gasp sigh.
That's her excuse. She didn't have time to think about it.
Now, of course, weeks later, she can't use that excuse anymore.
* * *
It was her fault for not noticing, missing the signs, the puffy faces at the long Gryffindor table during meals, the late-night walks that turned into early-morning walks, the excessive amount of time spent with those four well-intentioned but inevitably incorrigible boys. Lily Evans had never gotten along with the Marauders, and Minerva McGonagall knew this, and it should have been as clear as a personal owl what was going on. But she missed it.
She knew, after all, when Lily Evans started sleeping with Narcissa Black. It was the first Saturday in November of Lily's sixth year, Narcissa's seventh, the day after Halloween. She could pinpoint it from the new flush in Lily's cheeks from too much Butterbeer and kissing the night before, a barely-noticeable smudge of cherry-coloured lipstick on the collar of her school blouse.
Minerva knew when James Potter found out. It was the last Friday in January, after the students had returned to school and the snow was piled in high, soft blankets around the Hogwarts grounds. He was all set to punch Narcissa. Sirius would have given him his blessing. It was Remus Lupin who was forced to hold him back.
Unfortunately, Minerva didn't find out that Lily had stopped sleeping with Narcissa, and was now shagging James Potter, until the two of them tried to hex each other in the middle of the Gryffindor common room. She sent Lily, whose face had erupted into a remarkable series of wrinkles and fissures, to Poppy Pomfrey and called Narcissa Black rather sharply into her office. Lily wasn't as quick with the hexes as Narcissa and had managed to inflict rather minor damage, mostly on Narcissa's robes. Minerva mended them with a quick spell and proceeded to give a lecture on improper use of magic, to say nothing of antagonising other students.
The tears started silently, and when Minerva looked up again, Narcissa's face was covered with shiny trails of water as light and fragile as her hair.
It was then that Minerva McGonagall really stopped thinking.
* * *
After all, she doesn't need to think to know how to turn her hands, to watch the angles of her wrists when she skims her fingertips down Narcissa's body. Her breasts are small and firm, with large nipples set in coral-coloured areola that grow taut and pebbly under Minerva's lips. Her ribs are pronounced under translucent, paper-thin skin, and Minerva is afraid to kiss too hard, afraid that too much pressure might cause every bone in Narcissa's body to shatter.
She doesn't need to think to control the pace and rhythm of her tongue between Narcissa's legs. The blonde pubic hair grows damp under the slow, controlled pressure of Minerva's teeth and tongue. When she pushes one tentative, arthritic finger inside Narcissa, the girl shudders, and she trembles inside Minerva's mouth.
She tries not to think when Narcissa runs her hands over her body, and the sensation of that smooth white skin is so quick and sleek against Minerva's wrinkled body. Minerva's breasts are beginning to sag and her hips are wide and bony and the skin lies in small valleys by her collarbones. She has lines by her eyes and lips and forehead and ears, as many from worry as from joy. She tries to ignore it all with every kiss, and touch, and lick from full red lips and pale slender fingers.
She doesn't need to think when cool fingers slide inside her, first one, slowly and gently, and then the rest in a rush, a deep dark hunger that surprises her every time, even though it shouldn't. She closes her eyes and sees nothing but black while it feels like every nerve up and down her spine might destroy itself until she can never feel anything again.
And she certainly doesn't need to think to know that what she is doing is wrong wrong wrong.
* * *
Albus Dumbledore pretends that he knows everything about everyone at every moment, but Minerva McGonagall has known him since her very first Hogwarts Feast – as a student, not a professor – and she knows that he doesn't really. At least, that's what she hopes, because when he sends her a brief owl with a lovely copperplate invitation to tea in his office, she can't help feeling the first flicker of nervous thought again.
"Sit down, Minerva," he says cordially, flicking his wand briefly so that a garishly overstuffed chair scurries across the floor and shoves itself behind her rear end. "Please, do take that chair, it's the most comfortable, I think, and I've certainly gone through my share of chairs as a headmaster. Would you care for some tea?"
She wonders if he's called her up here because he does indeed know, and if he's just trying to torture it out of her the same way she does sometimes to her students, particularly that Marauder bunch. "Thank you, Headmaster."
The tea is hot and she burns her tongue. With any luck that will mean that she doesn't have to answer any of his prying questions. He busies himself adding a revolting amount of sugar to what started out as a good strong cup of Greenleaf Mint, and finally he sits down, smoothing his patchy auburn-and-silver beard along his chest. She studies him and wonders how long it will take before his hair is completely white, before he looks as old as she feels. "Well then, Minnie," he begins cheerfully, directing his wand toward the cup so that it is cool enough to drink, "it's good to see you. How are things?"
She hates being called Minnie. It is only acceptable at certain times and in certain situations. This is not one of those times. "Fine, Albus."
"Excellent. Well, now that we've got that out of the way – " His eyes are such a light blue that they are almost the same clear gray as Narcissa Black's, and she feels a sudden tug of fear at the bottom of her stomach – "I wonder, Minerva, if there is anything you would like to share with me."
She looks at this man whom she has known for more than forty years, with watery eyes and the same lines of age and sorrow that show up on her own face, and she manages a tight smile, a flattening of her lips. "Nothing, Albus."
And it's all wrong.
* * *
She worries some as Narcissa's Leaving approaches. She has no plans to continue this – this – this whatever this is after Narcissa leaves Hogwarts; in fact, June will be more of a relief than anything else. She will be relieved to let this die a quiet death, because after all, their kisses and sex have been nothing more than whispers, so there is no reason that the end should be any louder.
But sometimes her veins burn and she wonders what she'll do with the stains that Narcissa Black has left inside her blood.
* * *
The war breaks out in full scale the year after Lily Evans and the Marauders leave Hogwarts, and there is no time to think of things like kisses and sex and quiet. Loyalties lie with either one side or the other, and there is no middle ground, no compromise. There is only white, and black, and Minerva follows the white light.
When it is over everyone tries to resume some semblance of a normal life. Minerva reads the Daily Prophet every morning while sharing tea with Albus, although even that isn't really normal anymore. The Prophet has years' worth of obituaries to catch up on. Every day there are stories of children who have been left homeless, and motherless, and fatherless because of a man with a black destiny.
One such picture, however, shows a child who still has two loving parents and a beautiful home. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy are smiling for the camera and kissing baby Draco, whose blonde hair looks as light and delicate as his mother's.
Minerva shows the picture to Dumbledore – in passing only, of course. His light blue eyes are thoughtful as he watches Narcissa Black Malfoy smooth an invisible smudge away from her baby son's elegantly curving jaw, and Minerva steals the moment of thoughtful solitude to think about Narcissa. But there is really nothing to remember anymore. She is a woman now, not a girl, not the same blonde girl whose smooth gentle fingers and blood-colored lips left traces of fire and shame in Minerva's blood.
Dumbledore hands the paper back to her, and she turns the page quickly so she doesn't have to look at those familiar eyes and lips anymore. "I suppose he'll come to Hogwarts one day, too, just like his parents."
"I suppose he will." Dumbledore's voice is mild, with a hint of gentle persuasion that he probably doesn't even realize he's inserting. "They were an interesting group, weren't they?"
"Yes, they were." She's not sure which "they" he's referring to, and so she wisely chooses to keep her mouth shut.
"Children, all," Dumbledore muses, opening his own copy of Witch Weekly. On the front cover are James and Lily Potter, smiling even through the shadows in their eyes and the lines on their faces. The article commemorates the year anniversary of their deaths – and, of course, son Harry's miraculously narrow escape. "How long ago, it seems, that they were the innocents. They were so terribly young, weren't they, Minnie?"
"Yes," she replies, struggling not to remember – no, not those slim fingers – she smiles at Albus – a cheek so much smoother than hers, a tiny involuntary sigh forced from soft red lips – a sip of tea, and the memory falls down her throat and into her blood. "Yes, they were."
finis