Cailleach, a harry potter fanfic

One of the great Celtic ancestors, the Cailleach was the goddess of the cold and the winds. Sometimes known as the Veiled One or the Queen of Winter, the Cailleach determined the winter's length and harshness. As both divine hag and creator deity, she remains a popular topic for poets and writers.…

On Imbolc, or February 1st, of each year, the Cailleach runs out of firewood for the winter.… In Ireland and Scotland … she collects firewood as an old woman. If she wishes for winter to last longer, she makes the day sunny and bright for her search. If she accidentally oversleeps, the day is stormy and gray.

Gregory Wright, "Cailleach"

1 February 1978

Something about him makes her fur stand on end, metaphorically speaking.

She wishes she'd opted to put her large, imposing desk between them rather than seating them at the tea table in front of her fireplace, as she often does when having these informal sessions with her older students.

His long legs stretch indolently in front of him, but there's an energy in him that disquiets her. It's as if he's twitching, just under his skin, and she fancies she can hear the magic flowing through him. His magic has always resonated well with hers. The first time she held his wand hand and guided him in the correct motion for a transfiguration, it felt as if they were two different musical instruments playing in the same key. She a clàrsach, he, at age eleven, a recorder. As he has matured, it has changed. A bassoon, she thinks, plangent and inquisitive.

In class, lately, her eyes seek him out again and again, and only her formidable will keeps them from following him as he moves fluidly through an exercise, his transfigurations almost as elegant as her own.

And now she's missed his question with her foolish musings.

"I beg your pardon, Mr Black, I'm afraid my mind was elsewhere for a moment."

He smirks in that way he has and says, "Off with the fairies, were ye?"

His intentional butchering of her accent annoys her more than his insolence, as if she has been made small by this reminder of her supposed provincialism and his urbanity.

"Your question, Mr Black?" she says sharply.

His manner switches to what he doubtless considers a disarming regret. It's an act she's familiar with; nevertheless, she allows herself to be disarmed.

"Sorry, Professor. I guess I'm just a little nervous." He looks shyly over at her, blinking his coal-black lashes.

"Why are you nervous?" she asks. "We're here to discuss your options after you leave school." She hopes her smile is encouraging, but it makes him shift in his chair.

"I suppose it's because this is the first time we've been alone."

The inappropriateness of his statement seems less important than its truth.

They haven't been alone together, not in the almost seven years he's been her student and a member of her house. He's never needed remedial help with transfiguration, and his many detentions have always been shared by his mates.

"Don't be ridiculous," she says, "you've nothing to fear from me."

"Oh, I'm not afraid. Just … excited." His gaze is trying to find hers, and she looks down at her lap, smoothing invisible creases from her pristine skirt.

"Yes, well. It's an exciting prospect, to be starting your life in the wizarding world."

"Leaving Hogwarts, though," he says, eyes still roving over her face. "I'm not looking forward to it." His put-on shyness is gone, replaced by an earnestness she can't quite convince herself is a sham.

Against her better judgement, she reaches out and puts a hand over his. The hairs clustered thick around the knuckles tickle the delicate pads of her fingers.

"I do understand, Mr Black. It will be difficult to leave, but it's time for you to go out and experience new things."

He turns his hand under hers so their palms meet, curling his fingers through hers, and she thinks they've shared a hint of understanding; both of them have found more comfort at Hogwarts than at home.

"I can have new experiences right here." His smirk is back, and the moment dissolves into something else.

Her own image is reflected in the inky depths of his eyes, and though the details are missing, she knows what he sees.

A woman, only forty-two, still young for a witch, but thin and severe and unwanted by anyone.

A memory of her most recent outing with Elphinstone squeezes into her mind: his hands plucking hers from his chest, kissing her knuckles all-too-reverently, and placing them at her sides.

To Elphinstone, she is a marble goddess, too perfect to despoil with anything so base as desire. She is not, after all, a desirable woman. That much has been made clear to her in the long years since Dougal tupped her in the sheep-beshitted field behind his father's barn.

The young man in front of her now must see her as pathetic, and his lewdness—his gaze has dropped to the front of her bodice, tight and buttoned to the neck—is a joke.

She isn't foolish enough to believe he'd turn down the opportunity if she gave it to him, but he doesn't truly desire her.

It will be a story to bring back to his friends, how old McGonagall screeched in missish outrage at the very idea of sex.

Anger floods her.

She pulls her hand from his and stands.

"Mr Black."

He stands too, ready to be ordered out of her office, and she is grateful for her height; he only tops her by a half an inch or so.

She moves closer to him, and the air goes still around them, the flames behind the grate pausing mid-flicker.

When she takes his mouth, his tongue betrays his surprise.

It lies like a dead fish until she coaxes it to darting life with hers. Then it slithers and probes, and she wonders why he isn't better at this.

She releases him, and his lips curve into the sly grin he often wears, so she presses her mouth to his again, forcing his tongue back into it when he tries to slip it into hers, nipping at his lips to remind him of his manners.

He pulls away, glancing at the door. She turns the lock with an economical flick of her wrist and chooses to believe his chuckle is one of appreciation.

"Well?" she says.

"Well?" he repeats.

She nods impatiently at his trousers, and he unbuttons them, letting the placket flop open, edges spreading to uncover a glossy line of hair, a macron over the long vowel of his cock.

It's fully revealed when he wiggles his narrow hips and the trousers drop around his ankles: it stands slim and semi-erect, very white against the black of his pubic hair.

He surges to full hardness when she grasps it and pulls him to the rug in front of her hearth. As she works him through her fist, gently at first, then more firmly, she gauges his responses by the contortions of his face. His eyes are squeezed closed, and his lips, reddened from her teeth, form a pursed O. A soft breath escapes him when she runs a thumb over the head.

She doesn't see his eyes pop open when she kneels in front of him, but she knows they do. He'll want to look down at the fever-dream of his teacher taking his eager penis between her prim lips.

He smells of musk and sweet boy-sweat, a familiar scent in this castle full of adolescents, but the novelty is in the way it fills her nostrils and makes her cunt pulse. Or perhaps not a novelty, but a sense memory from a time when she wanted a young man with the same desperation as he wanted her, both of them damp and grimy from the sun and the dust of a newly ploughed field.

Sirius's panting and the obscenely wet sound of her occasional gag are soon drowned out by his high whine, like a dog bereft of his owner's company, when he comes. The taste of his ejaculate on the back of her tongue is bitter and meaty—not what she'd expected, based on the twee descriptions in the books she's confiscated from students, the pages falling open to the most lascivious parts.

Some sense of self begins to reassert itself with the ache in her right knee, and she is about to stand, but he drops to the rug opposite her, the earnestness in his expression—not feigned, she knows it isn't now—keeps her from rising.

He gropes at the front of her bodice in search of an opening. Obviously, he has no experience of a mature witch's clothing, so she pushes his hands out of the way and taps at the hidden seam, releasing the buttons with a whisper of magic. The garment is discarded, a Glamour she no longer needs.

His ink-stained finger edges along the top of her chemise, eyes following it as it traces the skin beneath the lace trim. He glances up at her, mutely asking permission for the first time that afternoon—or possibly in his life, she thinks—and pushes the tiny button through the hole.

Despite his trembling, he manages to undo the rest, and when he opens the chemise, the reverence in his face stops her breath. Her breasts have never been the sort to inspire sonnets, but he is entranced.

She lifts the small mounds in her own hands, offering them up to him, nipples like full stops at the end of a sentence. He accepts them, running his thumbs over the hardened peaks, then lowers his head to suckle.

Eddies of pleasure rush through her, and for the first time she makes a sound. She lies back, holding him to her as he continues kissing and licking. He's hard again—oh, glorious youth!—grinding his pelvis against her. She clutches his buttocks, smooth and firm under her hands, and squeezes, savagely pleased that there will be marks on his pale skin later.

He kicks, trying to remove the trousers that still encircle his ankles, and she banishes them along with the remainder of her own clothes.

If she has harboured fantasies of teaching an ardent young man how to please a woman, she is destined for disappointment. His knees insinuate themselves between her legs, opening them, and he reaches down to feel her, but it is only to move his cock to the right place. She shudders as he pushes in, any hazy notions of tutelage obliterated with this lush invasion.

He fucks fast and inexpertly into her, but she is accustomed to seeing to her own pleasure and positions her hips so he presses against her clitoris with each inept thrust, and she comes hard. She's hardly caught her breath when he finishes, grunting and collapsing, crushing her breasts under his hairless chest, and her euphoria is chased by a vague disgust, not for transgressing with a student, but for not insisting he treat her with more consideration.

A bereftness grips her when his softening, wood-mouse cock slips from her hole, and he rolls off her with a contented sigh.

She rises, turning away from him and Summoning her wand to take care of the necessary ablutions. When she's finished, he's up and pulling on his trousers, damp cock bouncing as he hops comically on one foot. They dress in silence, each button on her bodice another brick in the reconstruction of Professor Minerva McGonagall.

When she looks at him, she expects to see his habitual smirk, but he wears an uncertain smile, and she's surprised by the rush of relief it brings.

"You are the—"

Her hand stops his words. She doesn't want to hear whatever he has to say, to allow any assessment of the event.

Shame, she expects, will come to her later, when her body has forgotten the feeling of being touched, but for now, she relishes the awkwardness of the post-coital moment.

The door opens with a flutter of her fingers, and she watches it dawn on him that he is being dismissed. A shadow flickers across his face, but he leaves without a word.

She turns to the pile of essays sitting accusingly atop her desk and stares unblinking at them for a moment. Moving into her straight-backed seat, she dips her quill in the pot of regulation black ink and begins to write, the dry scratch over the parchment bringing her back into existence.

Acknowledgements

This was written for mindi at the Rare Pair Shorts Summer Wishlist Event 2024.

Their prompt, which was too delicious for me to pass up, was: I'd love to read about young man Sirius & hot teacher Minerva (Minerius).

Not sure this is quite the "hot teacher" vibe you had in mind, but I hope you enjoy it.

Copyright

The author believes this work falls within the scope of the Fair Use Doctrine as a transformative work. For more information, see the Organization for Transformative Works.

This work of fiction is available for use under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International (CC BY-NC-SA 4.0) licence.

Squibstress
squibstress

Publisher's Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cailleach/ Squibstress. – 1st ed.
0-337-OL-1