Sweet Revenge

The ball was supposed to honor the new Minister of Magic, but we all knew whom it was really for: the person who had hidden himself away two months earlier, when the whole wizarding world was celebrating his victory over Voldemort.

Me.

And there's no better way to describe it than to say that I was having a ball. Which ever since fourth year has been a phrase I've used only in my own mind. It means: Did somebody think this was supposed to be fun? Isn't there a dragon somewhere I should be fighting? A Blast-Ended Skrewt I should be walking?

But there I was, standing in my dress robes, feeling the pressure of every eye in the place and thinking: Somewhere between the fifth and sixth Horcruxes, I should have learned to dance. And then I thought: Why?--there's no one here for me to dance with, since Hermione is welded to Ron and the war put too much distance between me and Ginny. And then I thought: Actually, there is someone here for me to dance with--and I've wanted to ask her since fourth year, when I discovered that dancing was one of the few things she did poorly. And now I could make her dance. I was going to get some use out of all this attention.

I strode up to her with a grin and extended my hand. "Professor McGonagall?"

"Yes, Potter?"

"May I have this dance?"

"You do not need my permission to dance."

"I'm not asking for permission."

"Then how may I help you, Potter?"

"By joining me in a dance, Professor."

"I don't dance."

I admit it: I smirked. "Yes, you do."

"Perhaps I should remind you, Potter, that you have just returned to Hogwarts for your belated seventh year, and I am your Headmistress."

"True."

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth and took a deep breath--and then seemed to decide that "ten points from Gryffindor!" was not what she wanted to say to the savior of the wizarding world while he had his hand out to her in front of every Very Important Witch and Wizard in Britain. She let the air out, and her shoulders drooped. But she gave me her hand. I led her out to the dance floor.

As we walked, I caught a glimpse of two redheads approaching the band. The next thing I knew . . . .

Love's a baby that grows up wild

And he don't do what you want him to

Love ain't nobody's angel child

And he won't pay any mind to you

People were supposed to dance to this? I couldn't find a steady beat anywhere. Nobody else was even trying. And there I was, with the Headmistress, in the middle of the dance floor.

I have to say, I've never seen Professor McGonagall look so lost. I decided to rescue her. After all, this was a dance: I was supposed to lead.

I started shoving her around. I made up a rhythm that had a little bit in common with what the band was playing, and I pushed her around with me in neat little circles. I could feel everyone around us looking away and trying not to laugh, and I thought, gee, maybe now they'll understand that their hero is still a whole person. I grinned. I might not have a clue what I was doing when it came to dancing, but I knew that when I asked for this dance, and I was perfectly comfortable with my friendly revenge.

Professor McGonagall should have been a Weasley. I'd never seen that red a face on anyone who wasn't.

You go for me, and I'm taboo

But if you're hard to get, I go for you

And if I do, then you are through

Oh boy, my baby, that's the end of you!

But she kept her arms where they were supposed to be and followed my lead. She even kept eye contact and smiled at me. I focused my eyes on hers, turning on the full power for which Hermione once told me my eyes were famous. (I recall rolling them at Hermione when she said it, but why should that stop me from putting the knowledge to good use?) Soon I found myself twirling Professor McGonagall out under my arm, and when I drew her back and caught her, I found her holding me quite warmly.

So take your cue

Oh boy, don't say I didn't tell you true

I told you truly: If I love you

That's the end of you!

*

I guess we all have a bit of a soft spot where Potter is concerned, but that was one time I should have been firmer with him. I should have been firmer with myself too.

I hadn't fallen for a student this way since I was in fourth year myself. What was it with those eyes?

Actually, it wasn't the eyes. It was the prank. If he had done it to someone else, I would have been disappointed and angry. But he did it to me. And somehow, when the greatest Gryffindor since the Head of House of my own student days took his revenge on me in front of all my colleagues--it got all the way through to the Minerva who used to run through the Tower in her nightgown and lust secretly after Alphard Black. Alphard would have been proud, I thought, and so would Sirius.

I wondered whether Sirius knew, when Albus introduced me to his dog form, that I still remembered . . . .

Oh yes. If Harry Potter could get revenge on his Headmistress, I could get revenge on him.

*

OK, picture this. Gryffindor Tower. Midnight, after the ball. I'm still feeling a bit awkward about getting undressed in front of my new roommates--Ron's in the bed next to me, of course, but the other seventh years had been fourth years before the war interrupted things--and I've got the curtains drawn while I get changed. My dress robes are hanging up. My briefs have just gone down to my ankles.

A cat jumps into my lap.

Do you know how cat whiskers tickle against naked skin? Especially, er, sensitive naked skin?

Do you realize how a cat can scratch when she kneads your lap and you're not wearing anything? Fortunately, that was only my thighs.

I move the cat onto the bed and unfold my pajamas. It's a strange cat, I think, to be pacing around the bed, gawking at me. And suddenly it occurs to me...

If I had a beard, the heat from my red face would burn it off. But there's no way I'm going to let her win. I grit my teeth and plot for a moment.

I finish removing my underwear and put my pajama pants on. Then I reach over and begin stroking the cat. She relaxes a bit, purrs. I rub her cheeks, scratch her head, massage her shoulders--then suddenly press down, pinning her firmly but gently to the bed. I move to cuddle her, hold her close. I rub her cheek as if to calm her. I pull the sheet over us, and over our heads, trapping it under my body in all directions. I tap the cat three times with my wand.

Picture it. I'm half-naked, hiding under the covers with Professor McGonagall.

"Perhaps I should remind you, Professor, that I have just returned to Hogwarts for my belated seventh year, and you are my Headmistress."

She smiles very weakly and doesn't laugh at all. She refuses to meet my eyes.

Oh no.

What have I done?

Once she transforms back into a cat, I realize there's only one thing left I can do. I pull her out from under the sheet and hold her against me. She's still Professor McGonagall, stern, powerful and rather intimidating--but she's still Professor McGonagall, noble, trustworthy and (admit it or not) deeply loving. I'm not about to snog her, but I can't just shoo her away. Not the witch who flooded Privet Drive with letters calling me back to the magical world, not the woman who has looked out for me ever since. And as she curls up against me and begins to purr, I find I'm actually glad, in a strange, painful way, to have her there, to know she's still with me--and to know we've built a world where the Headmistress of Hogwarts doesn't need to be ready for battle at any moment.

And that is how I got to be the only student at Hogwarts with a cat and an owl!