True Nature

Included in this section:

New York City, 1947

Minerva's Chambers, 1970

Autumn, New York City, 1951

Minerva's Chambers, 1970

Winter, New York City, 1951

Urgent Owl

New York City, December, 1951

The Faerie Queen, December, 1951

Letters across the Atlantic, Part One

New York City, 1947

Even two weeks into her stay, Minerva couldn't quite grasp the reality that she was in New York City. She clutched her handbag as she scuttled with the million or so other pedestrians across the street. Nothing in Europe or the South Pacific could have prepared her for the energy of this city, for the sheer magical power in every stone and subway and street vendor. Even the Muggle sectors, which she haunted, guide book in hand, during so many of her free hours, seemed to radiate with the fire of magic. She felt alive and vibrant and ready to take on the world.

Her appointment as assistant to the Undersecretary of International Commerce for the British Ministry of Magic had stunned her. She knew her service in Italy had gained her favor with the Ministry, and that her work on trade relations in Singapore had also netted a largely positive response back home. But never had she expected to find herself here, working for Lady Fitzpatrick and her staff in the heart of Manhattan's Wizard District.

Her lunch break was only forty-five minutes, but she could have food from anywhere in the world within a two block radius of the Ministry building. A Doppler symphony of horns serenaded her as she made her way through the queue at Hanky Pete's falafel cart. "One falafel pita," she yelled over a siren, then lowered her voice as the siren faded. "Extra tahini on the side, please, and a mint tea."

Pete grunted through his ragged black mustache and set about making her lunch with no more acknowledgement than that. Minerva noticed a tall blond man smiling at her from the patio of a nearby café. She smiled back perfunctorily and paid for her lunch. When she passed the café on her way back to her little office, the blond man stood and waved her over.

"Excuse me," he said. His voice sounded of cornfields and hayrides, and fresh sweet summer air. "Don't you work at the British Ministry?"

Minerva ignored every warning her coworkers had given her about talking to strangers on the streets of Manhattan. "Do I know you?" she asked.

"I work across the street. I thought you looked familiar." He smiled at her, and she felt the oddest wave of homesickness for a place she'd never been.

"You work at the Commerce department?"

He laughed. "Well, in the gift shop on the first floor." He extended his hand. "William Peterson, but all my friends call me Billie."

"Oh, you're the man who does the lovely flower arrangements." She shook his extended hand warmly. "Minerva McGonagall."

"Wow, that's quite a mouthful," he teased. "I've seen you every morning for the last couple of weeks. I've wanted to say hi, but you were always so busy."

"Important diplomatic business," she nodded with a wink.

"Two coffees, one black, one with extra sugar and cream, and a plain toasted bagel with cream cheese." At her stunned look, he grinned. "My current ex-boyfriend owns the coffee shop next door. I asked him about you once, and he said you get the same thing every morning."

"My immediate supervisor may be an excellent administrator, but he lacks a certain adventurous spirit when it comes to breakfast." She hoped her disappointment wasn't too apparent on her face. His ex-boyfriend. Of course he was gay. The first man in two years who stirred even the slightest interest in her would be a homosexual.

"Would you care to join me?" he continued. "I only have about a half-hour left, but I get the funny feeling you're somebody I want to know."

She eyed the pita sandwich and cup of tahini she balanced in one hand, then the paper cup filled with cool mint tea in the other. "I don't know if they would appreciate me bringing in food from outside."

"Are you kidding? The safest way to dine at Café Salmonella is to bring a boxed lunch." He opened the tiny gate separating the mostly empty patio from the street. "Besides, the owner is an ex-boyfriend of mine, and he'll get over it."

She couldn't help but laugh. "Are all your ex-lovers restaurateurs?" She allowed him to hold the chair for her, and waited until he was seated to unwrap her pita.

"Only the ones I let feed me." He offered her a fry from her plate, which she declined. "So tell me, Minerva, who gets the cream and sugar?"

"Excuse me?"

"The coffees," he explained. "Who gets the black and who gets the melted coffee ice cream?" At her blank stare, he added, "You can tell a lot about a person from their coffee choice."

"I see." She flashed him an incredulous look, but nodded him on with a small chuckle. "Based on superficial, completely unsubstantiated data, which coffee do you think I drink?"

"Well, superficially, from the sensible dress and shoes, the perfectly manicured nails and elegant but understated coiffure, I'd say you drink your coffee black." She began to speak, but he stopped her. "However," he added. "On closer examination, I see that you're eating Middle Eastern for lunch, with extra tahini, which suggests you have a craving for the more sensual delights, which would suggest that you put extra cream and sugar in your coffee." He leaned back, examining her deeply. "You're an enigma, Minerva McGonagall. A well-balanced dichotomy between the staid and the sensual."

"My goodness," she replied, trying not to appear too flattered and flustered by the attention he was showing her. She may be single, and celibate, but she was not desperate enough to swoon over an openly gay man. "All that from a cup of coffee and a sandwich?"

"Cream and sugar," he leaned over, announcing the words like a scientist presenting his findings to the chairman of the research department. "You are definitely cream and sugar, pussycat."

She blushed, enjoying his eyes and his smile. "You're right."

"I've spent a lot of time waiting tables in order to finance my ongoing misspent youth," he admitted. "Besides, I had a 50/50 shot of getting it right."

"You guessed?" She wadded up the extra paper napkin from her sandwich and tossed it playfully at him. "You guessed?"

"No, puss," he corrected. "I guessed right. So how long have you been in this wonderful pit of decadence?"

"New York or America?"

His eyes twinkled. "Oh, you I'm going to like."

"Two weeks." She took another bite of the pita, sinking her teeth into the crispy falafel, reveling in the glut of exotic sights and sounds and flavors that seemed to be pulsing through her.

"Oh, my gawd, you're a newbie." He gestured in her general direction, using his French fry for emphasis. "Let me guess. Fodor's New York and Hilbreath's Guide to the Magical Apple."

She groaned. "Am I such an obvious tourist?"

"Sugar, the only thing you're lacking is a miniature Statue of Liberty for your desk." At her fierce blush, he began to lack hysterically. "No, don't tell me you bought one?"

She couldn't help laughing as well. "Just a little one. I sent it to a friend back home."

"Special friend?"

With a sigh, she said, "No such animal, I'm afraid. I sent it to the headmaster of my alma mater, Hogwarts Academy of Wizardry and Witchcraft."

"Whoa," he said. "Somehow, P.S. 738 just doesn't sound as impressive in comparison."

"Are you a native New Yorker?" she asked. "I imagined you growing up on a farm in Iowa or somewhere wholesome like that."

"Actually, my family moved here from Wisconsin when I was eleven, but I'm a New Yorker at heart." A little boy sense of wonder flashed in those big blue eyes that were slowly breaking Minerva's heart for their sheer inaccessibility. "It gets inside of you, and if it doesn't kill you, this city will own you forever."

"Sounds like a marvelous slavery to me," Minerva sighed.

Billie gave her a long, examining look. "Pussycat, how do you feel about throwing away those guide books and having a tour of the real New York? Tonight?"

It was as if a bolt of electricity shot through her. "Are you sure? It wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience?"

He gave her a sheepish shrug. "I got dumped this morning," he admitted. "I'd really like to have fun, and something tells me you are a person I could really have fun with. Truth be told, I don't want to be alone tonight."

She sighed in compassionate understanding. The previous two years in Singapore had been one long continuous cycle of work, sleep, and the occasional solo sightseeing excursion. Just five minutes with this sweet fellow brought home with swift ferocity how exquisitely lonely those two years had been. The thought of spending another Friday night alone in this magnificent city just made her heart sag. "You know, Billie, I don't think I want to be alone tonight, either."

"Then it's done. I have a couple of things to do after work, but can I meet you here around ten-ish?"

"Ten? At night?"

Billie winked conspiratorially. "This ain't Hogwarts, pussycat. The owls don't even begin to fly until the moon is old."

She felt a delicious spark of excitement at that thought. "Alright," she said. "Ten it is."

***

The sun was rubbing its eyes as they stumbled into Billie's place. The fifth-floor apartment was situated in a decaying brownstone on the edge of the Muggle crossing, a phone booth that led out into an alley behind a Greenwich Village warehouse. The Amsterdam Plush Estates hardly lived up to its name. The walls were cracking and the elevator hadn't worked for years. Still, Minerva and Billie climbed the stairs laughing, their systems filled to the brim with Harlem rhythms and Muggle liquor.

Minerva steadied herself against the wall as Billie fumbled with the key. After a couple of shoves and several homegrown expletives, Billie managed to get the door open. "My posh flat, milady," he gestured her inside.

She looked around. Billie, or his new ex-lover, had somehow managed to transform the dreary apartment into a stylish collection of moderately priced furniture and art. In the corner nearest the door was a pile of men's clothing, shoes, and personal items with a handwritten sign that read, "Asshole," pinned to the top. "I take it those belong to the ex-boyfriend," she murmured.

"I'm still debating as to whether I should just throw them off the fire escape." He grabbed her hand and led her through the place. "The grand tour. Living room." He waved his hand around them like a carnival barker, and then pointed to a door just up the landing. "Honeymoon suite--single occupancy, at the moment," he added with a frown. "And to your right we have the drag room," he pointed to a second door.

"Excuse me?"

He led her up the landing and into the second bedroom.

"Oh, my dear," she breathed. The room was filled, simply stuffed, with dress mannequins, sequined fabrics, and wig after wig after wig. There was an old sewing machine against the far wall covered with what appeared to be a black sequined sleeveless. "Dear gods and goddesses, Billie."

"My alter-ego," he explained, grabbing a wig head from the table. The Styrofoam lady gazed impassively from under the auburn hair, so perfectly teased and curled and primped. "Miss Betty Bottom, soon to be headliner at the Frisky Familiar."

"Well, you are full of surprises," she gasped. A hint of jealousy hit her as she stared at the rows of fabulous party dresses, evening gowns, and sparkly girly things that surrounded her. Those monthly invoices from Grandmother, the burden of repaying the loan that got her started after school, in combination with the expensive New York rents, just didn't leave a lot of extra cash for pretty things. "It's amazing. Do you mind?" she said, gesturing at one of the dresses.

"No, go ahead."

She pointed her index finger at a forest green floor length, saying, "Accio." It floated into her waiting hands.

Billie stared for a moment. "Don't you usually use wand for that sort of thing?"

Minerva blushed hard. "Sorry, bad habit. My mum always got so mad at me. 'Don't use your finger like a pauper or a Muggle carnival mountebank, Minerva McGonagall,' she'd say. 'We may be poor, but we're not so poor that you can't use a proper wand like a well-bred young witch.'" She laughed as Billie rolled his eyes.

"Did she really use the word 'mountebank?'" he asked.

"That was one of her more casual words," she admitted. "Really, the wand is only to focus, and it can be so inconvenient. Didn't you ever just skip it?"

"Um, not this boy."

She winked. "Surely your parents weren't stricter than my mother."

"No, I just never got the hang of it."

"Magic without a wand?"

"Magic period," he said, taking the dress from her hand.

She stared at him, confused, as he hung the dress up and placed it on the rack. "What? Do you mean that you..."

"Yeah, a gay Squib drag queen," he muttered with a rueful smile. "My parents are just sooo proud."

The statement floored her. She'd not guessed him to be a Squib. She'd met a lot of Magical folk who liked to do things the non-magical way, so it never occurred to her that he'd taken subways and owned a sewing machine and walked up steps for any reason other than the joy of doing such things. "Oh," came out of her mouth before she could stop it.

The hurt on Billie's face broke her heart. "Don't tell me you're one of those types, pussycat."

"Oh, no," she assured him, mentally smacking herself for being so callous. "It's just, well, most people aren't so matter-of-fact about it."

"You mean, most people won't admit they haven't got a lick of Magical powers in them," he corrected, his expression softening. "It's who I am, Minerva. I'm gay. I'm a drag queen. And I'm a Squib," he added. "None of those things are going to change. I can either try to hide it, or become bitter about it, or I can just accept it and go on living my life."

Her smile was genuine as she felt herself falling madly in love with this sweet, crazy young man from Wisconsin. "That's the best way to do it, I suppose," she said softly.

"Now, let's go destroy that bottle of tequila Vinnie brought back from Mexico, okay?" Billie winked in her general direction, unwilling apparently to allow the mood to remain somber. He set off to plot further vengeance against his ex-lover, with Minerva following gladly in his footsteps.

***

"You know, pussycat, I haven't had such a great weekend in years." Billie lay on his stomach, wielding a tiny chrome fabric ripper as he loosened the buttons on his ex-lover's clothes. "You are too much fun."

"I'm nothing of the sort," she shot back from her perch at the kitchen door. "Do you want aqua or sky blue?" She leaned out into the living room, shaking her head at his vengeful seamstress routine. "You know, you never told me why Vinnie dumped you. Perhaps it's because you destroy his things?"

"Nope," he said, still picking at the tiny threads that held the buttons in place. "He left me because he was afraid his family would find out he was fucking a Squib." That, with a disgusted roll of the eyes. "He didn't seem to care if they found out he was a flaming fag, but boy, if the folks back home knew about the Squib thing," he tugged fiercely, sending the button skittering across the tiles. "Oops, lost one."

She paused, leaning against the doorjamb. "Oh, puppy, I'm so sorry. What a prick."

"Amen. And aqua. I love aqua. Vinnie hates aqua, so I definitely want my kitchen aqua." He popped another button. "Damn. You'd think a drag queen would be better at this sort of thing. You know, pussycat, you don't have to do the kitchen for me. I'm perfectly okay with painting it the Muggle way."

"Nonsense," she said. "I like doing it. Unless," she added, feeling uncomfortable. "Unless you..."

"Unless I have a problem with accepting sympathy magic?" he asked. He pressed his fingers to his lips and blew her a kiss. "You can give my wand a pity swish any time you want, pussycat," he teased.

"Why does that sound so very dirty," she laughed as she returned to the kitchen. Removing her wand, she quickly transformed the sedate beige walls into an underwater paradise of deep, rich aqua. The kitchen was tiny, but well stocked, and Billie had managed to keep her in extraordinary meals for the entire weekend.

"Besides," she said as she came back into the living room. "Redoing your kitchen is the least I could do to repay you for your hospitality." She patted the sofa next to her. "Now, stop terrorizing those buttons and come keep me company. It's Sunday night, and I'm feeling blue."

He hopped to his feet, crossing the small living room in four large steps to plop next to her. "Why blue, kitten?"

"It's been such a wonderful weekend," she sighed. "I hate to have it all end."

"I know." He looked around him. "I'm going to hate losing this place."

She turned to face him. "Why on earth would you lose it?"

"Well, the rent's fixed, sister, but it ain't free." He breathed out heavily. "Unless I find a new roomie in the next two weeks, I'm screwed."

"If you were screwed, you'd probably have a new roommate," she said without thinking.

Billie howled with laughter. "You crack me up," he said as he pulled her into a fierce hug. "I wish you were a man. I'd have you naked so quick your head would spin." At her wide eyes, he chuckled. "Sorry, Lady Astor, I didn't mean to shock you."

She pulled away, still caught between amusement and embarrassment. "You wouldn't know the first thing about shocking me, little boy," she shot back.

"Ooohh, sounds juicy," he squealed. "Tell Big Brother all about your naughty little secrets."

She knew he was teasing her, but something about the fact that he thought her incapable of having any sort of past stirred her competitive spirit. "I'm sure you wouldn't be at all interested,' she feinted.

"Was it a string of Asian lovers back in Singapore?" he guessed. "Or was it a dark Italian man of mystery from the war days?"

"Oh, tons and millions of them. In and out my bedroom door, every night of the week."

"Liar." He kissed the top of her head. "Come on, baby sister. I've spilled the beans on every boyfriend I've had since I was eleven, and you haven't even told me about one." He held her for a long moment, and then whispered gently, "That awful?"

"Married man. Italian. Had a little boy. Almost three years."

"Oh, kitten," he hugged her sympathetically. "Did the wife find out?"

"The wife suggested it," she said without inflection. "She was very sick, and couldn't perform her wifely duties. She suggested I become his mistress, and I did."

Billie gave a long, low whistle. "Talk about cosmopolitan attitudes," he said.

"It ended badly. I'd determined to give up on men altogether until I met you two days ago, you goddamn fag." Her warm smile softened the words as she kissed his cheek. "Just when I thought all men were insensitive jerks, I met you. And of course you have to be gay."

"Sorry, angel. You're not..." He didn't seem to know quite how to express it.

"Falling in love with you?" She stroked his cheek. "Desperately, you pig. But I suppose I'm going to have to live with the fact that the only attractive, beautiful, kind-hearted man in my life wants to date other men."

"Sorry, pookie," he nuzzled her cheek. "But not all straight men are that bad, are they? Surely you've had some good dates?"

"I dated a few times in Singapore, and I may never go out with another straight man as long as I live, thank you very much." She paused until the question on his face prompted an explanation. "The single men resented my working, wanted to marry me and get me pregnant after the first date. The married men....well, none of them met my criteria."

"Criteria? You have criteria for married men?"

"I spent a lot of time alone, baby boy. I came up with a whole list."

"Please do tell."

She hesitated. The list had been written in jest, but she'd never shared it with anyone before. Billie waited patiently, though, and finally she began. "No single men. They only go in two directions--matrimony or no commitment at all. No divorced, widowed, or married men with children. Too many complications, and too many emotional land mines."

"That sort of narrows the playing field, doesn't it?" Billie was watching her now, an intent look on his face. He was either sizing her up as a complete loon or wondering if she'd just channeled the new Book of Wisdom from the Other Realms.

"Exactly. That's the whole point of having standards, darling, to narrow the playing field." She relaxed, easing into the list as she continued to speak. "Once a man has met those initial criteria..."

"Married and childless," Billie inserted. "Got it."

"Exactly. Once he's passed that roadblock, he arrives at the first test. The Wife Test." She ignored Billie's snort of amusement. "In other words, any man who tells me his wife is perfectly okay with him having a mistress, that they have an open relationship, blah blah blah, is going to have to put his money where his mouth is. Unless he is willing to let me talk to his wife, face to face, and get her explicit approval, there is no affair." She sniffed. "I'm no home-wrecker."

"Have you tested this list out in the real world? And more importantly, has anyone passed?"

Minerva shrugged. "Not yet," she admitted. "But if someone wants me as a mistress, he will do so by my rules. If the wife agrees, then there comes the matter of finances. Under no circumstance will I be anyone's whore. Throughout any relationship, I will maintain a completely independent and self-sustaining income. I shall also have an independent and separate living arrangement - no more guest house romances for me," she said with a touch of bitterness.

"And he provides this?"

"Absolutely not!" She shook her head fiercely. "I'm a career girl, remember? I pay my own way. However, the man in question will provide a separate trysting spot that is in no way connected to either of our primary residences."

"This sounds like a business contract."

"Honestly, Billie, once you've removed the flowers and chocolates, what are sexual relationships other than business arrangements?" She ignored his horrified look. "Oh, that reminds me. For any gift, splurge, etc., that a man offers me, he will have to provide me with proof that his wife is getting something of equal or greater value. If he can't support a wife and a mistress, he has no business shopping around."

"Um, puss, what exactly does the man get out of this?"

She leveled a completely flat stare at him. "In the bedroom? Any thing he bloody wants. Any act, no matter how depraved or bizarre."

He flashed her a warning look. "There are some pretty depraved and bizarre people out there, hon."

"I can handle myself." She met his gaze impassively. "Hon."

There was a long tense moment when neither knew what to say. Finally, Billie dropped his gaze for a second. "What do you get out of this, precious?" he asked in a soft, concerned voice.

For the first time, she hesitated. What did she get out of it? "Companionship," she answered. "I get to be part of something that doesn't go away unless I make it go away."

"Sounds harsh," he sighed.

"Life is harsh," she agreed. "Besides," she added in much lighter tone. "It's hardly like I'm going to find anyone who actually meets those criteria, am I?"

"You know, maybe you should just jump the boat and start dating women," Billie said.

She flashed him a wicked smile.

"Minnie Cat, no!" He shook his head. "You don't mean to tell me that beneath that sensible cotton dress and crisp command of the King's English beats the heart of a woman who has thrilled to the Sapphic delights?"

"Don't dramatize," she laughed. "It was absolutely nothing. A tiny little fling in my seventh year, with a mad girl from a rival House." She kept her voice level and her expression bland. "It ended before it began. I hardly remember the girl's name."

"Still, this has reopened the field of potentials substantially." He grinned, flashing her a suggestive leer.

"William Peterson, I assure you I never intend to sleep with a woman again, so keep that gay heart of yours in check." She nodded her head with a distinct sniff. "I am not going to become your next homosexual protégé."

"How 'bout my next bisexual roommate," he said quietly.

"What?" She turned to stare at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious. Why wouldn't I be serious?"

"Well, for starters, you may be gay, but that little old lady downstairs who runs this building has been looking at me like a harlot for the entire time I've been staying with you."

"We'll tell her we eloped. I'll even buy you a ring."

"Well, what if you... I mean, what about lovers?" She couldn't believe he was even suggesting this. "What happens when you fall for the next gay restaurateur you meet? How will you explain it to him?"

"We have two bedrooms, puss."

"No, you have one bedroom and the dressing room for the bloody Follies."

"We can certainly get creative. I'm sure you know a spell or two to squeeze all that stuff into a smaller space so you can use the room."

"And how will he feel, knowing that you're living with a woman who's supposed to be your wife?"

Billie laughed. "You really didn't spend much time being gay, did you? It's called a shield marriage, and any gay boy from here to Hawaii can tell you what it's all about." He narrowed his gaze. "It could also be good for you, if you're serious about that list of yours. If you're safely married, your coworkers in the Ministry would never suspect you were somebody's mistress, would they?"

She looked at Billie as if seeing him for the first time. "Are you serious?"

He flashed her the most beautiful smile she'd ever seen. "Will you marry me, Miss McGonagall?"

***

Minerva's Chambers, 1970

"Oh, no. You are not leaving it there." Deanna stared in horror as Minerva stood to stretch her lower back. "What happened?" she demanded, pulling Minerva back next to her on the couch. "And what did you mean by that 'I hardly remember her name' crack?"

Minerva ruffled the top of Hooch's hair. "It was years ago. Don't get your knickers n a twist."

"Okay, so did you marry the drag queen?"

"Oh, I married him. Signed papers and everything. Of course, it was in name only. We bought a ring, told everyone it was a world wind courtship, that we'd eloped to New Jersey or some place like that, and moved in together immediately. I doubt if anyone outside of Billie's friends ever suspected the whole thing was a sham. I mean, it's not like we ever made love or anything. But it did allow us to live together in relative peace while we each pursued our own lives."

"You're not telling me you actually found anyone who passed that murderous test of yours?"

Minerva gave her a superior nod. "Actually, in the four years I lived with Billie, I found three men who met my criteria."

"So you became a serial mistress?"

She brushed a lock of hair out of Deanna's eyes. "It wasn't all so bad," she comforted. "The first one, Pete, was a stock broker on the Wizard Exchange. He taught me a lot about investments, which allowed me to not only pay off my debt to Grandmother in less than a year, but to amass a nice little nest-egg for myself. Albert was an architect who only cared about galleries. His wife didn't like art, so he dragged me to every tiny perch in the Village. I saw some of the most phenomenal works of creativity with him. And Errol..." she sighed. "I'm not sure how Errol got on to the list, but he did teach me never to date a man who is afraid of his own shadow."

"And what about that whole depraved and perverse thing," Deanna prompted.

Minerva smiled darkly. "Yes, it got there. It's amazing how many women will happily allow you to bed her husband if it means she doesn't have to be dressed up, tied up, stripped down, or otherwise humiliated in the bedroom."

"And you had no problem with that?" Deanna didn't even bother trying to hide her concern.

"No, not at all," was Minerva's soft response. "You see, the more they abused me, the less I felt. So it really was a perfectly sensible arrangement."

Deanna couldn't find anything at all to say in response to that, so she just sipped her wine and waited for the tale to continue.

***

Autumn, New York City, 1951

The Frisky Familiar was already swinging when they arrived. Minerva handed her wrap to Roger, the owner, accepting his warm kiss with a laugh. "Where's my butterbeer, you slack-about?" she demanded jokingly.

"Already at your table, wench." After a quick pinch of her bottom, Roger gave her companion a perfunctory nod, then turned his full attention back to Minerva. "You're late." And with a slow gaze at her outfit, he added disdainfully, "And what are you wearing?"

She laughed at the old joke. "Don't make fun of my work clothes, you bitch."

"Maybe if you didn't work in the fashion equivalent of a morgue," he started only to be interrupted by the older gentleman on Minerva's arm.

"Dear, I think I saw a table open up."

Minerva didn't even try to hide her annoyance. "And as you well know, Errol, we have a reserved table."

Roger, bless his heart, took the cue. "Well, honey, I'd better get backstage. Those old queens have been snapping at each other all afternoon, and if I don't stop them, we may not have anyone left to do the floor show." He hugged Minerva and patted Errol's shoulder from behind, rolling his eyes at the older man when only Minerva could see. "See ya after the show, Beautiful."

"Thanks, love," she called after him. Once he was gone, her smile was replaced by a hard, cold frown. "Did you have to embarrass me in front of my friend?"

Errol McHugh, for all his Midwestern groundedness, seemed positively flustered as he followed her through the crowded club. The table Roger regularly reserved for her was off stage left, right next to the performers entrance. It made for a fabulous view of the show, but not much privacy. "Honey, do you really think we should be here?"

She grabbed her butterbeer and was already taking a long swallow as she sat in her favorite chair. "Sit," she said. "Of course we should be here. Billie's new act premiers tonight, and I'll be damned if I'll let your bad mood keep me from it."

"I'm not in a bad mood," he said as he tried to flag down a waiter. "I'm just concerned that, well, what if someone sees us together?" He lifted his hand in another vain attempt to catch a young waiter's attention. "I mean, Pattie knows about us, and she understands. But what if someone else saw us here? In this place, of all places? We both have careers to think about, Minerva. I mean, even if they didn't know we were," he looked around, lowering his voice. "Together. They might think I was...well, you know."

Minerva glared at him tiredly, trying to remember what exactly she had ever seen in him. He must have had some redeeming quality at some point, but tonight he just seemed tiresome. "No, Errol, I don't know. What are you afraid people will think? That you're gay? That you're a drag queen? That you're a Squib?" She swallowed another long sip of butterbeer. "That you're fun? Gods and goddesses, we can't have that, can we?"

"Why are you being so cruel to me, Minerva?" he implored. "You're not still upset about those tickets, are you?"

Minerva fumed. "You mean those tickets to The King and I? The ones you swore your wife didn't want, to a play she definitely didn't want to see, on a night where she had other plans anyway?" Her eyes were hard and accusing. "Those tickets, Errol?"

Her Iowa gentleman looked like a deflated balloon. "You're still mad, aren't you?"

"I most certainly am, you foul liar."

"Pumpkin, I just wanted to do something special for you..."

"You know how I feel about your taking things away from your wife to give to me. You agreed to my terms when we began this affair," she paused as he put a finger to his lips to "shhh" her. "Oh, please, Errol." She gestured broadly with her free hand. All around them, men were kissing, women were dancing to the soft jazz music, and heterosexual couples that looked far too illicit to be actually married to each other milled about in perfect comfort. "It's not like anybody will notice or even care that you have a mistress."

"Pumpkin," he started.

"And don't call me by that ridiculous name," she continued.

"Hey, Puss," a waiter leaned over to kiss her cheek. "You want a refresh on that butterbeer, sweetie-face?"

"Oh, thank you so much," she said.

The waiter left without even acknowledging Errol's attempt to order. "What is it with this place," he grumbled. "It's like I'm invisible."

Minerva leaned back in her chair and leveled a steady glance at him. "My best friend is the headliner. They love me here, and I doubt they care much for any man who'd petition for divorce without even the courtesy of informing his wife or his mistress."

Errol turned white. "How did you..."

"It's true, then?"

"Well," he sputtered, then that stubborn streak kicked in. "How in hell did you find that out? Not even Pattie knows yet."

"Oh, that you admit in a normal voice." She kicked him in the shin under the table. "You bastard."

"Minerva, I don't know why you're so upset. You knew things were going south with me and Pattie for a long time."

"Do you know what Pattie told me the last time we spoke? She said, in spite of the ticket thing, which you never should have done, you mandrake, she thought you two were getting stronger. She thought it helped your marriage, having me as an outlet for all of your," she dropped her voice, giving him a dark, seething look. "Darker appetites. She thanked me, you pig. Your wife actually thanked me. And now I find out that you're going to divorce her for me?"

"Well, there's more than one side to a story, Pumpkin."

Fire shot from her eyes. She wished she could have done it literally. "We're through, Errol. You knew the rules, you broke the rules, now go tie someone else up and spank them for a while, you fuck."

"Will you please lower your voice?" he urged. "You may not care what these...people think about you, but I have a reputation to think about."

A man's voice came over the loudspeaker as a blur of music began to swell. "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Frisky Familiar proudly presents the world famous Miss Betty Bottom and her All-Squib Review!"

"You should have thought about that before you lied to me." She looked up, taking the fresh butterbeer from the waiter with a sweet thank you. "Now get out of here before I stand on the table and start screaming at the top of my lungs that you like to dress in women's knickers and spank me while you pretend to be a fashion model."

Her expression told him in no uncertain terms that she fully intended to do it. He grabbed the ticket for his coat and left just as six sequined drag queens tapped onto the stage. Betty Bottom flashed him a confused look as he interrupted her entrance. "Get out of my way," he fumed.

"Well, somebody isn't having much fun," Miss Bottom said into the microphone as she watched the man practically run to the coat check. "Say goodbye to the nice man, everybody."

And as the entire crowd simultaneously wished Errol McHugh a good evening, Minerva McGonagall fumed into her butterbeer.

***

It was late by the time they got back to the brownstone. Minerva had quickly elevated from butterbeer to something a little less benign. She was sporting a cool buzz when Billie pulled her into the apartment. "Come on, Puss, I have to change into my boy face before we can go out to the club."

"You said you'd take me to Harlem," she said with a slurred pout. "You promised me, Billie. Don't fink on a promise, okay?"

"I'm not finking on anything. You gonna change?" He called from the bedroom closet, ignoring the fact that she'd collapsed, stomach-down, onto their somewhat dilapidated couch.

"Why should I change?" She asked, rolling carefully over onto her back, and started tossing one of the pillows into the air. "While I'm thinking about it, why do all your friends make fun of my work clothes?" She dropped the pillow and leaned over at a precarious angle, trying to get it from behind the arm of the couch. "Billie, why do your friends all make fun of my clothes?" she added, throwing the pillow at the bedroom door.

Billie came out, completely transformed, in skin-tight blue jeans and a short-sleeved black cotton shirt. His hair was neatly trimmed, and his shoes polished. He leaned down to pick up the pillow and tossed it back to her. "Because you insist on dressing like a middle-classed house wife from Sussex."

She pelted him back with the pillow. "How in hell would you know how a housewife from Middlesex dresses?"

"Sussex."

She sat up, resting her chin on the sofa back to watch as he began tidying the apartment. "My darling boy, you may know everything about fashion, but the closest you've come to Essex is fish and chips night at the Dragon."

"Okay, so I'm not a world traveler like you, pussycat, but at least I'd know better than to buy those shoes." He nodded at her sensible pumps, which contained her feet, which were twisting at the end of her ankles, which she leaned backwards to display.

"These?"

"Those. Possibly okay for Ethel Barrymore, but not for my Puss in Pumps." He leaned over to kiss her forehead. "Want me to dress you, Baby Sis?"

"Muggle or Wizard?"

"Muggle, definitely. I'm thinking Harlem."

She nodded. "Then I want you to dress me. I can stand to be unfashionable amongst wizards, but Muggles, especially Harlem Muggles, I think deserve fabulous."

"I'll let you borrow the Chanel--the real one."

Minerva started laughing, dangling her feet above her air as Billie went to get the dress. "Ha!"

"It's real," Billie insisted, springing back into the room with the emerald satin in hand. He sat next to Minerva, forcing her legs back down when she attempted to rest them on his shoulder. "One hundred per cent pure Coco."

"Yeah, and I'm one hundred per cent pure Doris Day."

Billie winked. "You'd look cute as a blonde. Now strip, wench. I want to check the fit."

She pulled her dress off over her head, kicking the offensive pumps across the room until she stood before him in her underclothes and stockings. "What does it say about my figure that my best fitting clothes are my drag queen husband's hand-me-downs?"

"It says," Billie muttered as he struggled with the fastening on the dress. "That you have incredible taste in husbands. Now, step back and twirl, girl."

"My husband, maybe. But I have lousy taste in lovers." She began to twirl. Unfortunately, when she stopped spinning, the room didn't. She swayed, and grabbed Billie for support. "Maybe I should sit?"

He pulled her into an embrace, steadying her with his body. They stood that way for a long moment, until he looked down at her. "Hey, Kitty, what's with the tears?"

She struggled for composure, but it seemed the more she tried not to cry, the harder the tears fell. "I don't know." She started to hiccough. "I don't know."

"Come on, baby, come tell Sister Betty all about it." He led her to the couch, still wrapped in his arms. "I thought you were over whatsisface."

"Oh, him. Of course I am. It's just that, well," she lost the thread in another fit of tears. "I'm..."

"Oh, dear god, don't say you're pregnant."

This cut through the tears and she shot him a hard look. "Of course I'm not pregnant," she snarled. "I may be an amoral tart, but I'm not stupid."

"Whoa. Where did that come from?"

"I'm sorry," she sniffed. "Oh, darling boy, I'm sorry. It's just that I'm..." she choked. "I'm...."

"Spit it out, wifey."

"Thirty!" The two short syllables sent her into a fresh wave of hysterics.

Billie began to laugh, rocking her in a warm embrace. "Honey pie, sweetie, I know you're thirty. We're both going to be thirty really soon. We talked about this, remember? Age is a matter of the mind, not the body?"

"No, you don't understand. I'm thirty. Today." She pressed her fists against her eyes, rubbing hard. "I'm thirty bloody years old. Today."

"No, it's next Friday. I wrote it down in my...."

"It's today," she looked up at him sadly. "Well, for about another ten or fifteen minutes."

He wrapped her in another hard embrace. "Oh, pussycat, I'm so sorry. If it makes you feel better, you're going to have one hell of a surprise party next Friday at the Familiar."

She chuckled in spite of herself. "That's one way to make sure it's a surprise. Schedule it a week late."

"I feel terrible, Min. Just awful." He kissed her head. "And to break up with your whatsisface on your birthday."

"Oh, forget him. It's not like I was planning on staying with him."

"But something's still bugging you, baby." He stopped, though, as a wave of realization hit. "Ohhhhhh. Not a word from Glocca Mora."

She shook her head. "Not a single blessed owl."

"My gawd. It's been twelve years. How long can your own mother hold a grudge? You paid off the old lady years ago. How can she still be mad at you for something you did when you were eighteen?"

"She and my grandmother haven't been on speaking terms since my mother married my father. And that was almost sixty years ago."

"Ohhhkay."

"Borrowing that money from my grandmother was a slap in the face to her." She rested against his shoulder. "I knew it when I took it. I knew that she might not ever forgive me, but I didn't have much choice."

"And it's not like you didn't pay it off. With interest." He stroked her hair. "Sometimes I think I'm lucky to come from a nothing family. My folks may have Wisconsin accents and my mom pushes strudel on people like a dope fiend, but at least they're still speaking to me." He grinned. "Not that I haven't given them enough reasons to disown me."

Minerva sighed, snuggling into his arms. "It's probably for the best, I suppose." She closed her eyes as Billie leaned his chin against her. "What on earth could I possibly tell her? I'm a serial mistress with a penchant for bondage, my marriage is a complete sham, and I haven't done a single thing in my whole dreary life that would make the family proud of me." She sighed ruefully. "The pride of Gryffindor. That's what they used to call me in school." She looked down at her hands, which she twisted together. "Now look at me."

"Yeah, serving your country undercover during the war, behind enemy lines, there's nothing there to be proud of."

"You know what I mean." She stared sadly ahead. "I'm thirty years old, with no real life to speak of. I'm plain. I'm dull. And after almost 15 years of trying, I can't even transfigure myself into a dragonfly, much less an eagle or owl."

"No wife of mine is dull," Billie said. "And there is nothing plain about you. And if you think not being an animagus is bad, try on Squib for size." He waved off her sudden look of apology. "Sorry, kitty cat, it's your night for self-pity. Didn't mean to rain on your parade. Go on."

"I have a chin like a horse," she muttered.

"You do not have a chin like a horse."

She wiped her eyes. "Mrs. Appleby downstairs thinks I do. I overheard her on the telephone the other day. That poor girl. Such a handsome husband, and her so plain. So horsy. So awkward." She shrugged. "The only reason I've gotten as many men as I have is because I let them do anything they want to me."

Billie drew a deep breath. "Oh, angel. That is not true. You are an incredible, brilliant, passionate woman." He shook his head in disgust. "One of us really ought to snag a real-estate broker, because I am ready to start looking for a new place first thing Monday morning. I don't want you ever to have to deal with that rotten old hag again."

"She's right. She's right."

"You're being ridiculous. Now come on, baby doll. Me and Max Factor are going to turn you into the belle of the ball, and then we're going to Birdland for the late show. And you will have fun on what's left of your birthday, or I'm giving up my falsies."

She turned a sad smile to him, and kissed him hard on the mouth. "How come you have to be gay, Billie boy?" she whispered into his lips.

"Born that way, pussycat. Now come on. Let's bring out your inner goddess and set her loose on the Big Apple."

***

If cosmetics, a glamorous up-do, and a slinky party dress that shone like emeralds were all it took to transform a woman from Little Ash Girl to Fairy-tale Princess, Billie would have had a brilliant career as a fairy godmother. As it was, Minerva felt much better walking into the club on Billie's arm. He'd changed from the jeans into a perfectly tailored suit, content to play butch to her glamour girl on this one night only, and the effect they had on the crowd was most gratifying.

The doorman at Birdland smiled as he led them past the velvet rope, nodding to Billie and raking his eyes down the length of Minerva's figure. The twinkle in his eyes did not reflect in his perfectly respectful expression. "Ya'll missed a good show, folks. That Tony Bennett fella did a bang-up set earlier. But we have a good act on in a few minutes. I think you'll like her." The colored man tipped his hat, and gladly accepted the tip Billie offered. "You kids have a good night, hear?"

"We certainly will," Billie said as he led Minerva through the crowd to a small table in the back.

"Damn!" Minerva pouted. "Tony Bennett!" She sighed, her bare shoulders lifting slightly as a shiver of delight ran through her. "I could listen to him all night."

"Swooning like a teenie-bopper over a boy singer?"

"Oh, and you don't have his record on the player every date night," she mocked.

"If Tony can't get you laid, no one can,' he admitted. A waiter stopped at their table. "White wine for me, and club soda and lime for the lady." At Minerva's protesting look, he added, "Start slow. If you feel like drinking later, go ahead. But you've had a lot already."

She had to admit he had a point. There were only so many detox potions you could take before they just lost all effect, and she'd been going through them at an alarming rate lately. She smiled sheepishly at the waiter. "Club soda and lime, please."

"Absolutely, ma'am," he nodded and added as he left, "The show will begin in a moment."

"Thank you," Minerva said. Looking around her, she grinned. "I can't believe you took me to Birdland."

"Birthday at Birdland." Billie held his hands up as if picturing the words on an enormous marquee. "You owe me, lovergirl. Remember this, oh, on or about September 27^th, okay?"

"Not a chance. I fully intend that you will spend your birthday having a bevy of chorus boys serenade you with Rogers and Hammerstein tunes while giving you a full body massage."

He kissed her hand. "We have the greatest marriage on earth, don't we?"

They were both laughing as the lights dimmed. "Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer said in a sonorous, elegant voice. "Please welcome a young lady with a big future ahead of her. Direct from England, Miss Dianna Simpson." The lights dimmed and, as Minerva and Billie accepted their drinks in the dark, a slender Negro woman took the stage. The sequined gown she wore sparkled in the spotlight, drawing the eyes to her bare shoulders, to the curves that held the fabric like magnets, to the long, slender neck. That face, with almond-eyes and prominent lips against perfect white teeth.

As she began to sing, Minerva clutched her glass hard. The young woman's voice was like rich Italian coffee, strong and hot and intensely engrossing. She sang with her body, with her eyes and lips and energy. A cone of light seemed to surround her. It pulsed into the night like a lighthouse, finding Minerva's spirit on the dark sea and guiding it towards shore.

Minerva realized in horror that she was staring, wide-eyed, mouth slightly agape, at the singer. She turned to Billie, who was watching her with a curious expression, then looked angrily away. The woman sang a sad song, one of those old Billie Holiday numbers about men treating women like dogs and the women crawling happily back for more, the kind of songs Minerva usually dismissed as drivel. But this young woman found the soul of the music, spinning gold from the melodramatic dreck. Before she knew it, Minerva was wiping tears from her cheek, annoyed that Billie just watched her with that kind, understanding expression of his.

I will not, she told herself. I will not. I will not.

It began in her stomach, the tiniest speck of arousal.

I will not. I will not.

It grew with the crescendo. It overtook her. She stared at the singer, wondering what it would be like to taste those full lips, or to kiss that burnished skin. She remembered with full intensity the pleasures she'd felt in the arms of another woman. She remembered with every cell of her body what it felt like to cradle against another woman's breasts, to smell the sweetness of her skin.

"I will not," she whispered aloud.

"What?"

"Let's go," she insisted softly enough not to interrupt the music. "Let's pay for our drinks and get out of here."

"What's wrong?" Billie hissed, but followed her as she made her way to the door, tossing a few bills on the table for the drinks.

They were on the street before she answered his repeated queries. "Those sad songs. I can't bear to listen to that emotional drivel on my birthday. Come on, puppy, let's find some place alive."

Billie shrugged and followed her into the subway. "It's your birthday."

***

"This is more like it," Minerva yelled over the crowd. The place they found in Harlem specialized in the bump-and-grind music folks were beginning to call rock and roll, and this joint was packed with kids who looked too young to be out after dark, much less to be dancing in such an erotic way. It seethed with youth and fun and raw energy.

"Aren't we a little overdressed?" Billie looked around with unusual self-consciousness.

"Who cares?" She dragged him out on to the dance floor. A clean-cut Negro boy crooned opposite a hard bass rhythm that begged the body to respond, and respond she did. With almost no inhibition at all, Minerva pulled Billie into one of the sexy new dances the kids were doing. Before long, they were laughing and the angst of the evening seemed gone with the hot guitar riffs.

Song melted into song as the Muggle beers they kept ordering numbed Minerva's rattled nerves. The music pulsed into her, loosening parts of her body she'd wanted to forget all about just hours earlier. It was amazing how drums and alcohol could waken something primal inside of her. She didn't care, though. All she wanted to do was throw her body into the music and dance until she collapsed.

When Billie pulled her to the bar for a rest, she began to complain. "C'mon, Billie. Don't stop now."

"You didn't do a 90 minute show in heels before coming out tonight," he winced as he leaned against the barstool to take the pressure off his feet.

"I thought you came out long ago," she teased, easing her hands under his jacket and around his waist. "Puppy," she flirted, pressing her body against his. "Dance with me, puppy," she purred.

"Next song, I promise."

"I don't want to wait." She knew she sounded like a spoiled child; but after all, it was her birthday that had been ruined. And now the alcohol was more in control than she was. "I want to dance."

"Dance with me," a voice from behind her said. She whirled around to gaze into the blackest pair of eyes she'd ever seen. They were connected to a beautiful pale-skinned man, apparently in his late 20s, black wavy hair and a hard, tight smile. He wore a simple white shirt, unbuttoned at the top, and tight blue jeans. He was tanned, more tan than the fall weather in New York permitted. But his eyes, his eyes were amazing. "Will you dance with me seemed so passé," he added.

Without another word, he took Minerva's hand and led her to the dance floor, pulling her firmly against him, body to body as they began to sway to the untamed rhythms. He placed his palm at the base of her spine, keeping their pelvises together as they rocked to the music. Minerva felt a rush of fire from the bottom of her feet to the top of her head as he leaned forward, sliding his hand slowly up her back until their faces were only inches apart. He never broke eye contact with her.

She thought she should swoon or something, but swooning was not really appropriate to the feelings she was having. Swooning implied at least a subconscious desire to be free, and there was none of that inside her. If anything, she wanted to pull closer, to swim deeper, to drown and die and go to hell and be reborn into those dark eyes. She wanted to speak, to ask his name, but it seemed so bourgeois. So she let him simulate sex with her on the dance floor, first one, then two, than so many songs she couldn't count them any more.

When he finally spoke to her again, he whispered into her ear, "Don't wear so much make-up." He pulled back with a dark smile. "It doesn't hide a thing."

***

Her back slammed against the wall of his apartment. He held her by the thighs, her legs wrapped around his waist as he pounded into her, his lips forcing her mouth open. She reveled in the pain, in the earthy, guttery darkness of the act. She'd tried to remove the dress, some tiny sane part of her remembering it belonged to Billie, but he'd made her keep it on. He took her wrists in one strong hand, holding them together above her head as he continued to have his way with her. She could hear the ripping of fabric, knew her sweat would wreak havoc on the delicate material. It was odd how these inconsequential things always popped up during sex. As orgasm took over her senses, she was vaguely aware of feeling guilty about ruining the dress.

***

Minerva's Chambers, 1970

There was a long silence as Deanna decided how to respond. Minerva's face was clouded over, a dark silence that neutralized any flip comment she might otherwise have attempted. She twisted a strand of Minerva's hair between her fingertips, silently watching the emotions play on her former lover's face as she relived those memories in the privacy of her own thoughts.

It was Minerva who finally broke the silence. "I used the same safe word with all my lovers," she said. "Hogwarts." This was said with a slight grunt. "Do you know what a safe word is, Deanna?" she asked.

Deanna strained to see inside of her, to go where those thoughts kept her in chains, in dark captivity. Her voice was soft. "I think I do," she said.

The look Minerva gave her was solid ice. "Michael didn't," she said. "At least, he didn't believe in them. He didn't believe in safety nets, in back doors or ways out." She wrapped her arms around her chest. "I should have run screaming in the opposite direction the first time he kicked me to the floor. But I slid into it, like the primordial ooze."

***

Winter, New York City, 1951

She kept time by the feel of the sun moving up her body. It started with her toes. She could feel the fragile warmth in the early morning. Slowly, with each aching hour, it moved up her skin. She imagined it to be a strip of light across her bare legs, stretched wide and cuffed to the floor. It worked its way up her thighs, to her hips and belly. It glinted against the clips that held her nipples in painful subjugation. Towards evening, it warmed her arms all the way up to the handcuffs attached to the hook on the wall above her head. If the sunlight noticed the blindfold, the gag, or the way her head rolled slightly on her shoulders, it said nothing at all.

She'd felt two cycles of sunlight caressing her body already, with no food or bathroom breaks, and only infrequent sips of water from Michael. She hung there like an obscene work of modern art, quietly enduring this latest of tests. She passed some of the time thinking of Billie, mentally reorganizing his drag room to make it more efficient. But then her mind would inevitably go to the last time they spoke, how worried he'd looked, how he kept mentioning that she was losing weight, how he'd asked her to stop spending so much time at Michael's place. But then everything would start to hurt again, so she stopped thinking about Billie.

Mostly she concentrated. Concentrated on controlling her body, on controlling her thoughts. She concentrated on the fabric of the blindfold, how it smelled musty, as if it had spent too much time at the bottom of a pile in the closet. She concentrated on the warm metal around her wrists and her hands. She imagined them to be golden bracelets, keeping her body safe from ill-intentioned suitors until the prince came to claim her body for his own pleasures.

Once and a while her mind would go back to Hogwarts, to the scent of lavender and the crack of the bat against a Quaffle. To the humming noise the Snitch made as it wafted around her head. She tried to remember the last time she'd used magic for anything at all. Michael was a Muggle. Michael mustn't know. Mustn't ever know she had powers of any kind.

A spasm hit her ribcage on the lower left side, and a cry escaped her. She needn't have worried though. By the strip of light clock, Michael had been gone from the lower calf to the upper thigh, and she doubted he had any intention of being home soon.

It was pitch dark when she heard the door to the front door slam open. Nighttime was the worst. There was no strip of light to gauge the time at night, and the car horns and neon pulses turned things ugly and frightening from her perch near the window. Instead of Michael's normal sounds, though, she heard laughter. Women's laughter. One lower pitched, the other mid-range. She smelled the sort of perfume you buy at the drug store when you're getting prescriptions filled for some nasty infection you'd rather not have the neighbors know about. There was whispering. There was shhh-ing. There was the sound of the bedroom door opening, followed by a moment of silence.

They had to see her, she thought. Two women, no matter how drunk or drugged or aroused, had to see her there. She heard a sound she knew so well, the blanket being tugged off the bed. The sound of bodies on the old mattress, the strain of that one particular spring, moans, so many moans she couldn't bear it. Of pleasure. Moans of pleasure in that bed which had become her own personal torture chamber.

Her mind raced. Silently, without a sound Michael could hear, her mind raced. She mounted a broom and flared up after the Snitch. She huddled in the villa, Tony's arms around her as bombs fell from the Allied attack. Billie, darling Billie, angry and hurt that she'd missed his birthday. And lavender. Lavender bloomed everywhere, suffocating her, choking her with its heavenly, overpowering scent.

The handcuffs bit into her wrists like acid. Tears scalded her, leaving hideous scars down her cheek no make-up would ever conceal. She saw herself, saw her own image in her mind's eye. Gryffindor's pride, naked and chained to a wall while two floozies fucked her lover in the same room.

A Griffin appeared before her, snarling and giant as it lifted its talons to claw her eyes out, to rip her throat to shreds, to pull the very heart from her. Please kill me, she begged the Griffin without a word.

Dark.

Silence.

A strip of sunlight at her toes.

Morning.

She couldn't quite balance as Michael released the handcuffs, lowering her to the floor at his feet while undoing the rest of her bonds. She didn't lift her hands to remove the blindfold or gag. That was against the rules.

She waited. He'd faced her to the window. So much light hurt her eyes when he removed the blindfold. Her mouth was like cotton as he removed the gag and handed her a glass of lukewarm water. She sipped it slowly, holding it in both hands as a little child would hold a bottle. She handed it back to Michael when she was done, her eyes never leaving his shoes as he stood above her.

He lifted her chin, forcing her to look into his face. He looked both rested and sated. "Wash the sheets," was all he said.

***

Urgent Owl

December 3, 1951

Professor Albus Dumbledore

Hogwarts Academy of Wizardry and Witchcraft

Professor,

You do not know me, but I am in dire need of your help. Please come to Apartment 17B, the Amsterdam Plush Estates, Greenwich Village, New York. I have reason to believe my wife, a former student of yours, is in grave danger. I do not know where else to turn. Professor, you are my last hope.

William Peterson

Husband to the former Minerva McGonagall

***

New York City, December, 1951

She watched him with dull eyes as he prepared the table. Michael loved in knifeplay. He thought that the release of blood stimulated the sex drive, and Minerva bore the scars to prove it. She never healed them. A Muggle wouldn't have healed, so she left them alone.

It was dark outside, even darker than usual for this part of town. A snowstorm had hit this afternoon, turning the world gray and dirty and wet. The sounds on the street were muted at best. Raunchy music from the bar across the road. An occasional swearing voice in a language she vaguely remembered knowing.

She lay there impassively as Michael traced the tip of the knife against her skin, following the curves of her legs to her inner thigh. He loved to cut her there. It got him very hard.

She knew she was in for a long night when he took her so soon. If he paced himself, he intended to come once then go to sleep. If he went for immediate satisfaction, then he intended to play, then rest, then play some more.

She kept her breathing steady as he lay atop her, moaning in satisfaction. He still clutched the knife in his hand, caressing it the way a normal man would have caressed a woman's breast. Eyes forward, she reminded herself silently. No facial reaction. Don't make him angry.

He was already moving the knife to her belly. He pushed harder than usual, cutting her a little more deeply. The pain was unbelievable, but she held herself still. When he began to trace a light circle around her areola, however, she panicked. Just enough physical motion to get his attention, to anger him. The blade nicked her nipple and she groaned in agony.

"Hogwarts," she cried out.

Michael was livid. "What did you say?" he demanded.

She wanted to shut up, to remain silent, but her lips kept forming the word "Hogwarts," and her lungs kept pouring breath into the syllable. She repeated it over and over, unable to stop herself as Michael grew more furious with each repetition.

"Shut up," he said. Of course, Michael knew nothing of Hogwarts. It was a nonsense word, a bit of madness his slave had created in her own demented mind. "Shut up!"

She stared at him. The word took on a life of its own. "Hogwarts," she repeated, the word becoming a battle cry in her ragged consciousness. She ignored the pain as his hand slammed across her face. "Hogwarts," she prayed. "Hogwarts," she cursed as the blade nicked her shoulder, as the edge pressed threateningly against her throat.

When the cut came, however, the sound out of her mouth was no longer human. It was a hiss, a spitting feline cry. Her claws extended, her fur bristled as her body transfigured of its own accord.

Michael fell back in horror as fur and fangs and claws leapt straight for his eyes. The knife clattered uselessly across the floor as he struggled to remove the feral animal from him.

She reveled in the feel of claw in flesh, in the delicious way her fangs sunk into his shoulders, in the smell of fear and panic everywhere. She felt the cold air ruffling her fur as he stumbled toward the fire escape. The sound of the door slamming open was so clear, his screams of anguish so fresh to her feline hearing. His fingers dug into her lithe body, that smooth flexible body that wriggled and clawed and thwarted his every attempt at removal.

She marveled in the feel of the wind in her fur as their bodies tumbled over the fire escape. When they hit, she landed atop him. She stayed there a long moment after the fall, sniffing at his body. Dead smelled interesting.

***

To a passerby on the street, it might have appeared another deserted alley. To a person hurrying home, pulling their coat collar high against the cold and the wet, it might have appeared to be nothing at all.

But to a bum, sitting out a weekend bender in the warmth of a garbage can fire, it might have appeared that a figure in tall pointed hat, with a long beard and flowing robes, flashed into the alley as if from nowhere. And it might have appeared to that same bum, had he turned his gaze even momentarily from the warmth of the flame, that the same mysterious figure in the pointed hat reached down to pick up a wounded alley cat. He might have seen the figure stroke the cat, comfort it. And had he looked closely, even with his drunken eyes, he might have sworn the cat became an unconscious young woman, naked and shivering, but held safely in the arms of the mysterious figure. And if he'd seen all of this, only to have the couple vanish in a flash of odd light, he might have reconsidered his choice of alcohol the next time he was in the money.

***

She dreamed she was back in the cradle, her mother's voice warm and comforting as she sang about her work. She dreamed she was back in Quin, far enough inland that the smell of salt water on the air seemed odd. Her mother was holding her, feeding her and dressing her wounds. She felt so safe.

***

The Faerie Queen, December, 1951

She knew she was on the ocean before she opened her eyes. Somehow, it didn't confuse her. She cracked open her eyes, looked up into the blurry sunlight, and saw Albus Dumbledore seated at the desk of the stateroom. She didn't bother to ask how she'd gotten there. If she'd died, a stateroom on an ocean voyage with Professor Dumbledore was a much better afterlife than she'd dared hope for.

"Professor," she croaked. Her voice was raw and out of practice.

He moved swiftly to her side, a look of concern on his weathered face. "Ah. You're awake."

"Did I die?" she asked.

"No," he said, a twinkle lightening his eyes. "I believe you still have eight lives to go."

She nodded slowly, not really comprehending. "Good," she yawned as she drifted back to sleep.

***

Paws ahead. Don't think. Feel. Sense.

Muscles sinewy. Stretch. Lean on haunches. Contract. Pull forward. Jump. Jump.

Fly. Wind. Fur. Joy. Free.

Land. Skid. Crash. Hurt.

She was still shaking her head as she transfigured back to her natural form next to Dumbledore, who sat calmly on the perch above the main deck. "You need to work on your landings, child," he said.

She brushed her hair with the back of her hand, realizing only after seeing Dumbledore's knowing smile that she was grooming herself. Quickly folding her hands across her lap, she stared out at the ocean. "I haven't been a child in years," she responded plainly.

"Ah, it is true. How quickly the years rob us of that joyous spring!"

"You know it's true, Albus." She used his name hesitantly. He had insisted she address him as such, and considering she owed him her life, it seemed rude to disagree. "My transfigurations are getting better, but coming back is still difficult."

"It is difficult to return to human form after the mental and physical freedom afforded by our animal shapes. But you will adjust."

She leaned on her knee, watching a school of fish frolic in the icy waters below. They'd been aboard the Faerie Queen for three days, and she was beginning to appreciate the wisdom of Dumbledore's decision not to use portkeys and apparation to cross the Atlantic back to Britain. The sea air was comforting, cold and biting, but still comforting. And this time alone with Dumbledore was better than any healing she could have gotten in hospital.

"Do you think Billie is okay?" She bit her lower lip, watching the water roll over and over on itself. "I feel terrible about leaving without saying goodbye."

"You were in no condition for visitors, my dear. And I assure you, Mr. Peterson knows you're safe. It was he who summoned me to New York. A fine young man, that is true."

She bit harder, allowing the pain in her lip to distract her, not wanting to ask the question that had been bothering her for days. "Professor? What about Michael? What did you tell him?" She kept her eyes low, not sure if she wanted the answer.

Dumbledore's face softened. Those wizened eyes, set deep in creased hollows, seemed to see far beyond the range of normal vision. He remained silent for a long time. When he did spoke, it was in hushed tones, his hand holding hers gently. "There was nothing to tell the young man, Minerva, my dear. He was most deceased by the time I found you shivering in that alley."

The knot in her stomach exploded as a wave of panic engulfed her. "I..." She struggled for breath, to calm the vertigo that threatened her. The ocean suddenly seemed so far below them, the perch too tiny and fragile a support for two adult bodies. The cold sea air seemed suddenly frozen, each spray of seawater icy needles piercing her skin. She clutched Dumbledore's arm with shaking hands. "I killed him?"

He pulled her into a protective embrace, steadying her with his strong silent presence. Slowly, the violent spasms of fear eased into shakes, then shivers, then just plain trembling. "The Muggle authorities ruled it a freak accident. Apparently, he was attacked by a feral cat and fell from his fire escape."

Her voice was low and scratchy. "And the Wizard authorities?" she asked solemnly, unable to look into those eyes.

"I accompanied the American representative from the Department of Muggle Interaction on her investigation of the scene," Dumbledore said without any trace of shock or judgment in his voice. "Considering there was no trace of magical usage in the vicinity--aside, of course, from the animagical transfiguration that allowed you to escape, and considering that it was obvious from the..." He paused.

They both knew what he was talking about. They would have found the room just as she'd left it. She thought of the tray Michael had prepared, of the cuffs probably still dangling from the bedposts behind the yellow police tape. She thought of the cuts they would have found on her body, the specific placement of those cuts. Shame burned much more painfully than knife wounds, she discovered.

"Either way, while you may have entered willingly, you most definitely did not remain willingly. The Wizard authorities deemed it self-defense. Given these circumstances, a formal hearing was waived due to your intense physical and psychological injuries, and you were released into my custody."

"A man is dead, and I got off completely unscathed," she said without relief.

Dumbledore took her chin in his hand, gazing soberly into her eyes. "Unscathed is hardly a word I'd choose to describe your current condition."

She slid away from his grasp, locking her knees in her arms, resting her chin against the fabric of her heavy skirt. "I suppose I've been sacked?"

"Most definitely sacked. You showed tremendously bad judgment."

"And now, released into the custody of the only sensible authority figure who'll have anything to do with me, I'm being dragged back to England with my tail tucked between my legs, a picture of shame to frighten the children."

"Not England," the old wizard corrected, "Ireland."

"Ireland?" Her stomach suddenly felt as liquid and roiling as the sea below. "Ireland?"

"You are in no condition to be left on your own, and I do not think it a good idea to take you back to Hogwarts in this condition."

"Ireland?" she asked weakly. "Dublin?" she suggested hopefully.

"I'm to release you into the custody of your family until you have been deemed healthy enough to stay on your own."

Minerva gave him a helpless look, then looked down at the icy waters below. "Push me in. Please?"

"Oh, I don't think that would be a very good idea." He patted her head. "These things have a way of working out for the best, child."

"Trip me? I could fall in on my own."

The expression in his face was as humorless as she'd ever seen Dumbledore look. "I hardly think this is a joking matter, Miss McGonagall."

She met him with an equally humorless response. "I'm not joking, Professor. I don't know if I can bear to go there. My mother has not..."

"Your mother has been contacted and is anxiously awaiting your arrival." He looked over the tops of his glasses with that piercing gaze usually reserved for detention students. "Now you can waste what little time you have panicking, or you can try to pull yourself together." He then did something she'd never have expected in a million years. He kissed her cheek, gently, in a most fatherly way. "I suggest the latter." And with a flash of his wand, he was gone.

She sat there for a long moment, seriously contemplating the depths of the icy Atlantic as an alternative to facing her family in this condition. But Dumbledore was right. She'd been lucky, seriously lucky, and if she were going to survive the reunion with her family, she'd better be prepared. Stretching, she transfigured herself back to the sleek gray tabby and scrambled down the perch to the deck and back to her stateroom. She had an owl to write.

***

Letters Across the Atlantic, Part One

Mr. Billie Peterson

Apt. 17B, Amsterdam Posh Estates

Greenwich Village, New York, NY

My most darling Billie,

I write this to you with Christmas only days away. How it aches to be away from you, to know that you are alone this holiday. I cannot begin to express my sorrow, and my shame, at how I treated you. In all my life, I have never had a friend truer than you. I know now that it was you who saved me, yet I cannot even be near you, to hold you and thank you the way you deserve to be thanked.

Dumbledore is taking me to Ireland, where the prodigal child shall be thrust back into the unwelcoming bosom of her family. He has obviously pulled numerous strings to keep me from, at worst, going to jail, and at best, scandalizing my entire family. I suppose it is for the best. I have made a shambles of my life, and perhaps being under the thumb of those older and wiser shall force me back onto the straight and narrow path.

But Billie, oh my beloved Billie, how I shall miss you! Please know that I love you, truly love you, and will forever be indebted to you for the love you've shown me. Please try to remember me as your pussycat, and not the pathetic wraith I have created from the darkness of my own damaged soul.

Kiss Roger and the girls for me. I know you can make them forgive me, whether I deserve it or not. The gods and goddesses know I shall never forgive myself.

Hold yourself tightly, Billie, wrap yourself in my warmest blanket, and feel my arms around you this Christmas. You are in my thoughts and dreams, darling boy.

Your Minerva

To be continued in True Nature - Ireland