Impromptu
The first in an irregular series of stories.
By Crow and Lillith Janvier
Disclaimer: No infringement or disrespect to JK Rowling and her universe. NC-17 rating for consensual sex between adults.
Paris, 1961
Minerva absently trailed a hand along the bookshelf in front of her, fingering the rough leather tomes of varying shapes and sizes. She wasn't really focused on the titles in front of her. After spending hours in the Saint Vincent's Library looking for background material for the paper she would present to the Confederated Conference of Transfiguration and Animagi Scholars, the last thing she needed to be doing was to be spending time in this shop, looking at books of all things.
And yet, when Minerva McGonagall had left the library, forsaking its artificial warmth for the chilly twilight air of Paris, she'd found her feet leading her to the Place des Vosges and then to this shop, Mythes et Légendes. She told herself she was looking for respite from the damp cold outside, spending a little time on the town—as Albus would surely wish her to do—before returning to her quiet room at the Hôtel du Nestle. And this was true.
Still her gaze frequently traveled to the front of the store, past the wide window and across the street to a row of red brick buildings with cream stone accents. She focused on number dix-sept, in particular, studying its oak front door that refused to open in spite of her inquisitive stare. I wonder…
Then suddenly she knew. With a small smile she turned around and faced the tall, thin man suddenly standing behind her, taking in his dark, short-cropped hair, his perpetual two-day growth of beard that covered a scarred, angular face. He hadn't changed much, if any, in the years since she'd last seen him.
“Hello, Hubert,” she greeted.
“Madame.” His face remained impassive, but his eyes crinkled as they smiled at her.
“Where is Avice?”
“La Duchesse is at the Château. The grapes are being bottled, and she likes to supervise.”
“You're not with her?” asked Minerva. She had always thought Hubert and Avice were attached at the hip.
“I have been told that I am too much under foot,” he answered. “She is more stable than the last time.”
“Ah.”
“She was very happy to receive the birth announcement. Has the boy been named yet?”
“Yes, I believe his name is Severus Christophe Quintus Snape,” said Minerva.
“A worthy name, Avice will be pleased that she has a name-sake now.”
Minerva smiled.
“Madame, far be it for me to presume, but what are you doing here in Paris?”
“Research, I'm on a sabbatical,” she said. “Albus decided I needed a rest. He's the new headmaster at Hogwarts now.”
Hubert's face took a turn for the even more impassive at the mention of Dumbledore's name and new position.
Minerva's sharp eyes didn't miss the change. “Hmph, don't tell me you still hold a grudge against Albus? He tried to kill Avice under orders from the Ministry. The two of them are fast friends now.”
“Certainly.”
“So it seems rather pointless for you to continue participating in this…this testosterone-driven vendetta of yours.”
“As you say.” Minerva was sure she caught something close to glee in the man's eyes as he answered her. “Be sure to send my warmest regards to Albus. I would not want him to think I have forgotten him.”
“Indeed. As if either of you would be able to forget such foolishness.” Suddenly Minerva didn't know what to say, and she felt at a loss as how to proceed. What in the world was I thinking, coming here? Her uncertainly made her grouchy. “As much I as enjoy standing here in the middle of a store chatting with you, Hubert, I haven't eaten all day. Perhaps you could recommend a place nearby where I could grab a bite to eat?”
“But of course, Madame. We can go across the Place. I will cook for you.”
Minerva shook her head. “No, I don't want to be a bother.”
“You could never be a bother, I assure you. It's what I do.”
“But I am not Avice. You don't have to wait on me.”
“I am merely suggesting that, at this time of night, the best meal can be had at the appartement.” He reached out and took her hand. “I would be honored if you would let me cook for you.”
Minerva was surprised at the quickness of his move. She felt her slender hand enveloped by his hand, calloused by work, strong and warm. Her breath caught but she managed a gracious smile. “If you insist, lead the way.”
Hubert gave a small smile, and taking her elbow he led her out of the store and across the Place to the apartment. He paused, however, before the door, and looked down the Rue de Birague to the market.
“I ask your indulgence,” he said and gestured in the market's direction. “We need to go shopping.” At Minerva's nod, he led her off to the market where she followed behind, carrying the various packages that he bought from venders shouting incomprehensible argot. At one point, Minerva thought she could make out, “poule, poule see-fran,” but that faded into “huit, huit, dix douzzz.” She watched amused when Hubert would stop and examine the wares of one vender only to be cajoled to another stand whilst the spurned vender wept melodramatically.
Finally, after buying black olives in pungent brine, Hubert led the way back to numero dix-sept. He unlocked the wards and gestured Minerva into the black and white tiled foyer.
“You've painted the walls,” she commented. The blue was a bright cerulean and leant a cheerful jolt of color to the hallway.
“Yes, Avice has finally started making this a home,” replied Hubert. “She was left quite disconsolate after the war and then there was the business with Dumbledore. Your letter about her surviving niece cheered her considerably.”
“It must have been hard to think she was the only surviving member of her family,” remarked Minerva, as she followed him into the kitchen. “I see you've acquired a new stove. Purple?”
“Yes, yes,” said Hubert. He lifted the heavy burner covers on the purple enameled La Cornue stove. “Paris has been improving the domestic gas lines; we naturally took advantage of the modernization. Ours, however, runs on magic.” He waved his wand and a blue fire appeared in the belly of the beast-like stove, heating the appliance and room with cozy warmth.
Minerva settled down at the wide oak table and watched him. Hubert moved around the kitchen with fluid grace and unerring knowledge of what he was doing. Within a few moments, he had started cooking a baked chicken stuffed with lemons and black olives, with risotto and steamed haricorts verts topped with almonds serving as side dishes.
Murmuring a spell to keep a wooden spoon stirring the risotto, he pulled down two white china plates and put them on opposite sides of the table.
“May I help?” Minerva asked, feeling out of place and vaguely uncomfortable with her surroundings.
“No, Madame, I am fine.” He continued setting the table with the china, linen napkins, silver wear, and intricately cut crystal goblets.
“Minerva,” she corrected. He looked at his guest, raising an eyebrow in question, or challenge. “At least call me Minerva,” she ordered, raising her eyebrow in return, unsure where this was leading but determined not to be undone.
“Minerva, then,” he agreed with a small smile, going back to his work.
“Excuse me for a moment…Minerva,” he said, leaving the kitchen and returning a few moments later with two bottles of wine. Minerva raised her eyebrow again, but said nothing. Avice's family was well known for—among other things—the incredible wine they produced. This night might prove to be a treat indeed. While they waited for the chicken to bake and the risotto to finish cooking, Hubert and Minerva sat down to enjoy huîtres au gratin.
“These are heavenly,” Minerva sighed, resisting the urge to lick the salty juices off her fingers. Hubert smiled and turned to pull the chicken out of the stove. He plated the food while Minerva moved to open the wine, the least she could do to help, she figured. Then two old adversaries, now turned friends, sat down across from one another. Minerva deeply inhaled the fragrances wafting up from the plate in front of her, her stomach rumbling in anticipation.
“Wait,” she said, as Hubert reached for his knife and fork. “We're missing something.” He watched as she stood up and pulled down a glass from the cabinets, placing it on the table in front of them. Silently she pulled her wand from the sleeve of her robe. “Corollariate,” she commanded, transfiguring the cup into a small glass bowl overflowing with African violets. “That's better,” she said with a smile, insanely pleased with her gesture.
Hubert nodded his head in agreement and the two of them settled down to eat.
“Tell me, Minerva,” he asked, “what are you doing in Paris during term time?”
“Albus has given me a sabbatical to work on a presentation and article for the Confederated Conference of Transfiguration and Animagi Scholars,” Minerva replied. “He thinks I need a break from teaching the halfwits.”
Hubert raised his eyebrows. “I must admit,” he said, “if I may be so bold, I've pictured you as many things, but never as a teacher.”
“Yes, well, that where we were all shuttled after Grindelwald's defeat.”
“Indeed.”
“The Ministry isn't comfortable having constant reminders of its moral flexibility in constant view.”
“The joys of bureaucrats. What are you researching?”
“Are you familiar with Balzac's La recherché de l'absolu?”
“That's the one about alchemy, isn't it?”
“Yes. There's a brief mention of a transfiguration ritual in the story. I've traced it to Heinrich Agrippa.”
“The physician to Catherine de Medici?”
“Yes,” confirmed Minerva. “I'm having a hard time pinning the ritual down. Agrippa was more of a Potions master than a charms or spells expert.”
“Perhaps the ritual is really part of creating a potion?”
“I don't think so.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” replied Minerva. “You see, many of the modern spelled or charmed transfigurations that use a wand required a ritual in the Middle Ages or Renaissance. I'm trying to theorize why magic changed, and why the ritual is no longer required.”
Hubert gave her a strange, appraising look. Minerva, who never squirmed, found it hard not to twist a little in her seat, her face flushing slightly under the scrutiny.
“What?” she finally demanded, putting down her fork harder than she planned, sending a flat clink echoing through the kitchen as silver hit china.
“What do you mean?” he asked innocently.
“What are you staring at?”
He gave her a small smile. “I wasn't aware that I was staring. My apologies. I was just trying to figure out what type of woman you are.”
Minerva smiled back, delighted in the sudden turn in the conversation. She took a long, slow sip of wine and looked at him coolly. “I don't believe I'm that much of a mystery. What's so hard to understand?”
“Oh, you have many hidden layers, Minerva. A man could take many years to uncover all of them.”
“Pray tell,” she challenged, forcing herself to breathe.
“I see before me,” he started, putting down his cutlery with a light touch, “a beautiful, intelligent, powerful witch, extremely self-confident, full of legendary Gryffindor bravery and decisiveness. You know what you want out of life, and yet you allow yourself to be cloistered away in a magical school in Scotland, teaching a bunch of children who aren't capable of truly understanding what you have to offer them. You allow yourself to be sent on sabbatical, chasing old legends, trying to decipher ancient riddles when you are a woman very concerned with the present.”
Minerva shrugged. “Who's to say that deciphering the riddles of the past won't solve our problems in the future?”
Hubert, however, just raised an eyebrow.
“Fine, even I couldn't believe I said it,” she groused. Minerva looked down at her plate and pushed the remains of her dinner around the painted china. She chewed her lip. “Actually, the sabbatical has another reason.” She looked across the table, but Hubert looked only attentive, not judgmental. “Albus proposed to me.”
“I see.”
“I didn't accept,” she continued.
“Ah,” he said.
“He worships the ground I walk on, but,” she shrugged and continued, “I don't need to be worshipped.”
“Perhaps, Minerva, it is that you do not worship back?”
She felt as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She raised her head; the fire was back in her eyes.
“Exactly,” she affirmed. “Albus is a dear, but he's so devoted to his causes, to the school, to the idiots in the Ministry…me. I can't return the emotion. The thought of being the object of devotion is…is…awful, just awful.”
Hubert nodded.
“You probably think I'm crazy for turning down such an offer,” she said. “My parents were livid.”
“Not at all,” replied Hubert. He rose to clear the dishes and set them to wash themselves in the sink. “You forget to whom I am in service. La Duchesse has received many such offers, but she prefers to remain unattached.”
“But it's not that I just want to remain unattached. Albus and I are friends,” she stopped, trying to carefully pick her words. “Good friends. I don't know what I would do if I lost his friendship.”
“But why would you lose it?”
“I turned down his marriage proposal. A marriage proposal any witch…other than La Duchesse,” she added, with a grin, “would accept in a heart beat. How could he forgive that? How can we go back to being friends after that, or…”
Hubert raised an eyebrow. “Being more than friends?” he asked. Minerva nodded, not meeting his eyes, and suddenly studying the wood grain on the table intently.
“Minerva, you must understand what attracted Albus to you in the first place—your intelligence, your fierce determination to be your own woman. If Albus really loves you, he'll realize why you told him no. And if he holds you dear, then he'll accept you back and count himself very lucky indeed.” Minerva looked up, tears in her eyes. She hated when she became emotional like this.
“Then why did he send me away on this blasted sabbatical?” she demanded, suddenly angry.
“Far be it from me to fathom the mind of Albus Dumbledore, but I would think he's giving you time to figure out what you want. If a life as Albus' wife isn't to your liking, then what is? What does Minerva McGonagall want—not what the Ministry wants, or what your parents want, or even what Albus wants. What do you want?”
“You're talking to me like I'm some sort of silly school girl,” she sniffed.
“No, I'm talking to you as a friend. And while it pains me to defend Albus, I must admit, he's done you a great service, giving you this space when he's the one with the most to lose.”
Minerva snorted. “Lose? He's already lost. I didn't accept his proposal.”
Hubert shook his head gravely. “No, my dear. He's not lost you, but he's waiting to see if you will come back to him when all is said and done.” Minerva sat quietly for a few moments, mind racing. She took a deep swallow of her wine and looked at the gentleman in front of her. What did she want? Those were matters that would not be decided tonight, but there were other things they could discuss. She smiled and leaned forward over the table.
“So, we've discovered that Avice wishes to remain unattached, Albus wants me as a wife, but might be willing to keep me as a companion, and we can't ascertain what I want. But, tell me, Hubert, what do you want out of life?”
Hubert looked steadily at Minerva for a long moment.
“Shall we retire to more comfortable environs?” he asked. “I have a cognac that you will find a quite agreeable companion to the tarte tatin.”
“Very well, but don't think you've escaped my question.”
“I would not dream of it,” replied Hubert with a smile. Minerva thought he looked like the cat that swallowed the canary, and she should know.
Scant seconds later, the impromptu couple ensconced on the sofa in Hubert's parlor. Minerva snuggled even further into the comfortable settee in front of the fire, a palm warmed glass of cognac balanced in her left hand. She gazed lazily around the room and decided she liked the dark paneling and comfortable furniture. She was surprised at the books that held court next to an alarming display of weaponry.
She turned her attention to the man watching her with faint amusement in his expression.
“You never answered my question.”
“No, I did not,” he replied. “I have what I want out of life. I am here to protect and serve la Duchesse. What more is there?”
Minerva snorted. “Somehow I don't believe that sentiment from a man like you.”
Hubert raised his eyebrow. “A man like me? Pray tell, what type of man am I?”
Minerva placed her glass on a table next to her end of the sofa, stood up and gracefully walked to the wall, trailing her hands on the gleaming steel blades, caressing the cool steel. She could feel his eyes on her, a sensation she discovered she liked. She turned her attention the blades—Toledo steel, French foils, even a Scottish claymore. The swords were beautiful and deadly, battle-ready, and sharp to the touch. Minerva pulled down the foil, testing its weight in her hands. Not what she'd normally carry, but it would do to make her point.
“You, dear Hubert, are a man of contradictions.” She walked back to sofa, watched the man who lounged there through heavy lidded eyes. “A man of refined taste in food, books, furnishings, a master chef and weapons master. You would not settle for a life of service.”
Hubert shook his head. “It's not settling. It's my raison d'être. It's who I am.”
Minerva let the rapier's tip drop to her side. “And what happens when Avice isn't la Duchesse anymore?”
Hubert shrugged. “If the title is passed to someone else, then she and I will be able to retire to someplace secluded and quiet.” At Minerva's skeptical expression, he added, “Or, perhaps we'll retire to as quiet an existence as Avice can muster.”
“And if she dies?”
“Then I die as well, and another Hubert will arrive to serve the new Duchesse.”
Minerva was shocked. “How can you say that so blithely?” she demanded.
“It's not blithely. None of us know how much time we have on this earth.”
“But none of us blindly tie our fate to another human being, either.”
“Really? Will you not fight by Albus' side against the dark, even if it means your death?”
“That's different. I made a choice to stand by Albus.”
“And I make choices in my life as well. My choices make me who I am: the books I read,” he gestured around the room, “the trappings I acquire.” He stood up quickly and continued. “The company I keep, the women I love…” He started to move toward Minerva, stopping abruptly when she pointed the rapier at him, the blade arcing up with a swoosh. He stopped with the blade just resting on his chest.
“Stop right there,” she said. “If we are talking about choices here, I have choices too.”
His mouth curved in a slow smile. He touched the tip of the blade and slowly pushed it out of his way. “Mais oui, you do have choices. But let me try to influence your decision.” And before Minerva could protest, he pulled her to him, his hand grabbing the back of her neck, long fingers snaking into her tight bun. His lips came down to meet hers; his tongue moving against her lips searching for an entrance. The shock—and the electric current that coursed through her lips and down to her belly—caused Minerva to gasp, opening her mouth to his assault. She closed her eyes and leaned into him returning his kiss with a matching fervor. What was she doing?
He pulled back his head, and Minerva saw the dark desire in his eyes. “It's your move, Minerva.”
She stood there for a moment, her eyes glassy, the epee dangling from loose fingers. Her sight focused on the taller man, who watched and waited, a gentle turn to his lips the only indication of their brief kiss.
“I can't promise you anything,” she finally said.
“I am not asking for anything.”
Minerva turned and put the sword back into its place on the wall. Then facing him again, she reached her arms up to the tightly coiled hair at the nape of her neck.
“Arrête,” Hubert murmured. “Laisse-moi.” He moved closer and Minerva felt the combs release her heavy mass of ebony hair. Hubert's fingers combed through her tresses and massaged her scalp whilst she stretched feline-like into the caress. She smiled when Hubert's hands followed the curled strands laying over her should to start on the buttons of her linen blouse.
“Your hair is intoxicating, so soft, like silk,” he said, and bent his head to trail kisses along her jaw.
Minerva moaned deep in her throat. She felt his fingers nimbly unbutton her shirt and gasped as the cool air in the room hit her stomach. She wasn't cold for long. Hubert's long hands slid over her skin and up to cup each breast, smoothing over her rose-colored lace bra, teasing her nipples, pinching one then the other. Minerva gasped and squirmed in pleasure. She found it very hard to breathe, and think.
Hubert's hands found the front clasp of her bra and unhooked it in one swift motion. Suddenly, with one brief movement, she pushed him away, leaving him open mouthed and breathing heavily. She watched as his eyes roamed over her body, taking in her long black hair, staring hungrily at the fullness of her breasts that were still teasingly covered by her bra, before they moved up to meet her own eyes. Minerva felt powerful and in charge. She liked the feeling.
“Not so fast,” she murmured, surprised at the huskiness of her voice. She allowed a slow, wicked smile to cross her features. “This game is too much…fun…to rush.” She moved a few steps to the side, watching as he mimicked her movements, cat and mouse. She clasped her hands behind her back, feeling her unhooked bra pull and stretch, exposing even more flesh to Hubert's hungry eyes.
“I told you I have choices too,” she continued.
Hubert gave a brisk nod, unable to take his eyes off her. “Yes,” he growled. The sound sent shivers down Minerva's spine.
“And I choose to be in charge of this game. If you think you are man enough to play with me, that is.” She watched as something dark filled his eyes and a dangerous smile crossed his features. He bowed his head to her.
“I am yours,” he said. “Let us begin.”
A rush of powerful pleasure shot up Minerva's spine to fizz and pop in her brain. Her eyes met those of Hubert and she smiled a leisurely, feline expression that showed her teeth.
Where to start?
She reached out to cup Hubert's stubble roughened cheek in one hand. He turned his head to nuzzle and nip at the fleshy part of her palm. The small pain sent sharp sparks up her arm into her belly. She inhaled quickly and moved closer raising her other arm to the fastenings at the neck of Hubert's heavy wool tunic. Her fingers lingered, fidgeting, before she nodded and started on the ties.
She fumbled with the leather fastening when she felt Hubert's fingers brush her belly before sliding around to spread against her back, pulling her lower body closer to his. His head bent, and he brushed her ear with his lips. His hot breath blew across the skin of her neck to send even more sensation to compete with the feeling of his hand rubbing circles at the small of her back.
“You seem to be having difficulties,” Hubert whispered into her ear.
“You're distracting me,” Minerva replied with some asperity.
“Ah, I do apologize,” he breathed into her ear while his teeth worried the lobe. “I can stop if you like.”
“No, please…” The rest was lost in a kiss.
Minerva closed her eyes and opened her mouth to his advances, her tongue darting out to meet his. With a shuddering breath she broke this kiss, pulling back with a sly smile, shaking her head as he pursued her escaping mouth with his own. “No,” she whispered.
She felt the heat of his gaze on her face, felt the way his breathing was becoming more ragged and forced. She smiled again and forced herself to concentrate on the ties of his tunic once again. This time her fingers cooperated. She loosened the cords and the heavy fabric fell open, exposing his broad chest.
“That's better,” she murmured, slipping her hands under the tunic and pushing it off his shoulders to the floor behind him. Hubert remained perfectly still, waiting for her cue. She slid her hands up his stomach, feeling his lean muscles flutter under her caress, before moving to his chest, delighting in the feel of his hot skin under her hands. Her hands moved to grasp the nape of his neck, suddenly pulling his face down. She caught his bottom lip with her teeth, biting lightly and pulling on the lip before taking his mouth again. This time it was her mouth that ate hungrily at his, her tongue demanding, darting, searching. She heard him moan against her mouth and then she pushed him away.
She smiled at the growl that escaped his lips as she turned around and walked over to the bookcases, pausing for a moment to feel the heat from the fire caress her already over-heated body.
“Minerva?” he whispered behind her. She looked up, back still to him, and slid her shirt and bra off her shoulders. It was the cue he needed. With a swift, silent movement, Hubert was across the room, pushing her roughly against the bookcases, his body long and lean against her.
“No more games,” he growled.
She shook her head. “No more games.”
“Deshabillons,” and an encompassing wave of his hand dispensed with their clothing. Minerva ran her hands over wide shoulders, pausing to appreciate the strength in his arms. Her hand glided around his waist and slid up the hair-roughened chest.
Hubert let out a rumbling noise that sounded like a purr. Encouraged, Minerva stepped away from the shelves and ran her hand down his chest towards his groin. She slowed her pace and lightly dragged her fingernails around his waist, her wrist brushing lightly against the smooth head of his erect penis. Minerva savored the stockier and stronger build of Hubert. He was all muscle and controlled brawn, a man who worked with weaponry. By contrast, Albus was lithe with whipcord strength, a man who worked more with his head and intellect. Her eyes feasted on the strong thighs and wide feet. Her mind imagining what his weight would feel like as it settled over and around her.
Then her gaze latched on to Hubert's erection. Like the rest of his body, it was thick and sturdy, not as long as Albus, but wider and more substantial.
Minerva started to sink to her knees, wanting to taste him, to caress that hard length with her lips and tongue, but Hubert caught her shoulders.
“Non, this is not about me, this is for you.” With those words, he pressed her back against the shelves and covered her mouth with his.
Minerva's head spun as Hubert's tongue slipped past her lips to delve into her mouth.
His hands were smoothing up her sides and over her belly. She was frustrated with his fingers barely brushing her breasts or faintly slipping between her legs. The light touches were making her squirm, arching her chest towards one hand, spreading her legs to allow further access. Her movements were for naught, as Hubert ran his hands down one arm to draw it out from her side. He wrapped the fingers of her hand around the shelf. Running his hand down the other hard, he treated it to the same caress.
“Hold on,” he growled. “Venez le verre.” One of the forgotten glasses of cognac floated into his hand.
“You know that cognac obtains its true depth of flavors after being warmed, and the best source of warmth is that of its drinker,” he said and swirled the snifter of amber liquid.
The heady fumes rose to her nose where they intensified the drunken arousal already thrumming through her blood.
Minerva gripped the bookshelves whilst Hubert dipped his fingers in the alcohol and traced her lips with them. Then, he leaned in for another kiss. He traced her jaw with the brandy and lapped a wet line down her neck to her collarbone. He paused to lavish attention on the hollow at the base of her throat before straightening to meet her eyes.
“Delicious,” he murmured and ducked in for another kiss. Then, without breaking their gaze, he slowly dipped his fingers back into the cognac and reached to outline the darkened areola. Minerva sucked in her breath and moaned deep in her throat when Hubert's mouth enclosed her nipple in wet warmth.
Her head fell back against the bookshelves and her eyes drifted shut. Hubert grinned and treated the other breast to the same thorough tasting.
“Yes, one can taste the aged oak through the wine.” He looked at his glass. “But still not all the layers are evident, perhaps it needs more heat?”
Minerva thought they were generating enough heat.
“I believe that the Sun King had the correct use for this liquor,” Hubert murmured. He rubbed against Minerva, who arched her hips towards his erection.
“What do you mean?” she moaned when he dipped his head to glide his tongue around her nipple once more.
“Versez,” he whispered. “Doucement.”
Minerva watched as Hubert sank to his knees at the same time she felt a thin stream of liquid pour slowly over her shoulder, down between her breasts, and over her belly.
She gasped when Hubert's tongue started lapping at her belly.
“Oui, ça y est,” he breathed. “Parfait.” His tongue dipped into her navel. Then he grasped her hips to hold her steady as his tongue slid over and into the folds between her legs.
Her knees buckled at the wet lapping at her clitoris. Her hips tilted forward towards his face and her legs spread even more as she leaned back, almost sitting, against the shelves.
“Please,” she breathlessly pleaded. Hubert hummed against her aching flesh. “Oh, please.”
Hubert slipped a finger and then another into her slick opening. Her breathing turned to pants at the cadence of his fingers slowly moving in and out while his tongue alternated stabs and soothing licks on her clit.
Minerva's hands grasped at the shelves and her eyes closed as her perception narrowed to the pulses of sensation beating between her legs, throbbing up her spine to burst in her brain.
Her vocalizations turning to caterwauling, her spine arched, and her body convulsed in a large seizure. A kaleidoscope of color burst before her eyes and her legs finally gave out as she collapsed into Hubert's arms
…
Minerva's thoughts returned to the present by degrees: hearing the crackling of the fire beside her, experiencing the throbbing between her legs, and feeling the heat radiating off the man she was still collapsed on. She felt him gather his breath to speak.
“If you dare ask me if ‘was it good for you?' I'll hex you,” she growled, softening the words with a satisfied smile.
Hubert smirked. “I would not dream of it.” He stood up, pulling her along with him. “I was going to suggest retiring to my room to continue.” Minerva nodded, suddenly shy, and followed him into the room off his parlor. Her pulse quickened when she stepped into his room, all dark woods and rich, deep colors, eyes focused on the mahogany four-poster bed that dominated the room.
Hubert stood at the foot of the bed and reached for Minerva again, stopping when she shook her head no. “Not this time,” she said. With a sudden push, she shoved him back on the bed, where he lay with a content smile, waiting. She climbed on the bed, crawling over him like a cat till she half lay on him, her face close to his. “This time it is about you.” She reached out a hand and slowly closed his eyes. She felt his breathing quicken as she suddenly straddled his body, sitting on his waist. He rose beneath her, and she felt his erect penis between her legs, searching. “No…” she sighed, moving slightly away from him. “Not so fast.” He gave a short nod and didn't move.
Then with an agonizing slowness, she explored his body. She rained kisses along his jaw, delighting in the feeling of rough stubble against her hands, her face. She licked and bit at his neck, sucking deeply. She rubbed her breasts against his chest, and then took each of his nipples between her teeth, pulling ever so slightly, and swirling her tongue around each peak. She heard him groan and, sitting up and arching back, she slowly scraping her nails up his thighs, pausing to lightly caress his penis before running her hands up his stomach. The contact made Hubert writhe beneath her. She smiled. “Behave,” she instructed again.
Minerva slid down his body until her head was even with his penis. She rubbed her face against his crotch, cat-like, and was rewarded as his hips arched forward. “Please,” he whispered. Her hands cupped his balls, stroking them, and then she took him in his mouth, as she'd wanted to do earlier. She licked and sucked with abandon, delighting in the salty taste of him, the way he buckled and arched to meet her mouth. Her hands cupped his balls again, teasing, pulling gently.
“Come here,” he finally growled, pulling her up and under him in a swift motion. He settled over her and Minerva thrilled to the weight of him. She felt his hard cock between her legs.
“Yes…” she whispered, pushing her hips upward. He entered her with one smooth movement, his cock sliding into her, as he bent to lap at her nipples. The movement was sharp, exquisite pain.
“So warm…so wet,” he murmured, as he started a rhythm of hard strokes, slow then fast, that caused Minerva to moan, her muscles convulsing around his length. She scratched his chest, dragging her nails along the hard muscles, stopping to clasp his buttocks, pushing him deeper into her. They moved together until, too soon, she felt the pressure building in her legs and belly, moving through her body like quicksilver. She convulsed and shook, screaming his name. He held on a moment longer before buckling, whispering her name in return. Then he collapsed on top of her, moving aside to let her breathe, his arm laying heavy and protective over her.
…
The next morning Minerva awoke early as she always did. She could hear the birds outside the apartment, though the thick velvet drapes held back the glaring sun. She looked over at the man beside her and smiled. He wasn't Albus, but he was dear to her.
The aroma of fresh brewed coffee finally made its way to Minerva's nose, causing her stomach to growl in protest. I didn't know they had house elves here. She stood up and thought about putting on her clothes from the night before, but saw Hubert's dressing gown thrown on the dark brown chaise near the window. Naked, she walked over and put it on and followed her nose to the kitchen.
It wasn't till she stepped into the kitchen that Minerva found Avice, the Duchesse de Crillon, seated at the large farm table. Minerva, suddenly embarrassed, thought about retreating, sneaking back to Hubert's rooms, hoping that Avice's attention was focused on the paper in front of her.
What am I doing? I'm not a school child. She threw back her shoulders, lifted her head a notch, and strode to the counter to pour herself a cup of very black coffee.
The Duchesse looked up at Minerva's entrance.
“Salut, Tabby,” she greeted her. “There's café on the stove. Do you want toast or shall I send out for croissants and brioche? There's a boulangerie just across the Place.”
The old nick-name soothed Minerva's nerves, and she replied, “I think just coffee to start. I thought you were down south at the Château?”
“I was, but I remembered that I also have some potions to deliver to the residents of the voisinage.”
Minerva nodded and toyed nervously with the handle of her coffee cup. Avice continued to peruse the headlines on the stack of newspapers beside her cup. The silence weighed on Minerva's mind while she waited for the comments that never came.
She sighed.
“What is wrong?” asked Avice.
“What do mean?”
“You are sitting there like a school child waiting for a blow,” replied the Duchesse. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong.”
“You're fidgeting, that's always the sign.”
“I do not…” Minerva stopped as she caught herself squirming again and sighed. “I'm just not used to this.”
“Drinking coffee?”
“No, you know exactly what I'm talking about. I just don't know what I'm doing, and I don't like feeling like this.”
“Hmm…last night it seemed like you knew exactly what you were doing,” the Duchesse murmured into her coffee with a smile.
The sound of Minerva's cup hitting the table hard echoed through the room.
“What exactly does that mean?” she demanded.
Avice looked up and put up her hands in protest. “My dear, it means nothing. Hubert and I are…connected. I feel…” for once Avice looked to be at a loss for words and her voice trailed off. “Besides,” she started again, suddenly embarrassed, “I would think that one of you would have remembered to spell a very basic sound proofing charm.”
Minerva sat speechless, horrified. What have I done? I've lost Albus. She felt her eyes tear up, and she hastily looked down.
Avice's hand quickly snaked across the table, holding Minerva's hand in a strong grip. “Tabby, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.”
“What have I done?” Minerva whispered instead. “I've made a mess of everything.”
“What have you made a mess of? You and Hubert are good friends. Last night, you both needed something more. What is so horrible about that?”
“But Albus…Hubert…I don't want to marry Hubert. Why would I…”
“Who said anything about marrying Hubert? This isn't you talking, Minerva. It's your mother. Hubert doesn't need you to protect his honor. He holds you in the highest regard—why should that change after last night?”
“Things always change, relationships move forward or are broken off…” Minerva interrupted.
“Why should they be broken off? Relationships grow, change, that's all.” Minerva opened her mouth to protest, and Avice continued over top of her. “You and Hubert are intelligent, worldly adults. After the ordeals we've all been through, the things we were asked to do for the cause,” Avice rolled her eyes at the world, “you cannot tell me you are tying yourself down by some out-dated code of morality.”
Minerva had to admit that Avice was right. She didn't regret what happened last night—but she didn't know how either Hubert or Albus would react to what she'd done.
“Would you tell Albus, if you were me?” she asked, meeting Avice's eyes directly.
Avice shrugged her shoulders. “Whether you tell Albus or not is your choice. If he can't accept that you have a life outside that musty old school and beyond his sphere of influence, then it's his loss. Do not give away your life, Min, or your choices. They are all we have in the end.”
Minerva was saved having to reply by Hubert's entrance into the kitchen. She was annoyed to see that he was fully dressed and looking as if nothing was amiss, carrying a bag from which came the aroma of warm bread. Hubert nodded his head to Avice, then went and poured himself a large cup of coffee. He strode to Minerva's side of the table and bent down and kissed her soundly on the lips before sitting down beside her.
“Will you be going back to Hogwarts today?” he asked her with a warm smile. Minerva flushed, then, feeling more like herself than she had in some time, smiled back.
“Yes. I think I'm through with my sabbatical, and the conference would have been dreadfully dull anyway.”
Avice smiled and picked up her paper and coffee. “Tabby, be sure to say goodbye before you leave,” she said. And then she was gone.
Slytherin witch, Minerva thought with a smile. She turned to look at the man sitting beside her.
“Hubert, I don't regret….” she started.
“Good, life is too short for regrets,” he interrupted, helping himself to a warm brioche and slathering butter and orange preserves on it. He ate it with relish, pausing to lick the sweet preserves off his fingers, one by one.
Minerva stared at the movement, distracted. “Um…yes. But Hubert, you know I will be returning to Albus.”
He nodded. “I thought as much. It is your place. Will you marry him?”
She shook her head. “No. I think I'm ready to go back to Albus on my own terms.”
Hubert reached over and started tracing intricate patterns on Minerva's hand, causing her to squirm in her seat again. Damn that man.
“I hope, however, that your ‘terms' will occasionally…when the chance meeting might occur…include me?”
Her throat was husky as she answered with a smile. “Perhaps…”
“Good. Then before you go, I think we have time for le petit déjeuner.”
“Brioche in bed,” purred Minerva. “Magnifique.”