Not the Sharpest . . . (PG-13; Minerva/Lucius; 475 words): Minerva has a discreet fascination for blonds with foolish lusts.
"Professor McGonagall?" Lucius Malfoy asks her, as she leaves the Great Hall.
She raises an eyebrow at him. "Yes?"
"Would you have a moment to speak with me?"
Minerva walks on, saying, "You've just taken a moment to do that now, Mr Malfoy."
He follows. "My father once told me that you take an interest in ceremonial . . . blades."
How indiscreet of Abraxas. Minerva doesn't falter but flatly says, "Did he."
"He did, indeed, and he suggested that I might wish to add to your collection . . . when the stars were right, of course."
Minerva stops, turns, stares. She's tall. Malfoy is, at just sixteen, already taller, but he still blushes under her steady scrutiny.
"I think you'd find my knife as sharp as the one he gave you."
"If I make myself a circlet of hellebore, Mr Malfoy, and wear it skyclad under a full moon, what does it signify?"
He smirks. "Only that you like pretty flowers . . . and the breeze flowing over your skin on a bright night, Professor."
Minerva can sense the arrogant expectation in the boy, almost smell it, and it excites her. "And when is the next full moon?" she asks, walking on.
"Friday next, ma'am."
They are approaching a tapestry-shrouded alcove; no one else is in the corridor. Minerva speeds her steps, reaching into her robes—
—and has the boy pinned to the wall inside the alcove before the tapestry falls back into place.
"If you don't want to be polishing your own crown on that night," she hisses against his lips, "you'll come to me discreetly at the appointed time and place. Do you understand?"
Malfoy's eyes shine widely in the near-darkness. "Y—yes."
"And how will you come?"
"At . . . your will?"
Ah, so Abraxas hasn't told him everything, Minerva thinks, pressing the blade a bit more closely to Malfoy's throat. "How will you come to the appointed place?"
"Oh, er, with the aid of powdered hellebore—invisibly."
"Yes." Minerva withdraws the knife. "You have much to learn about discretion, I thnk," she says, drawing the athame down his chest to his groin, "so I'd best not find your knowledge of the ceremony . . . lacking."
"You won't, Professor. I promise you."
"Leave me," she tells him, and he does.
In the wake of his quick footfall, Minerva snorts. There is no ceremony. There never was, but when Abraxas offered his virginity to her all those years ago, thinking as he did that he would reap magical protection from surrendering his virtue to a practitioner of the "Old Ways"—and whoever told him that rubbish about her she'd never got him to reveal—he'd promised her the virginity of his first-born son in exchange for her service to him.
I can't believe the idiot still believes in all that rot, Minerva thinks, sheathing her knife, but far be it from me to disappoint him.