Title: Needs Must
Author: purplefluffycat
Characters/Pairings: Minerva McGonagall/*surprise* (het, with slashy overtones)
Rating: Hard R
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Prostitution, Humiliation
Other Warnings: Dirty talk
Word Count: About 2000
Summary/Description: It was tricky back then, trying to be an educated woman.

Author's Notes: I've left the pairing a surprise in the header, as it's an element of the plot - but if anyone would like to know in advance, I'm very happy to reply to an email or comment on the subject :-)







There was a reason that Minerva McGonagall always wore her hair in a bun. Well, several, actually.

For one, it was neater that way. It didn't get in her way when squarely tied back, and Minerva found few things more annoying than stray strands dipping in to her inkwell or complicating a shortbread biscuit.

Secondly, it rather went with the rest: the sensible boots, the robes pinned high and stiff about her neck, the tartan deerstalker - so indulgently unfashionable - and the half-moon glasses that she had adopted even before her eyesight really demanded them. A safe, sensible barrier, just as she preferred; the very badge and mark of the woman she had fought so hard to become. And to her satisfaction, the people with whom she now dealt would likely not conceive of her being any other way.

No one would have guessed that her hair was once curled, puffed and coiffed to bounce about her shoulders, dark tendrils reaching suggestively downward across a bosom trussed and thrust for the pleasure of money-slickened wizards... There was no longer a trace of the rouge and lipstick; the glamours that both hid her face and added toothsome curves to a sparse frame.

It had been tricky back then, trying to be an educated woman. Of course, the authorities gave equal schooling to girls. Of course they did - on paper at least. One's family, however, were a different matter - and when an eighteen-year-old Minerva had been given the ultimatum of marrying sensibly, bearing pureblood children and not sullying the family name with a woman earning her own knuts - or jolly well going off to earn her own knuts without the hope of a roof, a kind word or a Christmas card - the choice had turned out to be an alarmingly easy one.

Said situation had been made trickier by a pretty much insatiable desire to study advanced transfiguration at the best école there was. And such things, the young Minerva had found - never mind actually having to survive in Paris while one was there - were dashed expensive.


*****


"Martine? Martine, come quickly, they 'ave arrived!" Claudette rushed into their small shared dressing room, powder-puff pink and blue eyes wide.

Taking a final glance at the artifice she had created with wand and paint, Minerva gave her reflection a brusque nod. That'll do, lassie. She rose and followed her little blonde colleague through the corridor, into the waiting cab.

Thestrals, eh? Someone was trying to impress.

- Still, that was pretty much a given, if courtesans had been hired from Madame Bonnediamant. The best house there was, if one really had to know about such things; two evenings of this rubbish a week were enough to cover the course fees, and tips usually saw through board and lodging. Grim; Minerva knew as much - but probably the most time-efficient option. She wouldn't want the drearyness of earning money to cut into esasy-writing time, after all.

Today's clients greeted them with exaggerated courtesy as the two girls ascended the brassy Hansom stairs.

Aha, I've seen that one before. Minerva regarded the rotund, moustachioed man; Monsieur Clement, if she recalled correctly. He had visited the house previously - a high-up French Ministry worker, fond of oiling the wheels of democracy with good food, wine, and a pretty, slickened pout. It was so much easier to make a client sign on the dotted line if the pen was nestling between the bosoms of one of Madame's girls, after all.

Another thing she remembered about Clement was that he definitely preferred the buxom little fluffy things for himself - as evidenced that very moment, as he beckoned Claudette onto his lap for the journey. Which left Minerva with...

...Well, it was difficult to be sure. The tall gent occupying the other seat was swathed in a thicker glamour even than the one Minerva wore; masterfully spun. The resulting impression was one of moderate good looks in middle age - dark hair and eyes, helpfully suggesting only that their true colours were anything but.

Clement spoke, hands around Claudette's waist. "Ladies, forgive my lack of manners. Allow me to introduce my friend from England, Prof-"

"-Monsieur Abeille," the stranger interrupted, "Pleased to make your acquaintance." He had the air of a man who appeared studiedly comfortable in the back of cabs with courtesans; legs louchely crossed, arms held in his lap 'just so'. A clever, controlled man, it was clear; Minerva thought it perfectly possible that inside, he was screaming.

The driver schreeched around corners to the opera house; thestrals were touchy creatures at the best of times, their mood not improved by the dank Parisian night. Breath of both beasts and humans clouded in the air; enough moisture around to seep into their rich damasks and make pert hair limp, but not enough to actually rain.

On arrival, Minerva took the Englishman's proferred arm - her natively-French accent firmly in place. The box to which they proceeded was the finest in the house; elf-made wine and canapés waiting, plush seats overlooking the stage, a velvetted warren of curtains and couchettes and lockable doors off to the back. The girls knew it well.

Much wine flowed for the wizards, and the opera - yet another retread of 'The Wizard and the Hopping Pot' in 18th century Italian - was, to Minerva's mind, as forgettable as usual.

"Oh yes, Monsieur Abielle, do tell me about Great Britain! I should love to go there some day..." She giggled a little, and opened her eyes very wide to appear agog for his reply.

Yes, charming conversation was easy enough. Minerva had by now trained herself not to say anything too challenging, or - Merlin forbid - intellectual. She had studied the way that Claudette tittered and fluttered and twirled a lock of hair about her dainty finger, a dark coil now forming a perfect ringlet under her own upturned chin. Method-acting; that's all it was. Potentially a useful skill, and one shouldn't say 'no' to skills, now, should one?

The real work started after curtain-down, though, when typically, each gentleman retired to a separate booth. Minerva obediently followed her charge as he moved away - still seeming smooth and dispassionate, despite a lot of alcohol - but she was held back for a moment by Monsieur Clement. A low hiss: "Your task, my girl, is to soften this one up like putty. I 'ope you understand, for there'll be harsh words to Madame if you do not. Nothing spared. 'e must be quivering with pleasure by the time you have finished with him - and 'e's a cold fish, so I wish you luck."

Cursing her very luck, Minerva attached her most winning smile and headed through the designated drapes. Cold fish, perhaps, but at least he didn't seem boorish. Quite the opposite, really, as if he wouldn't lay a finger..."

"Ah, Martine, do have a seat. I'll pour you some wine." Impeccably behaved this one; it was likely he wanted something important from the deal, too.

"Thank you." Minerva accepted the glass, and then decided she had better cut to the chase if anything were to be accomplished here at all. What would Claudette do? Ah, yes. "I must say, Sir, that it really is a treat to meet a gentleman as handsome as you are..."

"Pfft," He waved his hand as if good-naturedly swatting a fly, "Really, my Dear, no need."

Dash it. Direct action, then. Minerva rose from her chair and stalked toward the gentleman, a light touch on his cheek, a kiss, her legs straddling his lap.

He kissed her back in the manner of someone being polite. She tried harder: fingers tangled in his hair, guiding his hands to roam her corseted form, deeper kisses; lips and tongue, little husky moans from deep in her throat. It was enough to bring many a client to climax, she knew from experience.

But - still nothing. Minerva reached down his body, tweaking nipples through expensive robes, busy fingers stroking downward into his groin - to find, after a good ten minutes - all perfectly quiet. Dash it to the Highlands!

She began to panic a little, stroking as she spoke. "Do I not please you, Sir? Should I be darker, or taller?"

"No, no..." The wine was thickening his voice now; careful focus drifting.

"Perhaps you prefer red-heads, or blondes? Or -" -And she had no idea what made her say it. Frustration laced with fear of being out of work? Pure devilment, perhaps? "-boys?"

At that utterance, his cock sprang in her palm, suddenly alert, hardening. "Oh Merlin, no..." he breathed, eyes champagne-closed, looking for all the world like a 'yes'.

"Aha, so it is boys, then." She established a rhythm, mind reeling. Although such predilections were no longer actually illegal, any sort of polite society certainly regarded them as such. "That is very naughty of you, Monsieur Abielle."

Perhaps it was the stroking, or perhaps it was the gentle chiding, but the gentleman groaned a little, biting his lip. "Yes, very bad. I shouldn't; I mustn't..."

Minerva had never exactly been there before, but instinct guided her, along with a little thrill of power. "-Yet you do, don't you?" she said with zeal, hand working all the time. "You like their lithe limbs, tousled hair, slim boyish hips..."

"Yes. Oh gods..." He flushed with embarrassment, cock rigid in splendid catharsis.

Riding the wave now: "And you like to feel their cocks, don't you, Monsieur? In your hand, your mouth, taking you inside, from behind..."

"Yes, yes! I confess." His face was crimson; eyes still screwed shut in something like relief.

- And then he came, hard and almost pained with it, softly choking out just one word; "Gellert..."


*****


In the days leading up to the Triwizard Yule Ball, Minerva was shocked at how closely staff room conversation came to resemble those snatches she overheard in the Gryffindor common room.

"I think I might go for the blue," mused Pomona, "But I've never been quite sure it's my colour."

"How about green?" Poppy tried.

"But I always wear green."

"Only because it suits you. Mmmmm... I've been wondering what to do with my hair. Maybe braided?"

"Oooh yes!" Sybill chipped in. "I do love braids; they're very Acquarian. - And what about you, Minerva? What are you going to wear?"

Bristling slightly at the interruption to her book and cup of tea, Minerva gave Trelawney an old-fashioned look. "Robes, I imagine. Sensible ones."

"In bright pink, I'm sure!" called Rolanda from across the room. "I'd live to see the day!"

"You just might not..." Minerva muttered, for her own edification.

"And how about your hair, love?" asked Poppy with a benign smile to be found decidely dangerous, "You simply can't just do a bun for the ball."

"Can't I? Why ever not?"

"Well, wouldn't it be nicer down for a change?" she pressed, to much collective nodding.

"-Loose around your shoulders."

"- Or in braids?"

"- Or curled a bit. Does it curl, Minnie, Dear?"

Minerva huffed and wrinkled her brow. "You're being ridiculous." - A click as the staff room door opened and the Headmaster walked in, searching for tea. "Albus, tell these women that they're being ridiculous."

"We were only saying that our Transfiguration Mistress here might want to do something with her hair," Pomona defended. "For the ball, I mean; it would look nice."

"I see, I see," mused Albus, clearly enjoying Minerva's discomfort; infuriating twinkle firmly in place. "So tell me, my Dear Minervina: have you ever considered a corset and curls? It would be quite effective, I'm sure."