Minerva McGonagall (ex_mcg485) wrote in bearandbarnacle, @ 2009-11-04 12:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | event, minervapost, polaroids |
Minerva: Event: Polaroids
Minerva considers herself well aware of her own character flaws. She thinks this is a virtue. She is aware, for instance, that she will do almost anything on a dare. She thinks this is probably a major reason she was sorted Gryffindor despite her noted tendency to Machiavellian morals; Slytherins are often interesting, intellectual, kind individuals, and the presence of one in their common room who can be induced to do anything just by telling them they don't have the balls for it arouses killer instinct like a small, furry animal arouses it in a more literal viper pit.
And Minerva, congenitally, will go to great lengths to prove that she does, in fact, have the metaphorical reproductive organs for anything and everything.
This is probably stretching it.
“Might I ask just why you had this lying around?” she asks archly. She's behind the counter at Ici, Amour, having been left in charge while Victoire is away giving birth.
“The girlfriend liked it,” says John, referring to his two-year-old Alsatian, Mary Ann. “I buy her anything to keep her in style.” John is a Muggle chemist who started flirting with Minerva in a store a couple of months ago. Minerva reciprocated the flirtation once he proved himself able to make a clever and subtle pun on “encyclopedia.” They're now casually seeing each other as Minerva rediscovers the numerous joys of being theoretically young enough to keep her dignity in situations that were unthinkable this time last year.
“How exactly did she demonstrate liking?”
“Looked at me with longing eyes?”
“You've got to be joking,” Minerva says, as her eyes slowly travel further down from the hanger he's holding.
“At least I didn't bring the naughty schoolgirl outfit.”
He has no idea. “When I asked if you would help me come up with something for a fancy dress party this is not at all what I had in mind.”
“You said you wanted something you're usually not.” This had, in fact, been Dora's specification for letting Minerva into the pub tonight.
“Touche. The answer is no.”
“Well, if you don't have the courage ...” John sighs theatrically.
“Give me that.”
She turns up at the Pub on the night of the thirty-first with her soul cringing, though she is outwardly composed if a bit ironic of countenance.
Minerva is aware of her own character flaws, but as she self-consciously adjusts a fluffy pink maribou angel wing, she wonders exactly how he knew about them.