Title: "Two Colours of Ink"
Author: pre_raphaelite1
Based On/Inspired By: "Failure to Communicate" by eeyore9990 <-- Read first!
Characters/Pairings: Minerva/Sirius with implied Tom/Minerva and Severus/Sirius
Rating: R
Content/Warnings: Teacher/Student UST. Stick figures.
Word Count: 1600
Summary/Description: Sirius fails at communicating his sexual desires. Again. This time to Minerva.
Author's Notes: Much love and adoration to daily_deviant for keeping me writing. And to eeyore9990 who always makes me smile! I couldn't resist writing a response to the original hilarity and hotness. I only hope it's an acceptable continuation though I think Eey's stick figures are better than mine. :D



“I simply don't want to fathom what prompted you to do something some completely stupid, Mr Black.”

Sirius shrugged. “I'm a Gryffindor?”

“Please do not use my house as a justification for your idiocy. Again.” Minerva had to resist the simultaneous urges to put her head in her hands and to use those hands to throttle the boy who stood before her. Unfortunately this was not a new conflict for her. Not after having Black and Potter in her house for the last seven years, to say nothing of Lupin who for all his quiet studiousness Minerva knew was the brains behind the years of Marauder Mischief, which at this point practically had its own file cabinet. Lupin was just generally smart enough not to get caught for the biweekly prank.

Minerva took a deep breath and looked at her student, his chin lifted in Black haughtiness but eyes sparkling with far humour than that family normally permitted. His lips curved into a wicked smile when he noticed her looking at him, and Minerva groaned inwardly and dropped her attention to the paper before her. And instantly regretted it. The crude drawing there did nothing for her ability to stop thinking about Sirius-- about Black-- as anything other than a troublesome student.


She needed a few moments to collect her thoughts; all the previous ones she had carefully sorted through and prepared had left her the moment Black actually swaggered into her empty classroom, his hair over one eye and his tie slightly loosened. “I'm not even going to approach the matter of who these deformed people are-”

“They're not deformed! I think I did a fine job of drawing them!”

“Have you ever heard of proportions, Mr Black?”

“Are you saying you think my cock is smaller than that?”

“Surely it must be or you would be incapable of walking or being knocked over by a Slytherin.”

“Wait. Does this mean you've thought about my cock?”

Minerva didn't answer this; she was not about to walk any farther into the trap of Black's delusions or the correctness of this, though it was more often his hair in her hands, his mouth on her- Bloody fucking hell. She ignored the heat of her cheeks to continue, “It is a very rare woman too, you should know, who enjoys such activities while she menstruates.”

“Men- menstruates?” Sirius's grey eyes were wide with horror. “I'm not- I wouldn't- not while you bled!”

“Then why draw it?”

“I didn't it!”

“You most certainly did.”

“You're dripping with arousal for me! Not bleeding!”

“It's red, Mr Black. Surely even you can understand the relation.”

“I haven't gotten my ink order yet! What is it with you people?”

Minerva arched an eyebrow at him, “We people? Just which people are you talking about?” Then disturbing clarity answers her own question. “Just how many people have you sent such... filth to?”

“Oi, only two. I'm not a art slut, passing around my skill to just anyone.”

She opened her mouth with an immediate retort about being a slut, closed it, rethought the comment, then spoke, “I hardly think this counts as skill. Or art for that matter, Mr Black.”

Sirius crossed his arms defensively. “Well I'm know I'm not Picusso.”

“Picasso.”

“Whatever. But you don't have to be so mean about it.”

“Mean, Mr Black? You've not begun to see me mean. And no one would fault me if I were, considering you have drawn vulgarities on your transfiguration exam in place of the essay about Crafter's Theory of Density. For that alone I will fail you for not answering the question.”

“But I did!” Sirius asserted. “It's just in art form and not essay!”

Narrowing her eyes at him, Minerva knew she was going to regret asking but curiosity and a perverse desire to see Sirius- Black- hang himself with his own rope required she say, “Enlighten me.”

“Well Crafter is talking about the reason you can change the density of transfigured items, like turning a feather into a mattress, right?”

Minerva nodded once, unimpressed so far. He normally managed to actually understand the subject matter when he could be arsed to apply himself.

“He thinks it's the magic that actually makes up the difference and that's why when objects that are transfigured into large things from small things if they aren't done right they collapse on themselves. They shrivel up. And that's just like a cock, isn't it? It goes from small to large, being filled with blood. And we know that at least in part magic is in the blood so that means my cock's filled with ma-”

“Enough, Mr Black,” she held a hand to stop him. She should have expected this. He would be the one to think his cock was filled with magic. Damn teenaged Blacks. “You have demonstrated that you have a basic, and very crude, understanding of Crafter but I am not going to reward you for this sort of behavior.”

“I'm sure I can behave in a way you would reward me for,” he offered with a wink.

“Clearly you don't know me,” she responded dryly. Oh but he did and she knew it and she could think of a dozen ways of teaching him effective lessons that would be very rewarding indeed.

His hand closed on hers then. She had know idea when he moved closer but suddenly he was there and touching her, and it was unacceptable. “I know you, Minerva. I know you want me.”

“You're delusional.” She tried to pull her hand free of his.

“You're beautiful.” He held it tighter.

“You're in detention for the rest of your life.” She pulled again.

“I'll in your fantasies for the rest of yours.” He was unmoved, undeterred, unmistaken.

“Mr Black, stop touching me this instant or you will find yourself permanently transfigured into a water goblet.”

“I'll risk it if it means I get your mouth on me.”

“For Professor Slughorn.”

His hand immediately dropped hers at that threat, his nose wrinkling in disgust. It was unpolitic of her to use Slytherin's Head of House in such a way to a student, but it was effective and part of Minerva had not quite forgiven him for allowing Tom the freedom to do as he wished in the school and with its Gryffindor Head Girl without repercussions. You know you want me, Minerva. I'll always be in your mind, in your dreams and fantasies.

Shaking off thoughts of Tom, Minerva lifted her chin and fixed Sirius with an unforgiving stare. “That is better. Now. You will write the essay, free of any drawings. And I want full examples and citations as well as a discussion of how Crafter's theory intersects with Almedes' Eight Postulates.”

“But-”

“No buts, Mr Black.”

She was pleased to see his shoulders slump at this, and she handed him a roll of parchment. “Now. You have an hour.”

“Yes, Professor McGonagall,” he said dutifully before taking his seat and inking a quill.

“Then when you have finished with that, you are going to receive a lesson in not touching a woman when she doesn't wish it.”

Sirius' head snapped up at this, eyebrows raised and gaze locking in surprise on Minerva's impassive face. “What?”

“You heard what I said. Now write.” With that Minerva swept from the room and into the privacy of her office. She shut the door and leaned against it, pressing the back of one hand to her cheeks. They felt hot but perhaps that was only the normal coolness of her hands and not any revealing rise of colour in her cheeks. She couldn't fathom why she had added that last bit, why she thought there was any way to teach him such a lesson that didn't involve cuffing his hands or tying him to a chair or using a leather paddle on him. Maybe there was a way and she was just incapable of thinking of it. Merlin but the boy was right. She wanted him. She wanted thrust her tongue into his mouth, twist her hands in his hair, raise welts across his pale pureblood skin, show him that he was out of his league with her, demonstrate just what fire he was playing with.

But he was her student and she his teacher and such things were Not Done. Even if he was of age. And they both clearly wanted it. And she had spent many nights with her hands wandering over her body thinking about it in wrongly vivid detail. Not. Done.

So after a few long minutes of composing herself and considering alternatives, she went to her bookshelf and hunted for the slim, aging volume she knew was there somewhere. She found it on the bottom shelf, tucked between a horrible fantasy novel (The Pillars of Storge)written by a sophomoric former student and a collection of notes to an article Minerva wrote twenty-five years ago. This, she decided, would be an acceptable resource for Black to read and summarize in detail: The Lines: Acceptable Behaviors and Interactions for Students and Staff at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (1937 edition).

It would probably be a damn good reminder for her too.