Title: There, Pussy
Author: thegildedmagpie
Based On/Inspired By: Here, Pussy by eeyore9990
Characters/Pairings: Minerva/Crookshanks
Rating: NC-17
Content/Warnings: Rough sex, dubcon, biting, incidental breathplay, suggestions of the worrying anthropomorphization of a goat. Like the original, this is also not technically bestiality.
Word Count: 2100
Summary/Description: Minerva loses her subject for a lesson demonstration, and her knickers, in that order.
Author's Notes: The minute I ran across Eeyore's fic, this reversal occurred to me. Consider it a sort of a sequel. I should probably offer credit to Terry Pratchett here, since Crookshanks is heavily based on Pterry's Greebo. Finally, for the good of the community at large, a note from my research: Ovulation in female cats is not cyclical. It can only be stimulated by painful sex. Ponder that for a moment.





Ungulates are actually quite good for animal-to-human transformations, and Aberforth is always willing to allow her to borrow a goat.

This does not explain why the (he assured her) placid subject is currently racing in circles around the fourth floor, maaaah-ing wildly, the bell on its collar clonking in time with its trot (the name “John” is scratched into the leather, a detail which she prefers not to think about).

After about a circuit and a half, she stops, gasping – she's not as young as she used to be and dashing around Hogwarts to the curious and alarmed gaping of two Ravenclaws and a ghost, chasing a panicked animal in heels – Minerva being in the heels, not the goat – is no longer the easy matter it was when she was thirty. So she leans on the wall down the corridor from her open classroom door, trying to catch her breath, and watches as she is passed by the goat, two of her more athletic seventh-year boys and a burlier one who is still trying gamely to keep up.

On the next round, she, disgusted, tries to tell them all that class is just dismissed. They all pass her before she gets through the second word.

The next time around there's no goat. “Where did it go?” she asks.

“Er,” says the frontrunner.

“Oh, lovely,” she snaps, and the movement registers in all their peripheral vision at the same time. Everyone turns toward it at once, but the last runner, coming round the corner panting, is the one who falls on the creature and flattens it under his cloak.

The enraged yowl makes it immediately clear that the goat is still in hiding somewhere, but she quickly tells the boy holding the small thrashing bundle of cloak, “Keep it. Thank you, Carter. Come along, we'll hold what's left of class at any rate.” The heads leaning out the classroom door to watch the undignified steeplechase hurriedly vanish as she sweeps through, brushing briskly at her disheveled robes and smoothing her hair. She steps aside, then shuts the door with a bang after the last erstwhile goat-pursuer, eliciting another shriek of rage from the trapped feline. The noise makes her hackles rise – even in human form, the vocalizations of an angry cat cause her mind to leap into a crouch at the junction of the mental path that forks to danger or challenge – but she keeps most of the stiff stalk out of her movements as she walks to the chalkboard again. “As I was saying....

“The problems of transfiguring the inanimate or animal into a human being are manifold – which makes it perhaps fortunate that this is one of the most difficult transformations to achieve.” Twenty years ago she might have had difficulty falling back into the register of lecture – now it is second nature and edging into first. “Specific to animal-to-human changes, it is also a task that those who desire full control of their end results will find frustrating, because the original form exerts considerable influence over the transfigured one. Observe.” She turns to the growling sound. “Carter, please carefully release the subject.”

Her wand is ready when the streak of orange springs from the wrappings of black cloak. Her reflexes are good – she used to help teach duelling to seventh years, before the practice was banned when the Grundy girl had to be returned to her Ministry-employed father in a cardboard box with some lettuce to eat – and she has time to reflect vaguely that she's pretty sure that the yowling streak is that large, ugly half-Kneazle of Hermione Granger's that always skulks around the Grimmauld kitchen during meetings. Even as she thinks it, she hurls the gathered force of her concentration and will through her wand at the rocket of marmalade fur.

As always, she pretends firmly to herself that the chorus of gasps from her class is not at all gratifying.

The man-who-was-a-cat is still ugly as sin. Minerva troubled herself to put some trousers on him – they're all technically of age, but still – but otherwise she let the change take its course. The marmalade has stayed, in the form of a shock of carroty hair and a generally ruddy, or perhaps vaguely jaundiced, complexion. Scars rake and pock the overbroad torso. As the crouching man looks up, the glitter of crafty green eyes is visible; his nose has the broadness of bridge indicating that it was once strong but now completely collapsed as from a series of bar fights.

A low, brassy growl rises from the man and Minerva stiffens slightly, invisibly, at the sudden pulse – among the small nuisances of being an Animagus, surely – for she finds that sound unmistakably erotic.

She covers it smoothly, though, and continues to speak. “The demonstration works better with a goat – the effects are even more obvious and usually accompanied by greater placidity – but you can clearly see that the nature of the original animal materially affects that animal's Transfigured shape, and the personality is rather resistant to change.” She glances at the clock. “We've lost time, but I hope the lesson we can take from this is apparent. I'll be collecting a six-inch response on Monday explaining in detail how the theories in chapter four apply to animal-to-human transformation, and we will then discuss what this demonstration indicates about the applicability of Stonewort's Postulates in practical magic.

“And Miss Brendan – please go up and tell Professor Dumbledore that there's a goat loose somewhere on this floor and it's his … job to catch it.” She barely censors the epithet that wants to emerge.

Her NEWT class files out, and as the last one goes, all of them giving wary looks to the cat-man – their discomfort is actually part of the lesson's point – she looks around to turn the hunched figure back from an ugly, sneaky, bristling man to an ugly, sneaky, bristling feline. He growls at her as the door shuts. “That's quite enough out of you,” she says repressively and brings her wand back to cast.

The weight of the man hits her at the lower ribcage, knocking her back over the polished top of her desk to a patter of falling quills and the silvery crash of a shattering inkwell. Her spell goes barely wild; there's a dull clunk as one of the thick candles turns cat-shaped and falls to the floor. The low yowl that rises in the cat's throat makes Minerva's body arch even as she struggles – and it also reminds her more than a little of the last time she gave in to the temptation to seek the tomcattery of the Hogwarts-Hogsmeade feral and pet population. This creature is bipedal but its voice makes her blood roil and shift like a waking panther in just the same way – makes her want to arch and yowl, makes her want to … hotly resist any contact until a tom proves worthy of her attention by clawing his way through competitors to take her. This one hasn't.

She jabs her wand at the creature's throat, her teeth baring unconsciously, kicking viciously at his shins with her shoes. The cat-man swipes at her with its nails – desperately inefficient claws, but they leave her three strands of miniscule ruby drops across her throat – and bites her, nipping her neck and chest and tearing at the clasps of her robes, causing thuds of blunt and bruising pain where his jaws close. The part of Minerva that remains clinical even in this situation, thrown across her desk by a burly, ugly ex-tomcat, realizes that it's trying to induce the kitten reflex, biting the scruff of the neck to make the queen cat hold still long enough to be mounted. It's accustomed to mating back-to-front. Cats mate face-to-face at times, when they're feeling adventurous – it just risks the clawing of testicles. Adopting her role, Minerva kicks viciously at the man's groin, one of her shoes spinning off to the side as she then tries to knee him.

And now, illogically, as it hisses and tries to pin her down beneath its weight and trap her between its forelegs – arms, she remembers its name. Crookshanks! Hermione had shouted, dashing through the kitchen as a dozen adults simultaneously leapt to hide the map spread out on the table. Give Kreacher's towel back NOW!

Somehow it knows to drag the skirt of her robe up, but it seems to have trouble with her knickers. As the pitch of its growl rises with frustration, it shoves her further onto the desk and pounces after her as she crab-shimmies sideways, catching at her neckline and making her yelp at the rough paw that drags her brassiere down over her nipple. Her wand falls onto the chair with a clatter and a quick, irritated spark. Another inkwell shatters on the floor and a stack of essays slumps from the desk and fans over the front of the room as Minerva claws at the cat's face, aiming for the eyes.

One of the big hands shoots out to cover her throat and the nails of the others rip through her knickers, making her give a hissing gasp past the thick fingers at the nearness of the tearing edges to her most tender organs. The hand on her throat is coarse like the pads of a paw and pressing too hard. She'd swat at a human lover. She's done it before and made some of her partners laugh that she's more like a cat than she seems. Now with a real cat she finds herself writhing on the polished wood even as she grips the forearm and digs her claws in to carve red crescents, crying out as a second rip destroys her underwear to the point of near-total exposure. The tom yowls over her as the scent of her musk reaches them both. She throws her head back, driven abruptly mad by the smell of their heated bodies rubbing together, the thin choking breaths she draws and the continued growl, painful and electric as the sound of a chain dragged over a sharp edge. As the pitch goes up again she reaches down and tears open the trousers she conjured onto the cat.

Its cock is not long, but thick and turgid and purple with arousal, shaped like a broad human's but with a slight taper, and hung with enormous balls. Minerva reaches up to sink her claws into the back of its neck and it snarls at her. She snarls right back. She feels the remains of her underwear press to her slickness and then tear as the thick cock pushes past their tatters into her red cunt.

It hurts. The penetration is quick and rough and despite the lubrication of her undeniable arousal, the swift shove past her clenched pelvic muscles causes a wrench of pain. Her hips switch like a tail, rolling side to side, and she wishes the cat-man were taller so she could bite him. As it is she makes do with scratching, wrapping her legs over its hips and dragging her nails over broad, scarred shoulders. She realizes that her own intermittent hissing is joining the sound of the tom's possessive ululating growls.

She screams as her back arches up, pushing her pelvis up to collide with the heavy one of the cat-man as her legs spasm. It's over much too quickly. Cat sex usually is, though there's also usually a second wave of fighting for her favor for as long as she's still offering. She's tempted, so sorely tempted, to let the tom have her again, but as little as she likes to admit it, it's not her own doing that Crookshanks is faster than her dueller's reflexes. It's entirely the cat who butts her wand-hand aside and once again shoves in his cock, a wail of triumph rising in his thick throat.

***

An hour thereafter, as students wander in knots and bunches to their common rooms to plan for Hogsmeade or just avoid their weekend homework, the door to the Transfiguration classroom on the fourth floor opens and a large, ugly marmalade cat is firmly nudged into the hallway – the force of which nudge is just short of a drop-kick and makes the cat streak away spitting.

The goat is located two hours later munching an old Standard Book of Spells, Grade Two at the foot of the Astronomy Tower. Minerva, however, cannot be found to comment upon it.