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The Slytherin Gift to Virgins	By : Sphinx Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 2510 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
- 1-The Slytherin Gift to Virgins
- 1
Slytherin’s Gift to Virgins

‘Oh Minerva… if you gotta ask you’ll never know – and
you an Animagus!’

Letter from Exile One
Merciful Morning.

*******************

Disclaimer: Based on JK Rowlings
characters, story and settings etc – but she REALLY wouldn’t want to claim any
of this as hers. In honour of the late,
great Angela Carter, whose works inspire this kind of thing.

I invented the Slytherin Gift to Virgins
in December 2000, but it has been unwrapped by only a dozen or so email
correspondents. Clues as to what it is could be found in ‘Letter from Exile’
and its ffnet review boxes. If the same technique has appeared
in any other writer’s work in the interim, I’m unaware of it I really did make this up.
The central simile is as tired as they come (sic) but this is the first time that fandom has transformed that simile into so literal
a metaphor. Long may it add zest to
your lemons – provided you credit the source, feel free to use it.

It's some six weeks after the events of ‘Letter
From Exile One Merciful Morning’.
Hermione has returned to London, but not to her parents, who do not
approve of her marrying, let alone marrying Snape. They have adopted a laissez–faire attitude to her going to
live with him in his Clerkenwell would-be loft – he still likes minimalist decor. The Grangers are hoping that this way, the whole thing will fizzle out. The only non-minimalist item in the flat c Goc Gonagall’s wedding present – sent early to encourage the couple to stick it out.

Fictionalley rated this
NY17; I rate it R. It does use
four-letter words, and it is very explicit in places – though in rather
odd ways. If you are under 17, you know
yourself best and are the better judge of what you can stomach. Frankly, if the porn doing the rounds of my
generation at the age of 17 had been as ‘feminist’ as this, I’d have found the
whole idea of sex far less dispiriting.

WARNING: Muggle substitutes for magical equipment can
be a serious danger to the health. Don’t try it at home.

It was the small hours of an unusually cool
summer Saturday. Hermione and Severus
were reading in bed. It was their
second favourite activity in thartiarticular location.

Rather, Severus was reading to
Hermione, in bed. The combination his his unique vocal skills and the transgressive evocation of a childhood ritual
was a no-fail turn-on for her.

“It was my mother who always read to
me, not my father,” Hermione had protested, when he ventured to analyse this
interesting phenomenon. He had already
piqued her anger just enough by asking whether she wanted fucking-in for the
night – to her embarrassment, bad puns had an equally no-fail effect.

“Same difference,” he observed,
un-phased. “All the more flattering, in
fact. Instead of identifying me with
your father in that tired old family romance, you find in me your original sin
– the sensual connection with the mother, and by extension, every object in
your world.”

He seemed quite happy to be polymorphously
perverse.

“That’s only a phase though, isn’t it?”
(They were on bedtime readings of Freud – Severus insisted she catch up on
Muggle thinkers.)

“Overlaps with learning your Mmm-”(he kissed her) “-other tongue.”

“Then what?”

“It isn’t a linear progression. At some point, however, the oral phase gives
way to the genital – or was it the anal?”

“No, the genital,” insisted Hermione -
whereupon he slithered under the voluminous bedclothes and managed the
transition very thoroughly.

At this particular hour, Severus, having
just finished The Case of Dora (which roused his beloved’s righteous
indignation, alongside other feelings, quite predictably) asked Hermione to
choose a new book.

She raked her eyes over the coverlet. It was a rich confection of gilded indigoes,
burgundies and ochres that glimmered and glowered in the candlelight. The centrepiece, of course, was a huge,
deluxe edition of Hogwarts, a History, but a few volumes along nestled a
lesser-known mage classic.

“I thought you’d read A Discourse.”

(It was slightly proud of its neighbours –
thanks to the position of Severus’s right knee.)

“I had my exams, remember? Cut straight to
the Appendix.”

The Appendix of A Discours on Luvve’s
Expresciown contained a glossary of sexual gestures with the writer’s
unique notation system for them.
Severus smiled at the memory. A
certain scroll had passed between him and Hermione (concealed in her Potions
homework) through the last months of her final year. Practice had been preceded by plenty of clandestine theory.

“So, you’ve no idea what it contains?”

“I remember the chapter headings. There was the Tiresias charm – that must be
experimenting with gender switching.
Then there were three sections on the use of Levitation, and that first
chapter about virgins – bit late for that though.”

“Don’t be so sure. I think you’d find that chapter very, very
interesting.”

Hermione looked at him expectantly. He did nothing.

“Aren’t you going to read it to me?”

Severus assumed a pedagogical
expression. Hermione might not be
excited by the father-daughter scenario, but he was certain she loved him because
he was a professor, not in spite of it.
Quite aside from any transgressive thrill, she devoured him the way she
devoured the bulkiest tomes. His job
was to cram her with knowledge.

“I could almost recite it to you – but some
things are better shown, not told. A
few points to begin with, though.”

Hermione lay back – all ears (no,
really). Severus shifted onto his side
to look at her.

"We go back to Freud – or rather,
Slytherin theory got there first. A
virgin, in socio-economic, terms, was highly prized. Thanks to Godrick Gryffindor’s openness to Muggle Christianity –
did I tell you his great-great-great grandsons took part in those bloody
Crusades?”

“Three times,” Hermione reproached him.
“And you still look smug when you say it.”

“Well, thanks to this adoption of Christian
values, witches were much more concerned about chastity by the end of the
eleventh century than in the pre-history of Hogwarts. However, they couldn’t quite let go of their pagan right to
pleasure. They were caught between
being objects of desire and kinship exchange and being subjects of their own
desires. Christianity – at least as
Mages crudely absorbed it – polarised the status of female virgin and not-virgin. Slytherin witches sought a way of subverting
the problem. Not just economically, but
psychologically. The new thinking made
sex a violation, especially with the loss of sophistication in sexual
practices: older traditions were repressed, seen as decadent. The transition between virgin and non-virgin
became abrupt.”

“So what did they do?”

Hermione’s nipples were looking
impatient. Severus let them wait.

“It wasn’t easy. Your average phallus is a
very blunt instrument -"

“This is average is it?”

Hermione butted Severus nose with her
rather more fetching snub.

“That's rather beside the point. I'm talking about something your great,
upstanding Gryffindors (whose only contribution to the arts of love is the
basic engorgement charm) could never conceive of.”

Severus traced a delicate line around
Hermione's face with a tapering finger.
At precisely the same time, she felt an even finer point (or was it
two?) delineate the area around her clitoris.

“You have wonderful hands,” (pause).
“Explain some more.”

Severus smiled, and continued his caresses.

HANDS.

He was stroking her face with his left hand
whilst, propped up on his elbow, he leaned the side of his head on the other;
so what the hell -

Hermione made to lift the bedclothes, but
Severus was too quick. She was instantly pinned down between The Pilgrim's
Progress and Middlemarch.

“Best not to look.”

He was hovering over her, shrugging the
coverlet around his shoulders. Both
elbows were now deployed for support, but the movements much further down
continued.

Hermione shrieked.

“Severus - you PROMISED you wouldn't buy a
snake!”

“SShh. It's quite alright. It's only me.”

‘It’ was certainly hotter than any
snake.

Comprehension dawned. Hermione tensed up.

“I'm not sure I like this idea.”

“No-one likes the idea - but they
love the experience.”

Persistence, with Severus, usually paid
off. He swung over onto his back,
pulling her on top of him. Hermione
began to relax.

“Run this past me again – I mean in words.”

“A partial transfiguration,” he explained,
"in every sense. No poison, no fangs. Just the ability to adapt,
perfectly, to the contours of your - therein.”

The extended flicker of a forked tongue
located her cervix.

Hermione raised her theoretical defences.
(She still didn't like the idea.)

“Did you have to register?”

“If only.” Snape looked past her dreamily.
“There’d have been queues.”

“Bit clichéd isn’t it? The serpent –
alright, it’s sometimes androgynous or feminine in Western thought, but mostly
it’s the obvious phallic symbol.”

“I daresay,” murmured Snape, busying
himself with the obvious phallic object. “Are you complaining?”

Well, not exactly.

“Here, the symbol’s just reversed and
rendered -” Her voice broke off as the snake's head slipped inside
-“literally.”

It took a good half-minute for her to
complete the simile - which she did, however, with a rather wide smile.

“But the serpent,” Severus continued,
“unlike the phallus, can touch the inside of you and the outside of you at the
same time.”

At least half of the snake had indeed
remained outside, applying swirls of pressure in all the right places.

“Rather a big ‘just’, don’t you think?” He
wore a very slight grimace from the effort.
It was a long time since he’d practiced this.

Hermione didn't answer for a while.

“There is the further advantage – that
critical shifts in direction, angle and depth of movement
are independent of the partners’ bodies.
Disparities of height, awkward athleticism, cramp-inducing ‘positions’ -
no longer figure. The instrument is
fine enough to take care of things on its own.”

Hermione could feel what he meant. All kinds of possibilities were opening up.

“Wh - why is it called the Gift to
Vir-irg-ins?"

“Because the snake can make itself slender
enough to enter the body without rupturing the hymen - or, many would say, a
woman's sense of self-contained-ness. The virgin gets the full pleasure, with
none of the sense of loss. There is no 'deflowering'.”

“Why didn't you do this our fir-irh-st
time?"

“Because,” (he said it with a trace of
sorrow) “you'd have run away in disgust.”

Hermione couldn't deny it. Not for the
first time, Severus sensed her hunger for his sadness – he had plenty in
reserve for a Dementor girl to feed on, and turn to joy.

“And because you have to feel very
confident – at ease with yourself - to do it.
The last time – the certainty was, I was going to die. I felt I could do anything.”

Again that sunken cadence in the voice, and
Hermione caught the film of melancholy that would settle on his face whenever
he remembered his past. She dispelled it with a kiss, and as usual in such
moments, they continued the conversation by other means.

It was, so to speak, the most intricate
they'd ever had. Once therein, the serpent could equally swell to considerable
thickness by opening its mouth, rippling its movements or even doubling itself
up. By the same token, its length
seemed infinitely - extendable. Severus' strategy (he always had a strategy,
even when making love) was to make a play between the ever-searching threads of
the tongue and the heavier-flowing scrape of the snake's body. Hermione's
internal organs and pathways, articulated by dozens of ticklish lines, itched
with desire as soon as they were defined - until the snake's underbelly rubbed
out the infernal drawing just as it became unbearable. She lost the sense of where her own body
stopped and his - its? - began, and could have sworn, at one point, she'd
extended a forked tongue herself. She
lost count of her climaxes, whilst the intervals between delineation and
gratification became shorter and shorter until -

“Hermione? Are you all right?
Hermione?"

She opened her eyes.

“That's a very Snape-ish smirk you're
wearing.”

“Sorry.”

The smirk stayed in place.

“Did I really shout what I think I shouted?”

Hermione was uneasily aware of having
comported herself with less decorum than usual.

“Yes, but I'm the only one who heard.”

(The ability to cast soundproofing spells
is surely one of the greatest aids to conjugal bliss mages possess.)

They settled back on the pillows.

“So that creep of a Salazar Slytherin did
some good in the world after all.”

“Only indirectly. People assume from the
name that he invented it, but it was his sister. She did more than write things down in the book.”

“Salomé?”

“The same.”

“So what was his indirect contribution?”

“Bastard locked her up.”

“Why?”

“She was much too fond of Muggles.
Especially fanatically religious ones who were asking to be Undone.”

Hermione could understand that - even in bed, Severus managed to resemble
a Puritan-about-to-melt.

“What did locking her up have to do with
the Gift?”

“It gave her time to think. She invented it
all in prison - or rather, the convent. Actually, it was worse than a
convent. She became an anchorite.”

“What did they do?”

“Cut themselves off from the world in the
most radical way possible. Walled up in solitary confinement, fed through a
chink in the stones. Salazar's idea of
the punishment fitting the crime.”

“Did she ever get out?”

“No, but her ideas did. One of the Nuns slipped her writing
materials, and chipped a tiny hole where it would let in daylight. She hid the
papers Salomé passed on to her, and when Salomé died, she got copies scribed
and circulated them - especially to the aristocracy and the courts.”

“A Nun did that?”

"Nunneries were complicated places -
refuges for women who didn't fit, where you could be educated and literate. A
better career choice than marriage at the time.”

“I really must read it – not that I mind
the personal instruction."

Severus reached for his wand and rummaged
around the bedcover. A quick transfiguration spell turned the embroidered image
of A Discours on Luvve's Expresciown into reality - Professor Vector's
contribution to their wedding present.

“It's the 1871 edition - that's really
generous of her you know. There's a first edition in the restricted
Restricted section of Hogwart's Library.
One of Caxton's apprentices found it was a nice little earner. Muggles didn’t believe it was for real.”

Hermione opened it carefully, and read the
dedication.

‘To She who bringeth me Light:

Cast by my kin unto darknesse,

Yet
doth my spirit glowe.

O
hearken, my unseen sisters,

To
all that my heart doth know.’

“Not quite Early English.”

“It’s translated from medieval French. The
Anglo-Saxon manuscripts are lost, so the closest thing to the original text we
have are three of the happily identical manuscripts that circulated the
French-speaking English courts after the invasion of William the
Conqueror. No one knows who did the
Caxton translation back into English. The 1871 edition’s by an unknown female
Pre-Raphaelite. She tried to write in
the style of Christina Rossetti and her ilk - fake medieval.”

Hermione turned to the first chapter.

“Read that now and you’ll never get to
sleep.”

“Tired are you? – a m a minute.”

Hermione sat up.

“What about you. You didn’t - what
happens to the nerve-endings and everything when you transform?”

Severus considered this.

“It’s a question of the extent and timing
of the transfiguration. The critical
area shifts down the shaft, away from the tip, or rather mouth, to the point
where if the wizard ejaculates, he does so well outside of the witch’s body.
Very convenient for the virgin; not to mention its advantage as a delaying
tactic. Of course, he could choose to
slide the transfiguration back so that they finish together in the usual way –
well usual for some.” (He smirked – no doubt thinking of Gryffindor men.)
“That’s considered bad manners, though.
It lessens the woman’s pleasure, and it’s supposed to be for her. It’s a Gift.”

Hermione replaced the book carefully,
turning it back to cloth.

“You could read me more tomorrow morning.”

“I think you should read it to
me. It’s the closest anyone’s got to a
woman speaking her desire.”

“But I’m terrible at reading aloud.”

Severus smiled slowly.

“Ve haf vays of making you - expressif.”

Quite what he meant wasn’t revealed until
Sunday morning. Hermione awoke,
typically, with a question.

“Severus?”

“Mmm?”

“What kind was it?”

“What kind was what?”
p clp class=MsoNormal>“Your snake. Was it a general form of a snake - or a specific type of
snake?”

Severus thought for a moment.

“That one was meant to be an asp.”

Hermione thought for a moment.

“Can you do any others?”

Their eyet.

“What others do you - want?”

Hermione frowned.

>

“I don’t know much about serpents.”

There was a remedy for that. Severus extracted An Encyclopaedia of
Snakes from the bedspread for Hermione’s perusal (/arousal) and, being
Hermione, she made him work right through it, starting with the hooded cobra.
She’d said nothing, but on seeing the picture pointed, and before long, panted
- for Severus obliged at once. Ssticsticated he might be, but he understood the
need for instant gratification.

The summer was long, their blood was high
and Snape fucked Hermione with all manner of serpents from A to Z.

They didn’t let up for weeks.

It was an irony, he said, that this most
elegant of Slytherin techniques got to her core of course Gryffindor grit. He’d meant it quite literally when he said
there were ways of making Hermione expressive – of enabling her to speak her
desire. He applied the spell some two
hours after the experiment with the cobra-and-its-expandable-hood, sliding his
wand (actual wand, not any metaphorical equivalent) up her vagina and muttering
the complex instructions to her clitoris.

The red light flared between Hermione’s
legs. Her cunt sprang into a life of its own – and began to speak.

That was putting it politely. Speech was
not exactly the first phase of its development. It growlnd hnd howled, and was quieted into contented gurgling
only by hearty helpings of snake. It wasn’t as if it had to worry about its
hymen. The cunt ’s appetite grew, but its palate did not refine. It was as if animating it, dragging it into
language, had enlarged its needs rather than just expressed what was already
there.

n lan lang=EN-GB>

The spell was hard-coded – only the caster
could undo it. Severus was good enough to lift it when Hermione went out, but
wickedly arranged matters so that her re-entry into the flat after work
re-activated it – which meant she’d dash to the concrete column (the bedroom
being, like, too far away) and, backing against its sleek, chill support,
hurriedly scrape skirt up and knickers down. Perpendicular writhing up, up
the pillar shedshed it dark with her sweat. (Disparity in their heights no
longer mattered – oh fabulous flexibility.) Whilst trying to discuss the
intricate implications of her day’s studies with her head, Hermione’s lower
mouth (as she’d come to think of it) smacked its lips and opened wide, her
clitoris the tongue that rarely stopped tingling. Speech, when it developed, never evolved as far as syntax.

“Cunt – cobra – now.”

Severus said he always knew she was an
imperious little madam. Hermione denied
this but -

“Gimme fuck-snake (urh urh)! Snake-fuck now.”

Its vocabulary was colourful but limited -
interested in only one thing (albeit with variations). Imperative case aside, the lower gob never
bothered with grammar, and most damningly, its one concession to linguistic
effort was that execrable taste for alliteration.

“Baby boa, ah ah,” it breathed. “Hump
hhard. Bonk bhaby boahh.”

By the end of July, Cunt had been well
serviced with the assiduous attentions of an asp, the grinding of overlarge
grass-snakes and the vigorous thrusts of a viper. Severus did draw the line at rutting with rattlesnake, on the
entirely reasonable grounds that he could hardly keep it up if he felt his
whole member was about to shake off. (It would have been different if the
rattlesnake’s distinguishing feature had been on its head, not its tail.)

True to the original intention of the Gift,
Severus always delayed his own pleasure, or even dispensed with it. He enjoyed Hermione’s raw craving for him,
as if it created solid ground for all their dreams.

She, on the other hand, began to feel
uneasy.

‘Began’ is an exaggeration. For at least a month, it was
exhilarating. Self-possession had
claimed Hermione in her cradle; the discovery of something so unlikely, so other
in herself was liberating. This
foreign land she entered was not a hostile one – to her relief, the cunt never
asked to be hurt, never locked the serpent in that second great cliché of
Slytherin sexuy, sy, sadism. It was, as Severus put it, a thoroughly wholesome
cunt. They couldn’t help laughing at it
- and it was the first time in her life that she’d been able to laugh at
herself, and feel safe doing so.

Something shifted. The addictive pleasure became, literally,
urgent.

Cunt clearly had access to some unconscious
pornography in her brain, but it seemed to bypass her heart. When she was away from the flat, in the
library, tenderness - feelings - returned; but each rude awakening of her cunt
shouted them down. She wondered if she – it - had much more of a vocal range
than the deep ‘urh urh urh’ and the high-pitched ‘ah ah ah’ (which of these
predominated being determined by Severus’s choice of angle, direction and
movement). The voracious gob was not speaking her desire so much as (in the
common phrase) just gagging for it. This other voice was alien and familiar, an
unmaableable yet indolent child.

What more could a girl want than
high-precision fucking on tap?

She felt soulless. She experienced herself in pieces and
indeed, the regular gratifications grew mechanical with repetition. If you had looked through their enchanted
ceiling one sweltering August afternoon (Hermione’s contribution to couplish
décor was less sublime than its Hogwarts counterpart – Clerkenwell’s pigeons,
to Snape’s amusement and her dismay, turned the glassy plane into a post-modern
Pollock of birdshit) you would have seen the following:

Hermione:
horizontal on Perriand, head back, upper tongue hanging out, grunts
emitted in metronome time; well-apart knees (98 degrees), feet pressing chrome,
lower tongue peeking, proffered cunt strong on suction, filling up. Snape: eyes
half-closed, lazing back on his heels, loins extending, arse a-quiver, pumping
her and pumping her with firm, plump python-lengths to coloratura
climax.

(Urh. Urh. Urhh. Urhh hhruh hrhhua
hrhhah hhah ah ah-ah-ah Ahh AHHH etc.)

Satisfaction. Gods the Sssatisssfaction;
but it would not do.

Hermione asked Severus to remove the
‘expression’ spell permanently.

“I thought you liked it.”

He was alarmed to see liquid-bright eyes
before she curled away from him.

“I
do – but it’s not me. Not all
of me,” she corrected.

‘Or you,’ she thought – for she had caught
the faintest trace of a sneer (shading in from his well-earned smirk) as he
witnessed the climax of an especially fuck-filled day.

He waited.
The next night, she turned to him.

“Which shall it be?” he whispered, starting
to enumerate ever more exotic sub-species of serpent.

“You,” she said. “Just you.”

She set about rediscovering him, and with
exquisite subtlety, manipulated his every millimetre into letting go.

The thing about a gift, Hermione explained,
is that it was not for every day.

(Not that she didn’t plan to read the Discours’s
chapter 2 some time soon.)

“The experience proves,” said Severus,
“that openness and honesty aren’t always the best thing.”

Hermione whistled slowly.

“So that was my penance for letting
everyone hear your letter.”

“It was.”

“I wondered why you weren’t the least
angry! You planned this.”

“I did.”

“Cunning bastard.”

“There are colder revenges.”

“Perhaps.”

“And worse penances.”

“Maybe.”

She sat up, self-possessed.

“Why didn’t you just say?”

“I couldn’t bear to get angry with you.”

Silence.

“Besides, you would have defended yourself
admirably, given me rational justifications about truth and ends and means I
couldn’t deny. That wouldn’t have
absorbed my – resentment.”

“But screwing my brains out did?”

“The sound of you coming – basic, absolute
coming – did.”

She said nothing.

“You could call it transfiguring a
grudge.”

Hermione relented.

“Here endeth the lesson.”

“Experience is the best teacher.”

“You got perfect marks.”

“So what do I do for a well-planned
reward?”

“Forgive me, if you can.”

That wasn’t too difficult. He looked desperate to please her.

Severus cast a cooling charm so that he
could hold her all night. He lay
marvelling at his own happiness. The
ring glowed in the dark – proof that he was loved and had a soul – casting its
clear light on their skin. He was awake, eyes feasting on it, long after
Hermione had fallen asleep.

Notes:

Dora
(meaning ‘gift’). Real name, Ida Bauer.
From Fragment of an Analysis of a Case of Hysteria. Freud’s
patient perceived herself very clearly as an object of exchange in adults’
sexual games. (Her father tried to
trade her to his best friend in exchange for a hassle-free affair with the best
friend’s wife.) Freud never quite understood what she was fussing about, and
persistently sought other causes for her illness – ones that were less clearly
a reproach to patriarchal power.

The various editions of A Discours on
Luvve’s Expresciown: elaborate excuse for my forgetting all but one word of
Anglo-Saxon (including exactly when the language died out) and blurry
reproductions of Middle English.

Snape-the-Puritan: it’s been done and done
since Snape-romance began. So sue me. I was packing in the Jacobean refs three
years ago. Honest.

The talking cunt: I presume there’s film of this somewhere? Or has cinema only come
up with the talking cock? I’ve not yet seen The Vagina Monologues but
gather this isn’t quite what that play does.
The idea of a woman ‘speaking her desire’ is a satire on French feminist
theory and a tribute to a very British ex-colleague of mine. She declared she
could think of nothing worse than her vaginal ‘lips’, pace Irigaray and Cixous,
constantly touching each other in permanent self-arousal. “How inconvenient, how exhausting!” (Mr
Sphinx – “Well, now you know how men feel.”)

The scroll: sorry this is a spoiler for a
much later chapter of A Decoding of the Heart – though I do wonder if
I’ll ever manage to write up to that point in the story. The intention to do so
is still there. (The scroll is a
critical token in Christian the pilgrim’s progress.) The ‘Dementor Girl’ refers to Hermione’s nickname in A
Decoding of the Heart; she found a way of defeating them. The ‘Perriand’ is the Charlotte Perriand
chaise-longue (upholstered in Nagini) of chapter 3 of A Decoding of the
Heart. There are a couple of things
here that only make full sense if you’ve read Why Slytherins are Sexier
and Letter from Exile. The ring
is a sapphire containing a particle of Severus’s soul. It shines just as long as love does. All thse fics can be found at ffnet. They will be transferred here presently.

The Nun getting the papers – straight out
of the ‘Women’s Prison’ scenes of Angela Carter’s Nights at the Circus. I think I can also lay at her door (to The
Bloody Chamber collection) the alliterations around sexual activity. At
least I hope so. The cunt’s speech seems
to be a little like Grawp’s in Ordf thf the Phoenix.
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The Slytherin Gift to Virgins

Slytherin’s Gift to Virgins

‘Oh Minerva… if you gotta ask you’ll never know – andyou an Animagus!’

‘Oh Minerva… if you gotta ask you’ll never know – and
you an Animagus!’