Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2826
Characters: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Quirinus Quirrell, Lorcan d'Eath, Professor Midgen (OC), staff room gargoyles, Helga Hufflepuff

Those who knew that Kingsley Shacklebolt was planning to train as an Auror once he left Hogwarts were always surprised to learn that he had chosen to pursue his studies of the History of Magic to NEWT level. The class had a reputation for being the most boring subject offered at Hogwarts, and was not required for acceptance into the Auror training programme. But Kingsley loved history for its own sake, and even dry, ghostly old Professor Binns could not dowse the spark of his interest.

In the autumn of his seventh year, the class was assigned a research project detailing an achievement of one of the four Hogwarts founders. Like his fellow students, Kingsley chose for his project the founder of his own house -- in his case, Helga Hufflepuff. After due consideration, he decided to research her creation of the network of secret passageways leading in and out of the castle, which, according to historians, had been made to facilitate the movements of witches and wizards during times when the Muggle world was hostile to magic.

Unfortunately, neither of his classmates was in Hufflepuff house, so there was little chance of pooling information. Lorcan d'Eath was a Slytherin, and never spoke to Kingsley. Quirinus Quirrell was a friend of sorts, and made a slightly more helpful research partner, but he was studying his own house's founder, Rowena Ravenclaw, researching her changing floor plan of Hogwarts.

Seated in a comfortable chair in the Hogwarts library, Kingsley found himself drawn into the world of the founders. Every now and then, he found some fact or detail which might be of use for his project, and made note of it, but more often than not, he found himself sidetracked by anecdotes of Helga Hufflepuff's tolerance, good humour, and many putative lovers. Legend had it that she liked her men big and broad-shouldered, and that she had never turned a man from her bed if he pleased her eye, even Godric Gryffindor himself.

Kingsley chuckled.

Quirinus glanced up, distracted. "Care to share, Kings?"

Lorcan cast them a shifty look out of the corner of his eye and went back to his reading.

Kingsley shrugged his own broad shoulders. "Nothing. Just thinking that Helga Hufflepuff must have been one hell of a woman."

"If you say so," Quirinus said skeptically. "But I bet she had nothing on Rowena Ravenclaw."

Kingsley leaned across the table toward the other boy. "I'd take that bet, if I thought there was any way of proving it. I've heard Ravenclaw was pretty enough, but Hufflepuff --" he shook his head "-- that woman had appetites."

Quirinus grinned. "And she liked her men big and brawny. I've heard. Think you'd have been in with a chance?"

Kingsley's smile was slow and easy as he leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs. "Maybe."

"I'd rather have had Ravenclaw, myself," Quirinus said with a shake of his head. "You've gotta see her, Kings; she was quality crumpet."

Kingsley's brows knit together in puzzlement. "See her? What do you mean, Q? Where have you seen her?"

"Oh," said Quirinus, looking surprised. "But I guess you wouldn't know. There's a statue of her in the Ravenclaw common room. Don't you have one of Hufflepuff?"

He shook his head. "I don't think there's any representation of her still around, aside from the Chocolate Frog cards, and those weren't done until centuries after she died."

"I'll show you the Ravenclaw statue if you like." Quirinus half-rose from his seat.

"Lead the way," said Kingsley, closing his book.

Kingsley viewed the statue with disappointment. "She's pretty enough about the face, I guess," he allowed. "But she's too skinny to be really beautiful. No hips at all, and hardly any tits."

A couple of Ravenclaws seated around the hearth scowled at him, and Quirinus looked as though he might agree with their sentiments.

"What?" Kingsley grinned. "So I like a woman I can find in the dark. Skinny girls just seem too fragile; I'd be afraid of breaking them in half. Give me Hufflepuff any day."

"But you don't even know what she looked like," Quirinus argued.

"I know she had to have more meat on her bones than that," he replied, inclining his head toward the statue. "She could hardly have had less."

"I guess," said Quirinus, still looking affronted at this slight to the founder of his house.

The question of what Helga Hufflepuff might have looked like stayed with Kingsley through the days and weeks of his research, and he found he could not read about her exploits without trying to conjure her in his mind. If they had met, would he have liked what he saw? Would she? Why was he even wondering these things about a woman almost a thousand years dead and in her tomb?

The thought would not leave him, though, and as time passed, it became almost an obsession. Somewhere, there had to be a representation of her, he decided. The school was enormous, and no one knew all of its twists and turns and secret corners. Somewhere in the castle would be the face and body of the woman who haunted his thoughts from the distant past.

He roamed the corridors, examining statues and tapestries, exploring towers and dungeons, and seeking the secret passages she had supposedly created, but to no avail. He had his head behind a tapestry, rapping on a stone wall, when old Professor Midgen found him.

"Is that Shacklebolt?" he asked in his creaky, old voice, and Kingsley bumped his head on a torch bracket in his hasty retreat.

"Fu -- ow," he said, pressing a hand to his ear. "Sorry, Professor. I was just --"

"Have you lost something, Shacklebolt?" Professor Midgen squinted nearsightedly around.

"No, Professor. I was --"

And then it came to him. If anyone in this school could help him in his quest, it would be old Professor Midgen, who was, after all, head of Hufflepuff house.

"I was looking for Helga Hufflepuff."

Professor Midgen chuckled dustily. "Well, you won't find her here, my boy. Old Helga's been gone a long time."

"I know, Professor. I was just wondering if there was a statue or something of her around somewhere, like the one the Ravenclaws have in their common room."

"Perhaps." Professor Midgen looked thoughtful for a moment. "There is a -- a sculpture, I suppose you would call it. Whether it is Helga Hufflepuff or not, I could not say with any certainty, but that is the tale that has been passed down through the centuries."

"Where is it, Sir?" he asked eagerly. "May I see it?"

Professor Midgen beamed. "I would take you to see it now, Shacklebolt, but I'm just on my way to take tea with the Headmaster."

"Well, if you'd just tell me where it is, I could --"

"I'm afraid that is quite impossible, my boy." The old man shook his head. "It's in the staff room, you see, and students are not permitted to enter unaccompanied by a member of staff. No, some other time, I think, Shacklebolt."

"Oh," Kingsley said, disappointed. "Thanks, Professor. Some other time would be great."

"Don't mention it, lad." The elderly professor patted the arm, beaming. "Remind me another day."

"I'll do that, Sir."

He moved down the darkened corridor off the Entrance Hall, quiet as a shadow, his excellent night vision making wandlight unnecessary. All the skills he had practiced in the hope that, one day, they would stand him in good stead as an Auror, made him virtually undetectable. But as he approached his goal, one obstacle still lay in his path.

A pair of stone gargoyles crouched on either side of the staff room door, glowering at him out of the darkness. Unlike the gargoyle which protected the way to the Headmaster's office, however, these did not block the entrance. Kingsley took a deep breath and stepped between them.

"Not supposed to go in there, are you?" one of them grumbled.

"Students!" declared the other. "No respect at all."

"How are we ever supposed to get our beauty sleep with you lot traipsing around at all hours?" inquired the first.

"Are you going to stop me going in?" asked Kingsley, one hand on his wand, the other hesitating in mid-reach toward the door handle.

"What would be the point?" the first gargoyle asked in martyred tones. "It would only cause a fuss. Besides, there's nothing of value in there."

"That we know of," added the second gargoyle. "We've never been in, of course. Seems like we're the only ones who haven't."

"Then what are you here for?" asked Kingsley. "Added snark? Or just to look pretty?"

"Ooh, hear him!" declared the second gargoyle, eyes rolling grittily. "They all think they're so clever."

"We are here," intoned the first with some asperity, "to protect the professors' student-free time. As there are no professors currently using the room, why should we go above and beyond the call of duty? Enter if you must."

"Just don't make a mess," added the second. "Or they'll have us guarding the kitchens next. Coprolite⁽¹⁾, but I hate house-elves!"

"Cheeky little buggers," agreed the first. "And they never dust properly behind one's ears."

Kingsley let his hand fall to the brass door handle, and left them to their stoney grumbling.

The aged wood paneling, coupled with the small, high windows, made the room seem even darker than the corridor had been. It was only once the door closed behind him that it seemed prudent to light his wand. The magical light cast its glow over the walls and furnishings, and led him at last to a branch of candles standing on one of the tables, which he lit with a quick fire charm. Tucking his wand away again, he made a circuit of the room, carrying the candles high to make the most of the available light, seeking out a feminine shape in the gloom.

The room was large, and it was several minutes before he found it, fixed to a pedestal tucked away in a niche almost hidden behind an old wardrobe. The candlelight flickered over the ancient surface, worn smooth of any feature or detail, which retained only the vaguest suggestion of a human face, indistinct, as if glimpsed through a veil. Whether she had been sculpted clothed or nude was no longer clear. All that was left were curves and shadows; an ancient promise of bounty long since fulfilled.

He gazed at her, glorying in his discovery. This was Helga, he was certain. At long last, he had found her, and she was every bit as beautiful as he had hoped. He longed to touch her -- to feel smooth flesh against his palms. He raised a hand to her face, knowing he would feel only cold stone.

She was warm to the touch. Kingsley felt as if he moved in a dream, delighted to find not the cold marble he had expected at all, but gleaming ivory. Life seemed still to glow just beneath the surface.

The shifting, flickering light danced over enticing curves, creating the illusion movement, as though the woman here represented stretched languorously across the centuries to captivate him with the sway of her hips and the swell of her breasts. Her body's surface was luminous beneath his dark fingers. It was easy to imagine in the ivory, the silken texture of her skin.

He let his hands wander over the swells and hollows of her body, imagining flowing red hair, a spray of freckles, laughing, mischievous eyes and soft, full flesh under his hands. But all the wishing in the world could not make this creature of light and ivory real. Gamp's First Law declared human life impossible to create by magic.

Nevertheless, he settled his hands around her waist, and bent his head to whisper in her ear.

"Come to me, Helga," he murmured, voice low and compelling. "Show me your favour."

Perhaps what happened next was a waking dream, or perhaps it was only the overactive imagination and desire of a seventeen-year-old boy. The ivory shivered briefly under his hands, and a teasing voice seemed to speak inside his head.

It's been long and long since I was paid proper court by such a fine young man, it said. I've been waiting for you.

"I'm here now," he said softly. "I've been searching for you for a long time."

You have a nice touch, my Elsker⁽²⁾. Close your eyes.

He obeyed, long lashes fluttering against his cheek as his hands began to wander again. At the tips of his fingers, the ivory seemed to give, supple as flesh, and he thought he felt the silken strands of her hair whisper against his face, full of the scent of green, growing things.

A breast was warm and heavy for a moment in his palm, and he moaned softly, feeling himself becoming hard. There was a hand at his flies, and he was not entirely certain it was his. He did not open his eyes to find out as his trousers loosened and were tugged out of the way. Then there were fingers caressing him just right, and he was too distracted to notice whether or not a warm mouth brushed against his own.

He pressed his face to her neck, tasting ancient ivory and salt and feminine skin, his fingers seeming sometimes to skate over a hard surface, and sometimes to dig hungrily into pliant flesh. As he moved against her, though, he knew with certainty when his cock touched heated skin and feminine curls.

He ground into her thigh, groping in vain for what he had just touched, but when his fingers slid over the curve of her belly, they found her thighs smooth and unyielding. Yet he felt flesh against other portions of his anatomy, and he groaned his frustration.

"Please, Helga. Please, I want you --"

A musical chuckle seemed to shiver down his spine, and he felt the hand that caressed him drawing him to her. Her thighs parted and his cock found what his hands could not as he slowly penetrated her welcoming heat.

In that moment, she was flesh wherever he touched, from the hungry mouth against his own to the rounded buttocks that filled his hands to the fingers digging into his shoulders to the slick, warm place where she enveloped him. For one moment in time, they moved together, making no distinction between the possible and the impossible. Somehow, she was there. Somehow, he had won her.

That's it, Elsker, she murmured in his mind. Give me everything you have.

The low moan in her voice pushed him over the edge, and with a triumphant cry, he trust deeply into her, shuddering his release. Supple legs twined around his waist, and her joyous response seemed to rattle the stones of the wall at her back.

"Thank you," he whispered, lips brushing the smooth ivory of her brow.

It was my pleasure, Elsker. Her voice was faint now, fading from his mind. Thank you for seeking me out.

When he opened his eyes at last, he found himself sprawled in an overstuffed armchair, facing the niche which held a statue vaguely feminine in shape. The candles had burned low in their holder on the nearby table.

He sat up, tucking in his robes and wondering what had just happened. It was very late, he judged. Well past time for him to find his way back to bed. He would have to ponder the meaning of it all later.

Before blowing out the candles, he cast one last look at the statue. It might have been a trick of the light, but for a split second, he thought he saw the shadow of a satisfied smile flicker across its face.

As he disappeared down the night-dark corridor, silently as he had arrived, one of the gargoyles cocked its head.

"Did he actually do what I think he just did?"

"You felt it, too, eh?" the other one said, flexing its massive paws.

The first gargoyle chortled. "I think every stone in the castle felt it."

"Think he knows?" asked the second one.

"Probably not," grunted the first. "Inanimatmagi⁽³⁾ are rare enough that he might not even have heard of it. Don't think we've had one here in a hundred years or more."

"Who was that? Pygmalion Cobble, wasn't it?" The gargoyle gave a gravely chuckle. "Got off with nearly every statue in the place, as I remember it."

"I do not recall," the first gargoyle said stiffly.

"Really?" the second one grinned. "You seemed to enjoy it at the time."

"I'm sure I've no idea what you're talking about," said the first. "And no wish to either."

Stone shifted as the second shrugged its massive shoulders. "Have it your way, then. But if young Shacklebolt comes back, just remember; it's my turn this time. You had yours last century."

1. Coprolite: Fossilised poo.

2. Elsker: Norse for "lover".

3. Inanimatmagi: Wizards with the ability to bring temporary life to inanimate objects.

One Hell of a Womans © 2007 Skjaere