A/N: I am so aware that I should really be working on my other stories, but I promise that this is a short one. A longer one-shot if you will, and like the other stories... it's an AU of all my other AU's in which we receive a glimpse to answer the eternal HG/MM "what if?"

J.K. Rowling owns everything in this story. I'm just here to imagine. :)

Enjoy!

"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…"

Hermione Granger sat curled on a loveseat beneath a window, a gentle breeze playing lightly with the collar of her white sleeveless blouse.

The summer of '98 was proving to be unseasonably hot and even though she had retreated to the cooler recesses of the library, Hermione was still sweating lightly as she tried not to let her eyes succumb to the soporific combination of heat and the soothing words of Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Inhaling deeply, Hermione smiled… pleased by the enrapturing scents of freshly mown grass, heather, and sun-drenched wildflowers drifting in from a crack in the window. It was growing later in the summer and for the first time since the end of the War, she finally felt as though she could actually relax. The bees hummed quietly just outside the diamond panes of glass and at glancing to the side, Hermione's gaze was met by the soft watercolor of brilliant greens and blue sky of the rolling Highland meadows.

Though part of her was eager to get out and explore the grounds of the McGonagall Manse, she was surprised by how content she was to simply enjoy the ambiance of the old house. Chuckling lightly, Hermione shook her head and realized that it was the most content she had felt since long before the War… and how ironic that it would at her former professor's childhood home. Had someone told her she would be recovering from the Final Battle at the formidable Headmistress of Hogwart's private Manse, Hermione would have scoffed and rolled her eyes.

How much things have changed…

A soft noise caused her to lift her chin slightly, her eyes widening in surprise as a thin elegant arm passed into her field of vision bearing a tall glass of lemonade. The long fingertips left small dainty prints on the chilled glass and Hermione smiled up into the serene features of Minerva McGonagall herself.

"Thank you, Professor," she replied automatically, taking a grateful sip. The cool liquid spilled down her throat, flooding her tastebuds with the sharp bite of lemon mixed with a hint of sugar and the subtle aftertaste of rosemary. Delicious. With her eyes trained upon neat rows of poetry before her, Hermione almost missed the split-second pause as the elegant woman began to turn away.

"I'm sorry. Thank you, Minerva," she amended guiltily, lifting her focus to see the woman in question turn back with a small half smile. In the noon shadows of the library, the sculpted features were limned in shades of soft blue and Hermione couldn't help but notice how lovely the woman appeared in her simple Muggle clothes.

Inwardly, she cursed. They were going on their third day at the Manse together and she still kept flubbing the name.

The one name you've only waited seven years to say...

"It's quite all right. I realize it will take a bit of time to get used to," the witch replied softly, her beautiful features softening as she quietly plucked a thin book off a shelf and moved to turn away. Likely she would retreat back to her private study for the remainder of the afternoon until it cooled off somewhat. Then perhaps they would go for a walk around the grounds at twilight.

"Yes, though I much prefer 'Minerva'..." Hermione murmured quietly, tucking her feet beneath her as she returned to her book. "It's the most beautiful name I've ever heard."

She gave a small sigh and returned to her book, oblivious to the quiet shock pulsing through the woman on the other side of the room.

"I love thee with a passion put to use...
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith."

Frozen near the bookshelf, Minerva literally stopped and turned to gaze at the younger witch before the window. The bright sunshine was streaming in through the arched window behind her, causing the messy pile of curls atop the young woman's head to glow nearly white in the direct exposure.

She waited, somehow imagining that the witch would chuckle after her quiet comment. But she didn't. The pale skin between dark, swept eyebrows puckered slightly and full lips began mouthing words as the amber eyes drank in the words on the page… and a moment later, Hermione was back to reading, oblivious to the brief stutter she had incited in Minerva's unflappable calm.

Minerva found herself quietly backpedaling, moving out of the library with quiet assuredness even as she puzzled over the unexpected comment upon her name.

It was a simple compliment… nothing more.

Shaking her head, Minerva moved quietly through the familiar halls, lingering toward the shadows where the air was a bit cooler. Though she didn't regret inviting Hermione to the Manse, she didn't feel comfortable changing into the thin under robes that she would have preferred given the stifling weather. They were much too casual and she was only still recovering from her own surprise that the young witch had even accepted her invitation.

Sighing, Minerva tucked her book under one arm and unbuttoned the cuffs of her white oxford shirt as she began ascending the oak staircase toward her study. Even the well-worn wood seemed too hot to protest and the typically loud squeaks and groans were little more than feeble murmurs in the silent house.

"Bloody weather," she mumbled, shifting her hands to unbutton her collar. Though she detested the cold, the heat was almost worse - Minerva felt flushed and feverish and likely as lethargic as Hermione had looked. She frowned down at the front of her chest. Could she unbutton three? Perhaps that was a bit too much.

Leaving the collar slightly open, Minerva sighed as her fingers rubbed the back of her neck, loosening a few of the hairpins that were digging into her skull. It was much too warm to let her hair down, though in the confines of her personal study, she considered letting the heavy weight rest in a long braid. Yes, that was a compromise she could live with. Besides, she doubted that Hermione would pay much attention - she hadn't commented upon her lack of robes and Minerva took that as a positive sign that the younger witch was finally beginning to relax.

The windows at the top of the stairs were cracked slightly and Minerva waved them shut, loathe to let in any more of the sweltering heat. Below, the green expanse of the grounds looked rather parched and Minerva stood at the window for a moment, at once acutely aware of how unchanged her childhood stomping grounds appeared… she could have been seven, seventeen, or thirty-seven and the picturesque sight would have been the same.

The only discernible difference were her own feelings, rumbling disconcertingly beneath her serene exterior.

Hermione.

The witch was still far too thin.

Though the young woman's youthful glow had returned somewhat in the past several weeks, her cheeks had long since lost the roundness of childhood and her body remained far too lean for Minerva's liking. Those months on the run had taken their toll and Minerva had been shocked when she had first glimpsed Hermione in the corridors of Hogwarts in the maelstrom before the Final Battle. The witch had looked little better than a skeleton and it was one of the first obvious clues that spoke to the trio's arduous journey that had led them so far from home.

Following the earliest repairs to Hogwarts, Minerva had been pleased when the witch had begun taking her meals in the Great Hall with the rest of the volunteers, though she had noted how little the woman seemed to eat.

She had started by pressing Hermione into sharing dinner in her office several nights a week - insisting that the witch clean her plate before they delved into more casual conversations that had nothing to do with the repair work, volunteer efforts, or endless to-do lists that seemed to grow longer with each successive day after the Final Battle. After awhile the gesture had become a tradition and Minerva had to admit it was one she had quickly grown to appreciate.

Hermione had been an invaluable help in those first tenuous weeks after Voldemort's defeat. Minerva had been rather surprised by the young woman's insistence in helping, though as the weeks had unfolded she had quickly realized that the young woman had been using the work as an escape form of therapy to recover from the War. Though she remained alert and distantly concerned, Minerva couldn't begrudge her that…

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had seemed to follow suit and Minerva had been pleased to see the trio of friends out and about in the castle, assisting her colleagues with the repairs, and occasionally laughing with one another in the simplistic way she remembered from their years at Hogwarts.

Minerva pressed a palm to the cool glass of the window before her, reveling in the momentary respite from the heat before she continued to her study - lifting her fingers to the exposed skin of her neck to offer some of the cooler temperature to her own body.

The simple white room at the top of the stairs seemed far too bright for her liking and Minerva quickly charmed the drapes to close out the glare of the midday sun. As the study slid into cooler shadows, she sighed - pulling out her hairpins in earnest and allowing the heavy curtain of hair spill over her shoulders.

Setting her book on the dark mahogany desk, Minerva paced a small circuit of the room, breathing in the familiar combination of old tomes, parchment, and a sweet musty smell specific to the study itself. It had been her father's at one point, a great many years ago… and despite herself, Minerva couldn't bear to transform the study into a room more suited to her own tastes.

Over the years, her own books began to replace the Muggle texts, though she had left one row untouched above the fireplace in the corner. Her eyes flickered over the familiar texts - books of hymns, philosophy, the history of the Kirk, and much older books in Hebrew and Latin that she couldn't read. The small offering to her father's memory was contained by two bookends she had given her mother a long time ago during her first few years at Hogwarts - two small marble lions, their white paws pressed against the old books in a stony demonstration of strength.

She settled on the small loveseat along the wall, her book of prose already forgotten.

Braiding her hair absently, Minerva attempted to pinpoint why she felt so restless.

The heat was cloying, yes… and her body was too warm to be comfortable, but rather than being able to settle in and curl up with a book as Hermione was doing, Minerva felt uncharacteristically jittery.

Filius' meddling had led her to this unexpected vacation and while understood his insistence rationally, she could help but feel out of her element. Why had she invited Miss Granger - Hermione - to her childhood home?

There had been a number of surprised expressions when Minerva had let that slip, but it had been worth the few snatches of gossip after she had given Hermione a tour of the house and found the young witch's dark eyes shining in way that she hadn't glimpsed since long before the War.

Hermione deserves a break just as much as the rest of us, Minerva mused quietly, her fingers deftly tying off the end of the braid with practiced precision.

Assuredly, that had been her reasoning.

The young witch had no family left and neither did Minerva, really. It was one of the many similarities they had discovered during their late night conversations and while she had found her heart going out to the young witch, surprisingly Minerva was finding it harder and harder to look at Hermione through the lens of a former professor, or even mentor.

The woman was still young, yes... but she possessed a unique depth of soul that continually surprised Minerva. Hermione was wise beyond her years and it was clear that she was most definitely a woman...

Minerva shifted at her sudden turn of thought, brow wrinkling as she considered why that small fact seemed so critically important to her all of a sudden.

I suppose because I would never invite a former student to the Manse... but I would invite a close friend.

Yes.

Perhaps that was it.

Hermione had somehow managed to slide past the awkward and uncomfortable no-man's land that Minerva frequently found herself accessing whenever it came to interacting with former students. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were there now to some extent and Minerva bemusedly watched as they attempted to renegotiate their relationship to her with the sudden absence of Hogwarts and classes as frame to place her in.

But the young witch was different.

The adjustment to addressing her without a title was still in progress, though Minerva found that she suddenly had an aversion to Hermione calling her anything but her given name.

They addressed each other with the familiar ease of equals and Minerva had been shocked on more than one occasion when Hermione had dared to argue against her - let alone argue well, to both her delight and utter irritation. And unlike her friends, Hermione seemed to intuitively understand Minerva's need for clear distinctive lines between her public and private life. She was never offended whenever Minerva was brusque with her in the Great Hall or the presence of her colleagues. And she knew exactly how to slide into their comfortable teasing banter as soon as the doors to Minerva's office were securely closed.

Sniffing lightly, Minerva spread her arms across the back of the worn loveseat and took a deep breath.

Her friendship with Hermione was indeed unexpected... but as she felt her lips curl into a soft smile, Minerva couldn't help but feel that it was simply meant to be.

And it wasn't her place to question the inevitable.

Hermione stretched and yawned, suddenly having reached her limit of Victorian poetry for the day.

She rubbed the heel of one hand against one eye, biting back another yawn before flicking her wand and banishing the book of prose back to its original space. Leaning back, she peered out the window, noticing that the sun had deepened into a richer shade of gold, though the ambient temperature still seemed to be as uncomfortably hot as ever.

Hermione stretched her legs out, wishing for the umpteenth time that she had brought something in-between her jeans and jean shorts. She supposed that Minerva would probably have accepted the shorts in stride, though she had thus far refused to put them on for fear of upsetting the woman's sense of propriety.

Perhaps I'll ask her to help me transfigure them later… Hermione mused absently, reaching up to brush a stray curl out of her face. Whether it was the heat or having sat for too many hours in the same place, she suddenly found herself rather jittery.

Looking around the darkened library, Hermione sighed and realized that she truly had reached her reading limit for the time being. Her body itched to get up and do something else. Sniffing lightly, she could already imagine the teasing that Ron and Harry would have gotten into had they heard her admit such a concept out loud. Hermione Granger fed up with reading?! Mark it on the calendar! It's a day for the history books, no doubt!

Smiling to herself, Hermione sat forward, scrubbing her hands over her face as she considered what to do next. She pressed both hands together and rested her chin upon her thumbs as her eyes roamed over the space before her.

Part of her wanted to wander upstairs and see what Minerva was up to, however the upper floor of the Manse seemed to be the elder witch's domain and she didn't want to disturb Minerva from whatever it was that she was doing. The witch deserved a break and Hermione was loathe to draw her away from her precious personal time.

In fact, she was still a bit disbelieving that Minerva had even extended the invitation to her home at all.

Flopping back against the loveseat, Hermione twisted slightly to rest her head against a folded elbow as she gazed out the windows.

"It's too hot to go outside," she whispered to herself despairingly. That leaves the Manse, I guess.

Sighing again, Hermione rose, fixing her wrinkled blouse and jeans with a swish of her wand.

It was a bit strange to have to consider her own appearance again after so many months of not caring, however a small part of her was glad that she was receiving the reminder from Minerva. While she knew that the older witch prided herself on her polished appearance, she never pressed those same expectations upon Hermione… rather, Hermione found herself aspiring to match the collected poise that Minerva seemed exude at all times.

In fact, there was an ease to their entire relationship that she never would have anticipated… and in the months following the Final Battle, Hermione had quickly become accustomed to the Minerva's steadfast presence - her unflappable calm, wickedly dry sense of humor, and the smooth manner in which she negotiated most aspects of her public life.

She had found herself impressed with Minerva's easy style of leadership as they had chipped away at the repairs to the castle… the witch seemed to command respect from everyone, and Hermione had grown used to the deferential way that others seemed to treat Minerva whenever she was within earshot. It was reassuring, yes… but inspiring, and Hermione was surprised at how fulfilled she felt by being able to share in a measure of the process.

They had worked rather closely in the first several weeks after the Final Battle. Hermione had taken it upon herself to organize the ebb and flow of available volunteers while keeping a list of projects that required helping hands. Minerva had slowly begun to trust her with more and more responsibilities until it was understood by most everyone that if the Headmistress was unavailable, then Hermione was their next best option.

However, beyond the satisfaction she found in assisting at the castle, Hermione had found herself genuinely enjoying her one-on-one time with Minerva in a way that somehow vaulted past the confines of a professional friendship into a more nebulous realm that she still wasn't entirely sure how to define.

They had shared many private moments together during the reconstruction and Hermione had quickly learned that the witch was far more emotional than she let on to others…

Minerva could be incredibly petulant, passionate, and argumentative - all in ways that Hermione found rather engaging and endearing, and for the most part they seemed to compliment each other rather well.

They had held plenty of their own debates, of course - setting aside work and relief efforts to talk about contemporary theories in Transfiguration… but also breezing through Arithmancy, Potions, and even more obscure topics like Muggle politics, science, and history. Minerva was opinionated, though unexpectedly flexible whenever they delved into a realm with which she was not well-versed.

Hermione had been surprised on more than one occasion when the witch had deferred to her to provide explanation of unfamiliar topics - once asking after a recent development in nuclear physics and another time regarding a new branch of educational theory in America that sought to include more of the arts into daily classroom practices.

Minerva was insatiably curious about most topics, Hermione had discovered… and she had made it a secret past time to draw more and more obscure references into their chats, eager to hear the woman's thoughts… admittedly, if only to hear the pleasing Scottish brogue grow more and more pronounced as the witch allowed herself to unwind.

Hermione smiled to herself as she reminisced over several of their late night conversations, allowing her fingertips to trail along the spines of books as she meandered through the library. The ambient heat made her feel somewhat lethargic and for the moment she was content to remain inside her own thoughts.

Harry and Ron had simply shaken their heads whenever Hermione had tried to explain this other side of Minerva to them. Until they witnessed it she knew they would have difficulty seeing the witch as anything but the formidable Headmistress of Hogwarts, though they had taken her new friendship in stride.

Her fingers snagged on rather large tome that looked to be written in Gaelic, pausing as she recalled one conversation in particular that had reassured her that her friends had understood.

She, Harry, and Ron were sitting in the newly repaired Viaduct Courtyard, watching the sunset as they sipped on bottles of butterbeer that Aberforth had graciously brought to "assist" in the repair efforts. Hermione had giggled quietly at witnessing the thinly veiled expression of disapproval on Minerva's face, though the witch had merely raised an eyebrow when Hermione had been the first to step forward and pluck three bottles from the wooden cartons.

This had prompted their current conversation and Hermione was attempting to rationalize her new relationship with Minerva… slightly afraid that the boys were going to object to how she was spending the majority of her free time.

Harry was regarding her with a neutral expression, while Ron merely shrugged, taking a healthy swig of butterbeer before fixing her with a quizzical look.

"Well blimey, I reckon that neither of us can keep up with you half the time… it seems obvious that McG would become your friend now that you've graduated and all. I'm sure she needs a friend too... after Dumbledore, y'know…passed on," he said, twirling the glass bottle in his fingers absently.

Harry was nodding in agreement.

"You can be friends with whoever you want, Hermione. I hope you don't think you need our permission. I mean… I know how much McGonagall means to you. I'm just glad you've found someone who shares so many of your interests," he said, leaning back and resting his head against a stone pillar.

Harry's features were open and calm as he looked at her, while Ron's mouth twisted into his trademark crooked smile. Both of their faces were wreathed in the reddish glow of sunset and Hermione felt her eyes fill with tears as she was overcome with a swell of emotion.

Both Ron and Harry had grown so much in the last year… and after a short moment of warring with her emotions, Hermione lunged forward and enveloped the both of them in a fierce hug, even as they choked and spluttered on their drinks.

"Thank you guys... " she whispered, her voice suddenly thick. "It really means the world to me that you understand. I just didn't want you to think that I was planning to leave you behind."

They pushed her away good naturedly and laughed.

"'Course not!"

"We know that!"

"Righ'... and anyway, no matter what you do with Ol' McG, that's your business," Ron said, waggling his eyebrows. He nudged Harry with an elbow and they both cracked up, clinking bottles cheerfully as Hermione immediately frowned.

"She is not old, Ron!" she admonished, whacking him upside the head as Harry chortled. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Both boys made eye contact and dissolved into more laughter as Hermione huffed and rolled her eyes.

"Oh, honestly!"

Hermione sniffed in amusement as she slowly drifted to peer up at a section devoted entirely to Transfiguration. While the library wasn't large by any means, it was clear that the McGonagalls had managed to use every nook and cranny to their advantage. Books lined three walls from floor-to-ceiling, even prompting the need for several ladders. There were two tall free-standing shelves in the middle of the room, and another low shelf of books beneath the bank of windows that boasted, surprisingly, an array of Muggle children's books.

Hermione let her fingertips trail along a few of the shelves as she drifted toward the open door. Beyond the library lay the main hallway, across from which was her own room, and further down the drawing room, kitchen, and formal dining and living rooms. While the Manse was quite old, it was not nearly as ostentatious as Hermione had initially imagined, and she found that she quite liked the blend of Muggle practicality and small touches of magical intervention interspersed here and there.

Both Harry and Ron had teased her mercilessly when Hermione had explained that turning down the invitation to The Burrow was nothing personal, but that she couldn't resist the opportunity to visit the mysterious McGonagall Manse.

All of the professors of Hogwarts were given a month and a half of paid vacation during the summer months, though largely everyone had given up a good portion of that time to remain at the castle and assist in the extensive repairs. Minerva had planned to stay there all summer, insisting that there was far too much work to be completed before the School could be reopened in time for the Fall Term.

Therefore, it had come as a surprise to everyone when her newly appointed Deputy, Professor Flitwick announced publicly in the Great Hall that Minerva would be on vacation for the last two weeks of July and unavailable to all. Hermione had to bite back a guffaw at the murderous expression that had graced Minerva's features, though it had instantly resolved itself when she had placed a gentle hand on the witch's knee beneath the High Table. It was a simple fact that Hermione always sat to Minerva's left at dinner.

To everyone's surprise, Minerva had merely lifted an eyebrow and given an affirmative nod. Only Hermione and Professor Flitwick knew that she had later threatened to hex him permanently if he ever tried such a stunt again. To Hermione's amusement and Minerva's dismay, the short Charms professor had simply chortled and waved a small hand, exclaiming that it would all be worth it if the Headmistress came back relaxed and refreshed. Before he had left her office, Flitwick had casually suggested that Minerva might want to bring Hermione along for company since she was clearly just as bad at taking time off.

The entire debacle had led to the rather unexpected set of circumstances that Hermione was still having a bit of difficulty believing were true. After a week of harrowing work in which nearly everyone had agreed that Minerva had become close to unbearable in her demands, Hermione had packed a few things into her beaded bag, grasped Minerva's elbow, and vanished from Hogwarts only to appear outside the wrought-iron gates of the Manse… the both of them sworn to a two-week vacation upon penalty of hexation if they returned early.

None of it had seemed real up until Hermione and Minerva had simply blinked at each other, suddenly absorbing the magnitude of their arrangement in a wave of awkward silence.

Not long after, Minerva had evolved into the consummate host - quickly giving Hermione a short tour of the entire house including free reign of the library, and simply indicating that mealtimes would be arranged on a day-to-day basis as they saw fit, though Hermione was of course free to help herself to anything she wished.

The first evening had been slightly awkward, though they had managed to regain their footing after dinner when Minerva had taken it upon herself to introduce Hermione to proper Scotch whisky ("There is no 'e', Hermione. Whiskey with an 'e' was invented by those with no taste"). There had been a lot of laughter on Hermione's part and a few chuckles on Minerva's… and suddenly, it seemed that everything would be all right.

Hermione drifted into the drawing room - pausing at the threshold as she momentarily appreciated the high ceilings and windows that were covered in slightly yellowed linen drapes. The walls were painted a pale periwinkle blue and she found herself smiling as she imagined the sconces lit and the room filled with people mingling before a dinner party.

She liked that the Manse felt somewhat lived in… it was old and dusty in places, but in a familiar way that felt nostalgic rather than empty. Hermione could almost imagine a young Minerva bounding across the hardwood hallways, her childhood brogue calling out happily as she lead her younger brothers onward to another adventure in the great green beyond.

The room seemed as though it hadn't been touched in quite some time. Hermione let her gaze meander across the walls aimlessly. A moment later, her brow furrowed as her eyes fell upon a familiar shape at the other end of the room beneath a large mirror that had been tilted to provide the illusion of more space.

How did you not notice it before?

Hermione drifted across the room as if spellbound, moving carefully around the table in the center of the room, seemingly buoyed by an invisible current that pressed her forward.

Her fingers immediately reached out to brush along the smooth black finish, taking in the feeling of cool wood and how it immediately energized her fingertips. Her lips curled as she recognized the timeless name written in burnished gold.

"Steinway," she whispered.

A moment later, Hermione was moving around to prop the top board up. A wave of her wand cleared dust from the strings and hammers and she felt herself grin as a flood of memories began impressing themselves upon her thoughts.

Feeling a familiar heady wave of anticipation, her fingers reverently lifted the fallboard and she paused a moment… the black and ivory keys waiting quietly as Hermione carefully scooted the stool back, wincing slightly as the legs skidded against the floor.

She froze for a moment, a delicious thrill of fear and excitement pulsing through her.

Unbeknownst to the majority of her wizarding friends, Hermione had once been rather proficient at playing the piano. Her parents had forced her into lessons as a five-year old, insisting that she could quit as soon as she turned fifteen. She had even continued taking lessons for a few summers during her first three years at Hogwarts before life took over and her attentions had been forced elsewhere.

Hermione could remember every song that had ever been in her repertoire and suddenly she felt a strong desire to play… already flexing her hands in anticipation of the delicious sensation of creating music through artfully placed touch.

Biting her lip, she cast a nervous glance behind her and listened for a moment… trying to discern whether or not it would be an unwelcome activity in the now-silent house.

You are being ridiculous! Minerva would never be upset with you for playing a piano! She might even enjoy it…

The last thought caused an even deeper swoop in the pit of her stomach and she took a deep breath, readjusting the stool slightly to provide a bit more leverage. The stern voice of her Russian teacher suddenly echoed in the corners of her mind and Hermione took another moment to peruse her hands carefully - another few charms quickly spelling her nails into a more proper arrangement. Nice and short leaving no room for clicking.

Hermione felt as though she were preparing for a momentous event as she lifted her sweaty fingers to the keys and carefully pressed down on the une corde pedal.

No sense in rattling the rafters.

A thought occurred and despite her anticipation, Hermione cast a Muffliato.

A moment later she cringed as the dissonant sound of untuned keys reached her ears. Closing her eyes she mumbled a quick thank-you to the Founders for having thought to check.

Well, that was close!

Immediately she frowned and withdrew her wand again. It took the better part of twenty minutes and a number of charms to re-tune the baby grand within respectable parameters, and by then Hermione realized that her fingers, hands, and arms were in desperate need of retraining.

While part of her knew she was being irrational at wanting to sound perfect from the get-go, another part was preoccupied with the thought of coaxing Minerva from wherever it was she had disappeared.

Since their arrival to the Manse, they had largely spent their time on their own aside from dinner when they reconvened to cook and share a meal. Minerva seemed to favor the upstairs part of the home - briefly, Hermione remembered seeing her bedroom and personal study, while Hermione had been happy to remain in the Library.

The previous night they had taken a short turn about the grounds after dinner, though the stifling weather had quickly proven to be a deterrent and Hermione had been relieved to return to the Manse and indulge in a cool bath.

Still… though only three days had passed since their arrival, she found that she was missing Minerva's presence and was rather eager to spend more time with the witch.

As she leaned into the familiar embrace of the piano keys, Hermione felt the familiar burn of her forearm muscles as her body began to recall its scales. She drilled herself with the unrelenting precision that Galina had demanded in her youth, and while her left hand was more sluggish than she remembered, Hermione was surprised at how remarkably invigorated she felt at hearing the bright tones and pleasant harmonies coalesce into a blanket of sound that seemed to soothe her soul.

She was also surprised to find that she was genuinely smiling.

First came an old favorite - the third movement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 17 in D-minor. Her teeth clenched on the recapitulation of the theme, but the brief resolution into the major key still made her heart lift and Hermione was rather pleased at how swiftly her body compensated to add tone, quality, and volume.

It seems you haven't lost everything...

By the time she breezed through the first movement of the ever-challenging "Pathétique," Hermione realized that she was ready for an audience. Provided she was willing, of course.

Unbuttoning the top few buttons of her blouse, she sighed heavily and waved her wand to unstick the light fabric from her body. She had forgotten how physical playing the piano could be.

Wetting her lips slightly and she turned to face the empty threshold. From the slant of light in the hallway, Hermione guessed that it was nearing three or four in the afternoon.

"Now you can be caught," she murmured quietly to herself, already feeling a wicked thrill at the idea.

Lips curling into a smile, Hermione canceled the Muffliato and began to play in earnest.

A/N: The poem Hermione is reading at the beginning is Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.