Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe belongs entirely to J. K. Rowling.
Had She Been Watching
Minerva sighed, slipped her glasses from her nose, and rubbed her eyes. A glance at the clock showed 2 a.m. She straightened the stack of graded essays on the coffee table, placed the red ink and quill neatly on top, and rose from her reclined position, stretching in a manner akin to that of her feline form. Striding across her room, she shed her winter cloak, robe, and slip, depositing them tidily at the bathroom door. She started the shower, then removed her underclothes and stood nude, a recollection of Botticelli's Venus, as she waited for the water to heat.
She stepped under the spray of warm water and grimaced as the heat pricked at her tense shoulders. Too much work, she thought with another sigh. Too many meetings, too many essays, too many late nights, and far too many early mornings. But the real problem, she reflected as she shampooed her hair, was the Ministry of Magic. Too many regulations. She rinsed her hair, then stepped out of the shower, gooseflesh rising on her arms and steam rising from her shoulders as she encountered the cool air of her living quarters. She had just slipped into a long silk nightgown and turned back her sheets when, suddenly, there was a knock at the door. She hastily drew on her flannel bathrobe and answered.
She was rather sorry she had when she found herself nose-to-nose with a rather irate Severus Snape. In one claw-like hand he clutched the slim upper arm of a terrified and disheveled Hermione Granger. "Why, Professor, whatever is the matter—" Minerva began.
"Student in the library after hours. Seeing as you're the head of house. . ." He thrust Hermione unceremoniously towards Minerva, who caught and steadied her before she could fall. Then, without another word of explanation, he turned on his heel and stalked away.
"Blasted man," Minerva muttered inaudibly. "Couldn't even wait until morning." A small groan from her student reminded her that she was still supporting Hermione. "Hermione?" The girl's weight sagged in her arms. "Hermione?" She realized with shock that the girl had fainted. Quickly lifting her in her arms, and noticing suddenly how little there was to lift, Minerva placed Hermione on the settee. She draped an thin afghan over her fragile body and stroked her alabaster forehead gently, lovingly. She simultaneously conjuring a basin of cool water and a washrag. After a minute of pressing the cool cloth to Hermione's face, she was rewarded by a slight fluttering of her eyelashes.
"Hermione? Hermione, dear, wake up." She refused to let a frightened quiver creep into her voice. Hermione blinked blearily for a moment, then focused on Minerva's worry-creased face.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her dark eyes large in her gaunt and tired face.
Deciding to address the easiest questions first, Minerva asked, "Hermione, why were you in the library at two-thirty in the morning?"
"Studying," Hermione murmured.
"Hermione, studying is one thing, but studying until two-thirty in the morning is another thing altogether."
"Have to stay on top of everything," she managed, her voice slightly slurred with fatigue.
"Hermione, you currently have above one hundred percent in all of your classes. There is only one week of the term left. Surely you're not worried about your marks?"
"I don't want to let y. . ." She swallowed. "Let them down."
"Who could you possibly let down, Hermione?" Minerva asked, incredulous.
"The person I love. . ."
Minerva, having almost no experience regarding adolescent romance, realized that this particular topic was definitely out of her element. Somehow surprised and strangely hurt that Hermione should be in love with someone and that she should know nothing of it, she decided to try another question. "When did you last eat?"
"A few days ago. . . Too busy. . ."
With the third sigh of the night, this one distressed, Minerva summoned her house elf and was presented with thick soup and bread with a tall glass of milk. She helped Hermione into a sitting position, then gave her a spoon. When Hermione's hands refused to stop trembling, Minerva took the spoon back and expertly began to feed her the soup.
Between small sips of soup, Hermione said with a small, weak smile, "You're good at this. Taking care of people."
"When I was much younger, I was married briefly." Minerva's eyes darkened. "My husband was in an tragic accident the summer after we were wed. He lingered for two months, then. . ." Her voice had become slightly thick with emotion; she cleared her throat and focused again on transporting the soup from the bowl to Hermione's pale lips. "I suppose I'm saying that I've had a bit of practice."
Hermione looked upset. She swallowed and said, "I'm sorry, Professor; I didn't know."
"No one else does. Not even my colleagues." Minerva's tone was determinedly factual, though her eyes were still soft. Had she been watching Hermione instead of focusing on tearing off bits of the crusty bread, she would have seen an unreadable expression cross the young woman's face. It was both elation and sorrow, hope and hopelessness.
When the meal was finished, Hermione's eyes were a little brighter, her pallid face a little less ghostly. "Thank you, Professor. I'm so sorry to have troubled you so late. . . Or, rather, early," she corrected herself. She made as though to stand, but Minerva discouraged that notion quickly.
"You do look considerably better, but I still think that you are in no condition to walk to the Gryffindor tower. We can't have you fainting halfway there, only to be abruptly returned to my chambers by the infamous Professor Snape," she said, her eyes sparkling slightly with mischief and fun.
More seriously, she said, "Perhaps you will stay here for the night? You may have my bed; I've had plenty of practice napping on the settee between grading horrendously dull first-year essays." She raised an eyebrow, and Hermione giggled.
"Thank you, Professor," she said. Had Minerva been watching instead of turning to clear away the dishes from the meal, she might have seen Hermione's eyes glow for a moment with a certain adoration, a certain wistfulness.
Several minutes later, Hermione stood, leaning on Minerva's shoulder to support her wobbling knees. Though the room was by no means large, it took a great deal of effort from both women to maneuver Hermione's slim frame into the tall four-poster. Minerva was caught off balance as Hermione's weight shifted and momentarily fell against the young woman, pinning her against the crisp sheets.
She moved quickly, yet somehow reluctantly, away. Had she been watching instead of turning off the light and settling onto the settee, she would have seen the expression of yearning in Hermione's beautiful dark eyes. "Good night, Hermione," she said softly.