In the end it was a fine agreement, Hermione thought as she silently made her way through the castle just after midnight. Neither briefly mentioned, nor discussed, the rules of their encounters were nevertheless as clear as day, an unspoken agreement forged by nights of passion that none of the women knew the count of. It had started in Hermione's last year and continued occasionally during her university education away from Hogwarts. Now that Hermione was back, holding the position of Transfiguration Professor, it was almost like before. Except that Hermione felt a power she had not felt during her student days. A power stemming from the fact that although Minerva was now the Headmistress of Hogwarts and very powerful indeed, Hermione had returned as more of an equal, a Professor, confident in being closer than anyone else to the strict Headmistress.
She let herself into Minerva's private chambers through a hidden door charmed to only let her in. Without looking, she knew Minerva had not come back from her office yet, and settled for unbuttoning just the right amount of buttons on her oversized shirt, lighting a fire in the empty fireplace and settling down among the cushions in the sofa, waiting.
Half an hour later, Minerva returned, looking tired and troubled. Without talking, Hermione embraced her, kissed her cheek, and returned to the sofa to conjure a bottle of wine and two glasses. Behind her back, Minerva smiled softly at her ministrations and removed her heavy robes and with them, she tried to shed the weight of all the pressing matters waiting for her in the morning. Sitting down beside her former student, Minerva looked into her eyes and smirked at what she saw there. The dark glint occasionally showing in Hermione's brown eyes told her the young woman had more than drinking wine on her mind.
Moments later, they were ravishing each other; a hand, tongues, touches, they were everywhere and nowhere at once. Hermione's nails scratched along Minerva's arms as the older witch touched her where she needed it most. Moans, whimpers, whispers of 'more', soft skin against skin and Hermione wondered at how it never got old, how it made her feel as alive, as aflame, as the first time. Later still, she marvelled at her favourite sound; Minerva throwing her head back and moaning her name as the muscles of her stomach clenched and her thighs trembled. Minerva's cheeks the colour of pink roses, a sheen of sweat on her breastbone. Just her and Minerva, together, their bodies agreeing on something their minds had yet to acknowledge fully. In all its unconventional simplicity, their agreement was marvellous.
For the first time, Hermione spent the night. Curled up under a soft tartan cover, the two witches found that their bodies moulded into each other as easily and naturally as conversation flowed between them in waking hours. And a month later, Minerva made Hermione breakfast in bed, presented with a single red rose. As it turned out, there really was no need to discuss anything.