A/N: This is a BIG EDIT. I wrote this fic really fast to just get the idea OUT but there were so many things I wanted to fix...more than I wanted to put down a new chapter or update another fic. My concept art teacher likes to say "Put crap in, get crap out." I knew if I didn't go back and fix all the mistakes and things I didn't like, I would be setting myself up for an unsustainable fic. In some ways, the process of revision is more challenging than the writing itself.
A/N II: So crazy that I'm coming back to this so many years years down the line. This edit may be even bigger, in fact. All this being said, I think the HG/MM part of fanfiction could use a little reviving!
After the battle ended, Hermione retreated into herself. She rarely spoke at meals, seldom answered questions in class, and spent very little time in the company of the few students who still attended classes in what was left of Hogwarts. Some evenings, if she wasn't repairing the castle with McGonagall and a small group of faculty, she set up a variety of objects on a table and carefully represented them using a charcoal pencil on a great big pad of paper. Amid the slow, all-consuming process of rebuilding and the lulling routine of her studies, she would find a part of Hogwarts, in its mesmerizing and ephemeral state of ruin, to capture and preserve. With deliberate strokes on toned paper, she could step outside herself and, for just a few moments, she was the room, the objects, the breeze... She was the air, the light, and the color. What is time to the seemingly immortal wood and stone? It is nothing.
Hermione never noticed when the sun set behind its bank of clouds. She planned for these moments, of course. Hermione always chose her steps back to the makeshift dormitory carefully so she could return unseen. No one had spotted her, yet.
Hermione had never alluded to her artistic ability and never incorporated it into her life in the wizarding world. In any case, whe was usually too busy at Hogwarts to complete anything more than a notebook of doodles and sketches of half-remembered thoughts and images. When Hermione had drawn through two notebooks in two months, she knew that she needed to get her supplies as soon as possible. She returned from winter break with a trunk filled with her collection of art paraphernalia that had been amassed over many, many summers. As she filled sketchbooks and finished paintings, she shrunk them down and placed them into a bag, quite similar to the beaded one she kept while on the run. Sure, it was to store them, but also to hide them. After years of being teased for being a know-it-all, a show-off, Hermione had grown deeply protective of her secret talent. Or maybe it was just that she was ashamed of holding on to a decidedly muggle pastime—her status as a muggleborn made it all the more distasteful.
It was a particularly hot evening in May. The few students, Hermione among them, who had elected to stay behind were nearing graduation. Having completed the last of her assignments early, Hermione took her pad, drawing board, and a massive box of colored pencils to a floorless yurt that functioned as a makeshift herbology greenhouse. No one would see her there. In the sticky heat of the first waves of summer, Hermione found herself pulling her hair back, taking off her stockings, and rolling up her sleeves to stay cool. Indifferent to mud or grass stains, Hermione settled herself on the mossy ground and let time and worry leave her as she began to draw.
Behind the castle walls, Minerva paced frenetically around her empty classroom, her robes flaring out behind her like a flume of squid. There had always been lots to do, but everything was different now. Too much had been ruined this war, and the Headmistress was in well over the tip of her pointed hat. Despite her closeness to Albus and her duties as deputy headmistress and head of house, Minerva now found herself swimming in an ever-deepening ocean of possibility, doubt, and uncertainty.
She had lost the only man to ever understand the true essence of her being; the only man who could ever see past her exaggerated identity as the stern professor. Albus was the man who gave her confidence and was the only man she would ever cry for. Their souls were connected in a union of total trust and understanding stronger than any marriage. Minerva McGonagall had lost not just a man, a comrade, and a friend, but a piece of her soul when Albus had died. Another part of it was destroyed with Hogwarts, her home, her pride and joy, for so many years.
That same sunny May afternoon, Minerva found herself wandering to the Forbidden Forest to find a moment of solace from her paperwork. She was tired of creating answers to soothe the masses. Her head was swimming in more questions than anyone could ever ask, and she was exhausted. In the glare of the afternoon sun, her footfalls landed lightly against the spongy detritus of the forest floor. Minerva wove a path between the Herbology greenhouses and noticed a glint of chestnut hair in the corner of her vision.
The headmistress approached the greenhouse with all the stealth of her animagus alter-ego and spotted Hermione hunched over her drawing board, looking uncharacteristically sweaty and disheveled. She noticed the little rumpled pile of Hermione's stockings and the carefree chestnut waves that had escaped the young witch's ponytail, and found herself smiling. She had yet to see Hermione let loose again since her return from the Battle. In the warmth and glow of the afternoon, Minerva could almost imagine that she was looking back into the halcyon days of years past.
Minerva watched Hermione sketch for many moments and let her mouth fall open at the young witch's careful rendering of a little patch of delicate wolfsbane blossoms. She let her eyes wander over Hermione's seated form and found herself look at the young woman in another way. She nearly felt herself a voyeur, peering in on a clearly private moment. Hermione's physical beauty and the concentration of her energy had enraptured Minerva. And not even the formidable headmistress could escape her own desires.
. Minerva's eyes danced over Hermione's drawings of the flora surrounding her, noting that the corners of the paper were full of nudes. Where did she learn to draw like this? Beautifully rendered breasts and buttocks burst from the page, leading her to wonder exactly to whom those curves may belong. For whatever reason, it was in seeing the human body reproduced that Hermione's own humanity struck the headmistress. That is to say that Minerva at once realized that the girl possessed her own hopes, dreams, fantasies, and talents and had a life story of her own, one that Minerva hardly knew and, frankly, rarely thought about. Until now. It was in this moment that Minerva started to wonder.
Good day, Miss Granger" Minerva pronounced in a measured voice, startling Hermione, who flushed in surprise. Hermione was so engaged that she hadn't heard the Headmistress enter, nor had she sensed her closeness. Minerva, in realizing that she had interrupted a forbidden moment, felt her own temperature rise.
"Good afternoon, Headmistress. I'm sorry for all the mess, I'll get out of your way" Hermione began to rise from her position on the ground, thinking that the headmistress was there to inspect the greenhouse or some sort of official, important function. Looking back, Professor McGonagall gave her a glance that arrested her. Despite her initial shock, Hermione was not at all surprised to see Minerva at the greenhouses, and stayed put. She trusted that Minerva, of all people, would let her be
"No, please keep me company." Minerva said simply. "Do you mind if I remove my outer robes? It is awfully hot." Hermione's artists' eye noticed the tiny beads of sweat that had formed on her hairline and at the nape of her neck. Hermione had never seen Minerva sweat. It was entrancing in its own way. Minerva McGonagall no longer looked like a marble statue of justice and knowledge. She looked like a human of blood and flesh.
Hermione could only nod, cueing Minerva to efficiently remove her heavy layer of outer robes, revealing her graceful neck and slender torso. She wore a simple button down shirt and a thin black ribbon necktie.
Hermione found herself not-so-subtly ogling her professor who, though Hermione knew she damn well wasn't, looked to be only about thirty-five.
Temporarily forgetting Hermione's presence, Minerva McGonagall heaved a great sigh and buried her head in her slender hands that had become rough in the arduous process of rebuilding. Moved by Professor McGonagall's unprecedented display of emotion, Hermione tentatively took a place next to her. The young witch was overwhelmed by the mingling scent of sweat and perfume—floral but woody and spicy. Feminine, but powerful—like Minerva.
Hermione took her professor's delicate hand in her own shaking one and gently squeezed it, rhythmically rubbing Minerva's knuckles with her thumb. The war-weathered headmistress tried to pull her hand away, but Hermione held it fast. "How are you…" she murmured quietly, conveying genuine concern for the headmistress. The affection in Hermione's voice filled Minerva with a bittersweet sorrow and a bitter recognition of her own solitude. She was completely and utterly alone.
Minerva squeezed her eyes closed and turned away. She brought a pale hand to her mouth to repress the sob that tugged at her throat, begging to be let out.
"Please, Professor," Hermione paused for a moment, looking at the woman who was barely holding it together, "Minerva.""I..."she broke off, suddenly at a loss for words, tears threatening to flow from her own eyes—in that moment, Hermione would later recall, she could not tell if it was her own sorrow or the headmistress's that she was feeling. The furrowed brow, the bony and blue-veined hands, the sallow face, and angst ridden eyes all tugged at her heart with some inexplicable feeling—bittersweet, too. A sort of longing, sadness, and desire to be the one to soothe the woman's heart. It was more than empathy and something just a little bit like love.
"I would best be off, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall replied authoritatively, though her voice shook. Hermione knew that Minerva was at breaking point and as much as she wanted to be granted the gift of her vulnerability, she knew that Minerva would never let anyone, let alone her favorite student (if we are to believe the rumors), see her cry
Hermione's paper was slowly filled with images of Minerva's slender hands and watery eyes. Hermione had many pages dedicated to Minerva, but none so beautiful as this one. The others showed small moments of Minerva the teacher and the mentor. This small collection of sketches showed Minerva the woman, who was not made of stone. They had shared a few moments of tenderness while Hermione was a student, but both women had been safely nestled behind their walls of strength, cleverness, and witty banter. Just a small part of Minerva's foundation had crumbled, and Hermione was there to see it. There was no denying the fact that this very subtly changed the nature of their relationship that made Hermione want to know her. She had once been content to fantasize about what happened behind Fortress McGonagall, but now she wanted in.
Minerva barely made it back to her quarters before everything she had repressed gushed forward in a gnarled mess of fermented emotion. She spotted the innocent package of lemon drops that had been sitting crookedly on his–now her, desk. Thoughts of Albus embraced her with cold needles of melancholy, and she launched the bundle of sweeties at the doorframe. A sunbeam of sickly sweet pieces rained down upon her in a shower of sugary pieces. The sobs contorting Minerva's features faded to red eyes and silent bouts of trembling, which went on for some hours. It was Hazel, Minerva's house elf, who eventually found her, cleaned the room, and put Minerva to bed.
It was a while before they spoke again. A week before graduation, Hermione came to Professor McGonagall's office for mandatory career advising. They briefly discussed career options, although it was clear from the beginning that Hermione would be going on to greater things at a graduate institution. Hermione had been doing a lot of thinking since their chance encounter nearly a month ago. Hermione, despite what Ron might think, was not cold and unfeeling. It was quite the opposite: she felt a great deal, so much that the only way to cope with all of it was to unpack them and rationalize them as they appeared, deflating them before they had a chance to rise. Hermione was struggling to deflate the feelings that she had for the headmistress, despite having done so very successfully since fourth year. Hell, likely since the beginning of time. Hermione was sure that she loved her before she even knew what love was.
There was too much idle time. And drawing, she found, was treacherous territory.
"What about art?" Minerva asked abruptly.
"What about it?" Hermione countered.
"Don't play dumb, Miss Granger." Minerva replied curtly, "I saw those drawings. You're talented. You smile when you draw, you know that?" Hermione blushed.
"I, I don't know." Hermione sighed, leaning back to create some distance between herself and the headmistress. She just hoped Minerva couldn't hear her heart thudding against her chest. "I never gave it much thought, honestly, as I have been more inclined towards pursuing a mastery as my next step." She stuttered, and very consciously moved her eyes to a clock on the wall to keep her eyes from traveling to the small opening in Minerva's inner robes at the base of her collarbones. Minerva's robes were never open. However, it was unusually hot and things were different since their run-in at the greenhouse.
Minerva sensed Hermione's discomfort and nodded curtly. She, somewhat clumsily, shuffled through one of her many drawers of papers. What have I done to make Hermione act so strangely all of a sudden? I feel a strange debt to her after pushing her away at the greenhouse, but I can't explain the unexplainable. When did I start calling her Hermione? Minerva handed her student a small pamphlet. "There's a workshop run by Beauxbatons that covers traditional and magical techniques in art. Please consider attending." Minerva gave Hermione a small smile but inwardly grimaced. It was no secret that she strongly disliked Madame Maxime and the girls of Beauxbatons. Realizing, suddenly, a likely reason that Hermione had never looked to a career in art, Minerva quickly added, "It is through no fault of your own that you have not considered art as a potential career path in the wizarding world. Those who become craftsmen…artists…tend to become apprentices quite early on. They do not attend Hogwarts nor are they required to take the OWLS and NEWTS. Art is not a common occupation, but it is very highly regarded. Master Artists are rare and generally they are incredibly secretive, reclusive, even, as the magic used to animate paintings, among other things, is apparently rather complex and heavily guarded. " Minerva, "This being said, there are institutions, masteries, and societies that would take you on for training without a second thought."
"You would, without question, be regarded highly in any field of study you choose. I will not deny my own hope that you will decide on transfiguration in the end, but best not to be selfish"
"Well, I am very flattered, by all of it, but still undecided, quite frankly. I may take some time off to travel, or something, find myself or whatever it is people my age are supposed to be doing," Hermione mused with a half-smirk.
"Credit where credit is due, Miss Granger. The world is your oyster, darling. If you should need anything, remember that I'll always be just an owl away." Hermione gave an awkward nod before rising and leaving, giving Minerva a half-hearted wave as she exited.
Minerva sat in her empty office with a half-empty bottle of firewhiskey. All of the advising was finished and tomorrow, her cubs would be leaving Hogwarts for good. She hoped so. These kids needed to enjoy the excitement of their youth, which would fester if shut away behind stone walls for a good part of the year. Though she would never admit it, she preferred a newly graduated student doing menial labor than teaching at a wizarding establishment. Rewarding as it is, teaching in the wizarding world was a lonely profession best suited to those who have already sown their wild oats.
"Tabby,"
Merlin, if she had begun hearing voices, she must be wasted.
"Tabby" She took a swig of the spicy spirit to deafen the echoes of Albus' voice against her eardrums.
"Good grief Minerva, you are blind." Minerva looked around her, and saw that Albus' portrait had finally animated. The portrait was painted months earlier and had remained motionless. In her grief and frustration, Minerva covered the portrait with one of her black shawls, which she had worn as a young educator before adopting her severe teaching robes. Minerva unsteadily approached the painting and removed the shawl. Her eyes met Dumbledore's painted irises and shone with unshed tears. "Oh Tabby, please don't cry." She looked into his blue eyes, and found herself enveloped in their easy, familiar calmness.
Albus cleared his throat and looked at her intently. "As I said, you really are blind." Minerva quirked an eyebrow. Albus rolled his eyes playfully. "You really can't see what's in front of you. You never did."
Minerva stood in front of his portrait, gripping the bottle of firewhiskey with white knuckles. "You can put that down Minerva. Let's talk about you." Minerva flushed, this time in embarrassment. Various times when he was alive, Albus would 'talk about her' and invariably set her up on a positively horrible first date. She found herself chuckling as she remembered a few of the more, frankly, offbeat, experiences.
"Tabby, Hermione graduates tomorrow. Keep her with you a little longer." He paused for a moment and gazed at Minerva intently. "I want her to paint you. This is my last wish to you and to Hermione. Do not rush anything. This painting will take shape at its own pace. Be patient and respect the process. Let it take weeks, months, or even years." Minerva's eyes filled with confusion and something like...fear? Albus closed his eyes and heaved a heavy sigh. This would not be easy for either woman.
He looked at Minerva and nodded at her with twinkling eyes. "Goodbye for now, Tabby."
Minerva finished another bottle of firewhiskey that evening.
Hermione looked beautiful in her cap and graduation robes. Her mane of hair had been tamed into a gentle waterfall of waves. She stood proudly in the Great Hall, despite its ruin. Of course, not many students had come back for graduation, and it was a somber affair. The damage to the castle and its inhabitants was apparent. No one deserves to graduate like this. Especially Hermione. She deserves better, Minerva found herself thinking. Her favorite student, no, former student deserved many things that no one could give her.
Minerva handed Hermione her diploma with a bittersweet look in her eyes. As tradition dictated, she embraced her student and gave her a brief kiss on the cheek. As she watched Hermione return to the little makeshift stage made for the graduates, she realized that Hermione smelled like jasmine and paint thinner.
At the reception, the newly graduated students could mingle with their parents, friends, and professors. From across the room, Minerva watched intently as Hermione entered the room wearing, of all things, a Gryffindor-red pantsuit and looked stunningly confident. Minerva, trying hard not to let her eyes linger too long on the newly graduated darling of the golden trio, wore a black dress made of the same velvety material as her usual robes. The dress, though long sleeved and high-necked, attractively clung to her sinewy body and was very much backless. Why not? Sometimes a witch wants to feel sexy.
Little did she know that all Hermione could think about was the light touch of the elder witch's soft lips on her cheek.
Ginny noticed that Hermione was stealing glances at Minerva, who was seated at the bar with Filius. They were engaged in an intense discussion. Minerva was leaning down to meet his eyes and was unconsciously offering Hermione, who knew how to look for those things, a full-frontal view of her sacral triangle.
"She looks beautiful tonight doesn't she?" Ginny said flatly.
"God Gin! You weren't there a moment ago!" Ginny laughed and put her arm around Hermione's shoulders that were still shaking with surprise. "And yeah, she really does." Hermione took another brief glance in Minerva and Filius' direction. Hermione watched the witch's back muscles contract and extend seductively as she combed her fingers through her hair and threw her waves over her shoulder. God that's...No, she wasn't about to think sexy. Who was she kidding? If she could, Hermione would make Minerva take her on the ballroom floor in front of everyone. She would run her fingers through that ebony hair and unzip that dress to reveal everything from the tip of Minerva's cervical spine to the graceful indentations where the muscles of her impossibly long legs joined the bones of her pelvis…Even her fantasies, Hermione was terribly analytical.
"Have you had the chance to speak with her yet?" Hermione jumped out of her reverie and flushed. Ginny grinned at her like the cat who killed the canary.
"No," Hermione groaned audibly. "But what would we even have to talk about?" Hermione had been avoiding Minerva since the incident at the greenhouses. Hermione couldn't bring herself to tell the woman of stone how she felt about her, even though time was running out. It was clear to the young witch that if Minerva couldn't let her hold her hand, she wouldn't be apt to let Hermione do much else. Even though things seemed to change after the incident, Hermione found herself fearing what could lie behind the mask of the stern Headmistress. What if she was Gatsby and Minerva was Daisy? And she was just hopelessly in love with a shade?
"How about everything?" Ginny startled Hermione from the whirlwind of thought that had been building in her mind. "You are-were her favorite pupil. Of all the people here, she probably wants to talk to her newly graduated pride and joy." Ginny shook Hermione gently then sauntered over to the bar. A moment later, Ginny was leading Filius to the dance floor and met Hermione's gaze with a wink that obviously referred to Professor McGonagall, who was now sitting alone.
Hermione swallowed and tried to throw an extra twitch in her hips as she crossed the ballroom to the bar. She stood confidently next to Minerva, and, in a cloud of spicy eau de parfum, sensed a change in the woman's energy. She waved to the bartender, "A firewhiskey please,"
"Miss Granger!" Minerva exclaimed with exaggerated disbelief.
"I'm of age, professor" Hermione shot back good-humoredly.
"There is no need to call me professor any more. Please, call me Minerva." Minerva's eyes sparkled with humor and unexpressed laughter. The headmistress was full of surprises. Hermione felt like she was talking to a completely different woman than the one she had come to know over the course of her seven years at Hogwarts.
"Alright, please, call me Hermione." Hermione said with a broad smile. A smile that Minerva had rarely seen, and one that burned itself into her memory.
"So, how is it Hermione?" Minerva smirked as Hermione took a swig of the firewhiskey. She looked confident for all of one second before exploding into a coughing, spluttering mess.
"What kind of question is that?" Hermione choked, laughing. She wasn't expecting the extent of the burn of firewhiskey.
"What kind of answer is that?" Minerva countered.
"I thought the show was pretty self-explanatory," Minerva quirked a small smile, then moved closer to Hermione, just enough that Hermione could strongly smell her perfume, her sweat, and the firewhiskey on her breath. Hermione decided that she could like this new Minerva McGonagall.
Minerva decided, likely bolstered by the glass of champagne or 3 she had already consumed, that it was worth a try to see if there was something there
"I haven't seen you move or smile all evening." Minerva whispered into Hermione's ear. Her breath was warm and its caress moved like a trail of kisses from down her neck. "You've been standing in that corner across the room stealing glances over here." Minerva's voice vibrated against Hermione's spine and a lock of ebony hair tickled her throat. "Are you avoiding me?"
"Maybe a little." Hermione admitted and shivered from the closeness and the realization that Minerva had just confessed to watching her from across the room. Hermione recalled the feeling of Minerva's arms around her and her lips on her cheek and her breath on her neck, and froze. ]
Minerva moved to stand next to her
"Cat got your tongue?"
"You wish"
Their eyes met…and in that moment, they had both forgotten themselves.
The moment was shattered by a guest, either a journalist or some fan, asked if he could "borrow" Hermione, who barely stifled a snort. Minerva gave a half-nod and, with a brief squeeze to Hermione's shoulder, vanished into the crowd, leaving her alone with that creep. Hermione's head hung below her shoulders and she took another painful swallow of firewhiskey.
Neither woman could sleep that night. Hermione, awake after blacking out for a couple of hours, wretched into the toilet and thought, cynically, how lovely it would be to purge her memory of the evening and her stupid, bleeding heart while she was at it.
Hermione had been undeniably hardened by war and she continued to struggle with towering stone walls she had erected to protect her loved ones. Now those walls only alienated her, suffocated her. She needed to right things with Minerva because it was unlikely she would get another opportunity. She had managed to hurt Minerva and herself by refusing to take this one last risk.
Her head spun. Minerva, who was so cold to her, yet clearly watched her every move. Minerva, her muse since fourth year. Minerva was the one who illuminated Hermione's dreams every night and soaked Hermione's panties, disarmed her with her very scent, and the only one to ever catch Hermione off guard.
Merlin, who was Hermione to deny her feelings? Fucking Minerva Fucking McGonagall. She can go on being that frigid old clam for all I care. I'm going to tell her how I feel if it's the last thing I do. If she rejects me, at least I will never have to see her ever again. Hermione shivered at the thought, but her long overdue Gryffindor bravery finally kicked in and she set out for Minerva's quarters.
Minerva McGonagall sat up in bed after staring at the ceiling in the darkness for an eternity. Why did she have to go and fuck everything up? She, the Headmistress of Hogwarts and the Gryffindor Head of House, was too afraid to face her own feelings. Why was it that all she could do as of late was weep?. She could have anyone, she knew that, but it was only Hermione she wanted pressed against her in the heat of sex.
But all the more attractive was Hermione's mind and glowing vitality. Hermione possessed an intellectual curiosity and unique sense of logic that Minerva envied and yearned to understand for herself. Simply being in Hermione's presence was extremely satisfying to Minerva. Hermione was eager, young, and bright, but possessed the focus, self-awareness and emotional maturity of someone much older.
And, until tonight, Hermione had always trusted Minerva implicitly, which was, in its own way, the deepest form of intimacy that Minerva could ever share with anyone. Minerva recalled a few moments when Hermione had simply stared at her without saying a word. Minerva could see only trust and unconditional love in those eyes, and the warmth and feeling of those moments was so strong. It was more than just a gaze; it was an innate state of being that could invite something like catharsis.
Minerva had once let Hermione work on a research project in her classroom after hours. There had been a moment, maybe an hour in, when Minerva had looked up from her grading and directly into Hermione's eyes. They engaged in a sort of staring contest for maybe twenty minutes. Well, it began that way, and then it became something else. They did not say a word or make a move, they just gazed into each other's eyes. And then, Hermione simply stood and left. For no reason at all, Minerva just cried and cried for the remainder of the evening.
In the darkness of her chambers, beads of sweat began to form between Minerva's breasts, but this time it wasn't because of the heat. She let her hand shift between her thighs and imagined that it was Hermione's touch, not her own, that was dancing across her skin. Minerva gently dipped her fingers into her own wet warmth and began to frenetically gasp Hermione's name as she pumped her fingers in and out more vigorously. She was deliciously wet, and her movements were producing the most wonderfully vulgar sounds, which thoroughly aroused her. She was "in a state of great tension," as one might say, when she heard someone at the door to her office.
The formidable professor hastily covered her tall, slender frame in a tartan dressing gown and stumbled to open the door to her office, grumbling her misfortune. Somehow she was not surprised that it was Hermione. Speak of the devil…
Hermione took Minerva's pale, lightly callused hand in her own and a veritable feast of emotions crossed Minerva's face. After a moment, Minerva looked into Hermione's eyes and nodded her head once before uncertainty clouded her eyes and she very sharply withdrew her arm from the table. The warmth and intimacy of the moment had been shattered, and Minerva's inner tumult was palpable. "Minerva McGonagall, what is it that you are hiding that forces you to leave me at every turn?" Hermione demanded, the spiteful words pouring out of her mouth without her mind's consent. "You left me in the greenhouse and at the bar. Don't bloody leave me now." She knew she was no longer making sense, that her thoughts and her words had become hopelessly divided, but she was too far gone to stop.
"What are you talking about? It was you who left me! I practically told you I wanted to fuck and you just stood up and left me hanging!" Minerva was practically spitting in rage. Suddenly cognizant of her admission, Minerva paled and looked at Hermione expectantly. It seemed Minerva was struggling with a similar war of love, humiliation, spite, and frazzled nerves. The fires that had long surged beneath the surface were finally coming forth in spasmodic bursts of vibrant, burning emotion. This was no longer love, passion and some sort of queer resentment had overcome them.
On one hand, Hermione was infuriated with Minerva. On the other hand, she was aroused as hell. Merlin, Minerva was just so...tantalizing when she was angry. She was genuine, alive, and very much Minerva.
Hermione bravely leaned over the desk until their faces nearly touched. "Did I?" she breathed, leaving only centimeters between their lips. Minerva smirked and slowly ran her tongue over her upper lip, her eyes still burning their cold fires.
Minerva was the one who closed the gap between their quivering mouths, but the kiss was brief. Minerva felt a very familiar surge of emotion and knew that, if she were to let it begin, it could only end in tragedy. Their lips had barely touched before Minerva pulled away. "I can't do this." She buried her head in her hands. "I am your teacher!" Minerva exclaimed, as though it was a sudden realization, her Scottish brogue become more pronounced. "I cannot bed another student." she lamented.
Hermione's eyebrows knitted together in a tangle of fury. She could feel her heart slowly ripping itself apart as she took in Minerva's confession. There had been another. Hermione was not the only student who Minerva had eyes for. Hermione inhaled and let Minerva's scent fill her nostrils as the blood emptied from her face. Tears flooded Hermione's eyes and began to drip down the planes of her cheekbones. Minerva was hers. She was meant to be her muse alone. This was not the Minerva she had known, wanted, and loved. "Fuck you, Minerva McGonagall. To think that I nearly told you I loved you!" She pointed at the Scottish witch with a trembling index finger. Hermione roared with all of her strength. She rose in anger in front of Minerva McGonagall, scowling down at the pathetic woman who probably just wanted to get laid that night. The woman who was moaning her name into the sheets as she pleasured herself.
Hermione shuddered in desire, disgust, and wrath.
"To think I had trusted you.
"With so much.
"For so long." Hermione hissed and turned to leave, the tears returning when she knew Minerva could no longer see her. Things had gone horribly, horribly, wrong and there was no righting them anymore. Hermione's failure to confess her feelings to McGonagall registered, and this hurt more than any confession. She had failed the ultimate test and had given in to her greatest fears. She had not only failed herself as a Gryffindor, but also as a woman with legitimate feelings and desires.
Minerva collapsed on her desk as the door closed. Nothing good could come of a relationship between two lionesses. They had circled and roared at each other for days on end, and all for the sake of protecting the hearts that yearned for their other half. Through a veil of tears, she fumbled through a drawer in her bathroom till she found it: a half-empty vial of a sleeping potion. Minerva threw it back like a shot and fell into dreamless slumber.
Hermione woke up noticed a piece of fresh parchment by the bedstand:
Hermione,
Meet me at my office today after breakfast.
Minerva
Hermione held the note to her nose and could identify hints of Minerva's scent intertwined with the distinct aromas of parchment and ink. She saw Minerva's eyes glowing with desire reflected in her retinas.
Minerva was absent from the Great Hall that morning. At the Gryffindor table, Hermione nursed a coffee and was noticeably quiet. "Is something troubling you, Hermione?" Harry asked. Hermione nodded inattentively.
"Will you tell me what it is?" Hermione shook her head and sipped the scalding brew. Harry narrowed his eyes and saw the bags underneath Hermione's lower eyelashes and followed her gaze to Minerva's empty place at the head table. "This has got something to do with Tabby, doesn't it?"
Hermione's eyes narrowed to slits. What was he calling Minerva Tabby for? Was he the other student Minerva had bedded? Was there something Harry knew that she didn't? Part of Hermione knew she was being paranoid, but the other parts had been blinded by love and heartbreak.
"I have to go," Hermione blurted abruptly and slammed her mug on the table, causing the bitter liquid to slosh onto the tablecloth. She hurried up the stairs that took her to Minerva's quarters. "Virginia Woolf," Hermione snapped at the gargoyle that guarded the headmistress' rooms. Hermione thundered up the stone stairs, letting her box of paints thump against her leg.
"It's open," she could hear Minerva's voice say from beyond the threshold after a brief knock. Hermione opened the door and wordlessly took a seat across from Minerva, who took out a pair of tumblers and a bottle of whiskey.
"Isn't it a bit early to be drinking, professor?" Hermione sniffed.
"We're in Scotland, Hermione. It's never too early for a glass of whiskey." Minerva put the bottle away and chuckled to herself. "In fact, I'm quite sure that my father regularly mixed it into his morning coffee." Minerva paused for a moment and looked at Hermione intently. "Now while I would like to ask you to stay on for future repairs, I'm afraid there is a more urgent matter at hand. I owe you an explanation, Miss Granger, and an apology." Minerva paused for a moment as a faraway look made its way onto her features. "The last time I bedded another student," her breath caught in the back of her throat...
It was the last week of the term, and Minerva was sitting in her empty classroom, scrambling to finish her grading. It was only her second year at Hogwarts, and, despite working for ten years at the ministry, Minerva looked like she could nearly be a student herself.
"Excuse me, Professor."
Minerva jumped, nearly knocking over her stack of grading. She looked up from her work to see Amelia Bones, one of the most promising students of her year, standing in the doorway.
"Good evening, Amelia. Seeing as you are nearly graduated, I don't see any need for such formalities."
"May I come in?" Amelia asked, pushing a stray blonde lock behind her ears. Minerva nodded before returning to yet another poorly written essay.
"I have something that I need to tell you." Minerva looked up at Amelia, who was perched atop of an empty desk. She had grown into her strong features and carried herself with all the pride of the Minister of Magic.
"And what would that be, Miss Bones?"
"Amelia."
"Yes, go on." Minerva struggled to focus on Amelia when she still had so much grading to get through.
"I..." "I believe I'm gay." Minerva dropped her quill with an audible thud.
"That's all?" Minerva took a seat on the desk adjacent to Amelia, all grading forgotten. Coming out was a serious matter, and she was not about to take it lightly. She didn't strike herself as the trusted-adult type, though she was very flattered.
"No, no it's not." Minerva could feel Amelia's warm breath on the nape of her neck. "I believe you are also hiding something, Minerva McGonagall."
"Oh, it's no secret that I bat for your team, Amelia." Minerva's smug smile was all the permission Amelia needed. She knelt and took Minerva's elegant hand in her own sturdy one and her thin mouth slowly made a path from Minerva's dainty fingertips to her swanlike neck. Minerva froze and gasped with desire as Amelia gently bit down, marking the animagus as hers, for that evening, that is.
"You are so beautiful." Amelia had murmured against her neck before pressing her lips to Minerva's. Minerva's hands caressed Amelia's robust jaw line and thrust her tongue into Amelia's mouth. All vestiges of self-control vacated Minerva's body for the promise of a burst of dopamine and a satisfied reward pathway.
They would fuck and Amelia could move on with her life. Minerva's sex life had been lacking and she wasn't above a one-night stand. Hopefully Amelia wasn't either.
"My rooms, Amelia," Minerva rasped. She took Amelia's warm hand in hers and led her through a secret passage that connected the classroom to her chambers. Once in safe seclusion, Minerva was the one to initiate the kisses. She moved her hands to Amelia's ample breasts for a moment before fumbling with the fastening of Amelia's robes. Amelia laughed and shook her hips suggestively at Minerva, gesturing for her to unzip her skirt. Minerva's fingertips tingled as she felt the firmness of Amelia's toned backside.
Amelia had Minerva pinned to the wall and was slowly disrobing her, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin. Amelia deftly removed the elegant witch's bra and fixed her mouth upon an expressive breast, alternately kneading and biting the small nipple. Minerva slipped a bare thigh between Amelia's legs, feeling the wetness that had pooled there. She rhythmically thrust her leg against Amelia, whose motions became frenzied with desire.
They stumbled and fell onto the bed. Minerva let out a feral growl and buried her face in Amelia's bountiful bosom, sloppily kissing and marking those magnificent breasts…Her mouth teased Amelia's abdomen, her hipbones, and the first of small curls of pubic hair. She slowly removed Amelia's panties and nuzzled her only-just-graduated student's heated center.
She made Amelia come over and over again that night. But when morning came, Amelia left Minerva's bed for a small flat and a new position at the Ministry of Magic. It had ended just as quickly as it had begun, and for that Minerva was grateful.
It was the last time Minerva had called a student by her first name...until Hermione.
"It was clear that Amelia had only pursued me because of the tragedies dealt to her during the First Wizarding War. She was simply looking for love, and I was the one she chose to give it to her." Minerva poured herself more firewhiskey. "I regret it so much. I was so young and," she chuckled, "massively horny." Hermione laughed in spite of herself. "Really, it was a mistake. I wasn't even all that sorry she left."
"So I'm not just another body to warm your bed?" Hermione tested, still refusing to meet Minerva's eyes
"No!" "Miss Granger, I would never..." Hermione's eyebrows alluded to Minerva's story. "Aye, Touche." she grumbled. "But never you." Minerva's voice trembled slightly, betraying the emotional tempest that she often hid. "I thought it was quite clear that I care for you. And that you care for me. You've made it very clear that you want more than a physical relationship, but you can't open your heart enough to let anything in." Minerva let out a rattled breath and seized Hermione's eyes. "I've offered myself up to you. This is the endgame, Hermione. Nothing more can come of this if you can't trust me."
Hermione braced herself against the hard wooden back of the chair. The War was no excuse now. She was speaking to a veteran of three, who had lost what seemed to be everything more than once in her life. Heartbreak was no excuse, Minerva had just lost her best friend of many, many decades. Hermione didn't have anything on Minerva, who was currently offering her an ultimatum. "I feel very strongly for you, Minerva. I am attracted to you. I feel something very wonderful when I am around you. I envision fragments of what could be something beautiful between us two, but I've ignored the details of reality. My attachment to you has resided in my mind for so long that I worry I have imagined a Minerva McGonagall who is very different from the one sitting in front of me." Hermione's head dropped between her shoulders and the tears that had collected in her eyes began to fall. Minerva found herself at a loss for words. She had underestimated the damage that the war had dealt Hermione. She too was at fault for creating a Hermione in her mind who was very different from the girl in front of her.
Minerva moved next to Hermione and gently lifted the young witch's chin. She tenderly brushed Hermione's hair out of her eyes and placed warm kisses on Hermione's cheeks, following the path worn by tears until she reached Hermione's rosy lips. Minerva connected Hermione's mouth to her own in a searing kiss that made stars explode behind Hermione's eyes. This time, neither woman pulled away. Minerva's elegant fingers tangled in Hermione's chestnut hair and Hermione's hands gripped Minerva's hips. The chair clattered against the ground as the witches' bodies tangled together. Hermione pulled away, breathless and swollen-lipped. She let her head rest against Minerva's chest, feeling it gently rise and fall.