A/N: Alrighty… well… Not sure about the reaction I'm going to get from this, but the idea popped into my head after a long chat with my friend in math, which then continued into our other classes… anyway, it kinda took on a life of it's own… So, since I realize no one is reading this anyway, lets get onto the story.
Disclaimer: (sorry, you know I have to do this) It's not mine. Duh. Because the whole Ron/Hermione wouldn't be going on. And Dumbledore wouldn't be gone. And I'd be rich. And… you get my point. Not mine.
"They're too young Albus!"
He was angry. He rarely yelled, especially at his wife, but today he lost his temper.
"You just don't want to let her go!"
It had turned into a screaming match in the blink of an eye.
"And you do? She's our Daughter Albus! Our Daughter! Does that mean nothing to you!"
"It means the world to me! But we can't not let her go!"
Her Scottish brogue came out the more emotional she got.
"Could you bear it if she died and we never told her!"
"SHE WON"T DIE!"
"She very well could!"
She burst into tears.
"She's my baby… my baby Albus..."
He lost his anger almost immediately. He reached towards her.
"Minerva…"
She turned away, her tartan shawl wrapped closer. "No Albus… go and save them, just go."
He frowned, and left in a flurry of purple robes.
She sobbed harder.
When she was brought into the hospital wing, along with her friends, Minerva was there, in the corner, clutching the shawl to her in a vain attempt to keep in the fear and hurt. She watched Poppy's wild attempts to save the life that flickered before her. And Minerva knew that right now the child's father was up several flights of stairs dealing with a very hurt and angry boy. Poppy managed to keep the girl at a stable level, and then rushed to heal the other children. Minerva came out of the shadows and impulsively draped the shawl over her daughter.
"You know how much I'd love to show you my love little one? So much… at least I can do this, give you something to keep you warm."
She touched her daughter's cheek in a feather light gesture of motherly love.
Then she disappeared back into the shadows.
Albus was frantic with worry. Not only, as he was just informed by Mr. Potter, was his daughter almost dead, his wife was missing.
When she appeared minus her tartan an hour later, her face contorted in emotional pain, he knew where she had been.
"Minerva…"
Again she pushed him away.
"Please… Albus… I just want to be alone. Please go back to your own chambers."
He turned again, and left her rooms, that were where they often slept.
She collapsed into an overstuffed armchair, drained.
Four floors below, a man watched his daughter sleep. His eyes noticed the tartan in the McGonagall colors the moment he walked into the Hospital wing, the deep greens and golds mixed with cheery reds and faint hints of blues was the brightest thing there. He knew that Minerva was feeling the terror that he felt, and he knew that she shouldn't be feeling any of that, as she needed rest after being hit with so many stunners. But she was stubborn, and he loved her for it.
It killed them both to pretend that they didn't love her. That she was just another student to pass through these halls. She was so much more than that. She deserved so much more than that. Their only child, sent away to be safe with unsuspecting muggles. There was no hope to get her back then, after two years. So they waited. There was nothing more they had wanted than their own child to love and it had been taken away by their want to keep her safe.
He dropped a little bag filled with sweets on her bedside table.
"Someday, little one, I hope you will forgive us." He whispered and then he left, nothing left to remember his visit but the lingering smell of lemon drops.
When Hermione woke up days later, being kept alive by a shelf full of potions, she wondered who had cared enough to bring her a tartan shawl and a mysterious bag of treats. She buried her nose in the shawl and smelt lemon drops mixed with gingersnaps. Deeply comforted, she curled up and fell back asleep, a little smile on her face.