Chapter 1
July 1997
Hermione gets ready for bed while her mind whirls. Her belongings are mostly packed, and now her thoughts leap from topic to topic, emotions threatening to overflow. In two days she will leave Hogwarts and perhaps never step foot in it again, this place where she met her best friends, learned how to come into her own power, and experienced how others' jealousy can undermine that strength if given the opportunity. Her natural curiosity and drive to learn have gotten her into trouble many times over the years, and her natural caution has been overruled by her strong emotions on many of those occasions. All told, though, she does not regret a single moment of the time she has spent here. She will miss it.
And she will miss Minerva.
Shivering as her mind caresses the name of the woman she cares so deeply for, Hermione has mixed emotions about the way they will keep in touch. Over this past year her feelings for the enigmatic, brilliant witch have changed profoundly. What if she is able to see the dreams Hermione cannot control, those where they interact more freely, more informally, more affectionately? It is a mortifying thought. She cannot help but believe such fantasies would horrify her mentor, and Hermione does not want to imagine losing the connection they currently share.
Sighing, Hermione wonders whether taking a dreamless drought would solve the problem. Or would that block the waking dream state? Hermione does not want to chance it. She can only hope that nothing embarrassing will reveal itself or that the object of such inappropriate fantasies will view them as the typical imaginings of a young lady infatuated with someone she respects strongly.
Once ready to sleep, Hermione says firmly while waving her wand, "Insomnius inconnivus Minerva McGonagall." A swell of magic rolls through Hermione, and she smiles slightly. She is curious to experience what it will feel like when their minds touch. Tremors overtake her body, and Hermione shakes her head, bemused by how excited she feels.
Sleep comes quickly, and Hermione feels her consciousness float on soft waves. At first she sees is similar to when the early morning light kisses her eyelids while she fights consciousness. Light seeps in, and she realizes that no reason exists for her to keep her eyes closed. They flutter open, and she looks around keenly.
She finds that she is standing in a room she has never seen before. A fire crackles, illuminating the room invitingly in a large stone hearth where various overstuffed chairs and a long, leather lounge are positioned toward it on gleaming hardwood floors. Hermione feels at peace immediately—the warm, rich color tones envelop her as would a warm hand holding hers. She is pulled forward by the implicit invitation, and Hermione's eyes devour built-in bookcases filled with hardcover books, intricately carved wooden furniture, and thick carpets. Luscious red, tawny brown, rich green, and pure white appear throughout the room, and they remind her of the witch she has come to meet.
As she rounds the sofa, Hermione feels the air shift, and she knows before turning that Minerva has joined her. She smiles in greeting, and stops all action when she sees just how beautiful the elder witch is while wearing casual clothing. Her school robes are gone, as is her distinguished pointy hat. She wears black slacks and a black blouse. And her hair—Merlin help me!—her hair is loose, flowing over strong shoulders and down her back. Hermione feels her fingers twitch with the instinctive desire to run them through those thick, lustrous locks. She blinks several times while she drags those thoughts away and concentrates on the compelling feeling of sharing mind space.
Looking down, Hermione notices that her clothes are also casual, although she is not attired in the sleepwear she donned before going to bed. Instead, she wears olive jeans and a mauve silk blouse. Her hair is similarly loose, and she can only hope it does not appear too unruly.
"Where are we?" Hermione asks as she watches Minerva approach.
Minerva stops in front of her, a gentle smile gracing her Scottish features, and places a hand on Hermione's shoulder, which promptly burns straight into her soul. Hermione feels the shudder run through her, but she ignores her body's reaction, hoping Minerva will, too.
"We are in my ancestral home. This is my favorite room in the entire manor. I have spent countless hours sitting in front of the fire while reading. During the school holidays, I return to it and become rejuvenated by the peacefulness I find here," Minerva says softly.
"Oh," Hermione says. She is honored to be given this glimpse into Minerva's world, and she wonders whether she created this environment where they could meet. Do they have such control?
"I thought you might feel comfortable here, so I visualized it directly before falling asleep," Minerva murmurs.
Hermione scrunches her eyebrows together, perplexed. Can she hear my thoughts? Merlin, I hope not! A gentle laugh interrupts her musings.
"Hermione, I cannot read your mind. I merely guessed your thoughts. Come—let's sit down for a bit." Hermione sinks onto the lounge and sighs softly. It is as comfortable as she imagined just moments ago. Minerva sits next to her and locks onto Hermione's eyes with a penetrating stare. The gaze fills the room as surely as do the sound of solace, the smell of warmth, and the taste of familiarity, suffusing every nook and cranny completely. These few moments of peacefulness, Hermione treasures them, all the more so since she is sharing them with Minerva—is experiencing them because of her.
"I like this room. Thank you for sharing it with me," Hermione says in a soft voice. She realizes belatedly that her hand is covering Minerva's, and she watches with fascination as emerald eyes reflect the wavering flickers of firelight.
"I cannot imagine a better person to allow into my inner sanctum. I trust you, Hermione. I hope you will allow yourself to trust me, too. Even if you are unable to provide me with exact information concerning where you are or what you are doing, I do hope you will confide in me how you are and whether I can help you in any way," Minerva says as she turns her hand over and intertwines their fingers.
It feels right. They fit perfectly.
"I do trust you, Minerva," Hermione breathes, stopping when she observes Minerva's body tremble, as if a spell is rippling through her. Hermione cocks her head and says, "I think I may trust you more than anyone else I know. You have always treated me as if I were important, as if my opinions and feelings were worthy of your consideration. I am grateful to you, and here you are wanting to help me when you have so much to worry about, so many burdens to carry."
Tears begin to blur Hermione's eyes as she becomes overwhelmed by what lies ahead of her and the boys. How will we find the Horcruxes? How will we destroy them? How can we even hope to defeat Voldemort?
Familiar arms pull her into a tight hug. Hermione is soothed by the rumbling of Minerva's distinctive burr beneath her ear. "We will get through these dark times together. I am quite certain that keeping in touch will strengthen me immeasurably. So you see, Hermione, these communications will not be made for your benefit only. I need them, too."
Nodding against Minerva's chest, Hermione tries to ignore how soft the blouse fabric is against her cheek or the obvious curve of breast that serves as her temporary haven from an uncertain future. She wraps her arms around Minerva's waist and closes her eyes, allowing the powerful embrace to placate her. Minerva begins to rock her gently, and Hermione tightens her hold.
"Hermione, when we are done with a meeting in this realm, we need only visualize being back in bed asleep. Before we do that," Minerva's breath flirts with Hermione's ear, "I want to set up some type of schedule. How about we meet once every other week on this night? And if one of us cannot appear, we will try again the next night and so on until we do meet."
"Yes," Hermione mumbles, "that sounds good to me." She feels a smile touch her head and imagines thin lips brushing over her crown.
"Thank you, my dear. I shall look forward to our meetings. Now, I think it is time to bid you adieu. Good night, Hermione."
"Good night, Minerva. Thank you." Yawning, Hermione pictures her bed in the Gryffindor tower and closes her eyes. She can still feel strong arms around her, and she muses on how good they feel. The light fades, and Hermione willingly sinks into the darkness.
August 1997
The tent is filled with people from the wizarding world, everyone hoping to place aside if only for a few hours the looming threat Voldemort and his followers present. Guests mingle, laughter and loud conversations competing with dance music. Smiling slightly at this brief reprieve from sorrow and stress, Minerva allows her eyes to search for the witch she recently has found herself caring for far more than is seemly. Sighing softly, Minerva cannot deny that Hermione is the sole reason she is here.
Knowing that she, along with Harry and Ron, will begin their quest soon, Minerva cannot forego the opportunity of seeing the younger witch in person, if only for a few moments. They have met three times in their dreamscapes, the last time three days ago. Each time has thrown Minerva's emotions into a maelstrom of confusion, yearning, and joy. They connect in a way she has never experienced—the layers of warmth and companionship that form the fabric of their meetings are irresistible. As are the hugs they have shared. Passionate by nature, Minerva learned long ago how to divorce her desires from her duty. Yet, she feels unequal to the task of denying her burgeoning feelings for this captivating witch.
Spying movement across the way encapsulated in folds of crimson red, Minerva loses her breath. This is not a young girl. At all. As Hermione approaches, Minerva cannot deny just how desirable, how absolutely entrancing this woman is. Her eyes burn, and she is unable to break their stare even as her mind commands her to smile indifferently and treat the beguiling witch as merely another student.
Hermione seems just as taken. She stops well within Minerva's personal space and gazes at her silently. Minerva wants to pull the woman close, to catalog the feel of those curves touching her body. She wants to run her hands through tamed locks and release them from their captivity. She wants...she wants so much, and the avalanche of emotions crashing over her and forcing her to acknowledge why she desires so much to remain in contact with Hermione is too much for her to hide. Before she can regain control of her feelings, she watches coffee-colored eyes widen in recognition. Unbelievably, those same eyes darken with passion, and strong arms pull her into a tight embrace.
"Minerva," is breathed against her ear, and she shivers at the implications of this moment. Trying to pull back so as to not succumb to her emotions before Merlin and everyone surrounding them, she is stopped by fervent words. "No. Please don't withdraw from me. Just for a moment, let me feel you in my arms. I will need this memory to carry me through our separation."
Melting into the embrace, Minerva allows the closeness, her reservations easily subdued in favor of providing Hermione whatever she needs. Her eyes close as she breathes in Hermione's distinctive perfume, surrounded by the scent of vanilla. She is unable to smell Hermione's heavenly scent when they meet in their dreams. She must capitalize on this moment to imprint Hermione's luscious scent upon her memory. She must.
Finally, Minerva pulls back enough to look into soft eyes. "Hermione, it is good to see you," Minerva says, her Scottish lilt betraying strong feelings. Hermione's resulting smile lifts her spirits, and she cannot help but smile in return. "You look stunning, my dear," she murmurs.
"Thank you. You also...you look absolutely beautiful," Hermione says, her eyes gleaming brightly even within the subdued lighting that is sprinkled throughout the tent. "I want...I wish," she starts, only to stop, a helpless look on her face. "Let's go outside for some air," she suggests, an edge of desperateness compelling Minerva to nod.
She is feeling a bit desperate herself. The reality of their situation, knowing she may never feel Hermione in her arms again, tears at her. Hermione takes her hand and pulls her toward an exit. Just before they leave the tent, a ball of light appears in the middle, and flashes of horrendous images reflecting people dying stops them in their tracks. "The Ministry has fallen, The Minister is dead," reverberates throughout the reception in Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice, delivered through his Patronus.
"Oh my God!" Hermione cries out, her hand covering her mouth. Explosions begin to sound outside the tent, and people begin to shout and dodge as Death Eaters invade what should have been a place where they could celebrate the joining of two people in love.
"Go," Minerva thunders, her wand out even as she pushes Hermione behind her. "Find the boys." Deflecting a hex, she shoots a look Hermione's way.
"I don't want to leave you," Hermione yells above the screams and evil cackles that fill the air.
"You must!" Minerva shouts. "Stay safe, Hermione. Do what you must. And come back to me."
"I will! Minerva, I swear I will. Until then, I will see you in my dreams," Hermione darts away, her words ringing in Minerva's ears.
"Our dreams," Minerva whispers as she watches the Golden Trio disapparate. "In our dreams."