AN: This thing is just coming to me in bits.

The child is lurking.

Minerva is shelling peas by hand, finally relaxing into the fullness of summer, enjoying the cool breeze and green scents under the bower in her private garden. Of course, it isn't so private anymore. Hermione has come home with her. (Truly, has been carried over the threshold in a giggly bit of wandwork. Minerva blushes at the memory. Who knew love could still make such a besotted fool of a woman in her tenth decade?)

Rose and Hugo are staying for a few weeks as well. Truthfully, she's glad they have come. It is right that they have a place at McGonagall Manor.

"Well, it's only two teenagers," Molly had said to her, winking. Only two teenagers. There is no such thing as only two teenagers and Molly well knows it. Like attracts like. It is a fundamental rule of nature. So Rose and Hugo came, and were visited just last weekend by James, Lily, Albus and Teddy. The oddness of spending part of one's summer holiday in the home of one's headmistress was conveniently offset by the sudden crowd of local wizarding boys that appeared, it seemed, as soon as Rose and Lily set first foot outdoors. On Saturday afternoon, there were enough of the local boys (each of whom seems to be named Ryan, of all things) loitering about to hold a Quidditch tournament in Minerva's sheep meadow.

With homemade brooms and improvised bludgers, the final match devolved into a flying free-for-all. The only thing that counted was that there were enough bandages and butterbeer to go around.

Minerva McGonagall is famous for several things. She is a master of transfiguration. She is a respected warrior and tactician. Her chess game is legendary. Oddly, few people remember to give her credit for her most obvious skill.

She is really quite good at teenagers.

Which is how she knows that the girl carefully circling her perimeter isn't really wandering aimlessly. And when she finally finds the courage to approach, it will not be the casual accident she'll make it seem.

Minerva takes the basket of peas from the bench beside her, puts it on the ground at her feet, and waits. It doesn't take long.

Rose has her mother's curls and height, her father's coloring and freckles, and something, Minerva believes, of her uncles Fabian and Gideon around the eyes. She is such an amalgam of so many people Minerva has known and loved that it isn't possible to view her objectively. Of course, she is never any more or less than fair in her treatment of any child in her care, Rose and Hugo included. Perhaps, Minerva muses, Rose and Hugo especially.

What must it be like for them? Do their classmates tease them? Are they subject to the lingering prejudice against same-sex relationships that she and Hermione sometimes face as adults? Are they resentful of where their mother's heart has led her?

Minerva's hands work faster and her lips form a tight line as she thinks. How does she even begin to answer these questions? Is it her place to try? Would approaching the subject make matters better or worse for the young lady beside her?

The subject does not come up. The facts of Minerva and Hermione's living arrangement have been put before the children, obviously. But never, as far as Minerva knows, have the reasons for them been openly discussed.

Minerva is not overmuch perturbed. In her opinion, society has lately placed too much faith in the value of openly discussing all manner of silliness. Discretion does not necessarily imply shame. There is value in guarding the sacred as well.

"Blimey," says Rose.

Minerva stops, nonplussed. Her eyes grow even larger behind the square-rimmed glasses. Legilimency? What has she given away?

Then she sees Rose pull a few peas from the pile. Inexperienced fingers fumble at the shelling. She loses two of three in each pod, wiggling in an effort not to sit on the ones that get away. When she finds one that has fallen to the ground, she examines it, shrugs, and pops it into her mouth.

Minerva smiles. She holds her hands away from her body and demonstrates proper technique. When Rose chooses another pod, Minerva covers the girl's small fingers with her own and guides her through the little pop-and-swish movement. For just a moment, she remembers learning to do this in just this way in just this spot. Whose hands covered hers then? Was it mother or an aunt? Rose notices that her movements have momentarily stilled and looks up questioningly.

Minerva offers a crooked grin. "Can't remember who taught me this," she admits.

Rose tries a few on her own, clumsily at first, but she gets most of the peas in the basket. "Whoever did," she murmurs, "You've obviously practiced."

"For nearly a hundred years," Minerva replies, her voice as dry and crisp as paper.

Rose frowns. She concentrates on her task. Insects buzz. Hugo goes whooping about somewhere in the distance. Minerva tries to remember any happier day in her life and fails utterly.

"You'll be the prettiest centenarian around, anyway," Rose says.

Minerva Humphs.

"No, honestly. Look at Augusta Longbottom! Uncle Neville says you were at school together and you're much handsomer than her. Than she."

"Always have been," Minerva asserts, raising an eyebrow and glancing sideways at her companion.

Rose's laughter comes out with a snort and the smile stays on her lips. She confidently shells a few more peas. "Professor McGonagall, may I ask you a question?" The girl asks as the smile turns tentative.

Inwardly, Minerva has several simultaneous realizations. One is that neither of Hermione's children has addressed her directly for many weeks. Her formal title probably seems less than appropriate to the situation. But neither she nor Hermione has thought to offer them a substitute.

But that concern is soon drowned out by another.

Oh my, Minerva's panicked mind conjures, She's going to ask if I'm sleeping with her mother.

It's a legitimate question. After all, Hermione was Minerva's guest many times before their intimate relationship began. Their friendship is long-standing. They do maintain separate bedrooms. Any affection they might display in front of the children is strictly—well—friendly. And perhaps the notion of a romantic relationship between the girl's mother and the ancient headmistress strikes Rose as ridiculously beyond the realm of possibility. Ronald, after all, has remarried a lovely twenty-four-year-old Hufflepuff. Minerva's hands tremble. Has she even the right to answer that kind of question? Shouldn't Rose be asking her mother?

Outwardly, Minerva McGonagall cocks an eyebrow and says, "Hmm?"

"Are you," Rose begins, squirms, then begins again, "Are we," she manages, then puts down the peas, sits back against the bench, stares straight ahead and whispers, "Do you," there is a long pause while she takes a deep breath, "Belong to me?"

Minerva stops. Her hands lay forgotten in her lap while she simply looks at the girl. "Excuse me?" She asks.

"I mean," and Minerva can see the agitation in Rose's face as she struggles not to flee this suddenly humiliating conversation, "To us. To Hugo and me, I mean." Her eyes nearly close, "You know?" She adds hopefully.

Minerva is dumbstruck. What is she to say to this girl who has unwittingly rearranged Minerva's entire sense of self? This girl sitting fearfully beside her, wearing her heart on her sleeve? She needs to tell her something, and fast. But if she doesn't take a moment to compose herself she will end up confessing that her heart has just melted and puddled at Rose's feet and that now would, in fact, be an excellent time to ask for an outrageously expensive Christmas gift. Liechtenstein, perhaps.

Minerva leans back, mirroring Rose. Eyes forward, hands folded, peas momentarily forgotten, they pause for a long, long breath. Bees buzz. Slowly, without turning, Minerva slips an arm around her companion's small, tense shoulders. An unruly curl falls over Rose's right eye. Minerva brushes it back, tucks it behind an ear. Even before Minerva speaks, she feels the girl's body relax into the embrace.

"Aye," Minerva says, "I daresay I do."

"Oh. Erm. Thought so."

"We shall have to continue to be circumspect about it, however," Minerva says, "At Hogwarts, you should address me as 'Professor' or 'Headmistress'."

"Right," Rose says. She pulls her legs under her on the bench and leans into the conversation. "So there's this other thing I was wondering."

"And what is that?"

"Whenever we're out, Ryan and Bryan and Brodie and Ryan and the rest, I mean," she reaches up to hold Minerva's dangling hand without slowing down, "And we're planning to do something together, they always tell me I've got to go home and ask my Minnie."

"Yes?" Minerva cannot find the question, aware only that she is, for the first time in her life, holding her own child in her arms.

"Well, where do they get off calling you Minnie?" Rose asks, indignant.

"Ah," Minerva nods, "D'ye know what that word means?"

"Minnie?"

"Tis the Highland diminutive of 'mother', you see."

Rose thinks about this. Her eyebrows dance, tracing the complexities of her thought process. "So it isn't about your name, then?"

Off in the distance beyond the May roses, low banks of dove-grey clouds roll up the hillside. There's a fine, soft evening in the making. They'll eat their supper of fresh vegetables picnic-style, Minerva decides, at hearthside.

"I don't know," Minerva whispers, "Is it?"

Rose considers, moving even closer into the warmth of their circle as the breeze picks up and rustles the leaves around them. "Not at school, though," she says, seriously. "If anyone else ever called you Minnie, I'd have to hex them."

"I hear the bat-bogey hex is particularly effective," Minerva says, and scoops the remaining peas from her lap into the basket before leading Rose into the house.