A/N This chapter includes a brief depiction of underage sexuality.
Two girls. One, perhaps twelve but tall and prematurely elegant, has long black hair, ivory skin and pale blue eyes. The other, shorter, younger, has a short-cropped halo of silver. Her eyes are amber and avid. The girls stand close together in a tunnel lit by one floating candle. The shuffling sounds of ordinary life surround them, but they are sunk into shadows and safe from the outside world.
"May I see?" Asks the short one. "Show me again. Please?"
The tall one bites a lip and worries the wound with her tongue. She's torn. She can't imagine what might be wrong with what they're about to do, and yet it can't be right, either. Still, the pleading look on her companion's face compels her. She opens her robes down the front, exposes her white cotton knickers and knee-high stockings. With one hand, she pushes the front of her panties down around her thighs. The small patch of wiry black curls glistens in the candlelight. The silver-haired girl stares, transfixed.
There is silence between them.
Suddenly, the tall girl snaps her panties up, closes her robes and leans against the rough stone side of the tunnel, breathing in panic-laced gulps.
"Mine doesn't look like that," says her companion.
"You don't have any," the tall girl asserts. Her voice is imperious, filled with the assurance of her full twelve years.
"I do," she answers, squaring her shoulders as if for a fight. "It grew—over the summer."
Pale blue eyes go wide and sparkling. "Let's see, then," she says.
The smaller girl quickly shrugs off her robes and shinnies out of her underclothes. There, between her legs, are soft, silken strands of purest silver. They seem almost made of moonlight. The tall girl leans in for a good look, silently calling the candle to her.
"Oh, Mara," she says. "It looks so soft."
"Yeah?" The shorter girl pushes her hips out, throws her shoulders back, preens a bit. "You can touch it if you want."
"Truly?" The tall girl can't contain her delight, or her curiosity. A slender, white hand reaches out…
"Minerva!" Hermione's head pops out of the pensieve. Her eyebrows knit across the bridge of her nose as she stands flat-footed, hands on hips.
Minerva sits primly in her favorite chair by the fire, book in hand. "What?" She asks. Her private study is small, cosy, and lined with books. The portable pewter pensieve that Hermione faces was a seventeenth birthday gift from Minerva's father.
"What is this?" Hermione demands.
Minerva puts her book down on the table, maybe harder than necessary. She matches Hermione's tone. "You asked," she says, and crosses her arms.
"You were children!"
"You're overreacting."
"Oh, and you didn't overreact when I told you about …"
"That was different," Minerva snaps. She stands, pulls herself to full height and paces the length of her study. "You were an impressionable girl; a child in my care. And he was that—that—overgrown, hairy, arrogant beast of a Quidditch player!"
"He was very sweet," Hermione interrupts Minerva's rant before it can build up a true head of steam, "And you didn't have to do that."
Minerva collects herself. "It was easily repaired. And nobody uses the astronomy tower in mid-winter anyway." She sits again, abruptly.
Hermione wears her hair tied back in a tartan ribbon. She pushes the escaped strands behind one ear and shifts her weight from foot to foot. "You were just babies," she says, "I'm not sure I want to see the rest."
Minerva's eyes narrow and her lips form a thin, incredulous line. "What do you think I am? A purveyor of child pornography? Stay out of the dressing room and you'll be fine."
"Dressing room. Right," Hermione mumbles. Bracing herself, she takes a deep breath and plunges her face back into the icy, silvery semi-liquid that fills the pewter bowl.
She stands outside the dressing rooms near the Quidditch pitch. The door is ajar. Afternoon light filters through the doorway and shows the barest outlines of two bodies, long legs and arms entangled. Distinctive sounds make clear what the low light leaves to the imagination.
All at once, Hermione is enveloped in royal blue. When her vision clears, she finds herself looking at the back of an auburn-haired Albus Dumbledore. He stands in the open doorway and waits. The noises cease and are replaced by the sounds of scrambling.
"Ladies," he intones, "If you will meet me in my office in ten minutes? Thank you." He turns to leave, blind to his observer, his gently frowning face showing nothing but concern.
A bright swirl of color coalesces into an office. Hermione recognizes Albus Dumbledore's usual assortment of gadgets and paraphernalia. But the office is the one traditionally occupied by the head of Gryffindor House. It is smallish, round like the tower it sits in, with a long, narrow window. Fawkes sits on a perch next to the window and sings softly to himself.
Dumbledore sits behind a handsome desk. In two carved wooden chairs sit two teenaged girls. Mara Hooch is blazing, straight-backed, defiant. Hermione guesses that she's about fourteen. Minerva is one year older, a highland beauty, painfully thin, slumped and staring at the hands folded in her lap. Hermione wants to throw her arms around the girl, tell her not to worry, feed her a decent meal.
Same height. Same shape. Same basic hairstyle. Still, it is difficult for Hermione to feel the connection between the girl in the pensieve and the woman waiting in a study somewhere nearby.
"So," Dumbledore asks, "How long have you two been in love?"
Minerva looks up sharply, surprise clear in her face. Mara's shoulders relax as she takes Minerva's hand in her own. "More than three years, sir," she answers him.
Fawkes whistles appreciatively, then returns to his song.
"Ah, found each other young, then? That can be a blessing. Or a curse. Ask Shakespeare. Dear me." He shakes his great auburn head and Hermione has an impression of an old lion shooing flies, "If I tell you that you are too young to be in love, you will know that I am lying."
Xiomara Hooch acknowledges the truth of his assertion with a brisk nod. Dumbledore looks her in the eye as if searching for something, then sits back in his chair as if a great question has been settled. Just two chaps, they are, having a bollocks-free exchange of ideas.
"But if I tell you that you are too young to practice the art of love with the appropriate…" His hands gesture as if he might snatch the word he seeks from midair, "…chivalry. Yes. That's the thing. If I tell you that, will you at least try to trust me?"
"Chivalry?" Mara asks.
"Knights. Armour." Minerva mumbles.
"More than that, Miss McGonagall, much more than that. To be chivalrous is to be honourable. To be honourable is to know the difference between love and greed."
Mara glances at Minerva and squeezes her hand more tightly. Minerva looks at Dumbledore through lowered lashes, her cheeks bright with shame.
"Greed says, 'I want you now, and damn the consequences!' Love says, 'I want you well, and damn the inconvenience!' Do you see the difference?" He looks from girl to girl.
Now it is Minerva who sits up straighter, holds her chin a little higher.
"Where would you be at this moment," Dumbledore whispers, "If someone else had found you?"
Mara studies her scuffed shoes, obviously lost in thought.
"It's so hard," She finally admits.
"It is. Indeed," Albus Dumbledore nods in agreement. Hermione's heart melts a little. There is no condescension in his voice. He might as well be discussing matters of state with the Wizengamot. "But not impossible. The whole world is built on the creativity of lovers."
Mara takes a handful of lemon drops from an enameled bowl. She puts them one by one into her mouth and sucks contemplatively. Albus Dumbledore lays flat palms on his desk and says, "Now, if you'll excuse us, Miss Hooch, I'd like to talk to Miss McGonagall about the matter that sent me looking for her in the first place."
Mara shakes her head. "I'll stay," she says.
Dumbledore looks over his glasses at Minerva. "It's about Mars," he tells her. His voice grows distant, hollow.
The scene begins to fade, to pull away. Hermione doesn't hear what Minerva tells Mara. The edges start to blur as Mara gets up and walks out of the office. Hermione feels that she is spiraling upward.
Suddenly, she is there, in Minerva's study, shaking her head free of imaginary water droplets and trying to focus on the concrete reality of her surroundings. She smells the good wood smoke of the fire. She hears the rustle of Minerva turning a page. The muscles in her neck are aching and cramped.
Hermione approaches Minerva and puts a hand on her thin shoulder. Minerva finishes a paragraph, marks the page with a bit of ribbon, and lays the book aside. She looks up at Hermione and waits.
"He didn't expel you?" Hermione asks, not really asking, in wonder and affection.
"Expel? No, quite the opposite; he bound me to him rather permanently."
Hermione's grip on Minerva's shoulder tightens. Minerva gently pries the fingers loose, kisses the open palm, quietly moves to reclaim her oldest memories from the pewter bowl.
Jealousy is irrational. Hermione knows.
Fear of the truth is unconscionable. Hermione knows.
Someday, Hermione knows, she will ask.
