A/N: Terrible Things Happen to Wizards Who Meddle With Viewpoint
Time. What is it? Does it flow in one direction? Is it a series of discrete quanta? Is it the stream we go a-fishin' in? Or is it the thing that keeps everything from happening at once? Is it the full stop in a life sentence? And if it is the full stop, what is the sentence made of? Is it on my side? Is there a smallest possible unit of time? A smallest possible particle of time? A largest possible unit of time? A largest possible particle of time?
Does it always run at the same rate?
"No!"
Okay, Einstein figured that out for us. Well done, him. So if time can run at different rates, how do we measure it?
"A clock!"
Really? We're going to regulate relativistic time with gears and levers?
"That is why you kept checking your watch," Minerva proclaims. "The question is, did you try to apparate a great distance only to have the speed manifest as a leap in time, or did you try to make a leap in time that manifested itself as a great distance crossed at relativistic speeds? Did you find a way to travel so fast that the Ministry's wards couldn't see you? Is that how you breach wards?"
"Brilliant! Absolutely wrong in every detail, but brilliant anyway."
"Give me a better explanation and I'll change my mind. And while you're about it, throw in the bit where you name my cat."
Teeth lightly scraping a pink nipple, tickling it, sucking it into a warm mouth and soothing it until the soothing becomes a demand for something it longs to deliver. And in the dream, Hermione cannot tell if she suckles or is sucked. But the dream knows that Minerva is inside of her and when she wakes up with her own fingers thrust between her legs and bucks for that release, she hangs on to the knowledge, even as it fades and is replaced by a sweaty, solitary rut.
Mine, as her center pushes up and out and back against Hermione's refusal to stop, refusal to let herself rest until the coming is bought with pain, and after, when her body can give no more.
Get up, walk about, work the cramps out of your feet and calves. Wash your hands and splash water on your face. Take a wee dram. Offer a toast.
My once and future love, I will keep you safe. Even from me.
Put the tumbler down. Do not refill.
There must be something magical about three in the morning. That is the true witching hour. It is nearly impossible to keep up illusions at 3 am. And Hermione can now see that she has been nothing but a vehicle for Minerva all along. Minerva is the one who can reach deep down into the self that existed before mammals grew the ability to tell one moment from another, the time before time, when everything was now. That's the key.
Controlling the threshold between wave and particle keeps it contained. The reliable rate of atomic decay laid down at the birth of the universe keeps it in sync. But the magic of suspending disbelief in the past and future, of dragging all of it into the now—that is Minerva. She will master the transfiguration of matter and energy. She will master the physics of keeping time with God's watch. Elphinstone will give her one and Hermione will give her the other. She'll open wide and take these ideas into her body. Her body will try to process it the way her body processes almost everything: carnally.
She will figure out how to do this with the same reckless violence and loving tenderness that first formed the world, because this is old magic, powerful magic, time-out-of-mind magic, and it is not fucking around.
Except.
Except if that is true, why hasn't Minerva simply re-created that magic in the 21st century?
What is it Minerva can do here that she won't be able to do then? What is it that is known now that will be lost then?
Ah. Of course.
The Ministry would guard its secrets in just that way, wouldn't it? Three principals on the project. Only two are named in classified record. And of those, one never makes it to the 21st century.
Urquart. And what are the chances he hoards his secrets even unto the grave?
The tabby looks as if it has been in a street fight with a tom, but the lightning-fast change that still stuns Hermione yields a Minerva lit up with joy.
And with smug.
Her cheeks are pink and her hair is showing signs of having been repaired, rather than freshly styled into its New Look bob. And, yes, she leaves sex trailing in the breeze behind her as the thrill of discovery makes her stalk about the room, talking just a bit faster than Hermione can follow. Especially because Hermione is gobsmacked with the realization that she has actually assumed Minerva would remain, in some fashion, faithful to her, practically celibate, and pining away for an unobtainable dream woman, possibly until Hermione gets around to seducing her in another lifetime.
And now Minerva has said something about having a jazz-related revelation about the relationship of wave to particle and quantum to flow that provides a much more satisfying (and she doesn't even realize that she licks her lips and makes the tiniest thrust of hip on the word satisfying) theoretical underpinning (do not for the love of god dwell on the image of Minerva pinned under you and licking her lips etc.) to the Reformation-era theory of transfiguration (or, worse, pinned under anyone else and licking her lips etc.) that she is learning from Urquart (absolutely not), which, while effective as far as it goes, Minerva is finding limited in its application to anything really interesting.
"I'm sorry, Jane. Have I come at a bad time?"
"No, of curse – I mean of course not. You can come anytime you like, I just—"
Too late. Too much blushing while telling her she can come any time she likes. And now the hesitation has gone on too long. Bugger.
"I see."
Oh, the lovely sway of those hips as they pull the rest of her across the room.
"Is that what it takes? Cerebral stimulation? D'ye lather for a brain that can best ye?"
No, dear, what it apparently takes is breasts. Or, rather, coming face to face with the idea that your luscious breasts (about which I am absurdly territorial) are right there under that linen blouse and that someone else gets to see them while they can still stand up by themselves, heaven bless them. And that someone will never be me. Which makes me a right selfish bastard when it comes down to it. Oh, please don't come closer and put your vulnerable young self and those simply smashing tits in near-intimate contact with me.
Too late. Again.
"Does your life not contain enough challenge without recreational Puckle hunting, Lintie?"
"I'm twenty-six years old, Jane. No gay lass. Can you not take me seriously?"
"You cannot imagine how seriously I am taking you right now."
"Verra weel, then," Minerva husks, "There's more where that came from."
Intellectual breakthroughs. She is talking about intellectual breakthroughs. So that works out well. Rather better than I deserve. "You're twenty-five."
What is our first, best, most primal experience of time? What kind of time do we feel deep down in our bones?
"Ragtime!"
Very funny. And nearly correct. Stay on that track. What about a mother's heartbeat? Your own heartbeat? The very rhythm of life? And how do we connect our magical power to this rhythm of life, dig deep down into the organic basis of our magic and marry it to the universal clock?
"Bongos!"
While it is true that in these times it is inevitable that any group of twenty young males will yield at least two who play the skins, it may be necessary to do something that involves more of our senses. What about it? Who is brave enough to put on the muggle mufti and get with the beat?
"Don't worry, lads," Minerva tells the twelve wide-eyed wizards. "I know a place. The music is fine. And - of particular interest to you lot - the lights are always low."
Bachelor Boffins Bop to the Beat
Well, as a lesson plan, it's got jazz.
