Chapter 11
Minerva momentarily wavered, as Hermione quietly pushed the door shut after both of them. She hadn't failed noticing. "Are you all right?" Hermione questioned, reaching to put a hand upon Minerva's arm, but she immediately pulled away at seeing the motion, not even giving the witch a chance to touch her. She then inhaled deeply, internally wishing that the dizziness would go away with it, and everything would focus again. Her own unsurpassable pertinacity to uphold that image of the unyielding Gryffindor Head of House was what made her keep going and not lean heavily against a wall nearby as pain overtook every motion she made. A comparison between her and the famous Iron Lady, Margaret Thatcher, who had been born in the very same year, wouldn't have come off as silly, or unacceptable, at all. There were certain likelinesses between the witch and the former Muggle Prime Minister that were not so difficult to perceive if you merely allowed yourself to see them. Either both women could have been marvelous companions… or enemies, since their shared obstinacy not to surrender and to keep defending their respective opinions.
"I'm fine," Minerva said, very Professor McGonagall-like. "I'm going to shower. There goes nothing above feeling the water rinse away all of the dirt after having been surrounded by it all day," she continued, already walking in the direction of the staircase that would lead her up to the bathroom. Hermione didn't say anything and merely watched her go, seemingly un-foreseeing of how obvious her hip pulled after having worked the better piece of the day on repairing nearly one whole wing all by herself. She sighed, sinking down on the couch, weakly hearing the sound of water running upstairs within another few minutes.
"I don't know what to do with you," Hermione whispered, more to herself than anything or anyone else. Why did it have to be that difficult? Over the years Hermione had learned to admire Minerva, wanting to be more like her. Ever since the battle, Hermione had learned to love that woman hidden within all these seemingly impenetrable, impossibly high walls that she herself had erupted, to keep her soul safe. Anyone who had once wormed their way into Minerva's heart had collapsed either in this battle or another, leaving her only with the pain of having to gather herself, needing to continue without them, but with another scar in her battered soul that would never vanish or even fade.
The need to feel alive had lead both women into finding each other's comfort… and the way to the other's aching heart. Sometimes it really shouldn't be that easy to love. It really shouldn't. It sometimes made you end up in an impossibly difficult situation in which no matter what route you chose, would hurt. What would hurt more in this particular situation: watching Minerva build up her famous, emotionless façade, that didn't allow to accept aid of anyone in anything, while conscious of the fact what fantastic, passionate woman was hiding within, and how shattered she really was… or giving in to the need to be with that not so often seen woman and helping her to find herself again, while allowing her to aid in finding yourself, but risking to lose whatever existed between you already?
Minerva came to lie atop of Hermione entirely now, eagerly allowing her fingers to discover the patches of the younger witch's skin that weren't hidden by her nightgown, as Hermione's questing ones ran all over the elder woman's thin nightgown, feeling every little curve that was underneath nevertheless – needing it to be that way. Their hot, wet mouths eagerly connected in a series of needy, passionate kisses… until suddenly Minerva became motionless atop of Hermione, panting hard. "I… We can't do this, no matter…"
"We can," Hermione assured, leaning up for more again.
"No…" Minerva whispered, rolling off Hermione again and immediately getting to her feet. Hermione barely had time to register it and was surprised to say anything by Minerva's suddenly… odd behavior. "I cannot take advantage of you this way. I'm so sorry," she choked, audibly holding in her tears.
"You're not…" Hermione began. "I agreed," she rephrased, to make it easy, just when the door to the guestroom fell shut after Minerva again.
Hermione quietly shook her head, rising to her feet. This wasn't only about her, nor about Minerva, but about the both of them.
Minerva McGonagall could be described as the type of woman enjoying to shower because it allowed not to dwell on anything but the water running down over your body and massaging your sore muscles after an emotionally and physically challenging time. Heavily enjoying that feeling, she failed to hear the door to the bathroom. If it hadn't been for that wave of cool air that momentarily touched her skin, she would have failed to hear the door of the shower shutting after Hermione as well, as the much younger witch joined her under the jet of hot water.
The elder woman nearly immediately became rigid, painfully conscious of the fact Hermione had very likely never seen anyone of her age naked until then and could easily be disgusted by it. However, if Hermione was disgusted, she certainly hid it well, letting her hand easily find its way to Minerva's hip and slide up her side to her bosom, cupping it, as Hermione's other hand moved to lay upon Minerva's other side. She quietly kissed Minerva's shoulder, whispering, "I love you."