At first, Hermione thinks that sex with a woman will be different from sex with a man because a woman can't put herself inside you the way a man can.
But the first time Minerva holds her close, looks into her eyes and slips one slender finger inside her, all of Hermione's beliefs about penetration turn liquid and flow away.
The first time Minerva reaches deep into her with four sensitive fingers and pulls out one endless, ecstatic moment, Hermione believes she is as full as it is possible to be--full of physical sensation, full of wonder, full of the love given by the most magnificent being Hermione can imagine. "Open yourself for me," Minerva whispers. So Hermione does.
She has learned that sex isn't just something to do while the children are sleeping. Sex changes things. The woman who rises from Minerva's arms is never the same as the one who fell into them.
It is just before dawn. She looks down from the high bedroom window of McGonagall Manor. Her beloved sleeps on the bed some few feet away.
She thinks about how each time she believes she has taken as much of Minerva into herself as she can hold, something expands and she finds that there is room for more.
This morning, long after the lovemaking has ended, she wakes with the salty taste of Minerva's tears still on her lips. Minerva's need, cried out in the universal language of lovers since the beginning of time, still sounds in her memory. It echoes in the morning song of living things, awake like her to greet the coming day. She hears how wanted she is. How needed. How connected.
Inside her. Minerva is inside her.