Hermione has never felt particularly safe on the astronomy tower. It cantilevers out from a cantilever, exposes itself to whiplash winds, and gives no promise of shelter. It exposes too much. Tonight, it shows the hills outside Hogsmeade scattered in flame. The Forbidden Forest seems to swarm with a thousand blast-ended skrewts as large fires and small, great bonfires and lanterns, torches and wands gather in a constellation around the centaur clearing. Drums beat a low and slow entrainment. She and Minerva lean against the high ramparts and watch as the rites of midsummer are celebrated all over the countryside.
"It doesn't matter, does it?" Hermione asks.
Minerva wraps them both up in her midnight blue cloak and rests her lips next to Hermione's ear. "What doesn't matter?"
"Midsummer or midwinter, in the clearing, in a tent or in a tower-that isn't the important bit."
"Likely not, no."
Hermione glances up at the stars scattered across a clear black sky. Minerva shifts. Hermione is aware of each place their bodies approach one another through layers of cloth.
"The centaurs are a legalistic lot," Minerva tells her. Her hands find the buttons on Hermione's tunic and slowly release each clasp, starting at the throat. "I find, however, that I am not willing to share you, not even in the context of ritual," Minerva's hands barely brush across Hermione's breast as those nimble fingers work their way down, "Selfish old witch that I am."
Hermione shivers as she shrugs off the opened tunic. There is no one to see them here except the stars and those creatures that fly through the night. And what if they could see? Would she stop? Would she feel ashamed? Would she happily throw herself open to be ravished before the world if that's what Minerva required of her?
She might.
Her small, pink nipples are already hard beneath the thin layer of lace now covering them. When Minerva removes it and drops it from the side of the tower, Hermione's whole body flushes with an unexpected heat. She hears Minerva's low laughter from somewhere behind her. Hermione's hands reach back to tangle in the soft waves of Minerva's long, loose hair. She closes her eyes. The shock of Minerva's teeth sinking ever so gently into the tender places of her shoulder makes her rock back on her feet, lean into Minerva. To balance, Minerva's arms circle round Hermione's exposed belly.
Hermione smiles. She doesn't bother to suppress a giggle. Then, Minerva's warm hands slide up until they cup Hermione's breasts. Her nipples are so hard, it is almost painful when Minerva pinches them both, tugs them slightly, lets them snap out of her grasp with a faint pop. Hermione's breath catches raggedly in her throat. Minerva continues to tease her breasts. She pinches, tugs, pulls to the point of pain and just beyond. Hermione bites her lower lip and lets her lover play. Each time the sting becomes too much, Minerva uses feathery caresses and warm, open palms to soothe the swollen flesh.
"Yes," Hermione says, but Minerva's hands have already moved down to the clasp of Hermione's trousers. It opens so easily at Minerva's touch, Hermione suspects some minor magic. The thought is only just formed when it is driven from Hermione's mind by a bold, strong hand thrust down the front of her jeans. She groans as her soft mound is covered, held, squeezed in rhythm with kisses that mark Hermione's shoulder and neck. Long fingers find their way between the outer folds. Her trousers fall around her ankles. She steps out of them and finds herself pressed up against the smooth, worn masonry of the turret. She braces herself, holds herself up with her arms stiff and straining against the carved coping stones.
The wind is wilder than it was before. Minerva's blue cloak whips away from their pressed bodies. Their hair tangles together on the breeze. Minerva holds Hermione fast against the gust, growls in her ear, "Will you come for me?"
"Yes," Hermione gasps. And Minerva's hands are all over her. They part the cheeks of her ass and trace a line to the wet cleft that waits between her legs. Hermione moves her feet farther apart and Minerva sends two fingers inside her. Her hips push up and back of their own accord, meeting each of Minerva's thrusts in rough imprecision. She bends at the waist, balances on her forearms, closes her eyes and opens herself up to this pleasure. No sooner have the fingers entered her, however, than they have moved on to claim other treasure.
Hermione opens her eyes, looks back over her shoulder, and catches a glimpse of pure glee on Minerva's face as she slides two wet fingers up and over Hermione's slick clitoris. She cries out, breathes through her mouth. Her mind fogs over as the whole world narrows down to one, tiny, impossibly tender point. It doesn't help that her hips want to jerk and buck wildly at Minerva's precise circling. Minerva uses her free hand to push down on Hermione's lower back. It steadies her. She strokes along her flank, moves in close to whisper soothing, calming nonsense. Hermione clings to the sound. Like purring. Like the air itself. It can't be happening this fast, she thinks. Then it is happening and she is begging, "Please, please, please…" in a voice that becomes a wail when her mind is ripped free of all other senses and given over entirely to the crashing, consuming pleasure of coming for the one she loves.
At least, that's what happens in Hermione's imagination.
What happens in Hermione's reality is that, just as Minerva has unbuttoned Hermione's tunic and explained that she is not about to go traipsing off to the woods to cavort with a lot of churlish religious fanatics, Minerva pauses. She puts her arms around Hermione and tickles her bellybutton until she squirms and giggles. She kisses her shoulder and says, "You've been walking about all day in a cloud of wrackspurts. Tell me what you are thinking."
Hermione loves the way Minerva's voice, in private, can be soft enough to break a heart. Even the deep timbre of age cannot make coarse its fine, feminine edge, though time has softened Minerva's other edges. Her cheeks are rounder than they were when Hermione first saw them. Her jaw no longer has the sculpted delicacy of youth. But there are still places on Minerva's body that sing of a long, lithe, graceful girl. Wrists. Collarbone. Hip. They make Hermione feel strong and tender and fierce and terribly, terribly privileged.
Hermione thinks through these things silently. Minerva lets her. In Minerva's presence, Hermione seldom feels pressured to speak before she has ordered her thoughts. "I was thinking," she answers at length, "Of leaning over this wall—of watching the fires—while you take me from behind."
The corners of Minerva's mouth twitch into a smile. She wraps her blue cloak even more tightly around Hermione and asks, "With what do I take you?"
"Your hands," Hermione answers. She finds Minerva's right hand and brings the palm to her lips. "These two fingers," she clarifies, kissing each fingertip in turn.
"You are a brave soul, tonight," Minerva says. Her face is all starlight. Once again, Hermione realizes, she has been braced for a scowling rejection.
"And you seem happy," Hermione tells her.
"Oh, I am that. The Great Liberator has finally come for me."
Hermione squirms in Minerva's arms, and looks away. She hopes that her blush is not visible in the dark. "The Great Liberator" is what the Quibbler calls her, habitually, despite her protests. Being in love with a sphinx can be as troublesome as it is exciting, sometimes. Is she being teased? Hermione sorts through the questions that jostle for her mind's attention as Minerva gently kisses her forehead.
"Take off your trousers," Minerva says.
"I'm sorry?"
Minerva's hands move swiftly down to pull apart the buttons. Her lips curl into a long, slow smile. Her wide eyes narrow and her voice dips to a place so deep, it is almost as blue as her cloak. "Take these off," she says, emphasizing each word with a playful tug at the placket.
Hermione takes off her trousers and her underclothes. She has to remove her boots, first. Her bra won't come out from beneath her tunic, so she has to remove the tunic, remove the bra, and shove her arms back into the cotton sleeves to keep the chill from seeping into her bones. She hops a bit to maintain balance and finally lands on her backside atop the coping stones. Minerva watches her fumble through this process with an expression of pure amusement.
When Hermione is once again standing on the cool stones, wearing nothing but her open tunic, Minerva gathers her into the warmth of her arms and says, "It's a good thing you have a decent education, because you'll never survive on your skills as a stripper." This time Hermione's questions must leap from her mind of their own accord, because Minerva shrugs and says, "On a lark with Hooch the Mad. Long ago."
Hermione kisses her because she is the most beautiful thing in this or any other world; because she is just the right height for kissing; and she smells like baking biscuits and woman; she tastes divine; and because being held to her breast feels like the limitless possibility of being in one's own bed in one's own home on a sunny Saturday morning.
When they pull apart and Minerva is looking directly into her, Hermione lets her hands roam under the blue cloak. She trails an appreciative touch down Minerva's spine, traces her hips, kneads the slight swell of a skinny old arse. Minerva, meanwhile, pushes Hermione's hard nipples back and forth with her thumbs. She swallows hard. She playfully tweaks them and moves back a bit to watch them react. She presses each in turn as if it were a button on a machine. She lights up in wonder at the way they bounce back. It becomes harder to stand, harder to think. "Harder," Hermione ventures. A quick, surprised glance up at Hermione's face takes no more than a fraction of a second before Minerva's whole attention is once again caught by two rosy nubbins of flesh. She rolls each nipple between two fingers, gradually increasing the pressure as Hermione's breath quickens and she pushes her hips forward, instinctively seeking more.
"Tell me if it hurts," Minerva husks.
"It hurts," Hermione says, "Don't stop." The lightning generated at each point of contact makes her want to close her eyes and abandon herself to the feeling, but the sight of Minerva concentrating so fiercely on her task, of the way her tongue flicks in and out of her mouth in unconscious imitation of what it would like to be doing to Hermione's breasts, compels her to keep her eyes open and focused. Minerva pinches and tugs and pulls, spellbound and serious. If the blessed sting of her touch weren't making it impossible for Hermione to breathe, she might laugh out loud.
"Good?" Minerva's question is needle-sharp and Hermione is a balloon, bursting at the sound.
"Yes," She hisses. She gathers Minerva's hair in her fists, pulls her head back and kisses her, hard, pushing into her body with a demanding tongue. "Yes," she says, when she comes back up for air, "Good."
When Hermione bends over the stones of the wide, flat first rail, it is colder than she imagined it would be. The granite is rough and gritty on her naked breasts and belly. She tenses against the cold and against the odd angle. Minerva massages the tight muscles of her back. Hands linger a bit at their task. They play lightly over the hard cheeks of her ass, exploring the possibilities of flesh and position. It ends with a playful smack on the bottom, and Hermione smiles as Minerva finds a comfortable way to stand behind her. Long fingers reach between Hermione's legs.
"You are soaking wet," Minerva tells her as she slips each of three fingers, one at a time, into Hermione's slick folds. Hermione is oddly proud. It never used to occur to her that she had any special gift in this regard, but Minerva so treasures her ability to work this particular transfiguration that Hermione cannot help but wiggle the evidence about and moan, or maybe purr, in self-satisfaction. She is rewarded with a fast, rough thrust inside that pushes her hips back down on the stones. "Cheeky," Minerva says, and twists her two fingers in a way that leaves Hermione liquid and panting.
"Up a bit," she says as Minerva's fingers search for purchase in Hermione's innermost recesses. Then when Minerva has found the sweet bundle of nerve endings, she jumps at the sudden arc of electricity, sucks air between her teeth, and says, "Yes. Just there."
Minerva stills her hand, holds it steady as Hermione pushes back against it. She can hear Minerva's breath keeping pace with her own, feel Minerva's mounting excitement in the tension of her free hand as the fingertips dig into Hermione's hip. Soon, there is no way she can control her own thrusts and Minerva resumes her loving exploration of the folds. It seems impossible that Minerva cannot locate the target. Hermione's clitoris is swollen and hard and peeking out beyond her outer lips. No, Hermione realizes, Minerva isn't searching. She is teasing. Hermione groans her joy and frustration. Minerva's touch gradually becomes surer, more precise. Hermione gives herself to the small thrills that signal the inevitability of the larger one. All it takes for Hermione to tumble over that threshold is a tiny push, a reaching out beyond the immediacy of sensation to something—someone—larger than herself. "Minerva," she gasps, "I love you I love you please I love you."
And she explodes. Her body collapses upon the rough stones because her legs are momentarily unable to support her weight. Minerva adjusts to keep the pressure between her legs constant, but Hermione's weight, the odd angle, and the sweaty, come-slick wetness between her legs make it impossible. Her mound throbs, untouched, cooled by an errant breeze and ready for more, even in the aftermath of fulfillment. The next thing Hermione is aware of is Minerva's cloak draped over her shivering body and the fact that someone is laughing aloud.
"You seem happy, as well," Minerva observes.
"Oh. God. Morphine," Hermione says.