A/N: Warning. All-Purpose Warning. Won't Give It Away, But, Seriously, Warning. You Have Been Warned.
The door opens in late afternoon. Minerva enters, talking.
She apologizes for not being at the Ministry during the early part of the day, but she was up most of the night working on something for Dumbledore. She's famished, and if Jane hasn't had her tea, Minerva can bring food and beverage to the flat, or they might travel together up to the communications tower and watch the sunset from there. She has some questions about protective charms that, perhaps, Jane might –
She stops. Hermione is seated in a chair near the hearth. She hasn't moved. Dawning awareness of this, Hermione sees, has halted Minerva mid-babble.
Hermione rises from the chair. She rises slowly, and not entirely for the effect.
"I told you no," she says. Her voice is cool. Level. It is as controlled as the measured steps she takes toward the center of the room, as neutral as the face she shows Minerva.
"Jane? Are you well?"
Silence.
"Where is your wand?" Minerva scans the room.
Hermione pulls her wand from her sleeve just far enough for Minerva to identify it, then slips it back.
"I – I don't understand," Minerva says.
"Clearly," Hermione tells her.
Minerva looks as if she were doing long division in her head. Hermione waits. "I'll summon the matron," Minerva says. She backs slowly away. When her back meets the door, she reaches behind her to find that the doorknob is missing. She turns. The door has become a wall.
"You're scaring me," she says quickly.
"Now, you're scared? Here, you're scared? You could have been killed," Hermione says. "You could have killed us all. Do you understand that, Minerva? Not just yourself and your friends, not just the Ministry. All of us. London. Beyond. If there weren't three adults looking after you, you might have murdered millions." She feels her jaw locking up against the need to scream some truth into the little idiot.
"Jane, I –"
"You irresponsible," Hermione begins, and feels the heat rise along with her voice, "Arrogant," the words rumble like thunder as she hurls them across the room, "Thoughtless, deceitful, INFANT."
Minerva stares at her, the hurt raw and explicit, unable or unwilling to defend herself.
She's twenty-eight years old. Hermione breathes hard and says nothing. God only knows how old I am.
"I am a soldier," Minerva whispers. "You said it yourself."
No outside sound penetrates this far into the Ministry. Hermione herself has made sure that no sound escapes. They are alone here, in this tiny box, just as alone as they are in Hermione's mokeskin bag or would be in the tiny pocket of volatile nowhere Minerva has hidden within an antique Rolex.
Minerva's focus is on the floor, somewhere between the two of them. "Jane," she says. "Love," she says. "You are dying," she says.
"Oh, for god's – "
"You keep forgetting how talented I am. You said that, too. Remember? You're dying, Jane." And here, the pain stamped on Minerva's face and body comes crashing out in her words. "You're aging much, much faster than you ought to be. I know. The healers know. I told them to look for it, and they found it. I can see you. I can see you, and I can smell you, and I can taste you, and I can hear you like no one else can. Irresponsible, arrogant, thoughtless, deceitful infant I may be," she says, "And your lover."
"You can't understand."
"You'll die if you don't find a way to control what's happening to you. And if you won't make the cursed thing, then I will. And I know bloody well what might happen, and that there are at least four beings of great power looking out for me while I'm at it. Oh, aye, I've worked out a few things, Jane. I have," she nods as if affirming her own assertion, pulls herself up to full height, looks Hermione squarely in the eye and dares her to blink. "I have."
Hermione turns her back on the conversation. The fear that flared into anger is cooling back to fear, again. And then, even the fear takes too much effort.
The only grief she feels is for Minerva. Minerva, who will watch her die. Minerva, who will send her off to die again. Minerva, who will tell the children what she has done, knowing it won't matter why she has done it. Minerva, who cannot have known how to create a time-turner while living among skilled legilimens for that abominable year, not without giving it all away. Minerva, who gave her the cursed thing in the first place. Minerva, who was just forced to tell her reason for living that she cannot go on living.
In that case, I really wish I had a cigarette, Hermione thinks. This revelation is not a surprise. It's a confirmation. In a way, it is a relief.
She allows the door to return to the wall behind Minerva. Then she says, "Take off your clothes. Put both hands on the chest of drawers and wait for me."
In the privy, Hermione finds three kinds of cigarettes left for her by the house elves, there next to the flannel and soap.
Feck is an excellent listener.
She selects the non-menthol filtered for no reason other than she likes the design of the package, and lights it with her wand. It isn't her first cigarette. And she's familiar enough with wizard tobacco and good old-fashioned Amsterdam cannabis that when she inhales, her body has no reaction except a slight uptick in heart rate. The smoke gives a gratifying vagueness to the face in the mirror.
When Hermione emerges from the privy, Minerva is naked, with her hands on the chest of drawers and her eyes on her hands.
Hermione passes behind Minerva, but does not touch her. She gathers an ashtray from the sitting room and brings it back to the bed. The position is carefully chosen. Minerva cannot see Hermione's reflection in the mirror above the maple dresser. Hermione sits, smokes, keeps one foot on the floor. She watches Minerva from behind and considers.
Minerva's breathing is not quite calm. Still, she doesn't twitch. She doesn't move out of the position she has been told to hold. She must be wondering how I know, Hermione muses. Or if I know.
Hermione reminds herself that she isn't just talking to the willful brat, but to the leader of men, the Ministry manager, the teacher, the scientist. She's talking to thirty-year-old Minerva and forty-year-old Minerva and seventy-year-old Minerva and ninety-year-old Minerva. All of them.
She inhales the smoke deep into her lungs and releases it through her nose. She has always wanted to do that.
Well, that's true of everyone, isn't it? It's just that most of us don't remember facing that future listener. We don't know that we'll be held responsible for every word every time we are held.
Finally, conversationally, she asks, "How stupid would I have to be, Minerva, to do this without knowing how much you want me to do this?"
Minerva does not look up to answer. "Fair stupid, Jane."
"Am I that stupid?"
"No, you're not."
Hermione stubs out her cigarette and joins Minerva at the chest of drawers. Minerva is inches away, not looking, not moving. Hermione crosses her arms and makes her wait. She counts to twenty, then says, "You'll have to ask me."
Minerva takes a deep, steadying breath. It does not appear to steady her. Hermione can see the trembling at close range. She can see the way she's pressing her weight into the hard surface in order to keep herself from shaking.
"Jane," Minerva says, gravely.
Hermione's knees nearly give out. That voice. She wasn't expecting that voice. Minerva herself doesn't seem able to predict it, or to produce it at will. It's feminine and vulnerable and beautiful and intensely erotic. Minerva can no more control that tone of voice than a cat can control its purr.
Minerva licks her lips. "Will ye spank me, please?" She finishes.
In answer, Hermione puts one arm across Minerva at the shoulders, just above her breasts. Minerva is still off-balance and leaning into the dresser. Hermione prepares to steady her. "Take your hands off the dresser, Lintie," she says.
Hermione feels Minerva's racing heart as she lifts both palms off the supporting surface. Hermione supports her weight on one arm, not allowing her to rebalance.
Hermione shifts, moves in closer, so that Minerva's side is braced firmly against breasts, belly, pelvis and thighs.
She drops a kiss on Minerva's shoulder. Minerva holds the supporting arm with both hands.
"You may watch yourself in the mirror, if you like," she whispers into Minerva's ear.
Then she draws one open palm back and brings it around in a wide arc to land – smack - upon Minerva's bare bottom. Minerva flinches, and then relaxes. Hermione steadies her. She strokes Minerva's bottom, exploring the unfamiliar contours.
Then she smacks Minerva again, hard, on precisely the same spot as before.
Just before the blow lands, Minerva tilts her hips, almost imperceptibly, back and up to meet it. Her mouth is open and her eyes are closed.
One more. Two more. Five altogether on the same spot until the cheek is hot and red. The next blow falls on the other cheek. Minerva's breathing is deep and even, as if hypnotized, or meditating. Hermione makes that cheek match its twin. Two. Three. Four. Five. The hand is controlling the rhythm of Minerva's breathing. Hermione strokes the skin again, lingering at the line that divides, teasing with her fingertips.
Then she lands a series of blows erratically, making sure to keep no rhythm, so that Minerva has no way to anticipate or prepare for the sting.
Minerva's breathing goes heavy and shallow.
Hermione dips two fingers down into the plump, ripe flesh between Minerva's legs and finds that she is soaking wet. Minerva stiffens. Hermione holds her tighter, knowing that she is exercising her last shred of will not to impale herself on the two fingers exploring her inner folds.
"There are no good answers for us. You know that, don't you?" Hermione asks.
Minerva shakes her head yes.
"Say it."
"Yes," Minerva promptly responds.
Hermione rewards this by flicking Minerva's clitoris with the tip of her middle finger.
Minerva hisses as she sucks in air between clenched teeth. She clasps Hermione's supporting arm more tightly.
Hermione stops flicking.
"You may tell me you love me," Hermione says.
"I love you," Minerva gasps without hesitation.
"Good. I'm a selfish old witch and I want you all to myself."
Minerva smiles softly.
"So when Xiomara Hooch rides back into town on her sexy broomstick, you'll have to tell her you belong to someone else. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
Hermione rewards this with three more sharp blows landed quickly.
Minerva is becoming heavier, leaning more into Hermione's solid body. Hermione resumes teasing her clitoris.
"I want you to think about something," Hermione whispers into her ear, "I want you to think about how important it is to have a safe place to do dangerous things."
Minerva can only nod, now.
"And someone you can trust to do them with," Hermione tells her. She traces the shell of Minerva's ear with the tip of her tongue. Hermione senses how close she has been brought to orgasm. She moves her fingers away from their compelling purpose, lifts them to her mouth and tastes them. She allows Minerva to hear this happening.
Minerva shivers.
"Now, we are going to lie on that bed and pleasure each other in the position colloquially known as sixty-nine, like decent lesbians," Hermione tells her, "Instead of the desperate deviants we so clearly are."
The sound that emerges from Minerva is remarkably like a giggle.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Christmas Day 1997
"Say it."
"Jane, will you spank me please? Yes! I love you."
"Again."
"Jane, will you spank me please? Yes! I love you."
"Again."
"Jane, will you spank me please? Yes! I love you."
"I don't know why you tried so hard to hide this from us, Professor. What was it again?"
"Jane, will you spank me please? Yes! I love you."
"You clearly enjoy this memory. How does it go, again?"
"Jane, will you spank me please? Yes! I love you."
"And so festive for a Christmas Day, wouldn't you agree, children?"
The Gryffindor Common Room is silent, except for the labored breathing of the Professor on her knees next to the Christmas tree. But the man with the wand doesn't really expect an answer. The manifest horror of the offenders herein gathered is response enough. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. "What happens to those who interfere with the running of this school, Professor McGonagall?" asks Amycus Carrow.
"Punishment," she says, slowly, as if the syllables were being dragged out of her gullet on a hook.
Carrow bends over her and stage-whispers, "No wonder you do it so often, eh?"
The loop of memory she has been forced to relive gradually fades. She becomes aware that she is on her knees in the Gryffindor Common Room. Carrow has gone. She is flanked by two of the students who have not been permitted to go home for the holiday, or who no longer have a home to go to. Her students. Who? How many? Not Creevey. He lies bleeding in the Safe Place, along with those who are tending his wounds. His many, many wounds. For what? She can't remember. She can't remember if she ever knew. She drew her wand to protect him and then – this.
She shakes all over, shuddering as if convulsed. She knows that she cannot stand on her own. And they are staring at her, the children. The blind, black rage makes a bitter bile rise in the back of her throat. The children. The filthy bastard made them watch.
The hands that move the veil of hair away from her face and tuck it back into the knot at the nape of her neck are gentle and strong. They replace the tall hat that has fallen off her head. Yes. This would be Longbottom.
"Stand back," says a voice she should recognize, "I'm Irish."
And the young man crouching on her other side gives way to another, who puts one hand over her own balled fist and says, "Professor, we've got to get you back to safety. The Room has moved. The wards need recasting. And I really, really, desperately want to stay alive long enough to talk a beautiful woman into spanking my arse until I love her."
"I don't know, Seamus," says Neville Longbottom, "There's only so much magic can do. That might be a violation of Gamp's Law."
"A man has a right to dream," replies Seamus Finnigan.
Her glasses are placed in her hand. She puts them on. "Who?" She manages, at last.
"Boot, Finnigan, and me," Longbottom tells her.
"Boot, Finnigan, and I," she corrects him.
"That, too," he says. Now she is being lifted to her feet by strong young men. Longbottom doesn't let go once she is standing. She's unsteady on her feet and he has a supporting arm around her. "We needed to learn a lesson about respect, apparently."
"And we learned a valuable one, I think," Finnigan adds. She is gently guided toward the door. "Those people are feckin eejits, aren't they?"
She sways. Her vision is clearing, now. She sees less of 1954 and more of 1997.
"He actually thought we'd respect you less," says a third voice. Boot.
"Has he ever been seventeen, do you think?" Finnigan wonders.
She stops, dizzy. Longbottom wraps two arms around her and settles her gently onto an overstuffed chair. "I think we'll need a plate of sweets and some brandy before she'll be walking on her own again. Terry, has Dobby finished?"
"Yeah. Colin's practically getting a sponge-bath in the 'm' word. I'll get Dobby to come round."
"Wait," Minerva says, "Boys, wait."
Their forms come into focus, now. One standing, two kneeling beside the chair. They wait. They wait patiently and unquestioningly.
"He thought," she says, "He thought he was seeing shame. He thought the thing I'd fight to keep would be shame." She shakes her head. She has won. She knows that she has won. They might see what she sees, but they cannot know what she knows. "Not shame," she tells them, "Private. Sacred."
Longbottom chews his lower lip, worrying a cut left by the back of a hand last week. "Private and sacred," he says, clearly speaking for all three. "Done."
"Feckin eejits," says Finnigan.