Chapter 8: A Dance of Longing
A week passed.
Another week passed.
It was nearing the end of the third and it showed no sign of stopping. The only joy found was that a gala event approached on the weekend and Hermione did find herself rather looking forward to it. Charity events always gave her opportunity to dress a little nicer, pull out some garments and play with a bit of magic, tailor them to her figure.
Tomorrow, she would do just that. On this sun filled Friday, however, she was due at a home outside Diagon Alley, where she sat at a modest table with the mother of the young man she so wished to have an audience with. She was calm, relaxed, and open to conversation, meanwhile this striking blond woman across from her fidgeted with the handkerchief she held in her hands on her lap.
"My husband… He's never been very kind to Lionel in recent years, because he's so different from what Gordon knows." She told the author who nodded supportively. Relaxing against the back of the wooden chair she sat in, Hermione let her posture do the talking, allowing for it to be open, inviting.
"Different... How so?" She asked, inquisitive notes lacing the question. Grey coloured eyes, almost bluish in hue, gazed back into her own.
"He's not like other boys, he likes… Pretty things, he's sensitive, Lionel's an incredibly sweet boy." These were things that Hermione clung to. She knew all too well that feeling of otherness by nature. A soft 'ahh' parted her lips and she gazed with understanding across the surface of the table, her gaze falling to a place beyond the woman at her clean, however cluttered, counter.
"I'm assuming, because of what happened, your son reads my books…"
"Oh, he loves them… He idolizes you," The woman quickly said by way of answering to the author's assumption, leaning forward in her chair to draw her elbows up on the surface of the table while addressing the well dressed woman she was speaking to. "I can't begin to tell you how many times he's read The Green Gate, it's nearly falling apart by now, because of your character… Irving, I think is his name… The gay character, he'd never seen someone like him in a book before."
A gentle smile curled the corner of Hermione's mouth.
"Irving… I loved writing that book, I have some friends, here, in Diagon - they run a radio show inside their home -, Seamus and Lee, lovely boys, husbands, the character was somewhat modeled after them," Hermione told her, seeing a bit of recognition light the depths of the woman's eyes as she listened. "I feel like it's important to give people, even characters, a validation… Your son, the way he presents, his difference, is what makes him incredibly special."
"I've always thought so," Hermione sensed the blond was drawing on the verge of tears. Her eyes grew watery under the weight of their conversation. "I am so sorry for what my husband did to you that day, when he didn't come home… I had such a twisted feeling in my gut that something wasn't right, and then I heard the news… I was devastated."
Leaning forward in her chair, the author reached with a delicate hand and placed it on the woman's arm, comfortingly. She wasn't upset with this woman, this soft spoken and gentle creature, who seemed as though she genuinely felt remorse for actions which she had not made. She wasn't cold. She was soft spoken. Almost fearful.
"What happened with Mr. Barrett gave me pause, it made me consider what was happening at home, with the children, and you… Has he ever been violent with you or the children?" Outspoken and unwanted as the inquiry may have been, the brunette wasn't one to cut corners. The question hung in the air for a few moments. It seemed to take the other woman's breath away. For a number of minutes, silence laid between them where Hermione simply sat, leaning toward, softly rubbing the woman's arm, waiting. After what seemed like an eternity, the woman's lips parted to speak.
"He's never hit us, he's not violent in that way." She said, a slight tremble to her voice.
"In what way is he violent?" Hermione furthered, her head tilting minutely, sensing not the whole story was being uncovered. Sometimes, as she had discovered over time, no one asked the appropriate questions. Sometimes people assumed that because there were no bruises, no marks on skin, that everything was fine and well. But sometimes words cut deeper than a knife. Sometimes… A person didn't have to even lift a finger to cause someone the kind of pain that could never be matched.
"He yells at them," The woman managed to choke before the dam broke. "He yells at me, he… Says horrible things to them… He threatens…" The woman couldn't hold at bay any longer the distress. She brought up her hands, still holding, now quite tightly, to that handkerchief and began sobbing with such vigor, Hermione swore she had never heard such cries from another. She felt that mother's cry cut through the very heart of her and she, despite all intentions, rose to draw the woman up into a tight hug. Foreign arms wrapped, in turn, tightly around her figure when the blond was guided into her embrace, because sometimes, even from a stranger, comfort healed even just a little bit of that hurt.
For a long time, Hermione held Mrs. Barrett in that modest kitchen and let the woman weep. For however long this woman needed, she cried in Hermione's shoulder, a sound not soon to be forgotten. There was no question that she had been abused. For there was a certain kind of cry, a gut wrenching, a begging for a higher power for the pain to stop cry, that overcame someone who had bared witness to some horror. When the crying ebbed to make way for sniffling, then outpoured the apologies from trembling lips. Backing from her hold, Hermione released Mrs. Barrett and watched the woman create distance, turn her back and wipe her face with the back of her hand, before facing her again.
"I'm so sorry about all that," Roughened and strained, the blond woman put her hands on her hips and peered up at the ceiling, blinking away the moisture from her eyes. "I told myself I wasn't going to get upset."
"No need, Mrs. Barrett… Sarah, can I call you Sarah?" Hermione asked as she retrieved a pad of paper and a pen from the pockets of her coat. The woman merely nodded. "Alright, Sarah… I'm going to give you some names and addresses, it'll be your choice whether you want to pursue it, but, for you and your children, if what's happening is affecting you in such a way… I hope you write them while Gordon is waiting in custody for trial." Laying down the pad of paper on the table, Hermione leaned over to write quickly, the woman stepping nearer to watch her as she did.
"Who… Who are they?" She asked quietly, somewhat puzzled as this virtually unknown person, the author, feverishly wrote then tore the paper from the pad and straightened, leaving the note behind while the pen and pad of paper were returned to the inner breast pocket of her coat.
"Dean Thomas, he's a lawyer… A very good lawyer, and right now would be the right time, if any, considering Gordon's circumstance, to arrange a meeting with him if you want to," Hermione breathed, aiming a glance at the woman who reached for the slip on the table to draw up and look at. "The other is a woman named Emelda, Emelda Nolan - She's a… Well, she's a therapist of sorts, but don't let that deter you… She's a phenomenal woman to talk to, incredibly sweet and knowledgeable, I've gone to her myself in the past when things were… A little hairy... In my own life."
The blond woman shook her head, the hand holding the paper dropping to her side as she lifted her other to comb it back through golden locks.
"Miss. Granger, I know you mean to do well but… These services always come with a price tag that families like ours just can't afford…" There was a pause. Hermione angled slightly, leaning on the table. Acutely aware of that fact she was, but, of course, there was also the misunderstanding.
"Write them, talk to them, if you want to… Send me the bill." She said simply, frankly, with almost an air of authority to set in stone a promise that she would take care of it, herself. Grey eyes stared into hers with directness, within them swimming a look of pure disbelief. Hermione slowly, pointedly, gave her head a nod.
"We can't do that, Miss. Granger… That's too much for y…"
"You can, you should… There was a time when I was too proud to take help when offered and it almost ruined me, so, please, take my advice… If a person comes into your life and offers you help with nothing but the most earnest desire to see you well, help that you truly need to pull yourself out of a situation beyond your control, it might not always be pertaining to money, but your health… Take it, I ask only in return that you do for your children that which you might not have done for yourself alone… Nothing more, nothing less… The help is yours if and when you need it - just send me the bill."
It took some time for the woman to recover but, when she did, and the realization dawned that this strange brown eyed woman wanted only, in the most sincere sense, to offer her hand in aid… She, again, was beside herself.
Only time would tell if Mrs. Barrett would send her a writ of payment from either of these sources: a lawyer's office, or a therapist, hopefully both. But if she should do so, Hermione would willingly and gladly pay for either service to ensure the safety and happiness of the child whose father didn't deserve him, and for a mother who clearly loved him.
She would never have said that outloud, of course. To judge and to say a parent didn't deserve a child was rather too much for one to hear. But, to the woman who left that small, modest home, any child with a parent who didn't love them unconditionally despite them being authentically who they were, at that time, shouldn't be involved in being a parent.
With this in mind, she took her leave of the striking blond and made her way to Lee and Seamus's for a spot of tea before heading home, herself.
The Saturday which followed...
Twisting hands ran over knuckles, squeezed fingers, and felt warm. Heels sounded over flagstone floor, back and forth, endless. In front of her fireplace in her personal quarters, the Headmistress paced, eyeing the clock on the mantle every so often as minutes ticked on. Creases of worry lined those pale, angular features and made her appear twenty years younger. She had been fine, composed, and now her heart fluttered uncomfortably in her chest.
When she said she needed a bit of time, evidently, that was a gross underestimation. Day by day, assuredness gave way to fear, fear lended to further contemplation, contemplation brought on bouts of understanding, then assuredness, and back again. The cycle continued. One week passed into the next, and then the third. Everytime she was one thousand percent certain her mind had settled and been made, another little voice whispered in her ear and unearthed another wave of uncertainty. So, now, she paced, dressed impeccably in a long, black floor-length dress, squeezing her hands together, adorned with jewelry and a full face of makeup. She wanted to present well, she exposed her shoulders in a strapless number with aim to impress. Not everyone. Not just anyone. But a woman who, by now, probably thought that the Headmistress had simply given up after a week of daily evening meetings. All the while not being at all certain if she was ready to commit to the woman in question.
It was ridiculous.
She could have written. She should have written. She would have… If only she was sure. The ebony haired witch suddenly stopped her pacing and found herself rooted.
The author's voice rang in her ear as the thought passed.
"We can speculate about our could have's, our should have's, and our would have's, all we want, I could spend hours telling you what I wanted to do, and you could do the same, if there were any moments… But that won't change anything."
A steadying, however shaky, breath parted Minerva's rouge coloured lips. The fact of the matter was: She hadn't written. She could have. She didn't. Nothing could change that. So what could she do now? Tasting her own medicine, she imagined this was what Hermione must have felt. The ball she'd kept in her own court, this time by choice. She chose to tell the woman she needed distance. Hermione hadn't attempted to intrude upon her. Even though Minerva was sure that she probably wanted to, she had respected the request… Now she deserved some sort of answer, even if Minerva required more time.
The Headmistress knew, as she'd discovered, that if she willingingly gave her heart and placed it in Hermione's care, that would be the end of it. She would fall so deeply into that woman she might possibly lose herself there. She longed for an intellect to rival her own, she longed to be surrounded by creativity and kindness, for spontaneity and adventure, all things wrapped up in that one singular woman. Minerva knew who the author was, what she was capable of, and it terrified her to think of allowing herself to be as overwhelmingly overjoyed as she thought that woman could make her. What if it were lost?
Without a clutch in hand, the ebony haired witch took up her coat and drew it around herself. She reached for a handful of Floo Powder, stealing herself for a moment in preparation. She couldn't simply arrive at such an event looking like this, with worry and concern. Composing herself, squaring her shoulders, the woman willed her heart to relax, for her pulse to stop thrumming in her ears, and for the sickness of her stomach to disappear.
Once most of these symptoms had subsided, she stepped into the large fireplace, threw down the powder, and announced her departure.
Engulfed in green flame one moment, then the woman was gone the next.
What most often happened was, anyone who could, would travel by Floo to someplace nearer to the gala. Nestled between rolling hills a tent was erected, so large in its construction that it very well could have taken up most of the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts school. Circular tables decorated with candles, floating charmed lanterns hanging in the air overhead, illuminating table clothes of ivory, and dinnerware so pristine you could see your reflection clearly in it. It was another one of the events which called upon the affluent, and those representative of various clubs, academies, boards, and professions.
Popping up like daisies, well dressed witches and wizards began to appear on lush green grass by way of apparation. Crowds began to cluster and walk toward the event tent taking up space in the countryside. Wards and disillusionment charms ensured the Muggle population, although it was highly doubtful any Muggles would be in such a radius, would not be able to detect such a gathering of minds and wallets. Being as so many attendees were from a great many places within the U.K. meant for interesting company, much conversation and laughter, even as they emptied their Gringotts accounts for a multitude of causes. Among such attendees were some of Hermione's closest friends, some which she somehow managed to find through the throngs as they appeared. Arm in arm, she strolled alongside Harry - who attended on behalf of The Department of Magic Law Enforcement -, while his ginger wife, also, held close to the crook of his inner elbow.
Chatting and joking amongst themselves, the trio delighted in being together again. It had been some time since the author had had the good fortune of seeing them both together. Harry never changed. He was still mild mannered, smooth talking nonetheless, and wanting nothing more than to ensure his wife, himself, and his friend were prepared for a spectacular night of food, wine, dancing, and support. It took time for them to inch closer and closer to the party, it seemed like everyone who was anyone just showed up all at once. Packed tight as they kept moving along, they managed to see a flash of platinum blond, a pair of blue eyes, and Hermione leaned in to watch Ginny wave and motion to Luna that they'd find her inside. Neville mustn't have been far behind - evidently, a representative of Hogwarts.
"First come, first serve." A fellow in a dark blue suit advised them upon making their beneath the clean, white canvas covering. They acknowledged him and glanced around the massive space, noting how many people had already infiltrated the designed room.
"Where are we going to go, loves?" Harry questioned, craning up on his toes to peer about, looking for other acquaintances and friends. Her hand slipped from his arm.
"We have to find Neville and Luna, I haven't seen her since Christmas…" She practically ordered the green eyed fellow.
"Sounds like a plan, 'Moine!" He shot back without looking at her, already on a mission to find their friends, as his wife clung to his arm. She followed closely behind, a smirk spreading across her lips.
They squeezed between groups of jovial crowds, so captivated by their own conversations they didn't seem to stop and take room for oxygen. Waiters with trays of champagne and wine skirted tables, and those clusters of people, and once emptying their trays, only seemed to return a few moments later with more to offer. Reaching behind herself, Ginny ensured that Hermione wasn't lost by taking her hand, a gesture that caused Hermione's smirk to widen. As much as the youngest Weasley enjoyed being away from her children on short occasions, that mothering nature never quite faded.
A yell of excitement, familiar, suddenly made it all the more evident that Harry, their fearless leader, had managed to find another patch of people who captured his attention. Thus, Hermione was dragged along behind more hastily, although she could not see who it was beyond the back of Ginny, the crowd being all too tight knit.
"Harry! GINNY! FUCKING GRANGER!" A man reached past Ginny and grabbed her shoulder, practically dragging her forward. At first, she was surprised, until shallow, though chiseled, features and an overwhelming scent of wormwood flooded her nose. She embraced him as tightly as he embraced her, then they parted, giving her clear sight of his cool, blue eyes. "Astoria loved your last book, I swear… Thank you, again, for sending it signed, made me quite the hero." Harry's hand shot between them and grabbed Draco's, a smile curling the corner of his mouth as he shook the pale fellow's hand with enthusiasm.
Rifts between were long forgotten. The world was different now. There were more important things to consider than schoolyard shenanigans, like family and children.
"I'm sure it did, is she here tonight?" Harry chuckled, their hands parting to make way for Draco to lean in so that Ginny and he could exchange the briefest of kisses to cheeks.
"I'm afraid Scorpius is a bit under the weather, had us up all night brewing fever potion," He told them, a slight look of paternal concern dancing about his eyes. "At any rate, I'm here only for a short time before I return to them but it was nice to see you…" Offering a slight wave with a partial raise of the hand the fellow began to move in another direction, his finger, however, pointed at Harry, his head turning back as though he almost forgot a thought. "Potter! We are still on for that match next month in Ireland! Ireland and Germany?"
"Wouldn't miss it! Send us an owl, we'll figure it out!" Harry called as the three of them continued onward in their search for Neville.
Once sworn enemies, due only because of the influence of adults who aimed to fill their minds with ideas of what good and evil were, those influences no longer got to decide their fate for them; the survivors of the war got to choose for themselves. As it would be, over the years, most usually with the gentle hand of Astoria and the influence of Ginny, who had found friendship with the other mother, the fathers fell in line. Hermione knew they had brunch together on occasion, let their children play, and, as it appeared, Harry and Malfoy continued to share a passion for Quidditch. It gave her ideas for a story that, maybe, one day she'd write… She wondered if there would ever be a time when things she saw wouldn't inspire her in moments when she was supposed to be not working.
"I think I see them… With Susan Bones…" Ginny's voice tore Hermione from her reverie and she, and Harry, began to follow the ginger who led them through the crowds, growing a little less packed as they managed to make it quite far into the tent by now. They still needed to offer excuse me's and squeeze between people choosing to stand by unassigned tables, but not as frequently.
In the distance, beyond heads and shoulders and through the cracks of standing conversationalists, chocolate brown eyes could see the sight of Luna talking in that swaying, airy way she so did. Her husband standing beside her, gazing at the side of her face, his own adorned with an almost dreamy smile. No one could deny that they were perfectly matched. What Hermione did not see, however, was standing behind the dark haired fellow, was the Headmistress. Her back was turned and she stood back to back with Neville, carrying on the briefest of conversations with an academics advisor. Neville saw them before anyone else, and raised his hand as they threaded through people toward the small gathering. He waved emphatically, drawing his wife's, and Susan's, attention toward the trio taking strides in their direction.
"Darlings!" Luna called as she closed some of the gap, her earlier conversation cut short. "It's been too long!" Exchanging hugs and kisses of welcome, old friends came together and it was, as Lee had called in so many weeks ago, a beautiful thing.
"Hermione, I'm so glad you look so well," Susan ventured to say, calling upon her attention as chocolate brown eyes fell upon the tall, ginger woman who came forward to shake her hand. "We nearly fell out of our chairs a few weeks ago when the news came through…"
"Ah, yes… Well, from what I heard from friends, you delivered the news delicately and lended your support, Susan - I greatly appreciate that level of care." The ginger woman seemed to catch a blush, their hands parting from their shake.
"Well, we do believe in inclusivity, especially when someone as famous as yourself…"
"The only thing Hermione is famous for is those bloody fine looking legs!" Another voice announced loudly. Pairs of eyes turned to see who would say such a thing, including a pair of emerald green, feet away, who had heard Hermione's name over the din of conversations. A smiling, dark skinned face, lit with mischief, made itself known. Close beside a pale one, handsome and smirking, snickering at his wife, also appeared. Susan, sensing that she was beginning to intrude upon the reunion, excused herself to the notice of no one.
Hermione's head dropped forward as she laughed. Ever so thankful that someone interrupted the course of conversation. Anyone who was anyone she was closest to knew… She abhorred being called famous. Lydia came to her rescue.
"You can't see my legs, how the hell would you know." Hermione stated with humor, reaching out to the woman and her husband for a hug.
"In trousers as fitted as those ones, I can practically see your bloody tonsils." Lydia laughed close to her ear as they hugged. Again, after parting, another round of welcome was made to the couple representative of the Ministry's Archeological Society, both of whom were quite esteemed in their field of research.
"That's a marvelous dress, Lydia." Remarked Ginny, eyeing the colour of rose gold against her friend's skin tone. Lydia always dressed spectacularly at these events, she knew her cut of gown very well.
"Indeed," A Scottish accent, a richly deepened tone, crept over the sounds of nearby voices. "Quite lovely." Making her presence known, Minerva slowly entered into the small circle of people, warranting words of welcome and a gaze from the author that held with it a subtle intrigue. Finally, Minerva laid her eyes upon the brunette woman. After weeks of waiting, weeks of contemplation, and noted the slight bruising of her cheek, her eye, practically healed within that time.
"Why, thank you, Headmistress… However, I think Granger has me beat." Hermione shot Lydia a glance, knowing exactly what she was doing. Her friend merely shrugged a shoulder, that ever present smirk widening as her husband wrapped an arm around the author's back.
"You're going to have to give me the number to your tailor." He murmured, his baritone octave laced with sincerity and a bit of humor. As it would be, she chose to forgo a dress. She wanted to be as comfortable as humanly possible. Hermione chose to tailor her own waistcoat, simply of the deepest black, and trousers that were slim. A white, crisp collared shirt and wide black tie. Attire, as such, did nothing to affect or distract from her obvious femininity. Especially being as the height of her heels rivaled most of their current company. Minerva had only on the rarest of occasions seen Hermione in such a wardrobe. Which seemed to be reflected in the eyes of the woman who gazed back at her.
"You look… Stunning." Was all Hermione managed to say, the corners of her mouth upturning into the ghost of a smile.
Their friends shared glances, unnoticed by the women who spent a few lengthy seconds looking at one another with a strange air about them.
"Well," Harry said by way of announcing his presence, once again, breaking the eye contact between the Scottish witch and the author who suddenly realized their social blunder. "I'm going to get a drink, care for a drink, my wife?" He seemed not to wait for a response as he took her hand and began leading her along, knowing that the night was incredibly young and they'd all have moments to spend together throughout.
"Here, here!" Neville stated, following closely behind, Luna giggling and grabbing onto the bottom of his dinner jacket as they made off behind the Potter's. Minerva and Hermione glanced at each other, completely unsure of what exactly was happening around them as their friends seemed to vacate the space once they had met one another. A sigh sounded alongside them, the witch's turning their sights upon Hermione's best friend.
"Well, I guess, that's our cue, Toddy." Lydia mused, grabbing his arm and guiding him, but not without casting Hermione a short little knowing glance. Todd didn't argue, he'd follow his woman anywhere, and often did without comment. Even though, like the two women, he had no idea what had just happened.
Suddenly, in that crowd of people around them, the women were left alone. Even though there were probably well over three hundred other witches and wizards taking up the space around them, it began to feel small. All the while, Hermione's gaze couldn't quite tear itself from the Headmistress. In that dress, strapless and dark, exposed shoulders, collarbone, and neck… Her hair, although in its most signature bun, seemed only to accentuate that captivating length between her chin and the hollow of her throat. Detectable, quite obvious, actually, Minerva watched Hermione take her in and have the reaction she had only dreamed about in long nights.
She cleared her throat gently, drawing Hermione's gaze to meet her own, at long last.
"Should we find a place more private to talk?" The emerald eyed woman asked softly, gesturing toward the far entrance and exit behind her with a gentle wave of her hand.
"You're under no obligation to talk to me tonight, Minerva," Hermione returned with a similar softness, stepping forward and toward the woman, noting that, due to the height of her heels, she had just the slightest of height advantages. Something Minerva seemed to take notice of as well. "If you would like to just have an evening spent in the same space, without personal discussion, I'd be happy to be in your company until the next time we meet." Hermione's lips bore a smile, although it looked slightly out of place by the longing held in the depths of her eyes. The Headmistress saw clearly through the mask of composure the author so chose to wear. Hermione had missed her. And unlike times before, she didn't care to work diligently on hiding it either. Only ever so. Yet, hardly.
All those thoughts that brought about uncertainty vanished under the gaze she was in the midst of receiving. This beautiful creature longed for her company. No bitterness due to the time spent apart, no discomfort or anger, just an honest desire to spend time together for however long Minerva permitted.
"I'd like to talk to you…" She said by way of answer, affording her an offered arm to take from the brunette.
"Then I won't try to deter you." Hermione's lips stretched further into a grin. Despite knowing that Minerva could quite easily be guiding her to a place to gently inform that more distance might later be required, despite believing that, maybe, Minerva might have truly had a change of heart, as the weeks had passed between them, Hermione had prepared herself for such an event.
If Minerva McGonagall did nothing more than extend a firm olive branch of true friendship with the promise of still sharing in conversation, some tea on occasion, shared meals like the night they had had… It could be enough. Those moments filled her heart with tenderness. And not even a touch, or a kiss, was shared.
The Headmistress's hand apprehensively wrapped and held to the crook of Hermione's inner elbow, and, quite casually, the brunette began to lead her onward, toward the entrance and exit opposite to the one she'd entered in through with Harry and Ginny that while before, the one that appeared less cluttered and less used.
Meanwhile, standing a fair distance away and by the bar, their small group of friends angled to peer between people at the pair.
"What are they doing?" Ginny asked before sipping from a glass of champagne, watching her husband who practically used Neville as a way to get more height, holding to the other man's shoulder as the fellows dipped their heads and angled to look.
"Looks like they're leaving, maybe just for a bit to air out their business…" Neville replied, feeling Harry slip from his shoulder.
"Do you think we were obvious about it? Leaving them alone?" Luna's airy, dreamlike voice rose, her eyes glancing from Ginny to Lydia who laughed and leaned into the hold of her husband, his arms about her waist.
"You might not have been, we were…"
"You were, darling… I have no idea what's going on right now." Todd corrected, warranting himself a few chuckles and smirks. As the pair of women made their way to share in whatever moment they were about to have, the small group decided to give Todd a little run down of the circumstance in the meanwhile as they sipped their drinks and awaiting their friends return.
Going against the current of traffic led the women outside and into a cool night air, a cloudless, star filled sky overhead granting some, but not much, illumination. Strolling in relative silence, towards the hills and away from the party raging behind them, the voices grew quieter, the noise level dropped immeasurably, which left only the sounds of their shoes through grass to filter through their ears, and the sound of fabric from their clothes.
"I think about here should be quite fine." The author commented as their steps slowed. Somehow, they managed to find themselves atop one of the rolling hills, where little more than the sounds of crickets and the very quiet sounds of the event down below could be heard. She allowed Minerva to remove her hand from her arm and angled a glance back toward the distant, illuminated tent. Moonlight danced across the side of her face, offering her company the opportunity to inspect those mild features.
"I'm sorry that I didn't write to you in the time in between." Minerva's voice drew Hermione's sights back toward her. Pale skin illuminated by only the light of the moon made her take a moment.
"I'm sure now you have an understanding of why it can be difficult to reach out when your head is filled to the brim… I don't blame you." Was the reply Minerva was given, plainly put but warmly. Tanned hands slipped into the tight confines of trouser pockets, as the brunette woman shifted her weight onto a foot and gazed upon her company. The Headmistress lifted a pale, slender hand and pressed it against her own fabric clad abdomen; a newer quirk, Hermione assumed.
"I oscillated between knowing exactly what I wanted to say and not knowing at all, both of us have been subject to change over the years…" Minerva ventured to tell the author who studied her with an unwavering eye, an interest, and a relaxedness that she ached to feel for herself.
"Yes, we have changed." Sighed the younger witch breathily, a nod punctuating her words. Her gaze wandered out over the distance alongside them for a moment, out along the darkened countryside, giving the Headmistress free reign to continue.
"For someone who has never been involved in a relationship, what makes you certain of your willingness to entertain one with me, Miss. Granger?" Although the chill from the air grazed her shoulders and her chest, it wasn't the coolness which caused her to give in to a shiver, but rather the immediate and most serious gaze that turned itself upon her. There was a flashing in Hermione's eyes that she'd not yet seen. A desire that made the hand she held to her abdomen press a bit more firmly against the bodice of her dress.
"You will hold my inexperience against me, Miss. McGonagall?" Countered the tanned woman, her lax posture straightening to regain full height. Her tone was crisp, curious, though laced with an edge. Neither Minerva expected and, for a moment, that tone that came from the woman, addressing her in similar fashions to that which she, herself, had used against Hermione, made her avert her eye by the mirrored authority such a tone seemed to have held.
"I thought about doing exactly that." Admitted the ebony haired woman, incredibly still. The author took a step forward, her hands still deep within her pockets, an act which drew the woman's attention back to those eyes which peered with the strength of resolve she'd witnessed a few times now. It never got any less alluring.
"Varied ideas of what is a relationship have passed through my mind over the years - let's not forget, my career has turned to fostering many relationships of people who've taken on lives of their own within my work… But a relationship with you, to use that term, seems trivial and mundane," Searchingly, brown eyes gazed into her own, glimmering with conviction as beams of moonlight struck honeyed hues. "I desire, have desired, being an equal partner in your life which, I believe, I've finally achieved… Every title I could possibly obtain, I want…"
Minerva's chin rose fractionally, listening, although a great deal of pondering after what that meant filtered in and settled in the pools of her mind.
"Which is alluding to what exactly…"
Another step. A further closing of the gap between until mere inches remained. The brunette stood so closely that green eyes were hardly given a chance to peer elsewhere, and, with the height of her heels used as an advantage, forced those green eyes filled with wonderment to aim slightly upward to meet those of brown. The author's head tilted ever so slightly, her gaze tracing angular, paler features as though the woman was a delicacy to be savoured. Evidently, a certain brand of sensuality had been adopted over years of great distance. Something which, again, took the Headmistress by delighted surprise. Hermione seemed to take a great amount of pleasure and care in formulating her response, by way of articulating it with subtle notes of need.
"Take me as your lover, talk to me dearly like your friend, let's have no secrets - I won't stand for it -, let's spend time together, travel together, share a life and whatever that means, we'll figure it out together," Painting the Headmistress a picture that was both attractive and genuine, Hermione continued with an added sense of responsibility. "We will argue most likely, you have a temper that rivals that of dragons and I'm a stubborn woman who's developed rather strong opinions, and we won't always agree... We've had our own ample amount of misunderstandings… But I'd rather fight with you on the rare occasion than not have you close to me at all - If you could see yourself loving me as ardently as I know I do love you, again, after all this time… I'd rather not waste anymore of it trying to decide if it's worth the risk. I am worth the risk."
The breeze carried with it sounds music. A band must have begun to play to entertain the mass of people at the party, while they, unaware of the amount of time they'd spent out in the cool, only heard it without paying it much mind. Green eyes, reather, steadily gazed into the author's who peered back into Minerva's own. Never had a woman, or man - for that matter -, enticed her with words so candidly spoken. What Hermione described was indeed a relationship. What was described was exactly the sort of partnership Minerva, herself, had craved for longer than she would have liked to admit, but to have Hermione, now a woman with the means of providing it, standing in front of her, pleading with sincerity, for her to accept the offering… Any preparation she could have made for that moment was either forgotten or not formulated.
They gazed, they breathed, their chests rising and falling slowly in the relaxed silence. Hermione managed to maintain her sense of decorum despite her heart racing as quickly as though she'd just run a marathon, while Minerva's stomach felt it couldn't possibly endure any more acrobatics. Finally, rouge lips parted and the Scottish witch gave her answer.
"Do not make me regret choosing this, Miss. Granger… I'll hardly be able to forgive you." The Headmistress murmured, the sound of crickets and distant frogs drowned out by the wild thumping in her ears.
"I'd hardly forgive myself, Headmistress…"
TBC...