Hey, Hey!

Thank you for all of the lovely and amazing words of encouragement! Your comments are incredibly appreciated!

I believe I have answered at least one of the questions of why Hermione would return to Hogwarts and take up the position in this chapter, despite already having a rather decent position. (Pride is a thing...) ... Read to find out more. ;)

And as for why she wouldn't have seen the Weasley's very often considering her home is within a 100 mile radius from The Burrow. Well... I'll be honest, I can't really say right now. But it will be revealed as to why in later chapters. I do have answers for these questions! I simply haven't written it yet, heh.

Much love and all the appreciation to ye for taking the time to read my ramblings!

Truly,

+Scissors+

Complications of Falling

Ch. 2

At the beginning of 'the week of contemplation', as she'd come to call it, Hermione was positive that she would deny the offered position as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Folding over the facts in her mind was key in drawing up that conclusion. Everything she needed, that she wanted, was within arms reach within the four walls of her home and just outside the door; the safety and security of seclusion, a well stocked liquor cabinet, her garden, and her work. It was a pretty sweet deal, if you asked her. No one breathed down her neck in order to produce something noteworthy, no one peered over her shoulder to ensure she remained on task. It was exactly the way it should be.

A day passed. Another followed. Until, on the fourth day, a small seed planted in the back of her mind.

What would it look like if she refused?

A sliver of discomfort due to not knowing began to tug at the pit of her stomach. Would it appear as though she was intimidated? Would it give Minerva the upper hand? Hermione began to feel as though ignoring the invitation, thus the job, would make it seem as though she were a petulant child. Insecurities Hermione had forgotten she even gave a shit about mounted.

Slowly, the woman began to feel she had something to prove; she felt like she needed to make an example out of this strange situation. Moments, memories, that she'd forced out of the way and compartmentalized in little boxes in her brain, out of sight and out of mind, began to unpack and rise to the surface until her day dreaming was mostly comprised of remembering. Though many of them were good, wonderful even, like the feeling of the older witch's hands cupping her face, or that body wrapped tightly around her own, these memories were marred by the events of graduation, and the day that she fled. Stinging like a slap, that thought hit her like a ton of bricks when she least expected it, as she was standing in her yard with a glass of whiskey, gazing over her budding garden.

It wasn't hot enough. No matter how much she turned the tap and felt the scorching water cascade over her body, it still didn't burn away the feeling of filth. Hermione grew frustrated while she scrubbed her arms, her chest, her stomach, and legs. Her neck. She tried feverishly and without result, still replaying the conversation she'd just had with... The woman. She couldn't even say the name. She couldn't allow herself to. Tears mixed with the water and circled the drain, eventually they ran dry, leaving her miserable and without comfort.

Shutting off the tap, she finally pushed back the curtain and stepped out into the cooler air, steam rising against the mirror and filling the room. She opened the door leading into her private quarters, Head Girl's were afforded such a luxury. On autopilot, Hermione combed her hair and brushed her teeth again. She wrapped the towel around her body and walked out of the bathroom.

She found herself standing in the middle of her rooms, moisture dripping down onto the carpet, while her eyes looked over her things, her bed, her desk... She just stood there staring at the stuff. She felt trapped. Tomorrow was supposed to be a triumph, graduation was supposed to be the end of this chapter in her life, she was supposed to move forward. With her. By her side. Hermione didn't care what the world had to say in terms of the bond and relationship she had shared with her former Headmistress. That was the furthest thing from her mind. Maybe she should have told the woman, after all, that she loved her... She loved her with ever fibre of her being, she breathed her, woke for her...

It was far too late now. What Minerva revealed was that the feeling was not mutual. Hermione was just a young woman to pick up and toy with for a while, bring a little joy to the woman's day, Hermione wasn't a 'need'... She was a 'want'. Like a piece of gum or a glass of firehowwhiskey. She felt bile rise in the back of her throat. Two seconds.

"Oh fuck..." She blurted to no one, her eyes growing wide.

She ran back to the bathroom and stumbled to reach the toilet in time, expelling the contents of her stomach into the porcelain bowl. She hadn't eaten, but whatever was in there certainly decided to come up. Coughing and dry heaving, she didn't hear the knock at the door. She didn't hear her name called through it or the turning of the handle. It wasn't until she felt a presence and a hand on her shoulder did she turn her face in shock to see him standing there, looking concerned, and then there were tears again. She'd almost thought she'd run dry.

"Hermione... Are you alright?" Harry asked as he quickly removed his coat and threw it out of the bathroom, aiming for the bed, which he missed. She heard it but didn't look away from the man who was crouching down beside her. Without asking, he flushed the toilet, just in case she needed to vomit again.

"She doesn't love me." Hermione hiccoughed. Though her eyes were shining with tears, perhaps, she was cracking. She felt herself laugh at the ridiculousness of it all and repeated. "Harry, she doesn't love me." She said through laughter and pain. He peered at her through his glasses, certainly not quite understanding what the hell was going on, other than something had transpired between Hermione and Minerva that had caused this... Situation. Hermione's laughter began to fade into sobs and so she wept, tearing her eyes from him and putting her forehead on her folded arms on the toilet seat.

Finally, she had said it out loud.

Harry didn't know what to do. But he wasn't going to leave his dearest friend like this. So he moved her, manoeuvring Hermione's arm around his shoulder, ensuring her towel was quite fixed, he drew her up off the floor in his arms. The young man carried her out of the bathroom, minding her legs and head as they passed through the door frame, and laid her down on her bed. She cried hard, she didn't stop, she barely breathed through her weeping, but when he made to move to pick up his jacket off the floor, she reached for him.

"Please..." She cried and turned to look at him, her puffy red eyes pleading for him to stay.

"Of course." He replied softly.

Hermione turned onto her side and reached behind her when she felt a weight on the bed, a full weight, and he gave her his hand. She pulled until his body made contact, his chest against her back, his legs curling with her legs, and Hermione could feel the comfort of his embrace. It wasn't the first time he'd held her, she was sure it wouldn't be the last, they were family after all.

After about an hour, once her cries subsided and she could take in a full breath of air, she mumbled her thanks. Harry leaned up on an elbow and gently planted his chin on her shoulder so he could properly see the side of her face. He had to ask, she knew he would, as he watched her stare across at the other side of the room.

"What happened?"

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment.

"She ended it." Hermione breathed the words that tasted like vinegar. When she opened her eyes, she turned her head to look up at the green eyed man. He peered down at her and she could see he was surprised by this, maybe even a bit by her reaction. He knew everything, she'd told him, hell, he'd even pushed her a little to make her attraction known, believing himself that the women would make a magnificent pair.

When his only response was to look back upon her questioningly, she sighed and shifted, turning so that she was on her back. She adjusted her towel and made sure he wasn't getting a free show, not that he'd ever look, but still...

"She thinks it was just some short term affair, two people having fun, she thinks I have some sort of childish crush... Which, yes, we had fun but it was more than just some silly little crush on a teacher. I thought we were going somewhere." Hermione explained a bit further. "I think, she thinks, she's doing me a favour..."

"Did you tell her you loved her?" Harry asked cautiously, unsure of how Hermione would react to his questions, being that she was already in a very raw place. He watched Hermione lift a hand and pinch the bridge of her nose.

"I yelled. I just sort of exploded, I told her that my feelings were deepening and that she treated me like a prostitute." Hermione dropped her hand and saw Harry's brows shoot up his forehead.

"Wow. That's... Intense." He said as his hand rested on her stomach, over her naval, a respectful distance from her chest and pelvic line. Hermione covered his hand with her own and peered up at him. She had made up her mind. But she did need his help.

"Harry, I'm not going to fight her... This is the second time she's tried this with me. The first time... I convinced her otherwise, but this time she was serious. And I'm serious. I cannot stay here, I need to leave..." Hermione stated as she wiped a few stray tears away. Harry didn't argue, he didn't question, but he did furrow his brow.

"Graduation is tomorrow..." He said, not really knowing her meaning.

"I know," She replied softly, rubbing the hand her own laid upon. "But I'm not going to be there. I can't face her, I can't be there... You could send me the diploma or whatever the fuck it is... I don't really care. I owled Kingsley days ago and I can start work as soon as I give the go ahead... I was going to just take a break and spend it with her for a bit but there's not really any point to doing that now."

"Okay, I understand." Harry told her, somewhat saddened that she wouldn't be there for their big day... But understanding why and how hard it would be. Besides him only Ginny knew. They were the only two Hermione trusted with the information of the more intimate relationship Hermione and Minerva shared. It would have been very hard to sit there, pretend to be joyful, when inside he knew her heart must have been positively shattered.

"There's just one more thing." Hermione stated with some apprehension. She knew it was a lot to ask but she figured she may as well see...

"Of course, what?"

"Can I borrow his motorbike?" She asked quietly. Harry looked at her quizzically. At first he didn't quite understand. 'Motorbike?' He thought... Until the realization dawned.

"Oh, Sirius's bike? Yeah... You can have it actually, I can't quite seem to look at it still." Harry replied with a small, half smile. He watched relief wash over Hermione's features. She curled towards him and put her arms around what parts of him she could, feeling his own wind around her smaller frame.

"I won't have, I'll just borrow... Thank you."

"Anytime, Hermione..."

Hermione hadn't moved a muscle for quite a few minutes as she folded over that memory and how Harry had been there in her time of need. Hell, he was the one who helped her pack and sneak out through the one-eyed witch passage to Hogsmeade. Without him, she would have been stuck. He never did ask for the motorbike back. So, she figured, if she were to go to Hogwart's, she would have to bring it along, keep it with Hagrid. It only made sense since he had the space for the thing.

It was unfortunate that after that day, once she had made it Grimmuald Place, she was never truly the same girl again. A little spark of hate lit in the depth of her chest and her skin grew cold. Anger that she finally let herself feel besides the pain and the heartbreak, which she felt were useless to begin with, she began to let consume her. She welcomed the change with open arms. It was how she'd ensure that never again would she allow anyone or anything to have such a grip on her heart.

It worked exceptionally well.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione set her jaw and straightened her posture. She could still do both. Work for the Ministry and teach. If only to prove Minerva hadn't won and that the woman no longer held the hold she had so many years previous. Hermione was stronger than that, better than to let the woman scare her into isolation. She lifted her glass to her lips and emptied the remainder of the whiskey, then she turned back towards the house to prepare her things for the travel.

~*MMHG*~

Hermione wasn't the only one who was looking back over time and drudging up old memories of how things once were. Minerva hadn't been able to tear her mind away from the fact that the very next day she'd see for certain if the brunette woman was ready to assume the responsibility of being part of the faculty. Butterflies that masqueraded as hornets caused her stomach to flip and lurch unexpectedly. It wasn't a comfortable feeling whatsoever. All she really wanted to do, whether it was good or bad, was to know. Fast forward through the day and through the afternoon until the evening hours, prepare herself, then see if Hermione appeared in the Great Hall for dinner.

Alas, time and life didn't work that way. She was left having to wait and see despite feeling somewhat green around the gills about it.

Correspondence with her former student, Harry Potter, over the past few years, had always been pleasant and easy. They mostly talked about work and the kids, his children, but every once in a while she would ask about Ron and Hermione. Harry frequently had many a thing to respond with in terms of the Weasley family, however, the elusive Miss. Granger was always 'fine', 'very busy', or he simply didn't know. It never ceased to amaze her how the young woman went to such great lengths to be unknown. Minerva had always found her enigmatic to begin with; she was brilliant, clever, and so many things that made Minerva wonder how someone could be all of these and more wrapped up in one person.

Laying in bed that afternoon, the Scottish woman gazed at the ceiling. Sleep had evaded her the previous days. Mild anxiety kept her awake and alert, should there have been any message, but Hermione had remained silent and now exhaustion slowed Minerva's mind and muscles. Unfortunately, even in her sleep, she wasn't fully capable of thwarting the unwanted nostalgia which came in the form of a dream.

"For the rest of the class I expect you to continue your essays, quietly." Professor McGonagall instructed her seventh years while taking a seat behind her desk. She was met by the sounds of parchments unfurling, quills and inkwells being sprung into action, and not another word was spoken. The elder witch returned to her grading her fifth year's assignments on Animagi, which always proved to be entertaining. Often she wondered how a number of students even held the intellectual capability of tying their shoes in the morning, although this was never voiced.

It was a gift, after all, that they even had a school to practise at to begin with, considering the war had only ended some months ago.

As the thought struck her, Minerva raised her line of sight to the rows of students seated before her, the majority, of which, were busying themselves with the task at hand; their papers. Harry, as usual, seated beside Ron who appeared to be having some trouble with putting his thoughts to paper, leaning over every once in a while to scan his friends work before continuing on. Minerva shook her head minutely. Some things never changed.

Then there was her.

Hermione was the only one without parchment or quill in hand. She sat with her text book propped up, her eyes scouring the pages, obviously relaxed, which alerted Minerva that she was already finished. A small spark of pride lit within the Scottish woman. With Hermione, she'd never have to worry about failing as a teacher, as a mentor, the young woman soaked everything in without question or argument, she was an exemplary student...

She was a student.

Minerva felt her blood run cold.

She peered at Hermione, without a single pair of eyes raising to notice the lingering glance upon the brunette, and the realization truly dawned that this young woman, whom she'd been seeing quite privately, in many a compromising position, was not only a war veteran and an incredibly talented witch, but also, and more importantly, her pupil. For some reason, as the months had drawn on and their connection deepened, the reality had never actually hit home. She had been floating around in a dream space, not thinking, only feeling, and as she looked upon Hermione now, in that moment, the attraction felt increasingly inappropriate. The age gap, the responsibility, their reputations... If word was ever let slip, if they were to be discovered, it could have very well been catastrophic.

Since the beginning of the year, many of her students, most that had been involved in the fight against Voldemort and his league of followers, had grown to feel much more like colleagues. She was training them far more than teaching. However, this was no longer the case. They were still students, people who she was entrusted with, children of friends...

Minerva quickly returned her attention to her work. She glanced briefly at the small, decorative clock on the corner of her desk. Ten more minutes.

"Miss. Granger..." She called without looking up from her parchment, but knew that Hermione would lift her eyes upon being addressed. "My office after class, please." Always the professional, Minerva's voice was crisp, clear, and authoritative.

"Yes, professor." She heard Hermione reply, although she didn't look up to acknowledge the answer. Instead, she continued to look over the parchment stretching the length of the desk, half reading it over, while the other half of her mind was consumed by the panic she was well versed in concealing.

They had to end it... What they were doing wasn't right. She had to be the voice of reason.

The final bell rang and the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor students rose from their seats, shoving books and parchments into bags, while the chatter began to bubble forth from their lips. The room filled with the noise of chairs being pushed back into place and their voices reverberating off of the stone walls confining them. Minerva waited until the majority of the students had filed out of the classroom before she stood from her desk, noting Hermione standing in waiting, her book bag slung over a shoulder. She looked only mildly curious.

Wordlessly, Minerva motioned for the young woman to follow and led them to the large door on the side of the room, opening it for Hermione to pass through before her, then she tucked in behind and closed it.

"You look like something's troubling you..." She heard Hermione say while the latch caught and Minerva locked the door shut. The elder witch withdrew her wand and cast a quick silencing charm to ensure their privacy, continuing to face the door for some moments. Finally, her features bore signs of her concern. How to say what she needed to say, how to explain... She was the professor here, they weren't some young couple hiding for a quickie in dark corners of the school...

"Miss. Granger," Minerva addressed the young woman as she turned around. "We need to talk." Her gaze landed on the witch who stood within the confines of the office, leaning against the desk with her arms folded casually across her chest. Hermione's brows were knitted and her lips began to form a faint frown. The green eyed woman could barely make eye contact. She felt her mouth begin to go dry.

"Are you alright, Minerva?" The question posed made her sigh heavily as she leaned against the closed door, one hand on the handle while the other rested at her side. Flashes of the past four months raced through her mind... The innocent hand holding, the times spent in conversation, the searing touch, lips on her collarbone, legs entwined... No, she was not alright. She peered down at the stone at her feet for a minute which garnered a soft hum from the young woman standing before her, a sound of further questioning...

"This is wrong. We shouldn't have... I should have said no..." Even as the words spilled over her lips, spoken with as much sincerity as she could muster, Minerva couldn't meet Hermione's gaze. Not if by doing so it would break her resolve. "You are my..." She was interrupted.

"I am perfectly capable of discerning for myself what is right and what is wrong for me." Hermione stated, cutting off any further opinion her lover might have had. "And, if I may, I am also perfectly of age to do so..." If Minerva thought this was going to be easy or simple, she obviously had thought wrong. Hermione's tone was one of equal authority and strength of conviction. She wasn't having it. Minerva closed her eyes and dropped her chin til it nearly hit her chest. Of all the women she had to grow close to... It had to be the one who held as many cards as she.

"Regardless, I am your professor..." She didn't hear the young woman creep forward, Hermione didn't make a sound, it wasn't until she felt hands part her robes and seek the fabric beneath, the button up hugging her midsection, that her eyes fluttered open and she saw the woman standing dangerously close. Their eyes met. "Hermione, please..." Minerva's pleading was cut short by the young woman who leaned forward, her body pressing against the elder woman's, until the ebony haired witch was caught between the brunette and the door. Minerva felt lips press against the skin beneath her ear and the full weight of the other woman's breasts against her own. That one touch was enough to elicit a strangled moan that the older woman tried mightily to bite back.

"I am not convinced." She felt hot breath against her ear as what Hermione had quietly told her filtered in through her mind. "Tell me again how wrong this is... Look me in the eye, tell me the truth, that this isn't right." The young woman leaned her head back enough to gaze into emerald eyes, her body still anchoring the ebony haired witch against the mahogany, waiting for the reply that she was aiming for. Minerva breathed deeply. The electricity she felt surging through her body, the scent of Hermione's shampoo, mixed with the look of utter want, it could have possibly been need, that lit the depths of the young witch's eyes... She'd lost before she even began.

"I can't..."

Minerva woke, startled, her eyes searching until she realized she was alone. Through the window the sky was dark and the room was only illuminated by the moonlight filtering in. She must have slept for longer than she had anticipated. Groaning, she allowed her head to fall back upon the pillow. The vividness of the dream, the way her hair smelled... It lingered for longer than she would have preferred.

If things had only turned out differently...

TBC