Consequences of Falling

Ch. 11

The morning was always a delight when she woke to see long ebony hair fanning out over the pillow next to her own. She laid there for some time just taking in the view, appreciating with the length of time spent gazing, the glory that was the woman beside her in bed. Not a singular shift, not a muscle moved, she just laid there – stillness being the name of the game.

It was routine in the morning, most mornings when the pair of women fell asleep together, if Hermione rose quicker, to take that moment for herself. Selfishly. She counted her lucky stars for the gifts she'd been given, to have a glowing reputation and for the life she was beginning to share.

When enough time had been paid upon that one simple act of affection – unbeknownst to her lover, of course -, the young witch shifted under the heavy blanket and curled up behind her lover, tucking her legs close behind those curled in front, slipping an arm to wrap around and take hold of one of two, and kissed the back of Minerva's shoulder by way of early greeting. She felt the green eyed woman shift, waking, and watched the tug of a smile gently curl the corner of that beautiful pair of lips.

Nothing needed to be said in those moments, they were meant to be quiet. Intimacy was an even greater prize than the sex. Not to be ungrateful because, certainly, the sex was electric but, afterwards, when they had only to relax in one and others arms, that, right there, was what made it even better.

Lips pressed small, languid kisses against shoulder blade, trailing up to the back of a slender neck, eliciting a hum of approval and equal appreciation. The smell of loose leaf tea and ginger invaded Hermione's nostrils and proved to be rather provocative, especially as a final kiss was pressed to hair. Slender fingers laced with her own and gave a gentle pull, the sort of pull that was intently directional, as the Scottish witch rolled gently onto her stomach to tug Hermione closer. The young woman nearly blanketed the woman beneath, herself. She laid her cheek against that sweet spot, that space in the middle between shoulder blades, and rested her head. Everything about this simple act was all she had ever wanted to feel, all she had ever hoped to feel, while tangled in tartan sheets.

Nevertheless, it was still morning. A saturday morning; a time when no one needed either to be up and out of bed early for any sort of prior engagement. No class to be taken, no class to be taught, no meetings or friends eagerly waiting. They had planned for this, to only spend the day inside, to share breakfast, and to each others company, far away from prying eyes. So what better way to spend it?

While Minerva slipped between consciousness and slumber, her lover laid wide awake. The brunette couldn't deny that she was the kind of woman who needed attention. Not from anyone. Not always. It was her lover's attention that she craved. And with the light of sun quickly filtering in through curtains, she knew the time would come that they would both need to stretch there legs. Just not yet though.

She squeezed the hand within hers softly, a small touch which afforded her a soft, unintelligible murmuring into the pillow. Digits withdrew from digits and Hermione could only imagine there better use being exercised elsewhere, Minerva was already highly aware of how her mood fluctuated in the early hours.

Fingertips offered a light touch to bare hip, grazing the skin with tenderness and affection, although this small touch afforded her nothing. At least, not the desired effect. The woman hardly stirred. Pressing on could be the only option. Testing the boundary, half laid above the woman beneath, those same fingers curled and Hermione lightly dragged her knuckles over the rounded muscle of her lover's ass, continuing to trail a touch down Minerva's thigh. Even this little interaction with her dearest one had her own center aching with the thought of the roles being reversed. But, of course, the woman didn't budge.

'Well, this won't do..' Hermione thought with an air of amusement.

The night before had been quiet, content, and gentle. No surprises. It was fine and alright, however, Hermione hadn't been given much of a chance for reciprocation. After all had been said and done, Minerva simply wrapped her up in her arms and snuggled her woman tightly. Much to Hermione's dismay, as she had really looked forward to returning the 'affection'. The softness hadn't been exactly what she had wanted but, by the way it seemed to greatly please her partner, how could she deny it? Besides... As always, it was still amazing.

Hermione rarely ventured into being the one to initiate, she feared that taking the control for herself and utilizing it, well... It might just turn the older, more experienced witch off. She didn't know. They were in a good place right now, in life and in love, though they were quite secretive, she knew, it was for the best. But she didn't always want to feel this way, afraid of displeasing her lover. Minerva wasn't her master or mistress, they were equal partners, with equal desire, so... Should she not exercise the right?

With a surge of confidence, Hermione ever so slightly lifted and ran her fingertips through her own wetness. By then she was so overcome, so wanting, that the pads of her fingers were met with the kind of slickness that felt like she'd been brought to climax. She bit her lip hard, trying not to make any noise from the feel of her own digits brushing against that small bundle of nerves they were terrifyingly close to grazing, all the while, even still, she laid with her cheek pressed to her lover's back, her ear listening to the heartbeat through the flesh beneath.

It really was now or never...

Lubed, as well as she could have been, the witch ever so gently removed her hand from her own sex and shifted her knee where it rested between those two belonging to the ebony haired woman, spreading her thighs just a little bit more, just enough, so that when she slowly slipped her hand between them, her wetted fingertips could lightly stroke her lover in the most intimate way.

Unknown to the younger woman above, Minerva's eyes flew wide open. It took her a moment, perhaps a moment too long, to realize what was happening. She felt the first, questioned it – as her mind was fogged from the deep sleep she had been previously knocked out by -, but it wasn't until she felt her lover properly run her fingers through her slick folds and find her clit that she could react.

Whatever she had done, the way those fingertips circled, sent a sensation through her body that caused her back to arch. Whether expected, unexpected, surprised or not... It was spontaneous and felt rather good.

"Good morning, Minerva..." She heard her lover greet in a deepened tone, nearly sing song – if that song were to be called 'I'm going to take you and you're going to like it'. The older woman didn't respond immediately, not when all she could do was press back into that hand gasp when Hermione's fingers lifted only fractionally to circle her entrance. If she hadn't been wet, now she was. She could feel it.

"Please..." The older woman hissed. Oh, how she had been so unaware of how badly she wanted it. Hermione hadn't ever been one to take the reins and steer, she'd given Minerva the opportunity to do as she pleased more often than not, and though the woman did love to have that control, for her young lover to just wake her by nothing more than this... It was something she could get used to. She could get very used to it. Very quickly.

"Please." Begged the woman again, nearly strained, but her pleading evolved into another, far more sharp, gasp punctuated by a deep, growling moan as two long, slender fingers plunged within. There they stilled.

From above, Hermione had already shifted herself onto her knees and propped herself on an elbow. She kept her lover trapped beneath but allowed only for the other woman to raise her hips from the mattress, fractionally. 'Please' was all she needed to hear. It was all she had wanted in that moment – to hear Minerva beg to be fucked by her, alone.

The sounds the older woman made, the way she tried mightily to force herself back onto the fingers held deep within the absolute center of her, made it all the more enjoyable, Hermione had never had such control, she'd never been given opportunity to, and now... There the woman was, at the height of power, biting her bottom lip to stifle the joyous chuckle threatening to rise in her throat at the feel of the Scottish woman forcing herself back upon her hand, literally fucking herself on her fingers, while she got to choose when and how she wanted to proceed.

"I adore you." Hermione, finally, whispered against the back of the womans' neck as she slowly began to forcibly thrust her digits into her professor. It was all Minerva wanted or needed. She had to hide her face against the pillow to curse and to growl her strangled moans, muffling her delighted yells of pleasure, as this woman drove her mad from behind. With each stroke her fingers plummeted further into her depths, harder than the last, faster, she couldn't deny how intoxicating it was, that all it took was one small flick of her clit with the pad of Hermione's thumb to send her through the roof and out into orbit – a place where if she yelled the womans' name in orgasm, she wouldn't be heard. Unlike that room, which was filled with her voice.

It was more than the cries of passion... It was the feeling of Minerva contract around her fingers, feeling the woman lose herself entirely, that gave Hermione immense pleasure. That she was the one to give her that, was her most crowning achievement.

Collapsing together, muscles burning with the strain, Minerva almost had forgotten those three small words Hermione had said: I adore you...

It might have been a dream, it might have not been true, but she was sure she had heard it... She was positive.

The young professors mind was positively brimming. The hour was late, she had avoided most communal meals for the day, save for breakfast, which was actually quite the uncomfortable experience. There she was, five steps a head of the game, yet, what she thought would have made her feel so much better actually, somehow, managed to make her feel worse.

She had won. She had control.

It was as simple as that.

So then why did she feel somewhat cross with herself over the fact that she had forced her antagonizer into a corner and received the upper hand?

A bottle of whiskey bled into a bottle of scotch, and that bottle soon was drained dry as a bone. Hermione paced the length of her quarters, restlessly – a beast in a cage -, muttering to herself about what had she done to ever deserve this? She fought a fucking war, for Merlin's sake! And they'd come out on top! The confusion was stifling.

A knock on her door caused the woman to spin back in the direction of it just as she'd taken the first step away, she stared at it for a moment, wondering if it had only been conjured by imagination. Three knocks, louder than the last, sounded through her rooms with persistence. She swayed languidly to the door with a little bitter shake of the head and reached for the handle, turning and pulling to reveal a foreign pair of eyes.

The two peered back and forth between themselves, silent. Uncomfortably, the man before her shifted and aimed a glance down the corridor before turning his sights back upon his old friend.

"Heya, can I come in?" The second youngest Weasley asked as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Hermione didn't respond, not in the verbal sense, she merely stepped back and held open the door, waiting for the man to walk through.

For the life of her she couldn't understand why there was need for a surprise visit, at such a late hour, especially when he knew how she could be in the night time. Hermione had a reputation for not being very pleasant company in the later hours. Most certainly not in her state of drunk. Yet, here he was.

"Nice place, going to decorate..." Hermione closed the door and turned back to look at the red headed wizard with scrutiny.

"What are you doing here, Ronald?" She asked point blank, her feet leading her in a vaguely off line towards her empty bottles and fractionally filled glass. Passed him she walked into her small kitchen and discarded the glass into a bin to be vanished later. From the fridge, she took out another, all the while the man kept a close eye on the witch practically swaying about the confines of her rooms. She was drunk, and he knew it. He hated to say he was used to it. Clearing his throat a bit, he rocked on his heels somewhat, habitually, and cast a look about the undecorated, bland looking room. Her only mark had been made by the amount of books on her shelves. Aside from that... Nothing.

"Mum's been asking about you, she misses you... You haven't been by in a long time, you know?" He tried to soften his voice, aiming for compassion, although he knew why all too well. It was a place she'd brought her. The American, he called her... But not without some affection. He'd liked the woman, she was a clever one. But now... Radio silence.

"Tell her I'll come by for tea soon."

"We both know you won't, why lie? I just thought you should know that you're missed..." He watched Hermione uncork her bottle and pour another three finger serving, her eyes flashing with some emotion; anger, maybe?

"I'm very busy, Ron. You know that." She stated airily and with a note of condescension, as if he should know better. She spoke to him as though she was chastising a child who'd asked to play while she was at work, he hated that tone. And unlike Harry, he wasn't terribly concerned about showing it.

"Hermione... What's wrong with you? You know, you have a family, friends, and this... ," The man gestured to the length of his friend, his face twisting into some mixture of frustration and mild disgust. "Look at you, what you're doing to yourself... We never see you."

"I've been fucking busy, Ron," Hermione shot back, meaning to take a step forward, however, her shin clipped the corner of the coffee table in front of her leather couch and sent the witch cursing its existence as she collapsed down on the furniture, spilling her drink on the carpet and a bit of the uncovered stone floor. "God damn it! Fucking bastard! You know how much I hate being interrupted at night!"

"You hate being interrupted all the fucking time, you drunken twat!" She glared at him for a moment, however, decided he wasn't entirely wrong and relented with a slight shake of the head, her hand reaching to rub what she assumed was going to be a bruise.

"You know why I don't visit." Muttered the woman as she sipped on the last remnants of what was left in her glass, taking a glance at the man standing there awkwardly over the rim.

Those few feet apart, one sitting on the edge of the coffee table while the other stood off beside the arm of the couch, it felt like miles of separation. They were in two different parts of the world. Ron knew it, Hermione didn't seem to care, and there was nothing anyone could ever say to the woman. Frankly, he was sick of this... Attitude. Even if it was the last thing he ever said... He decided that over a year of absolute silence was enough.

"Do you want to know why I came here? How I heard about how you got in here?" The man seemed to look at her in that way when one knew something. Something more that she did not. If it was anything that would warrant a reaction, it was certainly that. Hermione's brows furrowed, her features showing signs of anger and slight bewilderment at his wordage.

"How I got in here... You say that as though..."

"You have built yourself quite the reputation, old friend." Ron cut her off and pulled his hands from his pockets, folding his arms over his chest, as his pair of hardening eyes stared her down. Time had done well for the man, he wasn't nearly as bumbling or confused as he had been in his Hogwarts years. He had done well for himself, she should say. Working for the Ministry, mostly with Harry, the boys who had never returned to school. Unlike her, who had needed in someway to finish what she had started at Hogwarts... Now she was back again.

Hermione tilted her head, eyeing him, trying to decipher exactly what it was he was getting at. She despised guessing games.

"Do you think I'm not supposed to be here, Ronald? That I haven't garnered enough knowledge over the past... Well, since the beginning of this madness with you and Harry? I am a prime candidate, despite prior teaching experience..." The look on his face made her words falter and her tone began to lack its previous confidence – he almost looked... Sad? Was it sad? He unlocked his defensive arms and sighed deeply, slipping himself between the coffee table and couch, mumbling about the situation itself.

Ron seated himself in front of Hermione, he reached out for her knees and made the woman turn her body properly to face him, though he didn't remove them. Seated there on the edge of the couch, he looked at her and tried to level himself, he held her knees and she found herself for the first time really wondering what the fuck was going on...

"Kingsley, and the Order, they requested this for you, Hermione." He stated clearly, albeit softly, and in a way that was willing her to understand this. Imploringly, he gazed at her face, tracing it quickly, looking for cracks, she supposed. Instead, he was gifted with her just staring back, taking that little bit in. It didn't take long for the heat to rise in her cheeks and cause a furious flush to creep up the side of her neck.

"They requested... For me." She regurgitated those words and watched him give a nod, a grave little nod, although he didn't look off and away.

"You aren't well, Hermione, you aren't well at all."

"Who the fuck are you, or anyone, to decide for me whether or not I am well, I'm fine. Better than fine..." She shot back immediately, readying herself to stand, although... Ron quickly rose with his friend and knocked her back down on her ass with ease.

"You. Sit your butt down there." He growled furiously. Mild mannered, Ronald... Or, at least, the mild man she'd grown to know as an adult, was not so much in the current state to exude calm, collected, and easy going. No, rather he had his wand aimed and hers... She glanced between the tip of his wand and her bedroom door, where beyond, her own lay on the night stand. "Now you're going to listen..."

"Doesn't look like I have much choice." She mumbled, reaching for her bottle and discarding the glass entirely. Watching his friend sit there, reach for the drink as she always seemed to, looking like an absolute fucking waste who hardly cared to listen to him, or anyone who gave a rats ass, infuriated the man beyond belief. Enough was enough.

"You know, being the voice of reason isn't my forte, Hermione... That has always been your job, not your responsibility, but it was the role you carved out for yourself," The woman scoffed and chuckled darkly, still, he pressed on. "Lavender had a miscarriage five months ago... Did you know?"

It was this that made the woman's cheeky smirk fade. With knitted brows, she finally turned her face to look up at the man. Bags under the eyes, a little paler than usual... A bit more slender in the face. He drew out the silence because he wanted to see if there was just a hint of something other than internalized anger and, much to his surprise, there seemed to be something there other than rage. She was actually looking at him, looking at and seeing him, for the first time in a very long time.

"My wife lost our baby and I wanted to talk to my best friend, and I couldn't. Because Merlin only knows where you were and even if I had found you... Would you have cared? Would you have actually cared for anyone else besides yourself and your own fucked up little life?" Lowering his wand, Ron looked off and away from the watery eyed woman and gave a sad little laugh, shaking his head, appearing as though he could hardly believe any of this, and its difficulty. "You don't care about anything, I thought all our troubles were solved when you met... You know, her. And now you've gone through a lot and no one is arguing with you that you haven't, and we're not saying that what happened to her you've done to yourself because that was an accident... A horrible, horrible accident..."

If she tried to fight it... She knew it was going to happen far worse, so when she felt her lip and muscles begin to tremble, she just allowed it. She let her eyes fill. With the alcohol and the harsh truths, what could she possible do? So she listened. She listened to Ron, of all people, say the things that she needed to hear.

"People are terrified of you, we are scared FOR you... Look at you, I get it... You want to make the twisted, angry, bitch on the outside match that twisted, angry, sad, hurt, person on the inside..." Tucking his wand away, Ron brushed his hands back through his hair and kept them there, cupping the back of his head, now entirely looking away from the woman and at the floor. "But we love you and this is the best place for you, far away from the killing and the nearly getting yourself killed because... You are my best friend. I can't imagine a world without you in it, even if the world you live in has nothing to do with me anymore."

The man couldn't see the woman rise, didn't hear those couple of steps, and it wasn't until he made to glance in her direction that his eyes fell upon her hip, and the two hands that reached for the front of his coat. His own larger immediately fell to those which belonged to the witch and held them away, not far, but just enough so it was made clear that he didn't want her fingers to find his jacket.

Ron lifted his gaze to see that her eyes shone with tears. A few had managed to snake lines down her cheeks, yet, as much as he wanted to offer her comfort all he could manage to do was hold her hands.

"I... I am so, so sorry, Ron." Her voice was only above a whisper, her voice slightly wavering but without much volume.

"Prove it, Hermione. Get well." He spoke to her in a tone filled with enunciation, meaning business, in a sense. Ron was hardly ready to forgive, this was non-negotiable. If she could try to be a bit more human then, maybe, maybe they could find their way back. So much was different, he knew it would never be exactly the same as it once was, but to aim for good, at least... That could be something to be proud of.

He let go of her hands and brushed passed the woman, making his way for the door. When he reached it, he opened it, but he paused. Half turning back to see the woman still standing there, her hands hovering slightly where he had been that split second before, the man took a moment, breathing it in, then parted his lips to speak.

"Harry and I, and Ginny and mom and dad... Everyone who loves you as much as we do, and have for such a long time, we are very sorry for everything that you've lost, it wasn't fair to you... But if you refuse to see what it is you still have then... Yeah, you're going to be alone for the rest of your life. Part of you dug the hole, love... You need to dig yourself out now."

And with that, he was gone.

When she heard the door shut behind her, Hermione couldn't bring herself to move. Ronald, of all people, to come here and tell her the what's-what... He was right, being the voice of reason wasn't his forte, however, no one had yet given her that frank honestly that he was so willing to. People parted like the Red Sea when she walked into a room... She had thought it was respect, to learn it could have been terror... Now that was news. Awful news.

She came to with a sudden jolt and dropped her hands to her sides, she looked around her stark living space and realized she didn't want to be there. It wasn't home, it wasn't comfort, it was just a shell... For now. She couldn't do a thing to change it at the moment, not in her current state of inebriation and absolute sadness, so she left. She slipped on her shoes, opened the door, and walked out, leaving that scene behind.

Hardly knowing where she was leading herself to, she wasn't entirely aware what it was she was looking for, it wasn't until her hand raised and she knocked on a door that she knew exactly what she wanted. It was a strange, and mixed up, kind of fucked up feeling.

When that door opened and a pair of yellow eyes scanned her features, the silver haired woman, clearly still awake, on the other side looked upon her with concern. The young woman was, essentially, crying. There were tears running down her cheeks and she looked... So much younger than she had those hours ago over breakfast, she was glowing almost.

"I.. Need something." Hermione quickly wiped her cheeks with shaky fingers and cleared her tightened throat, a throat that would only let words laced with grit be afforded. Rolonda's mouth fell open slightly, as though she was about to speak, however, she stopped briefly to think.

"What can I do?"

"I'm not asking you to have sex with me but I need you to hold me. Please."

Stunned by the candid request, realizing that something was very, very wrong if the woman she knew to be so... Well, cold for a lack of a better word was asking to be held, Rolonda stepped back and allowed the woman to pass through. She wondered whether she should go to the headmistress... On a basis more professional. But no... She would be a friend for now. So she closed the door behind the young woman and led her to bed to fulfill whatever desire for being held the woman had without second thought. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would talk to Minerva...

TBC...