A/N: Hello, hello, my lovely readers, and welcome to yet another chapter of 'Accommodations'! Thank you for all the lovely reviews last week, I appreciate every single one of them! Today's chapter might answer a few questions that you might already have forgotten ever having asked yourselves in the first place - you know, back in Chapter Thirty-Three, if you want to go back and reread that one. ;)

I have also included part of the mission of my new favourite software. I know, I know, sounds boring, but I'm just so happy to be starting my new job as a trainee consultant for that software in a few short weeks. So kudos to anybody out there who should happen to know which one it is - anyone in data visualization here? :) And even if you don't know which software, do try to guess which phrase it is that I included.

Next week's chapter isn't written yet and I can't promise you I'll update in time, unfortunately. Might need to skip a week. I'm sorry for that. This story isn't being abandoned, though, and I know where I'm going - writing the thing is just hard sometimes.

Till then, take care,

Marcella xxx

DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling created and owns the rights to Harry Potter. For the first scene, I used the dialogue from Chapter Twenty-Six: Seen and Unforeseen of JK Rowling's Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Anything you recognize stems from her hands. I do not profit from writing this piece of fanfiction.

Monday, February 16th, 1996

"Oh, Harry," Hermione sighed in her exasperation. "Well, I'm sorry, but you were a bit tactless."

"Me, tactless?" Harry raged.

He would go on to tell her how he had done nothing wrong, Hermione knew, and he probably believed that, too. She was glad that she had spent Sunday locked away in her room, hidden behind the thick curtains that surrounded her bed, her fingers idly playing with her parchment crown from the handsome wizard whose heart was yearning for her and who her own heart was yearning for in turn, while she had immersed her mind in the Pure Black. She had tried to banish the whole enraging conversation she had had with the professor from her mind, as well as the kiss he had forced upon her, and Occluding had helped… a little.

Explaining to Harry in how many ways exactly he had gone wrong during his date with Cho, Hermione was secretly proud that he had managed to hold himself so well together during his interview with Skeeter that she had practically thrown on him. She had figured that if she didn't give him any time to over-analyse himself into a snitch, he would simply go through with it, and he had done just that. Judging from the approval he had been receiving from the other Gryffindor boys so far, it seemed the interview would pay off in more ways than one. Even Seamus had been listening with more than half an ear when the boys had been talking about it.

"You should write a book," a muddy Ron suggested as he dug into dinner, "translating mad things girls do so boys can understand them."

Hermione did not even need to respond to that, as just a second later the whole conversation turned to Quidditch. While Harry was still half-glaring, half-mooning after Cho, Hermione allowed her own eyes to wander to the High Table.

A book, she snorted to herself. A book wouldn't be helping anyone. After all, she had been rather determined and stringent in trying to reject the professor's advances on Saturday night, and he, the consummate Slytherin and thus people-reader extraordinaire, had simply ignored all that. What good was there in witches giving clues if wizards were so intent on misreading or dismissing them?

Just then, the Potions Master's eyes met hers. His eyes narrowed for the fraction of a second, as if having heard her thoughts. Checking her Occlumency shields which had become her constant companion these days, she could detect no fault with them. Focusing back on the professor, his eyes had returned to their usual size, no longer trained on her. His face was a mask of emptiness, too. Hermione had thought that she might have come to be able to read him quite well, but she realized that perhaps the professor had been the one to let his guard down with her, allowing her to read him to some extent. Now, his guard was firmly back in place, and Hermione had arrived back at square one.

Today's Potions lesson had been spent Occluding while trying to help the hopeless boys around her brew their own concoctions, all the while doing her best to adequately finish her own. The professor had not approached her, but a constant pressure around her mind told her that he was there. At least he had not completely abandoned her as he had the last time their ability to miscommunicate at the worst of times had become blatantly obvious.

Then again, she mused, following up on her earlier thought, if she was bad at reading the professor, then the professor was even worse at reading her. He had kissed her, for Morgana's sake! Kissed her, as if she had any romantic notions towards him.

And truly, she didn't. No romantic inclinations whatsoever. Yes, she deeply respected the professor, found him physically pleasing and his facial features arresting, and yes, he could do things to her body –

But she held no emotions for him other than those – respect, lust, and a weird kind of trust that came with allowing somebody to hurt you and to violate your mind –, and above all, she held no hopes that they, the two of them together, would ever be more than they already were. And even if such a thing was possible, which it wasn't, and if the professor was interested in that, which he wasn't, she would do her all to discourage him of any notion that included the two of them as any kind of item in any kind of future, foreseeable or far away, it did not matter. This, they, would never happen.

There was nothing she could do to distance herself from him now, of course. Yes, she might beg off their sexual relations, and she could abandon their lessons – alright, there was a lot she might do to distance herself from Professor Snape. There was nothing she wanted to do, though. Those lessons were what had started all this mess, and she was grateful for receiving them and felt determined to go through with them. The sex was a great way to relieve stress and get rid of the tension that was creeping up on her from all sides at all times. Plus, the sex was great, period. And it wasn't as if she could just get up and take on another lover. Their agreement was quite clear in that point.

And much as she hated allowing the Lord Governor any kind of power over her body, she knew that the professor had promised to teach her about sexual torture, and Lord Malfoy was doing quite a good job of that so far. With the intimacy she had shared with the Potions Master, Hermione was not certain that her mind, capable though she usually was of compartmentalizing, would be able to differentiate between 'benevolent' sex and 'teaching Miss Granger about what it means to be raped' sex. In a way, she was glad for the Lord Governor's involvement, as it meant that her relationship to the professor could remain unblemished. Well, less blemished than it already was, that is.

Of course, that was before the Potions Master had gone ahead and kissed her. Kissed her, as if that would change anything.

In a way, she supposed, it had changed everything. Or nothing, maybe. Hermione wasn't really sure about that yet. It had definitely ruined the pleasant bliss she had been revelling in ever since receiving Kingsley's note.

Perhaps there was some way to distance herself from the professor, Hermione suddenly remembered. It would be a minor thing, nothing he would ever learn of nor understand if he ever were to learn of it. It would be enough, though, she hoped, for herself to feel as if that chapter of their unfortunate conversation and his misguided kiss would be finished.

It was time to return a book.

Tuesday, February 17th, 1996

"Professor McGonagall?" Hermione approached her Head of House after their double Transfiguration period the next day.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" the professor said. "What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if this might be a good time to return a book."

"You go right ahead, Miss Granger," the elder witch encouraged. "Irma rarely attends lunch in the Great Hall. I am quite certain that she will be in the library to take back any books you might wish to return. Although I am not quite certain why you would need to ask me about that?"

"Well, you see, professor," Hermione said in a hushed tone voice, "I wasn't hoping to return a library book, exactly."

Understanding dawned upon the professor's face.

"Would you care to have lunch with me, Miss Granger?" Professor McGonagall offered. "Februaries in this castle are far too cold and draughty for an old witch like me to make the long way down to the Great Hall every day."

"I would appreciate that, professor, thank you," Hermione gladly accepted.

Once they were safely ensconced in her office, the Head of House applied her usual privacy charms to the room and blocked the Floo. Another flick of her wand had the already burning fire crackle even more brightly, causing another wave of heat to envelop the air surrounding them and imbuing it with a most pleasant warmth.

"I take it your undertaking has been successful, Miss Granger?" the elder witch queried without preamble as she accepted the velvet-wrapped tome back.

"It has indeed, professor, thank you," Hermione confirmed.

"And have you since noticed any irregularities?"

"Irregularities?" Hermione echoed, confused.

"Irregularities, yes," the professor repeated. "I have not asked this earlier as I did not want to jump to conclusions regarding your activities over Christmas break, but now both the holidays and Valentine's Day have passed, and I've been wondering how your body has been faring so far."

Understanding dawned in Hermione.

"I was late," she said. "At first I thought the Contraceptive Potion had not worked correctly, but I trusted Madam Pomphrey to only hand out perfect brews. A few days later, my period set in, and it was – well, 'excruciating' would be putting it mildly."

"You poor girl," Professor McGonagall exclaimed. "I would have told you about it; it's only that it affects everybody differently, and I did not wish to put you off performing whatever ritual you would choose. The whole issue with side effects is poorly researched, and documented even worse, so I could not be sure if you would notice any of it at all. I must say, though, you held yourself remarkably well in my classes. Was Madam Pomphrey able to alleviate the pain somewhat?"

"I took something for the pain," Hermione simply stated.

There was no use in telling her Head of House that she had gone to the Potions Master for help, rather than seeking out the school nurse. There was even less use in telling her that the only way for Hermione to keep herself upright had been compartmentalizing the pain away as well as she had been able to do, and keeping a low profile. There was nothing but damage to be had, of course, if she were to tell the now relieved-looking witch that a very, very potent Pain Relief draught had not been the only medicine the professor had prescribed her. It might give her a heart attack (or five) if she ever were to know that Hermione had fallen apart around the Potions Master's clever fingers every night, and even once during their lesson.

"I am glad," the professor said.

"If I may ask, professor," Hermione queried, "is there anything known about why these side effects occur? I had not even thought at the time that they might be in any way related to the ritual I performed."

"Your body was adjusting to the loss of the power that lay in its innocence," Professor McGonagall began to explain. "It was draining a certain amount of power from your magical core as soon as your body showed signs of preparing itself for another way of holding innocence – a child. The drainage manifested as physical pain. The reserve your body was building will be imbued in your child at the time when you will carry a baby, and you will shed that power, in a way, when giving birth. Essentially, your core was split for any offspring you may have in the future, so that they may carry your magic within them."

The whole process overwhelmed Hermione, as it was all news to her. Instead of trying to mull all that additional knowledge over there and then, she decided to hold on to something the professor had said earlier in her explanation.

"You mentioned a loss of power," she said. "Does that mean that I actually gave away part of my magical powers by performing the ritual? Why would anybody do that if it meant diminishing one's own power?"

Why would you allow and even encourage me to do that?

The question, though unvoiced, hung heavily in the thick, warm air, hovering almost visibly, tangibly, in the space above the professor's desk between her and Hermione.

"Miss Granger," her Head of House enunciated very clearly, "I had hoped that you might have placed more trust in me than to assume that I would ever recommend that you perform a ritual which would lessen your powers. Especially in the midst of a war," she added.

"Magical power," the elder witch continued, "is much like love: when divided, it multiplies. Yes, your body was robbed of that part of your powers for a short time, but it rebuilt that part, drawing from your strength during such time. The energy required for that rebuilding and the toll that effort took on your body resulted in increased menstrual pain. That is all."

"There is no love lost between me and the…" Hermione hesitated. "The one who participated in the necessary prelude for the ritual."

"If that is the way you speak of him, then I am inclined to believe you there, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall half smirked, half admonished. "But if the concept is not to your taste, then think of magical power like you would of blood: too large a loss will kill you, of course. But if you lose only a small amount, then your body will be quick to remedy the loss by producing the amount necessary to meet your requirements. However, while still experiencing the blood loss, or loss of power, as it were, your body will be weakened. That is exactly what you experienced."

"I did not feel weak during that time," Hermione voiced her objection. "Physically, yes, of course, but not magically. I did not feel any difference in my magic, in fact, other than that concentrating was difficult and would at times result in unwanted outcomes."

The Head of House smiled.

"Of course you wouldn't feel weaker, Miss Granger," she explained not without warmth, but as if Hermione was a little dull for suggesting so. "You hold a huge potential of magical power within you that has never required extensive use here at Hogwarts. For the lessons as we hold them, only a rather small amount of power is necessary that does not even brink on what powers you could draw upon if you set your mind to it, Miss Granger. As it is, the amount of power you engage in this school setting is well within the range of the power that remained accessible to you during your body's recreational phase."

Hermione was intrigued.

"Then how do I harness my full potential, professor?" she queried.

She wondered for a moment how it came that she hadn't felt weaker with the professor during their extracurricular lessons, since she was certain that those required a far higher level of magical power than her usual classes. Thinking back, however, she remembered that January had been a difficult time for the both of them. He had ignored her, assuming and accusing her of sleeping around on him despite their agreement. There hadn't been much time between the start of term and the beginning of her cramps that had been so excruciating she had been certain she had to die.

"It is as simple and as difficult a matter of believing in your own power, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall stated warmly.

Hermione didn't quite manage to catch the impolite and incredulous snort that escaped her throat. This was third class Divination lessons all over again.

"I beg your pardon, professor," she said, completely unapologetic, "but I believe in the triumph of facts."

"Then you are no true believer at all, Miss Granger," her Head of House chided without bite. "Belief is so much stronger than factual knowledge; defies it, in fact. But if you're not willing to believe in something beyond your imagination, then I suppose you would do best to create those facts you state to believe in yourself."

Hermione, feeling properly admonished, but not quite ready to admit defeat by giving the elder witch's advice a try, thought back to the last couple of months.

"I've been trying, professor," she said. "I've been constantly trying to push my own limits, to become bigger than myself, but it's just – it's so hard."

"Oh, my dear girl," Professor McGonagall chuckled, "that is because in order to push your limits, you have to encounter them first. Is there anything you have failed at yet?"

Don't close your eyes.

The words flashed through Hermione's mind as if they were burned into the inside of her eyelids.

Don't cry out.

Had she failed at anything yet?

Don't bleed.

Yes, she had.

"Yes," she stated.

"Have you really?"

At the time, it had seemed so important to follow those three instructions that the professor had given her. Thinking back now, Hermione knew that the real task had been to close her mind to the Potions Master's forced entry. Yes, part of her task had been to learn how to preserve her life's essence in situations of torture, and to keep her wits about her and any and all information to herself. But truly, a nosebleed?

"I – partly," she confessed. "There were stipulations around the task I had to accomplish, and I failed one of those."

"And did you believe in your ability to accomplish said task, any and all stipulations included?" the Transfiguration teacher queried.

"No," Hermione stated, almost snorting again at the mere notion of that, but this time catching herself in time. "It was impossible to do so, at that point in time, at least."

"With that attitude, everything will have the power to become impossible to you, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall explained. "You know, I remember a time when it was commonly thought that no Muggle-born could ever surpass any, much less all of their yearmates of 'purer' descent."

"That is simply preposterous," Hermione exclaimed emphatically. "Why would children from wizarding families be any better at doing magic than those from a muggle background? And how can anybody in this society expect to defy You-Know-Who when such antiquated ideas are ingrained and socially accepted?"

She was lucky, she realized in retrospect, that her Head of House seemed to be in a generous mood, for she did not chide Hermione for raising her voice at her.

"You see, Miss Granger, that is just the thing," the elder witch continued. "It has been considered impossible for muggle-raised children to make up for those eleven years of magical learning that is naturally acquired in a magical household during childhood. Of course, the lack of available pre-school education for children from a muggle background is horrible, but that is not what we're discussing here. Logically speaking, it is very difficult to accomplish the same level of ability and intuition for magic by only studying at Hogwarts, without being raised into being a magical being. So even though the expectation that it is impossible to manage that is preposterous, the thought behind it really isn't that unreasonable, nor is the notion an antiquated one.

"But it will be antiquated, and very soon, if I'm not wrong here, Miss Granger. It is a simple, but profound fact – since you believe in the triumph of facts – that you have proven and are still continuing to prove everyone wrong. You, Miss Granger, have managed to academically and magically surpass even Draco Malfoy, a young wizard whose parents were able to and did afford a whole contingent of private pre-school tutors. You, a Muggle-born witch, have become the brightest witch of your age. Those notions, Miss Granger, will be antiquated because you are teaching new facts to this ancient society. Those ideas will be antiquated because you made them so.

"For a young witch who is busy over-throwing a whole society's ideas about what is 'normal' and what is 'to be expected', it appears to me that you are inordinately insecure about your own abilities," Professor McGonagall concluded. ""Your extraordinariness is such a fact that has triumphed over common expectations, so why will you not believe in that?"

Hermione was stunned. She didn't know what to say. Never in her entire life had she heard such an impassioned laudation to her person. She sat gaping for what must be an impolite amount of time, trying to come to terms with what she had just heard.

"I don't want you to think on what I've said," her Head of House eventually interrupted her confused mental whirlwind. "I want you to internalize it. Go now, Miss Granger, and believe. There is nothing that you can't do, so go out and do it."

She didn't remember getting up from her chair, slinging her book bag over her shoulder and going to the door, but when she was called back, Hermione's hand was just in the process of pressing down the handle of the Transfiguration office's door.

"Pray tell, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall asked, "which ritual did you use in the end?"

Hermione blushed. She wondered how to politely compose her answer for a moment or three before replying.

"I do trust you, professor," she eventually stated. "I trust you so deeply to let you know that the ritual I chose has been completed, which rules out quite a number of options what I might have chosen. However, it would be neither prudent nor appropriate to tell you more, I'm afraid, however much I would like to confide in you."

The elder witch smiled genuinely.

"That is a very prudent and appropriate answer indeed, Miss Granger," she assessed. "You are an accomplished and mature young witch, and you have just confirmed the wisdom that lay in trusting you with my clan's grimoire. I am proud of you."