After depositing the unconscious Hermione on a newly conjured bed in her office - a location deemed to be far more comfortable than the carpeted stone floor Hermione had been laying on previously - Minerva set off to do some research. Hermione wouldn't be awake for hours yet, giving Minerva plenty of time to simultaneously fill in the blanks and do damage control.

And Minerva McGonagall was, for once in her life, at a loss.

Like the other professors, she was quite familiar with Inebrius potions – often students would venture out on potion-induced benders, resorting to the Inebrius because the ingredients were easy to acquire and the concoction only took a few hours to brew. It was a straightforward fix; the antidote was just as simple to make and the remedy for the inevitable headache that the antidote did not prevent only required two ingredients, but there was something about Hermione's behaviour that didn't match up with Minerva's previous experiences with magically drunk students and she was determined to find out why.

It had, however, taken Minerva some time to locate the book she was seeking on her newly reorganized shelving. The tome on magical ailments and their remedies had been nestled in the burgundy section next to a slim volume of poems by William Topaz McGonagall, a painfully deluded distant relative on her father's side. W. McGonagall's unique oeuvre was kept for evenings when she had to mark student papers and needed a comedic respite from the incompetence of her young charges. A reading of the staggeringly bad Tay Bridge Disaster generally had her in silent hysterics by the fourth stanza – her relation's ignorance for the basics of poetic meter, rhyme and reason made even the worst of her students' work seem insightful. Although it would take Veritiserum to make her admit it, the poet was responsible for more than one inept student passing an assignment that they should have failed, fortuitously marked after Minerva had subjected herself to her relation's wretched poetry and returned to their paper with a fresh perspective on the lows to which literary expression could be taken.

Minerva quickly flipped to the 'I' section and leafed through yellowing pages until she found the magical complaint that her student was suffering from. Frowning, she scanned down the page until she arrived at the section describing the effects of the potion.

'Simply put, the Inebrius potion mimics the effects of alcohol consumption. In moderate amounts – three thimblefuls - it reduces anxiety and lowers inhibitions, making it useful in social situations for individuals who find themselves unable to relax. When taken in excess, the potion may also spark a variety of unusual acute ailments – but is most commonly expressed as vivid hallucinations and a marked preoccupation with colours, although a susceptibility to overheating is also not uncommon...

But nothing about absurd romantic desires for Transfigurations Professors, Minerva thought silently, skipping through the rest of the lengthy paragraph before closing the book and setting it heavily on the dresser next to her, a surface that was already occupied by a dozen different potion bottles of various shapes and size that Potter had brought up from the Infirmary. It was quite the assortment of bottled remedies, but he had failed to find the one which would negate the after-effects of heavy drinking – although had Minerva required a cure for tone-deafness, or a therapeutic ointment for dragon pox, she would have been in luck.

With the soft sigh of one who has received disappointing news that they had anticipated getting, Minerva stood up and set out to collect the necessary ingredients for the hangover remedy. It had been a very long time since she had had any necessity to brew a potion herself – a task traditional taken up by the Potions Master of Hogwarts. However, that was the one thing that was non-negotiable about this potion's creation.

Minerva McGonagall would be damned if she was going to ask Severus Snape for help.

Minerva stopped by Greenhouse Three after walking down the hill to collect a few pumpkin leaves from Hagrid's garden. It was fortunate that she had sent her Patronus ahead to deliver her request - Hagrid had left a note on his door, saying that he had gone into the Forbidden Forest to check up on an injured Thestral that he had been doctoring, but that she was welcome to as much of his garden's produce as she wished.

She opened the glass door of the Herbology classroom and was greeted by an oppressive gush of warm and incredibly humid air - so different from the chilly Scottish fall temperature outside - the smell of warm, rich earth, and the unexpected and rather shocking sight of Pomona Sprout wrestling with a gigantic twisting vine at the far end of the greenhouse. The plant had succeeded in wrapping itself around the woman's neck and was in the midst of doing its upmost to choke the life out of her.

'May I assist, Pomona?' Minerva asked in concern, moving closer to her colleague and drawing her wand from an inner pocket. The squat witch looked to be in immanent danger of losing the battle – her face was a deep red and she was omitting ominous gasps every few seconds.

'That's...alright...Minerva,' Pomona choked out, clutching the writhing shoot away from her throat. 'I've...almost got it.'

Another vine suddenly shot out from the bush and darted towards Minerva's body, which she smoothly sidestepped, noting the distinctive blue hairs on the vine's stem as it shot past her and crashed noisily through the glass of one of the greenhouse windows.

'An Armenian Clematis?' she inquired, gazing appraisingly at the vine as it retracted from the window pane that it had just smashed, shaking shards of glass from its stem like a dog shaking itself of water after a swim. Herbology had never held much interest for her in school - but she had been excellent at botanical identification.

'Mmph,' came the muffled reply.

'Poisonous?'

'Very,' Pomona gasped cheerfully. She had somehow managed to grab a trowel from the work bench and was now hacking at every available piece of her attacker with her improvised weapon.

The second vine had given Minerva up as a lost cause and retreated to bother Pomona. Taking advantage of this new opponent, Pomona squeezed her way out of the clutches of the first, ducked, and expertly knotted it to the one which had been attached to her neck, leaving the two vines to struggle with one other as they vanished into the depths of the bush from which they had appeared.

'Fortunately, it's dangerous only when it blooms.' Pomona said, dusting her hands off as she cast a last appraising look at the plant that had nearly strangled her before turning her back on it. 'Professor Snape asked for the anthers – the seventh years are working on Cooling Drenches – and Poppy would like to test the potency of the petals in her next batch of Pepper-Up Potions.'

'Would you happen to have any sap from the Ostrich Ferns left?' Minerva inquired, still eyeing the Armenian Clematis pot at the end of the row, which was vigorously rocking back and forth in its gigantic saucer, scattering dirt onto the walkway.

Pomona began to scan the shelves. 'Will a thimbleful be enough?'

Minerva nodded. 'It's only for one dose.'

Pomona rummaged in a large rack resting behind the trays of immature Chinese Chomping Cabbages – ignoring the fierce gnashing of teeth from the plants - before appearing again with a small bottle of brown liquid. She shook the vial vigorously and then held it up to the light, peering at it with an experienced eye.

'Not bad,' she said, squinting and slowly turning the bottle to look at the now amber fluid inside. 'Some sedimentation - it is from last season's plants - but it should be just as potent as the fresh stuff. You might want to...Oy!'

She shouted loudly: one of the smaller Chomping Cabbages had gotten a hold of her trailing sleeve and was growling as it pulled her closer to its pot. Yanking her arm away, she glared down at the row of trays.

'Little bastard,' she muttered, rolling her robe sleeve back up to her elbow. 'See if I give you any fertilizer tomorrow!'

As she walked up the steps to the castle doors, pumpkin leaves in one hand and the vial of sap tucked safely into a pocket of her robes, Minerva reflected on what had transpired over the previous couple of hours. After all, brewing and administering the hangover remedy was all well and good, but how was she to approach the other problem?

It was a topic that was inevitable: the boys had seen enough to piece two and two together and they were bound to ask Hermione about the lipstick, and gossip in the student body travelled faster than anything known to wizarding kind. She would speak to them as soon as possible, but also knew that the Head of Slytherin House was not above dropping hints if it meant that a rival House would suffer. And Severus Snape wasn't one to be easily threatened. Or bribed.

This really was an agonizing situation, only exacerbated by the fact that Hermione's actions under magical influence – through no fault of her own – had put Minerva in a rather precarious position on a number of fronts. She was not new to student crushes, although it had been some time – two decades, really – since she had needed to dissuade a particularly amorous one of their misplaced passions. Hermione was the exception to over forty years of aloofness – Minerva hadn't recognized her romantic illusions for what they were.

On reflection, although she hadn't realized it as anything to be concerned about at the time, there were incidents that should have warned her. The odd late night conversation over tea – usually running past curfew, the requests to take on extra work and offers to help mark the younger year's assignments – she had assumed that these were simply part of Hermione's desire to build up academic skills that would serve her in the future. She could remember the one instance when she had caught the girl staring at her just a moment too long in class, only to hastily return to her work once she realized what she had been doing. But that had been more than a year ago and indeed, in the past few semesters, Hermione had become more distant. Not unusual for a seventh year – the NEWTs were a deciding factor in the quality of student's futures, and Hermione was not one to risk academic success unless the stakes were very high.

And when the girl left school next year? Would Minerva miss her?

Of course, she thought angrily. Hermione was more than just another student, she was...

Well...what was she?

Neither student, nor a friend. She hadn't been the former for quite some time, there was very little more that Minerva could teach her in the classroom with other students without obviously favouring her, and Hermione couldn't be the latter while she was still at Hogwarts. They were not equals here – not at the school, and not for some time after either. There were formalities to be observed, after all – letters would be exchanged back and forth for several years, interspaced by the odd chat over tea about work and studies. A friendship, but one that never would never truly become close.

Subconsciously, Minerva touched her lips with her fingers, subtly tracing the place where she had been kissed. Her face flushing at a sudden reckless thought, she hurriedly dropped her hand back down to her side, fingers clenched into a tight fist.

Hermione was not that.

Although four hours had passed since the young woman had collapsed on top of her Head of House in the woman's office, Hermione had been unaware of the passage of time. Very little made sense to her when she finally woke up, and though she had many unanswered questions spinning around in her mind; one overwhelming piece of indisputable fact predominated.

Hermione Granger wanted to die.

The innermost reaches of her skull throbbed with a pulsating pain that was amplified tenfold by the slightest noise or the faintest light. It was much, much worse than any headache she had ever experienced - even the soft illumination from the embers of the fireplace in otherwise darkened room hurt her eyes. Nausea overwhelmed her senses – there was no distinction between sight and smell and touch and sound because it all hurt.

'Hermione.'

A hand tilted her head gently, even the slight movement pushing her into dizziness. There was the cool touch of a glass at her lips and Hermione felt liquid trickle down her throat. She could not taste it – it could have been water or juice or blood or poison and she wouldn't have known the difference or even cared at this point - anything that put a stop to her agony was welcome to crawl down her throat and do whatever it pleased.

'Pumpkin juice,' came a soft voice again from beside her, pitched low enough so as not to cause more than a dull throb of pain. 'Your body needs fluids and the vitamin C will take the edge off your headache.'

'And eggs,' Minerva said, carrying the tray that the House Elves had brought up from the kitchen over from the table and placing it on the mattress. Hermione had woken up nearly an hour before the remedy would be ready and Minerva was resorting to mundane methods of hangover treatment in the interim. 'The cysteine will break down the toxins.'

Hermione took one look at the plate of food before she turned white and vomited over the side of the bed.

Without batting an eyelash, Minerva calmly cleaned up the mess on the carpet with a Scourgify charm, setting the tray back on the dresser after putting her wand away into her pocket.

'Or we can ignore the Muggle remedies and just wait for the potion to finish brewing,' she sighed, glancing at the small cauldron that was still simmering away on the fireplace.

Hermione moaned piteously.

It was rare that she choose to complete work in the staff room, generally preferring the privacy of her office, but it was one of those days where she felt like company after a long Monday of third, fifth and seventh years doing their utmost to drive her to early retirement. And, for the past three days, when not in the company of others, she would begin to brood.

There had been one bright point to her day so far , she reflected, but it did not make up for what she knew she would have to explore within the next day or so – Hermione was to be let out of the Infirmary soon and she had instructed Madame Pomfrey to send her directly to Minerva's office. She had decided this to be the safest way of approaching the problem once she had given Hermione the headache remedy; Poppy could watch the girl for lasting effects a few days and had acquiesced to Minerva's request for discretion.

'I've got it!'

The joyful exclamation of delight made Minerva look up from her marking, her quill poised to viciously scratch out a sentence with nine commas in it. Company in the staff room this afternoon consisted of only one other teacher.

'You have what, Xiomara?'

Minerva regarded her friend with some trepidation. Even after three decades of acquaintance, Xiomara Hooch regularly continued to surprise the rest of the staff with spastic bouts of insanity. Minerva herself had known the Flying instructor for the better part of thirty years, ever since the woman had appeared at Hogwarts mid-way through the term after a scandal with her Quidditch team, the Holyhead Harpies. Rumours of two torrid love affairs turned sour and a much hushed political incident involving a visiting Polish dignitary, a charmed bicycle and a crate full of flying hedgehogs.

'Blindfolds!'

Minerva's sense of curiosity won by the smallest of margins. She also knew that any refusal to hear what her colleague wanted to spill would only encourage the woman's imagination.

'Elaborate, please, Madame Hooch.'

'The players have been getting cocky over the past few weeks – you should have seen what that little burk Mullally tried to do yesterday in the Ravenclaw practice - accident my arse! A crash or two will take them down a couple of pegs.'

'You are not putting them in blindfolds,' Minerva snapped, interrupting her colleague once she realized where Xiomara was heading. 'Poppy would use your skin for an evening dress if you were responsible for an increase in pitch injuries – she still hasn't forgiven you for letting that class of first years experience bludger attacks – three broken bones, I haven't the faintest idea what you could have been thinking.'

'Like bats!' The flying instructor trilled, blissfully ignoring Minerva. 'They'll have to shut up and actually listen for the quaffle and bludgers!'

'Our students are not biologically capable of echolocation, Xiomara!' Minerva said in exasperation. 'Although they may not always act it, they are all human beings!'

'And we can add another bludger for practices to keep them on their toes!'

Abandoning her paper and half-drunk cup of tea, Minerva walked out of the staff room and out of range of Xiomara's mad plans for maiming the school's Quidditch players.

Perhaps there was some truth to the Polish dignitary story after all.

Ten minutes later, Minerva tossed her heavy outer robes onto the nearest arm of the chesterfield in her office and sunk into the cushions with a quiet groan. She would have to return and retrieve her class work from the staffroom at some point, but only when she was sure that Xiomara was certain to be supervising a Quidditch practice. She made a mental note to keep a close eye on the pitch for the next couple of days, just in case Xiomara tried to use students as test monkeys in her new version of Quidditch.

From her position on the couch, her gaze landed on the bookshelf that was still in its colour-coded state from the excitement of the Friday previous, and she added that task to her lengthening mental list of things that needed to be done when she had a free moment.

There was a quiet knock on the door only a mere minute later, and Minerva felt her energy reserves drop even further. She already knew who it was.

'Miss Granger, how are you feeling?' she asked as a face peeked around the door.

'Fine, Professor.' Hermione Granger looked to be her usual calm, polite, and fully-clothed self as she hesitantly came over to the center of the room to face her teacher. 'Madame Pomfrey just released me but told me I should go to you before I went back to my rooms.'

'Yes, there are a few things that I'd like to discuss before you rejoin the rest of the students.' Rubbing her temples with a slim hand, and with a feeling of foreboding and a silent prayer, Minerva broached the very subject that she had been fretting over for the past three days. 'What exactly do you recall from Friday's events, Miss Granger?'

Hermione frowned.

'Not much, Professor,' she began hesitantly, 'I remember sitting in Charms – we were having a review session from the previous week's subjects as there was a quiz coming up - but beyond that, there's only bits and pieces. Harry and Ron helping me down one of the corridors, arguing. I remember titles of books I've never read, but that part is strange, because I'm certain I didn't go to the Library.'

'Nothing else?' Minerva pressed, wanting to be absolutely certain, filled with new optimism, hoping with all her might that she wouldn't have to explore a realm which she did not want to acknowledge.

'No, something about Shakespeare's Sonnets, of all things, but beyond that the only thing is...'

Hermione's voice suddenly trailed off into silence – her eyes had flickered over to the tall shelf of colour-coded books in the corner of Minerva's office. The play of emotions on her face ran from surprise to recognition to confusion and then Hermione turned so pale that Minerva thought the young woman was going to be sick again.

Fearing a repeat of the fall that had left her with painfully bruised kneecaps, Minerva stood up and caught Hermione's chin between thumb and fore-finger, turning her shocked face towards hers.

'Miss Granger,' she said gently, meeting the wide hazel eyes with her own calm ones. 'I did not call you here to embarrass you.'

Hermione looked absolutely mortified.

'I...I...didn't do that, did I?' she said in hushed tones.

Unable to help herself, Minerva let out a silvery laugh.

'On the scale of noteworthy things that students have done to me during my teaching career, it didn't even come in the top twenty, Miss Granger,' she said, still smiling. 'Granted, I would have preferred that Professor Snape hadn't remarked on the circumstances by which my lipstick ended up on your lips, but nothing is ever that easy, and I regard it as the price to pay for my own vanity.'

At this, Hermione sat down heavily on the chesterfield, bracing herself with an arm on the cushion.

'Oh dear God, Snape...' she whispered to no one in particular.

'Professor Snape, dear.' Careful to leave some room between them - if only for her poor student's comfort - Minerva slowly sat down beside her.

'You are still ashamed?' she asked quietly. 'You were drunk, Hermione; your actions were not your own.'

Hermione did not respond at once, but turned slightly to look at her, brown eyes guarded.

'Don't you know, Professor?'

But before Minerva could respond, Hermione continued on miserably.

'Of course you know. It's impossible not to tell, not even when the student does their very best to hide it. And believe me when I say that I tried. I worked for years to rid myself of the notion, of the possibility – telling myself that it would pass, that I would grow out of it, that it was just a silly phase.' Hermione's voice became even more desperate. 'You don't look, you don't think, you don't touch, and soon, it becomes a twisted game – your mind is trying its best to forget what the body wants, and can't.'

Bright tears were now in Hermione's eyes, one drop trickling down one cheek as she shook her head from side to side. 'And soon it has consumed your life because the one thing that you are trying to rid yourself of is all you can think and feel and see.'

Minerva's hand gently slipped into Hermione's, her long fingers wrapping around the brunette's smaller ones.

'It was unfair.' This was a barely audible whisper, warbled through a quivering bottom lip. 'Someone I admired from my first encounter with this world was now all I wanted to rid myself of. Why did it have to be you, of all people!'

Firmly squelching the voice that screamed at her to get up and leave, Minerva reached out and gathered her student into her arms.

'Hush,' Minerva whispered into Hermione's curly hair, one hand supporting the back of her student's neck as she held her close. 'Please calm yourself, my dear, I'm not angry.'

Hermione resisted the embrace only for a moment, until she suddenly gave up and became as limp as a rag doll. Soon enough, her arms had wrapped around Minerva's slim waist and Hermione was clinging to her with all her might. Tears still falling down her cheeks, Hermione pressed her face into Minerva's shoulder, vaguely aware of the faint perfume that she had never been quite sure existed up until now.

'Please listen to me, Hermione,' the Minerva began quietly, her voice more tender than Hermione had ever heard it, 'and believe that this comes from my heart when I say that I am truly sympathetic to what you are going through. To be exposed through no fault of your own – and then to have to live with others knowing your deepest secrets, you shouldn't have ever had to go through that.' Minerva ran a hand slowly over Hermione's back to sooth her. 'Take comfort in that I have already made it very clear to Potter and Weasley that if they ever breathe a word of what they saw to any other living soul, I shall make their lives very difficult for an undisclosed, but understandably lengthy period of time.'

'And Snape?'

At the mention of the Potions professor, Hermione was surprised to feel the rumble of a soft chuckle of amusement in Minerva's chest.

'Professor Snape has more on his mind right now than perpetrating gossip.'

Before she could elaborate further, there was a knock on the office door. The two women jumped apart, Minerva sliding down to the opposite end of the chesterfield to put as much professional distance between herself and her pupil as was possible.

'Professor McGonagall?' Albus Dumbledore called out. 'Are you there?'

Minerva tucked a loose strand of her dark hair behind her ear and immediately berated herself for the nervous gesture.

'Come in, Headmaster,' she called out, surprised at the steadiness of her own voice.

'Ah, and Miss Granger,' he said kindly as he opened the door. 'I heard that you were to be released today - how wonderful to see you feeling better.'

Hermione bowed her head in an obvious attempt to disguise just how red her eyes were from the tears. Dumbledore politely made no sign that he had noticed her rather dishelved appearance, instead turning his attentions back to Minerva.

'Professor McGonagall, I'm very happy to have found you. I was wondering if you could assist me with a little detective work.'

Minerva looked confused.

'Perhaps I should elaborate,' Dumbledore said with a gentle smile, reaching into a large outside pocket in his royal blue and silver-trimmed robes and pulling out of it, of all things, a black cat.

Or rather, something that looked vaguely like a cat.

As soon as she set eyes on it, Minerva's expression became suspiciously blank.

'A cat, Headmaster?' she said politely, after a barely perceptible pause. 'If you are searching for its owner, I can say with certainty that the animal does not belong in the Gryffindor house.'

'Indeed, Professor,' Dumbledore agreed mildly, holding it in front of him and turning the feline side to side so that they could have a better look at the animal, which was emitting the low yowl of a cat truly unhappy with its situation. 'I dare say that you would have noticed it.'

Hermione stared at the animal in question, silently agreeing with Dumbledore. Despite her fondness for cats - and she owned a rather strange looking one herself - this one didn't stir any feelings of unbridled affection or prompt an urge to scratch it behind its ears. The gaunt animal could be called nothing short of 'unkempt'; its slick dark fur sticking out in every direction and rather bent whiskers adorning its unusually long and ugly muzzle. The overall impression was one of a rather neglected pet, and if this cat did belong to a student, it had to be a student who had very poor vision, or one who took pride in having the ugliest member of the felid race in their care.

'You might ask Professor Snape, Headmaster.' Minerva answered after a moment of careful consideration. 'I may have seen this creature down in the Slytherin corridor this morning.'

The cat was clearly displeased at being held aloft, and had made another attempt to claw its keeper's long beard, hissing loudly when it missed. Dumbledore ignored the attack, tilting his head to one side to look at the Transfigurations professor.

'Truly, Minerva, we are of like minds. Professor Snape was the one I went to ask first, but he was not in his office or any of his usual haunts, nor did he turn up for lunch or his afternoon class. He seems to have vanished from the school.'

Minerva dark eyebrows rose in surprise.

'It's not like Professor Snape to disappear, is it?' Minerva remarked honestly. 'I will certainly keep an eye out and direct him to you when I next see him in person.'

'Thank you, Professor, for your help, and my apologies for having bothered you,' Dumbledore placed the valiantly resisting cat back inside his robe pocket and gave a slight bow before leaving. 'Good evening ladies.'

'Good evening, Headmaster.'

After the door had closed, there was a conspicuous moment of silence before either of the two women spoke.

'Professor?'

'Yes, Miss Granger?'

'That cat seemed very familiar, didn't it?'

Minerva turned to look at Hermione in surprise.

'I haven't the faintest idea what you could be talking about, Miss Granger; I haven't seen that animal before today.'

And then her lips quirked upwards and she shot Hermione a brilliant, wicked smile, betraying her innocence in the whole matter.

Shyly, Hermione returned it with a small one of her own. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again and awkwardly stood up, smoothing her school skirt of wrinkles.

'I will see you in class tomorrow, Professor.' Hermione said, hesitantly meeting her teacher's eyes. 'Thank you for...' her head ducked briefly, gaze dropping to the carpet, embarrassed. '...your understanding.'

Minerva watched Hermione walk across the carpet to the door before making the first impulsive decision of her adult life. Favouritism and formalities be damned.

'Miss Granger?' she called out.

Hermione turned around, her hand on the door handle, obviously surprised.

'I would like to offer you a few private classes in Transfiguration; covering rather advanced material that the rest of your class will be escaping due to disinterest and inability. Will you join me for tea next Saturday evening?'

There was a stunned silence.

'Of course, Professor,' Hermione choked out once she had found her voice again. 'Thank you.'

Minerva gracefully inclined her head.

'Good night, Miss Granger.'

(edit 2011) And oddly enough, this story originally ended here. But they people complained, so it was extended into another few chapters. But here is the original ending message below...

AU: We may conclude that whatever Minerva feels for her student will not surface for another five or ten years, but it is there.

Sorry to have been out of the loop for so long – real life does not mesh well with creative writing. I also need to catch up on my reviews, and there are some wonderful and heartbreaking MM/HG fics that have been written in the interim, which I have read, but failed to review.

I do have more half-finished stories in the works, but most of my readers already know that means little to my upload times. I seem to respond best to polite but firm threats by e-mail/private messaging – it worked for this chapter (and my college professors). I extend an open invitation to all who wish to begin the harassment.