AN: And here's the last chapter. I lie, one more after this. I wrote it as one large piece, but cut it in the middle because I was fussing again.

I do that a lot. And I was a little concerned that people would start hunting me down and starve me until this story was updated.

This story was...and this is no understatement... the death of me. I have a whole list of scenes that I wrote that couldn't be included for various plot-related reasons, or that Minerva was exhibiting out-of-character dialogue. Even worse, I got too attached to sections and was loathe to cut them out – spending far too much time worrying over things that I'd written than writing new stuff to replace them. It's a vicious cycle (and not a productive one.)

Of course, you'd probably already guessed as much given that it's been...well, a very long time since the last update. Personal issues, and the only thing that I can tell you is that one of my parents sucks as a human being (luckily the other parent realized this years ago and had the good sense to file for divorce). I realize that as a mid twenty-something I shouldn't let it get to me, but I'm only human. But thank you for all the (creative) encouragement.

Where was I?

Ah. Story.

When Hermione had agreed to a walk on the day that she arrived at Minerva McGonagall's home in the North West Highlands, the last thing she had expected was the walk to be up one of the towering peaks that ringed the wide valley.

They had left the house after a light luncheon and had been picking their way up the ridge that formed the mountain's rocky spine for a good two hours. The narrow path was difficult to follow, running up patches of short grass, gorse and over fallen granite stone. Every so often a small flow from a natural spring would cross the track, spilling over and down into the rich green bowl of the valley, destined to join other streams and flow into the large loch more than a thousand feet below.

Hermione avoided looking down. There was a moderate wind, and her imagination did not have to stretch itself to consider how the unlucky combination of a misstep combined with a sudden gust might result in unpleasant vertical consequences. Even the very thought of glancing over the side of the ridge made her feel ill.

Although the sun was high in the sky, it had been raining for much of the morning and the scent of damp earth hung in the air with the temperature noticeably cooler close to the ground. Above them and as far as the eye could see, white cumulonimbus clouds wreathed the tallest mountain tops and cast gigantic shadows that travelled steadily across the open green and boulder-studded land below them, atmospheric winds pushing them slowly towards the South.

Panoramic beauty and favourable climate notwithstanding, scrambling up the face of a remote mountain deep in the heart of the virtually uninhabited northern tip of Britain wasn't exactly how Hermione had expected to spend the beginning of her impromptu holidays and she was suffering dreadfully for her lack of foresight. Her poor body – ruined by nearly a year of non-stop Ministry office work and nights of reviewing papers and governmental decrees at home, combined with a diet that was neither regular nor particularly healthy – was nearly spent and the effort of placing one foot ahead of the other required so much exertion that she could barely breathe. Blood was surging through with each rapid heartbeat, spreading oxygen to her cells but still failing to support her physical needs. Her poor leg muscles were mere minutes away from giving up, drowning in the lactic acid that was a by-product of all this exertion.

And her lungs...

'Is it...much further?' Hermione gasped out, stumbling to a clumsy stop on a patch of level ground, bending over at the waist to catch her breath. She was sweating for the first time in years, the moisture running down the side of her face and down into the collar of her un-zipped jacket. She longed for a warm bath with soft towels and a comfortable bed in which she could fall into and not have to get up for a week.

'Five minutes at most.' The answer was nearly carried away by a gust of wind that came shooting down over the top of the ridge above them. 'Really Miss Granger, you're about to be outdone by a septuagenarian.'

It was painfully clear that the septuagenarian in question was not even remotely winded by the walk, nor showing any obvious sign of faltering. It was unfair; Hermione's own legs were burning and cramped and sore to an impossible extreme and her breath was still coming in laboured gasps, punctuated by disturbing sounds from her chest that heralded either severe respiratory distress or imminent cardiovascular system failure.

'Hermione?'

It was only because she had known the witch for years that Hermione was able to detect the tinge of concern. Minerva was more unsettled than she appeared.

'You've...been chasing students around Hogwarts for the past...nine months,' she panted out, once again starting up the slope, freshly motivated by the knowledge that the ordeal would soon be over - provided her legs didn't collapse in the interim. '...While I've been sitting in an office since...Christmas...sending off owls and reading reports...My daily activities are hardly conducive... to physical fitness. The Ministry...doesn't...even...have stairs.'

It didn't. The building had a variety of entrances and exits, elevators of every shape and description, and secret passages beyond counting, but was completely lacking in actual steps from one floor to the next. Until today, Hermione had never seen this aspect of its architecture as a flaw.

'You have an entire month at your disposal,' came the clear-voiced reply, hatefully free of any hint of breathlessness. 'We must make this a regular activity.'

Hermione didn't trust herself to answer - she had just narrowly escaped twisting her ankle on a large rock nestled in a patch of deceptively innocuous wildflowers and was having alarmingly dark thoughts about her host's decision to choose this activity to begin their day. Indeed, over the past few hours, her utmost goal in life had unexpectedly changed from emancipating the magical races from slavery and oppression by the wizarding population to the simpler and far more pressing matter of reaching the top of this mountain in one piece.

Although the way things were proceeding, she would settle for alive.

Minerva watched the young woman ahead of her with genuine concern. Hermione was obviously struggling to continue on with the climb, seemingly near quitting, and the witch was tempted to Apparate to the top to save the poor girl from collapsing from exhaustion. The only thing stopping her from doing just that was the fact that they were almost at the crest of the mountain, and Minerva didn't want to deny Hermione the chance to achieve this small tangible victory after so much effort had been spent.

She knew that Hermione had enough of that back in London.

There was a switchback in the path to reach the peak, bypassing a section of fallen grey rock that blocked the older way, and Hermione disappeared from the view of the woman who was ten steps behind her. Minerva paused in her climb and gazed out over the open expanse around them, drinking in the fresh air and the sight of blue peaks in the distance and the dark green valleys below. The land around Hogwarts was beautiful, but couldn't hold a candle to the splendour of this untamed wilderness.

She had missed her home.

'Minerva!'

A terrified yell from behind and above made her jump, and Minerva's head snapped back to where Hermione had been walking only to find her gone. Instantly alert, Minerva rushed up to the top of the slope in five long strides, wand in hand, her mind racing through the possibilities of what could lie in wait on the other side. Herbridian Blacks would occasionally make their homes in this range and were notorious for being fiercely territorial. It really wouldn't do for her guest to be eaten on her first afternoon – and it took a great deal to scare off a hungry dragon.

She broke into quiet laughter once she saw what had spooked the younger witch.

'Heilan' Coo. Oh, Hermione - you gave me quite a scare.'

Sprawled behind the large granite boulder - half buried in the earth - that had been her improvised hiding place, Hermione stared up at Minerva in bewilderment. It was clear that this was the last reaction that she been expecting from her companion.

'They're Highland Cattle, dear,' Minerva clarified, returning her wand to a pocket and stepping up onto the grass and gorse-covered plateau, a gentle smile on her lips as she gazed down on the animals below them. 'Completely harmless.'

There were a dozen of the native cattle in the small alpine meadow; an area protected from the wind and elements by the lee-ward side of the ridge. The nearest beast snorted at the two women as they approached, but after a few moments of eyeing the newcomers, the cow dismissed them as unworthy of any concern, and bent her gigantic head to resume grazing. The rest of the shaggy fold similarly ignored them, occupied by the tasty bunches of scrubby grass growing on the slope, their tails habitually penduluming back and forth to keep the flies away as they ate.

Wrapping her dangling tartan-patterned cloak over one arm with elegant familiarity, Minerva walked through the scattered group of cows without any trace of fear. A much more timid Hermione followed her, keeping as close the woman ahead as possible, wand held next to her hip ready to defend herself should these strange-looking creatures turn out to be vicious despite Minerva's reassurances to the contrary. They didn't look like cows, not with all that long hair.

'They are not as dangerous as you would think, Hermione, even with those horns.' Minerva's voice was pitched lower than normal so as not to spook the animals around them. The result was pleasantly smooth contralto, without any trace of the usual teaching briskness. 'Very shy, but gentle.'

To prove her point, Minerva slowly reached out towards the closest of the animals and scratched behind the cow's ear, her pale hand almost disappearing into the thick red coat. The heifer closed her eyes in contentment and leant into the scratch, giving a grunt of pleasure. Humans were nothing new to her, although it was rare to see them in the high pastures where the herd spent their summers. And these ones didn't have the noisy barking creatures with them.

A more wary Hermione continued to keep her distance. All of the Care of Magical Creatures classes that she had taken at Hogwarts had taught her an important rule: even seemingly tame, non-magical creatures could injure people in surprising and inventive ways. Those long horns looked sharp, even if they were attached to a docile animal.

'I thought there wasn't a soul around for miles?' Hermione asked curiously, glancing around at the rest of herd. 'However did they come all the way up here?'

'The local farmers have let them out for the season to graze,' Minerva said, giving the cow one last pet before straightening up and moving back over to where Hermione was standing. '– not that there's a fence built without magic that would ever hold them. The cattle will eat anything green that they can find – they're notoriously hardy animals – but wander back home for hay when the snows come.'

'Did your family own any?'

Minerva shook her head slightly. 'The neighbouring Muggle family a few miles over kept cows in their fields, the ancestors of these ones in fact. When I was a girl, I would climb up and read on one of the boulders next to the fold during the fair-weather days. Father scolded me for letting the books get damp more than once – rain comes quickly here.'

It had been a very long time ago, in the days when her dark hair was braided in a long plait down her back, and her knees and elbows were always skinned or bruised from tripping over growing limbs and falling into patches of prickly gorse bushes or against rough rocks in the meadows and ripping her skirts. The cows had been comfortable, if silent, companions, and had not been nearly as flighty as the half-wild sheep that would noisily flee whenever she approached within thirty paces of them.

'Were you lonely?'

Minerva's only response was a smile.

The plateau dropped off on one side into a steep bowl of near vertical rock, sheered out of the side of the mountain by rock slides thousands of years previous. It was dizzying to look down, and Hermione, already feeling unwell from the combination of strenuous exertion, being surprised by beasts of indeterminate temper, and present proximity to the source of all sorts of confusing feelings, took one look at the drop before backing away to the comparative safety of the field.

Her companion appeared to have no such fear of heights, even with the gusts of air rushing up the side of the mountain. Minerva's ever-present bun had loosened during the morning's walk and fallen down to the back of her neck, the wind blowing several long strands of dark hair around to whip against the woman's pale face. The long, red-tartan arisaid had also slipped from Minerva's left shoulder and now hung loosely over her arm, one fringed end lifted by the slight breeze and fluttering through the grass.

'...it's a wild, barren beauty.'

Hermione's mind lurched clumsily back into the present, so distracted that she had only caught the tail end of the Minerva's words.

'Sorry?'

'The Highlands,' Minerva elaborated, gesturing expansively towards the mountainous horizon with a slim hand. 'Most visitors take some time to adjust – it is more severe than the South.'

Dumbledore had been appreciative of the quiet serenity, but had been the only visitor truly comfortable here. Poppy had complained that it was too empty, particularly when compared with her own native Wales, but all the same would stop by for a visit every year or two, while Pomona and Filius had only been there a handful of times, spending time with their own grandchildren during the summers. Emmeline Vance spent three weeks one year searching the library for an old manuscript (finally discovered in a disintegrating volume of Flemish Arithmancy from the seventeenth century) but had been so preoccupied with her academic hunt that she had never ventured outside. Remus Lupin had stayed for several winters while trying to find steady employment, but had always rushed to vacate when she returned in the summer, even when reassured that he was welcome to stay. It had been difficult to differentiate the source of his discomfort, and Minerva suspected that it was being forced to rely on what he misconstrued as charity rather than unease in the barren landscape – the isolation perfect for his lunar transformations.

And now, Hermione.

Minerva couldn't help but wonder what her response would be.

It began, Hermione would later realize, with the Highland calf.

Warily watching the cattle from a safe distance, Hermione spotted the small animal, only a few weeks old, peering out from behind the legs of his much larger mother. The pair was at the far edge of the herd, and the calf was nearly hidden by the sturdy frame of the grazing parent. He was covered in the same curly red hair as the adults and with his large liquid eyes - barely visible through its thick forelock - the calf looked less like a living animal and more like a children's stuffed toy come to life.

Hermione felt her heart melt right then and there.

Evidently aware that he had been spotted, the calfabruptly bolted away from his maternal hiding place and catapulted himself across the field in a series of lively bucks, kicks and jumps, putting distance between himself and the newcomers - only to run back moments later, seemingly abashed, when he realized that his unconcerned mother was still eating.

'Oh, you darling creature,' came the soft voice from beside her.

Surprised at this rare show of affection from her companion, Hermione glanced over to see Minerva shaking her head, smiling at the calf's antics, amused by the inexperience of youth.

Hermione's heart fell, reminded yet again of the great disparity in their age. Her face must have shown her thoughts because when she looked back up at Minerva, dark eyes were regarding her as intently as any misbehaving student.

'Are you quite well, Hermione?'

She gave a non-committal nod, shivering as a sharp breeze rushed up the cliff behind them and cut right through her jeans and light jacket. Concerned by this reaction, Minerva reached out and took Hermione's hands in hers. Her eyebrows shot upwards a mere moment after contact.

'You're made of ice!' Minerva exclaimed, shocked by the chill that practically radiated off of Hermione's skin, long fingers moving to enfold her frozen ones. 'Why didn't you say anything?'

Startled, Hermione glanced down at their joined hands. She hadn't registered how cold she had become over the course of a few minutes, her body no longer warmed by the uphill walking, or the adrenaline masking her discomfort. Her legs were impossibly sore, the pain acting like a blanket over the rest of the senses.

'I wasn't really prepared for the wind,' Hermione said with a nervous smile, backing up a step, shuffling through the short grass, silently willing Minerva to let go of her fingers so that she could move even further away. 'I should have worn a warmer...'

Hermione never finished her sentence. As she retreated back a pace further, something large, solid and shockingly alive brushed up against the back of her knees. With a short cry of surprise, Hermione jumped forward again, colliding bodily with the only other person within a ten-mile radius.

Upon closer examination, her attacker was not the fire-breathing dragon that she had been expecting. The young calf had finally found the courage to come closer to the strangers, leaving the safety of his large mother to satisfy his curiosity over these new creatures that had entered the herd. Startled by the sound that Hermione had made, he stared up at the two women with his large dark eyes, his small nose quivering to distinguish whether these tall, strange-smelling animals were threat or friend, tail twitching.

His nerves were not the only things on edge. Hermione had leapt straight into Minerva when startled, nearly knocking her former teacher to the ground and throwing them both dangerously near to the steep lip of the meadow. Minerva had only steadied herself with some difficulty - she was a slight woman - but now had her hands resting over Hermione's hips, stopping any sudden movements that might scare away the calf or set them tumbling down the hill and into the valley one thousand feet below them.

'You're rather jumpy today, Miss Granger,' she said softly.

Straightening up to her full height, Minerva slowly reached around Hermione's shoulders with her long arms to cover them both with the warm wool arisaid, doing her best not to spook the calf a few feet away. From this more intimate position she could feel Hermione's body shivering against her own.

The calf snorted, lowering its small head and stepping back a pace, suddenly unsure, shying at the thick fabric that rippled like a flag in the brisk wind. Twenty paces away, his mother raised her head from the grass to stare at them.

'Relax, Hermione.' This low command came the near her reddened, cold-nipped ear. 'He can't hurt you.'

Hermione was fully aware of the absurdity of two grown women facing off against a two-week-old cow on a mountain-top. The shock from the calf's appearance had worn off quickly but the warm embrace that locked her arms next to her sides showed no sign of going away any time soon. Had her skin not been so chilled, she would have felt the rough wool of the cloak and the softer warmth of Minerva's hands against her arms. Every last part of her wanted to release the tension that held her body inert and sink into the warmth of the woman behind her, into the arms that fit so perfectly around her. She craved the contact.

'Easy.'

This was a gentle whisper next to Hermione's cheek, accompanied by a slow stroke down her side from rib to hip that made Hermione's skin tingle and caused every nerve in her body to jump giddily in anticipation.

You're asking too much, Hermione thought to herself, her eyes half-lidded. Do not tell me to 'take it easy', not when your lips are so close to my neck and your arms are around me and I can feel your chest pressing against my shoulder blades and rising with every breath. You're too close to me, too warm, too real and too...

Hermione's eyes flickered open in surprise, the silent stream of her thoughts breaking off unexpectedly. Unbeknownst to her, the calf at their feet had overcome his fear, stepped a pace closer and given Hermione's hand an experimental lick with a damp tongue.

Forgetting for a moment the reason for her panic, Hermione's fingers uncurled slowly and she tentatively reached to touch the top of the creature's pink nose.

The calf blew out a puff of air and backed up three steps, suddenly doubtful again.

It was a natural dance of boundaries. Boldness and fear. Advance and retreat.

Long fingers had returned to rest back along the natural curve of Hermione's waist, a pleasant warmth radiating from the point of contact and spreading to warm Hermione's entire body, driving the chill away without any magic.

'He doesn't know what to make of us,' Minerva murmured.

Hermione wasn't sure that she had any more of an idea than the calf did.

The light was fading as dusk set upon the world visible through the windows of the largest of the three guest bedrooms. Minerva drew the soft blanket over Hermione's sleeping form, chastising herself for doing too much too soon, pursing her lips as she noticed the raw patch on the Hermione's palm. While walking down the mountain, the young woman had tripped and thrown out a hand to catch herself, only to have it land in a particularly prickly bunch of thistles.

Minerva's mind reflected on the conversation with Kingsley Shacklebolt at the educational reception several weeks earlier. During a discussion about proposed Ministry policies for the school, their conversation had turned to Hermione, who had been standing nearby. The Minister had expressed admiration for the dedication Hermione showed to her work– the woman spent eleven hours a day in her office and Merlin knows how many more working back home. Minerva told him of her plans of inviting Hermione to Scotland to relax while school holidays were in session. Kingsley had been encouraging – Hermione was the most effective Senior Secretary in recent memory and he dared not risk her defecting to join a Buddhist monastery – a stay with a friend might do her a world of good and stave off stress-related mental breakdowns.

A week later Hermione had been 'strongly encouraged' to take time off - the Ministry had stopped short of physically pushing her out of the building, citing work laws (suspiciously drafted the previous weekend) that prevented her from working more than six months in a row without mandatory vacation. Hermione had been bemused by all the fuss, but reluctantly handed off her work to her temporary replacements - three of them had been hired to take over for her for the month – and taken up Minerva's invitation to stay in the Highlands for part of the summer. Reluctantly.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, strategically avoiding jostling the mattress, Minerva leaned towards Hermione and brushed aside several loose curls that had fallen in front of her face. Hermione would never be called beautiful by most, but her extraordinary mind would have wowed the wizarding world had she been the homeliest creature in creation. Privately, Minerva suspected that the young woman's astonishing mental capacity outstripped even her own, and revelled in this knowledge. At the rate she was going, Hermione would attain the Headship of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in a few years, placing her in a prime candidacy for Minister of Magic by the time Kingsley decided to retire decades from now.

Minerva found it quite satisfying to picture the horror of the Ministry officials once they realized exactly who they had put in charge. Hermione had become more discreet with her push for racial equality, but as Minister, there would be no need for secrecy.

There was a soft groan, the sound of covers being tugged and Hermione rolled over to face her, still fast asleep.

On an impulse Minerva stroked her guest under the chin with a long finger and was delighted to hear the soft rumble of what was unmistakably a purr. An encounter with feline-spiked Polyjuice potion during Hermione's second year at Hogwarts had thankfully left no permanent physical changes on Hermione, although it had taken nearly two weeks for Poppy Pomfrey to figure out how to get rid of the whiskers that adorned the face of the very distraught and self-conscious young girl. Some residual traces had obviously managed to elude even Poppy's militant observational skills, and Hermione would unconsciously exhibit cat-like traits every once in a while, generally when she was near exhaustion. Minerva had discovered this oddity by accident one evening after her former pupil - exhausted by her work at the Ministry - had fallen asleep next to her at one of Molly Weasley's get-togethers several years previous. For her part, Minerva found it endearing; particularly the purring.

Even she didn't purr.

After a few minutes of quietly studying the young woman's face, she let her hand drift along Hermione's smooth cheek once more before slowly sliding off the mattress and moving towards the door.

My Grandpa kept two cows. One of them bit me when I was six and I haven't trusted the species since.

Yes, there's one more chapter on the way.

No, it won't take a year to finish, it's 90% finished, but I'm still struggling over the end.

(Please don't hurt me.)