A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay in posting another chapter. I had realized I would be lacking in time this week, hence posting so many chapters last weekend, but I didn't know I would get quite THIS busy. My family just adopted another furry friend, and she has been stealing all of my attention. Here is Chapter 7 for all of you, and hopefully I will be more on my game this upcoming week. I have so many ideas, I just have to write them all out!
"Minerva," a voice whispered into her subconscious, "Minerva, wake up."
Minerva groggily squinted at the shape kneeling in front of her, and then to the small clock on her nightstand. "Hermione?" she whispered, her voice cracking slightly, "It's 5 am, what's the matter?"
Hermione looked momentarily unsure, but shook her head quickly, shaking the uncertainty away with it. "Sorry, but this really is the only time we can do this. Can you wake up and get dressed? We have a bit of early morning trouble to cause."
Minerva sat up slightly, "I really shouldn't."
"Trust me," Hermione smiled, dashing into the bathroom quickly. Minerva shook her head, but got out of bed nonetheless, pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. She was confident that she shouldn't be taking part in whatever Hermione was planning, and yet here she was—getting dressed at five o'clock in the morning.
Hermione danced back into the room, purse in hand, and a smile engulfing her face when she saw Minerva dressed. "Come with me," she whispered, taking Minerva's hand and pulling her towards the staircase.
Minerva tried to ignore the fluttering in her chest as Hermione gently gripped her hand and led her from their room. She didn't ask any questions until they were in the common room, where it was unlikely they would be overheard. Luckily, Hermione stopped there before moving on. "What's going on, Hermione? And why couldn't it happen during the day?"
Hermione grinned and pulled a small bag from her purse, handing it to Minerva. At the witch's blank expression, Hermione rolled her eyes, "I had thought you would guess."
Minerva smirked slightly, "Sorry dear, my guessing skills are a bit rough this time of day."
"It's floo powder," Hermione said with a smile.
"But floo powder doesn't work in—"
"Hogwarts, I know," Hermione interrupted. "Only the special formula which professors use to get from one office to another, or transport themselves in or out of the castle quickly."
Minerva nodded, "Exactly."
"This is that particular type of floo powder," Hermione said simply, a smile lighting up her face. Minerva's eyebrows shot up.
"Hermione, you could get into so much trouble for this. Where did you get it?"
Hermione blushed deeply, "I actually—well, I found out how to make it. I had experimented with regular Floo powder before Harry, Ron, and I went on the run, but we never ended up needing it—weren't near very many fire places, were we? It didn't actually require too many alterations to the original recipe, a pinch of powdered bicorn horn, a dash of dirt from the grounds, and a spoonful of ash from the Headmaster's fireplace. I've been working on it this whole week, ever since I found out about you for sure. I did some research, and it wasn't too hard once I read up on the principle of the thing."
Minerva shook her head disbelievingly, "I would say that's impossible—but it's you. So it's entirely possible. I can't believe this."
"You can understand why I had to wake you up for this."
"I suppose," Minerva whispered, "But where exactly do you plan on going?"
"Just across the castle," Hermione answered with a smile. "I thought you would appreciate getting some of your own things back. I know it's been too dangerous until now—but with the Floo powder, we could pop in and out without causing any alarm."
A wide smile bloomed across Minerva's face. She had missed her things. She wasn't an overly materialistic woman, but she cherished the few objects she did own. Her books, a brooch from her mother, her old worn blanket. They were small comforts which she desperately craved.
She threw her arms around a surprised Hermione, "Thank you," she whispered.
Hermione sighed lightly, "Anytime."
"Do you know how it works?" Minerva asked, not wanting to leave the girl confusedly standing in the Gryffindor Common Room.
Hermione shrugged, "I went to the kitchens, as a test for it. Seemed to work fine."
Minerva shook her head, "The Kitchens aren't password protected," she clarified, "My rooms are. It works much like regular floo powder, but rather than stating where you are going, you state the password—more of a nickname for the rooms, really. That way people can't simply show up whenever they please. If you simply state McGonagall Chambers you will be able to talk through the floo, but not actually pass through. By stating the name Athena's Sanctuary, you will be brought straight into my sitting room."
Hermione nodded, "That makes sense. Are you sure you don't mind me joining you? I could always wait here."
Minerva laughed as she fisted a handful of powder, "Don't worry, Hermione." Throwing it into the fire she watched as the flames flickered emerald green, and stepped in quickly. With a quick wave, she spoke the password and stepped into her home.
She straightened up, and dusted herself off, staring around the room longingly. As much as she enjoyed living with Hermione, she did miss having her own space away from the other students. She waved her wand quickly and the candles burst to life engulfing her in a warm light.
"Wow," came a voice behind her, and she smiled. "This is beautiful."
"Thank you," she responded quietly. Minerva had always known that Hermione would appreciate her sitting room—in fact, even as her student, Minerva had considered letting Hermione peruse her shelves, but decided against it. It wouldn't have been proper.
Now the girl stood slack-jawed behind her, staring longingly at the shelf-lined walls. While most professors chose to have a simple sitting room, Minerva had completely abandoned any such conventional notions. Upon moving in to the castle at 20 years old, Minerva had transfigured all of the sitting room walls into bookshelves. She had just under two-thousand books at this point, and they all stared at you as you stepped through the Floo. There was a deep red sofa settled next to the fire, and several dark wooden tables surrounding it.
"You live in a library," Hermione said, her tone oddly breathy.
"I've always found myself more drawn to literature than people," Minerva said, blushing deeply. Her book collection was something she was enormously proud of, and yet she kept hearing Hermione's voice ringing in her head from the weekend before, And alone? It was true, Minerva had hidden herself away behind her books and her stern features, and the evidence was very clearly laid out for Hermione to see.
Hermione seemed to sense her discomfort, because she approached quietly from behind, placing a hand on Minerva's elbow, "I understand completely," she said. "I've always dreamed of a room like this—ever since I was a little girl."
Minerva shrugged slightly, "They needed me."
Hermione grinned, "Did they now?"
Minerva nodded seriously, "Of course. The great Minerva McGonagall couldn't possibly have a regular human quirk. The only explanation is that she felt these books would be somehow endangered by not living in her rooms."
"I'm sure," Hermione laughed. "Though I don't think that they'll fit in your current room."
Minerva sighed, "Unfortunately not. I'll grab a couple of my favorites, and leave the rest. Grab a book and make yourself comfortable."
Hermione had just finished reading of D'Artagnan's initial meeting with the musketeers when Minerva flopped down on the seat next to her, groaning and burying her face in her hands.
Closing the book gently, Hermione looked at her friend, waiting for an explanation. Minerva started several times before seeming to find any words. "Nothing—Nothing fits," she said finally, causing Hermione to furrow her eyebrows in confusion. Minerva sighed loudly, "It's all—It's all my old life, nothing fits in now."
Hermione frowned, "I'm sure that's not true."
"I have a closet full of clothing I can't wear anymore," Minerva frowned. "All the wrong sizes, and styles, all things which would make an eighteen year old look absolutely ridiculous."
"Minerva, you're much more than your clothes, you know that."
"I know," she sighed, "But this whole place is just full of my old life. There are potion vials to help with the aches and pains, extra pairs of glasses, family heirlooms which I'm not allowed to carry or wear—because no one can know who I am. I have all of these things and I can't use any of it anymore. It's not that they are important, it's just that each item is a tiny stab telling me that I'm not myself anymore."
Hermione frowned again, "But you are yourself. You're the same woman you were three weeks ago—you just look a bit different."
"A bit," Minerva snorted. "I saw a picture I have hanging in the hallway of Albus and I several years ago—I can barely recognize myself. I look ridiculous now—I look old then, and I can't look into the mirror without getting a headache."
"You look beautiful," Hermione said quietly.
"I don't look beautiful, and I don't look like me. Frumpy Hag that she may be—I want to be her again."
"You have never looked like a frumpy hag, Minerva McGonagall," Hermione snapped. "I understand why you're upset, but I'm not going to sit here and allow you to insult one of my closest friends, nor will I allow you to insult a woman I have greatly admired for many years. Now, you are lovely and young and mischievous and brilliant. You are painfully attractive, and anyone who wouldn't be attracted to your legs, certainly couldn't say no to your mind.
"Then you were beautiful and elegant and respectable. You were formidable, caring, courageous and protective. You were a stunning witch and your mind could ensnare any person you choose," Hermione finished quietly, "You were, and you are, all of those things. So stop putting yourself down, and stop tearing yourself in half. You aren't either Minerva or Mary—you're both."
"Hermione, I appreciate you're trying to help—but please don't patronize me. I know who I was, and I know who I am, and I know the flaws of both of those people."
Hermione shook her head, and set her book on the side table. Turning to face Minerva entirely, she took her face in her hands, causing Minerva's eyes to widen. "You overthink things. You're temperamental—and when angry, have the ability to be cruel. You're vain in regards to your hair. You expect too much out of your students at times—but not enough at others. You're ridiculously competitive, far too hard on yourself, and you seem to have the goal of emotions similar to an automaton. You leave your socks on the floor, and apparently dog-ear the pages of your books," Hermione said, frowing towards the book in her hand, "Those are your flaws. They exist. You are also everything I just told you. You are strong, and intelligent, and beautiful. Do you hear me?"
In truth, Minerva heard very little of what Hermione was saying. She heard it—much like you can hear a train approaching from miles away. Later on, she would remember everything that Hermione had said, and it would mean something to her. It would fill her heart and stretch it painfully. But at that exact moment in time—all she heard was the thrumming of Hermione's pulse from her hands and wrists as they firmly held her face in place.
She nodded at Hermione, their eyes never separating.
Hermione pulled her hands away, but not before tucking a stray hair behind Minerva's ear, and whispering, "You're perfect, Minerva. Absolutely perfect."
She then coughed awkwardly, stood up quickly, and walked away, throwing a dash of Floo Powder into the fireplace and stepping through once more.
Hermione sunk down onto the floor of their bathroom—she seemed to be spending far too much time in bathrooms lately, but she couldn't help it. Their bathroom was the only place she could go where she knew Minerva wouldn't follow.
Hermione reached over and turned on the shower, but stayed sitting against the wall. Hopefully, with the shower running, Minerva wouldn't ask questions.
She knew she was being dramatic, crouched on the floor, tears running down her face—hell, she loathed the cliché of it all. But damn it, she was upset—and wasn't that allowed? Hermione wasn't a dumb girl, and she had known the minute that she started speaking that she would say too much—she knew that Minerva would know. How could she not?
Hermione had fallen for Mary—and then Minerva—and she had fallen hard. She knew that Minerva couldn't feel the same—wouldn't allow herself to feel the same. She knew that despite all of the boundaries they had broken, Minerva could never cross that final line.
She was Professor McGonagall, somewhere in there, and none of the hormones or confusion was going to change that.
Leaning her head against the wall, she sighed deeply. She needed to gain some level of control over her emotions. As it was, Minerva had to know how she felt, but Hermione was convinced that she could still hold on to their friendship—she just needed to gain some control. She didn't regret the things she said, Minerva needed to hear them, needed to understand (if not believe). But she wasn't going to let that one explosion of emotion destroy their friendship.
Hermione took a deep breath, allowing herself one final moment. One moment of realizing how absolutely perfect they would be for each other. One moment of appreciation for the woman's body, laugh, and smile. One moment remembering the jolt which shot through her arm every time she touched her. She appreciated it all, and let the last clichéd tears fall—then she stood up.
Washing her face she let the mask fall into place, and as she took one deep breath she felt it lock there. Hermione Granger—good friend, and that's all.
It was nearly time for class—or so she guessed, and yet Minerva had yet to move from her shocked silence on the couch. She didn't know how she was going to get back to Gryffindor tower at this point, not without being noticed, but she didn't care. She didn't care about anything—she couldn't move.
As soon as the Floo had activated, Hermione's words had flooded around Minerva. Every beautiful, articulate, word—she shouldn't have been surprised. When was Hermione likely to say anything less than perfect?
When she had started talking, Minerva hadn't been searching for complements or reassurance, she was honestly just upset. She wanted to find words for the emotions which seemed to be strangling her, find words for the fear and grief. What Hermione had given her, was more than she could have imagined.
It was obvious that Hermione had meant every word—that she really did see all of that in Minerva, young and old. And it was obvious from the look in Hermione's eyes that she had meant far more than any of those words had intended.
Hermione may not have said it, but with her pulse hammering against Minerva's skin, and her eyes glowing in the dim lighting, Minerva could hear Hermione just as clearly as if she had screamed it. She loved her.
Hermione loved her. She loved her as an 18 year old, a 65 year old, and as anything in between.
Minerva didn't even know if Hermione realized that she was in love with her—but there it was, and Minerva had no idea what to do about it. This was Hermione Granger—19 years old and her favorite student. And yet she couldn't pull up an image like she had with Ron—sure she clearly remembered the bushy haired girl from 1st year, standing in a bathroom covered in water and troll snot—but that was a hazy image.
What she saw clearly when she thought of Hermione was the terrifying woman who dueled Bellatrix Lestrange the previous Spring, and the rain drenched goddess who held her as she sobbed in the mud. What she saw was a gold jumper and leather boots, a beaming smile, and the ability to talk with her—really talk with her.
As horrified as Minerva was with herself, she couldn't seem to make herself not think of Hermione as something far different from a student. A friend—a woman.
Minerva shook her head quickly—she had been having this argument with herself for hours now, and it didn't seem to be ending. What was she supposed to do?
At 65 years old, Minerva had never found someone. Sure, there had been short relationships, and honest attempts. She had tried desperately to settle for someone kind and good. But she had never been able to, not really. She was stubborn and impatient, and she was entirely unwilling to spend time with someone who wouldn't live up to her needs—and what she needed was intelligence.
But not the dull droning type of intelligence which she was accustomed to—not Ravenclaw intelligence. She needed Gryffindor intelligence. Passionate, argumentative, ambitious, arrogant intelligence. Intelligence which can be quickly thrown away at the sign of a good adventure. She needed someone who knew the risks, but was willing to ignore them.
Amelia Bones had come close, many years ago. She was certainly brilliant enough—and she didn't fear much of anything. But she had found Minerva to be reckless and temperamental, and Minerva found her to be predictable and passionless.
There was never a perfect fit—until Hermione.
Minerva groaned loudly and shoved a pillow against her face. She had feelings for a student.
Thank you so much for reading, and for all of your reviews. If you have a moment, please let me know what you think!