Hermione landed coldly on the ground of reality. Shame flooded through her like a hot fever that pulsated within her and enveloped her like a cloak that was not there to protect her from the outside world, but to reveal all her insecurities and fears. She thought longingly of Harry's invisible cloak. What she would have given to be able to put one of these around herself, to not only to cover herself and her half-naked body, which was still in her old but significantly shorter school uniform, which was still without underwear and its body fluids now stuck uncomfortably cold between her thighs.

While just moments before this had made her feel so incredibly good, her suspicions confirmed by how talented Minerva McGonagall was with her hands on her body and her fingers inside her, and how incredibly blissful she was at the earth-shattering climaxes the black-haired witch was giving her she now felt dirty and used.

She had never felt so reduced to her body and her basest urges. She, who always acted rationally and logically, was guided by her head and whose mental gears were constantly turning, had, through Minerva's touch, become a single heap of lust and desire, whose only goal was the state of highest ecstasy. She hadn't been able to think clearly for a second in those sensual moments when blissful lightness and darkness had spread through her brain.

All worries, fears and problems had been forgotten the moment Minerva had laid hands on her and with each of her touches the world around her had disappeared more and more, shrouded in a veil of fantasies that she had never imagined that they would ever become reality. But they had been. Every touch of delicate fingers, every contact of those soft lips on her sensitive skin and every breathy word from the headmistress had burned itself firmly into Hermione's memory, leaving traces not only there but also on her body, which would remember it whenever she would touch herself or be touched by someone else, only to pale in comparison to the fire that the tall Scottish woman with piercing green eyes had left in her.

Never again would she be able to burn like that for anyone, never be burned by anyone like that from the inside, as if she were burning up and Minerva was the only one who could still those flames within her. She was the kindling that lit the fire within her, the oxygen that turned small flames into a raging inferno, and at the same time the only remedy that could calm the embers within her.

Hermione never thought she would find herself in this situation where she wished she had never been able to live out her fantasies with the prestigious woman in front of her. Yes, the years, or rather decades, in which she had longed for the older witch had been long and hard and the connection between the two women, which only existed in her imagination, was only an unsatisfactory reflection of a reality from which Hermione had assumed that it would never become in fact real, but to have now tasted from the fruit that had dominated her thoughts, her body and her soul for so long, only to have to give it up again, was so much worse.

The fire that Minerva had brought to life within her was suddenly no longer one of lust, but a firestorm, its dark smoke eating through her intestines, entering her heart and settling there, suffocating her painfully slowly from within. While she had previously had to struggle to breathe because Minerva's fingers had made her heart race, she now had the feeling that all the arteries in her body were denying her oxygen supply and for a moment she even wished she could just faint here and now in order to simply escape from this situation.

If only her vision would go black, her body could tilt to the side and she could surrender into peaceful darkness so that she wouldn't have to kneel here in front of the woman who, just a few moments ago, had given her the best sex of her life, just to coldly reject her directly afterwards when Hermione was only too eager to return the favor.

Was this just a one-time thing for the Scottish witch? Or just a one-sided one in which the woman, known for her need to be in control, didn't want to be touched? Or had the woman allowed herself to be too caught up in the atmosphere of the moment, only to realize with shock that she was doing something that was completely contrary to her principles? Sleeping with a married woman who was not only her former student, but also the mother of two of her current students?

Hermione's thoughts raced as she looked up, full of shame and confusion, at those green eyes that were still penetrating her, searching for some kind of rational explanation for the ambivalent behavior of this mysterious woman, whose expression, as so often, revealed no emotions at all.

Hermione could no longer withstand this gaze that revealed no information to her, while she had the impression that Minerva could read every little emotion from her own eyes without any effort, like in an open book that lay spread out in front of her - as in the notebook in which the headmistress had been able to read all her fantasies in black and white, Hermione thought bitterly. The irony.

She lowered her gaze and only then realized that she was still kneeling between Minerva's legs, her hands still on the bare knees of the woman, who she still wanted to satisfy like no other, to whom she wanted to return the climaxes she had just experienced and who she also wanted to see lose control in moments of extreme ecstasy.

Hermione carefully removed her hands from the soft skin that had been her greatest desire to explore, only to see it burst into a bubble. Very slowly, as if she was afraid of making any sudden movement and causing an unwanted reaction from the headmistress, who was still sitting frozen in her desk chair and never took her eyes off Hermione for a second, like a predator waiting for one wrong move waiting to give her the final blow. Hermione pulled her arms out from under the older woman's black cloak and only now, when she was no longer leaning on Minerva's knees, noticed how much her own bare knees hurt on the cold marble floor.

Without even looking at Minerva, she stood up and gritted her teeth as her legs protested noticeably at the jerky movement after they had been subjected to unexpected exertion that evening - first on Minerva's desk, then standing while leaning against it, then twitching on her lap and finally kneeling on the hard floor.

Hermione shook her head to clear her mind of the overwhelming memories of the moments they had just shared, which were still so fresh and intense that she wondered if they had even happened. Tears welled in her eyes as she turned to the desk, which looked as spotless and tidy as when she had arrived. There was no sign that she had been lying on it minutes before and had been pressed against it.

She felt so incredibly stupid and naive at that moment, standing there in her old schoolgirl uniform, half-naked and exposed and so incredibly vulnerable. She didn't want Minerva to see her like that. The need to protect herself and her emotions was suddenly the only feeling that controled her.

With a short whispered "Tergeo" she cleaned herself of the sweat and any bodily fluids that had clung to her body and had to focus for a moment to visualize the clothes that she originally wore coming to Hogwarts despite the feelings that threatened to overwhelm her. She could already feel how the long trousers were hugging her legs again and the buttoned blue blouse was hiding her cleavage from view. She welcomed back her clothes like armor, under which she could not only hide her body from Minerva, but also her shame and vulnerability in the face of the rejection she had just suffered, in order to preserve a last shred of dignity for herself.

"Have a nice evening, Headmistress," she croaked, her voice full of pent-up emotions threatening to burst out. But not here, not now. She had to at least make it to the office door without collapsing. She wouldn't show weakness in front of the powerful witch who had just broken her heart all over again.

But before she could even set foot toward the office door, she felt delicate but strong fingers wrap around her wrist, stopping her from escaping. Startled, she turned around and looked into Minerva's piercing green eyes, who seemed to have risen from her chair without making a sound.

Not only does this woman hear and see like her damn cat animagus, but she can also sneak around just as silently. Please just let me go, why do you have to drag this moment out even further? Isn't the shame of rejection enough? Do you now have to rub salt into the wound you've reopened after so many years?

Hermione's pain must have been clearly visible in her eyes, because Minerva's eyes were already soft and warm and filled with compassion.

"Hermione, dear..." she began, but was immediately interrupted by Hermione: "I don't need your pity."

"It's not pity, I…"

"Why can't you just let me go? Let me go!"

But the harder Hermione tried to free herself from the iron grip of the larger and obviously stronger woman, the tighter the fingers seemed to close around her wrist like the devil's snare in which she, Ron and Harry had found themselves trapped in their first year at Hogwarts in the search for the philosopher's stone.

Unfortunately, Hermione's brain seemed to function far better in moments of danger than it did in this moment of vulnerability and turbulent emotions, for instead of calming down and freeing herself from the tight grip as she did then, she just squirmed even more, in the desperate desire to be free and to get as far away as possible from the black-haired woman whose words she didn't want to hear, whose hands she didn't want to feel and whose pitying look she never wanted to see again.

But Minerva's other hand shot out, grabbed the wrist of her previously free hand and held the younger witch in place. Out of frustration at her hopeless situation, Hermione felt tears again in the corners of her eyes and looked desperately up at the ceiling to avoid the gaze of those green eyes and in the last hope of being able to hold back the tears that welled up. "Hermione, just listen to me." Minerva's voice sounded almost pleading.

"I don't want to hear it, please stop."

"No, I won't stop. Not until you hear me out."

Hermione still looked up, not daring to look into those green eyes, afraid of what she would see in them.

"Look at me."

No.

"Please."

Minerva waited patiently, her fingers still wrapped around Hermione's wrists, now though more loosely, almost gentle. Her thumbs stroked Hermione's skin lightly and soothingly, and the younger witch couldn't help but feel the calm that this touch gave her. She slowly lowered her gaze until hazel eyes met green ones and she saw nothing but warmth in them. She could almost feel her inner barriers melting away little by little under that warm gaze.

"You misunderstood me, my dear," Minerva said gently.

"Oh really? How could one missunderstad a no?" Hermione tilted her head and looked at her challengingly.

"That wasn't a no."

"Oh really?"

"No."

Confusion crept into Hermione's voice: "But you said..."

"I know what I said," Minerva interrupted calmly, "but if you had let me continue talking instead of drawing your own conclusions and fleeing head over heels, you would have saved us, but especially yourself, some pain."

When Hermione didn't reply and just looked at the headmistress in amazement, Minerva continued with a smile: "My dear, I don't have to use legilimency to see how the wheels in your pretty little head turn and, above all, at what speed. I can't even imagine what happens in your head in a split second. So much brilliance and you waste it making up all the reasons why I could reject you. My previous…actions should actually be proof enough that I am anything but aversed to you."

"But then why did you interrupt me?" Hermione still didn't understand.

Minerva loosened one of her hands from around Hermione's wrists and gently stroked her cheek with the back of her hand. The touch was so gentle that Hermione wanted to close her eyes and feel it fully rather than be distracted by visual senses, but her curiosity about what the black-haired Scottish woman had to say about her motivations was bigger.

"Oh dear, as much as I enjoyed this and as much as I'm willing to fulfill all your dirty schoolgirl fantasies," Hermione shuddered at the thought of what this statement implied, "I want to sleep with you. "

Minerva looked at her intently while Hermione frowned. Hadn't they just done that?

Minerva seemed to read the unspoken question in the younger woman's eyes, so she continued, "I want you, Hermione. Not Miss Granger, not the student you were for so long, and not the fantasy in which you still are, captured in your little book." Hermione blushed at the mention of her notebook and looked down in shame, but a slender index finger placed itself under her chin and carefully brought her head back up to eye level with the woman who had already so unreservedly put some of her fantasies into practice.

"No need to be ashamed, love. We all have our fantasies, including me," she admitted openly, but not without a slight blush spreading across her cheeks and Hermione curiously cocking her head to the side and raising an eyebrow. "Maybe later," Minerva said, a little embarrassed. "There is still enough time for the fantasies, now I want the reality with you, if you want it too. No schoolgirl, no professor, no uniforms or formal robes, just the two of us."

Minerva looked at her hopefully, but instead of giving her an answer, Hermione broke away from her grasp, hugged the slim Scottish woman around her waist and pulled her close until their lips touched very gently in a soft kiss.

"Take me to bed, Minerva," she breathed against her lips and Minerva complied without hesitation.