InsaneJournal

Fic: From Before the Dawn of Time (Harry Potter, Minerva McGonagall/Hermione Granger, NC-17)
Title: From Before the Dawn of Time
Words: 1043
Pairing: Minerva McGonagall/Hermione Granger
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Cross-gen, chan (but not especially emphasized chan), bondage, wandplay (okay, maybe that's stretching it a bit)
Notes: Written for rosefyre in pornish_pixies May 2006 Fantasy Fest, who requested "McGonagall/female student (can be anyone, but make her at least 13) - MM likes bringing her partner to the point of orgasm, but not letting her come...right before class. kink = very very good, toys = good, teasing = better, no non-con." Title comes from C.S. Lewis, who, I'm sure, would not like how I'm using his line.

From Before the Dawn of Time

Minerva McGonagall has been teaching at Hogwarts for thirty-seven years. She has an office, living quarters, and Dumbledore's implicit trust, so important these days as You-Know-Who plays increasingly boldly at the edges of their fears. She is good at what she does in the classroom, teaching fourth-year students with furrowed brows how to poke and prod the pages of their books into birds with fragile wings.

She is better at what she does outside of the classroom.

Only a few have ever wanted this kind of training, a magic beyond all the things she teaches with books, essays, exams, and the gentle flutter of a wand. This magic is hot and deep and old and needy and – dark is the word that crosses her mind this time, thrusting her fingers inside the girl and watching as her features change from uncertain to surprised, her head thrown back and her mouth open and silent in a caricature of a cry. Hermione Granger is long and pale and quivering like this, with just her feet tied loosely to the foot of the bed so that her skin pulls over her bones. Her breasts are small, smaller still because she is lying on her back, and her hands clutching Minerva's sheets look strangely old, cramped in permanent shape around her quill. Minerva kisses one breast, feeling the firm skin and the round, puckered nipple against her tongue. She takes the girl's hands and puts them on her body, feeling her own fingers move easier as she does so.

Transfiguration is beautiful, the process of breaking down one set of colours and lines and planes and turning it into another. This magic is not. Minerva passes her palm over one thigh, then picks up her wand and works slowly, unhurriedly, at the girl's pale clit, watching the expressions that dart over and through her face – worry, pain, relief, pleading. The small tied feet scrabble against the sheets, digging into the mattress as Hermione tries to lift herself up to get more leverage.

Minerva guides Hermione's hand down to her center, barely bared beneath her deep scarlet robes. She's under no obligation to wear basic black like the students, but her robes are generally solid and somber, nothing like that fool Gilderoy Lockhat's (thank Merlin he's gone). They are simple. They are practical. And they show the outline of a pale forearm moving down between the folds better than sky blue ever could.

Minerva gives Hermione a minute to find her rhythm, then relaxes into the feeling of slender fingers stroking at her lips and clit. This is new for both of them; it was just last spring that Hermione came to her and asked, with cautious eyes and bold words, about all Professor McGonagall had to teach. But the feeling of this hand, these fingers, with their slow, confident motion, is familiar to Minerva. The others, the few of them there were, were all like this, bright, brilliant, audacious, spending too much time in their books. Minerva has higher standards for this kind of magic than Severus Snape does for his N.E.W.T. level Potions classes.

Which reminds her – she needs to slow down. Her hand, guiding the wand so that it moves alternately inside and circles the girl's clit in a shower of tiny gold sparks, has been getting too fast, too erratic, even though every movement changes the expression on Hermione's mouth, every stroke makes the light from the windows hit her eyes in a different way. While she glories in the way Hermione's other breast is changing texture under her other hand, from soft to tight and pointed, she reminds herself to concentrate, like a first-year Charms student. "Faster," she encourages the girl, even as the motion of her own hand and wand slows to a near-flicker.

It's the first word she's spoken in some time and it nearly makes Minerva smile, though she arranges her mouth into a stern expression of command just in time. In a classroom, she'd be looking over the shoulders of two dozen students, issuing firm reminders and firmer praise. This magic is quiet. The look on her face should be all Hermione needs to figure out what she's doing right and what she's doing wrong. The only beauty here is silence, silence and the way one nipple is growing taught under the tip of Minerva's thumb.

Hermione bites her lip, concentrating fiercely, and then her fingers are sliding easily inside Minerva, strong and bony and firm against all the places where Minerva's flesh is wrinkled and bagged.

"Good," Minerva says briskly, a drop of praise that changes the expression on Hermione's face from serious to triumphant. She is sure now, sure and quick, and the faster her hand moves inside Minerva, the slower Minerva thrusts the wand inside her. Hermione's thighs are tense and tight, as if they're concentrating as well, but Minerva ignores the pointed toes and stiff muscles and arched back that all cry out for orgasm. It hardly seems fair, Minerva reflects as her orgasm hits her hard, her body gripping around the small fingers, but then magic, all kinds of magic, is rarely about equality.

She finishes coming and presses an embarrassed kiss to the side of Hermione's face, on the light young skin that's firmer than her own lips. She sweeps off the bed and unspells the cords; with her feet free, the girl sits up awkwardly, gathering her bare limbs underneath her. It's also unfair, Minerva decides, that she's still fully clothed and her student has less than seven minutes to get dressed. But these are all things that she too will learn.

Minerva studies the determined brown eyes and slightly pouting lip as she hands the girl her robes and a necklace on a long, golden chain. "You'd better hurry, Miss Granger. I'll see you in Transfiguration in five minutes."

And it is unfair, she thinks as she closes the heavy wooden door to her quarters and walks down the hall, feeling the memory of her wetness with every step, that Hermione Granger will have to wait the length of a double Transfiguration class, and then some, to come. But then, the oldest magic requires the most sacrifices.

finis.