FIC: Out with the Bathwater - Part 2
Title: Out with the Bathwater
Author: cranky__crocus
Pairing: Minerva/Augusta/Frank Sr.; Minerva/Augusta; Minerva/Frank; Minerva/Rolanda; Minerva/mentions of others
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: #130 - Minerva/Augusta/Frank Sr. They thought three responsible, honest, mature adults should be able to handle a three-way relationship.
Content Information/Warnings: Characters pre-canon (younger); sex; somewhat happy ending
Summary: One history of Minerva McGonagall’s pre-Headmistress life, which she would prefer to keep out of any and all biographies (comment especially applicable to any writing of one Rita Skeeter).
Author's Notes: Fourteen-thousand words. This was going to be a short story; I missed by a bit. Thank you to my beta, N, and the endless assistance from F-I would not have made it through this with any shred of sanity without you two, and the story is far better for it, too. Remaining mistakes are my own. Thank you, featherxquill, for hosting such a wonderful fest! Valentine’s Day is infinitely better with the dysfunction you provide (your stories, mind, and not you yourself at all). Happy February.
Part 1
Time moved on. It felt faster to Minerva now, less weighted with the past and unresolved pain. She wasn’t free from it entirely, exactly, but it didn’t seem to edge into consciousness with the same force it once had. Her work no longer felt like a distraction, merely work. As she finished her second year of teaching and began her third, she kept up the habit of quick turn-around with marking, if only to make a good impression for her hardest year of evaluation.
Albus noticed such things. When the end of her third year came, he offered her a new position atop her teaching: Head of House for Gryffindor. She accepted immediately.
Beyond teaching, Minerva wasn’t a recluse insofar as she did actually leave the castle, but little came of it. She attended Quidditch matches during her free weekend a month and occasionally the pub celebrations after the games. Sometimes she flirted, when her mood allowed, and sometimes night-long or short flings would follow. She frequented the Three Broomsticks when off duty for short times in the evening, always preferring a gillywater to anything stronger.
Her other relationships within the castle were amicable: Filius Flitwick provided pleasant company in the staffroom, at meals, and during school events; Albus finally succeeded in securing regular tea sessions with Minerva, including discussions of a more personal nature; Horace Slughorn’s sense of humour prevailed over her occasional dread at marking, which she had finally grown prone to; Silvanus Kettleburn’s antics were the talk of the school; and Minerva interacted positively enough with the rest of the school’s staff. Even the ghosts provided pleasant enough conversation, though she was quick to tell them she preferred they limit their presence in her personal suite.
Enough of her Gryffindors-Quidditch players for the most part-frequented the infirmary that Minerva eventually became friends with the matron, Poppy Pomfrey, both through infirmary visits and staffroom talk of the students or events that brought them there. After Minerva’s sixth year, Poppy invited Minerva to her cottage in the south for a week of the summer holidays. Minerva accepted and enjoyed the peaceful trip immensely; it became a tradition, the next year becoming a two-week stay. Their friendship held the touch of romance-something akin to romantic friendships of old-but Poppy had always preferred the romantic company of men, and so it never fully blossomed.
By Minerva’s eighth year of teaching, she felt entirely confident in her abilities as both a Transfiguration teacher and a Head of House. Albus noticed this change, as well, and presented her with the task of officially supporting new teachers. Minerva accepted this as well, though she found herself rolling her eyes once in her private rooms; it seemed she was the net that caught the tasks he didn’t want or have time for. Thankfully, much of the staff was supportive of new colleagues, and so she did not find the task difficult.
Minerva found it especially rewarding during her ninth year of teaching, when Pomona Sprout arrived to take the position of Herbology professor. She and Pomona had been friends in Hogwarts; Pomona had been in the year below her and they had met and become acquainted through duelling club, Quidditch, and Hogsmeade trips. Pomona was kind and open, with a sense of compassionate honesty that was surprisingly just as forthright as any; she had grown into a fine woman.
They became fast friends once more. Minerva learned of Pomona’s marriage after school and her children, who were grown by then. Pomona and her husband were doing well, but Pomona had mentioned her desire to teach and neither had minded the distance or the time away. Pomona said it was because of that-her own settled state in romance and sex-that she was so interested in Minerva’s love life, at which Minerva shook her head and sighed.
Pomona made good on her word, as well.
When a retired Quidditch player came to work at Hogwarts in Minerva’s tenth year of teaching, Pomona meddled until Minerva found herself on one of the castle’s balconies with a romantic dinner and none other than Rolanda Hooch, star chaser of the Holyhead Harpies from Minerva’s adolescence and young adulthood. Rolanda was a decade her senior, and still Minerva felt a sense of youth about her. She had been a charmer, as well, and Minerva found herself to be quite taken after the one evening.
While Minerva had been with Augusta and Frank in a monogamous triad, Rolanda was not one for exclusivity. She was honourable enough to make that clear from the start. Minerva had known beforehand, as well, from the invasive tabloids of Rolanda’s life while a member of the Harpies. Rolanda did not press Minerva for any exclusive contract, either, and took delight in Minerva’s nigh-romantic relationship with Poppy. Rolanda and Pomona also became friends through Minerva, and those two were constantly up to some sort of mischief; Minerva was aghast at how often the mischief involved her and her plans for quiet evenings.
It was a sort of love, what she shared with Rolanda. Minerva never saw evidence of Rolanda’s other women-she was chivalrous enough to be thorough-and so Minerva never minded. Minerva continued to attend Quidditch matches when she could, but these trips were often with Rolanda, who introduced her to countless players and coaches. Occasionally, Rolanda set Minerva up with the women who had clearly caught her eye; Minerva was startlingly grateful for the assistance.
Through the years, Minerva also noticed that she was somewhat of a home base for Rolanda, possibly due to the proximity living in the same castle provided. So while they were not monogamous, it nearly felt that way during their quieter evenings spent together or with friends like Pomona or Poppy; Minerva appreciated that, as well. It brought a certain sense of normality to her work and life. It was consistent.
And so, nearly a decade after Augusta and Frank’s wedding, Minerva found herself in a community that included independent friends, a considerate and cherished partner of sorts, a healthy and varied love- and sex-life, and a strong career. She hadn’t tracked her healing-her baths had long since become tools for merely washing herself-but found, as she took it all in, that she did indeed feel healed.
Minerva felt she received confirmation of this when she read “Longbottom, Frank Jr.” on the list of incoming students for her fifteenth year of teaching, and did not gasp or drop the paper or feel any sort of illness. She had felt a jolt of something, yes, but she had turned to Pomona and laughed, stating that this new student would provide some difficulties: Longbottom men were always late to truly grasp their magic.
Pomona had said she’d known many a man who couldn’t get the grasp on their wands just right, and ducked the hand Minerva lifted to flick at her shoulder. They had dined that night like any other and shared a glass of wine in Minerva’s quarters between sweeps of the corridors and common rooms.
And when Frank Longbottom, Jr. arrived at Hogwarts the next September, Minerva was able to recognise his parents in him and yet still see him as his own young person. She had noted, with some small amusement, that he had inherited his father’s large ears and young body, which was to say a touch uncoordinated. He was sorted Gryffindor, which was no surprise to her, and he thus he became doubly her student.
Frank Jr. progressed through school much as Frank had described his own years: slow to start, a spot awkward and gangly, not hitting his stride in most subjects until later years. Transfiguration was not one of his strong points; when he asked for help-like Frank Sr., he was not above that-she directed him to a tutor. He improved.
Minerva began to receive letters from Augusta, first short anecdotes young Frank would tell her over breaks, and then occasionally snippets from her life. None were as warm as the letters had once been, and Minerva’s responses were similar in that, but the bridge re-built was pleasant. Even Frank would jot a few lines on some of the letters; Minerva replied to those as well. They weren’t to be friends, Minerva and her previous lovers, but they didn’t feel so much like enemies, either.
By his fifth year, Frank Jr. was reasonable at most subjects, although he shined at Runes and Arithmancy. He declared in his career advisory meeting that he wished to be an Auror. Minerva gave him the Ministry pamphlet and vowed to help him as best she could, as she did with all students who seemed to have a firm grasp on an attainable position.
Minerva was not surprised when Frank passed all his N.E.W.T.s with flying colours and was accepted into the Auror training programme. She found herself quite proud, though of course she was proud of a great many of her students; this one felt somewhat more personal, which she could admit now that he was no longer a student.
By Albus’ word, times were getting darker; he created a group he called the “Order of the Phoenix”, which Minerva believed was just the sort of name Albus would give a secret society. Still, she joined up as soon as Albus asked her and took her role very seriously. She was sent to spy as often as her job allowed her to leave the castle; otherwise, she was to watch the graduating Slytherins closely and keep her ears open.
Minerva was surprised to receive a wedding invitation from Frank Jr. during the end of his first training year. It seemed he had grown to know Alice Eldritch, a Hufflepuff who graduated two years before him, rather well during his training at the Ministry, where she was a third-year trainee. Minerva imagined that it was the dark times before them that put such pressure to marry quickly, especially with Frank nearly an Auror.
The wedding was held at St. Martin’s, the same as Frank’s parents, but the hastiness of the decision was clear in the decorations, which were not as elaborate as the previous Longbottom wedding had been. It was not Minerva’s first attendance at a prior student’s wedding, though Frank Jr. may have been the youngest groom she had yet seen. She wished them well, gifted them with a clock that would sing them awake-Augusta had mentioned Frank Jr. still enjoying that-and left before the reception, off on one of Albus’ missions. She was pleased, nonetheless, by how civil things had been between her, Augusta, and Frank; they had even embraced.
It was such things, she was told-weddings, embraces, a lover to return to-that got soldiers through the dark times. Not long after the wedding, Minerva realised that was precisely what she was: a soldier.
.:|:.
News of Alice’s pregnancy reached Minerva through a letter from Augusta. It was fast, a short number of months after the wedding, but that was almost to be expected. Minerva had responded warmly to Augusta’s impending grandmotherhood-and teased her for entering cronehood early-before toasting the news with Rolanda, Pomona, Poppy, and the new librarian Irma, who had joined their little circle of friends through Poppy. They had toasted another happy pregnancy, as well: Lily and James Potter were also expecting; Lily had written to Minerva herself.
The two pieces of good news did not produce a third, in Minerva’s opinion, when Albus announced in a staff meeting that he would be interviewing a potential Divination professor with ancestry linking back to Cassandra the Seer. Minerva had thought it was especially dreadful given how close they had been to convincing Albus that Divination was no longer required as a subject-especially when, with no teacher, it had been absent for the past three years. But no, their efforts were in vain; Minerva had only hoped that the job applicant was simply abysmal, and that she would never be required to meet the candidate. The pain of defeat would have been too much to bear, and she had said this in full knowledge of the on-going war.
It had been less of a joking matter when Dumbledore had returned with news of a Divination teacher to join the staff the following year. That was bad enough, Minerva had thought, but as she had witnessed his expression during the announcement, she had thought there was something else afoot. Especially when, upon questioning, he could not name one positive quality of the applicant beyond being ‘surprised at her depth’; instead, he had drawn Minerva aside and inquired after the pregnancies of the Longbottoms and the Potters. It had all seemed very strange and secretive, but then, it was Albus after all.
July was a surprisingly happy month, given the dark times. Minerva had spent much of it, between missions, at the summer cottage with Poppy; Rolanda, Pomona, Irma, and others had visited when able, as it seemed they were all eager to spend as much time among friends as possible. The end of July had brought two pieces of wonderful news: Neville was born to Alice and Frank; the following day Harry was born to Lily and James. The birth of two young wizards was an especially happy occasion during such times; Minerva had drunk more than her fill, with Rolanda there to embrace her and her spinning head. The next day-half by Order initiative and half by her own-Minerva had journeyed to visit both families and deliver her blessings.
On Halloween the following year, news of the Potters’ murder overwhelmed the subdued joy Minerva had felt since the boys’ births. Minerva had hurried to meet Albus and attend the next Order meeting, heartbroken and hopeless. As Albus cared for young Harry, Minerva had inspected the Dursleys’ home and lifestyle. She was appalled at how Albus would allow the child of Lily and James Potter to live with such terrible people, magical or Muggle. But, from what anyone could tell, the war had come to an end; the Potters were a final sacrifice and their infant had finished the war. Minerva was surrounded by people with magic every day-she taught them for a living-and yet Harry, for his unintentional and unexplained heroism, was magical.
She was still aching from the loss of the Potters when she received the second piece of terrible news: Alice and Frank Longbottom had been tortured by Death Eaters and had been relocated to St. Mungo’s. This had been a terrible blow to both the Order and to Minerva, who had come to know Frank Jr. both as the son of her once-lover, as a student, and as a young friend of sorts, what with their mutual involvement with the Order. Alice had always been a kind, considerate, and capable student; it had been an honour to work with her as part of the Order. Minerva visited as soon as she was able, Augusta inconsolable at her side; that had been the day they learned the Longbottoms were being transferred to the incurable wing. It left Neville under the guardianship of Augusta and Frank Longbottom.
Minerva hardly found it in herself to hope that this string of bad news did not come with a third; it seemed a terrible time to become superstitious.
And yet, hardly a year later, the third bad news reached her: Frank Longbottom, Sr., was dead. Worse, he had died in front of little toddler Neville, who had been in his very arms. The department of Healers at St. Mungo’s dealing with analysis of the dead explained that it had been his heart, which no one had caught as he had neglected to seek assistance about his symptoms. Augusta confirmed that he had felt pressure on his chest, difficulty breathing, and other symptoms, but had brushed them off; he had been convinced that a war was no time for Healers to be burdened with healthy men fearing the worst. He had never got around to it.
Minerva attended Frank’s funeral and held Augusta’s hand through the service, while Galatea Moriattis stood on the other side and did the same. It was much like the Potters’ funerals and the other too-high number Minerva had attended in the last few years; and yet it was different, because this was Frank: her once-lover, her once-best friend, Augusta’s husband, Frank Jr.’s father. And he was dead. Minerva stayed with Augusta after the service, having attained Albus’ permission and Filius’ to take her rounds, and comforted the woman as best she could. It was frequently interrupted by Neville tugging at their robes; Minerva spent much of the night caring for him, so Augusta wouldn’t have to right away.
Neville Longbottom, still shy of two years old, was now down to Augusta Longbottom as his sole guardian. Minerva could see in Augusta’s face that she would love him with the fierceness she had loved all those she had lost, and while it would be a protective embrace, it would be a tight one as well.
.:|:.
The years continued to pass, and Minerva began to feel something akin to old. She imagined it was less her age-she was still in her prime-and more with what she had seen in her years. Still, life began to play at normality, what with the wizarding world still celebrating Voldemort’s downfall at the hands of an infant. Soon that faded into the background into recent, less-referenced history, as the Grindelwald war had.
Albus had approached Minerva at the end of the 1980-81 school year, when things were truly beginning to settle down after the war’s end in October. He offered her the job of Deputy Headmistress, for the Arithmancy professor who had held the position previously, Elspeth Elkins, was retiring. Minerva accepted, and assisted him in interviewing and hiring Septima Vector.
They had also offered Severus Snape the job Horace Slughorn had left behind: Potions Professor and Head of Slytherin House. Minerva had required much convincing on that point. Albus explained Severus’ involvement with the Death Eaters, Sybill’s prophecy and Severus’ eavesdropping of it, Severus’ information regarding the Potters’ danger, and his new role as a double agent. Minerva had not been pleased. She was also not sure what it said of her that, on Albus’ trust alone, Minerva was willing to accept a voluntary Death Eater into her school and life. She had made little effort to know him beyond snide-and admittedly witty-exchanges, especially regarding Quidditch; he seemed no more interested in knowing her. Begrudgingly and with intentional resistance, they grew to become competitive acquaintances. If nothing else, Minerva had not been able to fault his Potions skills, however much his teaching needed improving.
Otherwise, her work continued as it always had; teaching was, in a way, rather dependable.
After Neville left his toddler years, Augusta and Minerva reached agreed that Minerva would stop her visits, for they didn’t wish to burden Neville with the difficulty of navigating a more personal relationship with a teacher while boarding at the school. This was especially the case with the likelihood of Minerva being his Head of House. Minerva paid no mind to Augusta’s fears that Neville was a Squib-there was plenty of time to tell-but did send a letter when she caught scent of Augusta’s brother Algie testing little Neville’s limits.
Minerva continued on with Rolanda, whom she knew she well and truly loved as she had Augusta what seemed so long ago. They were no more exclusive than they had been decades before, but their jaunts seemed to have diminished, and they were quite settled in their arrangement together. Minerva’s only exception was Amelia Bones, whom she had formally met, of all places, at a Ministry-hosted Ball following the end of the war. Her meetings with Amelia were not frequent or long, as Amelia was all about her work, but they were enjoyable, and Rolanda never minded. Pomona always begged for details; Rolanda would place herself in the periphery of those conversations, in case Minerva spilled, and always listened carefully to what Minerva revealed. If it had bothered Rolanda, however, Minerva knew her well enough to know that she would speak on it; she didn’t, and occasionally asked after Amelia, having met her on occasion.
If Augusta’s letter had not been a reminder that Neville’s crop was approaching Hogwarts, the wizarding media would have been. A decade after the war, the media swelled with articles on Harry’s approaching destiny: Would Hogwarts be for Harry? What House would the great Harry Potter be Sorted into? Would Harry play Quidditch?
It reminded Minerva of what Albus had explained to her years before, about a boy growing up in such an environment. She understood the argument more now, she supposed, but still couldn’t believe there was no solution better than the Dursleys-she checked up, from time to time. A cupboard under the stairs? It was a disgrace.
As Deputy Headmistress, Minerva produced and signed the letters of acceptance herself; one of many went to Harry Potter, another to Neville Longbottom. Come early September, they stood before in their Unsorted Hogwarts uniforms, looking terrified and apprehensive. They seemed less so when they were both Sorted Gryffindor-Minerva had to concede some pride there-and found themselves with students to talk to at the Gryffindor table. They were as different as night and day, with Harry’s small frame and inherent sense of leadership compared to Neville’s chubby frame and youthful ungainliness.
Minerva watched them both carefully, as she did all students, throughout that year and the following. Much of her attention was drawn to the brushes with evil: a form of Voldemort after the Philosopher’s Stone; the Chamber of Secrets; Sirius Black on the loose; the rebirth of Voldemort and the death of Cedric Diggory; and Dolores Umbridge, who was a detestable toad. Harry and his Trio proved themselves time and time again, always the forefront of the spotlight; Minerva saw that, in the background, Neville was growing into a force to be reckoned with.
Unfortunately, not in Transfiguration. He was crestfallen when, in sixth year, she informed him that his ‘Acceptable’ wouldn’t do for continuing on to N.E.W.T. level. When she heard Augusta was the reason for his sudden interest in her subject, she couldn’t contain her snort. She urged him to take Charms-in which he received an ‘Exceeds Expectations’-and promised to write a letter to his grandmother, which she did. She had known many a meddlesome parent and guardian; Augusta was high on the list, though perhaps with good reason, given the fate of his parents.
Still, when it came to her Gryffindors, she would tackle any feat-and so she would write to Augusta.
.:|:.
In the evening, after Minerva had marked her simple post-summer quizzes to check what her students had retained, she settled back into her armchair and summoned her portable stationery desk. She began to write a first draft without thought, aware that she could make changes for a final draft:
Dear Augusta Longbottom,
I am sorry to inform you that your grandson Neville did not receive the marks required to take Transfiguration as a N.E.W.T.-level class. I have instead enrolled him in N.E.W.T.-level Charms, for which he received ‘Exceeds Expectations’ in his exams.
Kind regards,
Minerva McGonagall (Deputy Headmistress; Transfigurations Professor; Gryffindor Head of House)
She was pleased enough with the first draft that she kept it as it was, although she pulled another small piece of parchment and continued with a new letter.
Augusta Longbottom,
Your grandson has ‘Exceeded Expectations’ at every turn thus far, as well you know after the events at the Ministry. Surely you must see that he is on the correct track without Transfiguration, and that I say this as the very professor of the course?
I recall your complaints of Charms being a ‘soft subject’. I believe I heard them long ago-when might that have been? You may have just received marks back…ah, yes, it is all clear to me now. You had received your failing mark for your Charms OWL and wrote it off as a ‘soft’ subject. You took Transfiguration instead, which I must take to mean you regard it as a ‘hard’ subject, over which I shall not argue. Instead I shall argue that you speak with dear Filius Flitwick on the subject, for perhaps it is his skill at Charms that makes him such a soft dueller.
Don’t hassle the dear boy, Augusta. He’ll do fine; Charms will serve him well. He can also grow a plant faster than I can kill one-it’s a wonder the whole lad isn’t green.
Affectionately,
Minerva
She folded them up and placed them in separately addressed envelopes. She even tied them with separate ribbons, although she sent them with the same bird.
The next evening she received a letter from Augusta and smiled at the short, begrudging words:
Minerva,
Fine.
Meet for tea?
Augusta
Minerva scribbled her affirmative on the back of the paper and returned it to the owl before it could leave.
Three days later, they met for tea at Madam Puddifoot’s. Augusta looked different, somehow, although Minerva could not pin it down. She looked more relaxed about the eyes, more present in the moment. It had been a long while since Minerva had seen Augusta regularly-not since Minerva greed to halt her visits-and she didn’t know when the change had occurred.
“I am proud of Neville,” Augusta stated as soon as they sat down; she said it with the hint of defensiveness. She stirred milk into her tea-no sugar, as it had been for more than half a century.
Minerva blew on her tea, black and heavy, only the barest hint of sugar. She offered a small smile. “I know.”
“He’s a good boy, like his father and grandfather.”
Minerva’s brow arched. “And his mother, and his grandmother.”
Augusta gave a lop-sided smile in return and sipped her tea. “So you say because you’re sweet on me.”
“I have been,” Minerva admitted; she took a sip as well, then placed her cup on the table with her hands loosely around it. “It’s been a while.”
Augusta merely nodded. “I was horrible to you.”
“You weren’t kind,” Minerva agreed. She held Augusta’s eyes. “But neither was I.”
“We’re not so much known for it, are we?” Augusta leaned forward. Minerva did not miss that the woman’s hands inched closer to her own.
Minerva gave a chuckle. “No, we’re not.”
Augusta’s hands found hers, locking her between the heat of her tea and that of Augusta, who would never entirely leave her system. Minerva recognised the change she had seen in Augusta: it was the healing, the moving on, that Minerva had worked to gain. It had taken Augusta years, but she had returned to herself.
“Do you still get nights off?” Augusta asked after a moment.
Minerva did not remove her hands. She grasped Augusta’s from beneath. “I do, but let’s start with tea.”
.:|:.
Minerva met with Augusta for tea another four times before agreeing to see her at her home.
First, Minerva spoke with Rolanda about the meetings and the direction it was taking for the future. Rolanda had seemed concerned; Minerva was quick to express that she did not love Augusta as she had once, and that Rolanda had that role in her life now. Minerva promised that she would do nothing to jeopardise her relationship with Rolanda.
Perhaps out of that very promise, Rolanda consented. She set no boundaries and requested no details; she assured Minerva that she did not carry any unmentioned condemnation. Rolanda went to meet with Gwenog, one of her oldest flames, the evening Minerva set out for Augusta’s.
Minerva and Augusta fell back on their default, tea, to soothe the path. To soothe the past, Minerva struck up conversation.
“This can’t be a rekindling or a continuation,” she told Augusta, voice firm. “This has to be something else: a new start of something different.”
Augusta took a seat beside Minerva at the old kitchen table; Augusta had moved back after Frank’s death. She took a breath. “How?”
“Something similar to what we had after we three ended, but less intense and regular. You were still my world then; you won’t be now. I won’t be yours. I have Hogwarts, Rolanda, friends; you have Neville and, I presume, friends.”
Augusta frowned. “I have you.”
Minerva glanced up, surprised by this. Augusta had always been the one to keep friends, not Minerva; it seemed reversed now. “You have me. We’ll gather your friends.”
Augusta stood and walked around the room, seeming to take everything in. She stared at the kitchen table, where once the two had… She spoke quickly, her thoughts clearly on the past. “I have regrets. I hate them.”
Minerva was surprised by the change in subject. She drank her tea and cleared her throat. “I have regrets as well. I regret not seeing you pregnant.”
Augusta summoned a book from a case in the adjoining sitting room. It opened itself on the table to reveal pictures of Augusta, pregnant, performing various activities or none at all; Frank had outdone himself. Augusta sighed, a harder sound than it would be for most, and brushed her fingers against the table’s surface. “I regret your absence at my wedding.”
“I wasn’t absent,” Minerva responded. She carefully watched for Augusta’s reaction.
Her eyes widened as she turned to face Minerva. “You never said.”
Minerva didn’t reply, merely gave a small smile in return.
“Frank thought you were there,” Augusta said after a moment. “I didn’t believe him.”
“He set the invitation charms, didn’t he?” Minerva asked. She gave Augusta a knowing look. “He was always the one with a knack for charms.”
Augusta laughed and flapped her hand. “I conceded to that one already: Charms is not soft. Don’t be a broken record.” She walked to Minerva’s side and rested one hand on her shoulder. “I regret not keeping up with your life before Neville came along.”
Minerva shook her head, but placed her hand atop Augusta’s. “There was very little.”
“I don’t agree,” Augusta replied as she moved to pull Minerva up by their linked hands. “There was you, turning into this powerful, important, self-possessed woman I see today. We couldn’t do this the same way we did before if we tried, Minerva. You were all those things before, to me, but you have truly grown into yourself.”
Minerva stood as she was urged to and kept hold of Augusta’s hand, which she held before her. “I’m not the only one. Marriage and motherhood have brought out the fierceness in you-if ever someone missed the Lion in you before, he would quickly see it now.”
This brought a slight shade of pink to Augusta’s cheeks, and Minerva was reminded of how delightful it was to make Augusta blush-only a rare thing could. Augusta seemed to have no response. Minerva was glad of the silence as she gazed at Augusta, the woman she had loved again, and had found now to be a woman grown.
When Augusta kissed her this time, it was not the ferocious meeting of mouths it had been during Minerva’s last memorable kisses with Augusta. It was consenting, soft, hesitant, and ended too soon. Minerva followed Augusta’s mouth away and caught it again, using her free hand to draw Augusta closer.
It had been a long time. 40 years since the corset, the table, and the bed.
Minerva had the sudden desire to move elsewhere before it got too heated, somewhere that didn’t call to mind immediate memories. She backed Augusta to the sitting room, where they made it so far as the floor-just shy of the sofa-before they were too involved to move.
Later, when Augusta was steady enough on her legs to push up onto the sofa, Minerva left to run a bath. It reminded her of long ago, when she had used the act as something like a ritual of healing, a way of keeping tabs on her emotions. Those were Augusta baths as well, but nothing like this. She felt healed in her heart of hearts, separate from Augusta, even with the next war approaching; perhaps that was her growth. She would always soldier on.
This time, when the bath was ready and she turned off the faucet, Augusta walked up behind Minerva and rested her chin on Minerva’s shoulder. Her glorious breasts, hanging closer to the earth these days and beautiful for it, pressed against Minerva’s back.
“You ran a bath,” Augusta said; Minerva could hear the smile.
“I did. Would you care to join me?”
“Very much.” She leaned to test the water with her finger and exhaled through her teeth. “You’re always getting yourself in hot water, Minerva McGonagall.”
Minerva stepped into the bath and sat against one edge, submerging much of her body. She looked Augusta up and down and grinned, teeth flashing. She knew Augusta was exaggerating. “You’ll just have to wait for me, then.”
“I’ll be waiting a lifetime for that mess to cool down,” Augusta grumbled. Nevertheless, she stepped up to the bath. “Budge up,” she demanded, and then settled herself in behind Minerva, hands eager to roam her front.
As Minerva leaned back against Augusta and basked in the feel of Augusta’s cheek next to hers, Augusta’s breasts to her shoulders, and Augusta’s front firmly pressed to her back, Minerva was profoundly grateful that in the end she had not thrown the baby out with the bathwater. None of them. She hoped it would continue in the future, through the war and what was to come; it was a dark lot upon them, creeping steadily in.
But as Minerva cried out this time, it was not in sobs.
Author: cranky__crocus
Pairing: Minerva/Augusta/Frank Sr.; Minerva/Augusta; Minerva/Frank; Minerva/Rolanda; Minerva/mentions of others
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: #130 - Minerva/Augusta/Frank Sr. They thought three responsible, honest, mature adults should be able to handle a three-way relationship.
Content Information/Warnings: Characters pre-canon (younger); sex; somewhat happy ending
Summary: One history of Minerva McGonagall’s pre-Headmistress life, which she would prefer to keep out of any and all biographies (comment especially applicable to any writing of one Rita Skeeter).
Author's Notes: Fourteen-thousand words. This was going to be a short story; I missed by a bit. Thank you to my beta, N, and the endless assistance from F-I would not have made it through this with any shred of sanity without you two, and the story is far better for it, too. Remaining mistakes are my own. Thank you, featherxquill, for hosting such a wonderful fest! Valentine’s Day is infinitely better with the dysfunction you provide (your stories, mind, and not you yourself at all). Happy February.
Part 1
Time moved on. It felt faster to Minerva now, less weighted with the past and unresolved pain. She wasn’t free from it entirely, exactly, but it didn’t seem to edge into consciousness with the same force it once had. Her work no longer felt like a distraction, merely work. As she finished her second year of teaching and began her third, she kept up the habit of quick turn-around with marking, if only to make a good impression for her hardest year of evaluation.
Albus noticed such things. When the end of her third year came, he offered her a new position atop her teaching: Head of House for Gryffindor. She accepted immediately.
Beyond teaching, Minerva wasn’t a recluse insofar as she did actually leave the castle, but little came of it. She attended Quidditch matches during her free weekend a month and occasionally the pub celebrations after the games. Sometimes she flirted, when her mood allowed, and sometimes night-long or short flings would follow. She frequented the Three Broomsticks when off duty for short times in the evening, always preferring a gillywater to anything stronger.
Her other relationships within the castle were amicable: Filius Flitwick provided pleasant company in the staffroom, at meals, and during school events; Albus finally succeeded in securing regular tea sessions with Minerva, including discussions of a more personal nature; Horace Slughorn’s sense of humour prevailed over her occasional dread at marking, which she had finally grown prone to; Silvanus Kettleburn’s antics were the talk of the school; and Minerva interacted positively enough with the rest of the school’s staff. Even the ghosts provided pleasant enough conversation, though she was quick to tell them she preferred they limit their presence in her personal suite.
Enough of her Gryffindors-Quidditch players for the most part-frequented the infirmary that Minerva eventually became friends with the matron, Poppy Pomfrey, both through infirmary visits and staffroom talk of the students or events that brought them there. After Minerva’s sixth year, Poppy invited Minerva to her cottage in the south for a week of the summer holidays. Minerva accepted and enjoyed the peaceful trip immensely; it became a tradition, the next year becoming a two-week stay. Their friendship held the touch of romance-something akin to romantic friendships of old-but Poppy had always preferred the romantic company of men, and so it never fully blossomed.
By Minerva’s eighth year of teaching, she felt entirely confident in her abilities as both a Transfiguration teacher and a Head of House. Albus noticed this change, as well, and presented her with the task of officially supporting new teachers. Minerva accepted this as well, though she found herself rolling her eyes once in her private rooms; it seemed she was the net that caught the tasks he didn’t want or have time for. Thankfully, much of the staff was supportive of new colleagues, and so she did not find the task difficult.
Minerva found it especially rewarding during her ninth year of teaching, when Pomona Sprout arrived to take the position of Herbology professor. She and Pomona had been friends in Hogwarts; Pomona had been in the year below her and they had met and become acquainted through duelling club, Quidditch, and Hogsmeade trips. Pomona was kind and open, with a sense of compassionate honesty that was surprisingly just as forthright as any; she had grown into a fine woman.
They became fast friends once more. Minerva learned of Pomona’s marriage after school and her children, who were grown by then. Pomona and her husband were doing well, but Pomona had mentioned her desire to teach and neither had minded the distance or the time away. Pomona said it was because of that-her own settled state in romance and sex-that she was so interested in Minerva’s love life, at which Minerva shook her head and sighed.
Pomona made good on her word, as well.
When a retired Quidditch player came to work at Hogwarts in Minerva’s tenth year of teaching, Pomona meddled until Minerva found herself on one of the castle’s balconies with a romantic dinner and none other than Rolanda Hooch, star chaser of the Holyhead Harpies from Minerva’s adolescence and young adulthood. Rolanda was a decade her senior, and still Minerva felt a sense of youth about her. She had been a charmer, as well, and Minerva found herself to be quite taken after the one evening.
While Minerva had been with Augusta and Frank in a monogamous triad, Rolanda was not one for exclusivity. She was honourable enough to make that clear from the start. Minerva had known beforehand, as well, from the invasive tabloids of Rolanda’s life while a member of the Harpies. Rolanda did not press Minerva for any exclusive contract, either, and took delight in Minerva’s nigh-romantic relationship with Poppy. Rolanda and Pomona also became friends through Minerva, and those two were constantly up to some sort of mischief; Minerva was aghast at how often the mischief involved her and her plans for quiet evenings.
It was a sort of love, what she shared with Rolanda. Minerva never saw evidence of Rolanda’s other women-she was chivalrous enough to be thorough-and so Minerva never minded. Minerva continued to attend Quidditch matches when she could, but these trips were often with Rolanda, who introduced her to countless players and coaches. Occasionally, Rolanda set Minerva up with the women who had clearly caught her eye; Minerva was startlingly grateful for the assistance.
Through the years, Minerva also noticed that she was somewhat of a home base for Rolanda, possibly due to the proximity living in the same castle provided. So while they were not monogamous, it nearly felt that way during their quieter evenings spent together or with friends like Pomona or Poppy; Minerva appreciated that, as well. It brought a certain sense of normality to her work and life. It was consistent.
And so, nearly a decade after Augusta and Frank’s wedding, Minerva found herself in a community that included independent friends, a considerate and cherished partner of sorts, a healthy and varied love- and sex-life, and a strong career. She hadn’t tracked her healing-her baths had long since become tools for merely washing herself-but found, as she took it all in, that she did indeed feel healed.
Minerva felt she received confirmation of this when she read “Longbottom, Frank Jr.” on the list of incoming students for her fifteenth year of teaching, and did not gasp or drop the paper or feel any sort of illness. She had felt a jolt of something, yes, but she had turned to Pomona and laughed, stating that this new student would provide some difficulties: Longbottom men were always late to truly grasp their magic.
Pomona had said she’d known many a man who couldn’t get the grasp on their wands just right, and ducked the hand Minerva lifted to flick at her shoulder. They had dined that night like any other and shared a glass of wine in Minerva’s quarters between sweeps of the corridors and common rooms.
And when Frank Longbottom, Jr. arrived at Hogwarts the next September, Minerva was able to recognise his parents in him and yet still see him as his own young person. She had noted, with some small amusement, that he had inherited his father’s large ears and young body, which was to say a touch uncoordinated. He was sorted Gryffindor, which was no surprise to her, and he thus he became doubly her student.
Frank Jr. progressed through school much as Frank had described his own years: slow to start, a spot awkward and gangly, not hitting his stride in most subjects until later years. Transfiguration was not one of his strong points; when he asked for help-like Frank Sr., he was not above that-she directed him to a tutor. He improved.
Minerva began to receive letters from Augusta, first short anecdotes young Frank would tell her over breaks, and then occasionally snippets from her life. None were as warm as the letters had once been, and Minerva’s responses were similar in that, but the bridge re-built was pleasant. Even Frank would jot a few lines on some of the letters; Minerva replied to those as well. They weren’t to be friends, Minerva and her previous lovers, but they didn’t feel so much like enemies, either.
By his fifth year, Frank Jr. was reasonable at most subjects, although he shined at Runes and Arithmancy. He declared in his career advisory meeting that he wished to be an Auror. Minerva gave him the Ministry pamphlet and vowed to help him as best she could, as she did with all students who seemed to have a firm grasp on an attainable position.
Minerva was not surprised when Frank passed all his N.E.W.T.s with flying colours and was accepted into the Auror training programme. She found herself quite proud, though of course she was proud of a great many of her students; this one felt somewhat more personal, which she could admit now that he was no longer a student.
By Albus’ word, times were getting darker; he created a group he called the “Order of the Phoenix”, which Minerva believed was just the sort of name Albus would give a secret society. Still, she joined up as soon as Albus asked her and took her role very seriously. She was sent to spy as often as her job allowed her to leave the castle; otherwise, she was to watch the graduating Slytherins closely and keep her ears open.
Minerva was surprised to receive a wedding invitation from Frank Jr. during the end of his first training year. It seemed he had grown to know Alice Eldritch, a Hufflepuff who graduated two years before him, rather well during his training at the Ministry, where she was a third-year trainee. Minerva imagined that it was the dark times before them that put such pressure to marry quickly, especially with Frank nearly an Auror.
The wedding was held at St. Martin’s, the same as Frank’s parents, but the hastiness of the decision was clear in the decorations, which were not as elaborate as the previous Longbottom wedding had been. It was not Minerva’s first attendance at a prior student’s wedding, though Frank Jr. may have been the youngest groom she had yet seen. She wished them well, gifted them with a clock that would sing them awake-Augusta had mentioned Frank Jr. still enjoying that-and left before the reception, off on one of Albus’ missions. She was pleased, nonetheless, by how civil things had been between her, Augusta, and Frank; they had even embraced.
It was such things, she was told-weddings, embraces, a lover to return to-that got soldiers through the dark times. Not long after the wedding, Minerva realised that was precisely what she was: a soldier.
.:|:.
News of Alice’s pregnancy reached Minerva through a letter from Augusta. It was fast, a short number of months after the wedding, but that was almost to be expected. Minerva had responded warmly to Augusta’s impending grandmotherhood-and teased her for entering cronehood early-before toasting the news with Rolanda, Pomona, Poppy, and the new librarian Irma, who had joined their little circle of friends through Poppy. They had toasted another happy pregnancy, as well: Lily and James Potter were also expecting; Lily had written to Minerva herself.
The two pieces of good news did not produce a third, in Minerva’s opinion, when Albus announced in a staff meeting that he would be interviewing a potential Divination professor with ancestry linking back to Cassandra the Seer. Minerva had thought it was especially dreadful given how close they had been to convincing Albus that Divination was no longer required as a subject-especially when, with no teacher, it had been absent for the past three years. But no, their efforts were in vain; Minerva had only hoped that the job applicant was simply abysmal, and that she would never be required to meet the candidate. The pain of defeat would have been too much to bear, and she had said this in full knowledge of the on-going war.
It had been less of a joking matter when Dumbledore had returned with news of a Divination teacher to join the staff the following year. That was bad enough, Minerva had thought, but as she had witnessed his expression during the announcement, she had thought there was something else afoot. Especially when, upon questioning, he could not name one positive quality of the applicant beyond being ‘surprised at her depth’; instead, he had drawn Minerva aside and inquired after the pregnancies of the Longbottoms and the Potters. It had all seemed very strange and secretive, but then, it was Albus after all.
July was a surprisingly happy month, given the dark times. Minerva had spent much of it, between missions, at the summer cottage with Poppy; Rolanda, Pomona, Irma, and others had visited when able, as it seemed they were all eager to spend as much time among friends as possible. The end of July had brought two pieces of wonderful news: Neville was born to Alice and Frank; the following day Harry was born to Lily and James. The birth of two young wizards was an especially happy occasion during such times; Minerva had drunk more than her fill, with Rolanda there to embrace her and her spinning head. The next day-half by Order initiative and half by her own-Minerva had journeyed to visit both families and deliver her blessings.
On Halloween the following year, news of the Potters’ murder overwhelmed the subdued joy Minerva had felt since the boys’ births. Minerva had hurried to meet Albus and attend the next Order meeting, heartbroken and hopeless. As Albus cared for young Harry, Minerva had inspected the Dursleys’ home and lifestyle. She was appalled at how Albus would allow the child of Lily and James Potter to live with such terrible people, magical or Muggle. But, from what anyone could tell, the war had come to an end; the Potters were a final sacrifice and their infant had finished the war. Minerva was surrounded by people with magic every day-she taught them for a living-and yet Harry, for his unintentional and unexplained heroism, was magical.
She was still aching from the loss of the Potters when she received the second piece of terrible news: Alice and Frank Longbottom had been tortured by Death Eaters and had been relocated to St. Mungo’s. This had been a terrible blow to both the Order and to Minerva, who had come to know Frank Jr. both as the son of her once-lover, as a student, and as a young friend of sorts, what with their mutual involvement with the Order. Alice had always been a kind, considerate, and capable student; it had been an honour to work with her as part of the Order. Minerva visited as soon as she was able, Augusta inconsolable at her side; that had been the day they learned the Longbottoms were being transferred to the incurable wing. It left Neville under the guardianship of Augusta and Frank Longbottom.
Minerva hardly found it in herself to hope that this string of bad news did not come with a third; it seemed a terrible time to become superstitious.
And yet, hardly a year later, the third bad news reached her: Frank Longbottom, Sr., was dead. Worse, he had died in front of little toddler Neville, who had been in his very arms. The department of Healers at St. Mungo’s dealing with analysis of the dead explained that it had been his heart, which no one had caught as he had neglected to seek assistance about his symptoms. Augusta confirmed that he had felt pressure on his chest, difficulty breathing, and other symptoms, but had brushed them off; he had been convinced that a war was no time for Healers to be burdened with healthy men fearing the worst. He had never got around to it.
Minerva attended Frank’s funeral and held Augusta’s hand through the service, while Galatea Moriattis stood on the other side and did the same. It was much like the Potters’ funerals and the other too-high number Minerva had attended in the last few years; and yet it was different, because this was Frank: her once-lover, her once-best friend, Augusta’s husband, Frank Jr.’s father. And he was dead. Minerva stayed with Augusta after the service, having attained Albus’ permission and Filius’ to take her rounds, and comforted the woman as best she could. It was frequently interrupted by Neville tugging at their robes; Minerva spent much of the night caring for him, so Augusta wouldn’t have to right away.
Neville Longbottom, still shy of two years old, was now down to Augusta Longbottom as his sole guardian. Minerva could see in Augusta’s face that she would love him with the fierceness she had loved all those she had lost, and while it would be a protective embrace, it would be a tight one as well.
.:|:.
The years continued to pass, and Minerva began to feel something akin to old. She imagined it was less her age-she was still in her prime-and more with what she had seen in her years. Still, life began to play at normality, what with the wizarding world still celebrating Voldemort’s downfall at the hands of an infant. Soon that faded into the background into recent, less-referenced history, as the Grindelwald war had.
Albus had approached Minerva at the end of the 1980-81 school year, when things were truly beginning to settle down after the war’s end in October. He offered her the job of Deputy Headmistress, for the Arithmancy professor who had held the position previously, Elspeth Elkins, was retiring. Minerva accepted, and assisted him in interviewing and hiring Septima Vector.
They had also offered Severus Snape the job Horace Slughorn had left behind: Potions Professor and Head of Slytherin House. Minerva had required much convincing on that point. Albus explained Severus’ involvement with the Death Eaters, Sybill’s prophecy and Severus’ eavesdropping of it, Severus’ information regarding the Potters’ danger, and his new role as a double agent. Minerva had not been pleased. She was also not sure what it said of her that, on Albus’ trust alone, Minerva was willing to accept a voluntary Death Eater into her school and life. She had made little effort to know him beyond snide-and admittedly witty-exchanges, especially regarding Quidditch; he seemed no more interested in knowing her. Begrudgingly and with intentional resistance, they grew to become competitive acquaintances. If nothing else, Minerva had not been able to fault his Potions skills, however much his teaching needed improving.
Otherwise, her work continued as it always had; teaching was, in a way, rather dependable.
After Neville left his toddler years, Augusta and Minerva reached agreed that Minerva would stop her visits, for they didn’t wish to burden Neville with the difficulty of navigating a more personal relationship with a teacher while boarding at the school. This was especially the case with the likelihood of Minerva being his Head of House. Minerva paid no mind to Augusta’s fears that Neville was a Squib-there was plenty of time to tell-but did send a letter when she caught scent of Augusta’s brother Algie testing little Neville’s limits.
Minerva continued on with Rolanda, whom she knew she well and truly loved as she had Augusta what seemed so long ago. They were no more exclusive than they had been decades before, but their jaunts seemed to have diminished, and they were quite settled in their arrangement together. Minerva’s only exception was Amelia Bones, whom she had formally met, of all places, at a Ministry-hosted Ball following the end of the war. Her meetings with Amelia were not frequent or long, as Amelia was all about her work, but they were enjoyable, and Rolanda never minded. Pomona always begged for details; Rolanda would place herself in the periphery of those conversations, in case Minerva spilled, and always listened carefully to what Minerva revealed. If it had bothered Rolanda, however, Minerva knew her well enough to know that she would speak on it; she didn’t, and occasionally asked after Amelia, having met her on occasion.
If Augusta’s letter had not been a reminder that Neville’s crop was approaching Hogwarts, the wizarding media would have been. A decade after the war, the media swelled with articles on Harry’s approaching destiny: Would Hogwarts be for Harry? What House would the great Harry Potter be Sorted into? Would Harry play Quidditch?
It reminded Minerva of what Albus had explained to her years before, about a boy growing up in such an environment. She understood the argument more now, she supposed, but still couldn’t believe there was no solution better than the Dursleys-she checked up, from time to time. A cupboard under the stairs? It was a disgrace.
As Deputy Headmistress, Minerva produced and signed the letters of acceptance herself; one of many went to Harry Potter, another to Neville Longbottom. Come early September, they stood before in their Unsorted Hogwarts uniforms, looking terrified and apprehensive. They seemed less so when they were both Sorted Gryffindor-Minerva had to concede some pride there-and found themselves with students to talk to at the Gryffindor table. They were as different as night and day, with Harry’s small frame and inherent sense of leadership compared to Neville’s chubby frame and youthful ungainliness.
Minerva watched them both carefully, as she did all students, throughout that year and the following. Much of her attention was drawn to the brushes with evil: a form of Voldemort after the Philosopher’s Stone; the Chamber of Secrets; Sirius Black on the loose; the rebirth of Voldemort and the death of Cedric Diggory; and Dolores Umbridge, who was a detestable toad. Harry and his Trio proved themselves time and time again, always the forefront of the spotlight; Minerva saw that, in the background, Neville was growing into a force to be reckoned with.
Unfortunately, not in Transfiguration. He was crestfallen when, in sixth year, she informed him that his ‘Acceptable’ wouldn’t do for continuing on to N.E.W.T. level. When she heard Augusta was the reason for his sudden interest in her subject, she couldn’t contain her snort. She urged him to take Charms-in which he received an ‘Exceeds Expectations’-and promised to write a letter to his grandmother, which she did. She had known many a meddlesome parent and guardian; Augusta was high on the list, though perhaps with good reason, given the fate of his parents.
Still, when it came to her Gryffindors, she would tackle any feat-and so she would write to Augusta.
.:|:.
In the evening, after Minerva had marked her simple post-summer quizzes to check what her students had retained, she settled back into her armchair and summoned her portable stationery desk. She began to write a first draft without thought, aware that she could make changes for a final draft:
Dear Augusta Longbottom,
I am sorry to inform you that your grandson Neville did not receive the marks required to take Transfiguration as a N.E.W.T.-level class. I have instead enrolled him in N.E.W.T.-level Charms, for which he received ‘Exceeds Expectations’ in his exams.
Kind regards,
Minerva McGonagall (Deputy Headmistress; Transfigurations Professor; Gryffindor Head of House)
She was pleased enough with the first draft that she kept it as it was, although she pulled another small piece of parchment and continued with a new letter.
Augusta Longbottom,
Your grandson has ‘Exceeded Expectations’ at every turn thus far, as well you know after the events at the Ministry. Surely you must see that he is on the correct track without Transfiguration, and that I say this as the very professor of the course?
I recall your complaints of Charms being a ‘soft subject’. I believe I heard them long ago-when might that have been? You may have just received marks back…ah, yes, it is all clear to me now. You had received your failing mark for your Charms OWL and wrote it off as a ‘soft’ subject. You took Transfiguration instead, which I must take to mean you regard it as a ‘hard’ subject, over which I shall not argue. Instead I shall argue that you speak with dear Filius Flitwick on the subject, for perhaps it is his skill at Charms that makes him such a soft dueller.
Don’t hassle the dear boy, Augusta. He’ll do fine; Charms will serve him well. He can also grow a plant faster than I can kill one-it’s a wonder the whole lad isn’t green.
Affectionately,
Minerva
She folded them up and placed them in separately addressed envelopes. She even tied them with separate ribbons, although she sent them with the same bird.
The next evening she received a letter from Augusta and smiled at the short, begrudging words:
Minerva,
Fine.
Meet for tea?
Augusta
Minerva scribbled her affirmative on the back of the paper and returned it to the owl before it could leave.
Three days later, they met for tea at Madam Puddifoot’s. Augusta looked different, somehow, although Minerva could not pin it down. She looked more relaxed about the eyes, more present in the moment. It had been a long while since Minerva had seen Augusta regularly-not since Minerva greed to halt her visits-and she didn’t know when the change had occurred.
“I am proud of Neville,” Augusta stated as soon as they sat down; she said it with the hint of defensiveness. She stirred milk into her tea-no sugar, as it had been for more than half a century.
Minerva blew on her tea, black and heavy, only the barest hint of sugar. She offered a small smile. “I know.”
“He’s a good boy, like his father and grandfather.”
Minerva’s brow arched. “And his mother, and his grandmother.”
Augusta gave a lop-sided smile in return and sipped her tea. “So you say because you’re sweet on me.”
“I have been,” Minerva admitted; she took a sip as well, then placed her cup on the table with her hands loosely around it. “It’s been a while.”
Augusta merely nodded. “I was horrible to you.”
“You weren’t kind,” Minerva agreed. She held Augusta’s eyes. “But neither was I.”
“We’re not so much known for it, are we?” Augusta leaned forward. Minerva did not miss that the woman’s hands inched closer to her own.
Minerva gave a chuckle. “No, we’re not.”
Augusta’s hands found hers, locking her between the heat of her tea and that of Augusta, who would never entirely leave her system. Minerva recognised the change she had seen in Augusta: it was the healing, the moving on, that Minerva had worked to gain. It had taken Augusta years, but she had returned to herself.
“Do you still get nights off?” Augusta asked after a moment.
Minerva did not remove her hands. She grasped Augusta’s from beneath. “I do, but let’s start with tea.”
.:|:.
Minerva met with Augusta for tea another four times before agreeing to see her at her home.
First, Minerva spoke with Rolanda about the meetings and the direction it was taking for the future. Rolanda had seemed concerned; Minerva was quick to express that she did not love Augusta as she had once, and that Rolanda had that role in her life now. Minerva promised that she would do nothing to jeopardise her relationship with Rolanda.
Perhaps out of that very promise, Rolanda consented. She set no boundaries and requested no details; she assured Minerva that she did not carry any unmentioned condemnation. Rolanda went to meet with Gwenog, one of her oldest flames, the evening Minerva set out for Augusta’s.
Minerva and Augusta fell back on their default, tea, to soothe the path. To soothe the past, Minerva struck up conversation.
“This can’t be a rekindling or a continuation,” she told Augusta, voice firm. “This has to be something else: a new start of something different.”
Augusta took a seat beside Minerva at the old kitchen table; Augusta had moved back after Frank’s death. She took a breath. “How?”
“Something similar to what we had after we three ended, but less intense and regular. You were still my world then; you won’t be now. I won’t be yours. I have Hogwarts, Rolanda, friends; you have Neville and, I presume, friends.”
Augusta frowned. “I have you.”
Minerva glanced up, surprised by this. Augusta had always been the one to keep friends, not Minerva; it seemed reversed now. “You have me. We’ll gather your friends.”
Augusta stood and walked around the room, seeming to take everything in. She stared at the kitchen table, where once the two had… She spoke quickly, her thoughts clearly on the past. “I have regrets. I hate them.”
Minerva was surprised by the change in subject. She drank her tea and cleared her throat. “I have regrets as well. I regret not seeing you pregnant.”
Augusta summoned a book from a case in the adjoining sitting room. It opened itself on the table to reveal pictures of Augusta, pregnant, performing various activities or none at all; Frank had outdone himself. Augusta sighed, a harder sound than it would be for most, and brushed her fingers against the table’s surface. “I regret your absence at my wedding.”
“I wasn’t absent,” Minerva responded. She carefully watched for Augusta’s reaction.
Her eyes widened as she turned to face Minerva. “You never said.”
Minerva didn’t reply, merely gave a small smile in return.
“Frank thought you were there,” Augusta said after a moment. “I didn’t believe him.”
“He set the invitation charms, didn’t he?” Minerva asked. She gave Augusta a knowing look. “He was always the one with a knack for charms.”
Augusta laughed and flapped her hand. “I conceded to that one already: Charms is not soft. Don’t be a broken record.” She walked to Minerva’s side and rested one hand on her shoulder. “I regret not keeping up with your life before Neville came along.”
Minerva shook her head, but placed her hand atop Augusta’s. “There was very little.”
“I don’t agree,” Augusta replied as she moved to pull Minerva up by their linked hands. “There was you, turning into this powerful, important, self-possessed woman I see today. We couldn’t do this the same way we did before if we tried, Minerva. You were all those things before, to me, but you have truly grown into yourself.”
Minerva stood as she was urged to and kept hold of Augusta’s hand, which she held before her. “I’m not the only one. Marriage and motherhood have brought out the fierceness in you-if ever someone missed the Lion in you before, he would quickly see it now.”
This brought a slight shade of pink to Augusta’s cheeks, and Minerva was reminded of how delightful it was to make Augusta blush-only a rare thing could. Augusta seemed to have no response. Minerva was glad of the silence as she gazed at Augusta, the woman she had loved again, and had found now to be a woman grown.
When Augusta kissed her this time, it was not the ferocious meeting of mouths it had been during Minerva’s last memorable kisses with Augusta. It was consenting, soft, hesitant, and ended too soon. Minerva followed Augusta’s mouth away and caught it again, using her free hand to draw Augusta closer.
It had been a long time. 40 years since the corset, the table, and the bed.
Minerva had the sudden desire to move elsewhere before it got too heated, somewhere that didn’t call to mind immediate memories. She backed Augusta to the sitting room, where they made it so far as the floor-just shy of the sofa-before they were too involved to move.
Later, when Augusta was steady enough on her legs to push up onto the sofa, Minerva left to run a bath. It reminded her of long ago, when she had used the act as something like a ritual of healing, a way of keeping tabs on her emotions. Those were Augusta baths as well, but nothing like this. She felt healed in her heart of hearts, separate from Augusta, even with the next war approaching; perhaps that was her growth. She would always soldier on.
This time, when the bath was ready and she turned off the faucet, Augusta walked up behind Minerva and rested her chin on Minerva’s shoulder. Her glorious breasts, hanging closer to the earth these days and beautiful for it, pressed against Minerva’s back.
“You ran a bath,” Augusta said; Minerva could hear the smile.
“I did. Would you care to join me?”
“Very much.” She leaned to test the water with her finger and exhaled through her teeth. “You’re always getting yourself in hot water, Minerva McGonagall.”
Minerva stepped into the bath and sat against one edge, submerging much of her body. She looked Augusta up and down and grinned, teeth flashing. She knew Augusta was exaggerating. “You’ll just have to wait for me, then.”
“I’ll be waiting a lifetime for that mess to cool down,” Augusta grumbled. Nevertheless, she stepped up to the bath. “Budge up,” she demanded, and then settled herself in behind Minerva, hands eager to roam her front.
As Minerva leaned back against Augusta and basked in the feel of Augusta’s cheek next to hers, Augusta’s breasts to her shoulders, and Augusta’s front firmly pressed to her back, Minerva was profoundly grateful that in the end she had not thrown the baby out with the bathwater. None of them. She hoped it would continue in the future, through the war and what was to come; it was a dark lot upon them, creeping steadily in.
But as Minerva cried out this time, it was not in sobs.