Wow. Well this is a oneshot that ran very, very, very far away on me. I MAY continue this story, though for now I'm marking it as complete. I know this seems like an odd pairing, but I urge you to give it a chance. Remember, Hermione Granger's mother was played by the very beautiful Michelle Fairley, also known to Game of Thrones fans as Catelyn Stark. As a tribute to that fact, you will find some subtle Game of Thrones references in this story, and if you're a fan, I hope you enjoy that. Alright then. Ready or not, without further ado, I present... "Squib".

Dr. Jean Granger and her husband John were both dentists. Well respected dentists in their community, thank you very much, though their patients seemed to prefer Jean over John for the more painful procedures. They claimed, and Jean would laugh every time someone said so, that Jean had a magic touch. She was inclined to let them believe whatever they wished, though of course, there was really no such thing as magic. At least, Jean thought so. Some days, like today, she wasn't so sure.

Jean and her husband had one child; a daughter named Hermione. Hermione had been quite the surprise, since she and John had not been overly interested in having a child. While Jean, in her mid- thirties by the time her daughter had come along, had been pleased with such a surprise, John had not been so impressed by the screaming bundle with thick locks of curly brown hair. Jean however, found herself lost in the chocolate brown eyes her child had. The shade was identical to those of Jean's grandmother, Agatha Tully, who was by now nearly one hundred years old, and resided in a convalescent home. Jean visited now and then, though the dental practice and the rigors of raising her daughter were quite demanding of her time.

Today, however, Jean found herself thinking of her grandmother as she kept vigil over her only child. Hermione was dreadfully ill, and the doctors at the hospital had no idea what was wrong. For the last week, Jean had watched as her six year old daughter struggled more and more to breathe with each passing hour. Jean, to the annoyance of her husband and the bewildered looks of the doctors at the hospital, kept trying to make them see the rash adorning her daughter's fair skin. John and the doctors both tried to tell her there was no rash at all. By now, Jean was certain they all thought her quite mad.

On one hand, Jean was inclined to believe that the rash she saw was a delirium brought on by the agony of watching her child slowly die. On the other hand, somewhere in the recesses of the woman's mind, she remembered having this very rash, and struggling to breathe much like Hermione was now, when she herself was a child.

"Mama," Jean had choked out, feeling quite cold despite the summer weather and blankets piled atop her frail little body. She was feverish, it was hard to breathe, and she had a rash on her skin that looked like scales that itched something terrible. "Am I going to die?"

"No, sweetheart," her mother had said. "Whatever it takes, I'll make sure you get well."

Jean vaguely remembered hearing her parents arguing over whether or not to contact her father's mum, who he had not spoken to in years. Jean's father, much like her husband John, was stubborn to a fault, and could hold a grudge for as long as time allowed. Still, something Jean's mother had said must have swayed him, because hours later Jean remembered meeting her grandmother for the first time.

"Who are you?" Jean had asked. "Have you come to give me last rites?"

"No, little squib," her grandmother had cooed, holding up a glass beaker to her lips, filled with an odd, green liquid. "Drink up and you'll be well in no time. No need for a priest."

Jean's eyes snapped wide when she realized it had been her grandmother who had made her well with that awful tasting medicine. Hermione was now suffering from the same thing she had as a child, and her grandmother, elderly as she was, might be able to help. The doctors couldn't – they'd said as much when they sent Jean home with her daughter. They had sent the Granger family home, believing the next call they got would be to report their child's passing. No. Not if Jean had anything to do with it.

"John!" Jean called.

Her husband sauntered into the room, looking tired. It had been a long week. "Yeah?"

"I need to go see my grandmother," Jean told him. "Can you watch over Hermione?"

"Jean, what the hell are you going to see that old bat now for?" John demanded. "Your daughter is dying!"

The woman steeled her expression. "She's your daughter too, John. And I am well aware of how ill she is. I think I remember having the same thing she has, and my grandmother brought a remedy of some sort. It was the first time I'd met her."

John looked conflicted, and Jean wondered, not for the first time this week, if he was secretly pleased that the daughter he'd never wanted might be done for. On the other hand, she knew John loved her and would not wish suffering on his wife. "Honey…the chances…"

Her face softened. "I know it's a longshot," she reasoned, "but I have to try. I'll never forgive myself if I don't at least try."

After a moment, he nodded. "Go on then. But be quick."

Jean didn't bother putting on a bra under her two day old tanktop. She didn't bother changing out of her yoga pants. All she managed before bolting out the door was clipping her hair up and splashing a bit of water on her face. She was exhausted from her vigil, and falling asleep behind the wheel was not going to get help for Hermione.

It was a ten minute drive to the convalescent home, though today Jean made it in six. She didn't bother with a parking space, rather pulling right up to the door and jumping out of the car. She didn't wave to the woman had reception before bolting down a hall that led to her grandmother's room.

"Grandmum!" she said, rushing into the room.

A very aged woman looked over to her, concern in chocolate brown eyes that were ever so familiar to Jean. "What is it, little squib?"

Jean offered a halfhearted smile at her grandmother's use of her nickname. "It's Hermione, grandmum. She's very ill. She can't breathe and she itches. Her fever… the doctors say she'll pass before the weekend is over."

Agatha Tully's eyes widened. "Does she have the rash, child?" she asked. "The rash that looks like scales?"

Jean let out an exasperated sigh. "Yes, though John and the doctors can't seem to see the damned thing! They think I've gone mad!"

The old woman nodded. "Go home to your daughter, Jean. Help will be there within the hour."

The dentist nodded, trusting her grandmother absolutely. She offered thanks, paused to kiss the woman on the cheek, and then bolted back out the door, down the hall, and made it back to her house in no time at all. She'd been gone less than half an hour.

"Any luck?" John asked as she eased herself back into the chair at Hermione's bedside.

Jean nodded. "Someone will be here soon," she breathed. "Please wait downstairs for them."

Her husband shrugged, took his leave, and fifteen minutes later her returned, and was followed into the room by a woman perhaps a few years older that Jean was, with long, ebony hair and startling green eyes. She was wearing the oddest clothing, but Jean didn't pay it any mind. "My grandmother sent you?" she asked, eyes lighting up.

"Professor Tully did, yes," the woman said with a Scottish lilt. "I am Minerva McGonagall. I think I have what your daughter requires."

The woman, Minerva, held up a small vial of green liquid, and Jean smiled broadly. "Jean Granger," she said, introducing herself. "God bless you for coming."

"Quite," Minerva said with a small smile. "Now, let's see here…"

Minerva ran her fingers over a particularly irritated bit of rash, frowning. She reached in her pocket and pulled out another container, this one containing a tan paste, which she handed off to Jean.

"What do I do with this?" the dentist asked.

"You see the rash?" Minerva asked quietly, eying John warily in the doorway.

"Yes," Jean whispered. "Though he can't. The doctors can't either."

"Not surprising," Minerva replied. "You're a Tully. He's not. Apply the ointment to your daughter's skin, whilst I will administer the potion to counter the virus."

Jean did as she was told, Minerva did as she'd promised, and after a quiet couple of minutes, Hermione's breathing began to ease. "It's working," Jean said, astonished, and yet not so much.

The Scottish woman nodded. "She'll be fine, Mrs. Granger."

"Jean, please," the dentist insisted. "You did just save my daughter's life, after all."

"Minerva, then," came an easy reply as the woman placed her hand tenderly on Hermione's forehead. "And I think perhaps, in a few years' time, we'll meet again. What is your daughter's name?"

"Hermione," Jean replied, confused at Minerva's comment about meeting again. She'd never gotten ill like this after her grandmother's treatment, so why would Hermione? "She won't get ill like this again, will she?"

"No," Minerva assured her. "This virus is a once in a lifetime illness, much like the chicken pox, though I daresay it's more severe than that. I can't explain now, but suffice to say that I have a hunch that Hermione will be a very… gifted child. Your grandmother, years ago, taught at very elite school for gifted youth, and I won't be at all surprised if your Hermione is also accepted there."

"She is quite smart," Jean admitted. "Did my grandmother tell you that?"

Minerva shook her head. "No, but as I am now a Professor there, I know what to look for. Now, I must bid you goodbye," she said firmly.

Jean nodded, recognizing the tone as one her grandmother often used, which she now decided must be a trait inherent to all teachers. It was one of finality, and there was no invitation nor tolerance for questioning further. "Thank you, Minerva," she said, standing to usher the Scottish woman to the door.

"You're welcome, Jean," Minerva replied. "Though I can see myself out – you ought to remain with your daughter."

"Again, thank you."

"Till next time," Minerva stated. And then, she was gone.

Minerva McGonagall smiled brightly when she looked at the roster for muggleborn students this coming term. She had been waiting for this name to pop up for over five years. "Albus," she called out to her employer. "I'm going to head down to London today to visit one of the muggleborns for this term. Do you need anything while I'm there?"

Albus Dumbledore looked up from his desk. "Lemon Drops, please," he said. "Is it the Granger girl you've been going on and on about for five years?"

Minerva nodded. "Agatha Tully's great-granddaughter. She contracted…"

"Yes, yes, Minerva," Albus replied wearily. "Dragonpox. I remember. Her magical aura positively hummed. She's bound to be a powerful witch. I remember the story, my dear."

Anyone who didn't know the Scottish woman would call the look on her face at that moment a pout, though anyone who did know her wouldn't dare. "I'll be back in time for supper," she said crisply. "With your damned candy."

With a huff, Minerva grabbed her wand off the desk and made for the door. It took some time to reach the outer limit of Hogwarts' wards, but when she did, she apparated directly to the street she'd visited a few years back, walking quickly along until she arrived at a familiar house. Before knocking on the door, she flicked her wand and transfigured her robes into something a bit more muggle. She now wore black slacks and an emerald green blouse, and for some odd reason she also felt compelled to loosen her tight bun. When she was satisfied with the braid running over her shoulder, she raised her hand to the knocker.

It wasn't long when a little girl with heaps of curly brown hair and bright, intelligent looking chocolate eyes answered. The girl looked a good deal better than death warmed over, as she'd appeared when Minerva had seen her last. "You must be Hermione," Minerva said with a smile. "It's good to meet you."

The girl looked at her suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"I'm…" Minerva paused, knowing that Agatha had passed only a few months after Hermione's illness. Chances are the child didn't remember her Grandmother Tully. "I am a friend of your mother's," she settled with. That might be stretching the truth a bit, as she'd only met Jean Granger that one time, but still, if mutual concern over a child didn't bind two people in friendship, Minerva didn't know what would.

Hermione nodded. "I'll get her then," she said. "Would you come in?"

Minerva stepped through the threshold, and the bright eyed girl closed the heavy door behind them. "I'll just wait here," she assured the child.

Smiling, Hermione bounded off in search of her mum, and returned a few moments later with Jean in tow. Minerva first thought that Jean looked decidedly haggard, but the moment their eyes met her face lit up. "Minerva!" she exclaimed.

"Jean," Minerva greeted, unable to stop a smile of her own from forming.

To her surprise, Jean rushed forward and pulled her into a tight hug, which she found herself returning. It was uncommon for muggleborns to get Dragon Pox, and when they did, oftentimes the child would die, as the parents had no idea whom to contact. Jean had been lucky that Agatha had still be alive when Hermione fell ill, and doubly lucky that she'd thought to contact her failing grandmother.

"Hermione, sweetheart," Jean said, pulled back finally. She ushered her daughter as if to present her to Minerva. "This is the woman I've told you about. The one who saved your life."

An 'oh' shape formed on the rosy lips, and her eyes widened in understanding. "You're the one?"

Minerva nodded. "Professor Minerva McGonagall," she said in greeting. "I'm glad to see you looking much better than the last time I saw you."

"Not being half dead will do that to a girl," Hermione quipped.

"Won't you come in for tea, Minerva?" Jean said. "We can catch up?"

"Of course, the Scottish woman accepted. "Though I do think your daughter should join us. As I suspected, Hermione has been accepted at the school Agatha used to teach at."

"Hogwarts?" Jean asked.

Minerva faltered in her step. "How much did Agatha tell you?" she asked, worriedly. She could not believe that Professor Agatha bloody Tully had broken the Statue of Secrecy. Minerva's stern teaching method and propensity to abide by the rules had been mirrored by her former Charms Instructor.

"Very little," Jean said gently. "It was more of an admittance of the Tully family history than anything. I still know next to nothing about…your world… but after what my grandmother told me, and what you had said about Hermione… I suspected that she was…"

Hermione stopped her foot, obviously beginning to become annoyed at how the adults were talking about her as if she wasn't there. "Suspected that I was what?"

Minerva turned and looked down at the impudent child, adjusting her glasses on her nose and offering a stern gaze. "You, Miss Granger, are a witch."

A few hours, and a million questions later, Minerva had missed dinner at Hogwarts in favor of very engaging conversation with the two Granger females. John, Hermione's father, was out of town on business, which Jean seemed grateful for in light of the conversation. He was a very no nonsense sort of man, and the squib, as Minerva had concluded Jean was, was not looking forward to explaining all of this to her husband. Hermione had gotten her abilities from her mother's side, there was no mistaking that, and he would undoubtedly be less than pleased that his daughter was so… unnatural.

Hermione was in bed now, and Minerva and Jean continued chatting over tea. "Maybe John will see the silver lining," Jean whispered. "If Hermione's goes off to Hogwarts, well… the house will be child free for most of the year. He didn't want her in the first place, you know. He tried his damnedest to get me to abort her, but I just couldn't. She wasn't planned, but I love that little girl like nothing else."

Minerva nodded, and took Jean's hand, offering silent comfort over a difficult situation the squib would undoubtedly be facing when John came home. "I'm sorry," she said, wiping a tear away that she saw drifting down Jean's cheek. The Scottish witch didn't know what was coming over her, but she felt very drawn to Jean Granger in a way that she knew was very inappropriate. She could be Jean's friend, but nothing more. The woman was married. Yes, the desire to do more than hold Jean's hand by way of comfort was absolutely inappropriate. "It will be okay."

"I wish I could believe that," Jean replied, leaning in to Minerva's touch. "But while I do love John, and I know he loves me, I'm not sure that's really enough. I don't understand how he can't love that little girl. She's his daughter, witch or not, planned or not, wanted or not."

The Scottish witch could tell that a definite closeness was growing between she and Jean, and she also knew that if given the right push, Jean might even be inclined to go where Minerva's mind had already gone of its own fruition. Still, the woman was married, and Minerva was not about to get involved in an affair, no matter how good of an idea it seemed at the moment to take advantage of the moment of tenderness now standing between them. "I have to leave," she uttered out after just holding Jean in her arms for a few minutes.

Jean nodded, sniffling. "You probably had to go hours ago," she accused gently, "though the fact that you stayed as long as you have certainly endeared me to you, even more than I already was. You come, save my daughter's life, and then come back and walk me though an emotional breakdown. Are you a superhero in your world, Minerva?"

The teasing tone did not escape the witch. It was borderline flirting, in fact. She had to go.

The two walked to the door, and as Minerva stepped over the threshold, she was overcome with a sense of loss. Despite inner protest going on about integrity and whatnot, Minerva leaned back toward Jean, placed a hand on her waist, and a tender kiss on her cheek. "Goodnight, Jean," she whispered.

Jean's eyes widened in surprise at the more intimate contact, but she did not seem to object in the slightest. "Goodnight," the woman breathed out. "When will I see you again?"

Minerva looked sad. "After first contact, unless Hermione were to be injured or gets into some sort of trouble at Hogwarts, I'm not likely to have an official reason to call on you. With John feeling as he does about our world, I'm not inclined to think it wise for me to come by unofficially either."

Jean nodded, seeming to accept that what Minerva was saying was for the best. Whether or not Jean got the subtle undertones of how Minerva wished she had a reason to call on this beautiful woman again, the witch didn't know. As it stood, the next time they met was likely to be Hermione's graduation in seven years. Minerva wasn't sure which of them was more disappointed at that notion.

"Perhaps," she added quietly, "now and then letters between us might be exchanged, regarding Hermione's education."

The squib nodded, looking decidedly more cheerful at the notion of some contact. "I suppose I ought to get Hermione one of those Owls you were telling me about, in that case."

The conversation seemed to have come to an end, and so Minerva leaned in one more time and pressed one more kiss to Jean's cheek, after which she uttered a quick farewell and apparated away. When she reappeared outside the gates of Hogwarts, she was both chastising herself for the kisses she'd given, and for the fact that she hadn't gotten the nerve to make her interest plain by kissing Jean right on the lips. She was going to need a drink before bed.

Jean Granger smiled brightly as an Owl fluttered onto her kitchen windowsill. It was clutching a letter, from Hermione or from Minerva, either of which would be more than welcome. Over the last year and a half, she and Minerva had often exchanged letters. She'd not seen Minerva since the day the witch had come to tell them about Hogwarts, but even all these months later, her heart still fluttered when she thought of the smoldering green eyes that had seemingly reached into her soul.

Hermione's intelligence had not come from her father – in fact the only thing Hermione had gotten from him was his curly hair. That being said, Jean had not been blind to the connection that had unwittingly formed between she and Minerva. She wanted to forget about it, but she just couldn't seem to. The fluttering in her chest when she thought of Minerva was definite, and constant. Going to bed with John paled in comparison to the arousal she'd felt when Minerva had simply kissed her cheek. She'd never been incline that way before, and now that she found herself very attracted to a woman, she had no idea what to do about it. She'd accepted that it was a fact, but that didn't change that firstly, she was married woman, and secondly that even if she and John divorced, that she and Minerva lived in two different worlds, quite literally.

When Hermione had been home for Christmas, she'd chattered endlessly about Professor McGonagall. While John had rolled his eyes, Jean had paid rapt attention, eager for any picture of what Minerva's life was really like. A part of her even wondered if somehow, someway, she could fit into Minerva's world. She knew it would mean giving up the dental practice, but that concept didn't seem to bother her as much as she thought it might.

The smile plastered on her face faded quickly as she read the contents of the letter, despite it being from Minerva. There had been an accident. Hermione had been injured. They were working to make her well, but it would be some time before Jean could expect word from her daughter. Weeks, probably.

Jean scrambled to her desk to grab a bit of parchment she kept on hand for when she was writing Minerva and Hermione, and scrawled a quick reply.

Come get me. I want to see my daughter. - J

She tied the note to the Owl's leg, offered him a bit of bacon, and sent him on his way. A few hours passed, during which Jean did nothing but stare at her front door, which she could see from the sofa in the den. John came home from work, and they ate in silence. She didn't bother telling him what was wrong, and he didn't bother to ask.

Why wasn't he asking? Jean wondered. She had stayed with John up to this point because while she was painfully aware of his lack of care toward their daughter, she'd never once believed he didn't still love her. For the first time, as she excused herself from the table and went to the bathroom to throw up what she'd just eaten, Jean was suddenly filled with doubt about his affections.

She slept on the sofa that night, still staring at the door until exhaustion finally claimed her.

An Owl arrived early the next morning, before John had left and much to his displeasure.

Be there at nine. - M

"Thank you, Wallas," she said to the Owl, again offering him a slice of bacon.

A quick glance at the clock told her she still had two hours before Minerva arrived. She showered and dressed first, and was unsurprised to find John gone by the time she returned to the kitchen. When had he stopped kissing her goodbye?

With a heavy sigh, Jean turned around and went back up the stairs, packing a bag with a week's worth of clothing and toiletries. Even if she could not stay at Hogwarts with Hermione and Minerva, she was not coming back here. She wrote a short note to John before dragging her now heavy suitcase to the front stoop.

Dear John,

I want a divorce. I'll be gone for the week. We can talk about the details when I get back.

Jean

That taken care of, Jean felt like heavy burden had been lifted from her chest. As keen as she was to see if something could develop between she and Minerva, it wasn't the reason she had ultimately decided to end her marriage. The simple fact was that she didn't believe he loved her anymore, and he certainly didn't love their daughter. That acknowledgement alone had been enough for her to realize that she didn't love him anymore, either. It wasn't fair that Hermione got more love and affection from her teacher than she did from her father, and it wasn't fair that Jean had to turn to Minerva for advise on how to effectively parent her witch of a daughter, which sadly, Jean often did. She was damned lucky that Minerva didn't seem to mind.

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