Disclaimer: I don't own these characters/But if I did/I'd buy a big house where/we all could live
AN: Each chapter was inspired by another work of fanfiction I have read and enjoyed.

The hands in Minerva's hair do not know what they are doing.

Oh, they brush the long, dark hair gently enough, and with grace. The fingertips, where they massage Minerva's hungry skin, work an advanced magic. With each stroke, Minerva feels reality crack open, feels those fingers apply insistent pressure at vulnerable spots, feels the fissure widen until a chasm opens up before her. Dark. Ancient. Minerva dangles above it, held in place only by the thinnest thread of self-control.

Her seducer does not suspect this. A grown woman with nearly grown children, she is still young enough to live entirely within her own skin. So even as her hands negotiate an unconditional surrender, even as she sends Minerva tumbling over that edge, even as she falls after, Hermione does not truly understand.

But Minerva knows. She knows that soon (Minutes? Months?) she will shift position so as to make herself more available. It will be subtle. Hermione might only understand that she is suddenly bold enough to trace the line of Minerva's neck, brush past her collarbone, push down to gather the softness of a breast into her palm.

Minerva knows that soon, there will be kisses; that the analytical kisses of this ritual will give way to the heedless and hard kind.

Hermione does not know that soon, Minerva will spread her legs. She'll guide that lovely, willing mouth to her center, arch her back, lose control of her own voice.

"Yes. Oh my god, yes," she'll say, and mean it.

And there will be no taking it back. Ever.