Author's Note:

Ahem.

As a rule, I'm against song-fics. They tend to be matched with a genre of music that is simply not suited – in my mind – to the characters that are used (heavy metal for Arthur/Molly fluff fics, etc – yes, they do exist). Of course, we occasionally come across a song by chance that we feel fits a fledgling story perfectly. This is not a song-fic per se, there isn't a forced plot and the song is only used as a source, but it's as close to a song-fic as I'll ever get.

I discovered this artist through a friend who's practically an expert on celtic music. He pointed me towards a clip of the Scottish singer Annie Grace on the net because he thought I'd enjoy it. He was right – I loved it.

To find the song, check out Annie Grace's Myspace page soundtrack list for Land of the Leal. As it would seem that I can't do a direct link from this site, I'll need you to google it.

So, play the tune ( ignoring the accompaniment) and tell me if I was wrong. I should note that the words are a bit different - this is the traditional poem below – but the spirit of the thing remains the same.

BTW: Happy birthday, Professor McGonagall. I have a few words to say about another subject, so go check out my main page when you have the chance.

To say that the country was experiencing a cold winter that December would have been a gross understatement.

Winter had descended on Scotland with vicious intent and coated the northern islands and shores with a thick and steadily-growing blanket of snow. The animals in the mountains had fled to the forests seeking shelter and the human inhabitants of the Highlands – both Muggle and Wizarding folk - stayed inside their houses by their warm fireplaces, the elderly among them muttering over their whisky that the weather hadn't been this bad in decades. The younger generations busied themselves with snowball fights and mugs of hot cider, sculpting snow-men out of the deep snowdrifts that had shut the schools down and given them an early start on their holidays.

In an isolated northern valley ringed by steep hills, a herd of red deer were seeking shelter in a copse of trees on the grounds of a three-century-old manor. Separated from the hinds and fawns until springtime, the group of males would spend the winter wandering the Highland mountains in search of forage. Since their arrival that morning, the stags had stripped several of the smaller trees of their tender branches and were presently pawing up snow with sharp hooves, looking for dried grasses and buried heather, shaking their large, crowned heads as they ate. Every so often, one of the stags would look up warily at the bright window in one corner of the upper-story in the stone house, barely visible through the evening snowfall.

Minerva McGonagall was oblivious to the destruction of her family grounds by the native deer, and wouldn't have complained had she known. Preoccupied by the woman sleeping in her lap, she wouldn't in all likelihood have noticed if the centuries-old manor had come down around her ears. Gently combing her guest's scalp with her tips of her fingernails, running through the roots in slow, even strokes, Minerva hummed an aged lament of which she only knew half the words to. The few people over the years who had heard her sing had said that she had a lovely voice: smooth and low. Quick to dismiss the complements as mere flattery, she had been stunned when Albus Dumbledore told her one evening with genuine tears in his eyes that her voice was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever heard.

To his everlasting dismay, this incident had only served to make Minerva more self-conscious than ever.

As she had aged, she exercised her vocal talents less and less, citing a lack of privacy in which to do so. But her present company was unique in the respect that Minerva was willing to relax her rules on the rare occasion.

And the young woman was asleep, which meant that any recollection when she woke could be dismissed as a dream.

Hermione Granger stirred in her lap and the wool blanket that had been covering them both slipped part way off her shoulders and onto the floor. Trying not to disturb her – it had taken Minerva forever to convince Hermione to nap in the first place – she reached down with her left hand and pulled the cover back into position. She had learned over the past few weeks that Hermione was a light sleeper and would stir at the slightest sound. Her guest had arrived earlier in the month on a break from her schooling and fallen ill several days ago. In this weakened state Hermione had been exhausted by even a few hours of reading, and reluctantly submitted to her host's insistence that she get some rest. Hermione hadn't had the energy to climb up the stairs to her room, and slipped into sleep on the chesterfield in a matter of minutes. As it so happened, Minerva had been sharing the piece of furniture with her and found herself used as a pillow.

But she couldn't really say that she minded this invasion of her personal space in the least.

The fire crackled noisily in the hearth and there was a pop as a log dropped - burnt through - and Minerva glared admonishingly at it without thinking. It was strange that this small noise should seem louder than the winter wind blowing snow against the tall windows of the bedroom in gusts, violently rattling the panes of glass in their metal frames. Even the ancient tea-set on the nearby table made a faint sound as the china cups rocked in their saucers.

'That was lovely.'

Startled by the hoarse voice, Minerva stopped her song abruptly. Hermione was awake and gazing sleepily up at her

'What is it called?'

It was a wonder Hermione could speak at all, she was clearly straining to make herself heard even now. Her brown curls were in disarray, and Minerva's hand swept them back from her eyes without thinking.

'Land of the Leal,' she said gently. 'It's a Scottish poem that was put to music two hundred years ago, about a young couple who have lost their only child. The husband is dying and he sings this lay to comfort his wife.'

Large hazel eyes regarded her in curiosity and - very slowly - Hermione picked herself up off of Minerva's lap and sank into the cushions beside her.

'Could…could you sing it for me?

Minerva automatically opened her mouth to refuse but before she could say a word, a hand on her arm made her pause.

'Please?'

It was as simple as that. One word that cut through all of the prepared protests that the proper, private side of Minerva McGonagall could come up with. There was something utterly irresistible about the woman beside her that she couldn't, however hard she try, say no to - not for something as seemingly simple as this.

Stomaching her nervousness and shutting her eyes, Minerva wracked her brain for the words that she barely remembered from her early childhood. After a moments review, she began to sing, letting her native accent seep into the words.

I'm wearin' awa, Jean,

Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean

I'm wearin' awa' tae the Land o' the Leal

There's no sorrow there, Jean,

There's neither cauld nor care, Jean

The day is aye fair in the Land o' the Leal

Ye aye were leal and true, Jean

Your task is ended noo, Jean

And I'll welcome you tae the Land o' the Leal

Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean

She was baith guid and fair, Jean

And oh, we grudged her sair, tae the Land o' the Leal

So dry that tearful ee, Jean,

My soul langs tae be free, Jean

And angels wait on me tae the Land o' the Leal

So fare-thee-weel my ain Jean,

This world's care is vain, Jean

We'll meet and aye be fain, tae the Land o' the Leal

With the end of the refrain, Minerva snuck a quick look at her lone audience member, silently praying that Hermione not be embarrassed by her host's voice.

To her great surprise, Hermione looked stunned. Her mouth was agape and she was staring up at Minerva in utter disbelief. It was a long time before she spoke.

'What does 'Leal' mean?' Hermione asked quietly.

'It translates as 'Faithful', but it's widely understood to be a heaven.'

There was a full minute of silence as her guest processed this new information. Another deafening crash echoed throughout the room as a particularly strong gust of wind hurled another wave of thick snow against the side of the house.

'My middle name is Jean,' the younger woman said simply.

Minerva smiled.

'That's how I remembered it. My father used to sing all the traditional songs when I was young, I'm amazed that I am able to recall all of the words, it's been so long.'

With a yawn, Hermione slipped back down to her earlier position across Minerva's lap, tugging the white woollen blanket back over them both. Minerva shifted her body to accommodate the added weight, smiling at how much at ease she felt with someone this close.

'Shall I fetch you some tea?' she asked as Hermione settled.

'No, thank-you.'

'Good heavens, Miss Granger, you must be ill,' she teased.

Hermione smiled sleepily and ran her hand along her living pillow's waist.

'Will you sing another?'

Laughing, Minerva plucked at one of the errant strands of brown hair spilling over her lap.

'Are you completely set on embarrassing me, Hermione Jean Granger?'

'It'll help me sleep,' Hermione said wistfully.

She was too exhausted to tell Minerva that she desperately needed to hear her sing again to convince her doubting mind that the angelic voice of before had actually belonged to body she was draped across. Hermione still wasn't entirely sure that she hadn't dreamed it; the synesthetic product of a fever-dream, the blending of the fantastical with the familiarity of her beloved mentor.

Long, pale fingers came to rest on the chestnut head.

'Only for you.'

The perfectly shaped lips slipped into a faint smile as the wonderful voice, rich and velvet-smooth, picked up the air once more.