Chapter 7

Chapter 7

He almost couldn't bring himself to visit Minerva the next day (especially since he hadn't been able to fall asleep until he'd indulged in a furtive wank), but of course he had to. She was depending on him. He didn't stay long this time; told her had revising to do.

But it was less awkward to see her than he'd expected, and within a day or so, he was awaiting his visits as eagerly as ever.

He didn't always go at dinnertime, though; his continued absence from meals would have been too noticeable. Nor did he have to coordinate his visits with Madam Pomfrey. The door to the Room had begun to appear for her, and she no longer came at the same time as he did.

So now it was always just the two of them, Neville and Minerva, and he was almost sorry every time any of her magic manifested itself; he knew it was wrong of him, but he didn't want her to recover just yet. He didn't want their visits to end.

One day, after she'd been there a little over a fortnight, he said, "I've brought you something," and placed a tartan-patterned tin on the kitchen table. "Go on, open it."

Inside were ginger newts, of course, and when Minerva looked up at him, it was with Professor McGonagall's awareness in her eyes. "I like these, don't I?" she said. "In my school life."

"Yes. I wondered if you'd remember." It had been Madam Pomfrey's idea ― to start surrounding Minerva with more of her personal things.

The professor's gaze faded, and she was Minerva again. "I did remember," she said, taking up a newt and biting off its tail absently. "Just for a moment. I could see the tin ― on a desk. A rather cluttered desk, I'm afraid," she added, frowning.

"You're usually very neat, " Neville told her. "But I guess teaching can be a messy business sometimes. You're not angry?"

"About what?"

"That I sprang the newts on you without warning. Like a trick."

"Would I do that? I mean, would she, would Professor McGonagall, do that? Get angry at a trifle?"

"Well," said Neville, beginning to get a little nervous about revealing so much. "You do have quite a temper."

"Tell me something, Neville," she said, dropping her unfinished newt and pushing the tin away abruptly. "Are you afraid of me? I mean, were you?"

"You've been under a lot of strain," he said evasively, echoing Madam Pomfrey's words.

"In other words, yes, you were afraid of me," Minerva said, getting up and beginning to stride around the kitchen, very much like her professorial self. "Are you afraid of me now?"

"No. Not at all. I. . .I like you."

"Oh, Neville." She sat down suddenly and put her head into her hands, and he thought she might be crying.

After a moment, he got up to massage her shoulders, smoothing his thumbs over the linen of her robe (tartan today), letting the tips of his fingers brush her neck, the way he had done to Hannah Abbott last spring, when they had taken a picnic to the lake.

It had been a great day, back then. . .back when Dumbledore hadn't yet died, back when the Ministry hadn't yet fallen, back when he'd been foolish enough to think that he and Hannah might come to mean something more to each other. . .back then, before the world had exploded into war, and he'd been close to happy.

Some of that happiness returned now as he touched Minerva, and then he found himself leaning down to her, and she was turning her head towards him, and suddenly they were both on their knees, kissing, her arms around him as he wound one hand into her hair and let the other stroke the skin of her cheek, skin as soft and beautifully lined as the velvet petals of a holoserica bellituda flower. She tasted of ginger and tea, and he pulled her tightly against him. . .

The sensation of her breasts against his chest finally brought home to him just exactly what he was doing: he was taking advantage of a sick woman. . .an amnesiac. . .his own professor. . .his ― Merlin, his seventy-year-old sick professor. . .

Neville dropped his hands at once and scuttled backwards, away from Minerva. "Oh, god," he babbled, scarcely able to breathe, "oh, god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean, I never meant. . ."

Minerva was still on her knees, clutching the kitchen chair as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. She was staring at him in what he was sure was horror, one slender hand pressed to her chest. Yet Neville thought he must be some sort of depraved sicko, because even after what he'd just done, he still noticed how attractively her hair spilled over her breasts, still thought about how soft her lips had been against his.

He hung his head in shame, and only then did he realise that she was speaking.

"Can you ever forgive me, Neville? No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't even ask you to. There's no excuse, none. You'd best go report me now to Madam Pomfrey, I'm sure she'll have official forms to file, there will be charges to make, I understand that ― "

"What. . .what are you talking about?" Neville finally managed to ask. He watched as she slowly stood and then lowered herself onto the chair; he himself wasn't capable of anything except collapsing back against the wall.

"About my unconscionable sexual assault upon you," she said. "It was criminal ―"

"An assault? Criminal? You? No!" Neville was aware that he was being incoherent, but he couldn't believe that she seemed to think that she had been the one at fault.

"No," he said again. "I'm the one to blame, I'm the one who assaulted you. I took advantage of you in your weakened state ―"

"Took advantage of me? Nonsense! Make no mistake about it, I was doing exactly what I've been wanting to do, which makes it worse. I had no right. You told me yourself, I was once your teacher ―"

"But not any more!" Neville interrupted hotly. "I haven't been in your classroom for almost two years, and what's more, I'm of age. So please, Minerva, don't say anything more about sexual assaults. I knew what I was doing, and I really wanted to."

And, his shocked brain reminded him, she'd just said it was what she had been wanting to do, too. She'd been wanting to kiss him. Him, Neville. . .

He staggered to his feet and crossed to stand before her at the table, careful not to touch her.

"Minerva?" he said. "I really mean it. I wanted to. I wanted to kiss you, and I wanted ― " He stopped, flushing painfully. "I'm sorry."

She looked up at last. "Perhaps we both should just stop apologising, Neville. We each appear to have given into an unexpected temptation; you may blame all that 'strain' we've apparently been under, or anything else you like, although" ― she paused to give him a small, wry smile ― "I'd prefer not to hear any more waffle about my supposed 'weakened state.' Let us chalk it up to a momentary aberration and say no more about it. Agreed?"

"I ― " Neville felt something tighten inside him; it was a feeling he'd grown accustomed to during his Dumbledore's Army training, but even as a child, he'd felt it. His grandmother had called it "mulishness," but he thought it was more like determination. "No. No, I don't agree."

He sat down in the chair opposite Minerva, and this time he did touch her, reaching out to take her hands in his own, part of him still amazed at his own boldness. "Please hear me out, and then if you still want to drop this, I promise I won't say another word about it."

"Very well." Minerva looked expectant, her face wearing the expression of the professor when she was waiting for a student to answer a question during Transfiguration class. But she didn't withdraw her hands, which Neville took as a good sign. He ploughed ahead.

"Our world is at war, and both of us could be dead by this time next year. This time next week, even. We have something here, something special ― this cottage, this time away. It won't last, but it's ours for now. I don't want to waste it. I want to keep coming here as long as I can, and seeing you, and holding your hand if I want to."

He wasn't sure if he should say the next thing on his mind, but then again, what did he have to lose? "And I want to kiss you again. Kiss you and then. . ."

He knew he was blushing, but he didn't look away.

She raised an eyebrow slightly. "And then?"

"I don't know. Whatever you want." But despite himself, his eyes slid towards the bedroom, and he was sure she noticed.

If she did, though, she didn't indicate it. She merely said, "But you know this will end, Neville. At some point, it will end, and we will have to go back to our other lives. Whether my memory returns or not, we'll have to live with whatever happens here."

"I can do that."

"Perhaps. But it may still be a mistake. I like you, Neville; you're funny and smart and kind. But you are. . .what? Twenty years old?"

He couldn't bring himself to correct her.

"And I must be three times that, if not more," she went on. "The world may judge us ― judge me ― harshly. I may judge myself harshly, if I ever recover myself, that is."

"I don't care about our ages!" Neville said. "They don't matter. We're both grown-ups."

Minerva shook her head. "It's not that simple," she said. "You don't want to live with regrets, Neville. And I. . .well, in my usual mind, I might be the sort of person who would refuse to forgive myself for exploiting you."

"Yes, that's possible," honesty compelled Neville to say. "But you won't need to blame yourself. You won't be exploiting me. I know what I'm doing, and I won't regret it. I'm not a child. I don't need to be protected."

She seemed suddenly near tears. "Oh, my dear, we all of us need to be protected," she said, squeezing his hands. Then she touched his face gently. "I think you should leave now, Neville."

"But ― " He knew he'd said that he would shut up if she asked him to, but now he thought he couldn't bear it if she did.

"Leave, and think carefully about this," Minerva said. "You say you're not a child, and you're right. So please go and think about what you're suggesting, about the consequences and implications. Think about it like the man you are. I'll think about it, too."

At least she hadn't said no.

Neville stood. "I'll think about it," he said. "And then I'll come back."

"I'll be here."