Chapter 8

Chapter 8

He did think about what she'd said, or he tried to, but the truth was, he'd already made up his mind. He didn't care what might happen next week or next month. It was as he had told Minerva: no one in wizarding Britain these days, in Hogwarts or out, had any guarantee of making it to tomorrow, let alone any more distant future.

Carpe diem.

So instead of thinking about consequences, Neville spent a large part of the night alternating between thinking of further arguments to persuade her and being a nervous wreck about the fact that he might be about to have sex with his Head of House.

And not just that, but she was an older woman. She'd have had sex before, she'd know what to do and what she liked, and she would see at once that he was. . .well, not very experienced, that he was. . .

Oh, all right ― she'd see that he was still a virgin.

He had moral qualms, too ― was it wrong of him to encourage Minerva to do something that he was 100% certain she would never consider doing if she were Professor McGonagall? He was sure the professor would never sleep with a student, whether they were actually in her classes or not.

But then again, Minerva had said she wanted to kiss him, she hadn't laughed at him when he'd suggested more, she herself had scoffed at the notion that she was weak or ill or needed someone to make her decisions for her. . .

And he wanted her.

Now if only she'd continue to want him.

* * *

In the end, none of it turned out to be necessary ― not his fears that she might change her mind, not his carefully-planned arguments, not the sexual worries of his early-morning insomnia (What if he couldn't figure out how to do it? What if he was clumsy and hurt her? What if his, um, bits refused to work? What if he couldn't. . .oh god, would she expect him to know how to. . .ah, satisfy her?).

When he got to the Room of Requirement the following night (long after curfew and any possibility of a visit from Madam Pomfrey), the weather was as warm as summer, the moon was high, and starlight showered everything with a silvery glitter.

Minerva was on the darkened terrace, her feet bare, her hair long and free down her back. Neither of them said a word as Neville put his hands on her shoulders and gathered her into his arms, and when he finally stopped for breath after a long and satisfying kiss, she took his hand to lead him into the bedroom.

He'd thought he might be embarrassed when they got naked, but it felt totally natural to shed his clothes and to watch her remove hers, to press their bare bodies together and to feel her hands move slowly down his back.

Neville usually liked sturdy girls with a little meat on their bones, like Hannah, but he found Minerva's pale slenderness appealing, too. It was with a sense of wonder that he cupped her breast in his palm and touched the smooth curve of her stomach.

He wanted to tell her that she was beautiful, but felt it might be too much of a cliché, and besides, he didn't want to stop kissing her. When her fingers found his cock for the first time, he thought he might expire with shock and pleasure. . .and also with the fear that he would come right there in her hand.

"Please," he muttered. "I don't want . . ."

Minerva seemed to understand, for the next thing he knew, they were on the bed, and there was more kissing and stroking, and then she was guiding him gently, and he was inside her, and . . .oh. Oh.

* * *

Afterward, they lay together in the starlight. He had finished too quickly, Neville knew, and there had been several moments of awkwardness and readjusted positions, but she hadn't seemed to mind, and as for Neville himself. . .well, no wonder poets wrote so much about this. No wonder.

He raised himself on his elbow to look down at her, all silver and shadow in the moonlight. "I'm afraid I was too fast," he said.

She reached up to run her fingers through his hair. "Next time, you can be slower if you like."

Next time. There was going to be a next time.

* * *

There were six next times, in fact: five evenings in the bedroom, and one glorious afternoon on a charmed blanket in the heather. Neville had never imagined himself lying naked and relaxed in the open air, but now, with the Room of Requirement guarding their privacy, and Minerva warm in his arms, he thought he'd like to stay like this forever.

But the very next day, Madam Pomfrey appeared while he was helping Professor Sprout repot Bouncing Bulbs.

"If you both wouldn't mind stopping at the infirmary this evening," she said. "I think we ought to talk about winter strengthening potions for some of the younger students."

"Well," said Professor Sprout after Madam Pomfrey had left. "I'm not generally in favour of dosing children with too many potions, but there have already been quite a few colds this season, so perhaps it's for the best. And we've got to keep their strength up, poor dears. This year is hard enough as it is, what with those Carrows" ― and here her voice conveyed more hatred than Neville would have thought her capable of ― "and Professor McGonagall's disappearance. Oh, dear, Neville, it's been over a month. What on earth could have happened to her?"

"It could be anything, I guess," Neville answered, not liking to lie too directly to Professor Sprout. Not that he didn't think she was soon to get her memories back anyway, for surely that's what Madam Pomfrey really wanted to talk about: Professor McGonagall.

Maybe Madam Pomfrey and the others had found a cure for the amnesia.

That idea didn't please Neville as much as he knew it should.