pre-HG/MM
“Are you quite well?” Minerva asked finally. Hermione had been frowning slightly at her previous assertion for nearly thirty seconds, and had yet to formulate a reply - despite her Transfiguration Mastery going smoothly thus far. She normally had many intelligent counter-arguments to make.
Hermione jumped. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“It… doesn’t matter. Tell me what’s distracting you so.” Minerva had grown fond of her apprentice, and - unlike when she was teaching Hogwarts students - was more willing to engage in a private capacity, particularly since this particular student had lived through a war.
“You,” Hermione answered without hesitation, and then covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry,” she added.
“Me?” Minerva blinked. “Er - why?” She patted her hair self-consciously, wondering what was out of place.
Hermione sighed. “Because I’ve been in love with you for about six years and now there’s no fighting to be done, and no coming of age to wait for. Every spell I cast on the run was to make sure I got back to you, every tear I shed was in pain for what Hogwarts became and what you had to bear. Every time Bellatrix broke into my mind, she showed me pictures of you, dead. My boggart…” She shook her head. “I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t, at times. And now, we’re both here, alive, and I spend every waking moment wondering how and when I should tell you. Waiting for the day I kissed you without thinking, or reached for your hand, and blew it entirely.”