Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Minerva McGonagall, Hermione Granger
Do they (want to) have sex (with each other)? Eventually yes. (I hope)
Rating: Eventually NC-17
Warnings: Spanking, chan.
Disclaimer: JK Rowling and Scholastic.
Justification: I have none; really I don't.
Summary: In which the HP series is awesome, but would be so much better if McGonagall spanked Hermione more.
Note: If all goes as planned, this will be a chronologically and thematically connected series of PWPs. There will be no cliffhangers, and there's clearly no logic. In other words, I encourage you to read it despite the many, many reasons why you're running away in squicked-out fear.
Chapter title: "Halloween"
Spoilers/Timeline: Midway through SS/PS
Summary: Five points weren't enough.
Chapter 1: Halloween
"Miss Granger, a word?"
Hermione closes her eyes. Professor McGonagall's voice brings blood to her cheeks, a reminder of those five lost points and the cold disappointment in her favorite teacher's eyes. You foolish girl wouldn't prick so much if it weren't paired with the hot shame of I'm very disappointed in you, which stings like the point of the needle she transfigured just two months ago, the needle that made Professor McGonagall smile, the needle she keeps tucked deep inside her school robes, where no one can see it but where she can feel it, thin and slender against her leg, pricking her occasionally to remembrance of what she can do with words and wand if she only works hard enough.
Harry and Ron hang about, clearly uncomfortable lingering in a teacher's presence longer than they have to. She ought to have sent them away minutes ago, but she's not used to people waiting to walk back to the tower with her. "Go on," she whispers, then, "Yes, Professor?"
"Step into my office," Professor McGonagall says, not unkindly, and holds her arm out, ushering Hermione towards the half-open bronzed door.
"If it's about Halloween," Hermione says, following her, "I -- I've been thinking about it, and I know I shouldn't --"
"Have faced a troll yourself, at age eleven? Yes, I rather think you shouldn't have. Take a seat."
The office is chokingly warm and decorated in subtle plaids. Checked drapes are pulled tightly around a window, and opposite McGonagall's desk a fire burns hot. Hermione stares at the fire. "Is it connected to the Floo Network?" she asks without thinking. "I've read all about it."
"I prefer to have my office uninvaded by travelers, generally."
"Oh. Of course, I should've thought..."
Hermione doesn't take the offered seat but stands awkwardly, hands tucked together, beside the chair clearly intended for student use. She's sure she ought to say something but nothing comes to mind.
McGonagall's eyes never leave her, though Hermione's looking everywhere, at the gilt books that line the office, at the heavy drapes, at the Flooless fire. There's gravity in McGonagall's gaze she can't endure, precision in her long nose and austere bun that deflect Hermione's curiosity. She'd like to know everything that can be learned about the Wizarding World, every famous witch and wizard, every dangerous beast and beautiful herb that Muggle eyes can't see. But for all her straight-forward practicality in the classroom and dormitory, Professor McGonagall, here in her habitat, defies examination.
The yes of Hermione's foolishness hangs between them, heavy as the heat, until McGonagall speaks.
"You won't do it again." Not anything like a question.
"No... no, Professor."
"I have high hopes for you," McGonagall says. "Both for you personally and for your generation. James Potter's son, and Frank Longbottom's, and the Weasley children. And you."
Hermione says nothing and looks at her hands. McGonagall seems content to let the silence drag on, and Hermione feels herself scrutinized though she still can't meet her eyes.
McGonagall's voice is even and weighty with authority; she doesn't need to yell or whisper to make Hermione realize her place. "You wouldn't be Gryffindor's if you didn't think you could face the world's evil single-handed," she tells her. "But at some point we all must learn our limitations. I rather think mountain trolls are beyond most of us, regardless of how much training we have, or," she pauses, obviously remembering Harry and Ron's triumph, "how much luck we have. So please, in the future, a little less pride and a little more prudence."
Hermione doesn't dare think what Professor McGonagall would say if she knew the real reason she was by herself in the washroom last night; she'd rather be thought stupid and brave than known for a coward. McGonagall is right about one thing -- she's too proud to let anyone know how miserable she felt before the troll came along. She dares a question. "Am I going to be punished?"
"Five points wasn't enough?" McGonagall asks, genuine curiosity in her voice.
"You seem -- you seem angry."
"Not angry, Miss Granger - concerned. I hope you learned something from your misadventure last night. There are punishments more memorable than lost points, but of course..." Hermione knows she's going to be spanked before she glances up and sees the resolution in McGonagall's eyes. "Five strokes," McGonagall says softly, and Hermione nods. "I'm afraid I need something a little more concrete than a nod."
"It's fine," Hermione says, though she hardly trusts her voice. "I deserve them."
"You certainly do. No, keep your robes on, don't be ridiculous. I'm a witch, not a barbarian. Are you afraid?"
She isn't. She doesn't know what she feels, just that her skin is suddenly hot from her face to her feet, and that the image of McGonagall's smile the first day of class keeps coming blurrily to mind while she walks the seven steps to the desk. "No."
McGonagall directs her over her lap with a few words and careful hands around her waist; Hermione's hair hangs down and she wishes she could instantly magic it into a bun like McGonagall's, out of her way. But her hair hangs and her legs dangle, and when she draws breath, it sounds too loud in her own ears.
If she's imagined it -- and she hasn't, not in details, not with sensory images, just perhaps (no, she hasn't thought of it) the idea of a spanking, punishment she's naturally curious about, having read about it but never experienced it. If she's imagined it, it's always one blurry event, a spanking. But it's not. It's five events and they're anything but blurry, each one precise and painful through one layer of wool and one of cotton. The strokes are muffled some by her robes, but that doesn't dull the pain any; it feels nothing like pinpricks yet everything like them, deep precision that makes her ache, more painful with each stroke. There'll be red on her cheeks that's nothing -- and everything -- to do with shame.
"We're done." She doesn't move, and Professor McGonagall says, with generosity in her voice, "You were very brave."
"Th -- thank you," Hermione manages.
"In the future, you'll be wiser."
"Yes," she says, and, gathering her wits, she stands up. McGonagall isn't quite smiling, but there's something new in her expression that Hermione thinks, suddenly, she could learn. She wonders why a minute ago she couldn't meet those eyes; now she could look at them --
"Yes, heaps, I mean, of course I do. I've got five inches for Professor Flitwick and some Herbology reading I want to get done before --"
"Thank you," she says again.
And McGonagall fully smiles when she tells her, "Any time."
Chapter 2: "After The Leaving Feast"