A/N: This story is part of the "Trainspotting" universe. I think it can be read on its own as a one-shot, but if you want the full experience, you can find the whole "Trainspotting" epic here at FFN. (I'll cross-post as a chapter to the main story, too). Happy New Year to all!
A "Trainspotting" One-Shot
by Kelly Chambliss
Except for the fire crackling in the grate, the bedchamber was quiet, and anyone who glanced quickly through the door could have been forgiven for thinking that the room was empty. But if this mythical observer had waited a moment, his or her eye might have been caught by a movement from the bed.
A bare arm slid from beneath the duvet and pushed aside the thick folds to reveal the naked form of Rolanda Hooch, former Holyhead Harpy, former Hogwarts Quidditch mistress, and current well-satisfied lover.
"We should get up," she said, making no move to do so. "People will be here in three hours."
Someone stirred beside her. "You're the one who insisted that we take to our bed in the middle of the day. The day we're hosting a Christmas Eve party, no less." Hooch's bedmate spoke sternly, an effect that was rather undermined by her own nakedness and the fact that she was leaning over to trail kisses along Rolanda's shoulder.
Ro grinned. There had been a time when Minerva McGonagall would never have considered abandoning herself to hot sex in the middle of the day, no matter how aroused she might have been by, for example, Ro's sending her -- via owl to the High Table during lunch in the Great Hall -- a detailed description of just exactly what she proposed they do instead of sitting there waiting decorously for pudding. She'd delighted in the way Minerva's cheeks had slowly flushed as she read the note (it had been very detailed indeed) and the way her breathing had quickened, causing her chest to rise most invitingly. But Min had Vanished the note as soon as she'd finished it (well, Severus had started to seem a bit interested) and had shaken her head frowningly at Rolanda; it had been after midnight before Ro had finally had the chance to offer a practical demonstration of what she'd written.
But that had happened in another lifetime -- a time when she had thought she would spend the rest of her life coaching Quidditch at Hogwarts, her days measured by the unchanging rhythms of term and summer. That had been before the fall of the Ministry, before the triumph of Voldemort and his Death Eaters at the Battle of Hogwarts, before the lives of everyone she knew had changed irrevocably or, in too many cases, had ended completely. That had been before she and Minerva and so many others had had to leave behind all that they knew and take up new lives in the Muggle world.
Yet even this new life had gone on, and despite its deprivations and sadnesses, Rolanda couldn't deny that there were compensations. Like this new Minerva, the one who happily stopped their party preparations to tumble into bed for an afternoon quickie, the one who no longer made any attempt to conceal their relationship (she hadn't even been embarrassed last Hogmanay when Potter had come upon them snogging in the safe-house kitchen long before they'd had the excuse of too much champagne).
And this very room in which they lay was a compensation. What with one thing and another, it had taken them five years, but Rolanda and Minerva had finally managed to get a flat of their own -- they'd moved last month from the crowded safe-house they'd shared with Arthur Weasley and Potter and Kingsley and the Granger girl and as many other wizarding refugees as the house could hold. Rolanda felt closer to those people than she did to her own blood kin, but she had to admit that the togetherness had often been too much; now the luxury of sharing two small rooms and a kitchen with just Minerva was almost more pleasure than she could bear.
For the party, they would magically expand the sitting room to accommodate the guests, but they'd leave the bedroom as it was. Ro looked with satisfaction at the small fireplace, the well-stuffed bookcase, the cozy bed covered by the comforter of muted blues and golds that had been a housewarming gift from Hermione. "It's for both Gryffindor and Ravenclaw," she'd said, and Ro had been pleased; it was silly, but she'd come to see the quilt as a symbol of her union with Minerva, the beautifully-mingled colours distinct but inseparable.
Any further thoughts Rolanda might have had about the new flat were cut short by the progress of Minerva's lips across her shoulder and collarbone and…ooh, her breast, but before she could lose herself in sensation, Min offered a final kiss and sat up with a smile. Ro loved seeing her like this, the day's tension temporarily smoothed from her face, her passion-tousled dark hair spilling over her pale skin.
"Perhaps I should be more worried about keeping people safe tonight," Min said, brushing hair from her eyes, "but I do think we've taken all the security precautions we can."
"The place is warded within an inch of its life, Min," Rolanda reassured her. "And unplotted. And protected by Fidelius. I have every confidence in your spellwork, and obviously so does everyone else. No parents would have sent their children to the school otherwise, and these are the same protections you use there."
The new school had been absorbing all Minerva's energies for over a year. Once the more immediate refugee crises had been attended to, and everyone had faced the fact that overthrowing the reign of the Death Eaters -- even if possible -- would be a long and arduous process, Minerva and Filius had begun planning to open an academy for Muggle-born witches and wizards. The first term had just been completed.
The scale was small, just a few classes conducted in the magically-constructed wing of one of the safe-houses, but Rolanda, for one, had no doubt that the school would succeed and expand. It was the sort of project at which Minerva excelled, and she'd got it off the ground in the face of some stiff opposition. Many people had argued that gathering children together would make too tempting a target for the Death Eaters, but Minerva had patiently answered every objection. "We cannot let an entire generation of magical children remain uneducated," she had insisted, and such was the force of her personality and reputation that she had of course prevailed.
"Yes, we should be safe enough," Minerva nodded now. "I'm more concerned about whether we'll have enough rum punch; you know how Kingsley gets at Christmas, and Augusta can usually match him glass for glass."
Rolanda reached over to twist a particularly tempting lock of black-and-silver hair round her finger. "While you, of course, plan to be perfectly abstemious."
Min gave the sort of sniff she used to reserve for Sybill Trelawney's more elaborate idiocies. "Certainly not. It's Christmas, after all. But you'll never catch a McGonagall diluting perfectly good spirits with fruit juice."
Ro laughed. "Well, at least Hermione won't be a drain on the punch supply this year -- not that she was ever much of a drinker."
"I wish I could be happier about this baby, Rolanda," Minerva said, her expression darkening slightly as she sank back against the pillows. "Of course I would never hint such a thing to Miss Granger, but I fear that she and Mr Weasley have moved too quickly. They've been reunited for only six months, and you know that Ronald still hasn't fully recovered; he probably never will."
Rolanda did know. Now that the initial euphoria over Weasley's return had faded, the extent of his neurological injuries was becoming harder to ignore. They'd found him -- or rather, he'd found them -- only last June, after a healer had been able to reverse much of the unusual obliviation spell that had apparently hit Ron during the Battle of Hogwarts. Missing and presumed dead since that night, he'd in fact been living among wizarding folk in Wales. He'd had no idea how he'd got there or even who he was, until a traveling healer had recognized his symptoms and treated him.
The day word reached the safe-house that Ron Weasley was alive had been the best day Rolanda had experienced since. . .well, since she'd realised that Minerva would survive the cursed shoulder wound she'd received from Lucius Malfoy. Of course, nothing would ever compare in intensity to the joy that Min's recovery had brought Ro, but Ron's return came close. Arthur Weasley had been practically beside himself, Granger had beamed with a happiness too deep for words, and even Potter's thin, normally-shadowed face had been split by an ear-to-ear grin for days.
But everything wasn't all tea-and-roses, of course. Weasley still had moments of frightening blankness when his memory would disappear again, and even at the best of times, he was easily frustrated and given to displays of temper. He alternated between seeming thrilled about the coming baby and yielding to a terrified panic.
"You're right, it is awfully soon," Ro said to Minerva. "A baby may be an affirmation of life, but it's not going to erase all our troubles. Still, it's too late to get them to change their minds now."
"That would be magic indeed," Min replied wryly. "Well, I suppose we'll just have to trust to Miss Granger's good sense."
"She was wasted in Gryffindor," Ro said. "The girl is obviously a Ravenclaw."
It was a long-standing, comfortable joke between them, and Minerva responded as she always did: "But luckily, she was spared that fate."
They smiled at each other. "Well, you're brave and smart enough for all of them," Rolanda said, turning on her side and tracing a finger lightly over the scars on Minerva's shoulder. Lucius's curse hadn't killed her, but the damage had been deep, and Min -- like Weasley, like Potter, like all of them -- would never be as whole as she'd once been. They all bore marks, one way or other, as Ro was reminded every time she saw Minerva's face tighten with pain, whether from her shoulder or from someone's mention of Hagrid or Poppy. Or Severus.
But only rarely, in the dark and with Rolanda in her arms, did Minerva ever talk about the people they'd lost. And of course, everyone in the Order knew better than to offer her help or sympathy when her shoulder injury flared up. Even Kingsley had stammered into silence at the look Min had given him the first (and only) time he'd tried to lift something for her. She'd Levitated whatever-it-was with the smallest flick of her wand and snapped, "It's called magic, Mr Shacklebolt. Or have you forgotten that I'm a witch?"
"Not for an instant," Kingsley had said solemnly, and after Min had left the room, he'd glanced at Ro and mimed mopping his brow.
The memory made Rolanda grin, and predictably, Min noticed. "What?" she asked.
"Nothing. Just loving you."
Her beloved partner gave a tiny snort of suspicion and raised one eyebrow in a gesture so quintessentially Minerva that Ro laughed aloud. Cupping Min's face in her hands, she kissed her deeply, relishing the feel of her lover's warm body against her own.
After a breathless few moments, Minerva whispered, "I thought you said we had to get up."
"Mmmm, we do," Ro said. "In a few minutes."
And in a few minutes, they would. They would get up, dress, finish the party preparations, and welcome their friends to their home. In the months and years to come, they would teach magic to children and fight against the darkness and die in that fight if they needed to, although Ro was damned if she'd go quietly. Or let Minerva go, either.
Yes, they would get up and do what they needed to do. . .in a few minutes.
Rolanda wrapped her arms around Minerva and buried her face in the long, soft hair. They would get up in a few minutes.