I hadn't intended to continue this, but people suggested that Hermione came off as a little manipulative in the first chapter, so perhaps I can redeem her a little with her side of the story.

It had all started at 7:30 on a Tuesday morning when the delivery owl swooped down from the open window at the front of the Great Hall and dropped the small package so that it fell onto the Gryffindor table in front of Hermione, narrowly missing her plate of bacon and eggs and making the first year sitting opposite her shriek in surprise.

Frowning, Hermione picked up the parcel with her free hand. 'Do not open in G.H.' was written across the brown paper in unexpectedly familiar block letters and she realized instantly what this was. Glacing around, Hermione had slipped the small parcel into her book bag and finished eating her toast before retreating to her private quarters in the twenty-odd minutes before the first bell for classes rang.

Back in the Head Girl's rooms, Hermione cautiously opened the twine-sealed wrapping, uncertain of its contents, not having expected George to have come up with a solution to her problem so soon. To her surprise, inside it was a piece of parchment with a few lines of instructions and, inside a smaller wooden box; a small glass vial containing an intensely purple liquid. Hermione's heart jumped when she scanned the directions, and after a second read through, she tossed the small scoll up in the air and it vanished in a puff of flame. After hiding the potion under her bed and putting a simple concealment charm on it, Hermione rushed off to Astronomy, wondering how and, more importantly, when she could use the gift without detection.

It was almost a week and a half later that she was able to drank the vial's contents. Ginny and Harry had plans in Hogsmeade, Ron had a 'study-break' in the Library with Lavender Brown, and there were no Prefect or Head meetings or duties that evening. Hermione had almost thrown out the potion earlier that day, having had serious second thoughts about the implications of what she was about to do, but her desperation won out in the end. George hadn't specified how his creation would achieve what he had promised, only that it would be an hour or so before the effects became noticeable. The uncertainty was not reassuring.

Initially she had thought that the prickling sensation under her clothes was an unwanted side-effect of the potion and had continued to work on her essay for Professor Sprout. To her dismay, the itching only intensified and ten agonizing minutes later, she finally pulled her skirt down and peeked beneath her underwear, uttering a cry of dismay when she saw that familar brown curls at the juncture of her thighs had been replaced by soft, impossibly fine hairs.

Five minutes and a rush of wand-waving and muttered spells later, the pale fur was still creeping up her midline, soon reaching her navel and – to Hermione's horror – seemed to be growing at a greater speed that before. This was enough to make the Head Girl grab her school robes and rush out the door, wondering what she had done to herself and why George hadn't been more careful with his silly inventions.

She could have sworn that Crookshanks had rolled his eyes as she rushed out of her room.

Minerva McGonagall had looked quite annoyed when she opened her office door at the brunette's panicked knock, but the woman's cross expression had evaporated when she saw who it was, quickly turning to concern when Hermione began to cry. Half a minute later, they were both standing in front of the fire place inside the office and the Head of Gryffindor was staring in shock at her student's now well-furred torso – the cream-colored hairs thick and soft across Hermione's breasts and running up almost to her throat.

Hermione had choked out some excuse, her mind too busy wondering whether this would be a permanent change to really concentrate on creating passable reasons for this slow and terrifying transformation into a cat. The last time this had happened - caused by contaminated Polyjuice - it had taken weeks for her to return to normal.

"We will find a way to reverse the spell, do not worry," Minerva had said, pulling the young witch into a hug.

It was the first time that the woman had hugged her, the first time that she had ever physically crossed the teacher-student barrier in all the years that Hermione had known her. The embrace was warm and soft and it felt wonderful when the elder woman ran her hands down her bare back in gentle calming circles. Hermione's head fit perfectly in the hollow of Minerva's neck, and the woman's chin rested lightly on the part in her hair. Never had Hermione felt so safe in someone's arms, so reassured that everything would be all right in the end.

Once her sniffling had died down, a slim hand drew her eyes up to meet intense green ones and a wave of pleasure rushed down Hermione's spine as she saw that the woman was not entirely unaffected by their closeness.

And just like that, all the pieces fell into place and the panicked feeling that had threatened to rise up again fizzled out like a snuffed candle.

This was George's fault.

George Fucking Weasley, that too-clever- by-half, red-haired smart-arse had known that the Transfiguration teacher's animagus form was not entirely under her control. He had realized that the woman would respond to a certain stimulus, that there was one thing that could neatly slice through Minerva McGonagall's iron-clad self control like a hot knife through butter.

All fear had vanished with this spark of insight because it all made sense now. To tap into the hidden animagus instincts, some physical change was necessary; biochemical alterations to produce pheromones. An irresistable, if temporary, attraction could be created. George had found a creative solution to the problem that she had tearfully confessed to over the winter holidays only a few weeks earlier. There were inconveniant side-effects because he hadn't known how much change would be necessary to tip the scales against Minerva's self control.

This was all happening as it was supposed to.

"Miss Granger," the older woman's voice was a throaty rumble, and if Hermione hadn't been certain already, the husky timbre would have told her everything she needed to know about the struggle behind the seemingly impassive visage. "I should take you to the Hospital Wing; Madame Pomfrey will be able to treat you for whatever caused this...change."

Without thinking, Hermione turned her head to kiss her teacher's palm as it caressed her cheek, conveying the degree of love she felt for Minerva. Her upper lip tingled as – was it whiskers? – brushed against the other woman's skin.

"Hermione..you...need to leave."

The raw need in the half-lidded green eyes betrayed the voice.

"Professor..." Hermione murmured absently as she gazed up at her mentor, memorizing all the minute expressions that flickered across Minerva's fine features as the struggle to fight the inevitable wound down to an obvious conclusion. She let her hand slowly slide down the slim waist to settle on the woman's hip. "What's happening? Why do I feel...?"

Hermione had mispoke, but couldn't bring herself to correct the words that had escaped her lips because they were partially true. Why do I feel like you are the only one I have ever wanted? Victor didn't work. Ron didn't work, and I tried so hard to love him. I'll probably never forgive myself for this but I had to try, at any cost. I have to know.

She knew that it was wrong to continue the facade: Hermione had come to the woman for help with what she had perceived to be a very real problem, and now that she knew what it was, the right thing to do would be to tell her teacher. Explain what had happened. Stop whatever it was that was about to occur. Put aside her own feelings, her own needs, and do the right thing.

She opened her mouth to speak.

And that was the exact moment that long fingers tangled into her hair and Hermione knew that she had finally got her dearest wish after all these years of waiting.

Minerva McGonagall was a much better kisser than Victor, Cormac or Ron. She tasted of sweet tea, with a hint of spice that might have been ginger, and as Hermione fell with the elder witch onto the sofa by the fire, she had decided that she never wanted to kiss another person unless it was the woman beneath her.

The changes to her own body continued, but Hermione paid no attention, no longer afraid and too absorbed in undoing the fasteners of her teacher's robes, arching her back with pleasure when hands kneaded her rear. She was rewarded by bare flesh and sucked at the dusky pink nipple hungrily, lapping around it to sooth, pulling at it again. This suckling caused the woman beneath her let out a passionate moan and nails dug into her thighs as Minerva tensed.

"Please, Professor." Hermione gasped, sounding more shrill than her usual self, although whether she was asking for the painful grip to be released or for something else, she had no clear idea. The dark-haired witch drew Hermione up from her chest to kiss her with even more intensity than before, seemingly wanting to convey the degree of need that she was struggling with.

"You are beautiful, Miss Granger." Minerva's voice was a breathy whisper, and her clear green eyes were so filled with desire that Hermione couldn't help but smile. A rumbling purr of satisfaction issued deep in Hermione's chest and she touched the woman's reddened lips with her own one last time before sliding off of the sofa to pick up the wand that was set on the wooden table nearby and vanish her teacher's robes so that they were folded up neatly on the lone chair at the other side of the room.

Her heart nearly stopped at the sight.

Without her robes the woman was slender and long-limbed and very pale. Had Hermione not known better, she might have called the Headmistress 'fragile'; what with the slim wrists and ankles and overall angularity of the witch's figure. The wtich was incredibly beautiful, and her attractiveness was only made more apparent by the uncharacteristicly lustful expression on her face.

Pressure from Hermione's hands – hands that were now looking very much like feline paws what with the leathery pads and thin coat of fur over the backs – spread the seated woman's legs apart and the younger witch leaned forward with half-lidded eyes to the source of the heavenly scent.

Minerva came quietly; her teeth grit together, a soft hiss eschewing from her lips as muscles tensed and relaxed. Pleased that she had done what was obviously an excellent job on this unusual practical assignment, Hermione rolled back onto her heels, only to discover that she was no longer digitade; her skin returned to its regular smoothness, her spine its usual length.

Once she had recovered, the Headmistress looked quite stunned to see Hermione back to her regular unchanged self and Hermione quickly took initiative before the surprise turned to dismay at what had just happened or worse – anger. She approached with hither-to unknown confidence, unpinned the last physical piece of cool reserve, winding her fingers into the dark locks until they fell down over slim shoulders.

An explanation.

An invitation.

A request.

To her surprise, Minerva accepted all three.

Two minutes later, Hermione had learned that the Headmistress of Hogwarts was deceptively flexible, and that rolling around on a wool rug without any clothing was a surefire way to get carpet burn.

A gentle nip at her neck reminded her that her mind should be on other matters.

"Mmminervaa," she groaned.

Nails stroked a delicious path down her ribs, massaging the flesh of her waist as a warm mouth enveloped her right nipple.

"More." A whisper this time, eyes closing with pleasure, neck arching back. "Please..."

A throaty laugh greeted this demand.

"Begging already? Miss Granger, I've hardly begun!"

That voice was mesmerizing. So rich and compelling. So...

Sensitive. Hermione bucked her hips involuntarily as a hand swept down to caress her inner thigh.

"You cannot possibly believe how wonderful you smell, my dear. Truly delicious."

The mood was almost broken by Hermione's innate inquisitiveness.

"How is it that you are able to control the merging between your animagus form and your regular one? I would have thought it to be quite difficult, if not impossible, from a structural standpoint."

"There are..." Minerva purred out against her ribs, continuing her way down the young woman's body, "...advantages...to holding a Transfiguration mastery."

"And the increase in the your sensory abilities?" the brunette pressed, wanting to know more.

"A varient of Moglem's compartmentalization theories unique to animagi that we shall discuss..." Minerva paused to kiss the skin of Hermione's hip before, long dark hair spilling silkily across Hermione's thighs, "...at another time."

"But..." Hermione asked, raising her head up from the floor, quite interested now.

"Hush."

If the younger witch had any other questions, they were lost as her powers of speech diminished into baser sounds of pleasure as Minerva made very good use of her tongue.

It was a sunny Monday afternoon and the Transfigurations seventh year class was working on their assignment of the week. Ron had not been paying attention for the previous five classes – too wrapped up in his rekindled affections for Lavender - and was becoming quite irate that Hermione wasn't sharing her knowledge as freely as she might.

Professor McGonagall had descended from her desk at the front of the room and set him straight on her expectations of a seventh year student in her class.

Sending one last frown at a chastened Ron as he turned sulkily back to his own work, the Transfigurations professor moved over to the student he had been bothering. She leaned down to whisper in Hermione's ear, pitching her voice so that none of the other students sitting at the desks nearby could hear.

"Behave, Miss Granger," Minerva breathed out, "Or you shall find yourself wearing a collar around that lovely neck of yours."

Hermione was unable to contain her whimper at that mental image and the teacher's green eyes became even brighter at the sound.

"You would enjoy that, my dear?" Minerva clicked her tongue softly in disapproval. "Well then; a lesson in discipline seems to be needed…"

A weight suddenly settled around Hermione's neck. Bringing her left hand up to her throat, she found a narrow circle of what felt like thick leather, hidden from sight by her robes and shirt.

"I shall expect you at nine o'clock in my office, dressed as you are." came the murmur in her ear. "I do recommend that you be punctual."

Minerva had returned to her desk and begun to mark papers before Hermione remembered how to breathe again.

AN: Does that provide a more sympathetic view of Hermione's actions in Chapter 1?

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