Chapter 2
R-18 scene Roland x Minerva McGonagall (2233 word count)
The following days slipped by uneventfully, marked only by more classes. The atmosphere in the History of Magic classroom was usually one of profound tranquility, bordering on the comatose. Professor Binns' droning, spectral voice had a soporific effect on even the most caffeinated student, turning goblin rebellions and giant wars into the world's most effective lullaby. Today, however, the air felt taut—too alert, too aware. It wasn't loud, but it was sharp, like a wire pulled too tight. Roland stood at the front of the class, solid where Binns had been translucent, alive where the room was accustomed to half-death. He leaned against the heavy oak desk with easy confidence, sleeves rolled back, eyes roaming with interest rather than authority. He wasn't fighting the room's attention. He already had it.
"The Statute of Secrecy," he said, voice calm and resonant, "is usually framed as a noble act. Protection. Mercy. Wisdom." He tilted his head slightly. "I don't care about the official phrasing. I want your interpretations. Why did it really happen?"
Hands rose across the room—Hermione's among them, straight and eager—but Draco Malfoy didn't bother. "Because Muggles are inferior," Malfoy drawled, sprawling back in his chair. Crabbe and Goyle snorted on either side of him. "And dangerous when they get ideas above their station. Wizards hid to avoid dealing with them. Sensible, really."
A few Slytherins chuckled. Harry turned in his seat so fast his chair legs screeched faintly against the stone. "That's not what happened," he said, sharp enough to cut. "They hid because Muggles were hunting them. Burning them."
Malfoy's pale eyes lit up. "Oh, Potter. Still clinging to tragic fairy tales? I suppose it helps when your whole brand is martyrdom."
Ron leaned forward. "Says the bloke whose family hid behind pure-blood walls while everyone else did the fighting."
"Watch it, Weasley," Malfoy shot back, sitting up now. "Some of us didn't need to rely on blood traitors and mud—"
"Enough," Hermione cut in, her voice crisp and unwavering. Every head turned. She had finally looked up from her parchment, eyes bright behind her curls, irritation plain on her face. "If you're going to argue history," she said coolly, "at least get it right. Muggle aggression wasn't based on inferiority or fear alone—it was fueled by ignorance and mass hysteria. Which, incidentally, is exactly what blood-purist ideology relies on."
Malfoy smirked. "Careful, Granger. Big words don't make you right."
"No," Hermione replied, unfazed. "But facts do. And statistically, Muggle populations were already outpacing magical ones by the fifteenth century. Combined with emerging technology, that made secrecy a practical necessity, not a moral judgment."
Roland watched the exchange closely now—not intervening, not encouraging, simply listening as though this were precisely the discussion he'd hoped for. Harry nodded sharply. "Exactly. It wasn't about superiority. It was about survival."
Malfoy laughed, short and sharp. "That's rich, coming from you. Survival's always been handed to you, Potter."
Ron was halfway out of his seat. "You want to say that again?"
Roland finally straightened, one hand lifting—not in reprimand, but in pause. "Notice something," he said mildly. The room quieted, though the tension didn't dissipate. "You're all circling the same truth from different angles. Power. Fear. Control." He took a few slow steps down the aisle. "The Statute didn't end conflict. It redirected it. Outward pressure has a way of forcing societies to turn inward—to look for someone to blame." His gaze swept briefly over the Gryffindors, then the Slytherins, lingering nowhere in particular. "That's where blood ideology took root. Not as strength, but as reassurance. A way for certain families to convince themselves they were essential." He paused. "Untouchable."
Malfoy crossed his arms. "And yet those families are still standing."
"Yes," Roland agreed easily. "History is full of people who lasted longer than they deserved."
A few students sucked in quiet breaths. Hermione seized the opening. "And it's also full of movements that collapsed once education and legislation caught up with prejudice." She turned slightly toward Malfoy now. "The International Confederation's reforms in the late eighteenth century weren't sentimental. They were responses to violence committed in the name of blood purity. Which is why persecution was outlawed—not because purists were right, but because they were dangerous."
Malfoy's jaw tightened. "Funny how you always manage to make yourself sound important."
Hermione met his gaze steadily. "Funny how you always confuse importance with entitlement."
That earned a low "ohhh". Roland tapped the desk once—not sharply, just enough to draw the room back to him. "All right," he said, glancing between the opposing rows. "This is one way to look at what secrecy set in motion. Not Muggle against magical, necessarily—but magical against magical. Ideas pulling in different directions. Progress on one side, preservation on the other. And fear," he added mildly, "sometimes wearing the language of tradition." He turned toward the board, chalk rolling between his fingers. "So let's follow that thread a little further. What do you think happens to a society when lineage starts to matter more than what a person actually brings to it?"
Behind him, Harry and Malfoy still glared across the aisle, neither willing to look away first. Hermione, lips pressed thin, returned to her notes—writing faster now, as though determined to record every flaw in Malfoy's worldview in ink.
A slow, appreciative smile spread across Roland's face as he watched the simmering animosity and intellectual fervor. It was perfect. The class was alive, buzzing with an energy that was raw, unfiltered, and utterly malleable. He let the silence hang for a moment, allowing the charged atmosphere to settle.
"Excellent," he said, his voice cutting through the residual tension. "This is precisely what history should be—a debate, a fight for meaning. But passion without structure is just noise. And I find that a bit of... academic pressure... helps to sharpen one's arguments."
He turned back to the desk and, with a flick of his wand, sent a flurry of parchment sheets gliding through the air to land neatly on each student's desk. "A short quiz. Ten questions. Nothing you need a book for, just your own interpretation of what we've discussed. Consider it a way to crystallize your thoughts."
A collective groan rippled through the room, but it was a good-natured one, the sound of students who were actually engaged being brought back to the reality of schoolwork. As they bent over their quills, the only sounds were the scratching of nibs on parchment and the occasional frustrated sigh from Crabbe, who was already chewing on the end of his quill.
Roland walked the aisles, his hands clasped behind his back, observing. He saw Harry scribbling with fierce intensity, Ron looking vaguely panicked, and Malfoy writing with a sneer of supreme confidence. He saw Daphne Greengrass, her quiz already half-finished, her answers neat and precise. She glanced up at him and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval.
When the bell rang, signaling the end of the lesson, the students began to file out, their animated arguments resuming in the corridor. "Miss Granger, a moment, if you please," Roland said as Hermione was gathering her books.
She stopped immediately, her eyes lighting up with anticipation. "Professor?"
"I trust you found the discussion stimulating?" he asked, a knowing smile playing on his lips.
"Very, sir," she replied earnestly. "Though I wish Mr. Malfoy would base his arguments on historical precedent instead of... whatever it is he bases them on."
Roland chuckled. "He does, in his own way. His prejudice is a historical artifact, passed down through generations. It's our job to help him see that." He gestured to the large pile of completed quizzes on his desk. "Since you are my teaching assistant, I believe it's time you had some more practical duties. I want you to help me grade these."
Hermione's face practically glowed. "Really? Grade them? All of them?"
"We will grade them together," Roland corrected, enjoying the way her entire demeanor brightened at the prospect. "I want to see your perspective. I value it. Stay behind. We'll get started."
The promise of a one-on-one academic session with the new, fascinating professor was more enticing to Hermione than any extra credit. She immediately sat back down, pulling her chair closer to his desk as he magicked the rest of the quizzes into two neat piles.
The last student shuffled out, the heavy door swinging shut with a definitive thud that sealed them in a bubble of afternoon sunlight and academic quiet. The classroom, usually a place of somber neglect, now felt like a private study, the dust motes dancing in the golden light like tiny, enchanted sprites.
Roland leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking in protest. He gestured to the two neat piles of quizzes on his desk. "Alright, Assistant Granger," he said, his voice a low, warm timbre that seemed to resonate in the quiet space. He slid one of the piles toward her. "Let's see what they've learned. And more importantly, what they believe."
Hermione's breath hitched slightly, a thrill of pure, unadulterated academic excitement coursing through her. She pulled her chair closer, the scrape of its legs loud in the silence, and picked up the first quiz from her pile.
It was Ron's. His handwriting was a frantic scrawl, and his answers were a mix of heartfelt loyalty and historical confusion. He'd written that the Statute of Secrecy was "to stop people from getting hurt because they're scared of what they don't get." It wasn't technically wrong, but it lacked the nuance she would have provided.
"He's not wrong, is he?" Roland said, his eyes scanning the parchment over her shoulder. His proximity was disarming; she could feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the faint, clean scent of old books and something else, something uniquely *him*. "He's focused on the human element. The fear. It's a valid, if simplistic, starting point."
"It's just... incomplete," Hermione murmured, marking a small 'B-' in the margin. "He misses the political and sociological pressures."
"Of course he does," Roland replied easily, taking the quiz from her and placing it in a 'completed' stack. You see the world in systems and structures, Hermione. He sees it in friends and enemies. Neither perspective is inherently wrong, just... different."
They moved on. Crabbe's quiz was nearly illegible, consisting mostly of the words "Muggles bad" and "Wizards rule." Roland sighed, placing it at the bottom of the pile with a look of weary disappointment. Goyle's was a carbon copy. Then Hermione picked up Malfoy's.
The neat, elegant script was instantly recognizable. As she read his answers, the tension from the class returned, coiling in her stomach. His arguments were a masterclass in pure-blood propaganda, cloaked in the language of logic and tradition. He wrote of "preserving magical heritage" and the "inevitable decay that occurs when powerful blood is diluted." It was articulate, intelligent, and utterly vile.
Her hand tightened on her quill, her knuckles turning white. "He's insufferable," she bit out, her voice sharper than she intended. "He twists history to fit his own disgusting prejudices. It's not just ignorance, it's... it's malicious."
Roland didn't immediately respond. He simply watched her, his gaze calm and unnervingly perceptive. He let her anger hang in the air for a moment before he spoke. "Does it make you angry that he's eloquent?"
Hermione looked up, startled by the accuracy of his question. "Yes," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "It would be easier if he were just stupid. Like Crabbe. But he's not. He's smart, and he's using it to... to spread poison."
Roland nodded slowly, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "I know. It's frustrating." He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "But let me offer you a different perspective, Hermione. Don't think of him as the face of pure-blood ideology. Think of him as its most... insecure defender."
"I don't understand," she said, her brow furrowed.
"Malfoy's beliefs aren't born from strength; they're born from fear," Roland explained, his tone patient and soothing, like a master craftsman explaining a complex tool. "He clings to the idea of blood purity because it's the only thing he has. It's an inherited title, not an earned achievement. He has no other source of pride, so he defends it with the ferocity of a cornered animal. His eloquence is a shield, not a sword. It's designed to protect a very fragile ego."
The anger in Hermione's chest began to loosen, replaced by a grudging sense of clarity. She had never thought of it that way. She had always seen Malfoy's prejudice as a form of power, a tool of oppression. Roland was reframing it as a symptom of weakness.
"But... not all pure-bloods are like that, are they?" she asked, her voice softer now, more inquisitive.
"No," Roland said, a faint, wry smile touching his lips. "They are not." He gestured vaguely to himself. "Look at me. A Greengrass. One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Do I seem like I'm afraid of Muggles? Or that I think my blood makes me inherently superior?"
Hermione studied him. He was everything Malfoy was not: confident without being arrogant, intelligent without being cruel, powerful without being oppressive. He spoke to her as an equal, valued her insights, and had completely revitalized a dead subject. "No," she said slowly. "You don't."
"Exactly," Roland said. "My family, for all our traditions, has always understood that power isn't in the bloodline. It's in the mind. In the ability to adapt, to learn, to see the world as it is, not as we wish it were. Malfoy's family, the Malfoys, the Blacks... they're dinosaurs, Hermione. They're roaring defiance at the coming asteroid, convinced their heritage will protect them. We're the mammals, quietly learning to live in the new world."
The analogy was so simple, so brilliant, that it made her want to laugh. The last vestiges of her anger evaporated, replaced by a profound sense of appreciation. He wasn't just teaching her history; he was teaching her how to understand it, how to see the motivations behind the actions. He was soothing the sting of Malfoy's words not by dismissing them, but by deconstructing them, showing them for the fragile, fearful things they were.
"Thank you, Professor," she said, her voice sincere. "That... helps. A lot."
"It's my pleasure," Roland replied, his smile warm. "Now, let's put Mr. Malfoy's anxieties aside and get back to work. I'm curious to see what Miss Greengrass has to say."
They fell into a comfortable rhythm, the silence now companionable rather than charged. Hermione found herself relaxing completely, the intellectual camaraderie a balm to her soul. They graded papers, debated points, and shared quiet observations. She found herself watching the way his hands moved as he gestured, the long, elegant fingers making even the most mundane point seem compelling. She listened to the deep, reassuring cadence of his voice, a sound that made her feel seen and understood in a way she never had before. She wasn't just a student grading papers anymore. She was a confidante, a partner in intellectual exploration. Her appreciation for him was a warm, glowing thing in her chest, a pure, innocent admiration for a mentor who saw past her "bossy know-it-all" exterior and valued the mind within.
The pile of quizzes dwindled, the last of them marked and sorted. Roland placed the final parchment onto the completed stack with a soft sigh, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms over his head. The movement pulled his robes tight against his torso, and Hermione's eyes were drawn to the lines of his shoulders before she quickly looked down at her own hands, a faint blush creeping up her neck.
"And that, Assistant Granger," he said, his voice holding a note of satisfaction, "is that. I must say, I couldn't have asked for a more capable partner. Your insights are... remarkable."
The praise sent a fresh wave of warmth through her. "It was nothing, Professor. I just enjoy the subject."
"No," Roland said, his tone turning serious. He leaned forward, the chair creaking softly, closing the distance between them until his face was only a foot from hers. "Don't diminish your own contributions. You have a rare gift, Hermione. You don't just memorize facts; you connect them. You see the narrative. It's a skill most wizards, let alone students, never develop. You're not just clever. You're brilliant."
The word hung in the air between them, spoken with a conviction that stole her breath. Her heart began to beat a little faster, a frantic, fluttering rhythm against her ribs. She opened her mouth to thank him, but no sound came out.
He smiled, a slow, knowing smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He reached out, his movements slow and deliberate, and gently placed his fingers under her chin. His touch was electric, a spark of warmth that seemed to travel directly to her core. He tilted her head up slightly, forcing her to meet his intense, searching gaze.
"Such a clever mind," he murmured, his thumb stroking the soft skin of her jawline. "And such a serious expression. You should let yourself be praised, Hermione. You've earned it."
The touch was so intimate, so far beyond the boundaries of a professor-student relationship, yet it felt strangely... right. Her mind, a whirlwind of rules and propriety, was screaming that this was wrong, but her body was betraying her, leaning into his touch, craving more of the warmth and validation he offered. Her blush deepened, spreading from her neck to her cheeks, a heat she couldn't control.
His thumb, still stroking her jaw, slowly drifted upward, tracing the line of her bottom lip. The sensation was exquisite, a feather-light caress that sent shivers down her spine. Her lips parted slightly on a gasp, and in that moment of vulnerability, he acted.
His thumb, warm and firm, gently but insistently pressed past her lips and into her mouth, resting on her tongue.
Hermione froze. Every coherent thought shattered. The world narrowed to the shocking, intimate sensation of his thumb in her mouth. It was wrong, it was improper, it was insane, but she couldn't pull away. She was trapped in his gaze, a fly caught in a spider's web of intellect and raw, undeniable charisma. A wave of overwhelming heat washed over her, settling low in her belly, a feeling she had only ever read about in books.
"Shhh," he whispered, his voice a hypnotic caress. "It's alright. Just... feel."
He moved his thumb slightly, stroking her tongue. A jolt of pure, unadulterated arousal shot through her, so intense it made her dizzy. Her body was responding with a will of its own, a deep, primal instinct to submit to the power he exuded.
"Lick it," he commanded, his voice soft but absolute. "Suck it."
The order bypassed her brain entirely, going straight to her body. Hesitantly, her tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of his skin. She closed her lips around his thumb, her cheeks hollowing slightly as she began to suck, her movements tentative at first, then more confident as she felt his approving gaze on her. The act was so obscenely intimate, yet she felt a strange sense of peace, of rightness, in obeying him. The heat in her cunt intensified, a throbbing ache that made her shift in her seat.
R-18 scene Hermione Masturbation (1181 word count)
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