It seems like days before she's allowed to leave the battlefield: it's a very full eighteen hours that plagues her when all she wants to do is sit, relax, even sleep. But no: she straightens her shoulders. There is work to be done.
The most important issue is the matter of Voldemort's body. Then, the matter of every other body on the grounds. The Ministry would deal with the first; the Hogwarts Express, it is decided, would make two trips, one with live passengers, and the other with their dead. Of course, the number of students who would be returning home on the train dwindles only hours after the battle, as the adults Apparated and shocked parents came to gather their beloveds. The Order, or what is left of it, remains behind to gather the remaining dead.
And as if that isn't complicated enough-as if gazing down on the lifeless faces of such loved and admired students isn't enough work and sorrow for a lifetime-there is the matter of the castle, half-destroyed by the battle. This school, this fortress that has housed and protected thousands of generations is so worse for wear, with gaping holes in the ceiling and walls, in some places crumbling and crashing to the ground. It is hard to see it in such a state: such terrible disrepair, all of it caused by former students. The teachers gather together and fix what they could of it, and although it is not perfect when they finished, it is better than it had been before they'd started.
Her dark eyes anxiously searched the Great Hall for anyone who may still need any help; but Molly Weasley approaches her, placing a warm hand on her arm.
"Go up and rest, Minerva," she says in a soft voice. She offers a gentle smile. "We'll finish everything down here."
"No, Molly, I couldn't-" But she can't argue with Molly's determined expression, and she sighs.
"Thank you," she murmurs, giving a very tired smile in return. Slowly she turns on the spot and squeezes her worn fingers under her glasses to rub her eyes deeply, so exhausted.
But as she rounds the corner and heads to the stairs, a hopeful voice hit her ears. "Professor!" It's Harry's voice, and she finds herself straightening her shoulders before turning to him. He goes to her with her same tired smile on his mouth, but his eyes are eager and he extends his hand.
"Professor McGonagall, I just wanted to say thank you. For everything you've done for me."
Maybe it's because she's so exhausted, or maybe she's just sentimental for that moment, but she disregards his hand and opens her own arms with a small smile playing on her lips. He grins and is enveloped by her; she holds him tight, this young boy, this brave man who saved the world at just seventeen.
"No. Thank you, Potter," she murmurs as she hugs him. "I'm so very proud of you-proud to have you in my House, proud to call you my student." She releases him, and there are tears in both of their eyes. Lightly she touches his cheek with withered fingers. "You've done so much for us. For our school. For the world. We'll never be able to thank you enough."
He blushes as she takes back her hand, and looks at the ground. He jerks his thumb behind them, toward the Great Hall. "I should, ah, go catch up with the Order, then." He gives her an awkward, if genuine, half-smile, and turns away. She watches him go, grinning proudly after him like a grandmother.
But suddenly the exhaustion reasserts itself in her old bones, and she falters a bit, reaching out to the nearest wall for support. She needs to sit, to sleep, so she continues on her original path, heading up the stairs and making a handful of rights and lefts before facing the guardian statue. She can't remember Snape's old password but it doesn't matter, because he steps aside anyway.
She mounts the stairs slowly, taking her robes in her hands. When she reaches the top she glances around, looking at Snape's dreary office and the now-sleeping portraits, the Pensive strangely open. And as she stands there, her eyes pass over the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, who struggles to remain awake in the bright moonlight.
And she can't help the terrible weakness in her knees, or the trembling of her hands, as she walks toward his portrait, and he greets her with a great smile. She faces him, and murmurs, "It's done, Albus. It's over."
And she collapses back against the desk, fumbling as she catches herself in the chair. She's weeping now, and she can't do anything to stop the tears that flow hot and fast down her face. Her shoulders, so tough, falter in this moment and tremble with her sobs. It's hit her now, fully, that her fight, that his fight, that the world's fight, is now over, finished in one furious battle. No other generation of wizards need grow up in fear, thanks to one miraculous seventeen year old boy and his remarkable friends. She thinks of the dead: so many students, so many of her own students, lost for this cause, faces she'll suddenly never see again. And it wrecks her for quite some time.
"I know, Minerva." She can only just hear him over her own violent gasps and sighs. His voice is still so kind, so reassuring, and it relaxes her automatically, although it takes quite a few moments for her to collect herself. Her palms and fingers wipe her face, and she smiles at the portrait.
"Fifty years. Fifty years of Tom Riddle-" she shudders out a sigh-"and it's all over." She relaxes her head back on the chair, and notices Albus admiring her.
"You need your rest, Minerva."
"I can rest when I'm dead, Albus," she replies with a light wink and shaky laugh. She looks around the office slowly, critically, and with a sigh, speaks. "I suppose I'll be the next Headmaster-well, Headmistress-then, won't I?"
"Only if you want."
"Of course I want to. I've given up everything for Hogwarts." It's a rhetorical statement, meant only for her, but she ponders on it. "It's done so much for me." She meets his blue eyes. "You've done so much for me." She rubs her forehead, and yawns loudly from exhaustion. "It's the least I could do." The last words are murmured, and are a bit slurred together.
"Good-night, Minerva," he whispers kindly to her.
But she's already asleep in his chair.