A/N: sometimes writing is the only way to let out your feelings without resorting to ravage and violence. Yesterday evening the three boys who have been kidnaped two weeks ago by Hamas terrorists on their way home from school were found, dead. Just a few hours ago we buried three of our finest boys, because of the cruelty of people who has forgotten how to do what every kindergarten kid knows, to share.
this is unbetaed, I just needed to get it out there.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this.
It was all over. In a way it already felt like a faraway memory. Then she looked up and saw how much fighting they still had ahead of them.
Harry, Ron and she just came back from Dumbledore's office. The boys turned to join the Weasleys without much thought, but she stayed away. It was family time, but they weren't her family, no matter how hard they tried to make her feel like she belonged. She mourned Fred, of course, but she had no comfort to offer them, nor could they console her own bleeding heart.
She looked at harry, hugging Ginny with one arm while holding his newly repaired old wand with the other. How she envied him for that. Just like that, what once had been broken was now repaired, and there was nothing left to indicate what had happened. His wand won't remember being raised in battle, firing unforgivable curses, protecting friends only to be raised again later to avenge their death. How she wished to be able to go back there too. To meet that essential part of herself while still untamed by war, to have the relief of knowing it was all done by the wand of another, for the greater good, in time of need… whichever that will take away the responsibility of having cast those spells, having fought that war.
She noticed the tears on her cheeks and wiped them away with her sleeve. There's no point dwelling on that now.
She looked around and saw professor McGonagall on the far end of the great hall, sitting alone, on what appeared to be too clean and unharmed to be anything but a newly conjured chair, staring outside through one of the many holes in the walls. She had seen her already, of course. Right after the battle, leading everyone to the great hall, pointing the wounded towards medical help, arranging search groups for everyone, alive or dead, left outside in the grand battlefield that used to be Hogwarts lawns. Offering hope and support to whoever needs then. Acting every bit the venerable headmistress she was sure to be now that the war was over, being the strong pillar upon which they will rebuild their world. She knew she had survived, yet seeing her sitting there, being able to cast a long glance at the woman herself, she felt a giant wave of relief flood through her. She wondered if she had seen medical help herself. Probably not, she would have thought others were in greater need for it, and even now would have preferred giving the healers a moment's respite over tending to her own wounds.
She wondered how she did it. How she managed to fight, time and again, and remain on the good side. Because if there was one thing everyone, death eaters and order members could agree on it was that: Minerva McGonagall never raised her wand in battle towards an innocent man, nor did she used excess force to stop those threatening her. They were all her students once. She wondered how she managed to reconcile the innocent children they once were with the men and women they have become.
She looked closely, noting the lines on her face, which seemed to have grown deeper in the course of this year, and her slightly dumped shoulders. How did she manage to get back up on her feet, over and over again? Will she be able to do it this time, too?
They all expected it from her, even she, Hermione realized. Even as she was watching her broken and tired figure, a part of her was impatiently waiting for her to stand up and declare the start of the rebuilding, the healing. Even though she knew what she must have gone through this past year, she still expected the stalwart deputy headmistress to take charge and lead them to that promised happy ending. Even though she didn't believe in happy endings anymore, not after all the death and suffering she'd seen.
Hermione looked away, soddenly unable to stand that impatient expectation that filled her heart upon looking at her professor. Her eyes landed on George, sitting next to his brother's still body, staring at him, face devoid of emotions. She couldn't even imagine one of them without the other. She'd always seen them together, could only remember seeing one of them on their own on a handful of occasions, and even then it looked weird. Knowing that was the last picture of the two of them together she would see, made her realize that in a way, that was the essence of the twin's relationship. George could not show any emotion without having his brother mirror him. It was funny though, how his blank face seemed to mirror the numbness in her heart.
She looked around again, her mind cataloging the dead, the wounded, physically and emotionally. There wasn't much happiness in the great hall this morning. Even the relief of having won the war has already wore of, as they all realized just how much it cost them. It looked like they were all slowly sinking into depression. She looked back at McGonagall. She needed to do something. This just couldn't be the end of it, something good had to come out from all that suffering, and there was just one person who could make that happen. But the once deputy now headmistress of Hogwarts just kept sitting there, seemingly unaware of the world around her.
Well, maybe it was time to start doing some healing of her own, she thought, and proceeded walking towards her, conjuring two cups of steaming tea on the way.