For QL, Falmouth Falcons Captain: Write about a Gryffindor and Slytherin friendship.

Word Count: 1516

It's strange, really. As Minerva walks past the bodies of the fallen Death Eaters and other dark witches and wizards, she doesn't expect to feel the slight but steady pain in her chest. She pauses, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. It's so easy to tell herself that they had always been bound for this, that following evil would only ever lead to death.

And yet, there's a part of her that is still heartbroken. She opens her eyes, staring down at Bellatrix Lestrange's corpse. Bellatrix had been a bright girl; though she had only been average in Transfiguration, she had been brilliant in Charms and Potions. Beside her, Caspian Nott lays, brown eyes cloudy in death. He had been one of her brightest students once.

They've always had this coming, and yet it is so difficult to come to terms with.

"They were our students too."

The sudden voice startles her. Minerva turns to see Horace standing beside her, lined face drawn into a mask of pain.

"They were our students just as much as Mr. Creevy or Mr. Lupin," he says, voice heavy with emotion. "There is no shame in mourning for them."

She sighs. It's true, of course. Though she has spent so many years equating Bellatrix's name with terror and destruction, Minerva still remembers her with bright eyes and an excited grin. The ones who lay dead–not all accounted for; she's been told that Vincent Crabbe is dead, and that his body cannot be retrieved from the wreckage of the Room of Requirement–hadn't always been the terrible, fearsome people they had grown into. They had been human; they had been just as dear to Minerva as Nymphadora Tonks or Sirius Black.

She turns to Horace, studying him for several moments. He had surprised her. When she had given the ultimatum and forced him to finally choose a side, she had expected him to be a Slytherin through and through. Who could blame him for wanting to save his own skin?

In the end, he has risen to the occasion. While she had believed him a fleeing coward, he had returned with more backup, including some Slytherins who had chosen to take up the fight. Acidic guilt burns her stomach and snakes its way up her throat. Minerva swallows it down quickly. She had been far too rash in her judgment.

"No one else will mourn them," she says softly. "No one aside from family, I suppose."

"Even family is a stretch in some cases," Horace says, nodding, thin lips tugging into a frown. "At least we will mourn them. Well, who they used to be."

Her slender hands tremble as she smooths out the creases in her robes. Minerva doesn't know what to say. For several moments, her mouth opens and closes silently.

Horace reaches out and rests a hand on her shoulder. "I think you could use a drink."

…

His office is cluttered but cozy. Minerva stands before his collection of photographs, studying the faces of students from years gone by. She wonders if he has Tom Riddle's photograph hidden away somewhere. For all his talk of mourning, she wonders if he can bring himself to grieve for the greatest monster of all.

"What will it be, Minerva?" Horace asks, opening a glossy mahogany cabinet and revealing shelf upon shelf of elegant crystal bottles. Some are nearly empty, while others look as though they've never been touched at all. "Scotch? Brandy? If you want something softer, I have a nice wine that Barnabas Cuffe sent me for Christmas a few years ago."

She tears her gaze away from the ornate silver frames. "Just tea," she says. "Milk, one sugar."

He lets out a barking laugh that makes his round belly jiggle. "I would have thought you would need something harder than tea," he says, plucking a bottle of amber-colored liquor from the shelf and setting it on his desk. "It has been one hell of a day."

She almost smiles at that. One hell of a day. It's such a dramatic understatement that it takes every ounce of control not to giggle. She sits in the worn-out, tan leather chair as Horace waves his wand and puts the kettle on.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" she asks, dark brows raising curiously as she folds her arms over her chest.

"I was under the impression that this is what friends do."

They've always been civil to one another as coworkers. Maybe she could even consider him something of a friend; she thinks that they've had enough personal, private conversations to make them something more than just associates. Still, this seems strange. Even if they are friends, they are not the type of friends who sit together and share their grief.

The kettle begins to whistle, and he waves his wand again, summoning it to his desk and preparing the tea. "If I'm honest, I was afraid our friendship might have been over," he says. "You were quite stern with me before the battle."

He chuckles. Minerva can't bring herself to find the humor in the situation.

"I felt like a schoolboy again," he says, still laughing softly as he drops a single sugar cube in the rich brown liquid. He adds the milk. "No wonder so many kids are scared of you."

She does laugh at that. She remembers her own Hogwarts days and her time spent in Horace's class. Even then, he had a reputation for being soft, especially toward those he so obviously favored. Not much has changed over the many decades. "As opposed to you?" she teases, accepting the teacup and sipping. "No one takes you seriously at all."

He smiles, his pale, gooseberry eyes twinkling with amusement as he pulls the cork from his bottle. Foregoing the glass, he lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a deep drink, shuddering as the alcohol seems to hit him. "Surely someone must take me seriously," he says before taking another swig.

"Not even the house-elves."

Maybe they truly are friends. It's been so long since she has laughed and joked with anyone like this. Somehow, it feels both completely natural and alien to her all at once. For a moment, she can almost pretend that it's a normal day, that her old bones aren't still aching from the final battle that has only just been won. They are only two people, sitting together, enjoying one another's company; everything else feels like it's a lifetime away.

"Should we toast?" Horace asks, though he's already drank quite a bit, and Minerva's cup is half-empty.

"What would we toast to?"

"Those we've lost," he answers. "All of them."

She closes her eyes. Bellatrix had been so rough in death, but once she had been beautiful and bright with a future ahead of her. Caspian had been so gifted and charismatic; once, Minerva had believed he would be the next Minister. Antonin Dolohov had always been a cruel boy, and he had grown into an ever crueler man, but he had still been her student.

Colin Creevey had been so small in death; Minerva wonders if she will ever be able to forget the memory of Oliver carrying his child-like body through the rubble. Remus Lupin, despite his own troubles, had been the kindest soul and a constant beacon for those in need of hope. Nymphadora Tonks had been feisty and so alive, and seeing her without a fire in her eyes and a grin on her lips had been devastating.

She feels each loss. All had been her students; some had just chosen the wrong path. Regardless, each and every one of the seemingly endless list of names is another stab to her heart.

"To all those we lost," she echoes, pain saturating each syllable. She does not lift her cup to toast; Horace leaves his bottle on the table.

There's a sudden shuffling sound as Horace opens a drawer on his side of the desk. He retrieves a shiny blue tin, opening it up to reveal a lovely assortment of biscuits. "Have a biscuit, Minerva," he says. "Maybe that can help cheer you up."

"I believe that is my line," she chuckles, though she accepts a star-shaped one that smells heavily of cinnamon and is coated in sparkling sugar crystals.

"The war may be over, but the darkness isn't," he says, grabbing his own biscuit and examining it, slowly turning it over in his hands. "These are going to be trying times."

She nods. She remembers all too clearly the chaos that had followed Gellert Grindelwald's downfall. It had repeated itself decades later when Harry Potter had first defeated Lord Voldemort. Those loyal to their fallen leader will continue to cause chaos in a desperate attempt to reverse their loss. She thinks of the Longbottoms, forever insane after the Lestranges and Barty Crouch Jr. paid them a visit.

"Trying times," she echoes, taking another biscuit from the tin and nibbling it pensively. "I suppose it's a good thing I have a friend by my side."