It had been a quiet day. A perfect day. Twilight was stretching on her hands like a nonchalant lover surprised by lascivious felicity. She watched dreamily as last bright sunrays enhance the amber colour of her drink. The strong whisky was swaying before her eyes in an enticing dance she couldn't resist. The entire room smelt of turf and long runs in wet fields under the pouring rain; it smelt of grey skies, tormented clouds and of the allaying cold of the North. Minerva McGonagall took a sip, letting the alcohol slightly burn her tongue before swallowing it. Her lips were warm and numb, and she couldn't help but tilt her head in delight.

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. The glass felt smooth between her long, caressing fingers. Her mind was only mildly eased, and that sulky feeling was still lingering inside, taunting her disdainfully. Something was wrong, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what exactly. It was a hunch, nothing more. Besides, she usually didn't believe in intuitiveness. She believed in facts, on logic, on reasoning, and she held for a fact that today had been a quiet, perfect day, hadn't it? Anyway, that kind of clairvoyance was far too close to Trelawney's so-called 'Art of Divination' for her liking.

This was different, however. She was forced to admit it was. She wasn't just suspecting it, she was feeling it. Like a knot in her viscera, it had kept bugging her most of the day, now that she thought of it. All day long it had been here, hiding patiently. Yes, she remembered it now, this unease that had followed her everywhere, like a shadow. It was just gut feelings, though. Why would she start believing in such inanities today? This was ridiculous.

The faint noise of something tapping on her window made her eyes snap open. On the ledge proudly stood a Great-Horned Owl, which starred almost defiantly at her, with piercing yellow eyes. The bird emitted a low squawk, flapping its wings as to stretch them. In its claws was a small package, sealed with a dark burgundy wax. And her name, Minerva.

The Hogwarts' Headmistress rose from her armchair and quickly went to open the window. She carefully took the parcel, absently handing a biscuit to the owl, which took it reverently, his eyes gleaming in the falling night. She narrowed her eyes at the handwriting, her heart pulsing stronger in her chest. She knew that handwriting. She knew it well and could never fail to recognise it.

Minerva. Nobody had ever addressed her mail with her first name only. As if the character imposed a certain solemnity, the most personal letters she had received during her life had always been addressed to Minerva McGonagall. That uncommon familiarity, even coming from the expeditor she had already guessed the identity, was somehow frightening. She feared what this might mean as well as she felt a jolt of excitement rush through her. She unwrap it religiously, humming the scent of orchids and white lilies lingering on the parchment. She smiled tenderly; oh, indeed, she knew.

It was wrapped in the softest silk she had ever held; it glided between her fingers like water. A lump formed in Minerva's throat as she saw what it contained; glooming almost ominously was a small golden ring. Suddenly, the jewel felt heavy, too heavy in her hand. She took a quick, shaky breath, her emerald eyes veiled with burning tears. She tried to steady her pant, trembling fingers reaching for her glass, which she finished in one strangled gulp. There was a word, with the ring. The handwriting had smudged a bit in places, but what is said was still well readable. The empty glass escaped her hand as her eyes kept dancing across the words, as to print them in her memory, in her soul. Is thu m'annsachd.

The glass shattering on her office floor made her emerge from the sentence. It seemed unreal. The noise had woken up several portraits of the former headmasters and headmistresses, her late friend Albus Dumbledore, being one of them. His mischievous blue eyes were staring at her with concern. But he had seen that look before, and knew better than to talk. Minerva was wan and starring back at him. In no more than ten seconds, she had disappeared, leaving the office in complete silence.

The Malfoy Manor was standing before her, with its usual arrogant greatness. It hadn't changed much, over the years. Even if the war with Voldemort and his followers was now history, it seemed the past wasn't something easy to forget. A ghastly mist surrounded the place, offering, with the imposing iron gates, another protection to the house. Even if it was no longer the theatre to dreadful tortures like it had previously been, the place still smelt of unforgiveable darkness, of shame.

Minerva pushed the gate, shivering at the metallic squeak it gave in response. She was one of the few that was allowed to enter by the magical wards, not that she had used that privilege often. Maybe she should have, she thought, bitter regrets squeezing her throat. Maybe if she had, she wouldn't be running down the endless gravel path right now, the little stones flying under her hurried steps. She knocked — hammered — at the massive door, anxious running a hand on her livid face as she waited for an answer.

The heavy door opened in a bone-chilling creak, revealing the diminutive silhouette of an house elf. The Transfiguration master noted that, unlike Dobby or the previous house elves of the Malfoy family, this one seemed… happy. Dissonant from his predecessors, he was draped in a rich, dark green fabric, decorated with silver circumvolutions. The large, protruding eyes of the diminutive creature looked at the witch, up and down, warily.

"Welcome in the noble house of the Malfoys," it said with reverence, "How may I help you?"

"I'm here to see Lady Malfoy, it's urgent."

The elf straightened up a bit, narrowing his eyes, still fixed upon the anguished figure of the witch. There didn't get many visitors here, let alone such distressed ones. He cocked his head, pondering the statement. Urgent. No one had urgently desired to see the mistress for quite a time, now.

"The mistress doesn't usually receive visitors," he said in a low, intimidating voice, as his eyes fell upon the wand firmly held by the woman.

"That I know," Minerva breathed, barely above a whisper, in a hollow voice. Oh yes she knew. She knew just too well how the mistress didn't received visitors in the large manor. "But I need to see her. It's important."

For Merlin's sake, couldn't that damned elf understand that and let her in?

"The mistress asked not to be disturbed," he retorted, crossing his arms on his chest, obviously ready to defend his employer's interests with his life. "I could take a message, maybe?"

"Tell her Minerva McGonagall is here." And not leaving.

The elf's eyes widened significantly at the mention of her name, starring at her with a mixture of fear and solace that surprised the witch. She arched her brows in question, wondering what this was all about and why the elf hadn't already disappeared to go to his mistress to send her message.

"McGonagall? Minerva McGonagall?" he repeated in a squeak.

For a moment she thought the elf was going to slam the door on her face. Instead, he opened it wider and stepped aside, motioning for her to enter.

"The mistress," began the elf slowly, obviously afraid to reveal too much about his mistress, who seemed to like her privacy and secrets. "I know you're somehow… special to her," he added, choosing his words carefully. "She certainly won't be angry I let you inside." There was a question hiding behind those words, as if the elf wasn't really sure that was the right thing to do.

Time was precious and Minerva had to be quick, but she couldn't help asking, a bit startled by what the creature had just said.

"She talked about me?"

The elf fidgeted, obviously torn between what he wanted to tell, and what he was allowed to tell. His little hands were absently playing with the dark green material of his clothes, as he bit his lips nervously.

"I know things without her needing to really tell me about them," he answered cryptically, eyeing the woman with a contrite smile. "The mistress is in the library. You just have to —"

"I know the way, thank you," she retorted already moving, her dark robes flying about behind her.

Minerva's footsteps echoed in the large corridors of the manor as she hurriedly made her way to the library. She was driven by an invisible force, pushed by the feeling she had to hurry; that somehow, she might be too late already. The image of the small golden ring enveloped in silk was still dancing before her eyes, like a reminder, like a warning.

Her pale fingers reached for the doorknob and turned it, the door swinging open to reveal the vast library…

Minerva froze.

She had pictured many scenarios, during the short time she took to come to Malfoy Manor, but nothing could have prepared her for what she was witnessing right now. On the other side of the library, the faint light of the candles were shaping the svelte outline of one of her former students. A student she had first met more than a decade ago, and yet, it felt just like yesterday. The shy little girl she had once taught had grown into a gorgeous woman, with thin features and light curves.

The Headmistress gasped as the metallic gleam caught her eye: a sharp, silver dagger was flashing ominously under the candles' light, ready to tear apart the flesh. Her mouth was dry from the nerve-wracking scene unfolding before her. She heard a strangled plea, not realising at once that hoarse voice was actually hers.

No response came, but the figure turned towards her, eyes meeting, locking into each other's; it felt like a slap on her cheek.

The brown eyes of her former student, of her prize student, her protégée, showed nothing but a cold determination. Determination, and a deep sorrow that made Minerva's heart sink in her chest. She looked awfully resigned, like she had just… given up.

Hermione was beautiful, she thought. Even here, even like this, with that deathly resolution dancing in her gaze. Her hands were steady now, as if the Headmistress' presence had given her the last part of courage she was missing to carry on what she had started. Her fingers held the knife in a sweet embrace, like a lover the morning after a night of worship. The pale pink lips mouthed something that looked like a final apology, but the older witch couldn't hear the words, her head buzzing with fear, with a dreadful fear that had her petrified, rooted on the spot.

The Grangers hadn't seemed too surprised, when Minerva had visited them, after a rough explanation of what was Hogwarts, and more to the point, what their daughter was. Sometimes, the muggles thought of it as a joke, simply throwing the letters away. It then took more than one's willpower to convince them to at least discuss the topic. Entering the house wasn't much of an issue, the Scottish witch obviously impressive enough for people not to block her way.

Those parents had been kind and ready to listen. She had demonstrated some basic spells, to show them it wasn't a 'candid camera' — not that she even knew what a camera was — and they had reacted well, surprisingly well in fact. They had no idea wizards actually existed, and if there had already been some in their respective family branch, they simply weren't aware of them. The fact their daughter was indeed a witch had them aback at first, but they couldn't be happier. — The father had always said their little 'Mione was special.

Katherine Granger had called for the girl to come down, because they had a… visitor. She'd quickly added a 'Now young lady, you'll finish that chapter later!', apologising to the witch with a sheepish grin, as she explained their daughter was always stuck the nose in books. The Scot had smiled at that comment, taking a sip of the tea she had been offered. Hurried footsteps had brought the girl in the living room, dishevelled hair giving her the air of a small lion. A Gryffindor, Minerva had known it the minute she had laid eyes on her, already feeling a protective instinct towards her future cub.

"Hermione dear, this is Minerva McGonagall; she's a teacher at a very — err — special school and —"

"Minerva? Like the goddess?" had interrupted the brunette, eyes wide as a plate, ignoring her mother's sigh for cutting her off.

The Head Deputy had chuckled lightly, curious about that vivacious child. Usually, they stood as far away from her as possible, certainly afraid by her uncommon attire — and the stern look she had practiced over decades of teaching. Hermione, for her part, had seemed panting to come closer and run her hand on the soft material, mesmerised by the robes that looked just like the ones she'd pictured in the stories about wizards she used to read.

"I'm not sure my parents knew about her," Minerva had said, her emerald eyes glowing with amusement. "You like mythology?"

"I like to read anything, but the mythology… that fits me."

"How?"

"Well, I —" The girl had glanced shyly at her parents, not quite sure if she could say what she'd never really dared to tell them. But the black-haired woman was… different. Hermione hadn't known why or how, but somehow, she had felt someone understood her for the first time, she had felt like someone knew even before asking. "I'm different," she had simply stated, not really knowing what word could possibly describe what she was or felt. "I'm better with books than people, and in mythology stories people don't get call 'freak', even if they're different."

Freak. It had always surprise the witch how muggle kids could give a hard time to each other, simply because one of their peers had something uncommon about them. She had nodded in understanding, beckoning for the girl to come sit next to her on the couch. Then, in her low, soothing voice, she had whispered something Hermione still remembered to this day, and that had comforted her like nothing before:

"I'm a freak too."

All went very smoothly. The young woman, firmly holding the dagger, drove it in her stomach, doubling up in pain as the first gush of blood started spilling on her trembling hands. A raucous scream pierced through the air, and Minerva understood it was her who had broken the silence. The silk, along with the ring, escaped her hand, the small jewel bouncing on the wooden floor. A muffled whimper had crossed the now much paler lips of the brunette, but nothing more. She was looking at her hands, their pristine skin covered in bright red, somehow bewildered; who'd have expect such a slender human being to contain this much blood?

Albus stopped talking when they both heard the gargoyle turning on itself, allowing entrance to a yet unknown visitor. There were three sharp knocks on the door, and the calm voice of Dumbledore told their unexpected guest to enter.

"Poppy? That's a surprise! What brings you here, nothing too serious, I hope?"

"Headmaster," she said for sole greetings. "Actually I was looking for professor McGonagall, her elf told me she was in your office," she added, turning towards the said witch, an apologetic smile on her lips.

"Of course Poppy, what is it?" Minerva said.

"I need your assistance for a student."

The Headmaster and his Deputy exchanged a startled gaze.

"Well, I'd be glad to help but surely you know my skills as a healer are quite rudimentary?"

"This involves some transfiguration issues I think, and as you're the Head of Gryffindor…"

"Transfi — Poppy, who is this? What happened?"

"It's Miss Granger," answered the nurse, mentally wondering why those lions always had to get themselves into so much trouble. "As to what happened, she didn't tell me, and trust me, you want to see this."

The Scot looked at Albus with arched eyebrows and sighed as he was obviously amused by the situation. Oh yes, he knew how his dear friend cared for her prize student more than she'd ever admit.

The two women arrived at the hospital wing in hurried footsteps. The infirmary was empty, except from one very special student, sitting on a bed behind curtains. The nurse motioned for the Head of Gryffindor to wait, so she could inform the distressed girl of her presence. She had already explained the brunette that, even if she was a skilled healer, there was nothing she could do, as it required a high command on transfiguration spells. The pupil had nodded wordlessly, mentally preparing herself to be dismissed from the school, or worst, to hear and see the disappointment from her favourite teacher.

"Miss Granger? Do you mind if I — Oh!"

She drew the curtains, revealing her protégée, tremulously looking at her shoes. Minerva would have laughed if it wasn't for the fear she could sense emanating from the girl. She was covered in a light brown fur, big ears protruding from her usual bushy hair. The older witch couldn't help but inwardly smile when she saw the tail of her cub balancing nervously at the edge of the bed.

"What happened?"

Her voice was unusually soft, considering she was probably dealing with a student of her beloved house breaking a dozen of the school's rules. Her emerald gaze sought Hermione's with a small, encouraging smile.

"Miss Granger, you know you can talk to me," she said, lifting the head of her pupil to meet her bright, yellow eyes. "Tell me."

The girl averted the intrusive gaze of her mentor for some more minutes, before finally capitulating.

"I — I know it is to be used only for — for human transformation, but —" Hermione was hyperventilating, nearly sobbing now. "It's was a cat's hair," she blurted out, biting her lower lip.

The eyes of the Head Deputy grew wider as realisation washed upon her.

"You brewed some Polyjuice Potion?" she breathed in a higher voice than usual, steading herself with a hand on the bed as the girl nodded in confirmation. "How did you —?"

"Well, I took three measures of fluxweed to begin with, and —"

"No, no, I know the recipe," she cut off, "I meant how did you manage to brew it? Did an older student help you?"

If this was a seven year's idea of a joke, he or she wouldn't get away with it so easily!

"Err — no, I just did it. Why?"

Minerva had not known what had taken her more aback: the fact that Hermione had brewed such a complicated potion on her own, while being only a second year, or the fact she obviously didn't realise how complicated the said potion actually was.

Her one and only star student.

The dagger fell on the wooden floor in a metallic sound. The knife had escaped Hermione's feeble grip, her arms hanging motionless alongside her weak body. She was pallid and looked like she was about to faint. Her eyelashes fluttered, as if the flickering light of the candles was suddenly too much for her to bear. Her legs buckled and she fell on her knees, her grey slacks reddened by the pool of blood that had formed at her feet.

It was over. The war was over. How many loses necessary to pay for a bitter peace? Minerva had made it, not really knowing how. She had duelled former students that had become feared and merciless Death Eaters, not without a pinch in her heart. Why had they turned towards Voldemort? Most of them weren't what one could call brilliant, but they could have had a future, a life; now they were just motionless bodies, piled in a dishevelled old classroom.

In the Great Hall were the survivors, alongside the ones who had bravely fallen. So many young bodies! So many witches and wizards, who still had a life waiting ahead. Why was she still alive? She was old, she had fought three wars; she should be the one lying down peacefully on the cold stones, not them. Her heart sank in her chest when she heard the moan of Molly, who had lost a child. The matriarch was sobbing hysterically over the lifeless body, along with the rest of her family. Harry was comforting Ginny and Ron, his green eyes remaining on Fred, without a blink. Guilt. She knew how it felt and would recognise it anywhere. The Chosen One believed it was his fault, she thought sadly.

Poppy was running between the wounded, helped by students and teachers alike. In the crowd she distinguished Filius, who was helping a child from his own house to drink a healing potion; his face, usually brighten with mirth, was tired and marked by the salty trail of tears. Horace had fallen weak-kneed, his back against a pillar; in his eyes were dancing the ghosts of the students he had not manage to save. Hagrid was bringing some beds from what was left of the infirmary, his massive figure shaking with sobs. Minerva should have helped them. She should have.

But her mind was driven by another preoccupation: find the girl. Part of her wanted to stay right here, in the Great Hall, as to protect her from what she could possibly discover. What if Hermione had died along the others? What if she was terribly wounded? What would she do, if she had failed to keep her protégée safe from any harm? Limping in the ruins of her beloved castle, Minerva tried to ignore the throbbing pain of the deep cuts she had suffered and to focus her animagus' senses on finding that special scent of her favourite pupil.

She soon smelt the characteristic perfume of that young, pristine skin; orchids and white lilies. Muffled sobs reached her acute ear, and she quickly spotted a small huddled up silhouette. The young woman was hiding behind a fallen pillar, her clothes dust-covered and half ripped, letting her Head of House catch a glimpse of her bruised skin.

Wordlessly, she approached the girl, her rush of panic momentarily paralysing her mind as her emerald gaze fell upon the girl's hands covered in blood. She quickly realised it wasn't hers, and turning around, she noticed a body lying in red dust: Lavender Brown. Her stomach twisted nauseously as she recognised the bite mark of a werewolf. Minerva took a deep breath to strengthen herself: her protégée needed her; it was no time for flinching.

Gently, she kneeled next to the brunette, taking her tainted hands in hers. Silently, she waved her wand and a basin of water with a sponge and a bar of household soap appeared before them. She watered the sponge and rubbed it on the soap. She felt Hermione shiver under her touch but didn't back down, thoughtfully caressing the irritated skin. The water in the bowl soon turned crimson, and the iron smell of blood clinging to their respective clothes like the scent of Death. She poured some more water on the hands of her student and conjured a towel to dry them.

"I — I tried, I —"

Minerva lifted her head in surprise, looking in the tumultuous eyes of the girl.

"I couldn't save her," she breathed in a halting, hoarse voice. "I — I tried but I was too late, I —" she broke down in tears, her delicate figure shaken by sorrow. "I'm so — I'm so sorry, professor, I — I couldn't stop the bleeding. I couldn't — and Lavender, she —"

"Hush, my dear, it's over now," came the low Scottish lilt, brushing her cheeks as Minerva pulled her into a calming hug, rocking her slowly. "I'm here. I'm right here"

"Hermione."

The name fell from her lips with a delightful ease, the purr, rolling on her tongue like a strong whisky, making her light-headed. It felt like a deep breath after drowning into the darkest abyss, like a rebirth —

"Hermione."

She was beautiful in her white, nacreous dress; she was perfect. Absolutely perfect, thought Minerva, who was leaning casually in the doorframe, her emerald eyes devouring the soon-to-be married woman. She couldn't help but smile, remembering with a certain nostalgia how fast the time had run; it seemed like it was yesterday, she was sorting the brunette into the House of the braves. She was proud of what her pupil had become, of how she had grown into that ravishing and confident young woman.

Deep inside, she felt something else, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Maybe something she didn't really want to know, or just wasn't ready to acknowledge. The brunette turned around, a faint smile on her lips. In her eyes floated the same determination Minerva had seen when she had come to her office, telling her she, along with Harry and Ron, wouldn't come back for their seventh year, because of a mission Dumbledore had confided them. It was strange, really, to see this sense of duty radiating from the girl, when she should have been jumping for joy. There wasn't any sadness in the hazel irises though, but no true happiness either. There were… regrets?

"You look stunning my dear," she whispered, eyeing the dress one more time with a growing smile. "Absolutely stunning."

The bride-to-be said nothing, answering by a timid nod, her eyes watering unexpectedly. What if there was a chance? Would she take it? What if it was already too late to take that chance?

"I'm a bit scared," she simply said, faking a sheepish smile her mentor didn't buy, but hopefully had the courtesy of not mentioning. "There will be so many people, tomorrow…"

"The Malfoys certainly have a taste for grandeur." How many guests would there be again? 300? 400? "But I trust every single person there won't be able to keep their eyes off you," she added softly, brushing the tears off Hermione's cheek. "You will be wonderful, as always."

— like a second chance.

The Hogwarts Headmistress ran, falling on her knees as she reached her protégée. Hermione's eyelashes fluttered while she tried to focus her sleepy gaze on those emerald pools she liked so much. Since the very first day that woman had entered her life, she had never ceased to long for her eyes to find hers. She had always sought pride in the green irises. She had always wanted the older witch to see her, to really see her.

She tried to smile, but was stopped by a harsh cough, droplets of blood colouring her white lips. The wound on her stomach burned, and it was the only thing to remind her she was still alive, because everything else had been engulfed in numbness already. The words she desperately wanted, needed to say died in her throat, a strange mixture between a death rattle and a bloody gargle smothering them.

"Don't talk," breathed the Scottish with her rolling and soothing tilt, "it's ok, you — you're going to be ok."

What if she isn't, Minerva? What if you can't save her? The tip of her wand was tracing intricate patterns on the gaping wound, but the injury was far too grave for simple healing spells to work. She'd have to apparate to , there was no other way.

"Please."

The voice was barely above a whisper, and Minerva nearly missed it while she was taking the young woman in her arms; they would have to act quickly, the apparition would certainly take Hermione's last strength.

"Please, don't."

But they were already gone.

A.N: As always, I hope you'll enjoy the story. This was a challenge by MegaNerdAlert. Tell me what you thought of it; reviews are always greatly appreciated. :)