A/N at end

Epilogue

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2020 -- Diagon Alley

Family will receive guests Thursday, 2:00-4:00 p.m., Waldrick's, Diagon Alley

Even though she knew it by heart, Hermione looked again at the black-edged clipping from the Prophet as she stood on the pavement outside Waldrick's at a few minutes past four o'clock.

For the previous hour, she had been sitting in a café just down the road, watching as a thin but steady stream of mostly-older people went in and out of Waldrick's. Neville had come and gone, as had a red-eyed Professor Sprout, who'd been holding the arm of an upright, white-haired old man. Hagrid, sniffling, wearing his seemingly-indestructible hairy suit, had gone in with Madam Hooch, both of them moving much more slowly than of old. Hermione recognised several people from the Ministry and from the Hogwarts Board of Governors, and there were some strangers that she'd guessed were friends of the nephew and his wife.

But the last visitors had come out at least a quarter-hour ago, and no one new had gone in. It was now or never, Hermione thought.

The door opened soundlessly as she approached. The main dining room was empty and silent, but soft light spilled from the corridor to her right, and Hermione followed it to the private room in the back.

A rotund, middle-aged wizard was standing near the door, talking to someone inside. "Enna and I will be more than happy to see you home," he was saying, although Hermione didn't have the impression he would have been happy at all. "You know it's no trouble. . ."

"No. Thank you." Minerva McGonagall's voice had lost none of its authority in the nearly fifteen years since Hermione had seen her. "You're very kind, but I will be fine on my own."

Just then the wizard caught sight of Hermione and exchanged his slightly petulant expression for a doleful smile. "Ah, here's one last guest, Enna," he said to a busily-dressed woman who now appeared at his side. And to Hermione, "We were just about to leave, actually, but it's good of you to have come. Wilton Grubbly-Plank." He extended a hand. "Were you one of Auntie's students?"

"A long time ago, yes," Hermione replied, giving his hand the briefest of shakes as she stepped into the room. She had an impression of candlelight and dark-panelled walls, but it was Minerva who captured her attention.

The retired headmistress stood next to a carved chair, her black robes unrelieved by any of her usual green. Her hair was almost completely silver now, but she still wore her square spectacles, and age had only slightly softened the sharp planes of her face. Her eyes were fixed imperiously on Wilton and Enna, but she turned as Hermione entered.

"Miss Granger," she said, with something of the same stern edge she'd used with Wilhelmina's nephew.

Hermione had expected to feel awkward or intrusive, but instead, she felt only the overwhelming sadness that seemed to pulse from under Minerva's careful façade. She wanted to enfold the old woman in her arms, but even now didn't quite dare. "I'm so sorry," she said, and found herself answering Minerva's sudden tears with her own.

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But Minerva was still Minerva, and after a just a few moments, she pulled herself together and conjured two handkerchiefs, smiling ruefully as she handed one to Hermione.

"My apologies, Miss Granger," she said, removing her spectacles to wipe her eyes. "But it's not been the easiest of afternoons." This was said with a slight dry nod towards Wilhelmina's relatives, and Hermione was glad her back was to them, so that she could flash a quick grin.

Wilton cleared his throat. "Well, we'll be off, then, Minerva. If you're sure you'll be all right?"

"Very sure, thank you," Minerva answered, with a nod to each of them. "Goodbye, Wilton. Enna."

"Now, you keep in touch," Enna said, speaking for the first time since Hermione's arrival. But she left the room without waiting for an answer, tugging Wilton with her. As they disappeared down the corridor, Enna's voice floated back: "I can't believe Auntie left that old harridan everything."

Minerva rolled her eyes and waved her wand, and for a mad moment Hermione thought she was hexing the departing Grubbly-Planks. But she was merely Summoning a bottle of firewhisky and two glasses from a small bar in the back of the room.

Pouring them both a generous measure, she said, "Wilton the Wanker. That's what Willa called him."

Her eyes filled with tears again, and she turned away. Hermione looked hastily down into her glass. When she ventured to glance up once more, Professor McGonagall was back in control.

"Wilton was right about one thing, Hermione," she said. "It was good of you to come. It means more than I can say. Thank you."

Hermione couldn't think of any response that didn't sound trite, so she settled for clasping Minerva's hand.

"She'd been very ill," said Minerva suddenly. "She was ready to die, and it was time. More than time."

No "passed away" euphemisms for Minerva McGonagall, of course. No matter who had died.

"What will you do now?" Hermione asked, and then wished she hadn't. She wished she had spared both of them the bleakness of Minerva's voice as she answered, "Carry on, I suppose."

"I'm sorry," said Hermione, knowing it was inadequate, but not knowing what else she could say.

"It's all right." Minerva smiled at her briefly. "Or it will be. In time."

She sat down almost absently, sipping the firewhisky, her mind clearly far away from this subdued and peaceful room. She was silent for so long that Hermione was wondering if she ought to leave or offer to take Minerva home when the professor said, "At times like this, it's easy to think about regrets, Hermione."

"Do you have many?" It wasn't the most diplomatic of questions, but Hermione wanted to know.

"Of course. One can't live without having regrets. But you can't live in them, either. I try to deal with them as I would an unwanted Legilimens -- Occlumency against the past."

Any response Hermione might have made was forestalled by the arrival of a plump, red-faced witch from Waldrick's staff.

"Just wanted to see how you were doing, Headmistress," she said, her expression kind and concerned. "Or if there's anything we can bring you. . .?"

"No, thank you, Bethen. Everything has been very nice indeed, but Miss Granger and I will be leaving shortly. Please thank Mrs Waldrick and tell her I'll be in touch soon."

Bethen nodded and disappeared, and Hermione waited for Professor McGonagall to offer a polite "thank-you-for-coming" speech. But instead, Minerva reached out to pull her into a wordless embrace, just as Wilhelmina had done to Minerva herself on that long-ago night of Dumbledore's death.

Hermione felt the old, familiar bubble-like sensation rise in her chest at she held her teacher close and thought about those regrets she didn't have.

She didn't regret loving Minerva. Or Ron. She didn't regret the path she'd finally chosen.

Her life hadn't been wasted. And she hadn't been unhappy.

As an ending to a story, it was perhaps as much as most people could hope for.

~~Fin

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A/N --We've reached the end of "Storytelling," or at least, the end of this telling of a story. I do apologize to those of you who were hoping for genuine Minerva/Hermione romance: it just didn't want to happen here. But as Minerva says in an earlier chapter, there are other forms of love besides the romantic, and in that sense, this tale is very much a love story.

I thank all of you who have taken the time to leave reviews; your comments have been so thoughtful and kind. Reviews are always a pleasure, but the ones offered here have been particularly welcome. I appreciate them and you.

I'll begin posting a new Minerva story next Sunday; see you then.