"Ah. Sorry to just barge in, Minerva!" Horace says, his voice surprisingly cheerful, despite the hell they've been through over the past twenty-four hours. "Your door was open. I suppose I still should have knocked…"

Under ordinary circumstances, Minerva might be upset with him. She doesn't have the energy left. Maybe, if she's honest, she's grateful for the intrusion. "Come in, Horace."

And he does, lifting a bottle of wine. "For you," he tells her, quickly summoning glasses and pouring them both a generous serving.

She almost laughs. "So many heinous crimes have been committed today," she says, "and here we are, drinking wine like nothing has happened at all."

His lips quirk into a sad smile. "No. It isn't like that," he says. "We are drinking because I think you need a friend. Tomorrow, you will have to take charge again, but tonight you can relax."

Minerva shakes her head. Relax. It seems like such a foreign concept. When has she last truly relaxed? She can hardly remember a time when she didn't feel like she was going to break.

Still, she manages a smile. Horace is right; she does need a friend. The war has finally ended, and her heart is so heavy. Though she and Horace have never truly seen eye to eye on most things, she is grateful to call him a friend. In that moment, he is the only one to treat her normally, to make her feel maybe things truly will be okay in the end.

She sips her wine, lips curling into a more solid smile. "To friends," she says.

Horace returns her smile. "To friends." He sips from his own glass. "And to remembering that we are never alone."

It doesn't feel like that, especially after the day they've had. Still, she could feel the faintest flutter of hope.