Minerva McGonagall sat near the small stone house which had once been Rubius Hagrid's. There was an easel and a canvas in front of her, but she had not opened her paints; the canvas was blank. Minerva's attention was on the lawn... she had forgotten that today was end-of-term; had forgotten that the summer hols started today.
The Potters and the Weasleys were gathered on the lawn, four generations of red hair and freckles, bustling about, picking up the belongings of the current students, parents and grandparents pointing out landmarks and telling stories. McGonagall smiled, watching them, then turned her head slightly at a sound from behind her.
"There are a lot of them," a girl's voice said, without emotion.
"Yes," said McGonagall, nodding.
"They're taking a trip together, to the West Indies," the voice went on. The girl came up even with McGonagall, and Minerva was unsurprised to see that it was Miss Doe.
"I've never been to the West Indies," Minerva said, looking back at the group, remembering each of them as they had been when they were students, remembering attending weddings, receiving birth announcements, attending funerals.
"I have," Miss Doe answered. "My father was... stationed... there."
Minerva heard the hesitation, but ignored it. "My brother was in the Army," she said, instead. She smiled, remembering Apollo's pride in the regimental kilt, how he had seemed to fill her view as he picked her up, tossing her in the air, settling her on his shoulder.
Miss Doe was still looking at the Potters and Weasleys. "I don't have a brother," she said. "I don't really have a family."
Minerva nodded, and looked at the blank canvas in front of her. She could sketch on it, she thought, she could paint the sketch. She could paint the life she hadn't led, and bring it to life... limited, two-dimensional life, but life anyway. She could paint her wedding to Ancelm, or poor Professor Keaton, or, if she were feeling particularly given to fantasy, to Albus. She could paint their children, their grandchildren, their family.
But it would never be true outside of the painting. "When I first came to Hogwarts," she said, reflectively, "I felt like an orphan. My family were muggles, you see, and my brother was far away, fighting a battle in Africa. But I walked into the great hall, and I saw the Lion waiting for me. I walked to the front of the hall, and when they put the sorting hat on my head, I told it I wanted to be in the house of the Lion." The old lady chuckled, and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "I think few students are bold enough to tell the hat what house to put them in... but apparently, it agreed with me."
Miss Doe looked at the old woman. "And now, you'll tell me they became your family."
Minerva nodded. "In a way," she said, "they did. When I look at that passel of children down there, I see my brothers and sisters in their children, their grandchildren."
Miss Doe looked back at the crowd on the lawn, now beginning to board brooms and circle, before heading west, towards the transit centre in Edinburgh. "I think," she said, quietly, "I would rather have a real family."
McGonagall smiled, and uncapped a tube of paint. Even the prolific Weasleys had never had more than ten children each, she thought. Minerva had had thousands, boys and girls, loving and troublesome, bright and dim. No, she had not missed anything, making the choices she had. She had loved all her children, she thought; sometimes the troublesome ones most of all.
