Word Count: 302
"You've done your part," Minerva tells him. "There is nothing left to prove."
Nothing left to prove. Horace almost laughs at that. Yes, he has done his part. Against his better judgement, he took a stand and led countless students, new and old, into battle. Not all of them returned. Though he did not strike the killing blow, their blood is still on his hands.
It's why he has thrown himself into the rebuilding of the castle. So many other have pitched in, of course, but Horace feel like he cannot do enough. So, he does everything. He stretches himself thin because he has to ensure that they did not die for nothing. He has to be worthy, has to find redemption in one way or another.
He thinks he might break. Though the stones have been scrubbed clean, he is all too aware that they had been littered with blood only days ago. He can still so vividly recall the injured and the dead.
Colin Creevey was just a boy, so small in death.
Nymphadora Tonks' smile never faded, even as the light from her eyes went out.
So many dead. Too many. And he is still alive when they should be instead.
"Come, dear." She rests a hand on his shoulder. "Have a drink with me."
Horace shakes his head. "There is too much work to do. I can't… I must… I must…"
Minerva presses a kiss to his cheek. "I was not asking." She takes him gently by the hand. "Dinner. A drink. I think we both need the company."
He wants to protest. He cannot rest until he has been absolved and everything is right again.
But he doesn't. She's right. He needs someone now, and Minerva has always been so lovely. "I suppose a drink won't hurt."