Recently, there has been a flock of canaries hitting my apartment window and bursting into clouds of feathers every morning as I eat breakfast. Hopefully this oddity shall desist with my offering below – my new landlady has been blaming her cat for the mess.

It is also noteworthy that the mob caught me, roughed me up a little (MM/HG fans really are a vicious lot when deceived by authors), and marched me back to my computer where I was ordered to upload the update on pain of losing my ears. It was a little harsh – it has been only an extra four months.

I have learned something from this. The delay was the result of this story being nearly impossible to write, not for any deep spiritual meaning (unless light angst is synonymous to deep spiritual meaning?) but rather that things just didn't fit. I cut huge swaths of it out (sections that didn't push the story along or provide humorous relief) and then was faced with two different ways of achieving the ending. I think I've learned my lesson about continuing stories which I have 'ended'. Never again! Not even if you guys beg for it!

This is the second-to-last chapter. Now, will you stop waving your pitch-forks?

It was a pleasant morning in June when Hermione Granger, already dressed and prepared to leave, sat down at her small kitchen table, relaxing for the ten minutes she had before leaving for work at the Ministry of Magic. Setting her cup of coffee on the small kitchen table, the aroma sharpening her senses more than drinking the liquid ever did, she unfolded the Monday edition of the Daily Prophet to glance over as she habitually did every day.

She abruptly dropped her piece of marmalade-laden, barely-crisped toast on the floor when she saw the front page.

'HOGWART'S HEADMISTRESS TO RETIRE!' blared the headline in gigantic bold typeface, underscored by a slightly smaller font in italics: 'Our reporter has the inside scoop on the school's next-in-line – see page three for details'.

Hermione flipped the page so quickly that she ripped it. A quick scan revealed a brief retrospective on Minerva McGonagall's stint as Headmistress (with phrases such as 'capable but ageing' being repeated more than needed) and a few unnecessary details on her life history – unnecessary because there was not a witch or wizard in Britain or Europe who did not know who Minerva McGonagall was. Seemingly aware of this, although it was entirely possible that the man was simply that poor of a writer, the reporter seemed more interested in speculating on Minerva's successor – and had made a list of the those he considered the most likely candidates for the Headship.

Hermione had to re-read that line to make sure she had read it correctly.

The writer's prestigious group of nominations for Headship included three Quidditch stars (all from the Ballycastle Bats), one Muggle chef who made 'excellent puddings' at a small Walbrook restaurant that the reporter was fond of, and a 'Mrs. Moneypenny' who had been ever so kind as to help the writer with a small Doxy problem the previous Thursday.

Her interest waning at the notion of a Doxy expert being nominated for Headship of what was regarded as the most prestigious school of magic in Europe, the young woman dropped the newspaper - still open to page three - and bent down and peeled the remainder of her breakfast off the kitchen floor.

After depositing the ruined breakfast into the waste under the sink, and popping a fresh slice of bread in the toaster, Hermione returned to the newspaper. On page two, a photograph of a wizard – a Perry. G. Jenkins, new manager of Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions - was shaking his fist at her. The tear that she had made while turning the page had decapitated him neatly from his lower half and his head was mouthing rude words at her.

Disappointingly, the quality of the article had not improved in her absence. The reporter had finished his prophetic musings with Celestina Warbeck – singing sensation of the past four decades and the witch topping the list of those 'most likely to become the next Headmistress of Hogwarts.' His enthusiasm was echoed by the gigantic photo of Celestina Warbeck that filled the bottom half of page three. The singer was tossing her head of elaborate curls around and flashing her gleaming set of white teeth in a particularly Lockhart-like fashion as she silently sang one of her hit songs, an advertisement for a concert in Nottingham that evening.

Shaking her head, secretly wondering at the new lows to which the wizarding newspaper had descended, or if perhaps the editor had taken a Beaker of Befuddlement accidentally in his morning tea, Hermione dumped the remainder of her coffee into the sink and tossed the paper into the trash to keep the ruined piece of toast company. Picking her satchel of forms and documents from the counter, and taking her dark travelling cloak down from its hook, she opened the door and left for work.

As Senior Assistant to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Hermione was responsible for authorizing and approving all work, and managing all individual offices in the Ministry's largest department. Each department at the Ministry of Magic had one Senior Assistant, save for the Department of Mysteries - which did not publicly release details of its organisational structure - and the Department of International Magical Cooperation – which, despite being relatively small, needed two Senior Assistants to keep track of all of the diplomatic ties to other countries.

Hermione had transferred over to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures the year previous, serving as the replacement for the previous Senior Assistant who had decided that enough was enough after years of strain and stress in the position, and had snapped his wand over his knee and quit. The last they'd heard, the man had travelled to a remote region of Tibet where he entered a Buddhist monastery and become a monk.

It was not a job for the faint of heart.

There were two inter-departmental memos waiting for her on her desk when she arrived: one stating that there would be a function for International Magic Educators hosted by the Hogwarts's Board of Governors that evening in the Atrium, so all workers should use alternative exits so as not to disturb the attendees, and the other memo asking that Ministry workers refrain from parking their brooms outside – a Muggle had been taken to St. Mungo's after mistakenly attempting to sweep the sidewalk with a Cleansweep 12 and falling from a height of thirty feet.

The tasks of the day were not particularly notable, but required extensive double checking and the sending of numerous messages to various offices. The Wizengamot was holding an election for the selection of three new members to replace those who were retiring from the Council that year, and needed proper documentation in triplicate on each of the twelve nominees. The Auror Office required authorization to upgrade their allowance for equipment – their brooms were now five years old and far slower that they liked. A new Junior Assistant had been transferred over from Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes to the Improper Use of Magic Office and would need someone to be assigned to train him. It was mid-afternoon before Hermione could venture out of her office to hunt down the Head of Magical Law Enforcement to sign papers that she had drafted that morning.

Hermione had stopped a few steps from her office, stepping over to the one side of the hallway to let a Junior Sub-Assistant wheeling a bicycle that was reciting romantic poetry pass by her. She shuffled through the sheaf of parchment in her hands, double-checking to see that everything was in order.

'Hermione!'

At the sound of her name, Hermione looked up to see Susan Bones, formerly of her year in Hogwarts and presently the Senior Assistant to the Department of Magical Transportation, jogging towards her down the main corridor of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The young woman looked harried, not unexpected for a mother of a two-year-old, but there did seem an added strain to her face today.

'The Minister needs a Senior Assistant for this evening,' Susan began without preamble. In addition to regulating the goings on of their own individual departments, Senior Assistant duties also included on a rotating basis accompanying the Minister at functions and acting as an official representative for the Ministry. 'It's my turn, but Amelia's caught a cough and she needs to go to Mungo's.' The pretty brunette grimaced and lay a hand on Hermione's arm. 'I wouldn't normally ask you – I know you've been up to your neck in work for months - but Penelope Clearwater's off with the envoy to China and won't be back until Wednesday, and Aoife Moody's busy fixing that mess-up with the Lake District Centaurs. Hermione, I'm absolutely desperate.'

And so, at five to six, Hermione found herself down in the Atrium, standing with Kingsley Shacklebolt and the Senior Undersecretary, commiserating over their mutual distaste for the Fountain of Magical Brethren that had once occupied the space in the middle of the large hall.

It was a small gathering of roughly 40 wizards and witches, most belonging to either the Ministry or the Board of Governors, although a few foreign dignitaries from educational backgrounds were also scattered about. Hermione recognized the red head of Percy Weasley bobbing enthusiastically – really, it was a most irritating habit - as he talked with a pretty diplomat from Spain, and at the other end of the room was Neville Longbottom, current Professor of Herbology at Hogwarts, surrounded by several member of the Board of Governors. Neville looked to be in his usual state of discomfort in large social situations, undoubtably wishing for the safety of his greenhouses back at the school, flesh-eating plants and all.

She was about to excuse herself to the two men and walk over to talk to her old friend to chat when when she heard Kingsley's rumbling voice.

'Ah, here she is'

Hermione turned around to follow his gaze, and felt her heart skip a beat when her eyes landed on the newest arrival.

Tall, dark-haired and impossibly dignified, Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts, drew stares from all sides as she strode through the room, her tailored dark green robes only serving to emphasize the overwhelming sense of elegance that she already exuded. The woman had arrived via the main entrance and was now heading straight for the group in the center of the room with long, smooth strides, politely acknowledging the greetings of people she passed but never letting them divert her from her intended destination.

'Minerva,' the Minister welcomed her with a smile once she had joined his group, his deep voice rolling over her name, 'I'm glad you could make it – I realize that the school is at its busiest at the moment.'

'Kingsley. Thompson.' Minerva inclined her head to two men, before centering her gaze on the remaining member of the trio, dark eyes softening perceptibly. 'Hermione, what a pleasant surprise.'

'Headmistress,' Hermione replied softly, unable to ignore the flutter in her chest at the gentler voice that Minerva had used for her name.

She had last spoken to Minerva three months prior; a chance meeting in Flourish and Blotts one weekend in late March. There had been no mention of the witch's plans during their brief chat, no hint that she was tired of directing the school and looking for retirement. Not that Hermione had expected to be told, of course - Minerva would rarely confide in anyone.

Kingsley immediately drew Hermione into a conversation about several new policies that the Board had decided to vote on in the coming year. The Senior Under-Secretary was swept away by a group of three foreign diplomats arguing in Cantonese, and Hermione drifted away from the small group, feeling more at unease than she should, but at the same time finding herself unable to look away from her former teacher.

There had been no question before that Minerva McGonagall was beautiful, but seeing the woman after time away, the impression was fresh. Hermione never really could pin an age on Minerva. Oh, to be sure, she knew that she was now in her eighties, but it was her appearance that defied estimation. Some days Minerva looked to be as old as sixty and other times she looked twenty years younger, particularly when she smiled.

Hermione suddenly became aware that she was staring and quickly looked away, running her eyes across the room for an excuse to escape. Where had Neville gone?

'Miss Granger?'

Startled by the unexpected voice, Hermione almost jumped. Minerva had come up beside her without notice.

'Headmistress,' she recovered with a quick smile. 'I didn't realize that you'd be here – school doesn't end for another few weeks.'

Strangely, Minerva's lips seemed to thin at the use of her title, although the reaction was so faint that Hermione realized that she had likely imagined it.

'My presence this evening was requested by the Board of Governors – Professor Flitwick has taken over my duties for this evening.'

'Ah.'

'Indeed -,' Minerva continued, dark eyebrows rising, 'I had considered asking Celestina Warbeck, as she seems to be publicly regarded as my replacement, but she was otherwise engaged at a concert in Norfolk. Filius was kind enough to stand in her stead, he had no prior singing commitments.'

Hermione made a face. 'I read this morning's paper – I'm surprised the editor let that piece of nonsense leave his desk.'

'It was the man's third draft,' Minerva said lightly. 'He was, shall we say, encouraged to explore other subjects rather than focus all his attentions on my biography and reasons for leaving. The previous drafts were rather speculative about wild romantic adventures I had planned for my retirement. An exciting, but unfortunately ficticious, notion.'

'Oh.' Hermione - suddenly feeling for all the world like a teenager again - wondered if she sounded as unintelligent and inarticulate as she felt. This palpable unease did not escape the older woman, and Minerva tilted her head to one side, frowning.

'My dear, you seem a little out of sorts. Is everything alright?'

'Of course!' Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears, although she seemed to have thankfully moved beyond the one-worded replies. 'Just a busy couple of months at work.'

Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. Hermione sought to change the subject.

'Professor, why...' she began, intending to persue the question of why Minerva was choosing to leave Hogwarts, but she was interrupted before she could finish.

'Headmistress McGonagall.' A grey-haired Governor in burgundy robes who had come up beside them. 'I apologize for my interruption, but the French Ambassador wishes to speak with you. Or at least I think he does – his accent's impossible to understand.'

'I'll be in touch, Hermione.' Minerva said with a faint smile, catching Hermione's hand briefly with her own, running a thumb over the backs of Hermione's fingers.

Hermione almost snatched her hand away, but caught herself at the last second.

'I look forward to it,' she smiled back.

That had been a lie.

'I hear the Holyhead Harpies played well on Saturday.'

It was Friday and Hermione had dropped in to see a four-month's pregnant Ginny after work. The youngest Weasley was Chaser for the Welsh Quidditch team, the Holyhead Harpies, and despite staunch resistance from the Healers and her own relatives, had vowed to continue playing until the day the baby popped out.

Molly Weasley had observantly remarked that her daughter might change her mind once the third trimester came along and she became unable to bend at the waist, let along speed through the air upside down on a broom being chased by a bunch of madmen and a pair of bloodthirsty Bludgers hell-bent on ending her unborn child's life. Ginny had responded in a less-than-daughterly fashion about old-fashioned mindsets and before Molly could compose a furious reply, their respective husbands had stepped in to prevent further damage.

'Two cobbing penalties and the first Snitchnip in two years, and we lost by 120 points.' Ginny laughed uproariously as she came out from the kitchen. 'Are you sure you didn't get your information from a Puddlemere supporter, Hermione?'

'I may have,' Hermione said sheepishly, accepting her cup of tea from her friend.

Ginny shook her head. 'I've never seen Gwenog so angry – I thought she was going to murder Saoirse right there on the pitch in front of two hundred people.' Although Hermione's knowledge of Quidditch was painfully limited, even she was aware that Gwenog Jones' temper was legendary, particularly when things went wrong for her team on the pitch. 'Not that it had been Saoirse's fault; the Snitch just flew into her robes when she was running down a Bludger.'

She snorted at the memory again before turning her bright brown eyes towards Hermione. 'But enough of that, Harry says you've been busy.'

'No more than usual,' Hermione said wryly, pausing for a moment to take a sip from her floral patterned cup. 'Things seem to have slowed a little over the past month – the trial finished three weeks ago and that's cut the load down considerably. We also managed to chase down the Boggart that was haunting the Improper Use of Magic Office. It's much easier to run things when you don't have to chase Boggarts out of your office desk every second day.'

Ginny dropped into the chair opposite.

'I read that McGonagall's retiring – any word on that at the Ministry?' She didn't wait for an answer from Hermione before continuing on. 'Dad guesses its just she's reached the end – it's been nearly 50 years of teaching and it's a good a time to stop as any – she's gotten Hogwarts more organized that it has been in a hundred years and all the teachers are actually decent at what they teach.'

This had been an accomplishment on Minerva's part – until people realized that the curse accompaning the job seemed to have vanished, it had been astoundingly difficult to find a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for several years after Voldemort's defeat.

'-It's a pity; I had half-hoped that this one,' Ginny patted her belly, 'would be in school under her. Hogwart's just won't be the same without Minerva McGonagall.'

'I saw her Monday at the Board of Governor's reception,' Hermione said carefully.

Ginny frowned as she picked up a chocolate biscuit off of the tea tray.'Did she give any hint as to why she was leaving?'

Hermione shook her head. 'She didn't, but we didn't say more than a few words to one another before she had to convince the French ambassador that the Board of Governors didn't have plans to take over Beauxbatons.'

'How did she look?'

Ginny's tone had changed to one of calculated curiousity. Hermione didn't answer immediately, setting her cup on the sideboard instead. The carpet had suddenly become fascinating.

'Still?' Ginny asked softly.

Hermione nodded slightly, eyes still fixed on the floor.

'Hell,' came the commiseration.

With a defeated sigh, Hermione dropped her head into her hands.

'I'm 26, Gin,' she whispered miserably, shaking her head, 'it's been years since I was her student and it just won't go away.'

It was nine o'clock on the following Saturday evening that the door bell rung to Hermione's flat, echoing through the rooms. Hermione stood up immediately to answer it, leaving her pile of paperwork on the middle table and her half-eaten plate of food beside it – fish and chips from the place down the corner, white paper cradling the remains of the only food she had had since breakfast. It wasn't that she was avoiding eating, it was just that she never had the time to sit down for lunch.

She already knew who would be at the door; Hermione had few visitors as it was, and only one would call at this hour.

'Hi Gin -' she began, opening the door, her voice dropping off mid-way through the greeting when she registered that the woman on her doorstep was neither a red-head, nor was she pregnant.

'Headmistress.' Hermione corrected herself faintly, staring in surprise at Minerva McGonagall.

'Hermione.' The witch's voice was crisp. 'We've known one another for fifteen years – it entitles you to some familiarity. I'm not prepared to struggle over 'Senior Assistant of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement' - it's rather a large mouthful of words - so please feel free to use my given name.'

'Minerva,' Hermione began again, trying the third name on for size and finding nearly as uncomfortable as the surprise of this unexpected guest, but receiving no further objection from the woman. 'Please come in.'

Minerva stepped into the flat. She was wearing a dark travelling cloak over what looked to be muggle clothes, and despite the light rain outside, was completely dry. An Imperturbious Charm perhaps, although it was possible she had Apparated directly to Hermione's doorstep.

'May I get you some tea?' Hermione said as she closed the door, scrambling to remember her manners, already more flustered than she ought to be.

'Please.'

Directing her unanticipated guest towards the living room, Hermione retreated to the kitchen. After a minute of arranging tea cups, spoons, milk (for herself), sugar (Minerva took one), and pouring the kettle into the teapot, she stood beside the counter with her eyes tightly shut and silently counted to ten. Disappointingly, her nerves did not lessen at this exercise. Giving up on recovering her poise, the young witch picked up the tray and made her way back out to the sitting room.

Hesitantly.

Dark eyes flickered over to her briefly, then resumed their examination of the papers scattered across the low table.

Hermione blushed.

'You've caught me in the middle of a departmental review, I'm afraid,' she said, feeling compelled to explain the mess, her face heating up as she noticed her unfinished supper on the end of the table. 'It's normally much tidier in here.'

'Kingsley said that you were busy,' Minerva remarked lightly, laying her travelling cloak on one arm of the chair opposite the chesterfield and sitting down. 'When was the last time you took leave?'

Hermione paused briefly as she banished the papers and supper to the next room and set the tray on the cleared table.

'Christmas,' she answered. 'My parents and I went to the Canary Islands.'

'For how long?'

'Four days. It was supposed to be longer but things came up for the Department, and I came back a few days early.'

After this odd question, the conversation segued to the affairs of the Ministry during the past few months. Dealings with the Greek Ministry of Magic had turned sour when one of the British Ministry workers had taken leave of his senses and attempted to import a Pegasus from Greece to the British Isles in secret. It had been a dreadful blow to Greek-Anglo relations – Greece had an international understanding that its pegasi herds were never to be disturbed, there were barely a handful of them in world as it was. Hermione herself had not had much direct involvement in the matter but had spent weeks upon weeks mopping up all of the legal headaches in the trial's aftermath.

Months.

The end result of the whole mess had been a new amendment to the Ministry's guidelines for foreign travel ('Ministry workers shall refrain from smuggling Magical Creatures illegally into the country') and the shipment of a breeding pair of Thestrals from the Hogwart's herd, a gift to placate the wronged Ministry. The Greeks wished to see if viable offspring could be produced from a Thestral/Pegasus coupling – they really were getting desperate for new foals.

Minerva had frowned at this.

'I hadn't realized that they wished to use them for breeding. Aren't they the least bit concerned that this new cross-breeding program might produce invisible Pegasi with a craving for flesh? They do understand what Thestrals eat, don't they?

Hermione shrugged. 'They didn't seem to mind. They felt it might discourage further attempts to steal them.'

As they talked, Hermione's attention drifted to her visitor's appearance. Minerva's attire was muggle; a long-sleeved dark wool sweater with a wide shallow neckline that Hermione couldn't remember the name of, but thought had something to do with boats. The dip of the nameless neckline curved down to frame the Minerva's collarbones and long neck perfectly.

It was easy, now. Hermione could seamlessly imagine herself back at Hogwarts, having tea in Minerva's office during the odd evening, discussing magical theory. They would chat for an hour, never any longer, and Hermione would make her way back to the common room where Harry and Ron were waiting for her.

'Why would you want to spend more time with the teachers?' Ron would ask incredulously. 'McGonagall's not exactly one for heart to heart chats – does she even ever smile?'

Hermione would roll her eyes and offer a scathing retort on the amount of homework Ron was neglecting. Harry would stop them before it became a full argument, and the matter would be dropped until the next week.

She never had been able to tell them about her attraction to the woman. Ginny had guessed during her sixth year, and have provided a much needed outlet – Hermione had though she would burst if she had to keep it to herself any longer.

Distracted, Hermione tipped her cup up too far and an unexpected amount of hot tea spilled into her mouth, scalding her tongue. A childish mistake, and a painful one at that.

'Hot,' she breathed, quickly bringing a hand up to numb lips and dropping her cup noisily onto the platter, upsetting the small silver spoon that had been resting on one side of the saucer.

'Are you all right?'

Minerva had risen to her feet in concern.

Hermione did not answer, torn between rushing out to the kitchen for a glass of water like a madwoman or staying where she was, pretending that she hadn't made such an elementary mistake.

'Hermione?' Minerva repeated, coming closer, sounding even more worried than before.

'Burnt,' she gasped out, her eyes beginning to water involuntarily, now overwhelmed by the pain. When was the last time that this had happened? Age eight? Nine?

A touch brought Hermione's hand away from her face and then, like an electric shock, her entire body was devoid of feeling because Minerva had brushed Hermione's lips with her own, lingering for the briefest of moments.

Hermione's world froze on its axis.

'Better?' Minerva asked, straightening back up, her voice the very essence of restraint.

Hermione found herself unable to answer, the act of providing her lungs with oxygen occupying all of her concentration. Had she been capable of speech, her immediate response would have been the monosyllabic, tremulous, but very direct answer of 'no'.

Air.

'You are turning red, Ms. Granger.` Minerva observed mildly. 'Please breathe.'

Hermione gasped, air rushing into her oxygen-starved and burning lungs. It was an inefficient method of respiration but served a basic purpose.

Minerva was placing the stopper back on a small vial that she was holding. She had applied some of its contents to her lips moments earlier.

'A lip balm with a cooling agent,' she explained, holding the phial up before placing it back inside a pocket of her coat '– forgive my forwardness, I felt that speed was of the essence. Fussing with the bottle would have taken too long, and I wasn't sure that it would work – it's hardly an intended use.'

Hermione stared at the small bottle in Minerva's hand, watching as it disappeared back into the folds of her robes.

'I…' she began, her voice dying off almost immediately as she realized that she didn't have anything to say that wouldn't come out as completely nonsensical.

Minerva saved her the trouble.

'How is your mouth?'

Long fingers gently tilted Hermione's head slightly to the right, and brushed up her cheek, skimming across her skin. There was not a chance that the woman wouldn't feel the heat of Hermione's blush. It nearly matched the temperature that had until a moment ago, pained her lips.

It took a while for Hermione to sort through all the signals to her brain and locate a specific one.

'Much better,' she breathed out, eyes still a little wider than usual. 'Thank-you.'

And then, acting as if nothing had happened, as if it was perfectly normal to kiss someone who had clumsily burnt their lips from hot tea, Minerva sat back down in her chair.

'I have a proposal for you, Hermione.'

...

AN: Last chapter will come along soonish. Eventually. Within the next ten years.