Authors note: This came to me after reading the poem 'Do not stand at my grave and weep' by Mary Elizabeth Frye. I get inspiration at the oddest times. Any mistakes are my own. I apologise for the weird way it's written.

Disclaimer: The characters belong to J.K. and the poem to Mary Elizabeth Frye.

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Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

Minerva stood beside the grave, dew glistening in the early sunlight. It was the time of the morning when no one else was awake, when the only sounds were of nature, or freedom. It was Minerva's favourite time of day. It allowed her to visit the grave no one knew existed, the grave that wasn't there.

Hermione had only been 18 when she died, had only been out of school 3 months when the Final Battle came. It was over before most people knew it had begun. Too quickly, really. It didn't give reality chance to sink in. At least if there was a big battle you expected people to die. Maybe it wouldn't have been so hard to accept if she'd known. As it was, it had been nearly a day later when someone finally let her know that her protégé, her love, had died.

No one knew how close Hermione and Minerva had been. No one knew that friendship had turned to something more. And no one would fully understand the pain Minerva suffered when she remembered. Remembered happier times, ones where Voldemort had been a future concern, where NEWT's had taken priority. Maybe if they hadn't innocent people wouldn't have been killed. Maybe, if Voldemort had been more of a threat, Hermione wouldn't have died. You could think yourself into madness with maybes. They didn't bring your loved ones back.

As the sun rose fully above the horizon Minerva turned slowly from the graveside. It was time to put the mask back on, to become the stern Professor she was known as. She looked forward to the time when she could set aside her mask and go to a happier time.

When you awaken in the morning's hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry.

I am not there. I did not die.