This fic deals with suicide - consider yourself warned. For those not sensitive to that subject, please grab some tissues and enjoy. This fic was based on the song "Whiskey Lullaby", by Brad Paisly and Allison Crouse.

By fifteen, she knew she was in love. By sixteen, she knew nothing in the world would ever change that fact, and so shortly after turning seventeen, shortly after the beginning of her sixth year at Hogwarts, Hermione Granger did what any Gryffindor in her position ought to do. She summed every bit of courage that she had, and approached Minerva McGonagall, took a deep breath, and said three words.

"I love you."

The conversation had gone downhill from there. Minerva had asked what exactly she meant by that, and Hermione had told her. Minerva had then gone on and presented a very predictable list of reasons why it simply could not be. Hermione had argued with her about it for a while, but eventually Minerva had simply told her that it would best if she leave.

So, Hermione left. She left Minerva's office, and she made it all the way back to her dorm without shedding a tear. She had known this was probably how the conversation would go. What she had not expected, and what was the cause now of her being curled up in a ball on her bed sobbing, was that Minerva would admit to being likewise attracted. Despite that, despite Hermione being of age, despite everything, Minerva had turned her away.

After a time, Hermione got out of bed, resolving to write Minerva a letter, hoping that she'd be able to change the older witch's mind. She pulled out fresh parchment, and a quill, and sat poised to begin.

I'll love her till I die, she thought to herself.

And then, the tears returned as she realized that no matter what she said or did, nothing would sway Minerva. The woman was too damn stubborn. The idea of love unto death brought to Hermione's mind the sacrifice that Lily Potter had made to save Harry. Lily had it easy, she mused. Lily didn't have to go on living after putting everything on the line. She'd done what she had to do, and then it was over.

Hermione glanced over to her wand. She knew the rules. She'd have to wait.

Christmas break, as usually, was a quiet affair for Minerva McGonagall. This year, she was glad of the solitude, glad to not have to look Hermione Granger in the eye every day in class. She was glad the beautiful young woman had gone home to spend the holiday with her family. Minerva sat, the morning after Christmas, drinking a bit of eggnog when an Owl fluttered into her quarters. She held out her hand to the tawny creature, who dropped an envelope with the Ministry seal in her lap.

She opened the letter without much thought as to what it could be - the Ministry often sent her correspondence about one thing or another. What awaited her, however, was something she could not have been prepared for.

ATTN: Deputy Headmistress

It is with regret that we must inform you that your student, Hermione Granger, sixth year Gryffindor, died last evening. Her parents have requested that her personal belongings be brought…

The scream of agony that escaped Minerva's lips could be heard all through the castle. She never finished reading the letter, rather crying herself into unconsciousness. The next morning, she showered, dressed, and made for the Gryffindor dorms to collect Hermione's things. Personal feelings aside, she owed it to the Granger's to be prompt in bringing her things, as requested. Minerva wondered what sort of death Hermione had faced - with Death Eaters about, any number of wizards or witches could have caught the woman, tortured her…

On second thought, Minerva decided it best not to think about it. She hoped Hermione did not suffer.

An hour later, the Transfiguration expert found herself at the front of a pleasant looking home, and with a shaky breath, she gathered her resolve and knocked on the door.

A woman, about fifty, answered, looking decidedly haggard. "Mrs. Granger?" she asked.

"You from the school?" the woman mutely inquired, taking note of her decidedly non-muggle clothing.

"Yes. My name is Minerva McGonagall. I am… was, one of Hermione's teachers," she offered in explanation. "I was informed of Hermione's passing and asked to bring you her belongings."

Oh, it was taking all of Minerva's self control not to break down in tears again. But no, she couldn't. Not here of all bloody places.

"I still can't believe she's gone," Mrs. Granger said, ushering Minerva inside. "I just can't understand why she did it."

"Did what?" Minerva asked, confused. Had Hermione gone out, despite some warning against it?

"Killed herself," the woman said, tears starting to flow. "Didn't that Ministry of yours tell you…?"

Minerva's world look of horror on her face must have told Mrs. Granger that the Ministry had not, in fact, explained the nature of her daughter's death. "Oh my god…"

Mrs. Granger guided Minerva further inside, and to the couch. "I didn't mean to shock you so… I figured they would have informed you."

"No," Minerva choked out. "They only said that she was…"

The word dead hung in the air, neither of them willing to say it out loud.

"I understand your surprise," the other woman whispered. "She seemed so happy. So sure of herself. Why she would… I just don't understand."

"She didn't leave a note?" Minerva asked, surprised that a woman as literate as Hermione wouldn't leave some dreadfully long explanation as to why she felt she could not go on living. It was so unlike her.

"Sort of," Mrs. Granger allowed. "She had a bit of paper in her hand, with a brief message, but that's all. Perhaps you'd know what it means…"

The muggle woman stood, went into the kitchen, and returned with a scrap of parchment, and handed it to Minerva. The words, few that they were, greeted Minerva's eye in Hermione's perfect, familiar penmanship.

"I'll love her till I die."

Minerva dropped the paper as if it had burned her. There was no doubt in her mind exactly what it meant, the reason why Hermione had taken her life. Guilt flooded over her, and a fresh wave of tears spilled forth, causing Mrs. Granger to rush over to her side.

"What does it mean, Professor? Who was Hermione talking about?" she demanded, knowing that Minerva had the answers.

The older of the two women wiped her eyes on her sleeves, and stood, pulling away from Mrs. Granger's embrace. She made it all the way to the front door, the other woman following carefully, before she turned and looked the mother of the woman she'd loved in the eye.

"Me," she whispered.

The stunned expression on Mrs. Granger's face, Minerva knew, would soon fade away and be replaced by anger. She could not be there for that. So, the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, head of Gryffindor House, allowed herself an instance of cowardice, and exited the house, quickly apparating away.

Harry Potter could never, ever, find it in himself to forgive Hermione for killing herself, no matter the reason. That said, he did offer up a silent thanks to his departed friend. She had, prior to penning the short, cryptic suicide note, left he and Ron a lengthy letter detailing things they would need to know in the next couple years as they fought against Voldemort. She'd be with them, to the end, if only in spirit.

The dark haired young man watched as people, muggle and magical, filed into the church for Hermione's funeral. Ron and his family were all there, seated in a long pew all together. Dumbledore was wearing unusually subdued colors - Harry wondered if he was actually upset about Hogwarts' star pupil dying, or if his thoughts were more focused on how she wouldn't be there to help the Boy-Who-Lived complete his mission. Had Hermione even known how important she was?

Harry observed Professor McGonagall in the back of the church, dressed in all black, though muggle style. She looked devastated. He had always known that Hermione and the Professor thought highly of one another, but now, he wondered if there had been more feeling between them than anyone realized. Normally, he'd think that McGonagall was some sort of mother figure to Hermione, but as his friend had often commented on how good a relationship she had with her own mother, he highly doubted that was it. There was something though.

Suddenly, that something hit Harry like a ton of bricks. The look on McGonagall's face now was the exact same expression he'd seen on Cho Chang's face after Cedric had died last year. It was the look of someone mourning someone they had loved - been in love with.

The note Hermione had left now made total sense. He'd never tell a soul though. Harry guessed that Hermione had told McGonagall how she felt, and had been rejected. The older woman was bound to be feeling guilty now, kind of like he had felt when Sirius had died. Harry wished that he could do something to comfort her, but she'd never accept it from him, of all people. Maybe he could step back and see her as a woman who'd loved and lost in the worst way, but while she may have seen Hermione as a woman, to McGonagall, Harry was still just a boy.

The funeral, as such things always were, was a somber event. Many of Hermione's friends from Hogwarts came up and said nice things about her, though no one commented on the nature of her death. As far as Harry knew, only two people understood why she'd taken her own life, and it was unsurprising to him when they were the last people in the cathedral style building when the service ended. McGonagall still stood silently in the back, having never found the willpower to so much as take a seat in the back row. Harry suspected that her guilt was making her question her right to even be here today.

Harry, who'd been sitting in one of the forwardmost rows of the church, finally stood and walked up to the open casket. Hermione was lying there, pale and unmoving. Her lips had been positioned to iminate a small smile, but Harry knew what his best friend looked like smiling, and that wasn't it. He knew, by the puffiness under her eyes, that she'd died in tears.

His heart broke.

After taking a ragged breath and placing a soft kiss on Hermione's cold forehead, Harry plucked a red rose out of a nearby vase and walked slowly toward the back of the church, toward the exit. He paused before leaving, and turned to look at McGonagall, who was looking at him with trepidation.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Mr. Potter," she uttered quietly.

Her voice was cracked and raw, presumably from her own share of crying, Harry observed. He lifted his hand slowly and offered his teacher the rose. "It's your loss too," he said with emotion.

He wasn't sure if he was surprised or not, but with a shaking hand, she did take the delicate flower, and after taking a deep, ragged breath, she took the first step toward the altar that presently held her lifeless heart.

Harry didn't stay to find out if she made it all the way there. He knew she would, even if it took the rest of the day. She owed Hermione that.

Jean Granger still, over a year after her daughter's death, sometimes forgot that Hermione would never be coming home. Jean and her husband John had been more or less cut off from the wizarding world since that Christmas - they were muggles, after all, and had no part in it now. Young Harry wrote now and then. He'd been more regular about it in the few months following Hermione's suicide, but then he and Ron had been more actively fighting in that war of theirs, and so for nearly a year there had been nothing. A couple of weeks ago, he'd written to say that the war was over, and that Hermione's help in research had been invaluable to that end. In that, Jean found some solace, proud to know that however short her daughter's life had been, it had been meaningful.

A knock at the door pulled Jean out of her thoughts, and she set down her cup of tea and went to answer it. "Harry!" she exclaimed, seeing the dark haired young man on her doorstep. "I was just thinking of you."

"Hey Mrs. Granger," he said, allowing her to hug him tightly. "I have something to tell you. May I come in?"

"Of course, of course," she said, ushering him in. "Join me in the den, I was just sitting down to tea."

Harry followed her into the house, and Jean noted he was holding a bit of parchment in his hand. They both took seats, and after she'd poured him a cup of tea, he spoke. "I know you've been out of contact with the wizarding world for the most part…"

"Entirely, save for your correspondences," she injected. "Thank you for that."

"Of course," he said with a nod. "Um, do you remember Professor McGonagall?"

Jean's eyes darkened, remembering the woman who was the reason her daughter was dead. John had needed to physically restrain her when that woman showed up at Hermione's funeral. How dare she? "Yes," the muggle woman said crisply.

Harry nodded and offered a sad smile, as if he understood her lack of love for his former teacher. "She killed herself this morning."

Jean stared at him dumbly. "What?" she finally breathed out, completely caught off guard. "Why?"

Harry sighed, and offered Jean the slip of parchment that he'd been holding in his hand. She took it, and looked at it, staring blankly at the same words she'd read the day Hermione had died.

I'll love her till I die.

The penmanship on this note was not Hermione's, however, but rather in a script she'd seen only a few times before in the course of school related notices that Minerva McGonagall had signed. She knew right away what it meant, this time. The understanding of Hermione's note had been given by this very woman, and for every day since then, Jean had lived in anger, believing that while Hermione had loved her Professor, that the other woman had not returned said feelings. A rejection, Jean knew from her younger years, was a great hurt, and while it pained her that Hermione was gone, she could understand that kind of despair.

Now, her preconceived notions of what Minerva McGonagall did and did not feel were shattered. "She… too?" Jean breathed out, looking at Harry.

"I suspected so," he nodded, "though finding out about this when I got to work this morning confirmed it. Like Hermione, this was all McGonagall left in way of explanation for her actions.

"If they loved one another, why not share it, in life?" the muggle woman demanded. Rejection as a cause for suicide, she could understand. But if two people loved each other, and were aware of that mutual feeling, why the hell would each of them take their own lives in due course?

"We'll never know for sure," Harry replied sadly, "but my guess is that right after she turned seventeen, Hermione told Minerva how she felt. I think that while Minerva felt the same, she did not believe it appropriate to get involved with a student under her charge, so she rejected Hermione, maybe even hoping the topic would be revisited after Hermione graduated."

Jean nodded, agreeing with Harry's suppositions so far.

"Hermione never gave her that chance," the young wizard continued. "She probably decided to kill herself that day - Hogwarts has wards that won't allow a student to cause themselves harm, so she had to wait till Christmas break - and then…"

Silence filled the room for a few minutes, Harry obviously fighting back a wave of tears. Jean offered him a box of tissues, which he accepted, and then a minute later he continued.

"I think that Minerva only kept living as long as she did because she had a duty to the school, while the war was going on. With Voldemort dead now, and Hermione long gone," he mused, "she had nothing left to live for. So, she killed herself."

Jean and Harry sat in silence for a long time after that, each drinking their respective cups of tea. When Harry had finished his, he set the cup down and stood. "I should go," he said. "I just thought you ought to know. I knew you were angry at her, and I get that. I'd have felt the same, if Hermione were my kid. I hope that this helps you find… closure."

"I think it will," Jean agreed. It would certainly take some time to adjust her thoughts about the green eyed witch, but in time, she knew that this information would give her some measure of peace. It would never be perfect, because at the end of the day, Minerva was still the reason Hermione was gone, but at least now she could find room for a bit of pity in her heart for the other woman. They had both lost someone they loved that Christmas. Jean couldn't claim that she'd never thought about leaving the world that now existed without the wonderful presence of Hermione in it. She couldn't call Minerva weak or cowardly for making that choice; Jean had her husband John to keep her going. Minerva had no one, it seemed. "Thank you Harry."

"You're welcome," he said. "I'll be in touch, Mrs. Granger."

"You do that, Harry," she replied, standing to hug her daughter's best friend. Jean found some measure of comfort in knowing that at least some part of Hermione would still be coming around.

Hermione Granger stood, clad in a long white gown, toes kneading the sand that surrounded the unidentifiable Scottish loch. She'd been here for what seemed like minutes, though she knew that in the real world, it had been months and months. Time flowed differently, between the realms of the living and dead. Hermione knew that she could have gone on at anytime, to what was next, but she was waiting. She was waiting for Minerva. Not long after she'd arrived here, a beautiful red rose had washed ashore in a green, glass bottle. Inside the bottle, along with the rose, was a note. "I'll be there soon," it read.

A wave splashed forward, and while normally it would have soaked her dress, the water had cooled her skin, and then dried away instantly. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the smell of the loch, and when she opened them again, there was another woman standing beside her.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," Minerva said, looking at the younger witch. "I am so, so sorry."

Hermione reached over and entwined her fingers with the older witch's. "What's done is done," she replied softly. "It was my choice."

"But I drove you…" the older witch objected.

"It was my choice," Hermione repeated. "I'm sorry, too."

"For what, my dear?" Minerva asked, perplexed.

"For not being strong enough to keep living," she said sadly. "For lying to you."

"About what?"

"I left that note. I said I'd love you till I died," the brunette replied. "I thought death would end it, end what I felt for you. I was wrong… I still love you, Minerva."

Minerva stood silent for a moment, looking around at the scenery. Everything here was bright, and pure. It wasn't the end she'd imagined either. In fact, it seemed to her like a new beginning. She and Hermione had both made choices that their friends and family among the still living would have to deal with, but for them, it was a fresh start. Here, in this beautiful, lonely paradise, there were no rules to abide by, no expectations to meet, and no outside opinions to matter. It was just her, and the woman she loved with all her heart.

"I love you, too," she finally said. "I did then as well, you know. I was just too afraid to say it. Some Gryffindor I was."

"Being Gryffindor doesn't make us any less human," Hermione mused, "or any less prone to let what we think is good sense get the upper hand on following our hearts."

Minerva nodded in agreement, and for a long time, the two of them remained where they were, savoring the peace that blanketed this place. It could have been minutes, hours, or even months and months, but they did eventually leave, and when they did they did so together.

In the years that followed, they returned to this spot to greet those they had left behind. Regarding Hermione's mother and the Boy-Who-Put-The-Pieces-Together, the greeting was a doubly joyous one, both Jean and Harry glad to see they they had found each other and made up for the unsaid words in their lives. After all, they had eternity to do so.

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