DISCLAIMER: The characters and their world are the property of J.K. Rowling. I hope she can forgive me for playing a game of what-if.

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"It's truly over, Albus?"

He stopped in the doorway of his study blinking at the woman who stood before him. "Minerva!" He had long before given up wondering how she could get into his study in his absence, but this time she should not have even been in Hogwarts. "You are supposed to be in St. Mungo's!" He moved quickly toward her and helped her gently into a chair.

"I couldn't stay there, Albus. No one there knew any more than I did, and the rumours were too confusing. I need to know, from you, whether it is truly over. And…" her voice faltered. "And who we lost."

He sat down near her, his legs too tired to stand anymore. "It is truly over, Minerva. Voldemort – is finally dead. And all the Death Eaters were either killed in the battle, or taken captive. The Wizengamot will begin their trials tomorrow."

She gave a shaky sigh.

"As for whom we lost – you would know more about that than I, having been in St. Mungo's. The final battlefield was a mess…" He couldn't continue his sentence. She knew – she had been there, fighting, before two Cruciatus curses had hit her at once, slamming her off her feet. He had tried to make it to her side, but he had been too far away; he had never in his life been so grateful to someone as to Hermione Granger, who had pulled her away from the thick of the fighting and Apparated them both to safety before the combined curses had succeeded in killing her – or driving her mad with their pain.

It had been a horrifying fight. The Death Eaters, knowing this was their last stand, had no compunction in using the Unforgivable Curses, killing and torturing their fellow wizards and witches. And laughing while they did so, screeching their defiance to their last breaths. People had been falling, screaming, bleeding, amid flashing magical lights and evil-smelling green and red smoke; and when any of them had fallen to the ground and stayed there, Dumbledore could only pray that they had been Stupified. There would be no way of knowing who was alive and who was not until all the bodies littering the grass were taken away.

"And – Harry?" Her voice brought him back.

"Harry is well; or perhaps I should say, he is well enough. They tried to take him to St. Mungo's, but he refused – he said they would be busy enough with the truly injured." He had also said there would be little enough they could do to help him, and Dumbledore knew that he was right, and so had let him be. Harry's wounds were not of a nature to allow the Healers to help; and there would be many other wizards and witches who would bear similar wounds all their lives. The battle was over, Voldemort was finally gone – but the pain would continue for many years.

She had been watching him closely. His clothes were a smouldering ruin, his beard charred off to within a few inches of his face. His long hair had somehow escaped the bolts of magical fire, and was still hanging over his shoulders in a white waterfall, though greyed thickly with the smoke. His eyes were creased with pain that she knew was not only physical, even though his voice was as soft and distant as always. It was his tiredness that struck her most. She had known Albus Dumbledore in his joy and in his sorrow, but never had she seen him so completely drained.

"Enough." She stood up, though painfully. He looked at her in surprise as she pointed her wand at him. "Scourgify."

He did not have time to blink before the spell hit him. And then it was gone; and his clothes, though still a ruin, were at least a clean ruin, his hair and what was left of his beard were white again, and he felt ridiculously better for such a simple thing.

"And now," she ordered, still managing to stand, "to bed."

"Minerva, I can't – "

"Yes, you can," she finished before he even had time to start his protestations. "There is nothing you can do until tomorrow, Albus. It is late, you are tired, and there is nothing you need so much as sleep." She was exhausted herself, but managed to make her next threat sound real. "And if you don't go to bed immediately, I shall be forced to make you regret arguing with me. And don't think I can't!"

A half-smile flitted across his face. "Merlin forfend I should ever think such a thing! You win, Minerva; I shall be a good little Gryffindor and do what my housemistress says. What of you? Can you make it back to St. Mungo's?"

Her head was already pounding with the pain of standing up. 'Of course, Albus; I'm perfectly capable of finding my way to the hospital."

He was watching her shrewdly. "I think not." He was as tired as she, but managed the spell nonetheless. "Lectum stenere." The chair vanished to become a single bed with thick fluffy blankets of red and gold. The huge pillow had a lioness' head embroidered upon it in gold thread.

It looked tempting, but she had to comment on his taste before giving in. "If you want to make the bed in Gryffindor colours, shouldn't that outlandish pillow have a lion's head instead?"

"Since the bed is for you, a lioness seemed appropriate – forever beautiful, courageous and loyal, and ready to die to defend her cubs."

She could think of nothing to say to that.

He watched her for a moment longer, then sighed. "Goodnight, Minerva. Sleep well." His bedroom door appeared, then closed gently behind him – and vanished again.

Somewhat stunned, Minerva McGonagall made her own slow preparations for bed, and finally fell within the inviting covers. The lioness' head felt remarkably comforting beneath her cheek.