To Make an End

Epilogue

What we call the beginning is often the end,
and to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.

~ Four Quartets: Little Gidding by T.S. Eliot

5 March 1999

"And what is it that you expect to do as an Unspeakable, Ms Granger?" Minerva asked, eying the girl's proposal critically.

"I want to work with Time Turners," Granger rattled off, obviously having anticipated the question. "More need to be created anyway, and I'm already well-suited to that task; I've been reading about them quite a bit ever since my third year. I've always found them fascinating, for some reason."

Minerva nodded more to herself than Hermione, reading over the parchment covered in careful, precise script. It was obvious that the girl had put a lot of work and thought into her career choice, and Minerva would have been hard pressed to think of anyone else that she'd want researching and developing something as dangerous as a Time Turner. She would write the letter of recommendation that Granger wanted—she'd known that as soon as she'd received Hermione's request—but she'd asked for this meeting because she wondered if the girl didn't have some specific motive for wanting to pursue such a specific and rare field of study.

"Is there anything in particular for which you think a Time Turner should be used?" Minerva asked. "There are many who believe that their destruction was a good thing—that playing with time is too dangerous."

Granger seemed to consider this for a moment, and when she finally spoke, there was a very cautious edge to her words. "I believe the danger associated with them is dependent on the person using them, Professor. At the beginning, my research would be strictly academic, and it may never go beyond that, but…." Her eyes flickered up over Minerva's head as her words trailed off. Minerva didn't have to turn around to know where the girl was looking—Severus Snape's portrait. Of course. Granger and Potter had both spent the better part of the last year trying to devise some way to resurrect Severus, despite the impossible odds stacked against such a venture.

"Well," Granger finished, "if there is a way to right some wrongs that occurred during the war, and to do so without creating major changes to the time that's already passed… isn't that worth exploring? At least theoretically?"

Minerva sighed, doubting the wisdom of such a pursuit. But she knew that even without her recommendation, Granger—and probably Potter as well—would still attempt to go through with their plan. And honestly, if there were anyone who could figure out the mechanics of such a thing and manage to not destroy the world in the process, it was probably Hermione Granger.

"You are playing with fire, Ms Granger. I hope that you will keep all the possible consequences in mind; I'd rather not wake up one morning to find myself living in a Voldemort-run world."

Granger nodded hurriedly. "Of course, Professor. All of my work would need to be approved by the Ministry anyway; I'm sure they wouldn't approve anything that involved too much risk." She smiled reassuringly, nearly causing Minerva to roll her eyes. The Ministry, well-meaning as the current administration was, never seemed to think anything through. That much hadn't changed in all the years Minerva had been alive.

Still unsure whether she was doing the right thing, Minerva reluctantly said, "Leave your proposal here with me. I'll send off a letter of recommendation to the Ministry before the week's out."

Granger thanked her profusely before scurrying out of the office, an ecstatic smile on her young face. Shaking her head, Minerva turned her attention to yet another bit of paperwork for the Ministry (she had better things to do than deal with their bureaucratic nonsense, but she didn't want to make things any more difficult for Kingsley than they already were) and was just finishing it up when she heard a loud rapping on the windowpane. She turned to find an owl glaring impatiently at her, and with a sigh—honestly, did Shacklebolt really have nothing better to do than send her letters all day?—she stood and opened the window. The owl hopped in and perched primly on the windowsill, looking thoroughly annoyed.

Minerva flicked her wand at the string tied to the owl's leg, deftly catching the leather tube that dangled at the other end before it could fall to the floor, then placed a few owl treats on the windowsill while examining the delivery. It was marked with a Gringotts seal, not the Ministry's, and she expected it to contain nothing more than a notification that a sum of Galleons had been left to the care and maintenance of Hogwarts in the will of yet another former student. These letters always made her heart ache; more often than not, this was the first information she'd received about the death of someone she'd taught for seven years. But still, the Gringotts letters had tapered off six months ago, so she cast a few revealing charms before finally twisting the end off of the tube and carefully removing the enclosed piece of parchment.

Unfurling the first few inches of the rolled letter, she blinked in surprise at the handwriting that she recognised instantly despite not having seen it in over a year.

Dear Minerva,

If you've received this letter, then the war has ended in our
favour, but I have not survived. There are things you need to
know, and I could not allow them to go unsaid, even in the
event of my death. Once you read this, I expect that you will
find yourself hating me. I cannot say that I would particularly
blame you—but please know that no matter your feelings now,
in another life, you would have agreed that what I did was for
the best.

Minerva glanced up at the portrait behind her desk, frowning when she found that Albus had disappeared. What could he possibly have done to make her hate him? The closest she'd ever come had been just after the war, when she'd learned the truth about Severus and had seen Albus's manipulations for what they'd truly been, and even that she'd come to terms with, in time. Despite only existing within the confines of a portrait, Albus remained her oldest and dearest friend.

When he didn't return to his frame, Minerva turned back to the letter, unrolling the parchment a few more inches. She felt something tumble inside the curled paper, and as she turned the parchment onto its end, a small vial dropped into her hand. Holding it up to the light streaming in through the window, she inspected the thick liquid inside the vial, almost certain that it was a memory. Now more curious than ever, she set the vial down on the desk, settled into her chair, and returned her attention to the letter.

I think that, all things considered,
the best place to start this tale is at the end….