Oneshot for y'all - read with tissues.

Hermione Granger stood dead still, eyes wide and heart thundering. There she was. It had been nearly twenty years since Hermione had seen Minerva McGonagall, and almost as long since they'd last corresponded. The last time had been regarding she and Ron's separation. Minerva, for all Hermione knew, had not even gotten word that the separation had ended in a divorce.

There were physical changes, Hermione observed from across the crowded room. The retired Professor still stood tall and proud as ever before, though the greying of her dark hair offered evidence of the woman's one hundred years of life. One hundred and one, this fall. While the fear of what never should have been felt urged Hermione to run the other way, the ever logical mother of two grown children realized that now, finally, she had nothing to lose.

The younger witch edged her way closer, careful in her steps, moving with the crowd in an effort not to seem obvious in her attempt to reach the former Headmistress. Minerva's conversation with a wizard Hermione did not recognize seemed one sided from this distance. The man's voice was quiet and she was unable to make his words out. Minerva's voice, just as Hermione remembered, was clear as day. Ever the teacher, the woman's clipped cadence could be heard clearly over the din of idle chatter that surrounded them, much like it had been in classes at Hogwarts, all those years ago.

"Even after retiring from Hogwarts I worked, Nicolas," Minerva said in a frustrated tone. "It wasn't until just last spring I handed over the family farm's management to my nephew. I really am not interested in that job. I retired because I was tired."

"But Minerva, just think…" the man called Nicolas, whose maroon robes hinted to Hermione he might be a member of the Wizengamot began to argue.

"I believe Minerva said no," Hermione interjected, coming up from behind the woman in question.

For a moment, time stopped. Minerva didn't turn around right away, and Hermione wondered the older woman's heart was beating half as fast as her own was right now. Slowly, as if in fear, Minerva turned around to face a blast from her past, whom she had not seen since the younger woman had professed her less than platonic affections toward her former Professor.

"Hermione…" Minerva breathed out in recognition. "It's been… some time."

"It has," the younger witch agreed.

"Well," Nicolas said gruffly, addressing the elder of the two women again. "Please do think on it."

"I shall do that," she replied, "though I am confident that I will remain disinclined."

"You know how to reach me should you change your mind," he acquiesced. Handshakes were exchanged as Hermione observed, and then with a swish of his robes and a dirty look towards Hermione, he made his exit.

The two women stood there, facing one another in an awkward silence for a time before Hermione broke the ice. "You've been well, I trust?" she inquired.

"Yes," Minerva nodded. "As I was telling Nicolas, I handed the management of the estate over to Patrick last spring. I went on holiday for about six months after that, and since then I've simply been enjoying the peace and quiet."

"With the company of a good book?" Hermione teased lightly.

That elicited a small smile from Minerva. "Of course. My library is ever growing - I'm sure Thomas is rolling in his grave."

Hermione nodded, recalling how her former Professor's husband had never understood his wife's obsession with books. "I heard he'd passed. I'm sorry."

Minerva looked at her critically. "Somehow I doubt that, Hermione," she whispered.

The younger woman looked the woman she loved in the eye. "Any jealousy I may have felt toward Thomas does not negate my sympathy for you regarding his passing. And," she said sternly, crossing her arms defensively across her chest, "for the record I did not intend to bring that up this evening. It's been twenty years, and you made your position clear back then. I simply wanted to say hello for old times' sake."

"Your feelings have changed, then," Minerva accused with a level of certainty in her tone.

Hermione didn't even blink. The question had been bound to come up the minute Minerva opened the topic for discussion. "No," she said, brown eyes meeting green ones with a calmness that could only come from absolute certainty. "Never."

"What of Ronald?" Minerva countered.

"Has not been my husband in more than eighteen years," Hermione replied.

"Someone else?"

Hermione laughed bitterly. "After one marriage failing because I was too in love with someone I could never have to really open up to my spouse, I did not think it logical to try again. I've dated, here and there, both men and women, but it never felt right."

"So you're telling me that you've been more or less alone for almost two decades?" Minerva asked, agast. "For the love of Merlin Hermione! At what point will this unhealthy obsession -"

"Dont. You. Dare," Hermione hissed, reaching forward and grabbing Minerva's arm. Uncaring of the various sets of eyes watching her literally drag the former Headmistress out of the room, she ushered the older woman to a more private place. It was not in shame of how she felt, but a belief that matters of the heart were not meant to be on public display.

"Let go!" Minerva finally snapped when they were clear of any prying eyes. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

"Well," the young woman sighed loudly. "I was going for privacy, but on route to that end I decided in for a penny, in for a pound. For more than thirty-five years I have…"

"What?" green eyes and tight lips challenged.

"Waited for this moment," Hermione said quietly, looking down. "The moment I ask you a question, and for once you give me the honest to god truth."

"What makes you think I'll answer anything?" Minerva bit.

The younger woman gently cupped her hand against Minerva's cheek. The older witch tried to back away, but found herself leaning into a wall. When she tried to push Hermione away, she found her hands being directed onto the younger woman's womanly hips.

Minerva wanted to stop this, she really did. But somehow, she couldn't. It wasn't magic, not the traditional sort anyway. For decades she'd avoided Hermione Granger, and for most of those years, she'd never even questioned why. She didn't love Hermione; not the way Hermione had professed to loving her. The distance had always seemed like the right thing to do, and for a long time, she'd been content in that.

Then, Thomas had died. The morning after the funeral, Minerva had been in her library and stumbled across a book that Hermione had gifted her some years prior for her birthday. Usually, finding one of her former students gifts around the Manor resulted in a frustrated sigh that Thomas would never understand. Not that day, however. He wasn't there anymore to understand or not, and for the first time in years, Minerva thought of her protege and smiled.

The days and weeks that followed she'd gone through the house and found all of the letters Hermione had sent, and all the gifts she'd given her former mentor over the years. Those letters and gifts had stopped not too long after the younger woman had worked up the courage profess the feelings that Minerva had already suspected were there. Still, between her later years at Hogwarts, and well into the other woman's twenties, there had been frequent happenstances of both. For the gifts, Minerva had always Owled a thank you note, but she'd replied to the letters less and less as the years, and what she viewed as Hermione's unhealthy obsession with herself, continued.

For nearly a year, those gifts and letters remained in the box that Minerva had collected them into, until finding one she'd missed in her search prompted revisiting the stash. That time, she'd taken the time to reread the letters, and attempting to recall which gifts were for which birthday. Most of them were hard to find Transfiguration books, or an article of jewelry that had obviously been picked with care. None of the pieces indicated a romantic interest involved in their gifting, yet they were equally void of features normally associated with jewelry exchanged between friends.

Then, Minerva got to the last letter in her pile. It wasn't the longest one, nor the shortest, but it was the most noteable. It was the one in which Hermione had put all of her cards on the table, and confessed to being in love with her former teacher. That day, almost a year after the death of her husband, Minerva McGonagall read that letter, and unlike the first time she'd read it, she found herself smiling.

That feeling seemed somehow related, three years later, two her reaction to Hermione now. Despite all reason, logic, and every conviction she'd ever had, her soul hummed as the younger woman's fingers interlaced with her own.

"When I told you that I loved you," Hermione whispered into her ear. "I expected the first thing you'd say was that you did not feel the same. You have never been anything but precise in your choice of words, except for that one time. The only logical conclusion I could come to when you did not clearly state anywhere in your reply that you did not have feelings for me, is that somewhere down the line, you did feel something for me."

Minerva's head jerked to the side, desperately trying to escape the beautiful brown eyes she knew were looking at her. "You're wrong," she insisted.

Hermione sighed, and took a step back, freeing Minerva from the bodily prison that had been pressing her against the wall. "If that were the case, Minerva, you would not have just looked away."

Minerva's felt a tear roll down her cheek. "Why must you press this? I cannot return your affections."

"I'm not asking you to take me to bed," Hermione said gently. "I've never expected that to happen. You can control your actions Minerva, but not your heart."

The older woman stood silent for a time. She knew, she'd known for several years now, just how right Hermione was about that. While she'd not even consciously accepted the fact prior to Thomas' death, she couldn't deny the joy she felt when this bookish beauty crossed her mind. It wasn't the love of a mother, like she'd once tried to convince herself of, but something much, much deeper.

Somewhere along the road - she wasn't even sure when - she'd fallen irreconcilably in love with Hermione Granger. Today, it seemed, was the day she was going to face that. Any moment, the question would be posed…

"Are you in love with me?"

Hermione's question was filled with tenderness and sorrow, with love and compassion. The brunette knew, much as Minerva did, that nothing could come of the meeting of souls that was their secret to bare, but right now, that didn't matter. Right now, the only thing of consequence was the truth.

"Yes," she muttered, meeting Hermione's chocolate gaze.

Hermione let out a breath, and closed her eyes for a moment, obviously fighting back a wave of tears. "Thank you," she finally said. "For the truth."

The older witch nodded numbly. "Now what?" she asked.

"Nothing," came a shaky reply. "Except perhaps goodbye. I doubt we'll meet again."

Minerva knew what Hermione meant. She could read between the lines. Knowing that she'd never again get the chance, the aging woman took two steps forward, and laced her fingers through Hermione's unruly curls. The younger witch slipped her own hands between Minerva's, and wrapped her arms around the long, elegant neck. In concert, they moved into each other, and just a moment later, lips met softly for the first and last time.

The love had been there for years, for both of them. This wasn't about that; this was closure.

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