minerva died in the early summer of 2095 at the age of 159. a huge article was published mere days after she was found in her bed, skin cold and no pulse. she was remembered as professor minerva mcgonagall, second-in-command in the war against voldemort, first-in-command during the time of recuperation and peace, and greatest witch of her time.
her loved ones simply remembered her as minerva. minerva, who once worked herself unconscious during the rebuilding of hogwarts. minerva, who managed to keep the school alive despite the great number of haunted, lost souls. minerva, who would turn into a cat and play with the children – and also adults – to cheer them up. minerva, who wouldn’t even try to hide her emotions when students and teachers alike would cheer and roar for her during her last day at hogwarts. minerva, who would give everyone self-made tartan scarves, 100% scottish quality, because, really, what is one supposed to do in retirement? minerva, who would give the little ones books about transfiguration and teach them, despite being reminded several times that “no, you’re retired, you should let yourself rest” before rebuking with “i will hex you if you continue to say i should rest. i’ll go crazy from all this resting” because, yes, teaching was her life, not just a job. minerva, who would finally let herself be brought to st. mungos after having fallen sick, because, yes, she has fought enough to fill her nine lives with battle and grief. minerva, who would go out of that last fight older and more tired than ever. minerva, who would occasionally play great-great-grandmother, and, damn, would she be a good one. minerva, who would read a last good book before she would close her eyes that summer night. and harry, a harry with grey hair now, who would stand at her gravestone on top of a hill in scotland after the big funeral, and whisper “take care” before going downhill again.
