Between Minerva McGonagall and Horace Slughorn as friends.
The evening sky painted a gloaming masterpiece of purples and blues above the restored towers of Hogwarts, serving as a humble backdrop for the silhouette of a castle emerging from the aftermath of war. Inside its walls, the sound of footsteps echoed—a slow, measured beat against the stone floors of the corridor. Professor Minerva McGonagall, the newly appointed Headmistress, made her nightly rounds, ensuring that the peace of the castle remained undisturbed.
Her sharp eyes scanned each corner, each shadow, as if expecting the peace to shatter like it had countless times before. Years of vigilance had etched a permanent frown onto her face, which no amount of calm could now smooth out. The war had ended, but its whispers clung to the air like cobwebs, invisible and ever-present.
As she turned towards the dungeons, her green robe billowing gently behind her, a different sound caught her attention—a light chuckle that did not belong to the night's stillness. She followed it, her wand at the ready, to the door of the Potions classroom. Inside, the amber glow of a single candle revealed the rotund figure of Horace Slughorn, his back to her, engaged in an animated discussion with a jar of pickled newt's eyes.
McGonagall's initial tension eased as she recognized her old colleague. Not wishing to interrupt, she stood at the threshold, observing. "Not quite the stimulating company one might hope for, Horace," she remarked dryly, stepping into the flickering candlelight.
Slughorn jumped, nearly knocking over the candle before giving a sheepish smile. "Ah, Minerva, you snuck up on me! And here I was, just sharing my thoughts on tomorrow's lesson with my... silent partners here." He gestured at the various pickled specimens lining the shelves, a twinkle in his eye belying the nonchalance in his voice.
The shadow of a smile threatened to cross McGonagall's lips as she approached him. "I trust they were quite enthralled by your expertise."
Slughorn's laughter bounced off the walls, briefly chasing away the gloom. "Indeed, though I suspect they'd rather be back swimming in their ponds than listening to an old man's musings."
The room fell quiet, save for the crackle of the candle, as both professors were momentarily lost in the past. It was McGonagall who broke the silence. "I couldn't help but notice you've been spending a great deal of time alone in your classroom after hours, Horace. I hope all is well."
Slughorn visibly hesitated, his jovial mask slipping slightly. "Oh, you know," he waved a dismissive hand, "just an old habit, that's all. Ever since the... you know... I find it harder to go back to my quarters. Too many memories, perhaps too much solitude."
Understanding bloomed in McGonagall's eyes, mirroring her own nightly vigils. "Yes, the memories can be quite loud in the quiet," she acknowledged. "But it's important we do not lose ourselves to them. It's our duty to forge ahead, for the students... for the future of our world."
Slughorn nodded, his demeanor sobering as he met her gaze. "You're right, of course. Which is precisely why we must not dwell on what's passed... but instead, look to the promise of what's to come."
They shared a moment of silent agreement, their bond of friendship strengthened by the weight of shared responsibility. The war had taken its toll, but it had also forged renewed bonds and purposes. As the echo of their camaraderie filled the room, it seemed that perhaps the whispers of the past could finally lead to a symphony of hope for Hogwarts' future.