Chapter 1
It wasn't from the shouting of spells during the battle—wordless magic had been used to great advantage. No, Minerva McGonagall's throat was raw from the terrible screaming she had done when Hagrid carried Harry's dead body from the Forbidden Forest. Minerva had always strived to present a strong, unshakable image for her students and colleagues to look up to. She was a strong woman made so by experience and necessity—she had survived the war against Grindewald, fought in the first war against Voldemort, and had to be a solid rock for Albus while he ran Hogwarts and the Order. However, merely her first glimpse of a lifeless Harry in Hagrid's arms had broken her.
Harry is not dead.
It felt like fire now every time she swallowed, but she could not have held it in. She had cried out for the Boy Who Lived. She had cried out for the wizarding world's last best chance. But most importantly, Minerva had cried out, had felt her heart being torn asunder, for Harry Potter—a boy she loved very dearly—and as a culmination of all the horrors she had seen in both the wars against Voldemort and all of the grief that could never attempt to cover it all. Her children were being murdered.
Harry is not dead.
Minerva suppressed a sigh and resisted the urge—in reality, the desperate need—to find somewhere quiet and sleep until her battered body and mind could better cope with what needed to be done. Ever since Voldemort first began his rise to power there had always been work for her to do. However, the task, the duty, the burden, the torture ahead was perhaps among the worst jobs she would ever have to face in her lifetime. This final battle had not been without its losses, and now that the battle was finished, the dead—the dead on both sides of the fight—had to be gathered. She must help gather the dead and then explain to families why their children, fathers, mothers had not died in vain. Fortunately, her words would not be mere platitudes, for she truly believed them, as painful as they may be.
Harry is not dead.
As she stood at the castle doors surveying the carnage that was the Hogwarts' grounds, a shudder ran through her body, worsening the trembling in her hands that she knew would not dissipate at any time in the near future. Minerva knew she was a witch, but the fallen heroes, the fallen…others…could not be moved into the Great Hall with a simple Levicorpus. The blood that covered the grounds and castle and even her own robes like a slick blanket could not be dispatched with an elementary Scourgify. Minerva knew she was a powerful witch when it came right down to it, but using magic in this situation…it seemed too easy to her. It lessened the gravity of the situation and mocked the cause for which so many had died—
Sirius Black. For as long as she had known him—beginning when he started his schooling at Hogwarts—he had always had a penchant for trouble, and more than a few of her grey hairs had been given to her by him. But he was fiercely loyal and a courageous man with a passion for life, and she could not have been more proud of him.
When news of Sirius' death had reached her in St. Mungo's, Minerva had at once both cursed his foolishness and also praised his obvious love for Harry. But over it all, she had mourned his death, which hit her like a swift punch in the gut, and after the initial shock had passed, she had found herself sickened by a feeling she could not define at first. Eventually though, she put a name to it. Sirius had been cooped up in Grimmauld Place all that year, and then, spurred on by restlessness and love, rushed to help Harry without regard to the consequences and was killed. She herself had been stuck at Hogwarts that same year with the despicable Dolores Umbridge and then rushed to Hagrid's defense, with much the same motivations and emotions as Sirius. There was, however, a major difference—she had lived. The older generations were not meant to defy the odds while their children were beaten down. The name for her feeling was guilt. Minerva had survivor's guilt.
Alastor Moody. His loss had indeed left the world a more dangerous place. For all of his paranoia, he was a man driven by an intense desire to keep others safe. He knew everything about the darkness they faced so that others might not have to, so that innocent minds might have one more night of uninterrupted sleep. Minerva knew from experience that that made Alastor a hard man to get close to—even looking past his grizzled appearance and magic eye—but she also knew that the effort was more than worth it. What she didn't know—and would probably never know—was how a man whose maxim was "Constant vigilance!" could be betrayed to death so easily.
Albus Dumbledore. Minerva regretted the fact that many people would never know how much they had meant to Albus. He meant a lot to them, but they might have been surprised to learn just how much the "most powerful wizard of modern times" had truly loved them. And she regretted that no one could ever again get to know the real Albus Dumbledore behind the title of "the greatest wizard alive." All of his life, all of his complexities, and all of his hopes, fears, and humanness would just be shoved under his wretched title and ignored.
Albus…. Minerva could keep her stern teacher's face in place in practically any situation, but whenever she let her thoughts turn to Albus…. Whenever she thought of Albus her throat constricted and she felt the backs of her eyes start to burn with tears and her chest immediately felt hollow. Albus had meant so many things to so many people, but he meant the world to Minerva. She was quite nearly his equal, as far as magical abilities were concerned, and could—and had—run the entire school without his help, but that was beside the point. When he had lived, he was always there with a twinkle in his eyes and a smile full of mischief, and just being there had been enough. He had been her most faithful, must trusted friend, and now he was gone. Gone. And he had left a void that would never be filled again. Minerva would never feel completely whole again.
Harry is not dead.
