Disclaimer: I do not own nor make any profit off of Harry Potter. It belongs to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros. etc.
A/N: Something that wouldn't leave my mind. I'm working on my chaptered stories, but very, very slowly. I just lost my other grandmother in January, so it's still a long road.
Chapter 1: Horror
Barty Crouch, the younger, was as silent as the grave.
Even in madness as he had previously shown, the younger Crouch's eyes did not rove the room anymore, his gaze now a direct stare to the floor that put Minerva McGonagall on a tedious edge of anxiety and wariness with every step she moved.
She did not move much.
Aware that the stillness could be an act with which to overpower her and regain freedom, Minerva kept constant eyes on the younger wizard and retained a steady position within striking distance yet outside Crouch's direct reach.
It was in this stillness and silence that a noisy movement outside the classroom caught both of their attention, Crouch's eyes even rising at the loud footsteps approaching.
Shock pressed in from every corner of Minerva's mind as Fudge brought his idea of justice into the classroom. The suddenness, the unexpected stupidity, caught her so off guard that she did not even raise her wand to stop it.
Pure, unadulterated horror cut through Minerva's chest as she watched the dreadful black creature swoop down upon young Barty Crouch without the slightest warning.
The horrible cold swept over the witch like a heavy blanket in summertime, suffocating in its intensity and bringing with it the deep biting terror of darkness and desolation. Even had she wanted to cast the patronus charm, the oozing chill – so unexpectedly close to the witch hovering in her guard – broke down her will to the point of trembling where she stood, unable to tear her horrified gaze away from the sight of young Crouch's soul slowly being torn away from its jerking owner.
For a moment, so brief and still it seemed unreal, the sickening wraith paused in its deadly work to give a sightless glance at the other sentient being so close to its prey.
With morbid intrigue borne of sheer helplessness and unmanaged terror, Minerva wondered if dementors felt hunger in the same cycles and stops that human beings did.
Did it hunger now?
As it nearly finished its evil upon young Crouch, did it feel fresh hunger gnawing at its rotting flesh from the inside out?
A shiver akin to illness broke over Minerva's spine as she shoved the horrific thought away with what little strength she had left.
"Well, get on with it!"
The strangely normal voice invaded as Minerva continued to shiver with terrible foreboding. Some mindless instinct turned her eyes to stare blankly at a man clad in lime and plaid. Some vague, distant part of the witch's mind recognized him. The minister? Was it… Yes, it was Cornelius Fudge.
Instinct rang loudly in Minerva's clogged eardrums, but she could not find the strength or the agility to move away when they vile dark creature rushed upon her with its gaping abyss of blackness.
Everything faded away to nothing but a rushing pulse from her body, all misted over with dark memory, the crushing pull of the dementor's kiss dragging Minerva down, down, down into her hardest, richest agonies.
The broken trust between her parents shadowed every tender family moment, from birthdays to Christmas to Easter. Her father's confusion and deeply buried fear of magical incidents she had as child. Her mother's tears when the Hogwarts letter came, tears of joy – and of envy.
Feeling unwanted by her new classmates at Hogwarts; her isolated bookish nature too strange to befriend. Criticized, ridiculed, overwhelmed with scorn from so many corners for her muggle bloodline. The pain of an incorrect transformation and the equally terrible process of being changed back to herself. Falling from her broom well over fifty feet to the ground, the slowing and cushioning of another's protective charms only marginally aiding in the landing which brought such unyielding agony; cracked ribs, broken leg, concussion, blood everywhere. Albus Dumbledore offering a warm, unprofessional hug borne of friendship and given in affectionate farewell. Hogwarts, her home in so many ways, becoming smaller and smaller as the carriages drove away to the Express.
Dougal. Poor and unknowing Dougal McGregor who had loved so deeply and been left so brokenhearted. Wrenching grief and regret every night in her new, lonely flat and suffusing her working conditions no matter the day or the place. Unable, in her lost letters home, to tell her loving but sensible father, who could very well have been Dougal, or her sad, gentle mother with a wand locked away beneath her bed, as Minerva's might have been.
Finding a reluctant resignation in Albus' comfort, wisdom, and sharing. He, the one being in the entire world who truly knew her pain and struggle from the very beginning until the very end, had pain of his own to live with – and regrets he could never put to rest.
The war scratched at the doors of Hogwarts as Voldemort rose higher and higher with his terrible power. Deaths upon deaths marring every good deed and every good day. Each heart, so hopeful in the start, growing ever more cynical and untrusting in their fellow men and women. No building was safe, no child left undamaged, no family left whole by the end of it. Voldemort's passing was never a thing to celebrate with fireworks and parties and fun. The deaths of those he had slain were to be mourned instead.
Oh, Elphinstone. Dear, dear Elphinstone Urquart. Lost and confused why his honest, heartfelt proposals went refused so many times. What was wrong? Had he been insincere or thoughtless in the manner of his offering? Was he rude to expect a woman of such talent and intelligence to bow under the pressures of marriage?
So many times Minerva saw the questions, the doubts in Elphinstone's brown eyes.
How those eyes had sparkled with love when he looked at her, the way they shone with such tender affection that it could not be held inside. Time and time again, even in the depths of Minerva's continuing devotion to Dougal, Elphinstone's sweet understanding and respectful devotion to Minerva herself had shone through every touch, every word, and every action.
Minerva had truly failed her beloved husband. Three miserably brief years with him, when she could have given him so many more. So much more than he received. Elphinstone had deserved everything beautiful in life. So patient and kind, so respectable and decent. A loving man full of so much heart and life Minerva had oftentimes felt undeserving of him.
She was undeserving of him. The man who loved her so long and so richly spent wasted years while his beloved pined over a married man whose heart she had broken for the sake of her ambitions, her career.
Her blessed career – the one she left behind in the end anyway. And then the new career – the one which had, for ten months, taken her away from her husband for five days out of every week and many weekends besides. A career that had kept her at work while her husband tended dangerous plants without anyone to make sure he was safe. The career that kept her at work while Elphinstone died.
All of her ambition, all of her magical prowess… what had it done for her? It cost her a man she loved, the family she had once dreamed of, and the dedicated husband she loved with all her heart.
Elphinstone.
Dead.
Cold and unmoving on the floor, his warm brown eyes so lifeless and empty. The sparkle he reserved solely for her had disappeared, those tender hands that held her and wiped away tears and guided her around the lake had gone stiff and unbending.
For what purpose had she taken career over love? For the students, of course, as she so often told herself.
Minerva's beloved students, drawn ever the closer by war and strife. The ones who proved their mettle by dying at the hand of evil. She lost them all. If they had not died, their lives were forever barraged by madness, emptiness, loss, destruction, darkness.
Lily and James.
Frank and Alice.
Edgar, Severus.
Remus, Sirius, and even Peter.
Harry, Neville, Cedric…
How many more would lose life or loved ones? Minerva could no longer count the heads or name the names. The list grew, on and on it ran, every child who had entered her life since the first war began now claiming an unnamed spot on it.
The breaking of her heart burrowed deep into the very marrow of her bones.
There would soon be no students to hold purpose for.
Minerva felt herself dying inside.
They would die. They were all going to die.
A/N: To be continued…
