Chapter 2

A hand rested reassuringly on Minerva's shoulder, a touch meant to lend strength, and with a start Minerva realized she was still standing at the castle's entrance. It was Horace, looking decidedly worse for the wear—torn robes singed in places and covered in blood that was not distinguishable as his or others'—but by the way he looked at her she could tell she looked much worse than he. If Minerva could have seen herself, she would have noticed her robes were much the same as Horace's, and her normally tight bun was practically non-existent at this point, greying raven hair falling around her face. A deep gash above her right eyebrow covered the side of her face in blood that was also endeavoring to matt itself in her hair. And all of that was only what she would have seen at a first look.

Neither Minerva nor Horace said a word, but their eyes met and an understanding passed between them—an apology full of regret and the assurance of forgiveness. How could she have doubted his loyalty? She had practically sent him away, and yet Horace and she had fought side-by-side, along with Kingsley, dueling Voldemort himself. Minerva made a mental note to never underestimate anyone again.

"There are only a few young ones left to be taken inside, Minerva. Merlin knows how so many of them snuck back to the castle to fight…." Horace let his sentence trail off and his eyes glazed over slightly, as if picturing all of the children's faces he had seen frozen in death.

Minerva studied the blood drying on her hands, stuck under her fingernails, trying to hold herself together, until Horace shook off his darker thoughts and continued, "Poppy is inside the Great Hall tending to the wounded, but Sybil and Pomona are out here searching once more for more students, wounded or…. You ladies stay in the castle after you're through with that. Hagrid and I and some of the men and older lads will take care of the rest."

Horace left quickly, as if now that he had spoken aloud he needed to act quickly in order to purge his thoughts. Sadly, Minerva knew those actions would only fuel his nightmares, however unavoidable they may be.

Minerva painstakingly made her way down the front steps, fighting almost nauseating pain with every step—a few curses had managed to get through her defenses, but Voldemort had done most of the damage when he had thrown her against the wall in a fit of rage, like she was nothing more than a rag doll. As she made her way over to Sybil and Pomona, she saw they were each lifting students into their arms. Sybil looked more sober—both physically and emotionally—than Minerva had ever seen her, her eyes large and serious behind those ridiculous spectacles of hers, and Pomona had silent tears running down her plump face as she cradled a child gently in her arms. The child was almost too big for Pomona to be carrying, and yet in her stillness she appeared as small and frail as any scared six year old might. Minerva pushed her pain to the back of her mind and picked up her pace, side stepping obstacles—dead bodies and mangled limbs not being allowed to register in her mind—and hoping against hope—

"Jane and Tommy are only unconscious, Minerva!" The tone in Pomona's voice belied the tears on her face. The children were two of her Hufflepuffs, a third year and a second year. A jerk of her head pointed Minerva to another second year, still lying on the ground, looking curiously peaceful and innocent in the midst of all the destruction and evil around her. "Moira is just unconscious as well. She's the last of them." A tentative smile of relief mixed with pride did wonders for Pomona's countenance. It was curious that the House least remembered was the House that had fought the hardest, along with Minerva's own Gryffindors, of course.

Minerva let a small smile soften her pained features and assured Pomona and Sybil, "I will take care of Moira." The pain in her throat and the exhaustion trying to conquer her served to intensify her Scottish brogue—her voice was betraying the strength she sought to project. "Horace has informed me that he will be leading the men to take care of the others," she gestured around them with her hand without actually looking, "so you may help in the castle as you see fit once Tommy and Jane are delivered to Poppy."

The two women nodded and moved to walk past Minerva and up to the castle. As they passed her, a surprisingly normal and reserved voice spoke to her, "Don't wear yourself out too badly, Minerva. We need you too much, and there are many who are willing to help carry the load."

Startled, she replied without thinking, "Thank you, Sybil." But then she turned to look, and Sybil had already moved on. She wasn't drunk, she was being logical and helpful, and Minerva actually found herself grateful and moved by the unlikely show of concern—wonders would never cease, indeed.

Sybil and Pomona's trek to the Great Hall for Poppy's help led Minerva's scattered thought there as well. Poppy…. Minerva wasn't actually certain how much Poppy had fought, if at all. She had most likely tended to the injured and dying from the start. Minerva imagined that when one devoted one's life to preserving life, taking it, or even hurting it, could prove impossible. Even as a teacher, molding young lives, she found it hard to participate in the battle. Only by focusing on those she loved and harnessing her desire to protect them at all costs had she been able to rationalize killing Voldemort's followers.

Despite their reputations and the truly evil aura surrounding each one, Minerva had seen them as former students—the Marauders—as mothers and fathers—Remus and Nymphadora—as someone's child—Fred Weasley—as dearly loved friends and family—Albus and Charity….

The all-too-familiar tightening in her chest overcame her again. Nothing had over been said explicitly, but Minerva had no illusions as to why Charity had not returned for the new term. She was dead. And the events surrounding the whole situation…it was on his shoulders.

Minerva suddenly looked around at the destruction surrounding her, her heart rate accelerating. She thought of James and Lily, Sirius, Remus and Nymphadora, Fred Weasley—her children—her bottled up anger growing, nails cut into the palms of her hands. And she thought of her family—Alastor, Charity, Albus, and—

"Damn you to hell, Severus!" Only the dead were witness to her outburst. "Bloody coward…bastard…." It was on his shoulders.

Something in front of her stirred, and just as quickly as her anger had come it was gone. She was alert, her hand almost to her wand, and the movement came again. "Moira…"she breathed. And this time Minerva cursed herself. How long had she been standing there while Moira lay, fairly soaked in the blood of others, needing to be taken to Poppy? Like the sudden releasing of a dam, Minerva rushed to Moira's side and crouched down to gather the child into her arms. It took all of her willpower to force her protesting body back into a standing position, but as the girl woke and began to whimper from her own pain and fear, Minerva whispered gently to her, "Oh my darling, Moira, you are safe. It will be alright, I promise you." Anyone listening in would have wondered at the extreme tenderness with which the usually strict transfigurations professor, however fair she may be, held the girl and spoke to her. "I won't let any more harm come to you, dear girl. Oh my child…."

She continued to whisper comforting words to the student, to one of her children, as she walked with determination back to the castle, to the Great Hall. Her steps only faltered once—her eyes had lingered too long on a Death Eater seemingly staring up at her, his torso split open and mocking her—but she just swallowed back the bile in her throat and clutched Moira tighter to herself, quickening her pace.

Harry is not dead.